The Cuttlefish came into view a short time later, somewhat less menacing without Joe Eberson’s body aboard. Pitt hovered the submersible just above the rear deck, then slowly rotated it to let the exterior floodlights expose the sunken craft.

“Stop!” Ann cried, pointing out the view port. “That box, there.”

Pitt froze the controls, allowing them to study an oblong box strapped to the starboard bulwark.

“Something of importance?” Pitt asked.

“Might be, judging by the padlock.” She was angry with herself for not spotting the box earlier. “Let’s take it up.”

“It looks pretty secure where it is,” Giordino said.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to risk damaging it while lifting the boat.”

Pitt shrugged. “Suits me, but we’ve got to empty our hands first.”

He rotated the submersible’s manipulator arms, showing Ann the sling they contained. He maneuvered away from the boat, dropped the sling in the sand, and stretched it around the vessel’s bow. He grabbed one end and pulled it under the hull as far as it would go, then raised the looped end and deposited it on the cabin roof. He then repeated the process with the sling’s opposite end. Piloting the submersible above the rear deck, he set about extricating the hardened plastic box. With some effort, he loosened the straps with one of the manipulator claws until the box fell free. Clutching a handle with one claw, he worked the second arm beneath the box as a cradle. Giordino purged seawater from the ballast tanks, and the submersible floated to the surface.

Gunn was waiting for them at the Drake’s rail and pulled the submersible aboard. “How goes the initial lasso?” he asked as they climbed out.

Giordino smiled. “As easy as roping a baby calf.”

“The stern will be a bit harder,” Pitt said. “We’ll have to dig some to get the sling under her.”

Gunn noticed the long box held by the manipulator arms. “So, you brought me a present?”

“That would be Miss Bennett’s.” Giordino raised his brows to warn Gunn to keep his hands off.

As Giordino removed the box from the steel arms and set it on a protected section of the deck, Ann followed his every move. Gunn helped Pitt secure the second sling, then mounted a thick section of PVC pipe with an attached hose to the forward ballast relief valve.

“How’re your battery reserves holding up?” Gunn asked.

“If we can get this second sling on without too much trouble, we should have enough juice for one more dive to attach the lift cable.”

“I’ll tell the barge operator to stand by.”

Pitt and Giordino were lowered into the ocean, this time without Ann. Once they reached the seafloor, Pitt proceeded to the boat’s stern and set the submersible down adjacent to the port quarter. Using the manipulator arms, he set down the sling and grabbed the PVC pipe, which he inserted into the sand along the boat’s seam.

“Ready for suction.”

“At your pleasure.” Giordino released a small stream of compressed air from the forward ballast tank, which fed through the flexible hose and into the lower third of the PVC pipe. Air bubbles sailed up the pipe and out the open end, expanding as they rose and generating suction at the bottom end of the pipe. The soft sand beneath the boat began swirling up the pipe, disgorging in a brown cloud behind the submersible that dissipated with the current. It took just a few minutes to clear a large enough gap beneath the boat’s stern quarter to insert the sling.

Giordino killed the air release, and they moved to the opposite side of the boat and repeated the process. Then they pulled the sling under the exposed corners and gathered the free ends above the cabin. As Pitt held them in place, Giordino retrieved a heavy D ring and snapped the four ringed ends of both slings into it. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked the manipulator claws to clasp the last ring in place. Now they just needed to attach a lift cable from the barge’s crane to the D ring and it could hoist away.

“Performed with the delicate hands of a surgeon,” Giordino said, securing the manipulator arms.

Pitt glanced at his partner’s meaty paws and shook his head. “A surgeon who moonlights as a butcher, perhaps. Nicely done, all the same.”

Pitt purged the ballast tanks, and the submersible began a lazy ascent. The sun had just slipped beneath the horizon when they broke the surface off the Drake’s beam. Gunn stood by the crane as the sub drew alongside. He expertly lowered the jaws and clamped onto the submersible’s hoist ring. Gunn lifted the sub out of the water to deck level, then left it dangling.

“Come on, Rudi,” Giordino said, “bring us on in.”

Pitt stared out the view port, then stiffened. A large man unknown to Pitt stood near Gunn, holding a pistol. The man smiled at Pitt, but there was no warmth in the expression. Gunn eased his hands off the crane controls, then gave Pitt a grim shake of his head before stepping away.

Giordino saw Gunn abandon the controls and asked, “What’s going on?”

Pitt kept his eyes fixed on the gunman aboard the Drake.

“I would say that we’ve been hung out to dry.”

13

THEY HAD ATTACKED THE DRAKE UNDER THE GUISE of helplessness.

The crew on the Mexican powerboat floating nearby had surreptitiously monitored the NUMA vessel all day—until they spotted their objective. When the sun began to follow the submersible beneath the waves, a Spanish-accented voice hailed the Drake over the marine radio, feigning a shortage of fuel. Taking the call on the bridge, Gunn told the boat to come alongside if they were able and he would pass across some gasoline.

The boat made a show of limping over at minimal speed, swinging around the back of the barge before inching toward the NUMA ship. While the boat was temporarily out of view, a lone gunman leaped aboard the barge’s stern and sneaked his way to the pilothouse.

Soon a large man stood on the boat’s afterdeck, waving at Gunn with a cold smile. He wore black slacks and a loose knit black shirt, odd attire for a fishing trip. The approaching twilight obscured his coffee complexion and flat facial features, more typical of Central American heritage than Mexican. The man tossed a line to a waiting deckhand, then turned to Gunn, who leaned over the rail with a five-gallon container of gas.

“Thank you, señor,” he said in a baritone voice. “We stayed too long fishing and feared we would not make it to shore.”

He reached for the can and set it on the deck. Then, moving as quickly as a cat, he grabbed the rail and leaped aboard the Drake. A Glock semiautomatic materialized from his back paddle holster—and was leveled at Gunn’s chest the instant his feet touched the deck. “Tell your crewmen to put their hands on the rail and face the sea.”

Gunn relayed the order to a pair of shocked crewmen on the deck, who nodded. They raised their arms, then shuffled to the rail.

Two more gunmen climbed aboard and sprinted up to the Drake’s bridge. Gunn winced when he heard gunfire, but then breathed easier a few moments later when he saw the helm watchman marched down to the deck. One gunman had spotted the Drake’s rigid inflatable lifeboat and casually pumped several rounds into it, making the rubber boat sag like a limp balloon. When a scientist ducked out of the lab to see what the commotion was about, he was grabbed roughly and herded together with the other crewmen.

Gunn looked to the tall man in black. “What is it you want?”

The man ignored him as a small radio clipped to his waist chirped.

“The barge is secure,” radioed an unseen voice.

“Bring it alongside and join us aboard the research ship,” the gunman replied. “We’ll be ready shortly.”