Gamay tapped the computer screen in front of her and brought up the structural drawings of the ship. NUMA had downloaded them from the manufacturer. It showed a storeroom above the keel, then cabins on deck two, then a lounge at the top.
“There’s a cradle in here,” Duke said. “It’s fairly strong rigging. Clearly designed to support something heavy. I see a watertight door at the far end. There’s something written on the door. Trying to get close enough to read it.”
Still waiting for the silt in the main cabin to settle, Gamay switched to the video feed from Duke’s camera. The lens was facing away as Duke used the thrusters to blast the slime from the watertight door he’d found.
When he spun the camera back around and pointed it toward the door, Gamay could see a gray bulkhead of heavy steel. Yellow chevrons cut across it like warning signs. Beneath the chevrons were two words.
“ ‘Survival Pod,’ ” Gamay said, reading aloud. “The ship has been modified since it left the builder.”
“I’ve heard about those,” Elena said. “Just like some celebrities have panic rooms where they can hide from stalkers or the zombie apocalypse, some of these bigwigs have outfitted their ships with ‘escape pods’ and ‘panic boats.’ The owners climb in, seal the door, and eject from the sinking ship.”
“That explains the smooth outline of the hole,” Duke said. “Looks like a panel was blown out with explosive bolts.”
Gamay nodded. “Once they’re free, the pod can either float or submerge up to a hundred feet. Deep enough to keep them out of the reach of pirates or terrorists. Or to ride out the worst storm imaginable. Depending on how many occupants, they might have a week of supplies and at least a day or two of oxygen. They call for help with the same kind of buoy transmitter we’re using and either Coast Guard or contracted security companies come in and scoop them up.”
Paul broke in. “So if the yacht had one, why didn’t Westgate and his family use it?”
“Maybe he couldn’t get to it,” Duke suggested. “Maybe the lower decks were flooded.”
“Someone got to it,” Gamay pointed out.
“Maybe some other crew members.”
“So where are they?” Elena asked.
Gamay felt a chill on her neck. “Maybe something’s going on here after all.”
“Hate to be a wet blanket,” Paul said, “but any number of things could explain the missing pod, including a malfunction, or some type of auto release. Suppose the ship goes beyond a certain state, like being submerged? Let’s not get ourselves all worked up just yet.”
“My husband,” Gamay said. “The voice of reason. I’ll make sure to repeat those words to you next time your Red Sox are blowing a lead in the bottom of the ninth.”
“As long as it’s not against the Yankees.”
Gamay smiled and switched back to the feed from her own camera. The silt had cleared. She made a last lap in the main salon, moving slowly, trying not to miss anything.
She was about to exhale when she caught sight of a hand floating limply beyond some roughly piled furniture. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.
“I think I’ve found someone.”
“I don’t see anything on the screen,” Paul said.
“Hold on,” she said. “Looks like everything that wasn’t nailed or tied down slid forward and to one side as the yacht sank. I have to maneuver around a pile of junk.”
With her heart racing more than she’d care to admit, Gamay brought the camera around the pile of furniture and focused the small floodlight until the image resolved. And she could clearly see a body, bloated by the water and trapped by the piled furniture, come into view.
“I hate to say it,” Elena whispered, “but that man didn’t drown.”
“Nope,” Gamay agreed. “By the look of things, he never got the chance.”
Despite the damaging effects of the salt water, three bullet holes in his chest were clearly visible.
Eight hundred feet above the sunken yacht, Paul stared at a computer screen that was displaying the view from Gamay’s camera.
The bullet wounds were unmistakable.
Pressing a button, he froze the image and e-mailed it directly to Dirk Pitt.