Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Carney turned to look. “I doubt it. No dive master I know would take his people down in this current today, he’d go somewhere easier.”

The swells were huge now, the Privateer bucking up and down on the anchor line. Dillon went over, paused to check his air supply and started down to what looked like a dense forest below. He paused on the bottom, waiting until Carney had reached him, beckoned and turned toward the rock. Dillon followed, amazed at the strength of the current pushing against him, was aware of a stream of white bubbles over to his left and saw an anchor descend.

On the launch, Santiago sat in the wheelhouse while Serra went to the prow and dropped the anchor. Algaro was helping Noval and Pinto into their diving equipment.

Serra said finally, “They are ready to go, Señor, what are your orders?”

“Tell them to just have a look around,” Santiago said. “No trouble. Leave Carney and Dillon alone.”

“As you say, Señor.”

The two divers were sitting together on the port side. Serra nodded and together they went over backwards into the water.

Dillon followed Carney with increasing difficulty because of the strength of the current up across rock and coral, following a deep channel that led through to the other side of the rocks. The force was quite tremendous and Carney was down on his belly pulling himself through with gloved hands, reaching for one handhold after another, and Dillon went after him, the other man’s fins just three or four feet in front of him.

There was a kind of threshold. Carney was motionless for a while and then passed through, and Dillon had the same problem, faced with a kind of wall of pressure. He clawed at the rocks with agonizing slowness, foot by foot, and suddenly was through and into another world.

The surface was fifty feet above him and as he surged forward, he found himself in the middle of a school of tarpon at least four feet in length. There were yellow tail snappers, horse-eyed jacks, bonita, king mackerel and barracuda, some of them five feet long.

Carney plunged down to the other side, the rock face falling below, and Dillon followed him. They closed together and Dillon was aware of the current as they turned and saw Noval and Pinto trying to come through the cut. Noval almost made it, then lost his grip and was pushed into Pinto and they disappeared back to the other side.

Carney moved on and Dillon followed, down to seventy-five feet, and the current took them now in a fierce three-knot riptide that bounced them along the front of the wall in an upright position. They were surrounded by clouds of silversides, flying through space, the ultimate dream, and Dillon had never felt so excited. It seemed to go on forever, and then the current slackened and Carney was using his fins now and climbing.

Dillon followed through a deep ravine that led into another, waterlike black glass, checked his computer and was surprised to find that they had been under for twenty-five minutes. They moved away from the rock itself now, only three or four feet above the forest of the seabed, and came to a line and anchor. Carney paused to examine it, then turned and shook his head, moving on toward the left, finally arriving at their own anchor. They went up slowly, leaving the line at fifteen feet and swimming to one side of the boat, surfacing at the keel.

Carney reached down to take Dillon’s tank and the Irishman got a foot in the tiny ladder and pulled himself up and over the stern. He felt totally exhilarated, unzipped his diving suit and pulled it off as Carney stowed their tanks.

“Bloody marvelous.”

Carney smiled. “It wasn’t bad, was it?”

He turned and looked across at the launch which was anchored over on the port side, swinging on its anchor chain in the heavy sea. Dillon said, “I wonder what happened to the two divers we saw trying to get through the cut?”

“They couldn’t make it, I guess, that was rough duty down there.” The launch swung round, exposing the stern. “That’s the Maria Blanco ’s launch,” Carney added.

“Is that a fact?”

Dillon dried himself slowly with a towel and stood at the rail looking across. He recognized Algaro at once, standing in the stern with Serra, and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse.

“Who’s the guy in the blazer and cap?” Dillon enquired.

Carney looked across. “That’s Max Santiago, the owner. I’ve seen him in St. John a time or two.”

Santiago was looking across at them and on impulse, Dillon raised an arm and waved. Santiago waved back and at that moment Noval and Pinto surfaced.

“Time to go home,” Carney said and he went round to the prow and heaved in the anchor.

On the way back Dillon said, “The Maria Blanco , where would it anchor when it’s here, Caneel Bay?”

“More likely to be off Paradise Beach.”

“Could we take a look?”

Carney glanced at him, then looked away. “Why not? It’s your charter.”

Dillon got the water bottle from the icebox, drank about a pint, then passed it to Carney and lit a cigarette. Carney drank a little and passed it back.

“You’ve dived before, Mr. Dillon.”

“And that’s a fact,” Dillon agreed.

They were close to Paradise now and Carney throttled back the engine and the Privateer passed between two of the oceangoing yachts that were moored there and came to the Maria Blanco . “There she is,” he said.

There were a couple of crewmen working on deck, who looked up casually as they passed. “Jesus,” Dillon said, that thing must have made a dent in Santiago’s wallet. A couple of million, I’d say.”

“And then some.”

Carney went up to full power and made for Caneel Beach. Dillon lit another cigarette and leaned against the wall of the deckhouse. “Do you get many interesting wrecks in this area?”

“Some,” Carney said. “There’s the Cartanser Senior off Buck Island over to St. Thomas, an old freighter that’s a popular dive, and the General Rodgers . The Coast Guard sank her to get rid of her.”

“No, I was thinking of something more interesting than that,” Dillon said. “I mean you know this area like the back of your hand. Would it be possible for there to be a wreck on some reef out there that you’d never come across?”

Carney slowed as they entered the bay. “Anything’s possible, it’s a big ocean.”

“So there could be something out there just waiting to be discovered?”

The Privateer coasted in beside the dock. Dillon got the stern line, went over and tied up. He did the same with the other line as Carney cut the engine, went back on board and pulled on his track suit.

Carney leaned by the wheel looking at him. “Mr. Dillon, I don’t know what goes on here. All I know for certain is you are one hell of a diver, and that I admire. What all this talk of wrecks means I don’t know and don’t want to as I’m inclined to the quiet life, but I will give you one piece of advice. Your interest in Max Santiago?”

“Oh, yes?” Dillon said, continuing to put his diving equipment in a net diving bag.

“It could be unhealthy. I’ve heard things about him that aren’t good, plenty of people could tell you the same. The way he makes his money, for example.”

“A hotel keeper as I heard it.” Dillon smiled.

“There’s other ways that involve small planes or a fast boat by night to Florida, but what the hell, you’re a grown man.” Carney moved out on deck. “You want to dive with me again?”

“You can count on it. I’ve got business in St. Thomas this afternoon. How would I get there?”

Carney pointed to the other side of the dock where a very large launch was just casting off. “That’s the resort ferry. They run back and forth during the day, but I figure you missed this one.”