“Almost human?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s the unique combination of fresh water and extreme cold that would have preserved them. Lake Superior is meant to be quite remarkable for it.”
Sam glanced at the gauges on his heads-up display. CO2 and P02 were where they belonged. His fingertips were already losing sensation due to the cold. The Senator was right, their bottom time wasn’t restrained by breathable gas volume, but by their ability to withstand the freezing conditions and stave off hypothermia.
Tom shined his flashlight at his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just noticed my hands were getting pretty cold.”
“Come on, let’s check that other hatchway, find what we’re looking for, and get back to the surface.”
“Agreed.”
Sam swam downward, across the heavily angled goldfish-bowl shaped windshield, to the portside of the heavily listing vessel.
He found the second hatchway. It was permanently fixed at a right angle to the portside of the pilothouse hull. Sam glanced inside. The green haze of the glowstick still radiated from inside, but not immediately inside. Instead, it appeared as though the hatchway led to the bottom level of the wheelhouse and that they’d need to swim through it and then upward to reach the old bridge.
Sam shined his flashlight inside. It revealed the remnants of an old set of steep metal stairs, that most likely led to the wheelhouse. He clipped the end of his red guideline to the steel hook on the hatchway with a carabiner. He had no intention of penetrating the wreck of the J.F. Johnson more than he had to, but even in the relatively small and well contained area of the wheelhouse, a sudden shift of silt could cause a complete visibility block out.
He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and then gently kicked his fins to enter the wreck. The red guideline unraveled from its spool as he swam farther inside. About ten feet inside, he shined his flashlight on the ascending metal steps that once led to the highest point of the wheelhouse. He flicked the beam in a wide clock-wise arc. He stopped, with the light fixed on a second hatchway — this one was open, and led downward, further into the ship.
He put his hand on the heavy iron hatchway. The door moved. It seemed impossible after nine decades that the metal hinges hadn’t seized completely.
“What do you think of that?” Sam asked.
“I have no idea.” Tom’s voice was calm and collected. “One thing’s for sure, someone’s been down here recently.”
“You think?”
“I’m certain. For a steel door to still be moving after nine decades beneath the water isn’t just unlikely, it’s impossible.” Tom shined his Day-maker beam on the hinge. “Looks like these have been replaced sometime over the past few years.”
Hidden beneath his full-faced dive mask, Sam grinned. “You want to see what’s so important down there that someone went to the trouble of repairing the hatchway?”
“Yes, but not right now. We’re not set up or prepared to penetrate the deeper levels of the ship. Let’s see what’s inside the wheelhouse, return to the surface and then set up for a more prolonged dive tomorrow.”
“All right. Good idea.”
Sam was intrigued by the possibilities, but glad Tom focused him to their initial dive-plan. A prolonged expedition inside the bowels of the J.F. Johnson could prove fatal without better preparation.
The ship was a 251-foot steel Tramp-Steamer, a cargo vessel built in Lorain, Ohio by the American Ship Building Company and launched in 1924. She was powered by a triple-expansion steam engine producing 2500 hp. Sam knew the rough layout of the ship from the plans they had studied prior to the dive, but because they’d been told only the wheelhouse was accessible he hadn’t bothered to really study and memorize the internal layout below decks.
They were careful not to disturb the ultrafine silt layer that lay on the walls-turned-floor that they now navigated forward toward the wheelhouse. If the dust became a cloud, their visibility would become zero and they could become disoriented or even separated. Aside from the flashlight, it was pitch darkness, so the men’s progress was slow and cautious. For added insurance, Sam trailed a small red guideline from a spring-loaded spool on his hip.
Sam turned left, swimming along the once steep metal steps which were now nearly horizontal due to the listing of the vessel, and into the large wheelhouse. The entire room still glowed with the eerie green glow of the luminescent stick he’d dropped minutes earlier. He made a mental note to stop using green and pick a less creepy color.
He carefully made his way past the four ghostly sailors. There could be any number of places to search. He shined his flashlight across the large, pine wheel, that looked perfectly intact. He slowly moved toward it, trying to see what the Senator’s son might have spotted.
Ignoring the bodies, he moved toward the navigation station — next to the captain’s quarters. He swam slowly, careful not to stir up nine decades worth of silt.
Reaching the navigation station, he shined his flashlight inside and then swore — because, written in large red letters, were the words –
STANFORD STOLE THE MESKWAKI GOLD SPRING. I CAN, TOO.
Chapter Five
Sam took another sip of the beef stew. It was thick and hot, but not too hot that it couldn’t be quickly consumed. He felt the contents warm him from the inside. When he’d finished, his hand continued to cup the mug in an attempt to extract its heat. It was doing the job, too. He noticed his hands no longer shook uncontrollably, and sensation resembling normality, had finally returned to his extremities.
Noticing that he and Tom had finally warmed enough to concentrate, the Senator asked, “Well, did you find anything?”
Sam nodded. “Yes, but I have no idea what it meant.”
The Senator’s jaw was set firm and his body tense. His voice was eager as he asked, “What was it?”
Sam heaped another ladle of stew into his mug. “Someone else — maybe your son — has been down there recently. Whoever it was, they left a clue at the navigation station within the wheelhouse. It was written in big, red, capital letters so that no diver who entered the room could possibly miss it.”
“What did it say?”
“Stanford stole the Meskwaki Gold Spring. I can, too.”
The Senator’s eyes widened and his face was suddenly drawn and pale. He tried to speak. Choked. Like his tongue was too try to talk. Swallowed. And then shook his head, collecting his composure, he said, “Any idea what the hell that could mean?”
“Not a clue. We were kind of hoping the words would mean something to you.”
Perry took a deep breath. “No. I’ve never heard any of it before.”
Tom said, “What about the Meskwaki Gold Spring? Weren’t you worried that David had run off in search of the ancient treasure — a local myth in these parts of the world dating back to early European explorers?”
Catching his lie with the speed of an adept politician, he said, “Yes, well, of course I’ve heard of that. But like you said, it’s merely a myth about an ancient treasure.”
“But your son was interested in it,” Tom persisted.
“Yes, but my son’s a fool. There’s nothing here that gives us any indication where this would have led David to search for the fabled treasure.”
“What about Stanford?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know any Stanford.” The Senator closed his eyes, as though searching old memories. He opened them again and sighed. “Besides, if Stanford did in fact steal the treasure years ago, it would indicate my son has no need to go searching for it.”