POWER PLAY
Darren G. Burton
Published by Darren G. Burton at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 Darren G. Burton
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Cover Design by: Darren G. Burton
One
“Severe electrical storms approaching, Captain," reported First Mate Alex Reardon. He double-checked the reading on the computer-enhanced radar scanner. The monitor showed a digital image of the nearby coastline. Red blotches covered sections of the computer map, indicating thunderstorms.
Captain Stanley Briggs shot Reardon a look of disdain through his gold-rimmed glasses.
"I don't need that fancy piece of electronic genius to tell me that." He returned his attention to the windscreen. "Just look out there and you can see for yourself."
Black clouds roiled in the darkening, late afternoon sky. As Reardon watched, the clouds quickly consumed the South-East Queensland coastline some twelve kilometres away in a matter of minutes, almost obscuring it from view. Lightning shot down from the black mass in savage bolts, some of which would have certainly struck the ground. Low groans of thunder rumbled across the sea.
"She's a doozey," commented ship's navigator Jason Stone, having twisted in his swivel chair to eye the approaching tempest.
The cabin of the bridge was quickly becoming gloomy. Reardon hit a switch on the wall and several overhead fluorescent lights blinked on. The First Mate's balding pate gleamed under the artificial glow.
"Reardon," quipped the captain. "What's the exact direction in which the storm is headed?"
The First Mate smirked. "I thought you wouldn't need the computer to tell you that, Sir."
"Just get me the course," Briggs said curtly, still watching the horizon intently through the broad, three piece Perspex windscreen.
Reardon's smirk disappeared as quickly as the lightning flashes outside. "Yes, Sir. Right away." He studied the scanner's information readout on the right side of the computer screen. "It's headed on a north, north-easterly bearing at thirty-two degrees, Sir."
Briggs nodded grimly. "There's no chance of avoiding it. The beast is headed right this way. We'll just have to ride it out."
Reardon glanced through the windscreen at a small island seven kilometres off to starboard. He stared thoughtfully at the computer screen again, which informed him the island was called South Stradbroke. Behind the island, he noted, were relatively protected waters.
"May I suggest, Sir," he said, stepping over beside the captain, "that we move into the protected waters behind Stradbroke Island." He nodded toward the small green land mass.
Briggs thought about it. As he considered Reardon's suggestion the wind swung around to the south-west and increased in tempo to forty knots. He watched as it churned up the sea in front of the Privateer; a small seventy-five foot cargo ship. After what seemed like an eternity to Reardon, the captain nodded. "I'd say that's a sound idea." He radioed the pilot and ordered a twenty degree course change to starboard.
The cabin lights grew brighter as the outside world became darker. Angry bolts of lightning shot down from the clouds in an almost rhythmic pattern, branching off into several forks and striking the ocean surface. Blown way ahead of the storm, the first drops of rain hammered into the windscreen.
Reardon lit a cigarette. He'd always hated storms as a kid, and he realised he still did as he watched the nervous tremor in his hand that held the burning match. He puffed on the cigarette hungrily as Briggs radioed the pilot again with another course change.
Night had come early with the arrival of the storm. Briggs hit a switch on the console that activated two powerful spotlights mounted on the roof of the bridge. He rotated the right spotlight with a small joystick on the console until it was pointed in the direction of South Stradbroke Island. The island was not yet close enough to be reached by the powerful beam. Briggs kept the left spotlight aimed in front of the bow, illuminating the ship's path.
Reardon's cigarette had burned down to a length of smouldering ash. He stabbed it out in an ashtray and immediately lit another.
The captain glared at him with distaste. "Remind me to sue you for passive smoking when I develop diseases from your stinking habit."
Reardon was used to his captain's remarks now regarding his addiction and he easily shrugged them off. He staggered as the vessel rolled on a sharp swell. The cigarette dropped to the floor and rolled under a chair as his hand went out to steady himself. He'd retrieved it just as a squall of hail hit the windshield and roof with the sound of someone unloading a truck full of gravel on top of a tin shed.
The high-speed rotating windshield wipers were at full power. They did little, however, to clear the field of vision. The rain and hail was far too dense and the wipers were rendered virtually useless.
Briggs radioed the pilot with more course adjustments as the ship swayed like a drunken sailor. The wind howled through the air vents, driving rain through any minute opening in the boat's structure it could find.
Reardon returned to the weather radar screen and searched out the pulsing blue light that indicated the position of their ship. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he noted they were only just entering the storm's front. The worst was yet to come.
