The Solomon Curse

The skiff pulled alongside a metal ladder and the pilot, a twenty-something-year-old man with long unruly hair and a goatee, gri

“G’day. Looking for a ride?” he called.

“You bet,” Sam said, and they descended the rungs to where the tender bobbed on the swells.

Once they were aboard, the young man introduced himself.

“Name’s Kent. Kent Warren. I’m the dive master aboard the Darwin,” he called from his position in the stern of the craft. “I’ll shake everyone’s hand once we’re on the ship. Which will be in no time.” With that, he twisted the throttle and the tender surged away from the dock, its bow slicing through the chop as it rapidly picked up speed.

When they neared the Darwin, they could see she was a serious research vessel, built for rough seas, her bow impressively high out of the water, her steel hull steady in the waves. Her pilothouse bristled with ante

They climbed aboard and the red-shirted man, Captain Des, introduced them to the rest of the crew—a dozen men in all. His mate, Elton Simms, gave them an orientation belowdecks as the captain pointed the bow west and the big ship lumbered forward.

“These are the guest cabins. I reckon you’ll be staying aboard while we map the site,” Simms said, his Australian accent so thick they could barely understand him.

Remi eyed the three simple staterooms, each equipped with four fold-up bunk beds bolted to steel support beams ru

“To be determined. We may commute out to the site,” he said.

“Fair enough. But we’ve got room, if you’re so inclined. The galley’s over here, and the equipment room’s astern down that passage.”

They made their way to the bridge, where Des was standing in front of a wide console, eyeing the GPS and the chart plotter. He glanced at Leonid and the Fargos and stepped aside, leaving the helm to Simms.

“How was the trip?” Remi asked.

“Bit rough in the middle. Twenty- to thirty-footers in parts of the Coral Sea—but rollers, not breaking. This here’s a pond after that,” Des said.

“Glad you made it in one piece. We’re looking forward to diving the site and mapping the ruins. The gear on the island leaves something to be desired,” Sam explained. “I trust you’ve got a full complement of equipment?”

Des nodded. “We do. Compressors, rebreathers, wet and dry suits, a submersible, robotic cameras—the whole nine yards.”

“We’re going to be joined by additional divers tomorrow,” Sam said. “That will give us more bottom time as a group.”

“More the merrier. How long do you figure you’ll need the boat?”

“Hard to say,” Sam said. “At least a couple of weeks. Depends on how it goes.”

“I’ll tell the crew and the bosses back home we’re here for the duration, then. We’re pretty self-contained. Just need to make shore runs for fruit and veggies. We’ve got a watermaker aboard and the sea’s lousy with fish, so we can stay as long as you like.”

Des gave them a quick tour of the specialized equipment along both sides of the bridge. Leonid and Sam nodded with approval. The electronics were cutting-edge, a floating laboratory and archaeological research department, with satellite Internet and communications. “We had a complete overhaul two years ago, so there’s little we don’t have aboard,” Des said with obvious pride.

“It’s certainly impressive,” Remi agreed.

When the Darwin arrived at the site, it orbited in a slow circle over the coordinates of the ruins, and both Des and Simms hovered around the monitors as the equipment detailed the anomalies along the bottom. Des ordered the anchor dropped at the edge of the complex, close enough to easily dive but far enough away so the anchor wouldn’t damage anything if it dragged. Soon four of the divers were suiting up for an initial exploration.

Once the men were in the water, everyone gathered in the bridge again to watch their progress on the screens. Their helmet-mounted cameras were sending color images in real time, recorded on hard disk for later study. Visibility was better than when Sam and Remi had dived, and soon the ruins appeared from the reef, the remains of a ghostly city swirling in the flickering light.

“There. What you’re seeing is the largest mound, and others oriented around it,” Leonid said.

“Makes sense. Probably the main palace, with the outbuildings temples and housing for the royal court and servants,” Remi said.

“I make out, what, forty structures? Maybe more,” Des said.

“At least. It appears to have been a significant compound in its heyday. Probably housed hundreds, depending on how many lived in each building,” Sam confirmed.

“Amazing that this wasn’t discovered during the war,” Simms said.

“The occupation forces had other fish to fry,” Remi said. “And the technology wasn’t really up to the challenge of exploring an underwater archaeological find.” She eyed the screen. “There’s been a lot of progress over the last seventy-something years.”

“Have you given any thought to how you want to operate?” asked Des.

Leonid stepped forward. “I have,” he said, and proceeded to detail the approach he intended to use for mapping the site. Sam and Remi exchanged glances several times—the Russian might have been ill-natured, but he was clearly a first-rate archaeologist and more than capable of ru

Two sharks put in appearances during the dive, but the Aussies seemed unconcerned. Des pointed to the image on the monitor. “See that? Sharks typically avoid divers. Something about the noise of the bubbles startles ’em and nine times out of ten they’ll swim away as fast as they can.”

“What about the tenth time?” Leonid asked.

“Well, that’s when it’s best to have a powerhead. When we’re diving in waters with sharks, one of the team will always have one. It’s also known as a bang stick, a small air round affixed to a speargun shaft that detonates on impact, terminally injuring the target.”

“That’s good to know. Seems sensible,” Leonid allowed.

“But the chances of having to use ’em are low,” Des reaffirmed.

“How about crocodiles?” Remi asked.

“Same effect. The damage of a powerhead isn’t from the projectile, it’s from the explosive gasses entering the target. So even a relatively small round will kill a huge beast. It’s the blast, not a bullet, that does the trick,” Des explained.

“We could have used one of those the other day,” Sam said, and told him about the crocodile.

“Blimey! Twenty feet? We get ’em that big up north, but still. Did the bloke on the receiving end make it?”

“Lost a leg.”

“Damn. Well, I’ll alert the lads to be careful. Then again, working Australian waters, we’ve seen just about everything. I’m pretty sure we’ve got more dangerous creatures per meter than anywhere else on earth. Even the bloody pinecones will kill you down under. Our bunya pines drop a cone that can weigh ten kilos—imagine a bowling ball falling thirty meters onto your head.” Des offered them a smirk. “And those are just the plants.”

Sam nodded and turned to Des. “We’ve been there a few times and love it.” He glanced at his watch. “How can we get back to town?”

“Simms here can give you a lift in the skiff.”

Sam looked to Leonid. “You staying aboard?”

“Might as well. As you Americans say, it’s ‘prime time,’ right?”

Sam took a final look at the monitor and the ghostly outline of the sunken city.

“Yes, it is. And you’re in the spotlight, my friend. Front and center.”