Virgil: “Cool.”
“We have an exact GPS location for both the beginning and end of the string. Our first diver had no problem finding the cans, but then, we were able to drop her right on top of them. You’re going to have to get there yourself.”
“I can do that. I’m surprised the Coast Guard didn’t find them, though.”
“The Coast Guard was mostly looking in the wrong place. The string is right on the edge of where they were searching and they are very hard to see, unless you have one of these.” He held up what looked like an oversized remote control for a television, except that it had no visible buttons and did have three rubber arm straps and a parachute-cord hand-loop.
“You turn this on by slamming the wand forward.” He snapped the wand forward in his hand and a red LED light blinked at the top; the blinks continued for ten seconds or so, then turned off. “It’s transmitting a low-frequency sound—most people can’t hear it—that will be picked up by the cans. That will turn on bright white LEDs on the outside of the cans. They’ll blink for a minute or so, then turn off. You’ll need another shake to turn them on again. Our first diver had no trouble seeing the LEDs, but then, that was a long time ago. There may be more silt on them now.”
He handed the wand to Virgil: it weighed perhaps two pounds, and had three rubber straps meant to snap around a forearm or ankle, as well as another hand tether in case it was dropped.
“High-tech,” Virgil said. “Must have cost a fortune.” He snapped the wand forward, and the red indicator light started blinking.
“All of this—the scuba gear, the high-tech, even this boat—it’s all chump change compared to what’s down there on the bottom,” Cattaneo said. “Oh. I need to show you this.”
He walked to the end of the cabin, opened a refrigerator, and pulled out a package of frozen green peas. The package had been opened and resealed. He pulled open a resealing strip, and extracted three bricks of cash, fifty-dollar bills. “Forty grand. We wanted to be sure we had enough to cover your bill. This is your money, right here and now—or right after you get back to the boat.”
Rae: “Makes my little heart go pitter-patter.”
* * *
Lange called down, “We’re coming in to Port Everglades.”
“I’m going back up, y’all stay down until we’re out on the ocean,” Cattaneo said.
“Y’all,” Rae said.
“My family came from southern Italy,” Cattaneo said, as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit.
* * *
They couldn’t see much through the cabin’s narrow portholes, but did see the lights of the buildings at Port Everglades as they made the turn into the Atlantic. Shortly after the turn, they began rolling, only slightly, and then, after ten minutes, they came around to the north again, and the boat settled down.
Cattaneo, at the wheel, called down to Virgil, “We’re almost exactly an hour and a half out. Anytime you think you want to get into your wet suit . . .”
“I’ll do that when we’re twenty minutes out,” Virgil said. “Be too hot before that.”
“Whatever you say. I want you guys to stay below for another half hour or so, until we get away from Port Everglades and farther out. Then you can all come up.”
* * *
A half hour later, the sun was sinking below the coastal condos, and Virgil, Rae, Regio, and Lange went up on top to sit in the cockpit with Cattaneo. “Pretty,” Rae said. “The lights.”
“I was never much for the water until I got this boat,” Cattaneo said. “I’m still not much for sailing—too fussy for me. But I like the quiet. On the other boat, the Mako, you always had engine noise. This boat’s got a power plant about the size of my lawnmower, so . . . it’s peaceful. You can think out here. My wife likes it.”
Thirty minutes later, in near darkness, Cattaneo said, “Okay, Willy, you said twenty minutes to get loaded up. We’re thirty minutes out. Anytime you want to get started . . . you don’t want to be late.”
* * *
They’d stowed the gear in a front cabin, and Regio and Lange went below with Virgil to pull it out, while Rae stayed on top with Cattaneo.
Virgil got into his Speedo, then the wet suit, which was tight as a full-body girdle, as it should be. With the suit on, he put his dive computer on his right wrist and the GPS watch on the left. Two separate packs of lift and cargo bags, rolled tight, were fixed to his backplate with fat rubber binders. The locator wand went on his right forearm above the dive computer. Flashlights and a Trilobite cutter were fastened to D rings on the plate and the dive knife that Lange had insisted he buy went on his left thigh. Regio and Lange carried his plate and tanks out to the deck, while Virgil followed with his mask and fins.
Rae asked, “You okay, babe?” She clutched Virgil’s upper arm and squeezed.
“Yup. I’m good.”
Cattaneo said, “We’re twelve minutes out. When we get close I’m going to back off the engines. I’ll kill them one second before you go overboard and restart about three or four seconds later. Nobody’ll pick that up, even if they’re listening for us. I’ll do something like that when we pick you up. You don’t have to worry about the prop.”
“Sounds good. I’ll have the lift bag neutrally buoyant, and a twenty-foot line tied to my waist belt. As soon as I’m aboard, grab the line and pull it in. Stay off the engine. We don’t want to put a lot of stress on the bags and we don’t want them windmilling.”
“Got it,” Cattaneo said.
Regio to Rae: “I’m starting to pucker up myself. This nighttime shit is getting real.”
Virgil turned on his air, and with Lange’s help, pulled on the backplate and wing with the tanks. He loosened the shoulder straps a bit, checked to make sure he could reach over his shoulder to both valve knobs, tightened the waist and crotch straps, pumped some air into the wing, stuck the mouthpiece in his mouth, and took a few breaths, then pulled it and said, “We’re good to go.”
“Three minutes,” Cattaneo said, looking at the screen on his navigation station. “We’re right on line.”
Virgil went through a last rapid check of all the equipment, and when Cattaneo said, “One minute,” Rae stepped up to Virgil and kissed him on the mouth: “You be cool, babe.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .”
* * *
At thirty seconds, Regio and Lange helped Virgil up on the rail on the eastern side of the boat and held him there, looking out at the ocean and away from the beach. Virgil could see lights of boats well ahead, and well behind them, but only three or four, total. Not much close-by traffic after dark . . .