As if on cue, a bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens and struck the sea not two hundred metres in front of the Privateer's bow.
"Shit that was close!" Stone exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.
Reardon eyed the dark sky ahead with anticipation and foreboding. He sensed what was coming a moment before it happened and he tensed.
There was a blinding flash, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder. The Privateer shuddered and convulsed under the impact of the lightning strike. She yawed to starboard, temporarily out of control. The lights dimmed and flickered, then went out, plunging the ship into total darkness.
A large swell hit the boat broadside. Everyone on the bridge was thrown to the floor. Reardon skidded along the linoleum on his back, his progress halted when his legs crashed into a wall. Before he had a chance to get to his feet, the Privateer was struck by another wave. This one crashed into the stern, twisting the ship back the other way until its bow was once again pointing into the teeth of the storm. The boat steadied and rolled comfortably over the next swell. Reardon gripped the edge of the console and hauled himself to his feet.
Rain and hail continued to bombard the windscreen relentlessly, only now they couldn't see a thing with the lights out and the wipers not functioning. A gust of wind hit the windshield with such force that Reardon automatically ducked, fearing the Perspex was going to implode. But the windshield stubbornly held firm against the onslaught of nature.
Reardon searched a cupboard beneath the console and quickly found what he knew were there. He removed two waterproof flashlights and switched one on. Flashing it around the cabin in a sweeping arc, he located Captain Briggs leaning over the now-lifeless console, staring calmly out at the storm. Briggs didn't glance his way as Reardon thrust a flashlight into his captain's hand.
"We need to radio for help, Sir," Reardon pleaded. The boat shuddered under the impact of another wave but maintained its course, the twin diesel engines still humming away steadily. "We may not make it through this."
Now the Captain looked at him. "Nonsense. I've ridden out worse storms than this one."
Another finger of lightning shot down from the sky and struck the sea near the stern of the Privateer. The vessel lurched forward and dipped into a trough. Both Reardon and Briggs were slammed against the console.
Stone, standing somewhere in the darkness, noticed it first. "The engine's have died."
Reardon and Briggs listened intently above the howl of the wind and rain for the comforting and familiar hum that was no longer there.
Reardon shone his light on the captain. "We have to radio for assistance now. Without engines we lose all control. We'll be at the mercy of the storm."
Briggs shook his head. "We can't. Without power the radios are down."
"They have emergency battery backup!" Reardon insisted.
The captain shook his head adamantly. "The storm will pass. Then we'll fix the engines, restore power and move on."
"But-"
"I won't radio for help!" Briggs hissed in Reardon's face. "No one can know what we carry down in the hold. No one but us and those who are supposed to know. Is that clear?"
Reardon stared hard at his captain. Eventually he sighed and nodded in assent. "I just pray we don't go down...Sir."
"Instead of praying, try doing something useful. Go down to the hold and check on our cargo."
Reardon nodded and started walking off in silence. Stone unrolled a nautical chart of the area and studied it under the Captain's flashlight. As Reardon opened the door and stepped from the bridge, he heard Stone say to Briggs, "There looks to be a shallow line of coral reef several kilometres off that island, Sir." Reardon put that thought, and the possibilities it conjured up, out of his mind as he made his way down to the cargo hold.
He swayed and staggered and stumbled with each swell that struck the ship. The Privateer was adrift, floating aimlessly, waiting to be drowned by nature's fury.
Back on the bridge, Briggs said to Stone, "Get on the radio and send a coded message to Control, stating our position." The ship's navigator eyed him quizzically. "Just in case," Briggs added.
Stone nodded obediently and snatched up the radio, flicking a switch on the unit to engage battery backup power.
* * *
Reardon entered the tomb-like blackness of the hold, guiding his way with the flashlight beam. The cargo bay was empty bar a large metal container. He swept the beam of his light along the container's seven metre length. The top was made of two hinged doors secured in the middle with a hefty padlock. Taking some keys from his belt, Reardon held them under the light and selected the correct one. He fumbled with the lock for almost a minute. Every time he inserted the key, the yawing vessel would throw him off balance. Finally he got it open and strained to lift one of the heavy, cold doors.
Inside lay the monstrosity they'd traveled halfway around the world to deliver. It hadn't moved an inch, still resting snugly in its bed of straw and foam padding. There was a small metal box nestled beside it. Reardon removed the box. It wasn't locked, just held shut with a latch. He set it on top of the container and opened it. Inside was a remote control handset. He removed it from its foam padding and shone the light on it. Reardon dared not touch any of the many buttons, fearing what he might awaken.
