Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

He shrugged. “Maybe wanted to run tests at depth. Usually subs dock at the surface.”

Hank said, “How long will you be gone?”

I said, “An hour and a half, two hours? Guilfoyle, think you can putz around that long?”

“Why not. Where are you thinking to land?”

I shrugged. “Zodiac came from the north side. So I figure there’s either a dock installation on the other side of the island, or they came out from the mainland. I’ll go around to the south. Find a spot to come out of the water.”

The sea was flat and only a slight breeze troubled the surface. Guilfoyle got the boat around. I went down into the engine room where the dive gear was stored.

The wet suit was tight, but it just about fit. The weight belt went around my waist. The mask went around my neck. The booties were the right size. Guilfoyle’s dive knife strapped to my right leg, above the ankle. I pulled the other gear up the ladder. Guilfoyle had maneuvered the Sea Foam so that the stern was out of sight. I loaded the skiff with flippers, regulator, vest, and the double air tanks. Then I whistled to Hank. When he came over and boarded, I lay flat on my back. The skiff was deep enough that there was no chance of the men on the zodiac eyeballing me.

I felt Guilfoyle increase the throttle and bring the big boat around. Then he drove it straight in toward the island. I was looking at the blue sky. Not a single cloud. When Guilfoyle banked again, I spoke to Hank. “Okay, start her up.”

He depressed the starter button and the skiff engine roared to life. Hank had his eyes on Guilfoyle. From where I lay, I could strain my neck and see the Sea Foam once in a while, when the waves lifted the skiff. I watched Guilfoyle come out to the stern, in front of the net pile. He raised his hand, thumb up, then he yelled out, “Let her go!”

Hank got it just right. He hit the throttle, gunned the skiff away from the mothership. The last thing I saw was Guilfoyle pulling on the release rope, setting the net free from the big boat’s mast. Then there was the vibration of the big skiff engine, and the thump, thump, thumping of the floaters coming off the Sea Foam with the net.

I had to shout to be heard over the noise. “You see them?”

Hank shouted back from a couple feet away. “Yes. They are watching us.”

“Okay. So I’ll need you to screen me with your body when it’s time. I’ll need maybe three seconds.”

He said, “Right now?”

I couldn’t see where we were. I said, “Your call. After the net is all out and you see the tension in the line. Then just get me close.”

Hank said, “And then?”

“When I’m gone, you go back to the boat, hand off to Guilfoyle. Do the whole thing one more time, then I’ll be back here. Same spot.”

Hank got back to business and gunned the boat, hauling the net for about three minutes. Then he cut the engine to idle and shuffled to the middle of the skiff, where I lay. He had a rope length with him and began to attach it to an eyelet on the skiff side. He wasn’t actually doing anything but looking busy for the watchers. Now was the time.

He said, “How will you know the spot?”

I had already peeked over the side of the skiff, looking for a fix. The communications tower on the island was high enough that it visually crossed one of the mountains in the background. Like all mountains in Alaska, Skinner Mountain has a white peak, year-round. Looking to my right, I could see another white-peaked mountain further south. I memorized the relative positions, like memorizing a face. Two objects in the background, relative to one in the foreground. Simple triangulation by eye.

I said, “Just be here.”

I had already attached the tank to the vest and inflated it enough to be buoyant. I dropped that over the side and held on by a strap. Then I slipped over, flippers in the other hand. The water was cold at first, as it usually is. There was no current to speak of. I was now screened by the skiff. No problem.

The flippers went over the booties, straps tightened. I spit in the mask and rubbed it around, rinsed and pulled it over my eyes. Then the vest and tanks got strapped on. I had trained hard and operated long enough so that maneuvering the various tubes and straps was like a second nature. I had it straightened out in a minute. I looked up at Hank. He was at the stern with the engine.

“Good to go.” He nodded. I said, “Keep the net away from the big boat. That’s the only thing to do. If you’re late, don’t sweat it.”

Then I released air from the vest, bit down on the mouthpiece, and let the weight belt take me under.

Thirty-Two

The ocean was a thousand shades of blue. Dark to the depths, lighter to the surface.

I let myself descend to fifteen meters, before allowing some air into the vest and neutralizing the buoyancy. I pictured the geography. To get over to the south side of the island, I would be swimming broadly toward the edge of that floating dock. I would cut to the south and east of it maybe a hundred meters. My goal was to stay under until I came around the south side. I planned to surface and find a good place to land. The island was mostly forest and boulders. I didn’t expect to have any issues hiding the gear.

Once I was neutral, and neither rose, nor sank, I was flying through the water. I swam hard, kicking at a steady rate. I focused on swimming straight. Visibility was good, maybe fifty meters. Which is why I was able