Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt 23)

“Good morning,” the Jamaican said. “You enjoy the fish?”

“Yes, though my brother overcooked it. I see you brought plenty of air.”

“You ready to dive?”

“Yes, we are,” she answered. “I’m happy to see you’ve brought us better weather.”

“My pleasure.” Samuel grinned. “So, what you look for? Gold or silver?”

“Sorry to disappoint you but there’s no treasure, at least as far as we know. We’re looking for a carved round stone.”

Samuel’s broad mouth turned down. “Okeydokey. I help you find that, too.”

They dove to the bottom, where Dirk and Summer surveyed the ballast mound. Using a reeled tape measure, they computed its width and length to the point where it was swallowed by a large coral outcropping. Dirk motioned toward the surface.

“I wasn’t counting on a hungry swath of coral,” he said after climbing into the boat.

Summer floated in the water alongside Samuel. “According to St. Julien’s data, the Oso Malo was seventy feet long. We’ve got at least half that length clear of the coral.”

“I guess thirty-five feet is better than nothing.” Dirk yanked the starter pulley to a gas-powered water pump that he’d rented the day before after canvasing a half-dozen dive shops in Montego Bay. He threw an intake hose into the sea and passed a second nozzle and hose over to Summer. “You ready to dig?”

“Give me a second to hit the bottom.” She inserted her regulator and submerged. Dirk gave her time to position herself at one end of the ballast mound, then turned on the valve that cycled seawater through the pump.

A blast of water sprayed out the nozzle in Summer’s hand, which she used to jet away the loose sand covering the ballast mound. Samuel watched as she began clearing a foot-wide path along the top of it, revealing a pile of smooth river rock.

Blasting away the overburden was slow and physically taxing, so the three took turns manning the waterjet, working in thirty-minute shifts.

Summer documented the excavation with a new underwater camera that Dirk bought her and recorded notes in a journal. It took the better part of the morning to reach the coral abutment, where they exposed a portion of the ship’s timbers.

After lunch, they scoured a second trench a few feet to the side. Dirk had nearly completed a third trench on the opposite side when the jet stopped spraying. He surfaced to find the pump motor silent.

“Did you shut it off?” he asked Summer, who sat next to Samuel by the pump.

“No, it ran out of gas.” She sloshed a near-empty fuel can. “We’ve barely enough left to get back to shore.”

Dirk pulled himself aboard, stripped off his dive gear, and allowed himself a moment’s rest. “I think that pretty much ends it anyway. I had nearly finished the third test trench. With the three, th

e odds were good we would have exposed the stone if it was there. I’m afraid that if it’s still on the wreck, it’s embedded somewhere in the coral.”

Summer frowned. “If it’s in the coral, we’ll never find it.”

“You still have many interesting artifacts,” Samuel said. He pointed to a towel spread on the boat’s floorboards. It was covered with objects exposed by the test trenches, mostly pieces of broken porcelain and corroded nails and fittings. Several chunks of green obsidian also glistened in the sun.

“At least nothing suggests the wreck is anything other than the Oso Malo,” Summer said. “This should make for a nice exhibit at the National Museum of Historical Archaeology in Port Royal.”

“We find stone tomorrow,” Samuel said.

“No, Dirk’s right.” Summer shook her head. “The stone should have been visible on top of the ballast mound. It’s just not there—or lost to the coral. I’m afraid we must leave Jamaica tomorrow anyway.”

Dirk fished out his wallet from a dive bag and gave Samuel two hundred dollars, thanking him for his help.

“You two crazy,” he said with a smile. “If you must leave, then Samuel buy you drink first.”

“At the moment, I’d like nothing better,” Dirk said.

They pulled up anchors on their respective boats and motored to the stone pier. Under Samuel’s direction, they piled into the Volkswagen and headed toward Montego Bay. They had driven but a short distance when he had them pull up to a small building. A faded sign on the roof proclaimed it the Green Stone Bar & Museum.

“Green Stone,” Summer said. “That’s what you called the wreck.”