The rumble of thunder was nowhere near as loud and ferocious way down in the hold. But the hiss of the outraged sea sounded far more savage. As Reardon shone the flashlight beam into the large container once more, the Privateer suddenly shuddered violently.
There was the piercing sound of screeching metal. The vessel lurched upwards. Reardon was thrown backwards onto the steel floor, where he slid into a wall for the second time that night. There he sat up, the remote control still in his grasp but the flashlight gone. He sensed, rather than saw, the water flooding in through a gaping tear in the ship's hull.
A wave forced the stricken vessel further up onto the reef. The Privateer screamed in protest again. As the swell abated, the boat slid back into the sea with a tremendous howl, the action peeling the hull clean off the bottom of the ship.
The heavy container with its mysterious cargo was first to disappear to the sea floor, the doors unlocked and swinging freely as it descended to the sand.
Water rushed into the hold with the force of a tidal wave, crushing Reardon to a lifeless pulp against the stern wall. As he died, his hand twitched in a reflex reaction, the thumb pressing a button on the remote control handset.
The container settled to the bottom, its contents still intact. As it hit the sand, two red lights blinked on inside the metal box. The Privateer landed on the sea bed eighty metres away, where it quickly settled into its lonely, watery grave.
Two
THE NEXT DAY:
It only knew one thing, and that was to kill.
Hanging buoyant twenty feet above the sea bed, it sensed some slight vibrations off to the left. Swimming fluently through the sun-filtered water, the thing homed in on the source of the disturbance.
The dolphin kicked lazily a metre below the surface, her powerful tail propelling her along with graceful ease. Its sleek body glistened in the sparkling clear water. Sensing something approaching from below, the mammal paused to look. Then, in a sudden flurry of panic, the dolphin scooted out to sea with several hard kicks of its tail.
Responding to its internal programming to hunt and kill, it set off in pursuit of its fleeing prey. Possessing superior underwater speed, it caught up with the dolphin in a matter of seconds. Extending a supple but mechanical arm, it rose toward the tiring mammal, a razor-sharp blade glinting in the sunlight.
With nothing left in reserve, the dolphin could do little to evade the rising monster from the sea. The twelve inch blade penetrated the dolphin's soft underbelly and twisted. Viscous fluid oozed from the wound as the blade withdrew, followed by a worm-like string of entrails. The blood was green, sea water having filtered red from the colour spectrum a few feet below the surface.
The mammal convulsed as the blade was plunged in again, this time near the tail. It sliced a neat gash clean right up to the snout. The dolphin literally peeled away in two halves like a filleted fish.
Sensing that all life had left its prey, the thing swam down into deeper water in search of another kill.
Three
The four metre runabout was powered by a fifty horsepower outboard. It's red hull cut a clean path through the glassy surface as it made its way seaward from South Stradbroke Island.
Sheridan McCabe sat in the passenger seat while her brother, Gene, was positioned behind the wheel. The two Americans were in Australia on a scuba diving holiday, their first break in many years.
Sheridan glanced at Gene through dark sunglasses. "Are you sure there's a reef out here?"
Gene shrugged. "That's what the map showed." He powered the boat down almost to idle speed and scanned the calm water, searching for any hint of the reef. He saw none, the task made more difficult by the placid sea. "If there was a bit of a swell, or a breeze, it might chop up the water around it." He shrugged again. "But there's nothing." Gene glanced at his sister resolutely as he eased the throttle lever forward. "We'll find it."
"Maybe we should have brought along a guide," she suggested, knowing the comment would strike a nerve. And it did.
"I don't need a guide. If there's a reef out here, Gene McCabe will damned well find it eventually."
Sheridan smiled. "Yeah. The key word being eventually." The smile slipped from her face when she noticed a blemish on the glass-like ocean surface about fifty metres away. She pointed off to her left. "What's that?"
Gene put the craft in neutral and stood up. "What? I don't see...Oh, yeah. I see it now. Looks like a rubber tube." He engaged the engine again and cruised slowly toward the object. When the runabout was almost abreast of it, he slammed the lever into reverse and brought the boat stationary beside it. "Is it a tube?" he asked his sister.
"I think it's a fish." She leaned over the side of the boat for a closer look, almost gagging when she saw exactly what it was. Sheridan eased back into the boat and sat on the deck.
Gene noticed her paled expression. "Is it a fish?"
She shook her head. "No. Not a fish. It's a dolphin....What's left of one."
