Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

Summer checked the road map. “White Bay should be coming up.”

The road wound through a dense patch of jungle before opening above a shallow cove ringed with white sand. Dirk turned onto a narrow dirt road, escaping a tailgating taxi that had been pestering him since they left the dive shop.

The dirt road curved past a lane of ramshackle houses to a band of beachfront cottages that lined the cove. Mostly foreign-owned vacation retreats, the cottages appeared sparsely occupied.

“The rental agent said the third house on the left.” Summer pointed to one of the bungalows. “The yellow one there, I think, with the white trim.”

Dirk nodded and pulled into the bungalow’s open carport. A gentle surf rocked the beach just a few dozen yards in front of them. “Accommodations right off the wreck site,” he said, gazing at the waterfront. “Can’t get more convenient than that.”

“The keys are supposed to be under the mat and the house already stocked with groceries, so we can stay put and work until the Sargasso Sea makes port.”

“And a workboat?”

“A Boston Whaler with extra fuel tanks is supposed to be waiting at a pier around the cove.”

They unloaded their belongings into the modest two-bedroom bungalow, opening all the doors and windows to catch the afternoon breeze. After hauling the dive tanks down to the beach, they walked to the nearby pier.

They found the workboat tied to the pier, appearing as though it had been sitting there for years. Its fiberglass finish was dulled by the sun and its brightwork was consumed by rust. “Looks like it was built during the Civil War,” Dirk said.

“Same goes for the dock.”

They stepped single file onto the rickety pier, which was little more than a handful of narrow planks atop some rock pilings. Dirk placed their dive tanks in the boat and pulled the starter on the outboard motor. The engine fired on the second pull. “Not the Queen Elizabeth, but it’ll do.”

“The cove is smaller than I expected,” Summer said as they walked back to the cottage under a setting sun. “It looks less than a mile acro

ss.”

“With luck, we ought to get it surveyed in a day.” Dirk stopped and stared into the waves. Like his father, he was drawn by an almost primeval need to explore the sea. The remains of the Oso Malo were calling just off shore.

They rose at dawn and shoved off from the dock under a cool breeze. Dirk opened the crate they had picked up from the airport and unpacked a towed magnetometer unit. Once they were under way, a fish-shaped sensor was towed behind the boat. The cable was attached to a small processing station with an audio monitor, which would signal the presence of ferrous metal objects with a high-pitched buzz.

Using a handheld GPS unit to mark their path, Dirk drove the boat in narrow survey lanes across the cove while Summer monitored the magnetometer, adjusting the length of the towed cable to keep the sensor from grounding on the bottom. On their third lane, the monitor shrieked—it was a large target. Dirk cut the motor and Summer jumped over the side with mask and fins for a quick investigation. She surfaced a minute later and climbed into the boat with a frown.

“Somebody lost a nice anchor, but it’s much too new to be from a Spanish galleon.”

“We can fish it out later.” Dirk restarted the motor.

They surveyed until midday, stopping only for a quick lunch at the cottage. Returning to the dock, Summer motioned offshore. “Looks like we have some competition.”

A faded green skiff with a lone man aboard was bobbing off the cove. Clad only in a pair of cutoffs, the man waved at Summer, then slipped on a mask and jumped over the side, clutching a speargun. A minute later, his head popped above the surface for a quick breath of air, then he disappeared again.

Dirk sailed the Boston Whaler to their last position in the middle of the cove and motioned to Summer. She lowered the magnetometer and they resumed surveying as a bank of low clouds rolled in, offering respite from the hot sun. The magnetometer buzzed with small targets here and there but found nothing of consequence. After two more hours, they drew near the other boat. The Jamaican diver pulled himself onto his boat with a long string of silver fish tied to his waist and guzzled a drink of water from a plastic jug. He smiled broadly at the Boston Whaler. “What you looking for, mon?”

Dirk slowed, forcing Summer to reel in the magnetometer.

“A Spanish shipwreck,” he said. “Supposedly sank in this cove in 1525.”

The man nodded. “Samuel show you.”

Without another word, the Jamaican pulled up his anchor and started the motor on his skiff. He chugged offshore, veering slightly east before cutting the motor and tossing out his anchor. Dirk pulled up alongside and followed suit.

“It here,” Samuel said. “Forty feet water.”

“Kind of you to show us,” Dirk said before introducing themselves. “This cove apparently has good fishing all the way around,” he added, eyeing Samuel’s speargun and catch.

Samuel smiled. “All Jamaica good fishing.”

The water was still shallow enough to make out the bottom, and Dirk could see the rising green shape of a coral reef a few yards to the side. The winds began kicking up as a squall crept in from the northwest, turning the surface gray.