Kate Kingsbury listened to the soft hiss of air through her regulator then the gentle gurgle of bubbles as her breath passed out of her lungs. She’d been breathing underwater for years, teaching others to do it for nearly as long, yet it still felt like a wonder. And the sound of her breath in the still of the deep water was a meditation for her.
No matter the weather—and today’s left a bit to be desired—bottom time was a holy experience for her. The reef that stretched the length of the Florida Keys, marking the south edge of the archipelago before the shelf dropped off to the depths of the Florida Strait, was a delicate ecosystem that had been fighting for survival in recent years. Humans had claimed it as their own, as they had with nearly everything they could reach and a few things they couldn’t. Part of Kate’s mission as a dive instructor was to teach her students to respect and protect the reef and the aquatic creatures who called it home. Every dive briefing she gave covered not only the dive profile and landscape they’d be covering, but a lesson on the micro-habitats they’d see, the fish and invertebrates they were likely to meet, and how the delicate balance of life could thrive or be destroyed from the actions of each diver.
Today, she was lucky. Her clients listened carefully and had spent the first dive of the day practicing their buoyancy and carefully avoiding contact with the corals struggling to survive at the edge of the deep. They’d been rewarded with glimpses of two spotted eels and an eagle ray soaring through the water above them.
Now, on their second dive of the afternoon, the light was fading and the four divers in the group explored the exterior of a small tugboat resting on the bottom at sixty feet. The Katherine K had torn apart and sunk during a hurricane a century before. Several years later, Tommy Miller, a former gangster from Chicago, hid a massive cache of stolen gold and jewels in the Katherine K’s hull. And not nearly as long ago, Kate had helped her landlord Chuck Miller, Tommy’s grandson, find and recover the treasure.
The site was now a favorite of history buffs and treasure seekers alike, and Kate loved the taste of the saltwater that leaked through her wide grin every time one of her divers uncovered a stray coin or gem from the site.
The clang of metal tapping a tank pulled her from her reverie. She scanned across the aft deck of the Katherine K. A man in bright yellow fins waved to her, then pointed to a spot just east of the port hull. Kate finned over the wreck and eased over the encrusted gunwale to see a huge green turtle resting her fins on the silty bottom beside the tug.
She grinned, then rose a few feet in the water and signaled the other divers, pressing one hand on top of the other, waggling her thumbs in the dive sign for “turtle.” Then she eased away to give the group plenty of space to take their photos without crowding the gentle giant.
As each member of the group floated away from the turtle, Kate checked in, flashing the “OK” sign and waving her air pressure gauge to get their readings. The turtle-finder glanced at his watch and frowned, then waggled seven fingers at Kate. She nodded, then pointed toward the mooring pin anchored into the bottom a few yards north, flashed the buddy-up sign, then gave him a thumbs-up.
Ascend.
She eased her way to the bow and gathered the other divers, signaling them that their time was up and to make their way up the line.
Looking toward the surface, she could just make out a darker shadow of the Island Hopper Too, the dive boat that she ran, waiting for the group to surface. Justin would help the divers out and have warm towels and fresh fruit and water bottles waiting for them, so Kate took her time making one more pass around her namesake before following her divers through their safety stop and then up to the boat.
Her head burst through the surface, and the noise of the wind and surf broke over the hiss and pop as she surged air into her buoyancy vest. Across the water, she heard shouts from the Hopper’s stern.
“Kate, check it out!”
She kicked around and followed Justin’s arm to see the setting sun glint off the fuselage of a seaplane in the distance to the east, flying low over the coast, its wings just a bit unsteady.
* * *
“Shit.”
Angler surveyed the shallows as the plane drifted closer to the choppy surface. The wind blew across the water from the east, and he hadn’t figured on how rough the surface would be. He could fly just about anything. But landing? He hadn’t put a seaplane down on the water in a long time. And even then, it had been on a calm day in a protected cove.
He scanned the water ahead and finally spotted a stretch of water protected by a little spoil island with a wide cove just north of the single highway connecting the string of islands to mainland Florida. He banked the plane, lined up, then eased back the throttle.
The checklist made its way from the depths of his memory. Gears up. Flaps down. Water rudders up. AOA in the green. Angler hated checklists. But checklists would keep him alive.
The lower he dropped, the rougher the water looked. He glanced at the mess splattered across the window to his left. Finding an airstrip was out of the question. He gently eased the plane lower until it was skimming just a few meters above the surface.
Nudge the throttle up. Ease the yoke back.
Like the push and pull of a clutch, but not like it at all. A mistake wouldn’t be a simple stall at a traffic light. A mistake here and the plane would flip, roll, and rip apart. He might not die, but if he whiffed this landing, everything he’d worked for in the last few months would be for nothing.
No, everything was riding on him getting this right. And if he didn’t get it down now, he’d run out of water.
Nudge. Ease.
The floats hit the chop with a rhythmic thud, the resistance jostling the plane, tugging it down. Angler gave the throttle a smooth nudge forward, maintaining power until the floats fully caught the water.
As he began to ease off the power, the plane jerked hard to starboard, smashing his temple against the window. Angler fought the yoke steady, resisting the instinct to pull off the power too quickly, carefully slowing the aircraft until it settled down fully onto the floats, rocking heavily and listing to the right as he guided it across the cove toward the spoil island. Finally, he revved it and ran the plane up onto the rocky beach, then killed the engine.
In the silence, he swore he could hear his heart pounding. But he didn’t have time to indulge in rest. He quickly unsnapped his seat belt and scrambled to the cargo hold, peeking out the hatch at the damaged strut on the way. He scanned the area around the pilot’s seat, looking for any sign of blood. Finding none on the cockpit window, windshield, or control surfaces, he congratulated himself on having had the hollow-points in the SIG—the bullet hadn’t exited the man’s skull. There was a bit of clean-up to do from his disposal of the pilot, and Angler did the best he could with some gauze and alcohol from a first aid kit. Next, he pulled a small inflatable raft from its compartment, unfolded its collapsible oars, and pulled the inflation pin as he tossed it out the hatch and its tether unfurled. Almost home free.
Angler scrambled down into the little craft and swiftly paddled out of the cove and began the arduous row against the crosswind. He pulled with his considerable strength, but each stroke seemed to take him farther from shore rather than closer. He looked over the side and into the crystal-clear saltwater. The weeds swayed in the current, nearly flattened against the hard bottom. Ebb tide.
Shit.
In water this shallow, the outgoing tide rushed in a current so strong he’d never be able to fight it all the way to shore. But he needed to get some distance between himself and the plane. And he couldn’t stay out here forever. He had contractors to meet. Details to confirm. And despite all his careful planning, he sensed more contingency plans to execute.
No plan survives first contact. But this one hadn’t even made it that far.
He scrambled the boat back into the cove where he had shelter from both the wind and the tide, tying it to the bent float strut. He flopped into the rear seat, panting from the hard and pointless row, and pulled out his phone.
“Exfil and repair.”
“Hello to you, too.” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded amused.
Angler rattled off a set of coordinates.
“How soon?”
“Yesterday.”
He heard a sigh. No longer amused.
“Triple rate.”
Over the sound of the wind, Angler heard the hum of an outboard motor rounding into the cove. “Fine. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He ended the call and tucked the phone back into his pocket beside the trusty little pistol.