Removing an oar from a pocket along the side of the boat, Gene managed to bat the dead mammal in closer. The dolphin was floating with its back to the sun. Its entire underbelly had been dissected from underneath and folded upwards. Steeling himself in preparation for the gruesome sight, he propped the oar under the animal and flipped it over. What he saw didn't end up as gruesome as he'd expected. All the innards had since floated away in the sea, probably consumed by fish and other predators. He was surprised the dolphin's body hadn't yet been seized upon and eaten.
Having recovered from her bout of nausea, Sheridan moved over beside her brother for another look.
"What do you think happened to it?" she wondered.
Gene studied the neat edges of the severed flesh and came to a conclusion. "Fishermen," he stated. "Damned Aussie fishermen killed it. This poor thing's been cut open with a knife and gutted like a tuna."
"Why would someone want to do that?" said Sheridan, brushing the hair away from her face as a light breeze suddenly wafted across the water.
He shrugged, bemused. "Beats the hell out of me. Maybe they do that sort of thing around here for sport?" Gene thrust the dolphin carcass away from the boat with the oar and stood up in the deck.
The north-easterly breeze whipped up a light chop on the water's surface. Gene noted a more tumultuous chop forming in a relatively straight line about two hundred metres east of their position. He pointed. "There's our reef."
A few minutes later the anchor was being tossed overboard on the mainland side of the coral. Gene and Sheridan climbed into wetsuit vests. Gene's skinny arms protruded from the neoprene like bars of a coat hanger. Sheridan zipped up her vest over a red one-piece swimsuit that hugged her feminine curves. Both slipped into fins and face masks with snorkels attached, and strapped weight belts around their waists. When Gene had shrugged into his scuba tank, he assisted Sheridan with getting into hers. They checked each other's tanks and air supply. When satisfied all was functioning correctly, they each sat on opposite sides of the boat, preparing to drop into the sea.
Sheridan looked across at her brother and smiled.
"What?" he said.
"Your mouth looks all gummy with the mask pushing down on your lip."
"So does yours," he told her. "You ready?"
She nodded and jammed in her mouthpiece. Gene did likewise and they both simultaneously flopped backwards into the water.
Sheridan entered the depths amid a flurry of silver bubbles. When they'd dissipated and her vision cleared, she found a small puddle of water floating inside her mask around her nose. Tilting her head skyward, she pushed down on the top right-hand corner of the mask and blew air out through her nose. The air was forced out of the mask, taking the water with it. With that done, she looked around for her brother.
Gene was hovering about ten feet below the surface, waiting for her to join him. She kicked nonchalantly downward. Feeling the pressure building in her ears, she pinched her nose and blew out. After two squeaky pops her ears cleared and the pressure was gone.
Together they swam down to the sea bed some forty feet below the surface. The water was warm and clear. Gene did a pirouette and guessed her could see for perhaps thirty metres or more. He gripped his sister by the arm and pointed toward the wall of coral not far away. Hand in hand they kicked over to the reef for a close inspection. Sheridan found a rock lobster in a crevice and prodded it with her finger. The critter shrank away from her touch and disappeared inside the reef. She smiled at its retreat and water leaked into her mask. Once again she had to clear it. She then kicked parallel to the reef and skimmed inches above the sandy bottom.
Gene followed in her wake at a leisurely pace, studying the reef niches for any interesting sea life. An angel fish darted out in front of him. It paused, small eyes looking curiously at the strange intruder clad in blue and black rubber. Then it flicked its tail and swam off into the blue.
As he continued to follow Sheridan along the wall, a sudden thought struck him. Something was odd. Something was amiss, out of place. At first he wasn't sure what it was, what was missing. But then he realised. Apart from the rock lobster and the angel fish, they'd seen no other sign of life. No sand crabs, no bream or squire or rock cod. Not even a pilchard. Such an absence of sea life around a coral reef was unheard of.
Thoughts of the mutilated dolphin crept into his mind. He shrugged them aside, deciding there was no connection between that incident and the lack of fish. Unless, of course, the fishermen responsible had somehow managed to frighten away almost every living thing on the reef. He doubted that.
Sheridan had stopped swimming and was presently digging in the sand at the base of the reef. She removed half a seashell and, disappointed, tossed it aside. It was then that she saw the flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Nothing defined, just a blur of motion.
