Going Under (Wildfire Lake 2)

Prologue

My dad’s been gone three years now, but somehow, when I’m diving, I still feel him floating at my side.

He would have loved these warm South Pacific waters with the killer visibility. I can see for at least one hundred and fifty feet. Coral in a hundred different colors blanket the rocks and caves. A school of fish spirals around me, mirror basslets in shades of purple and red so vivid, they make my eyes hurt. And while I know this place seems mythically beautiful, I’m well aware of its lethal dangers.

There are countless caves and caverns and myriad poisonous creatures in these waters, from lionfish to eagle rays, but I’m searching for one cave in particular. I was told I could surface in Bubble Cave, an enclosed chamber where stalactites cling to the ceiling. But I’ve been searching for forty minutes and haven’t found it.

Probably just as well. I’ve been diving for twelve years, so I feel comfortable on an average dive going it alone, but if I’m going to start exploring caves, it’s really best to have a buddy. I’m also a calm diver, allowing my oxygen tank to last longer than normal, but it’s about time I start toward the surface.

I wouldn’t consider this dive a loss. This is the most serene I’ve felt since I landed on this island four days ago, which is saying something, considering I came for a spiritual retreat. I’ve been missing my dad a lot lately and decided to try to sort out my sadness in the downtime between gigs as a marine engineer on the Norwegian Cruise Line. Turns out, while I enjoy learning the concepts of spirituality, I can’t seem to master the practice. But here, beneath the water, I enjoy the soothing sound of my air bubbles escaping my regulator as I defy gravity to explore.

A small school of brightly striped clown fish catches my eye. They’re one of my favorite fishes, but a species not normally seen here. They’re floating calmly in and among gold-green sea anemones, their tentacles flowing back and forth with the current.

I float that direction to watch them. Their orange-and-white stripes make me smile, and the rise of my cheeks allows water to seep into my mask. I lift my mask and blow through my regulator, pushing bubbles into the mask and filling it with air before securing it back on my face.

When I search for the fish again, I find them darting chaotically among the flattened sea anemones. I glance around for a predator but find none. A strong, invisible current sweeps through, pushing me toward the shore like a bully on the playground. All sorts of creatures come out of hiding. They dart and flit and run into me, bouncing off my wet suit and mask.

Unease tingles across my shoulders. There’s a tropical storm forecast today, but it’s estimated to miss the island by several miles.

I look up, make sure I have a direct path to the surface, and ascend slowly. The currents grow stronger. Debris begins flying through the water, hitting me from every angle. My visibility drops from feet to inches. I’m anxious to get to the surface, but I have to give my body time to adjust to the pressure changes as I rise or risk developing life-threatening decompression sickness.

I pause every so often to check my gear, and by the time I’m twenty feet from the surface, I know I’m in deep shit. Whatever’s going on up there is way more intense than a tropical storm.

I’m pushed rhythmically by the current toward the shore. A shore with coral reefs and rock and tide pools surrounding the entire island. No safe place to land in this kind of weather. I’m tempted to ride out the storm here, under the water, but my regulator is showing there’s no way I have enough air. If I knew how to get to Bubble Cave, I would risk waiting out the storm there, but that’s not an option.

I really have no choice but to try to make it to shore.

This is going to suck so hard.

I watch the waves roil above my head and try hard to control the panic. Panic eats oxygen. Panic causes mistakes. Panic kills.

Okay, Dad, if you’re here, I could really use some help.

I send up the prayer as I kick toward the surface. The surging currents grow stronger, shoving me this way, then dragging me that way. The playground bully is back, slamming me into rock faces only to pull me back and do it again.

By the time I break the surface, my body is exhausted from the fight and the waves are five feet tall. The wind blows at the water, hammering me with blow after angry blow of seawater.

This is no fucking tropical storm. This is a cyclone.

Don’t panic. Trust your instincts.

It’s my dad. I hear his voice as clearly as if he’s right next to me, and my whole body tingles with adrenaline.

I wait for the swells and kick as one approaches, body surfing with the current toward land. The wind pulls the ocean into whiplashing waves, carrying the water toward the island and hammering it against the rock cliffs. The tide pools are swamped with each wave, only reappearing when the water recedes.

I can’t begin to imagine how I’m going to reach land, or how I’ll get up the cliff to the resort. I have no fucking idea how I’m going to survive.

Shit just got way too real. I might be seeing my dad sooner than either of us expected.