Devil's Gate

KURT FOUND THE FIRST SEVENTY-TWO HOURS as chaperone of the sea to be twice as bad as he’d expected. No, he thought, that was an understatement, it was at least three times as bad as he’d feared.

Every group of researchers wanted special treatment, every group seemed to question the rules and his decisions, even his authority.

A team from Iceland insisted that an experiment by one of the Italian groups would interfere with the baseline data they were trying to collect. A Spanish group had been caught trying to plant a flag on the tower of rock in strict contravention of the agreed-to plan. And while Kurt found their boldness somewhat endearing, the Portuguese were ready to duke it out over the incident. He half expected pistols at dawn, the way they spoke.

Meanwhile, the Chinese were complaining about the presence of three Japanese teams, to which the Japanese responded that the Chinese didn’t need anyone there as they would just steal all the data in a cyberattack once it was downloaded anyway.

Dealing with enough squabbling to make the UN jealous was not the only problem. Along with Joe and the rest of the Argo’s crew, Kurt also had to act as lifeguard.

Most of the science teams had only rudimentary training in the ways of the sea, either on the surface or below. Two of the teams had already collided head-on. Their small boats suffered only minor damage, but it was enough to send them back to Santa Maria for repairs.

Others had issues diving. One team narced itself by using the wrong mixture, and two of the Argo’s rescue divers had to corral them before they lost consciousness. Another member of a different team had to be forced to take a decompression stop he didn’t think necessary, and a French scientist almost drowned when an inexperienced divemaster put too much weight on the man’s belt and he sank to the bottom like a stone.

In full gear, Kurt and Joe dove down and rescued the scientist, only to surface and find another team with an engine fire aboard their rented vessel. It was enough to make Kurt wish they’d never found the damn tower in the first place.

As the sun began to head over the yardarm, the day’s madness seemed to be winding down. Most of the smaller boats were heading back in toward Santa Maria. Kurt guessed the bars would fill up quickly, and stories would be tossed around, growing more extravagant with each telling. Or perhaps not. He wasn’t really sure what scientists did with their spare time. Maybe they would plot against one another all night and come out in the morning ready to cause him and Joe more headaches.

Either way he was already regretting his decision to play umpire when he stepped out onto the Argo’s starboard bridgewing and spotted a 50-foot black-hulled trawler he hadn’t seen before.

“You recognize that one?” he asked Joe.

Joe squinted off into the distance. “Wasn’t here this morning.” “I didn’t think so,” Kurt replied. “Get the Zodiac ready.”

FIVE MINUTES LATER, Kurt, Joe, and two men from the Argo’s crew were skipping across the light swells, headed for the trawler. They reached it and circled it once.

“You see anyone on board?” Kurt asked.

Joe shook his head.

“You know,” Joe said, “technically, this boat’s outside the exclusivity zone.” “Come again?” Kurt said.

“We’re three-quarters of a mile from the tower,” Joe said. “The exclusive zone is a mile in diameter. Technically, this boat’s outside that. We’re only supposed to have authority over vessels, divers, and submersibles inside that radius.” Kurt looked at Joe oddly. “Who made that rule?” “I did.”

“When did you start becoming a bureaucrat?” Zavala shrugged, a wry smile on his face. “You put me at the big desk and tell me to take charge, these kind of things are going to happen.” Kurt almost laughed. Governor Joe.

“Well, if you’re in charge, let’s widen that circle.” “We need a quorum,” Joe said.

“Did that boxer hit you harder than I thought?” Kurt asked.

Joe shook his head and looked at the crewmen. “All in favor of enlarging the observation zone say aye.” Kurt and the other two crewmen said aye simultaneously.

“The rule is duly changed,” Joe said.

Kurt tried hard not to laugh. “Great. Now get us aboard that boat.” On board the trawler they found maps, diving gear, and some type of paper with Cyrillic lettering on it.

“It’s Russian,” Kurt said. “We have any Russian teams registered?” Joe shook his head. “We got papers from their Science Ministry requesting information, but no one signed up.” “Looks like they came anyway.”

Kurt moved to the rear of the small boat. A long anchor had been thrown out. There was no flag up, but Kurt was pretty sure a diver had gone down that chain. He noticed a pair of shoes by the dive ladder.

“Only one pair of shoes,” he noted.

“Someone went down alone,” Joe guessed.

Diving alone was crazy enough; leaving no one on the boat up above was even crazier. A little wind, a little change in the current, or the arrival of an opportunistic pirate or two, and you could surface to find yourself lost and alone in the ocean.

“Look at this,” the Argo’s crewman said, pointing to a video screen.

Kurt turned. On the monitor was a murky scene being broadcast from an underwater camera.

“Could it be live?” Kurt asked.

“It looks that way,” the crewman said, examining the setup.

Kurt studied the screen. The dark water and swirling sediment were obvious as the camera maneuvered in what looked to be a confined space. He saw metallic walls and equipment.

“Whoever it is, they’ve gone inside one of the wrecks,” Joe said.

“Unbelievable,” Kurt said. Short of antagonizing a group of sharks, wreck diving was about the most dangerous thing you could do underwater. He could not believe someone would try it alone.

“This person is far too stupid to be in our exclusivity zone.” Joe laughed and nodded.

Kurt pointed to a second set of tanks. “Are those charged?” Joe checked the gauge. “Yep.”

“I’m going down,” Kurt said.

A minute later Kurt was in the water, breathing the compressed air and kicking with long strokes as he made his way down the chain. Approaching the bottom, he saw a pinpoint of light and angled toward it.

Whoever it was, they’d gone into the downed Constellation. Considering that the middle of the plane was broken open like a cracked egg, that didn’t seem so reckless. But the movements of the camera had seemed odd, and as he stared at the shaking beam of light he wondered if the diver was in some kind of trouble.

Kicking harder, he made it to aircraft’s triple tail. The cone of light from inside the fuselage continued moving in a random pattern.

He swam to the break in the aircraft’s skin. The light was coming from the forward section. The random movements made Kurt think it might be floating loose. He feared he was about to find a dead diver, one who’d run out of oxygen but whose light, probably attached to his arm by a lanyard, still had battery power and was floating around above him like a helium balloon on a string.

He eased inside, working his way around tangled insulation and bent sheet metal. Clouds of sediment wafted from the front of the plane, and the oddly moving beam pierced the darkness, faded, and then came through again.

Kurt swam toward it. Emerging through the cloud of silt, he found a diver digging voraciously, twisting and pulling frantically. The flashlight was attached to the diver’s belt.

He reached out and put a hand on the diver’s shoulder. The figure spun, swinging a knife toward him.

Kurt saw the blade flash in the reflected light. He blocked the diver’s arm and then twisted it, dislodging the knife. Bubbles from both regulators filled the cabin. Combined with the swirling sediment and the waving light, they made it difficult to see.

The knife tumbled through the water and disappeared. Kurt held the diver’s right arm in a wristlock. His other arm shot forward, grabbing the diver by the neck. He was about to rip the diver’s mask off — a classic underwater