there would be a maze of vents and crevices down there, inclining gradually toward a water vein that si-phoned into a river two or three hundred feet below the earth’s crust.
King had intentionally yanked the hose from my hand, and I thought,
If I hadn’t been so desperate for time, I would have been tempted to surface, snatch King from behind and drag him down, down, down into the mouth of that underground river. In my imagination, I could picture a man- sized fissure, a perfect spot to wedge King’s body.
Yes, later . . . And later I would have to decide what to do with King—and Perry, too. For now, though, I had to play by their rules while I focused on rescuing Tomlinson and the boy.
“If you try anything stupid,” King had told me as I got ready for the dive, “Perry will start carving up Grandpa.”
Arlis, too far away to hear, hadn’t seen Perry grinning as he pulled my Randall knife from his belt and flashed it around like a movie swordsman.
I knew that failing to return with a sack full of gold would catalyze the same reaction. I would have to deal with that, too. But later.
For a moment, I considered leaving the bottles where they lay. A scattered blossoming of bubbles, leaking from the limestone, told me that Will and Tomlinson were somewhere beneath me still breathing. They couldn’t have much air remaining.
No way of knowing exactly how much time they had left.
Objectively, though, I understood that it would take me several minutes at the very least to carve enough sand and rock away with the jet dredge to free them. Excavating required too much time, and there was too little air unless I recovered the tanks.
In my mind, I inspected a rapid-fire chain of scenarios. By spending a minute or two now retrieving the tanks, I might well provide Will and Tomlinson with an hour or more of air later when I found them. It could mean the difference between life and death. Maybe one or both of the guys were injured. Maybe their legs had been pinned beneath boulders. What good would it do to find them only to have them die after sharing the last of my air?
I checked the time. Tomlinson and Will had been underwater for fifty-six minutes. Nine or ten minutes left, counting their spare air bottles. That gave me all the more reason to go after the tanks.
I purged air from my BC and angled downward, swallowing to clear my ears as I descended. Visibility was good now. I could see largemouth bass nesting in shallow sand craters, a school of bream butterflying among the branches of a waterlogged tree limb. I also saw a big alligator gar fish hanging in the depths as dark and motionless as a barracuda—the biggest
I had seen so far, maybe five feet long.
Maybe that’s what Perry had seen. Magnified by the lake’s surface, the fish would have looked man-sized to someone like him.
As I descended beyond the ledge, the lake basin bulged wider like the bowl of a brandy snifter. It was the typical geology of a sinkhole, or what is sometimes called a “karst window”: a small, watery mouth atop a globular basin that then narrowed beneath a protruding ledge. The ledges were probably remnants of a karst bridge that had once crossed the subterranean river.
As I traveled deeper, though, I realized that I was wrong about the shape of the lake. If the basin had been surveyed and plotted on graph paper, a vertical slice would have resembled an irregular hourglass more than a brandy snifter. Because the karst bridge had collapsed at the center, it projected twin limestone wings toward the middle of the lake and created an hourglass-like stricture.
The bottles had tumbled down a ravine, their resting place screened from my vision by depth and also because the protruding limestone shielded the bottom from sunlight. The twin wings, or overhangs, were fifteen to twenty feet thick. They were jagged at the ends and similar in most ways, although the northernmost wing where Tomlinson and Will were trapped was the thicker of the two. I found that reassuring because the overhang was sufficiently thick to contain karst chambers—possibly even a vent—that the two could have followed to an air bell.
An air bell—I still wanted to believe that such things existed.
I checked my depth gauge as I kicked downward.
Under the northernmost overhang, the lake bottom narrowed and then bellied wider—wider than the actual circumference of the lake. It was like an opening into a gymnasium-sized hollow that extended beneath the cypress trees where we’d first parked the truck and possibly under the swamp beyond. There, the bottom of the lake appeared to flatten—I had to guess—at a hundred and fifty feet.
I still couldn’t spot the damn bottles, so once again I considered returning to where we’d found the mammoth tusk and getting to work.
No . . . I had read too many accounts of cave divers, trapped or lost, who had died because their rescuers had panicked and made fatal miscalculations. The rescuers had rushed to help instead of methodically hurrying to help. There was a difference.
I knew that decompression wasn’t a concern for me because recovering the bottles amounted to a fast bounce dive—although there were inherent dangers with any bounce dive that exceeded a hundred feet. I would risk narcosis if I descended too fast, and, in the resulting confusion, there was also a chance of overbreathing my regulator. I had to pay attention. Under any other circumstances, it would have been a foolhardy thing to attempt. But I had to do it. I needed those tanks. My dive computer would automatically compute the short amount of decompression time required—close to zero, I guessed—and I would spend that time using the dredge, cutting my friends out of the rocks.
At one hundred and thirty feet, I saw the tanks. Both had come to rest among a pile of rubble created by falling rock and surface debris—roots of a long-dead cypress tree, silt detritus . . . and two cow skulls, too, amid scattered rib bones . . . and what looked at first like the crushed remains of an automobile.
Someone had dumped a car here? That struck me as unlikely. It had taken us two hours to hack a trail wide enough for Arlis’s four-wheel-drive truck. Why would someone come clear out here to ditch a clunker?
Descending toward the tanks, I didn’t slow as I pulled out a palm-sized LED flashlight and painted the bottom with light.
It wasn’t a car, I realized. It was the fuselage of an airplane. And I thought,
As I drew closer, details revealed themselves, frozen in white wafers of visibility. I saw twin twisted propellers . . . then twin windowless sockets that opened into the plane’s cockpit. Soon, I could make out the shape of a broken wing that was mud coated and angular. In the gray depths, the wing appeared as symmetrical as a gigantic bird feather.
I was looking at a cargo plane. An old DC-3 possibly.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been cause to celebrate—even if it wasn’t Batista’s gold plane, it was an extraordinary find.
But not now.
I looked at my watch, feeling the weight of water on me. As my chest worked harder to suck air, I could hear the muted pinging of my own air exhaust, the sound compressed by five atmospheres of pressure.
It was no place to linger—and not only because of the depth. Tomlinson and Will had been underwater for fifty-seven minutes now. Logic and experience told me that soon—
When I got to the bottles, I grabbed the line hitched to the valve stems and kicked toward the surface, forcing myself to ascend no faster than my own chromium-bright bubbles.
I couldn’t hurry. It was suicide to hurry. To pass the time, I allowed my eyes to assess the unexpected geology of the sinkhole, as viewed from below. Unexpected because, for the first time, I could see that the plane,
