The Minoan Cipher (A Matinicus “Matt” Hawkins Adventure Book 2) (9 page)

“What’s its purpose?”

“Some people think it was a stabilizer that lengthened the waterline without elongating the hull. Others say it would be a drag on the ship, like having a ladder down the side, and would tend to draw the ship’s stern to the wind.”

“That could be dangerous with high waves and a following sea,” Hawkins said.

“That’s why there’s scholarly disagreement. But the stern projection tells us something. Like the bow, it is a design used by Minoan shipwrights.”

“Are you ready to make a positive ID, then?”

She shook her head. “It makes no difference how ready I am. Any theory I present will be subject to scathing review from my colleagues and peers. It must be airtight. But evidence of Minoan shipbuilding techniques could help bolster our case.”

“Cargo specimens would help even more.”

“Without a doubt, Minoan artifacts would seal the deal. You forget that our pig-faced Spanish friend has forbidden us from touching the wreck. It’s a shame, because I can’t get funding from the television people without hard evidence.”

“If I set
Falstaff
down within inches of the deck, the thrusters might
accidentally
blow sand off and uncover cargo. Technically speaking, we wouldn’t touch the wreck.”

Looking over at him, she smiled. “Who am I to argue with a respected Woods Hole scientist?”

Hawkins moved
Falstaff
back over the stern, then brought the submersible down to less than a yard above the deck and blasted away with the vertical thrusters. The submersible shot up above the billowing cloud of sand. He set
Falstaff
down again, several feet ahead, hopscotching to the bow.
Falstaff
pivoted to point back to the deck and, suddenly, its lights illuminated patches of newly exposed planking and ribs.

“Look at that blackened wood. There was a fire on board,” Hawkins said. “Probably what sent her to the bottom.”

“Maybe someone knocked over an oil lantern.”

“Or the ship was sunk during a battle. We’ll make another pass.”

As
Falstaff
retraced its route, objects could be seen nestled on and between the planks.

“I see amphorae!” Kalliste said, practically jumping out of her seat.

Hawkins was more restrained but he shared her excitement. The clay jugs that carried wine and oil could be vital clues in identifying the wreck. As he scanned the deck his attention was diverted by another object, still partially covered with sand that was larger than the others. It was located on the starboard side, around midships. Something about it looked vaguely familiar.

Before he could move in for a closer look, he heard a muffled thud come from above. A vibration passed through the passenger sphere.

Kalliste lifted her eyes toward the surface. “What was that?”

Hawkins knew from his SEAL days exactly what it was. An explosion. He searched the blackness beyond the floodlights. Then, after a short pause, he heard a second explosion. “Hold on, Kalliste,” he said. “We’re going up.”

Falstaff
rose in a straight vertical line instead of the corkscrew path it had followed on the descent.

At the thud of a third explosion, Hawkins brought the submersible to a hover. They listened, but heard only the sound of their nervous breathing against the hum of the motors. He reached out for the throttle control and resumed the ascent, slower and with more caution.

The changing color spectrum was the reverse of the descent, shifting to violet, then blue tinged with yellow and orange.

Hawkins kept his eyes glued to the fathometer.

Two hundred feet. One-fifty. One hundred.

Kalliste had been tight-lipped during the ascent, but she suddenly pointed up. “Dear God!”

A huge fish-like shape was silhouetted against the sparkle of surface light. It rapidly expanded in size as it gained speed. Hawkins knew in an instant what was coming down from the surface.

The
Sancho Panza
.

And it was about to squash
Falstaff
under its keel.

CHAPTER TEN

Hawkins messed up Leonidas by getting in the water so quickly. He waited and kept watch through his binoculars…and got stoned. The dope he’d smoked was like brain dynamite. The passage of time was exaggerated under the effects of the cannabis. Seemed like days had gone by. Maybe years. Screw it, he thought. He’d waited long enough. Maybe if he made enough of a ruckus Hawkins would come up to see what was going on.

He clicked a missile into the launcher. The first Spike would take out the pilot house so no one would call in a Mayday. He sighted just below the window and squeezed the trigger. The Spike whooshed out of the launcher and blew a hole in the side of the pilot house.

As the structure was engulfed in a ball of flame, he loaded a second missile into the launcher and aimed it at the hull a few inches above the waterline. He squeezed the trigger a second time. The Spike hurtled to its target at six hundred miles per hour. The camera in the nose of the missile sent a picture of a man running back and forth on the stern deck. He must have been panicked by the first missile strike. Little bald guy in a suit. Leonidas cackled. Reminded him of a duck in a shooting gallery. He enclosed the man in the white square that defined the target.

The missile passed through the man as if he weren’t there, scattering a shower of blood and body parts in a hundred different directions, then kept going and splashed into the ocean.

Leonidas experienced a moment of clarity. He cursed himself for the dumb stunt he just pulled. He’d wasted a damned missile that should have been used on the boat.

Crap
. Things cost a fortune. He reloaded the launcher and fired the third Spike into the hull, intending to send the boat to the bottom. Nothing happened except for a lot of smoke and fire. He picked up the last Spike, the one he’d been saving to use on Hawkins, and sent it off after the others.

More smoke and flames. It seemed forever before the boat slowly listed at a forty-five degree angle. Water poured into the hull. The bow sank lower. The stern rose in the air at a sharp angle, as the boat slid into the sea leaving behind nothing more than foam and bubbles.

