CHAPTER THIRTEEN

September 25, 9:00 P.M.

Bimini, Bahamas

PETE RECHECKED IAN’S gear before strapping on his own tanks. An accomplished diver, he had explored the waters off Florida’s coasts more times than he could count, but he had never been to North Bimini and nerves fluttered uncharacteristically in his stomach. The strong bottom currents surrounding the island located within the infamous Bermuda Triangle plagued even the most skilled divers. The true purpose for their expedition only served to increase the potential danger and his level of anxiety.

The serenity of the early morning hours provided the best and most benign environment for diving, but they didn’t have the luxury to wait for safer conditions. From the way Olivia talked and Cash behaved, Pete sensed they were in a race against some powerful force no one yet comprehended.

Based on the coordinates Pete had obtained for the Bimini Road, they had crossed over the feature somewhere in the middle of its half-mile length, and now idled between the mysterious blocks and the shore of North Bimini. Dropping anchor, they conducted one last check of their gear and communications equipment. Without anyone topside to monitor their status, Pete wanted to be sure they had the ability to talk to each other while searching the seabed for clues.

“Hand me my torch,” Ian said as he balanced on the side of the boat.

It took Pete a minute to understand what Ian wanted.

“You mean a flashlight? A torch would go out the second its flames hit the water,” Pete replied, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he handed Ian the light.

Ian’s broad grin and shrug drew a tentative laugh from Pete, making him wish they were diving for fun. Unfortunately, the sensation of being followed continued to trouble him. Only the lights from town, as well as the moon and stars, pierced the night, but the tranquility he usually derived from a dive eluded him, filling him with dread.

He hesitated as the British agent rolled backwards off the edge of the boat and disappeared beneath the gentle waves. Pete put the strap of his underwater light on his wrist, checked the dive knife secured to his bare thigh, and followed Ian into the dark water.

Pete caught occasional glimpses of wary predators following their lights as they glided toward their search area. Olivia doubted the sacred relic rested under the limestone blocks of the roadway where many had explored before and suggested they focus on the salt-water mangrove forest. She instructed them to find the Healing Hole located at the end of a network of winding tunnels. During outgoing tides, the channels pumped cool waters laden with natural lithium and sulfur into the pool. The blend was believed to have curative properties, and some even linked the healing powers to the proximity of a mystical crystal.

According to Olivia, some theorized the blocks of the Bimini Road were part of an ancient sea wall which had protected Atlantis from storms, but eventually the carefully constructed megalithic stones caved to Mother Nature’s will. Further conjecture claimed that between the Bimini Road and land, somewhere near the Healing Hole, a great temple once stood. If they could identify the sunken ruins, maybe they would find a clue as to the location of the relic—the one left behind, too powerful to risk a hasty ocean journey as the ancient ancestors fled destruction.

Pete stopped and waited for Ian to catch up. “Stick close so we appear a little bigger to the sharks I’ve glimpsed stalking us. They don’t usually bother divers, but then again, smart ones avoid the predators during the nighttime feeding hours,” Pete stated over their scratchy two-way radio.

Ian stood a few inches shorter than Pete, but had broader shoulders and more weight on his frame, so Pete hoped collectively they looked too intimidating for even a hungry shark to chance.

Flicking his fins, Pete propelled himself toward the cocoa-colored waters of the mangrove. About the only thing he hated worse than diving at night was lingering near the transition zone between land and sea. The risk of getting tangled up in the roots existed, if you got too close, and the habitat, which nurtured new life, also attracted a host of predators.

By the time they caught sight of the outer edge of the mangrove, less than eight feet of water concealed their bodies, and low tide would draw the level down further. They cautiously flexed their fins in order to avoid stirring up any more sediment into the murky waters. Ahead, the seemingly impenetrable tangle of the mangrove’s prop roots came into focus. The roots arched up until they joined with the tree’s trunk just above the waterline. In the resulting small gaps, tiny fish darted about, safe from most predators. Pete hoped he and Ian were as free from danger.

