Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“That’s a major league dugout canoe,” Pitt said. “It must have been used for interisland travel.”

The canoe was half buried and facing away from the depression, but its interior was free of sand and debris. Pitt eased the Starfish along its length, allowing the video camera to capture a thorough record of the vessel.

“I count ten benches,” Giordino said, “wide enough to seat two oarsmen each, with plenty of cargo room to spare.”

“Probably used by the local Taíno Indians for trading goods.” Pitt pointed to the hull. “Looks like they knew how to modify a canoe for the open seas.”

Carved planks had been pegged to the topsides of the canoe, creating a freeboard that extended an additional ten inches. Both stem and stern featured raised angular end pieces that had been attached to the base log.

“I don’t know what they were carrying,” Giordino said, “but it’s a cinch it wasn’t mercury.”

Pitt nodded. As he swung around the end of the canoe, the submersible’s thrusters blew away a patch of loose sand, exposing a small rectangular stone.

Giordino caught sight of the object. “Something on the bottom there.”

“I see it. Why don’t you try to bring it home?”

Giordino was already activating the controls of the manipulator, extending its silver claw as Pitt brought the Starfish over the object. He easily grasped the stone and pulled it from the sand. As he held it to the viewport, he and Pitt could see it was a carving of a native warrior. The image had squat legs, a large nose, and wore a breechcloth.

Pitt glanced at the carving before purging the ballast tanks to surface. “Possibly of ancient vintage,” he said.

“He kind of reminds me of our high school wrestling coach, Herbert Mudd,” Giordino said.

Pitt grinned. “I’ll wager young Herbert there would have an interesting story to tell, if he could talk.”

The carved warrior remained clutched in the manipulator’s claw, peering into the cockpit as the submersible rose to the surface. Although Herbert would leave the talking to others, the little stone statue would ultimately have a lot to declare.

26

The pinging melody from a sidewalk steel drum band greeted Dirk and Summer as they exited Montego Bay’s Donald Sangster International Airport. Summer listened a moment, then dropped a five-dollar bill into the band’s Rastafarian-knit collection hat, eliciting a nod from the trio. She hustled to catch up to Dirk, who was shrugging off an aggressive taxi driver before making his way to the rental car kiosk.

“Space B-9,” he said to Summer, dangling a set of car keys.

Stepping toward their assigned parking spot, they found a Volkswagen Beetle convertible. “A Beetle?” Dirk asked with a pained expression.

“Best the office could reserve on short notice.” Summer grabbed the keys away from her brother. “I think they’re cute.”

“Cute and functional don’t always go hand in hand.” He stuffed their suitcases into the small trunk. It was too minuscule to hold their dive gear, so Dirk wedged their equipment bags into the backseat floor.

He shook his head. “We’ve still got to pick up our magnetometer and some dive tanks.”

“We can just stack things up,” Summer said, lowering the top.

She slid behind the wheel on the car’s right side and passed her brother a road map. “I’ll drive and you can navigate our way to the dive shop.”

As Dirk climbed in the passenger seat, he grunted something about needing rum. Summer drove the car around to the air cargo office, where they picked up a small crate. She then headed south toward Montego Bay. Summer melted into the late-afternoon traffic. Steering down the road’s left lane, a vestige from Jamaica’s British colonial past, she drove with a focused vigilance.

They motored another five minutes before Summer pulled off the road, her knuckles white. In that short span, they’d been nearly sideswiped by a moving van and rear-ended by a bread truck. “They drive like crazy here!” she blurted.

“Too many potholes,” Dirk said, “or maybe just too much pot.” He hopped out and stepped to the driver’s door. “I’ll take it from here, if you like.”

“Gladly,” Summer said, sliding to the passenger seat.

Dirk took off, a grin forming as he joined the aggressive drivers. Where Summer felt intimidated, Dirk felt a challenge, one he fulfilled at home by racing a 1980s-era Porsche in local sports car club events.

They found the dive shop near one of the luxury hotels on Doctor’s Beach and rented four air tanks, which they piled on top of their other gear in the VW’s backseat. Reversing course, they passed by the airport, leaving the outskirts of Montego Bay behind them as they followed a narrow coastal road along the north shore.

They passed a conglomeration of resorts and scenic plantation houses, a reminder of Jamaica’s slave-produced sugar industry that prospered in the eighteenth century. The traffic and development withered as the road skirted the jungle-kissed waters of the blue Caribbean.