The last to file out of the Caribou were Chase and Rooster Parker. They were both dressed in well-worn cold-weather gear and appeared calm and relaxed. Rooster set up two folding beach chairs, and the Parker brothers promptly sat down, looking around smugly.
Paulson burst out laughing. “Damn I hate it when someone thinks of something I forgot.”
Rooster grinned. “Just want to make sure I’m comfortable in case this is a long-winded speech.”
Jack held up his hand. “Okay, we’ve landed safely at our destination, which, quite frankly, I had doubts could be achieved.” He turned around and pointed toward the granite mountain, towering in the distance. “Right now you see the mountain known as Thor’s Hammer clearly. It’s clear for the moment, anyway, but if the weather goes bad, you won’t find your way anywhere without a rope.” He paused. “No one goes anywhere alone. Is that understood?”
Heads bobbed.
“We have three missions on the ice. First is to secure the Caribou against the possibility of a storm.” He looked at Chase. “What help will you need?”
“Normally, I’d say Rooster and I could handle it, but we have to change out the propane-filled tire, and we could use help jacking up the Caribou.” He glanced toward Juan. “An ex-football player would come in real handy right now.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “He’s yours until the Caribou is secured.” Jack nodded toward Ridley. “Second, we’re getting the Las Tortugas ready to fly. What do you need, Mac?”
“I think we’re in good shape. We’ve got the three snow machines and sleds to pull the tools and spare parts. That doesn’t mean I would turn down any extra help. We’ve got gear to set up, and with just the three of us.”
“Hey!” Paulson said in mock surprise. “I’m here to do my share.”
Ridley chuckled. “Like I said-with just the three of us.”
“Third, we have the archaeological aspect of the expedition,” said Jack. “I think Leah, Marko, and I can get a camp set up at the base of Thor’s Hammer. Garrett, how about if you give Mac an extra hand getting unloaded?”
“That’s fine with me,” Garrett replied, shading his eyes and pointing toward the shining aluminum skin of the Las Tortugas. “I’m dying to get a close-up look at that B-29.”
“We’re all exhausted and some of us haven’t slept for forty-eight hours, or in the case of those flying down in the Caribou, even longer.” Jack pulled one of the Motorola handheld radios from his parka. “We’re staying in touch with mobile radios; everyone needs to have one with him or her. Make sure to keep them inside your parka because the batteries will significantly weaken when exposed to freezing temperatures.”
“What if the weather gets bad and we can’t take off?” Leah asked.
“We’ve got a sat phone, so you can arrange to call your next of kin,” Jack said, showing only the trace of a smile. “No one’s going to help us — even if they could. We are totally and completely on our own.”
CHAPTER 49
Navy Commander Gus Beckam had grown up scuba-diving the clear and warm waters of Southern California and Mexico. While his naval aviator father wanted him to attend the Naval Academy, following the family tradition of becoming an officer and a gentleman, he had decided to attend San Diego State instead, where, to his father’s disapproval, he’d studied philosophy and religion.
After graduation, Gus had hung around the beach until the local dive shop told him the La Ceba Hotel in Cozumel needed a diving instructor and guide. He moved to Cozumel, taught diving, and led guided dives on Cozumel’s world-class reef systems. At night, he drank heavily and often partied until dawn at Carlos and Charlie’s Bar and Restaurant. Beckam wore his blond hair long and shaved only if when hotel manager requested he do so, which in Cozumel wasn’t often.
One particular Saturday had started much like the rest — leading fifteen tourists on two dives. Since rules required that the first dive of the day be the deepest, Beckam had arranged to have the charter dive boat take them to Palencar Reef, a magnificent and nearly vertical coral wall running for several miles offshore the Mexican-Caribbean Island.
During the pre-dive briefing, he warned divers not to exceed the maximum eighty-foot depth set for the dive. Because Palencar is a coral wall, it was easy to descend far below the maximum depth, where in a matter of minutes the standard eighty-cubic-foot aluminum tank could easily be sucked dry.
Beckam was also tasked with warning divers of a condition called nitrogen narcosis or “rapture of the deep,” as it was commonly called. The effects were similar to sudden intoxication, and divers were known to drown or, more commonly, simply disappear into deep water.
He noticed a short, balding dive tourist named Gary standing at the back of the group, not paying much attention to the pre-dive briefing. To Beckam, the oversized dive knife the young sport diver wore on his calf signaled a nervous rookie. He made a mental note to keep an eye on him.
Twenty minutes into the dive, Beckam felt a tap on his shoulder. Gary pointed down toward deep waters off the reef; Beckam wondered if he’d spotted pelagic sea life.
It wasn’t fish Gary saw. It was a series of bubbles, the kind of bubbles released when a diver exhaled a large volume of compressed air at dangerous depths.
Suddenly, Gary turned head down and kicked with his fins toward the bubbles below.
Beckam tapped on his tank with his dive knife, knowing that would alert the other divers in the group to trouble. He pointed toward the surface, which meant he wanted them to ascend for a safety stop at ten feet, surface, and climb aboard the dive boat.
Beckam turned head down and started kicking rapidly toward the two sets of bubbles working up from the depths. When he reached 110 feet, he saw the outline of two divers rising up from the dark blue of the deep water.
What he saw next had changed his entire life. Gary had the razor-sharp point of his knife nudged up underneath the other diver’s chin. His oxygen regulator wasn’t in his mouth, but in the mouth of the deep diver. Gary wasn’t breathing in at all — he simply allowed a slow stream of bubbles to escape his mouth.
Beckam offered Gary his back up regulator and after a safety stop, all three were safely back aboard the dive boat. Beckam radioed ahead to get a medical team and to prepare Cozumel’s hyperbaric chamber for two incoming “guests.”
“What the hell were you doing?” Beckam had shouted in anger and relief at the confused rookie deep-diver.
“You’re not going to get anything from him, Mr. Beckam,” Gary said calmly. “He’s sky high — narced to the gills.” The rookie diver shook his head. “Right now he’s got no idea what planet he’s on, much less how close he just came to becoming shark food.” Gary patted the diver on the shoulder. “With our friend shit-faced on nitrogen, the only way I could get his attention was by giving him a little wake-up call with ‘Ol’ Painless’ here.” He pointed toward the dive knife, now safely tucked back into the rubber sheath. “He’d already sucked his tank dry, so I gave him my regulator so he’d have enough air to get to the surface.”
“Who the hell are you?” Beckam asked. “Where’d you learn to do a free ascent from those kinds of depths?”
Gary looked around the deck sheepishly. “Not a whole lot to it, really, Mr. Beckam; you just have to remember to breathe out as you ascend to prevent your lungs from blowing up.”
“Coast Guard!” The boat captain shouted to alert Beckam a boat was approaching at high speed.
“You guys are going to the chamber,” Gus said flatly. “If everything checks out, you’ll be out in a few hours. If you’ve got the bends, it could be more.”