Sea of Greed

They kicked deeper, diving beneath the barnacle-covered hull and turning toward the bow. Nearing it, they discovered that the ship was tied off to a marine buoy and anchored.

As Kurt swam past the anchor line at a depth of thirty feet, a thunderous crash sounded from directly above him.

He looked up to see a huge cylindrical object emerging from a wall of bubbles and foam and plummeting toward him. He kicked hard to get out of the way, but the object never reached his depth. It slowed its descent and rose back up, bobbing to the surface, where it floated half submerged like a log in the river.

As the foam and turbulence from the impact dispersed, Kurt spotted eight tires in pairs at the back end of the cylinder. Large valves, heavy coupling points and a stand on the other end of the cylinder from the tires told him what he was looking at.

“Tanker truck,” Kurt said.

Joe swam up beside him. “Only you could have a truck fall on your head in the middle of the ocean.”

“Notice anything strange?”

“Stranger than a truck in the ocean?” Joe said. “Not really.”

“That’s an eight-ton hunk of metal,” Kurt said. “And it’s floating.”

“It’s empty.”

Kurt nodded.

As they watched, additional splashes appeared in the water on the far side. These were smaller and more at home in the water.

“Divers,” Joe said. “Our little corner of the Atlantic is getting crowded.”

The warm glow of lights added some color to the scene that hadn’t been there before as the divers clustered around the floating truck.

“I’m not interested in getting spotted down here,” Kurt said. “Let’s swim over to the buoy. We can hide behind it and enjoy a front-row seat to the goings-on.”

34

SS MORGANA, THREE MILES OFF THE NORTH SHORE OF BERMUDA

VOLKE STOOD at the rail of the SS Morgana, shouting instructions to the men in the water. “Are you trying to get yourselves killed? Get back, you fools! Don’t get between the truck and the hull.”

It was no use. With the noise of the crane dipping down toward the tanker truck, the sound of the water slapping against the freighter’s hull and the general pandemonium, no one heard him.

Volke turned to the crane operator. “I told you to lower the tanker, not drop it.”

“Not my fault,” the man said. “The cable snapped.”

“Replace it,” Volke said. “You have less than one hour.”

Volke left the frustrated crane operator behind and went below, finding an open cargo door on the lower deck, closer to where the tanker floated.

“We need to get something between the ship and the truck,” Volke shouted. He commandeered several crewmen and had them toss out anything that could be used as a bumper — life preservers, a raft and one of the ship’s own bumpers.

While Volke worked, Pascal Millard arrived, clutching a folder and staring in disbelief at the chaos down on the water. “This is what I mean when I say we’re running toward disaster.”

“This,” Volke said, “is a setback. Disaster is far too strong a term.”

Volke expected Millard to back down, he was a quiet man in general, but the scolding brought a bold response.

“This,” Millard replied, mirroring Volke’s speech pattern, “is a sign of systemic problems. Too much, too fast, with too little thought as to what might happen if something goes wrong. Each little setback is going to compound the next and a disaster will ensue. Mark my words.”

Volke laughed. Millard was probably right, but he wasn’t about to let the little scientist know that. He grabbed Millard by the shirt, swung him toward the open hatch and pushed him toward the edge until only Millard’s heels and the strength of Volke’s arms were keeping him from falling. “Just do your job and keep your mouth shut or you might face a disaster of your own.”

Grabbing for the edge of the door, Millard dropped the folder and his papers fluttered into the water. If he fell now, he would be another bumper, caught between the floating truck and the ship. “I’m just trying to help.”

Volke held Millard hostage a moment longer, then pulled him back inside. Down below, an area of the seawater was brightening.

“The Wasp is here,” he told Millard. “You’re going down below to begin the transfer process. And don’t plan on any delays, because I’m coming with you.”

• • •

FROM BEHIND THE BUOY, Joe watched the action with a mixed sense of curiosity and wonder. When the damaged cable was cut from the crane and tossed into the water, it became clear that the splashdown was unintended.

“That free fall was a mistake,” Joe said, “but they were still lowering the tanker when it fell.”

“Why here?” Kurt said, still communicating over the helmet-mounted radios. “Bermuda has no oil.”

“Getting rid of the evidence?” Joe suggested.

“Better off dumping it in the middle of the ocean,” Kurt said. “The depth here can’t be more than two hundred feet. I’d say they’ve chosen this spot for a reason.”

“We can have Priya check to see if there’s anything unusual around here,” Joe said. “The comm system has a high-frequency link for use on the surface.”

“Do the honors,” Kurt said.