She turned quickly to her left and scanned the water, fearing it may have been a shark. Her searching eyes found nothing but empty sea. Adrenalin pumped through her veins. She looked above to the surface and spied Gene kicking toward the sunlight. Sheridan saw him pause and do a pirouette. He appeared to be looking for something. Maybe searching for what she had glimpsed? She kicked off from the bottom, suddenly feeling vulnerable and lonely down there, and swam towards him.
It struck when she was only twenty feet away. She saw another blur of movement, so quick she barely had time to register it. Next thing she knew Gene's legs and lower torso were sinking toward her. His upper body was rising to the surface. Sheridan found herself swimming through a dense and murky cloud of her brother's blood.
Unable to comprehend what had happened, she panicked and kicked with all her strength for the surface above and the safety of the boat. She somehow realised in her state of terror and confusion that she was rising faster than her exhaled air bubbles. But she didn't care. She'd rather risk the bends than stay in the water with whatever was down there.
As she rose toward the hull of the runabout, something bumped into her shoulder. She screamed into her mouthpiece. When she saw what had touched her she screamed again.
Gene's head, lulled to one side, the lifeless eyes wide open and staring vacantly at nothing, was brushing against her flesh. She pushed the grisly sight away and broke the water's surface.
She ditched the tank in the water and heaved herself over the edge of the boat. It rocked from side to side from the radical movement. Sheridan collapsed in the bottom, panting heavily and shivering, her flesh covered in goose bumps.
There she laid waiting, expecting whatever had killed her brother to come after her next.
A half an hour later she still lay there, unmoving, having now fallen into a shock-induced sleep. The little red boat floated by the reef, drifting aimlessly back and forth on its anchor rope with the pull of the tide.
Four
An hour later a man-mountain, dressed in lycra shorts and a muscle shirt, strolled down the eastern beach of South Stradbroke Island.
Adrian Marsh was big for age twenty. Constant gym work and a little help from artificial substances had transformed him from a bamboo shoot to the Incredible Hulk. He worked afternoons and evenings at the island resort's night club, keeping the party-goers under control.
Last night had been a particularly hectic evening. Several fights had broken out just after midnight. His jaw still smarted from a fist that had collected him during the second skirmish. He rubbed the tender spot as he walked, and wished he didn't have to work again tonight.
Feeling tired and lethargic, he broke into a slow jog in a bid to wake himself up. After a few minutes at a leisurely pace, he was almost down to the southern tip of the island. It was as he gazed out over the water that he noticed something odd being thrashed about by the surf.
He stopped jogging and walked to the water's edge. The thing looked like a limp, rag doll the way it was being tossed around by the waves. Adrian strode into the water up to his powerful thighs and waited for the object to gradually be pushed into the shallows. When it was within reach, half covered in sand and white water, he grabbed what looked like something made of rubber and dragged it up onto the beach.
It wasn't until he had it on dry land that he took a good look at what he'd found. When he did, he threw up.
* * *
Sheridan awoke to the hum of an engine. Her eyes flickered open, only to be greeted by the blinding glare of the sun. The exposed flesh of her face and legs had turned dark pink with sunburn.
She felt something nudge the boat, causing it to rock. The engine noise was still present, only closer now. Sheridan looked up into the weather-hardened face of a man who was leaning over the side of a much larger vessel that floated alongside the runabout. Curly tufts of brown hair protruded beneath a blue cap. Above the peak of the cap was a badge saying Water Police.
"You okay there?" the man asked her, his brown eyes friendly in the rugged face.
Sheridan sat up and experienced a dizzy spell brought on by the exposure to the hot sun. She bowed her head between her knees for a moment before answering. "I think so." She glanced around the boat, confused. "My brother. He's-"
"It's okay." The man climbed down from the police vessel into the runabout and helped Sheridan into one of the padded seats. "My name's Detective Myers. What are you doing out here? Where's your brother?"
With eyes glazed she pointed over the side and said softly. "Down there."
"Is he scuba diving?"
She nodded. "We both were."
The policeman raised his eyebrows. "Were? You got tired and came back up?"
Sheridan shook her head. "No...No, nothing like that."
Nodding his understanding, the man sat down on an ice box in the centre of the boat. He lit a cigarette and offered one to her. She accepted. "Perhaps you'd better tell me exactly what happened out here today," he suggested in a soothing tone.
Slowly the American tourist filled him in, starting with their dive on the reef and ending with the lightning attack on her brother by God knows what.
She was shaking now. He gave her another smoke to calm her nerves. "I know this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some further questions. You say you don't know what it was that attacked your brother Gene."
"No," she replied, staring out at the water.
"But you did see something," he pressed.
