Tom thought about that statement. “I suppose if they managed the intoxicating effects of nitrogen narcosis at those depths, they might just get lucky and not die from oxygen toxicity. But you’d need a heck of a lot of dive tanks for the lengthy deco stops?”
Senator Perry shook his head. “It wouldn’t matter. At that depth, the lake remains a constant 36 degrees Fahrenheit all year round. I don’t care how thick your dry suit is, you won’t last a minute longer than that in the water without freezing to death.”
“What about an atmospheric dive suit?” Sam suggested.
“One of those big machines that make you look like the Michelin-man, used by commercial divers on oil rigs?” the senator asked.
Sam nodded and then shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”
“Too big. It would never fit inside the narrow confines of the wreck. No, to get inside the bridge, you would need to dive in nothing thicker than a dry suit.”
Sam nodded. He understood the problem. If he had to dive it, he and Tom had the knowledge and means to overcome it without getting themselves killed.
If they had to dive the J.F. Johnson.
“I’m not worried about the temperature or the depth. We can overcome those the same as any other professional tech diver.”
“Really?” The senator was surprised. “How?”
“We brought closed-circuit rebreathers instead of SCUBA.” Sam grinned. “And electrically heated undergarments, that directly heat the torso, back and abdomen. They were originally designed for use in the military, but in all things, as commercial demand increased, the technology moved toward the realms of the everyday consumer, recreational divers. Pretty much all the major players in diving equipment now offer their own version, including, Golem, DUI Blue Heat, and Santi.”
“Even so, the helium’s going to dry and cool your lungs until your entire body freezes from the inside out, and hypothermia kills you as quickly as drowning or the bends.”
Sam smiled, patiently. He’d heard this argument for decades. Fact was, helium feels colder on your skin than air, but it carries away less heat when you breathe it. “Actually, a recent study conducted by the British Navy concluded there’s no difference in core temperature heat loss in divers at depth using Heliox versus regular Air.”
The Senator smiled. “Sure. Try telling that to the local tech divers who visit the icy bottom of Lake Superior.”
Sam continued without taking the bait. “Besides, we’ll be using fully closed-circuit rebreathers.”
Senator Perry looked blank. “And that’s supposed to keep the cold out?”
Sam nodded. “In rebreathers, the scrubbing of CO2 from the breathing gas is an exothermic chemical reaction, meaning it produces heat. The reaction’s by-product is water vapor, making the overall result of the rebreather’s function causing the diver to breath warm, moist breathing gas. With rebreathers, the exhaled breath is re-circulated, which means that the moisture level is maintained. The loop gas is typically at 100 % humidity and is much warmer than the surrounding water.”
“Sounds great. I’m still glad you’re diving it and not me.”
Sam barely considered the implications of such a dive. Instead, he returned to the image allegedly taken of the submerged J.F. Johnson.
He examined the shipwreck for a few seconds and then turned the photo over. There was a single, hand-written note on the back.
Sam’s eyes rolled across the words and his lips curled into a grin.
Dad, I found it! This changes everything. History will need to be rewritten!
Chapter Two
Sam glanced out the window that looked upon the glistening water of Lake Superior. He put the photo back on the table, still trying to make sense of it.
His gaze turned to the senator. “Your son dived to Lake Superior’s bottom and entered the wreckage?”
“Like I said, only my son would go off and do something this stupid,” Senator Perry replied. “That was the last photo he sent to me.”
The large Minnesotan sat across from Sam and reclined into a mahogany trimmed, green leather desk chair that was clearly custom made to suit his ample frame perfectly. Though he had not stood when Sam and Tom had entered the office, Sam guessed his height at six feet six inches. His tailored suit and vintage Bolo tie portrayed everything a Minnesotan voter expected from a Senator, and his demeanor was benevolent and engaging. His reputation as an accomplished politician appeared well-deserved.
“Do you know what he was referring to?” Sam asked.
“Not a clue.” The Senator held his hands facing upward in a supplicant gesture and sighed. “What I do know is that my son was obsessed with the story of a man named Jack Holman, who had come out here in the early twenties after the war to get away from civilization. Holman owned a custom-built float plane, which he used to deliver cargo throughout the Great Lakes and into Canada in the North. One day he made reference to finding the remains of a Meskwaki Native American campsite where a natural spring flowed with gold.”
“It flowed with gold?” Sam asked, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
The Senator grinned, revealing his own cynicism. “Hey, I’m just telling you about the legend.”
Tom asked, “Did Holman ever return with the gold?”
“No, but he tended to always have money, so the legend continued to grow.”
“But no one ever found the Meskwaki Gold Spring?”
“No.”
Sam nodded. “And you think this is what your son is after?”
“It’s the only guess I have so far,” the Senator replied.
“What about this Holman character?” Sam asked. “Whatever happened to him?”
The Senator stared at the lake, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but his mind appeared much further away. “Jack Holman was a local hero and a legend who was larger than life. Some have even argued that he never existed at all. That he was just the manifestation of every token adventurer and traveler, but the British War Records would argue differently.”
“British War Records?” Sam asked.
“Yes. Holman received a number of medals flying a Sopwith Tabloid as a scout during the First World War. At the time, it was one of the fastest floatplanes in the world. When he came back, he built his own modified version, and flew it all across the U.S. — Canadian border for nearly a decade.”
Sam persisted. “What happened to him?”
“Rumor has it he crashed in the late twenties into a lake. No one ever found the wreck of his plane, or his body.”
“What was your son’s interest in him?” Sam asked. “Was it just idle interest in another man who wanted to get away from the world, delving into the pristine landscapes of the secluded Canadian mountains?”
“No. There was more to it, too.”
“Go on?”
“Holman was a flying ace. In 1925 he won the Schneider Cup. Do you know what that is?”
Sam nodded. “Set up by Jacques Schneider, the son of a well-known French steel and arms manufacturer who believed that floatplanes were the most practical military and civilian design, since they could fly to any country with a coast, a river, or a lake without the construction of expensive airfields. On December 5, 1912, he declared a competition in which he appealed to manufacturers of marine aircraft to develop the world’s fastest airplane.”
The Senator nodded. “Like I said, Holman was really something of a legend. During prohibition, it was said that he flew cases of alcohol for a local bootlegging mob. The police wanted him, but he was never caught.”
“There’s more to it?” Sam asked.