Peter Benchley: The Deep

“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.

Gail was treading water twenty yards away. She saw him coming and said, “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I don’t know. I can’t move one of my arms.”

He helped her to shore, and they staggered out of the water. The beach looked like an endless field, the elevator a mile away.

They turned and looked back at the water. There was a new gap in the reef line, and pieces of flotsam were washing up in the waves. Otherwise, the sea was unchanged.

Leaning against each other, they walked toward the base of the cliff, where a crowd was already beginning to gather.

This is a work of fiction. But while it is true that none of the characters bears any intentional resemblance to anyone living or dead, many of the facts about Bermuda, about shipwrecks, and about the Spanish trade with the New World were gleaned from historical sources.

It would be impractical to list all the reference works consulted, but a few were of particular help: Pieces of Eight,

by Kip Wagner, as told to L. B. Taylor, Jr.;

The Treasure Diver’s Guide,

by John S. Potter, Jr.;

Marine Salvage,

by Joseph N. Gores;

Diving for Sunken Treasure,

by Jacques-Yves Cousteau and Philippe Diole;

Treasures of the Armada,

by Robert Stenuit;

Port Royal Rediscovered,

by Robert F. Marx; and

Diving to a Flash of Gold,

by Martin Meylach, in collaboration with Charles Whited.

Finally, I am deeply indebted to a friend, mentor, and walking encyclopedia—Teddy Tucker.

P.B.

The Deep

Jaws

Time and a Ticket

DOUBLEDAY and COMPANY, INC., GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-385-04742-8

Library of congress catalog card number 75-445 21

Copyright © 1976 by Peter Benchley. All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America first edition.