"I did see something, but I don't know what. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The thing was just a blur."
There was activity on the police boat. Two young constables were suiting up in wetsuits and diving gear. When Myers nodded at them, they dropped feet first into the water. Myers returned his attention to Sheridan.
"Did you see any sharks down there before the attack?"
She shook her head, adamant.
"A whale maybe? Or a barracuda?"
Again she shook her head. "Uh, uh." She looked Myers in the eyes. "That's just it. We hardly saw any sign of life down there at all. I can't even recall spotting one fish. The only living thing I saw was a rock lobster hiding in the coral."
Myers lit another cigarette and glanced out over the water. He had something to say and was procrastinating. Finally he looked squarely back at Sheridan. "We found some remains. Washed up on the beach over on the island." He nodded in the direction of Stradbroke. "They could be that of your brother. My divers are searching for more below." The detective paused. "We need you to identify the remains."
Sheridan sat there and silently nodded.
* * *
The two police divers stood on the sand at the base of the coral reef. So far they had yet to find the missing parts of Gene McCabe.
Officer Daniels, the tallest of the two, indicated for his partner, Officer Wilkes, to follow him along the reef. Daniels kicked ahead, Wilkes tailing a few metres above and behind. As they rounded an outcrop of rock, Wilkes felt the back of his neck tingle and goose bumps rose on his flesh. He glanced behind as he continued to follow his partner. At first he thought he glimpsed something; a flicker of movement. But when nothing materialised, he decided it must have just been his imagination.
Suddenly Daniels stopped swimming and hovered in the water, scanning left and right, searching for something. Wilkes got his attention and raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner. Daniels shrugged, shook his head and resumed swimming along the reef.
Another twenty metres on and Daniels stopped abruptly again, causing Wilkes to crash into him. Daniels gripped his partner tightly by the arm and pointed toward open water.
Officer Wilkes strained to see what his partner obviously could. After a few moments and seeing nothing, he shook his head. Daniels arm rotated a few degrees to the right. Wilkes followed his line of sight again and saw movement; nothing defined, just a blurry motion akin to watching a wave undulate from below through a face mask.
As they watched the blur shifted, moving relatively slowly. It changed course and came towards them. Both men instinctively dove to the sand. The thing kept coming with increasing speed. When it was within ten metres, it unexpectedly diverted sharply to the right. Wilkes turned and saw it speeding after a small reef shark.
The next second both men were racing each other for the surface and the safety of the police boat.
* * *
Adrian Marsh watched the little red runabout make its way toward the beach. A small crowd of tourists and resort personnel had gathered on the sand. A sheet had been draped over the legless body and was being watched over by two policemen dropped off from the boat.
He heard the sound of a helicopter approaching and looked up to the cloudless sky. It wasn't one helicopter, but two. The first one to land on the southern tip of the island was a police chopper. The second belonged to a local news crew.
The runabout drifted into shallow water. Myers leaped out and Marsh gave him a hand to drag it up onto the sand. Sheridan climbed over the side and was led slowly up the beach to the sheet-covered corpse. Marsh helped the police keep the crowd back a respectable distance as Detective Myers pulled a corner of the sheet back.
Sheridan took a quick look at the face of the corpse and nodded. "That's Gene, my brother," she murmured in a whisper.
* * *
Two hours later in the resort grounds, Detective Myers made a statement to the media that were present.
"We have concluded," said Myers firmly, "that the victim was mauled by a shark...A very large shark."
Five
TWO DAYS LATER:
The night club was crowded, but not standing-room-only. Dance music thumped from a powerful hi-fi through quality speakers. Swarming mostly with young women, the dance floor at the far end of the club was an energetic hive of activity and virtually dripped with sexual urges. Entertained males looked on from the sidelines, idly sipping drinks and enjoying the show; some hoping for a miracle and to get lucky.
Just off to the right of the dance floor was a bar. A young man, barely twenty, was behind it serving drinks. To the left of the gyrating dancers stood a bouncer, arms folded, keeping a watchful eye on things.
Gus Edwards was a tall, well-built black man. His genetics included a mix of African, Tongan and white Australian. He wore his hair trimmed short and was dressed in a black suit. The ebony skin of his face gleamed under the flicker of strobe lights.
A girl walked past him with a mischievous smirk on her lips. As she passed behind him, she pinched him on the butt. Gus turned and smiled as he watched her disappear into the crowd. The smile quickly slipped from his face when he noticed something untoward going down at a nearby table.