Leonidas snatched up a pair of binoculars and surveyed the debris and oil slick created from ruptured fuel tanks. The thick cloud of smoke swirling above the water hampered visibility.

Still no sign of Hawkins.

He squinted at the sky. Sheets of ashy clouds were moving in to blot out the sun. The wind had freshened and was whipping the greasy waves into whitecaps. The job had taken longer than he expected. The dope was making him fidgety. With stiff winds and rain on its way, it was doubtful Hawkins would last the night after he came to the surface. Leonidas was eager to get paid. He was hungry and the high was wearing off. To him, all of these facts together made the job complete.

Starting the engine, he set off for Cadiz at top speed. As he entered the harbor, he recited the alphabet. Then he counted to ten, putting an exaggerated crispness into his voice. Hardly any slurring. Not bad. All those acting lessons came in handy. He punched in a number on his phone.

Salazar answered right away. “Go ahead,” said the unmistakable mellifluous voice.

“It’s done.”

“Details.”

“The boat is at the bottom of the sea with everyone on it.”

“You’re 100 percent certain of that?
Everyone
.”

“There’s nothing left of the ship except for floating debris. Guess that seals our deal, Mr. Salazar.”

“Not quite. You’ll be paid your fee as soon as the authorities confirm the loss of the boat and its passengers.”

Salazar hung up. Leonidas held the phone to his ear and listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before he clicked off. He always stuck around after a hit, even when it was dangerous, to make sure his targets were dead. He hadn’t in this case and that nagged at him. Finally, looking forward to a nice evening of lust with Isabel, Leonidas shrugged his shoulders. He was 99 percent certain Hawkins was dead, and that would have to do, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone horribly wrong.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Falstaff
wasn’t designed to peel off like a fighter plane breaking out of attack formation. But that’s what Hawkins was asking it to do. He yanked the joystick over and gave the right vertical thruster all the power he could.

The submersible rolled into a forty-five degree angle. Hawkins hoped the move would get them out of the way of the
Sancho Panza
, but the boat clipped
Falstaff
—a glancing blow, before continuing its plunge to the bottom.

Falstaff
bounced off the hull like a ping-pong ball off a paddle. Hawkins struggled to control the yaw. The vehicle rolled to the left, catapulting him out of the pilot’s seat. His shoulder slammed against the inside wall of the sphere. The submersible swung violently the other way. He was about to land on Kalliste, who’d been similarly tossed about. Swiveling his body to the side in an attempt to avoid crushing her, he was thrown against the sphere once again.

Falstaff
went into a tumbling free fall, rolled two more times then hit bottom. The soft sand absorbed some of the impact. The submersible bounced once more, then abruptly came to rest almost right-side-up against the hull of the ancient ship.

Hawkins and Kalliste lay in a heap in the darkened globe. As soon as he caught his breath, he wiggled his fingers and toes, disentangled himself and called her name. She groaned in response.

“Try to move,” he said.

He heard a rustling, and mutterings that sounded more like anger than pain.

“Everything works,” Kalliste said. “What about you?”

“Shoulder got banged up. Nothing broken.”

He groped under the pilot seat for a flashlight and switched it on, keeping the beam low to avoid blinding Kalliste. Her face was about a foot from his. She brushed the hair away from her eyes and looked around. “What the hell happened?”

“The
Sancho Panza
sank and hit us on its way down.”

She snapped out of her daze. “The shadow coming from above? My God! The captain and his son. Rodriguez. They must have been killed. How could this have happened?” She paused.

“Those loud thuds we heard were explosions.”

“The boat couldn’t—wait, did you say
explosions
?”

“The ship must have been attacked. We can’t do anything about that. We have to help ourselves.”

He cupped his hands around the light to minimize reflection and held it close to the cabin wall. After moving the light back and forth several times, he sat down again.

“Remember that trouble we had finding the wreck? Well, it found
us
this time. We’re leaning up against the hull.”

“Will we be able to get back to the surface?”

“Looks that way. The lights in the control panel are glowing. We still have power. The fathometer dial shows us at two-hundred-forty-seven feet. Both lateral thrusters work. The one on the left side seems okay. The right must have been knocked off in the collision. Pumps that regulate the pontoons are in working order, though. I could eject water from them and give
Falstaff
the buoyancy needed to make the ascent, and then level off using the remaining thruster.”

“But that presents another problem. We won’t have a support ship.”

“Got that covered. Remember the fishing boats we passed on the way in? We’ll call for help.”

He rummaged in a gear bag and pulled out what looked like a hand radio. The device would broadcast an SOS and their position. He handed the transmitter and flashlight to Kalliste and began to work the controls. The hum of the pontoon pumps was like music to his ears. Even more encouraging was the submersible’s slight rocking motion as it gained buoyancy and lifted off the bottom.

Falstaff
rose a few feet and came to a thumping stop under the ship’s overhang. Using alternate bursts from the lateral thrusters, he wriggled the submersible free. He ran the good thruster in reverse to balance off the loss of the other, and
Falstaff
began a wobbling ascent.

“Hang in there. We’re going to be okay,” he said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Kalliste said.

She pointed the flashlight at their feet. The beam reflected off sparkling ripples. Hawkins leaned over and stuck his hand into frigid water that was only a couple of inches deep, but flowing in fast. He had designed
Falstaff
to be as watertight as humanly possible. His computations never took into account being T-boned by a salvage ship.