‘The bad news is… it’s another cold one.’ Elaine stuck out her bottom lip in sympathy. ‘I’m sorry it’s not a photo-story in Florida or LA, but, if it’s any consolation, I think this one could be a reputation-maker for you. You want to hear about it?’
Chris nodded.
‘We tend to comb through local newspapers for our human-interest stories, which is how we came across this one. It was in the Trenton Herald, which is a local rag that serves Newport and a few towns up the Rhode Island coast. There’s a small seaside town, Port Lawrence. No big deal, a few thousand people, a couple of diners and a few seasonal attractions. They’ve got a small commercial fishing fleet that still operates out of the town. It’s the real Amityville deal, old shutterboard huts, quiet inbred locals who view the rest of the world as outsiders, fishing nets strung across cobbled streets… you get the idea? Anyway, one of their trawlers snagged its nets on a wreck some five miles out from the coastline — ’
‘Wreck? Are we talking an underwater shoot?’
She nodded. ‘Why?… are you not keen on that?’
He’d done underwater before, several times, but always within the luxury of warmer latitudes. After his spell on South Georgia, throwing himself into the bitter cold of the Atlantic, albeit insulated within a dry suit, simply didn’t appeal to him right now.
Pass up this job, and they could easily find someone else.
Chris winced at the thought.
‘No, underwater is fine. Go on.’
‘Good. Anyway, so one of these trawlers snagged its nets on a wreck. Turns out it was a plane. A big one.’
Chris’s interest was piqued.
‘Yup. Oh, we’re not talking missing commercial air-liners or private Lear jets or anything.’
‘No?’ Chris tried to contain his disappointment.
‘No, it’s better than that; a World War Two bomber. One of our B-something-or-others, you know? The big ones we used to flatten the Rhineland with. Some local propeller-head expert on wartime planes identified it from an item of debris they pulled up in the net.’
‘Has anyone been down yet to look it over?’
‘You’re thinking “anyone” as in, any other news mag? No, I don’t think so. It’s not a big story. Some wartime plane goes down due to bad weather or some component malfunction. It’s not like we’ve found the remains of the Marie Celeste or anything. I think we’ve got this story to ourselves for now.’
‘That’s good to know. How intact is it?’
‘They reckon it’s in one big glorious piece. I think this is going to make one hell of a compelling photo-story. I want to go with a kind of “time capsule” slant on it.’ Elaine’s eyes widened like an excited child’s as she visualised the spread within the covers of News Fortnite.
‘The cold waters will have preserved it quite well, I’d imagine,’ added Chris.
‘Exactly! If you can get some pictures that make the plane look as if it dropped out of the sky last week, that’ll be the angle. You know? “The plane time forgot!” kinda deal. You know what I mean?’
Chris nodded.
‘Focus on the small things, Chris, the little things. I don’t know, the navigator’s box of Lucky Strikes, the pilot’s picture of his sweetheart… the… ah shit, you know what I’m after, you’re the photographer.’
Chris was glad she’d noticed. He smiled at her. ‘So when would you want me to head out and do this?’
‘Well now, there’s no real sell-by date on this story. If it’s waited fifty years to be discovered it can hang on a little longer for its moment of fame. But all the same, I’d like to think we could get some pictures in for next month’s issue. We’ve got a pretty weak line-up for that one… needs a bit of juice.’
Chris weighed things up. Frankly he could well do with a week up on the blocks, get some serious down time. Despite catching the wave of Elaine’s enthusiasm and surfing the momentary buzz of excitement, he was really beginning to feel like he needed some R amp;R.
‘What if… what if I got out there by next week? Would that be soon enough?’
Elaine stroked her chin. ‘If you think you can deliver before our next issue, that’s fine by me. I can’t afford it to miss, though. That issue really needs this story, or we risk losing subscribers.’
She looked at Chris with the eyes of a worried mother. ‘You need some time to catch up on your sleep? Enjoy a few comforts?’
‘Yup, something like that. And anyway, I’ll probably need to source some equipment for deep sea — ’
‘Oh, it’s not that deep. The article says the plane’s sitting under only seventy-five feet of water. I’m no diver, but that doesn’t sound too far down. Is that deep, Chris?’
‘Deep enough that I think I’ll need to make some calls. Reinforced camera casings, dry suits and cold-water diving equipment and some other stuff. It’ll take a few days to organise that anyway, but I could be on my way up there, say, middle of next week?’
‘You sure? I imagined you were thinking of taking two or three weeks out of the loop.’
I was, goddammit.
‘No, of course not. A few days should see me right,’ said Chris with a chirpy ‘I-can-take-anything’ smile.
‘Great. Well I’m glad you can say yes to this one, Chris, I really am. You’ve got a good eye for visual poetry. I think you’re going to come back with some great images. Maybe some of the best you’ve ever done.’
‘Yup. It sounds good.’
She draped an arm around his narrow shoulders. ‘Excellent! Listen, go back to your hotel and get some zeds. Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll sort out the details and expenses. Okay?’
Chris nodded, finally aware that he had been a straight thirty-two hours without a moment’s sleep. She led him from the conference room onto the noisy open office floor, and patted him gently on the arm.
Chris was uncomfortably aware that a few heads were turning their way.
Christ, I hope they don’t think I’m her bit of sugar.
She winked at him. ‘I want you in bed, okay? Get some rest, you look like death warmed up.’
Chris winced, knowing that those members of her staff with the keenest hearing had only heard the first part of that sentence.
Chapter 2
The Coast Road
The late-afternoon sun shone through the silver birches lining the coastal route and cast a steady procession of hazy beams across the road. Alternate strips of light and shadow dappled the windscreen of the Cherokee, and Chris found himself squinting from the intermittent and distracting glare.
He pulled a pair of sunglasses out of the glove compartment and slipped them on.
‘Giving you a headache?’ asked Mark, sitting beside him in the passenger seat.
Mark Costas was a good diving instructor. He’d known Chris back when he’d trained him for a PADI certificate. Like the best of teachers, he easily inspired trust from his pupils, and that was mainly because of the calm, unflappable demeanour of the man. His darkly tanned face, framed with a lush black beard and topped with a Yankees baseball cap, was a picture of measured ease.
Along this part of the coastline there were a number of small villages perched on the seafront. Quite a few of them seemed to service small fishing vessels of one sort or another, and many of these were beach-launched, from trailers reversed into the water, and retrieved in the same way. Once upon a time most of the boats along this stretch of coast were part of an industry; now the vast majority were used for sports fishing.
On the right of the road it was becoming cluttered with the detritus of generations of nautical activity — abandoned, weatherworn wooden hulls riding high on grass-topped dunes shored up with wooden pallets, and an endless melange of crates and washed-up freight spillage garnished the roadside. They passed through a village that consisted of no more than an old boat yard, three houses, and a gas station-cum-diner, an isolated sign of habitation amidst a rolling montage of coastal wilderness.