The mangrove forest followed the coastline for a mile or so of North Bimini’s seven-mile length, and they hovered somewhere near the middle. As Pete glanced from left to right, trying to locate something to guide him, nothing stood outthey had no idea which direction the Healing Hole might be from the sea. He wondered if they should have begun their search from land and hired a guide. The hesitancy to announce their arrival ultimately resulted in their decision to approach from the sea. Making the forty-mile journey by boat from Florida provided them with a bit of anonymity.

“This will be like finding a decent cup of tea in America,” Ian muttered into his mike.

“I hate doing yet another stupid thing tonight, but what do you think of splitting up so we can search more ground?” Pete asked. “We aren’t carrying enough air to be down for too long, and the water level will drop as the tide goes out. If we don’t catch a break right off, we’ll have to try again tomorrow, when the tide comes back in.”

Pete followed Ian’s gaze, tracking the dark silhouettes that seemed to be getting bolder and closer by the minute. He knew what Ian was thinking, and he didn’t like the idea any better, so he wouldn’t push his colleague. He silently hoped Ian would nix the plan, placing the blame on the MI6 agent for their lack of success and for delaying the search until morning.

“What do you have in mind? I’m always up for one more stupid thing. In fact, I’ve built my career and reputation on that exact premise,” Ian stated.

“You go for the boat and head south until you can skirt the mangrove and reach the shore. Keep an eye out for any anomalies along the way, but don’t waste too much time. I’ll stay down here and search the outer edge of the mangrove heading north. Once you’re on the beach, examine the coastline. If what we’re looking for is between me and you, splitting up will increase the odds of finding it.”

Without further discussion, Pete turned in the opposite direction and glided through the water until he swam out of view of Ian. He swept his light across the mud of the seabed, made dark by decaying leaves, before fanning the beam toward shore, trying to pierce the murkiness of the root maze. His progress slowed as he tried to watch his back as much as possible and avoid kicking up silt that would further hamper his visibility. In all his years of diving, he had never experienced such an uncomfortable sensation. Hairs at the back of his neck tingled as the perception of being studied and silently herded into a trap increased. For once, he hoped the “students and herders” were sharks.

The water became even shallower, but less murky. The urge to locate a way out and onto dry land overwhelmed Pete. He doubted a direct route to shore was likely, and it was a good swim either north or south to go around the mangrove. The smartest thing to do for now was keep his cool and not panic, continue to search until he got low on air, surface, call for Ian, and wait for the boat to pick him up.

After thirty minutes of swimming, a cool sensation brushed across Pete’s body. He stilled and looked around. The color of the sea to his right seemed to lighten, and as he made his way in that direction, it definitely cooled. He eased toward the lighter cooler water. After several minutes of drifting, the temperature began to rise and the murkiness returned.

He backtracked until he found the spot where the water was the coolest and clearest and turned his body to face shoreward. The mangrove’s density thinned in the area of the cooler water. As Pete kicked, a faint current pushed against him. He stopped, scanned the immediate vicinity, and keyed his mike.

“Ian, can you read me?”

Pete waited for several seconds and received no answer. He repeated his question and still no reply. Underwater communications often proved unreliable, but he had a nagging sensation the problem stemmed from something more sinister than technical difficulties.

He extinguished his light and swam out to deeper water as he angled toward the surface. Pete’s head cleared the water. He spit out his regulator and gulped in fresh air, surprised by the overwhelming sense of relief. Taking off his mask, he gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the moon and stars. He slowly rotated his body 360-degrees, gathering his bearings. The island and a scattering of faint lights from Alice Town greeted him. A massive fin surfaced not far away, but kept moving. Pete remained still and held his breath until the danger passed.

In the distance, a large item bobbed in the gentle waves, dimly illuminated by the moon. A sinking awareness overcame Pete. He hated to give away his position, but he needed to know the object’s identity. Pete took a deep breath and flipped on his flashlight in the direction of the floating mass. The second his eyes recognized the shape, he killed the light, but it was too late.

The sound of engines roared to life and bright beams of light shot out from behind his and Ian’s destroyed boat. He registered nothing else before he secured his mask and dove.