Brushing aside a pair of drunks, Gus strode purposefully over to the table where two young men sat doing a deal. The one on the left was well-dressed but wore his hair in a disheveled mess. The other was just an average looking eighteen year old who looked no different to a hundred others he saw in the place every night. As Gus approached, the well-dressed one slid a sachet of white powder across the table. In return he received a wad of cash which was quickly stuffed into the pocket of his jacket.
Gus said nothing, he just seized Messy Hair by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet.
"What the fuck are you doin', man?" Messy Hair demanded.
Still saying nothing, Gus responded by twisting the young man's arm behind his back. He then roughly escorted him through the crowd on the dance floor over to the bar.
Sitting on a stool in a corner behind the bar, watching the girls perform on the floor, was another well-built man. He was in his mid-thirties, with sandy-blond hair and a sun-tanned face that contrasted well with his white shirt.
Gus addressed the man on the stool. "Caught this clown selling coke, Ben."
Ben Logan's expression darkened, his blue eyes narrowing in anger. He abruptly stood up. "Let's escort this gentleman outside."
Logan moved out from behind the bar and walked briskly through the crowd toward the exit at the other end of the club. Gus followed, pushing the struggling young man ahead of him. Outside he tailed Logan down some steps. When he reached the footpath, Gus slammed the man up hard against a concrete wall. Logan moved in close and stared fiercely into the drug dealer's face.
"My club doesn't have a lot of rules," Logan said, his voice low and even. "But there are some. No fighting. No fucking." His voice took on a more menacing tone. "And no stinking drugs!"
At that moment a taxi pulled up outside the Surfers Paradise night club. A leggy and beautiful blond stepped out of the car, her curvaceous figure accentuated exquisitely in a hugging, black spandex dress. Sheridan McCabe noticed the confrontation and paused to watch how it unfolded.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about, man," the dealer said cockily. "I don't use drugs."
Logan replied, "Maybe you don't, but you sell 'em, don't you, scum?" Clenching his right fist, Logan buried it in the young man's stomach. As he doubled up in pain, Logan grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled him up straight until they were looking eye to eye. "If I ever see you in my club again, you won't be walking away from here like you're going to tonight. You'll be taking an ambulance...Do you understand me, fuck-face?"
Logan nodded down the street. "Now get the hell outa here." As the man slowly walked away, Logan added. "Have a nice evening."
The man turned and offered, "Fuck you!" He kept on going, walking ramrod straight, trying hard to maintain some dignity.
Sheridan, still watching and wearing a bemused expression, shrugged and climbed the stairs to the club entrance. There she was ushered inside by the doorman.
Logan turned to Gus. "Stick around out here for a while and make sure that piece of shit doesn't come back." When Gus nodded, Logan trotted back up the steps and into the club.
Sheridan had made her way to the bar near the dance floor. She took up residence on a vacant stool and waited for the barman to approach. When the barman saw her, he smiled and came right over.
"What can I get you?" he asked above the throb of the music.
"A glass of chardonnay, thank you."
"Sure thing." The barman poured her a glass in a quick and practiced manner and placed it in front of her on the counter. "That'll be five-fifty, thanks."
Sheridan handed him some money. When he returned with her change, she quizzed, "I'm looking for a Mr. Ben Logan. I believe he's the owner of this club. Is he in?"
"He sure is." The barman nodded to his left where Logan was just sliding in behind the counter.
Sheridan raised her eyebrows when she recognised him as the man from outside, the one she'd witnessed beating up on some young kid. Her emotions hardened a little. She wasn't sure she liked or trusted his type.
The barman said, "That's him." He smiled as he turned his focus to his boss. "Someone here to see you, Ben." He indicated Sheridan, then moved swiftly off to serve another patron.
Logan took in her beauty as he stepped over to her. There he leaned his elbows on the counter and asked, "Do I know you?"
Sheridan tried to ignore the penetrating stare of his dark green eyes. She shook her head and sipped some wine. "No, but you soon will." She glanced about herself. "Is there some place we can talk away from this music?"
Logan nodded. "Follow me to my office."
He came out from behind the bar and led her down a hallway beyond the dance floor. They passed by the toilets on the left and arrived at a closed door. Logan opened it and allowed her to step into his office. Then he followed her in and closed the door behind him. Inside the music was still audible, but far from deafening. They could comfortably talk at a normal volume.
Sheridan took in the surrounds, noticing the office was only sparsely furnished with a bare desk, a single chair on one side and two on the other. There was a filing cabinet behind the desk, and against one wall was a couch with a small palm tree hanging over one end of it.
