Clive Cussler: The Eye of Heaven

“What time do you see the party beginning on our end?”

“I’d say around four in the morning. Better to be early than too late.”

“Want to fill me in on how we’re going to stop them?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The moon grinned crookedly from between scattered clouds, its cool radiance shimmering across the wrinkled sea as Sam and Remi descended to the dive platform. The rest of the archaeology team had long since retired and were slumbering the untroubled sleep of the inebriated. Remi opened one of the watertight lockers and removed two bulky dive masks with night vision monoculars attached — courtesy of Sam’s contacts in the Defense Department. They’d used them to great effect inside the hull of the wreck, where the scope would amplify even the dimmest traces of light and illuminate the entire area.

“I hope this works,” Remi whispered as they checked each other’s gear.

“It’s our best shot. But, hey, what do I know?”

She patted the top of his head. “You’re good on the equipment.”

“You, too.” He stepped away. “The night vision scopes are state-of-the-art. Worst case, we use one of the flashlights if we need a small light source. If we’re careful and limit the beam to the hull, nobody will see it.”

She eyed the gentle swells. “Did I ever tell you how romantic it is to dive into the cold sea in the dead of night?”

“I was hoping you’d be a pushover for that.”

“You know me like the beating of your own heart.”

They both froze as a creak reached them from the upper level. Sam cocked his head, listening for any hint of movement, and after a few minutes of continued silence they relaxed — it was probably just the wooden deck changing temperature.

Sam took the mask from her and switched on the NV scope, then pulled the strap over his dive hood. “Hey, whaddaya know? I can see! You ready to go swimming?” he whispered.

“I was born ready, big boy.” She donned her mask and activated the scope and, after a final check of her dive bag, lowered herself into the water. Sam joined her moments later, and soon they were swimming toward Benedict’s yacht using Sam’s GPS waypoint.

Visibility wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, ten feet below the surface, and enough moonlight penetrated to their depth for them to easily see each other. Sam estimated that with the scopes they had a good thirty feet of usable range before everything faded into darkness, which he hoped would be enough for their purposes. Remi glided through the water like a dolphin behind him, and when he looked back he felt a surge of pride in her for agreeing to tackle a difficult task with him, as she had so often, without flinching.

The yacht’s hull loomed ahead, and as they drew closer they could make out the expected nets suspended below it by nylon rope, secured to heavy steel eyelets that had been welded to the vessel’s underside specifically for that purpose. Sam gestured at the nearest, filled with statues, and they passed in front of it to the bow. As they did, the water hummed with a droning vibration — the engines firing up.

Remi looked at Sam. He indicated the closest net, withdrew his XS Scuba titanium dive knife from its leg sheath, and swam to where one of two lines connected to the hull. Remi did the same and moved to the opposite line, taking a moment to peer at the full nets hanging like pendulous fruit from the ship — easily a dozen or more — disappearing into the darkness along the yacht’s length. Sam began sawing at the nylon line. Remi matched his efforts until her side frayed and then snapped, followed almost instantly by Sam’s. They watched as the net filled with artifacts sank slowly back to the bottom. When it was out of sight, they swam to the next in the queue.

Ten minutes later, as they were approaching the second-to-last net, the yacht began moving. Sam looked around and pointed at the anchor chain, which was slackening as the vessel eased forward. Remi shot to the side to avoid becoming entangled in the netting as it moved toward her. Sam did the same. The chain tightened as it pulled free from the bottom, and then the vessel paused directly over the anchor as it rose from the deep.

Remi motioned at the two remaining nets. They swam to the two lines and began cutting, aware that they didn’t have much time before the ship got under way. If they were lucky, they’d be able to free both and get clear by the time the yacht powered forward again.

Sam attacked his line with renewed vigor. The anchor chain clattered as it rolled onto the windlass at the bow, the sound, even underwater, like the firing of a machine gun. The cutting became more difficult as the stern drifted, pushed by the wind above, the giant five-bladed props turning slowly as the transmissions rested at idle.

Sam’s side finally came free, and one side of the nylon net dropped in slow motion; and then, just as Remi was through her side, the huge props began spinning and the yacht lurched forward. Sam cursed silently as he felt the pull of the props dragging him toward them. After a final glance at the remaining net containing a single statue, he kicked with all his might to escape. He’d seen too many photographs of accidents involving propellers to risk a last attempt and he turned his head, searching for Remi, as he dived straight down.

He almost made it. The last net snagged Sam’s tank and for a horrifying moment he was dragged along, all control lost. Facing backward, he found himself staring at a vision crafted from his worst nightmares — the churning of the gleaming, sharp brass propellers only a few yards from where he was trapped.

The surge as the ship gathered momentum pulled him closer and he struggled uselessly to free himself, aware that he had only seconds before the anchor was up and the captain increased speed to where even if Sam got loose, he’d be sucked into the deadly blades. He reached behind him with his dive knife and slashed blindly at the thick nylon net.

To no avail.

In a last desperate bid for survival, he groped for his harness releases and snapped them open as he took a deep breath of compressed air and then pulled his regulator free of his mouth and swam into the deep with all his might.

His left flipper jolted as a prop blade tore through it, and then he was being pushed through the water as though in a jet stream, hurled backward by the prop wash as the yacht accelerated.

After a seeming eternity of being batted around in the wake, Sam broke the surface and gasped in fresh, sweet air, the stern of Benedict’s vessel bright in his night vision monocular. He inhaled another huge lungful and then went back under to look for Remi.

She’d gotten clear sooner than he, and Sam could make out her form gliding into the dark.

Safe.

He dived down to her and took her hand. Remi gave it a squeeze. She turned to him and her eyes widened behind her mask as she saw him without his tank, only the snorkel in his mouth. He gave a thumbs-up, and they both rose to the surface.

“What happened to your rig?” she asked as they floated in the dark.

“The sea gods demanded a sacrifice and it was either the tank or me.”

“Are you all right?”

“Never better. Let’s get back to the boat before dawn breaks,” he said, looking over to where the Bermudez floated peacefully on the ebony swells.

Back on board, Remi removed her gear, and they both stripped off their dive suits. Their intention was to say nothing about their nocturnal adventure until the shipwreck was under guard. Given Benedict’s obvious reach into unknown levels of the Spanish administration, that seemed the most prudent course. No point in tipping him off and eliminating any timing advantage they’d bought themselves.