The Danger

CHAPTER TWO

Dr. Geoffrey Gallagher leaned close to his office mirror and snipped an offending hair from his left sideburn. As the star of the video documentary on Poseidon–Saint-Luc, it was important for him to look his best. Jacques Cousteau may have been a genius, but he was too short for the screen. And those hats! Geoffrey Gallagher would put a new face on oceanography.

He turned around and regarded the three Californians seated on his couch — Tad Cutter, Marina Kappas, and Chris Reardon from Poseidon–San Diego.

“Well, Tad, what happens now?” the director asked. “We send the kids home, and you and your people go back to California?”

Cutter seemed surprised. “Of course not!” With the interns gone, he would have no excuse to remain in the Caribbean to go after the treasure. “It was an accident, Geoffrey.”

“You say that like someone dropped a tray in the commissary!” Gallagher exclaimed irritably. “A man is dead; an adolescent girl very nearly lost her life and may never walk again; and an eighteen-million-dollar piece of equipment is lying broken at the bottom of the sea! That’s not an accident — that’s a catastrophe!”

Marina spoke up. “Nobody’s downplaying the seriousness of what happened. But why penalize the interns? You don’t know them like we do. They’re good kids.”

Gallagher found himself nodding, not because he agreed with her, but because Marina Kappas was drop-dead gorgeous. He found it hard to concentrate when she was around.

“If anyone is to blame in all this,” Reardon took up the argument, “it’s Braden Vanover. He didn’t deserve to die for it, but come on! What was he thinking?”

“I agree,” said Gallagher. “Which brings up the question of where you were when all this was going on. Those kids were your responsibility.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” Cutter admitted, “but Braden kind of hijacked the whole internship project. Come on, Geoffrey. If you were a kid, what would you rather do — drag a sonar tow over hundreds of square miles of reef, or go deep-ocean exploring in a high-tech submersible?”

It was an absolute lie. In fact, Captain Vanover had taken an interest in the four interns only when he’d noticed that they were being completely ignored by Cutter and company.

But Gallagher didn’t know that. He asked, “And the three healthy ones are still interested in diving?”

“Maybe after a few days,” was Marina’s judgment. “But even if all they want to do is lie around the beach and fish a little, have a heart and let them. They’ve been through a lot.”

“You’re right.” Gallagher nodded. “Besides, to ship them home would leave the Ling girl here all alone. It would be a public relations nightmare if any of the kids started talking to the press. Better to keep them happy.” A vaguely annoyed look came over his face. “I sent for them today. They didn’t come. They wouldn’t leave their friend.”

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Menasce Gérard walked in.

“Hey, English,” Cutter greeted him.

No one seemed less English than English, who even had difficulty making himself understood in that language. The six-foot-five native dive guide had that nickname because legend said his family was descended from an English shipwreck survivor hundreds of years earlier. The young man was an experienced diver who worked on the oil rigs across the island. He had also done the occasional job for Poseidon — more specifically, for Braden Vanover. English and the captain had been fast friends.

He ignored Cutter and his crew, and spoke to the director. “We just came back since one half hour,” he reported in a voice heavy with exhaustion. “We do not find the body.”

Marina spoke up. “I’m so sorry, English. I know you and Braden were close.”

The guide silenced her with a single brooding glance. English knew the true nature of Cutter’s work, and had nothing but contempt for treasure hunters.

“I dive again tomorrow, me,” he went on, still speaking only to Gallagher. “After that” — he shrugged — “there is no point.”

“We’re all praying that you find him,” said Gallagher sympathetically.

“This is difficile,” English explained. “Very deep water, much time for decompression, and not so much time for looking. I ask for use Tin Man. Then I can search till I find.”

Tin Man was the nickname for Poseidon’s one-atmosphere diving suit. This highly advanced rigid suit maintained surface pressure at any depth. The diver could descend as deep as necessary, and stay as long as necessary. Physically, he or she would never have left the surface.

“I’m sorry, English,” the director said seriously, “but Tin Man is a vital part of what we do here at Poseidon. Scientists reserve its use months in advance. I’m afraid the answer has to be no.”

The big man scorched him with eyes of fire. “Alors, I think maybe you do not pray as hard as you say.”