Devil's Gate

“You see anyone on board?” Kurt asked.

Joe shook his head.

“You know,” Joe said, “technically, this boat’s outside the exclusivity zone.” “Come again?” Kurt said.

“We’re three-quarters of a mile from the tower,” Joe said. “The exclusive zone is a mile in diameter. Technically, this boat’s outside that. We’re only supposed to have authority over vessels, divers, and submersibles inside that radius.” Kurt looked at Joe oddly. “Who made that rule?” “I did.”

“When did you start becoming a bureaucrat?” Zavala shrugged, a wry smile on his face. “You put me at the big desk and tell me to take charge, these kind of things are going to happen.” Kurt almost laughed. Governor Joe.

“Well, if you’re in charge, let’s widen that circle.” “We need a quorum,” Joe said.

“Did that boxer hit you harder than I thought?” Kurt asked.

Joe shook his head and looked at the crewmen. “All in favor of enlarging the observation zone say aye.” Kurt and the other two crewmen said aye simultaneously.

“The rule is duly changed,” Joe said.

Kurt tried hard not to laugh. “Great. Now get us aboard that boat.” On board the trawler they found maps, diving gear, and some type of paper with Cyrillic lettering on it.

“It’s Russian,” Kurt said. “We have any Russian teams registered?” Joe shook his head. “We got papers from their Science Ministry requesting information, but no one signed up.” “Looks like they came anyway.”

Kurt moved to the rear of the small boat. A long anchor had been thrown out. There was no flag up, but Kurt was pretty sure a diver had gone down that chain. He noticed a pair of shoes by the dive ladder.

“Only one pair of shoes,” he noted.

“Someone went down alone,” Joe guessed.

Diving alone was crazy enough; leaving no one on the boat up above was even crazier. A little wind, a little change in the current, or the arrival of an opportunistic pirate or two, and you could surface to find yourself lost and alone in the ocean.

“Look at this,” the Argo’s crewman said, pointing to a video screen.

Kurt turned. On the monitor was a murky scene being broadcast from an underwater camera.

“Could it be live?” Kurt asked.

“It looks that way,” the crewman said, examining the setup.

Kurt studied the screen. The dark water and swirling sediment were obvious as the camera maneuvered in what looked to be a confined space. He saw metallic walls and equipment.

“Whoever it is, they’ve gone inside one of the wrecks,” Joe said.

“Unbelievable,” Kurt said. Short of antagonizing a group of sharks, wreck diving was about the most dangerous thing you could do underwater. He could not believe someone would try it alone.

“This person is far too stupid to be in our exclusivity zone.” Joe laughed and nodded.

Kurt pointed to a second set of tanks. “Are those charged?” Joe checked the gauge. “Yep.”

“I’m going down,” Kurt said.

A minute later Kurt was in the water, breathing the compressed air and kicking with long strokes as he made his way down the chain. Approaching the bottom, he saw a pinpoint of light and angled toward it.

Whoever it was, they’d gone into the downed Constellation. Considering that the middle of the plane was broken open like a cracked egg, that didn’t seem so reckless. But the movements of the camera had seemed odd, and as he stared at the shaking beam of light he wondered if the diver was in some kind of trouble.

Kicking harder, he made it to aircraft’s triple tail. The cone of light from inside the fuselage continued moving in a random pattern.

He swam to the break in the aircraft’s skin. The light was coming from the forward section. The random movements made Kurt think it might be floating loose. He feared he was about to find a dead diver, one who’d run out of oxygen but whose light, probably attached to his arm by a lanyard, still had battery power and was floating around above him like a helium balloon on a string.

He eased inside, working his way around tangled insulation and bent sheet metal. Clouds of sediment wafted from the front of the plane, and the oddly moving beam pierced the darkness, faded, and then came through again.

Kurt swam toward it. Emerging through the cloud of silt, he found a diver digging voraciously, twisting and pulling frantically. The flashlight was attached to the diver’s belt.

He reached out and put a hand on the diver’s shoulder. The figure spun, swinging a knife toward him.

Kurt saw the blade flash in the reflected light. He blocked the diver’s arm and then twisted it, dislodging the knife. Bubbles from both regulators filled the cabin. Combined with the swirling sediment and the waving light, they made it difficult to see.

The knife tumbled through the water and disappeared. Kurt held the diver’s right arm in a wristlock. His other arm shot forward, grabbing the diver by the neck. He was about to rip the diver’s mask off — a classic underwater fighting technique — when he saw that the diver was a young woman, and her eyes were filled with panic and fear.

He released her and held up a hand with his fingers spread. Calm down.

The woman nodded but remained rigid. She motioned toward her feet.

Kurt looked down. Somehow she’d gotten her leg caught between a twisted part of the fuselage and some equipment. A jagged cut in the sheet metal marked her attempts to saw through the metal with her knife. It didn’t look like she’d gotten very far.

Kurt had a better idea. He sank down, wedged his back to the skin of the fuselage, and placed both feet on the attached equipment box. With all the strength in his back and legs, he pushed against the metal box. He expected it to snap and break loose, but instead it bent just enough.

The woman pulled her foot out and immediately began rubbing her ankle. When she looked up, Kurt put his index finger and thumb together, making a circle — the universal OK symbol. Are you okay?

She nodded.

Next he brought his two index fingers together parallel and then looked at her questioningly.

She shook her head. Apparently, she wasn’t diving with a buddy.

Just as he thought.

He pointed at her sharply and then made the thumbs-up signal.

She hesitated and then nodded reluctantly. Grabbing her light, she began to swim out of the aircraft. Kurt took a last look around and then followed.

After a decompression stop for her, they broke the surface together a few yards from her boat. She swam to it and climbed in first. Kurt followed.

Joe and one of the Argo’s crewmen remained aboard to welcome them.

The woman removed her mask, pulled back the head covering on her wet suit, and shook out her hair. She didn’t look happy to have boarders. Kurt didn’t care.

“You must be out of your mind to make a dive like that on your own.” “I’ve been diving alone for ten years,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “You spend a lot of time exploring sunken wrecks?” She grabbed a towel, dried her face, and then looked back at him defensively. “Who are you to be telling me what to do? And what are you doing on my boat anyway?” Joe puffed up his chest, about to launch into an explanation. Kurt beat him to it. “Our job is to make sure you scientists don’t drown or infringe on the rules we set up. You seem to be doing both, so we came to check you out,” he said. “This boat isn’t even registered as part of the study. You want to tell us the reason?” “I don’t have to register with you,” she said smugly. “I’m outside your official zone. Outside of your jurisdiction, as you Americans like to say.” Kurt glanced at Joe. “Not anymore,” he said, turning back to the woman. “We enlarged it.” “We even had a vote and everything,” Joe added.

She looked from Kurt to Joe and then back again. “Typical American arrogance,” she said. “Changing the rules to suit you whenever the need arises.” Kurt could almost understand that sentiment, except she was missing an important fact. He grabbed the pressure gauge on her tank and turned it over. As he suspected, she was well into her reserve air.