“That’s our guess,” Pitt said. “They blasted open the vent, then sent down mining equipment to vacuum it all up.”
“Walking away with the gold,” Summer said, “and leaving an environmental mess in their wake.”
“So who’s responsible?” Dirk asked.
“We don’t yet know,” Pitt said, shaking his head. “Hiram ran a check on all known subsea mining ventures, and associated ocean lease agreements, and found nobody operating in this area. Legally, at least.”
“Could it be the Cubans?” Summer asked.
“Possibly,” Pitt said, “but we don’t think they possess the technology. They’d have to contract for the equipment and that would find its way into the public record. But we do have one clue.”
“What’s that?” Summer asked.
“These tracks.” Pitt pointed to a mass of parallel lines that crisscrossed the depression. “Al and I saw similar tracks near the wellhead where the Alta sank.”
“And those tracks looked fresh,” Giordino said.
“Was it the company that’s drilling for oil?” Dirk asked.
“I contacted the captain of the drill ship and he said they had no equipment that could have created those tracks.”
“So you think whoever blew these three vents is working on the other side of Cuba?” Summer asked.
“It’s the best we have to go on,” Pitt said, “so we’re heading back to the Florida Straits. About twenty miles off of Havana.”
“That’s a precarious spot for a toxic mercury problem,” Dirk said, “right at the head of the Gulf Stream.”
“That’s what has us worried. A major mercury plume there might carry up Florida’s east coast, and beyond.”
A crewman entered the wardroom and approached Summer. “Miss Pitt, your teleconference is ready. There’s a Mr. Perlmutter waiting on-screen.”
Summer smiled at her brother as she jumped from her chair. “Maybe he found the stone,” she said, before following the crewman to a nearby video conference room.
“The stone?” Giordino asked. “What were you two up to in Jamaica?”
Dirk described their encounter-laden quest for the two Aztec stones since deciphering the codex, eliciting a grave look of concern from Pitt.
“There must be something valuable waiting for the person who puts the two pieces together,” Giordino said. He rubbed his chin a moment. “You said Aztec stone? You should meet our friend Herbert.”
Giordino stepped to a corner table, where the statue they plucked off the bottom was serving time as a paperweight for some sonar records. He grabbed the statue along with a handful of photos.
“Say hello to Herbert.” He set the statue on the table in front of Dirk. “We found him in a large canoe near one of the vents. Our shipboard archeologist thinks it could be Aztec.”
Dirk studied the figurine with a hint of recognition. The warrior’s strong profile and costume had a distinct familiarity.
“Dr. Madero showed us a similar statue in his university’s museum. It looks a lot like one of the Aztec deities.” He looked at Giordino with curiosity. “You said you found this on a canoe?”
Giordino nodded and slid over the photos. “Images we took from the Starfish, at a depth of twelve hundred feet.”
“The stone depicts the voyage of several large boats on a pilgrimage to the Aztec’s homeland,” Dirk said. “Dr. Madero told us that while the Mayans were known to trade at sea, there’s no record of the Aztecs traveling offshore.”
“Then either the canoe is Mayan or somebody needs to change the history books.”
“Did you find any other artifacts with the canoe?” Dirk asked.
“No,” Pitt said. “But those mining vehicle tracks ran right up to it, so someone else may have picked it over.”
Summer returned to the room, showing a defeated look on her face.
“No luck with the stone?” Dirk said.
“None of it good. It’s not at Yale, or anywhere else in the U.S., as far as St. Julien can determine. It seems that Ellsworth Boyd, the archeologist who found half the stone, never made it back home. Shortly after departing Jamaica, he was killed in Cuba. Believe it or not, he died in the explosion that sank the USS Maine.”
“What was he doing aboard the Maine?” Giordino asked.
Summer shook her head. “Nobody knows. St. Julien’s going to do some more digging. He seems to think there’s a chance the stone was with him aboard the Maine.”
The group fell silent as they contemplated the sunken warship that instigated the Spanish — American War.
Dirk finally looked at his father with a devilish smile. “You said we’re heading to a spot about twenty miles off of Havana?”
“That’s correct.”
“That should put us right in the ballpark.”
“The ballpark for what?”
“If my history serves,” Dirk said, “the place where the Maine now lies at a rest.”
33
When the armored cruiser Maine blew up unexpectedly in February 1898, killing two hundred and sixty-one sailors, there was an immediate siren call for war. Though the cause of the spark that triggered her powder magazines to detonate still remains a mystery, contemporary fingers all pointed at Spain. Jingoistic fever, fanned by a strong dose of yellow journalism, quickly incited a declaration of war.
The resulting Spanish — American War was itself a short-lived affair. Within months, the American Navy had crushed the Spanish fleet in battles at Santiago and Manila Bay. In July, Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders won the day at San Juan Hill, and by August a peace agreement had been brokered between the antagonists.
After the war’s end, the genesis for the conflict was oddly forgotten. The mangled remains of the Maine sat mired in the silt of Havana Harbor for more than a decade, her rusting main mast standing forlornly above the waves. Commemorative interest, and a desire to clear a harbor obstruction, finally prompted Congress to approve funds to raise the vessel.
In an engineering feat that many predicted would fail, the Army Corps of Engineers constructed a cofferdam around the wreck and pumped away the water. The mud-covered ship that emerged was a devastated mass of twisted metal. The engineers cut away the damage and sealed the breach. In March of 1912, the ship was refloated and towed offshore, where she was sunk with her colors flying.
Sitting on the bridge of the Sargasso Sea, Pitt studied the hundred-year-old coordinates of the wreck site, marked on a digital map of the Cuban coastline.
“They sank her about four miles from shore. That may have been considered the high seas in 1912, but today the territorial limit is twelve miles. We dally around the site and we’re liable to become permanent guests of the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces.”
Giordino exhaled a cloud of blue smoke from a lit cigar. “I wonder if they allow smoking in their prisons.”
Summer stood near the helm with her brother, staring at a calm expanse of blue water. “We could survey the wreck remotely,” she said.
Giordino nodded. “Shouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings if we sent an AUV to find the wreck and take a few passes. Depending on how the ship struck the bottom, we might get some good looks at her.”
“Okay,” Pitt said. “But we’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment. I’ll give you twelve hours, then we’re off to the Alta’s wreck site. And just don’t let the Cubans end up with my AUV.”
Dirk paused. “What about your Creepy Crawler, Al? If we get a fix on the wreck with the AUV, couldn’t we send in one of your crawlers to investigate?”