Special Agent Mitchell Parker tried to keep his heart rate steady. He breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly and applied techniques that were second nature to him in stressful situations, except when he was on the water. His six-foot-two frame and diving gear took up one corner of the 42-foot Duffy boat in which he sat and waited.
“OK?” his teammate Ellen Beetson asked from port side.
He looked over at Ellen, petite and blonde, and a divemaster.
“Unlike you, I prefer my feet on land or in the air,” he said.
She laughed breaking the tension.
“You’ve got to agree this is beautiful,” their skipper called back as he navigated over the endless stretch of blue ocean.
Mitch turned his gaze to the water streaming by him. He looked over the edge and scoped the surface of the area they were approaching. He knew what to expect and beauty didn’t come into it on this fly-in, fly-out assignment; he’d be home late tonight like nothing happened.
“We’re almost at the coordinates,” the skipper called, “and there’s about an hour of light left.”
“Let’s get to it,” Ellen said. She zipped up her wetsuit and Mitch followed suit. Ellen checked their gear again before shrugging on the air tank that Mitch held up for her. He slipped his own tank over his shoulders.
The boat stopped and dropped anchor. A minute later the skipper joined them.
“Right above where you need to be,” he said.
Mitch and Ellen put on their masks and sitting on the edge of the boat, flipped back into the water with one easy push. Mitch was struck by the silence as he glided through the depths following Ellen. The only sound he could hear was his own breathing … in and out. He reeled as a large black-spotted eel zipped past his mask. He followed Ellen towards the wreck on the floor of Cape Hatteras. She pointed to a shark following a large school of fish.
Mitch didn’t notice. He was looking to a flat area on the bottom of the ocean not far from the wreck where a bundle lay.
He swam towards it; dreading what he knew to expect. Tangled with cable, their masks and tanks still on, two drowned men stared blankly at him.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
The middle-aged Asian man stood on the shoreline of Cape Hatteras lighthouse beach and looked out to sea. Remnants of sand castles were dotted around the water’s edge. Several families braved the cool weather to wade knee-deep into the water.
He knew this beach.
The Graveyard of the Atlantic; strong tides and rip currents, home to hundreds of ships lost at sea. The definition ran through his head.
And well located for navigation along the eastern seaboard of North America.
He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Water engulfed his shoes; he didn’t notice. He lowered the binoculars. Panic swept through him as he stared out to sea; he had been waiting for hours now. The sun was beginning to dip lower on the horizon.
Where are they? He clenched his teeth. They’re an hour late. No instruction to abort.
An elderly couple stopped near him.
“Give it a few more weeks … the herons are migrating now but soon the ducks and geese will be here for the winter.” The man tipped his hat.
The Asian man smiled and nodded. “Thank you, thank you,” he said.
As the couple passed, he glanced at his watch, turned and walked towards a sandy ledge. He climbed and stood atop.
Another glance through the binoculars; nothing.
He sank down, discarded the binoculars and rubbed his hands over his face.
What’s gone wrong this time?
William decided then that he would not report the extent of the failure up the line; this project had to work, there was no going back and he wouldn’t tolerate someone higher up getting cold feet and calling it off.
After a few moments, he rose, stumbled down from the dune and disappeared behind it.