Gordon Korman - The Danger

The water was cold. Star could feel it, but the wet suit kept the icy chill at bay. Besides, she was so amped about her first real scuba dive that she wouldn’t have noticed a cryogenic freeze.

Her breathing was fast but controlled, the hiss of compressed air louder than she remembered from certification class. It was the Saint Lawrence River in upstate New York — cloudy as pea soup compared with the pristine turquoise of the French West Indies. But back then it was Fantasy Land, a hidden world opening up for Star Ling.

She loved everything about it, and right away. She loved feeling her disability vanish underwater. She loved that there was no law of gravity here, that with the help of her B.C., she could fly.

When the wreck came into view, an excitement took hold that electrified her entire being. She held out her glove to touch a corroded porthole, but the murk made distance difficult to judge. Kicking forward, she reached for the ship’s iron skeleton, but the muddy Saint Lawrence held the image just beyond her grasp….

Star shook awake, and the dream popped like a bubble. The first few seconds were like this every morning. Disorientation, followed by depressing reality.

I can’t dive. I can’t even walk….

She sat up in bed, propping the pillow behind her. In the guest quarters of the humongous platform, she knew, her father was on the phone with the airlines. Ever since his arrival, Dad had been trying to convince her to return to the States for treatment.

She had resisted. “They know more about the bends here than they do at some hospital up in Boston,” she had argued. But the fact was, leaving Saint-Luc felt a lot like quitting.

But quitting what? The internship? This had never been a real internship. Cutter and his team were phonies, Gallagher didn’t care, and Captain Vanover was gone forever. Kaz, Adriana, and Dante had become real friends, but let’s face it — they were just marking time now. It was only early August, yet the summer was over.

And anyway, Star’s condition wasn’t improving. If the oil-rig doctors couldn’t help her, she had to give someone else a chance. Getting back on her feet again — that was the most important thing. Dad was right about that.

Last night she had given him the okay to book tickets home. It was the smart thing to do. Still…

The picture was always the same: a muddy shelf in the ocean’s depths, the remains of an ancient vessel. And somewhere in the decayed wreckage —

Don’t think about that! she ordered herself. That makes you no better than Cutter!

But it wasn’t the treasure that tantalized her. It was the challenge . Like climbing Everest, or walking on the moon. A goal worthy enough to lend this tragic summer some meaning.

She heard footsteps and looked up to see that she was no longer alone. English stood in the doorway, his expression inscrutable.

He said, “I think maybe today you walk.”

Her face flamed red. “What are you telling me? That I’m here because I’m not trying hard enough? I’ve hit that floor so many times even my bruises have bruises! I want to walk — I just can’t do it!”

In answer, the huge dive guide snatched her out of bed and carried her, cradled like a baby, into the bustling hallway.

Star flailed her arms against his strength. “Are you crazy? What are you doing?”

He pulled over a rolling cart of instruments and an IV pole on wheels. Then he set her on her feet, her right hand resting on the metal tray, her left grasping the pole.

“I’m gonna fall —”

“ Alors , fall, mademoiselle.” English backed away. “Prove me stupide .”

Her whole body was trembling. Surgical clamps rattled in the tray. A fluid bag on the pole swung like a pendulum. But Star remained upright.

All at once, her right foot lurched forward. It was only a couple of inches, but it was a step — her first since the accident. Star teetered for an instant and stabilized. Her left foot moved next, followed by the right again. The cart and pole rolled with her as she moved in a slow staccato pace down the hall.

“I’m walking!” she cried in amazement.

It all came apart in an instant. The tray overturned, sending surgical instruments flying. Overbalanced, she pulled the IV pole down on top of herself. English swooped forward and caught her a split second before she would have hit the floor.

In her astonishment, the near miss barely even registered with her.

“I walked ,” she whispered in disbelief. “I’m going to walk.”

When Adriana saw the message from her brother, she felt guilty immediately. How many times had she sat here in Poseidon’s computer lab? Never once had she e-mailed Payton.

Jealousy, she admitted to herself. He got to go with Uncle Alfie, and I didn’t.

For the past two summers, the Ballantyne kids had been working with their uncle at the British Museum. This year, Alfred Ballantyne had only been allowed one assistant on his Syrian archaeological dig. He had chosen Payton. That was what had brought Adriana to Poseidon in the first place. It was her consolation prize.

Hi, Ade.

Sorry I haven’t e-mailed sooner. Uncle Alfie has been keeping me pretty busy, but that’s no excuse. Nobody can dig twenty-four hours a day, not even in the desert, where there’s nothing else to do.

Two shipwrecks! And I’m stuck here, where it takes eleven hours to brush the sediment off an old jug. I’ll bet you’re having the time of your life….

She wondered how envious he’d be if he knew that the captain was gone, and Star might never walk again.

Anyway, here’s the thing: Uncle Alfie told me about the problem of the bone handle. Why an English artifact on a Spanish galleon? Well, I did a little Web surfing. Guess what? An entire English privateer fleet was caught in the very same hurricane that sank Nuestra Señora. And that’s not all.

Check out the Internet address below. Let’s see if you come to the same conclusion I did. Then I’ll know I’m not crazy….

Adriana felt a twinge of annoyance. Why does this have to be all about Payton? He’s half a world away!

But she was also intrigued. She maneuvered her mouse to the link and clicked.

The site was British, maintained by the U.K. government’s Ministry of Overseas Trade and Commerce. It was a record of English shipping in 1665 — the year of the storm that had sunk Nuestra Señora .

According to the register, a privateer fleet had indeed sailed from the port of Liverpool in April of that year. Nine of eleven ships survived the Atlantic crossing to carry out a successful attack on the Spanish settlement of Portobelo. The storm struck in September near the infamous Hidden Shoals. There, the English flagship, a barque called the Griffin , was lost with all hands.

Adriana leaned back in her chair, frowning. What was Payton getting at? That the deeper shipwreck might be the Griffin ? And the J.B. handle came from there?

But it didn’t make sense. Star had found that artifact in the wreckage of Nuestra Señora , up on the reef.

Then it hit her.

The biggest mystery in all this wasn’t the handle. It was the question of what had happened to the galleon’s huge treasure. All at once, Adriana had the answer.

Privateers were sponsored by governments, but they were basically just pirates. Their mission was to raid, loot, and sink the shipping of their countries’ enemies.