Gordon Korman: The Deep

“Rust?” repeated Dante. “Is that supposed to be a color?”

Adriana nodded. “It’s between taupe and burnt sienna.”

“Well, thanks for clearing that up,” Dante said sarcastically. “Just pack any old thing. We’re going to be so sick of looking at one another that you could wear a rabbit suit and nobody would notice.”

“And bring your toothbrush,” added Star. “We’ll be breathing recycled air, but I doubt the CO 2scrubbers can do anything about bad breath.”

It was important not to forget anything. Once they had been at the station for half a day or so, a return to the surface meant seventeen hours in a decompression chamber.

As soon as their bags were packed, the four took advantage of their last chance to e-mail family and friends from Poseidon’s computer lab. PUSH had computers linked by wireless telemetry to the outside world. But the connection was expensive, so there were strict rules against using it for personal correspondence.

Kaz replied to messages from his parents and Steven Allagash, his sports agent. Kaz was a hot prospect to make it as a professional hockey player. They called him the most promising young defenseman to come out of the Toronto area in twenty years.

That was before .

He sent just one more e-mail, to a boy named Drew Christiansen. The two were not friends. In fact, Kaz couldn’t understand why Drew didn’t consider him Public Enemy Number One after what had happened.

The Ontario Minor Hockey Association finals, game six. Kaz could still feel the contact of the body check as he drove Drew away from the net. It was a clean hit — even Drew agreed on that. A freak accident, according to the doctors. Trauma to the spinal column.

In that terrible instant, Drew Christiansen and Bobby Kaczinski were both out of hockey for good.

Drew had no choice in the matter. He would never walk again. And Kaz wanted nothing to do with a sport that could turn him into an instrument of destruction. That was why he had applied for the Poseidon internship. Diving in the Caribbean, it had seemed at the time, was the opposite of hockey in Canada.

He felt more than a little ridiculous e-mailing “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” to this stranger whose life he’d ruined.

But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen —

“Hey, guys,” called Adriana excitedly from another workstation. “I’ve got an answer from my uncle!”

Adriana’s uncle Alfred Ballantyne was an antiquities expert. She had e-mailed him a photograph of an artifact Star had brought up from the shipwreck site — an elaborately carved whalebone hilt.

Adriana dropped her voice to a whisper as the others gathered around. They hadn’t told anyone else about the artifact. If word of their find got back to Tad Cutter, they had no question that the treasure hunter would try to take it from them, just as he’d stolen their piece of eight, the Spanish silver coin. There was no way to be sure who they could trust at the institute. The only safe course was to trust no one.

Adriana pointed to the body of the message. “Right here.”

…I don’t think your artifact is the hilt of a sword or dagger, since there is no evidence of a guard or crosspiece. My best guess is that it is the handle of a walking stick, or perhaps even a whip (popular on ocean voyages for keeping both the crew and the rats in line).

I can’t identify the stone because of the coral encrusting it, but I’m sure you noticed the letters JB carved just below there. These are the initials perhaps of the artisan, but more likely the owner. Above you’ll see a design depicting a sprig of thistles. You’ll recognize this as the symbol of the Stuarts, British monarchs who ruled in the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. Therefore, the item must have been crafted in England at that time….

“Whoa,” breathed Kaz. “That thing is one heavy-duty museum piece.”

“And to think I’ve got it stashed in my underwear drawer,” added Star.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t tell us how much it’s worth ,” put in Dante, who tended to view these artifacts in terms of dollars and cents. “Scroll down. Let’s see what else he says.”

“Oh, that’s about the carving in English’s window,” Adriana told him. “I sent Uncle Alfie a picture of that too.”

The native dive guide’s cottage window displayed a large fragment of what once had been a huge carving of an eagle. It was apparently some kind of family heirloom. English refused to talk about it.

Adriana scrolled down.

…Your other specimen presents somewhat more of a puzzle. One possible explanation for its European origin is that it may have broken off a ship. Old wooden vessels were festooned with elaborate sculptures, which their superstitious makers believed would ward off bad luck, evil spirits, hurricanes, fever, and pirates. The eagle may be of English style, so perhaps that’s why your friend is called English….

“Friend,” snorted Kaz. “With friends like him, who needs Ming the Merciless?”

“Hi, team.” Marina Kappas was working her way between the rows of computer desks toward them.

Instantly, Adriana closed her e-mail program. Marina was on Tad Cutter’s crew of treasure hunters. On the surface, she was affable, outgoing, and seemed genuinely concerned about the teens’ well-being. She was also flat-out gorgeous, which scored a lot of points with Kaz and Dante. It had far less effect on the girls. And all four had to bear in mind that, beautiful or not, friendly or not, as Cutter’s colleague, she was on the other team.

“I hear they’ve stolen you away for a few days at PUSH,” Marina went on. “We’ll miss you guys.”

“I can tell,” Star said sarcastically. “There’s something about getting up at four in the morning to take off without us that shows you really care.”

Cutter and company had been avoiding their interns since day one.

Marina shrugged. “Workaholics. Tad and Chris are crazy when they’re on a project. Hey, you’re going to love PUSH. Not much elbow room, but really fascinating.”

The four exchanged a meaningful glance. Marina Kappas didn’t care if they were fascinated or not. She just wanted them down on the station, out of the way, leaving her team free to continue the search for sunken treasure — with no prying eyes to watch them.

The bow of the R/V Francisco Pizarro cleaved the light chop of an otherwise flawless Caribbean. It was the interns’ first ride with Captain Janet Torrington, whose job it was to deliver them to PUSH for a five-day stay.

The captain was telling them about Dr. Igor Ocasek, the scientist who would be sharing the small station with them.

“The thing about Iggy is that he’s a genius, which means half the time he seems as dumb as a box of rocks. When his mind is on a problem, you can be three inches in front of his nose, screaming your lungs out, and he has no idea you’re even there.”

“What is he studying?” asked Adriana.

Torrington shrugged. “His specialty is mollusks, but right now I’d have to say he’s a Doctor of Tinkering.”

“Tinkering?” Kaz echoed.

“You know, fiddling with stuff. Retooling, refitting, rewiring. He can improve anything. Iggy designed a better paper clip last year, if you can believe it. Superior ergonomics, whatever that is. It’s up in Washington now, patent pending.”

As they approached the Hidden Shoals, Torrington slowed to a crawl, and the Pizarro began to pick her way gingerly through a minefield of marker buoys. These indicated coral heads towering so close to the surface that they presented a hazard to shipping. It was no joke. A living reef concealed a limestone core strong enough to rip open the hull of a boat.