The grand, three-story building boasted ten bedrooms and fifteen bathrooms. On its roof, covered by glass was a full length indoor lap pool. At the very top of which, a Bell 407 helicopter, painted red and white, rested on its helipad that jutted out from the roof by a thirty-foot airbridge, where it then joined an elevator — presumably to the internal three levels. The building was surrounded by a thick forest of conifers, mountain ash, maple, aspen, oak, and paper birch.
The commercial pilot banked, taking them around the front of the house, before bringing the Jet Ranger into a hover and gently placing the skids onto the smooth rocky shore.
“This is as close as I can go,” the pilot said, turning to face the two men. “Gotta keep the rotor spinning because of the unstable ground.”
Two men climbed out. One, average height while the other looked like a veritable giant. Both had the solid build and decisive movements of once professional soldiers. They moved quickly, removing a large equipment container and then carrying a single large duffel bag each. Thirty feet away, the shorter one gave the thumbs up signal, and the pilot took off again, quickly disappearing behind the dense forest that lined the lake.
Sam Reilly took a deep breath in and leveled his deep blue eyes toward the lake. Despite the cerulean blue sky, and unabated sun, the air had a crisp bite to it. There were only two places on Earth where he recalled experiencing such an anomaly of summer weather — the icy environments of Antarctica and Siberia’s Oymyakon.
A fifty-something-foot pleasure cruiser, with its sleek design and array of radar dishes was anchored in the shallow waters directly in front of the log house. The yacht appeared out of place, more like a Billionaire’s toy out of Silicon Valley, than a fishing boat belonging to the remote and pristine wilderness of Lake Superior.
His eyes ran across the shore, where a small building used to house a floatplane had its hangar door open, revealing the aircraft to be currently out.
“Well, one thing’s for certain…” Sam said to Tom Bower, as he admired the range of expensive toys. “Senator Arthur Perry’s son knows how to have a good time in the great outdoors.”
Tom turned to face the main entrance to the summer house. “That’s if the young man’s still alive.”
Sam nodded, his mind instantly returning to their purpose for being there. “All right, let’s go meet the good Senator Perry.”
A fifty-something year old man, who introduced himself as the estate manager, greeted them and took them inside.
The man knocked at a closed door.
A voice from inside immediately answered, “Send them in, please, Walter.”
Walter nodded and turned to face Sam and Tom. “You’re free to see him now.”
Sam nodded and entered the large den.
His first impression of the Minnesota senator surprised him. The man was portly with a rotund belly that indicated his predilection toward food. His clothes were expensive, but he let his girth stretch them at their seams, instead of buying new ones. It wasn’t quite what Sam expected for a man known for his high intelligence, wealth and generosity, who’d managed to get re-elected for three consecutive six-year terms.
The senator leaned across the huge mahogany desk and greeted them with a firm handshake, making a mock attempt to stand while gesturing for Tom and Sam to please sit in the two leather office chairs opposite.
"Gentlemen, thank you for meeting with me at my summer house. I realize my request is somewhat unusual, but I think you'll appreciate the need for discretion.” The senator stopped, as though he’d just recalled their long trip to meet him. “Can I offer you anything?"
“No thanks,” Sam and Tom replied.
Without further preamble, the Senator handed Sam a six by four color photograph. “This is the last photo my son, David, sent me. It’s also the last communication I had with my boy before he went missing nearly three weeks ago.”
Sam studied the image. It was taken using film, instead of a digital camera and depicted the iron bow of the submerged wreckage of an early nineteenth century, single boiler freighter. The ship listed heavily toward its starboard side, laying deep in azure blue water. Clearly visible in letter-plate below the gunwale was the name, J.F. Johnson. The lifelines and bollards were all intact with thick corrosion clinging to their lines, but the ship's detail could be clearly seen.
“The J.F. Johnson…” Sam mulled the name over in his mind. “I’ve heard of that wreck. It’s in deep, cold water. Somewhere at the bottom of a hundred and eighty feet?”
“Two hundred and five,” Senator Perry corrected him. “They call it the time machine.”
Tom scoffed at the name. “Why?”
“The J.F. Johnson is that deep and permanently so cold that it made the removal of any bodies next to impossible.” Perry paused and his thick, wiry eyebrows narrowed. “Local divers who have ventured to her depth say that the bodies of the four men who lost their lives are now floating, entombed within the main bridge — a mixture of the freshwater and extreme cold, having preserved them in a permanent tribute to the day they died.”
Sam’s lips curled into a wry smile. “You’re telling us that no one’s dived on her since she sank?”
Senator Perry shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of.”
“Is it strictly forbidden?” Tom asked.
“No. Just highly frowned upon. Only someone as stupid as my own son would even attempt to break it.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
The senator met Sam’s eye. “Forgetting the obvious implication of trespassing on the tomb of those pour souls who lost their lives?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Have you ever dived in Lake Superior?” the Senator asked.
“No, never.”
“Well. She’s a special kind of lake. Of the five Great Lakes, she’s the only one that’s composed entirely of freshwater, and as such, she likes to preserve and hold onto her precious shipwrecks, in a way that no other lakes are capable of.”
Sam was interested. “Go on.”
“As you know, it’s not just her depth that’s lethal. The real problem with trying to reach the inside of the J.F. Johnson is the temperature. The water is too cold to use Heliox because the helium enriched air freezes.”
Sam said, “So you’re confined to an extremely deep air dive.”
“Exactly. The locals call it diving to seven margaritas.”
Sam smiled at the analogy. “Because they reckon the nitrogen built up in their bloodstream for every thirty-three feet of water — or single atmosphere — is the equivalent of having another cocktail?”
“Yeah, something like that.” The senator continued. “Even if the nitrogen narcosis doesn’t cause you to do something really stupid that gets you killed, you still have the problem of bottom time. At 205 feet you’re going to have a maximum of about ten minutes to enter the J.F Johnson, get out and start your ascent — even then, you’re going to be uncomfortable as all hell in the cold for nearly a hundred minutes while you decompress.”
“At 200 feet oxygen becomes toxic.” Sam met the Senator with his jaw set firm. “Only a fool would try to dive the J.F. Johnson on air tanks. Very few divers would survive more than a few minutes at that depth, diving on straight air tanks alone. No, they would need to be using helium enriched, Heliox or better yet, a combination of helium, nitrogen and oxygen, called, Trimix.”
“Yeah, well, according to a couple cowboys who run the local SCUBA diving tours on the lake, there’s been a few who have made it on air alone…” the Senator sighed. “And a few who haven’t ever returned to the surface again.”