Clive Cussler - The Navigator

The ROV quickly descended to forty feet. Zavala leveled the vehicle off and checked the TV monitor. Twin cones of light illuminated the muddy bottom. There was no sign of a wreck. He had the vehicle execute a series of parallel lines, as if he were mowing a lawn. Still no wreck.

“I hope our target wasn’t a NUMASat hiccup,” he said. He turned to Austin, who had been peering over his shoulder.

“Not a chance,” Austin said. “Set up a new search pattern to starboard. Keep it tight.”

Zavala activated the lateral thrusters and shifted the mini-ROV to the right. He started a new pattern with twenty-five-foot-long parallel turns. Halfway through the new search, the ROV’s lights picked out a dark, curving line that protruded from the bottom.

Zavala brought the vehicle to a hover. “That’s either a sea serpent rib or a ship’s timber.”

The image on the monitor brought a grin to Austin’s face.

“I’d say we’ve got ourselves a wreck,” he said. “Remind me to sacrifice a Hobbit to the Eye of Sauron.”

Zavala powered the ROV so that it moved past the object. More ship’s ribs came into view. The skeletal outlines of the wreck could be discerned. The timbers gradually diminished in size as the ROV passed nearer the bow section.

“The wood is pretty well preserved, except for the upper ends, where it seems to be charred,” Zavala said.

“That would account for the sinking. She burned to the waterline.”

“How long do you figure her to be?”

Austin squinted at the screen. “A hundred fifty feet. Maybe more. What’s that, off to the right?”

Zavala put the ROV into a quick turn. The lights picked up what looked like a long wooden animal snout. The upper part of the head was burned beyond recognition.

“Looks like part of a big hobbyhorse,” Zavala said.

Austin’s pulse quickened. He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a waterproof folder of transparent plastic. Inside was the computer-generated ship rendering that the Trouts had given him. He held the picture close to the screen. The horse snout on the monitor and in the picture were almost identical.

“Guess again, amigo. We may be the first people in more than two thousand years to set eyes on a Phoenician ship of Tarshish.”

Zavala’s face lit up. “I’d trade a case of anejo tequila for a glimpse of this lady when it was still afloat.”

He moved the vehicle slowly along the port side of the wreck.

Austin saw a dark round shape lying about dead center in the hull. He tapped the screen. “What’s this?”

Zavala cautiously powered the vehicle inches forward.

The ROV’s lights picked out a metal grating partially covered by marine growth. He turned the vehicle around and used the force of its thrusters to clear away the sand around the object.

Austin said, “It’s a diver’s helmet.”

“I know the Phoenicians were clever, but I didn’t know they were into hard-hat diving.”

“They weren’t. Someone beat us to the wreck, and from the looks of it he’s still down there.”

Zavala put the ROV in a hover that would keep the helmet in view. Austin laid his scuba gear out on the deck. He stripped down to a bathing suit and got into a neoprene wet suit, boots, gloves, and hood. He pulled on his fins. Zavala helped him with his weight belt and air tank. Austin did a quick gear check and tested the regulator. Then he brought a mask down over his eyes and clamped the mouthpiece between his teeth. He sat on the gunwale and rolled backward into the water.

Austin sank several feet in a cloud of bubbles. He felt a quick chill before the cold water seeping between skin and suit warmed to body temperature. With powerful kicks of his muscular legs, he powered himself down through the darkening water toward the silvery green glow from the ROV lights.

Austin came down practically on top of the vehicle, then swam around in front of the ROV’s camera lens and gave a thumbs-up. Zavala tilted the front of the ROV up and down as if it were nodding. Austin waved back and swam over to examine the ribs. The wood was definitely charred.

He was turning back to the helmet when he saw a rectangular object lying nearby. He picked up what appeared to be a stone or clay tablet, about eight inches square and a couple of inches thick. Lines were cut into the surface on one side.

Austin slipped the tablet into a stuff bag attached to his buoyancy compensator and gave the helmet his full attention. He cleared the vegetation from around the base. The helmet was still attached to a breastplate. He dug into the muck. Shreds of rotting canvas could be seen fringing the outer rim of the breastplate.

Austin felt a chill that was not entirely due to the water temperature.

He unhooked a waterproof flashlight from his BC, snapped it on, and pointed the beam through the grate. Staring back at him were the empty eyes of a human skull.

Austin pondered his next move. Like most men who follow the sea, he had the deepest respect for watery graves. He could surface and report the find to the authorities. But the heavy hand of police divers could destroy whatever secrets the wreck might have yielded.

He wrapped his arms around the helmet and carefully wrestled it free. The skull dropped out of the bottom and landed upright. Austin took comfort in the fact that the dead diver was still grinning.

He avoided the baleful eye sockets and took a lift bag from a pouch. He tied the lines from the bag to the helmet’s neck and inflated the lifter with air from his tank. He inflated his buoyancy compensator, grabbed the helmet, and slowly ascended to the surface.

Zavala had watched the primitive salvage effort on the ROV’s monitor. He saw Austin’s head pop up at the surface and threw him a line. Austin tied the line to the helmet so it wouldn’t sink. He handed Zavala his air tank, weight belt, and fins, and then he climbed a ladder into the boat.

They bent their backs to the line and hauled the helmet onto the deck.

Austin pulled his hood off and knelt next to the helmet. “This is an old-timer,” he said. “Probably been down there for years.”

Zavala examined the air hose fitting and the ear plates and face-plates. He ran his fingers over the metal dome. “The workmanship is incredible. It’s made of brass and copper.” He tried to lift the helmet and the attached breastplate. “This baby must weigh more than fifty pounds. The guy who wore this thing must have been as tough as nails.”

“Not tough enough,” Austin said.

“I suspected that was the case,” Zavala said with a glance over the side. “I wonder who he was.”

Austin scraped growth away to reveal an oval piece of metal, engraved with the helmet’s manufacturer, that was riveted to the front of the breastplate. The engraving said that the helmet had been made by the MORSE DIVING EQUIPMENT COMPANY, of Boston. Underneath the manufacturer’s name was a serial number.

“Maybe this will tell us.”

He used a cell phone to call the maritime history division at NUMA. He identified himself to a researcher, who said her name was Jennifer, and gave her the information from the manufacturer’s plate. Jennifer asked for the numbers on the brail straps as well, and said she would run a search and call him back.

Zavala had returned to the ROV control and brought the vehicle back to the surface. He hoisted the compact vehicle out of the water, and Austin coiled the umbilical and laid it neatly on deck, which was when he noticed his stuff bag. He opened the bag and pulled out the tablet. It had been greenish gray under water, but it turned to more of a brown color as it dried. Several intersecting straight lines were incised about a half inch deep on one side. He handed it to Zavala.