The Deep

They heard the engine of Cloche’s boat chug to life and turn southwest toward Orange Grove.

Treece broke into a run.

He drove the Hillman as fast as it would go, leaning his body against the turns in the narrow road, cursing when the small engine faltered on steep hills. Sanders sat beside Treece, Gail in the back seat, steadying the shape charge with her hand.

On a long South Road straightaway the speedometer nudged seventy. Bracing himself against the dashboard, his feet pressed against imaginary brake pedals, Sanders said, “Suppose a cop stops you.”

“Any police who values his life will not stop me tonight.” Treece did not speak again until he had parked the car in the Orange Grove lot and was running toward the stairs that led to the beach.

“You run an outboard?” he said then.

“Sure,” Sanders said.

“Good. I need a chauffeur.”

The moon was high, and as they ran down the stone stairs, they could see the white hulls of the Boston Whalers on their dollies.

Treece looked out to sea, to the left, at the white lines of reef. “Light’s good. We’ll see him coming.” He handed Gail the shape charge, grabbed the painter of the nearest Whaler, spun the dolly around, and, alone, dragged the boat into the water. Then he took the charge from Gail and said, “Stay here.”

“No.”

“Aye, you’ll stay here.”

“I will not!”

Her defiance surprised him. “It’ll be hairy out there, and I don’t want you around.”

“It’s my decision. It’s my life, and I’m going.” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she didn’t care. She could not stay on the beach, a helpless observer.

Treece took her by the arm and looked into her eyes.

“I have killed one woman,” he said flatly.

“I’ll not be responsible for killing another.”

Gail glared back at him and, in anger, without thinking, said, “I am not your wife!”

Treece relaxed his grip. “No, but…”

He seemed embarrassed.

Gail touched his hand. “You said it yourself. I’m here. I’m me. Protecting me won’t do a thing for her.”

Treece said to Sanders, “Get in the boat.” He helped Gail into the boat after Sanders, walked the boat into water deep enough for the propeller shaft, and climbed aboard.

They went over the reefs, to a spot above the remains of Goliath.

There they let the boat wallow.

Treece rigged the scuba tank, put it on his back, and sat on the starboard gunwale, resting the shape charge against his thighs. The hand light hung from a thong on his wrist. “I’ll go rig the charge,” he said. “Be right back. Then, soon’s we see him coming, I’ll nip over again and set the timer.”

“Okay,” said Sanders.

“Now… an order. If anything happens, get the hell out of here in a hurry. Don’t play Boy Scout.”

Sanders had no intention of leaving Treece, but he did not reply.

Treece rolled off the gunwale, turned on the light, and swam for the bottom.

Moments later, Sanders saw the first splash-sparkling white eruptions of water over the bow of a boat that was moving full-speed along the outer reef. “Look!” he said, pointing.

Gail saw the boat, then looked overboard.

Treece’s light was steady on the bottom. “How long will it take him to rig that thing?”

“I don’t know. Too long.”

Sanders heard the high whine of a bullet passing overhead, followed a second later by the crack of a rifle shot. He ducked, and another bullet whirred by.

As Cloche’s boat drew nearer, there were more shots, but the Whaler, riding low in the water, was a bad target. All the shots were high.

Crouching in the bottom of the Whaler, Gail said, “He said to go.”

“The hell with him.”

Treece’s head popped up beside the Whaler. He started to say something, but stopped when he heard a shot.

“Go!” he said.

Sanders said, “No! You…”

“Go, goddammit! I’ll set the timer and follow you in. Get into the shallowest water you can find.”

Treece disappeared below the surface.

For a few seconds, Sanders didn’t move.

“We’ve got to go!” Gail said.

“But he’ll—was—”

“Do you want to die?”

Sanders looked at her. He started the engine and spun the boat toward shore.

Two more bullets chased the Whaler inshore. When he felt that they were out of practical range, Sanders slowed the boat and turned the bow seaward.

“He said to find shallow water,” Gail said.

“This is shallow enough.”

Cloche’s boat was stopped over Goliath.

A light flickered on, then another, and, one by one, figures dropped into the water.

“Divers,” Gail said.

“Don’t pay attention to them!” Sanders snapped.

“Look for Treece. If we don’t get him out of the water before that thing goes off, he’s dead. He must have finished by now.”

But Treece had not finished. A wire had come loose from the timer, and he was resetting it, using his thumbnail as a screw driver. He tightened the screw and turned the timer dial to five minutes. Then the first light found him.

Sanders could not wait any longer. “Screw this!” he said, and he pushed the gear lever forward, heading for the reef.

“What are you doing?” Gail screamed.

“I don’t know! We’ve got to get him out!”

Sanders guessed they were five hundred yards from Cloche’s boat.

There were two lights around Treece now. He was holding his breath, for his air hose had been cut.

He turned in slow circles, trying to keep both divers in sight.

They were quick. One man circled with Treece, keeping always behind him, and when he saw a chance for a move, he darted forward and plunged his knife into Treece’s back.

Treece felt a deep, fiery ache. He held the timer to his chest and turned the dial to zero.

The Whaler was three hundred yards from the reef when the sea exploded.

David and Gail saw the bow of the Whaler rise toward them, and then they were flying away from it. They spun through the air, aware of fragmented images that flashed by their eyes: the sudden mountain of water rising, then rupturing; bits of Cloche’s boat flying in every direction, pieces cast impossibly high; a body, spread-eagle, cartwheeling across the sky.

Sanders hit the water on his back. His eyes were open, but he was not truly conscious. He heard bits of debris falling around him, felt stinging sensations as pieces of rock and coral hit his face. His legs dangled below him, and as he exhaled, he sank a few inches, then rose again as he inhaled. He saw the stars and the shimmering shafts of moonlight, and he thought vaguely: This isn’t what they say death is like.

The gentle swells carried him slowly toward shore.

A voice that sounded faint and far away was calling, “David?”

He rolled onto his stomach and, testing his limbs with the first tentative strokes, swam stiffly toward the voice.