Logan collapsed into the single chair. Sheridan seated herself opposite in one of the other two. Logan sat there watching her, hands clasped behind his head in a relaxed manner and waited for her to state her business.
Sheridan took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and placed a menthol between her lips. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
He shook his head. "Knock yourself out. I don't have an ashtray handy, but you can use my rubbish bin." He handed her an old four litre fruit juice can with the lid cut off.
A gold cigarette lighter, studded with one-point diamonds, was produced from her purse. She flicked it and lit her smoke.
"Do you always treat your customers that way?" she asked. He offered her a bemused look. "Like out there in the street a few moments ago."
Logan sat forward now. "Oh, that. The guy was dealing drugs in my club. I won't stand for that."
"Very commendable. I've heard that about you, that you stand up for what you believe in." She exhaled and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
Logan couldn't help but think she looked sexy the way she pursed her lips when she exhaled. "Before we go any further, it might be nice if I knew something about you. Like your name perhaps."
Sheridan was chagrined. "Oh, I'm sorry." She extended her hand across the desk. "Sheridan McCabe."
Logan shook it. "Ben Logan."
"I know."
"So it seems." He leaned back in his chair again. "So what can I do for you, Miss...Is it Miss?"
She nodded. "But just call me Sheridan."
"Okay, Sheridan. How do you know who I am?"
"You come highly recommended." She ashed her cigarette. "I understand you moonlight - if I can put it that way - as a hired mercenary."
Logan eyed her suspiciously. "Who or what gave you that idea?"
Sheridan felt a little uncomfortable. "Maybe I should start at the beginning."
"Maybe you should," Logan agreed.
After taking a deep breath, Sheridan related her experience of a few days before. Her eyes misted over as she spoke of her brother's shocking and savage death. When she finished, she lit another smoke and sat there in silence, her eyes darting about in an agitated manner.
Logan watched her for a bit, not quite sure what any of this had to do with him. He felt sorry for her, but didn't see how the event was any of his business.
"Do you think it was a shark?" he spoke finally.
She shook her head adamantly.
"Then what?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "And I can't rest until I do know. That's why I'm here. There's something in the water out there. I want you to find out what it was that killed my brother and destroy it."
Logan shrugged. "Why choose me?"
She stabbed out her second cigarette in the bottom of the fruit juice can. "Like I said, you come highly recommended. I asked around locally, looking for an experienced diver who knew the area and your name kept coming up. I also know you have a highly-equipped boat."
"So why the bit about my being a mercenary? What does that have to do with this?"
"I don't know. Those skills might also come in handy. Who knows?"
Logan watched her light yet another cigarette.
He asked, "Do you always chain smoke?"
Sheridan smiled tightly. "No. Only when I feel stressed."
"Were you there when your brother met his demise?" he politely queried. "I mean, did you actually see him attacked?"
She answered slowly, "I saw it all, yet...I didn't really see anything."
Logan frowned. "What exactly does that mean?"
Sheridan swallowed a lump in her throat. "Gene was about twenty feet above me, swimming for the surface. I was following him up and that's when it struck." She shrugged in bemusement. "All I saw was a blur of motion, like a part of the water had come to life. Next thing," she paused to dab at her eyes with a tissue, "the bottom half of his body was dropping towards me and his upper half was floating towards the surface."
She tossed the tissue into the can and shrugged again. "That's about all I can tell you. That's all I saw. Like I said, I saw everything, but yet saw nothing. This thing's really eating me up inside. Apart from grieving for my brother and the shock from seeing him die, so much mystery surrounds what actually happened to him."
Logan nodded his understanding. "Do you think the police really believe that a shark took him."
"I don't know. I don't think so. I don't see how they could."
"I read the story in the paper," said Logan. "It didn't reveal much, just said an American tourist was taken by a shark off South Stradbroke Island. There's nothing unusual about that. It happens from time to time." He leaned forward on the desk. "But sharks don't usually cut their victims in half. They generally latch on, thrash around in the water and tear them to shreds, then finish the job by eating them. They don't usually leave their victims to float around in two clean halves-"
He stopped short when he noticed the horrified expression on the young woman's face. "I'm sorry," he offered quickly. "I didn't mean to go on like that. Not with what you've just gone through. It was totally thoughtless and I apologise. Sometimes when I'm talking about things I know I get carried away and speak very clinically. I didn't mean to sound so callous."
Feeling like a totally insensitive pig, he got up. "Wait here and I'll get you another drink. White wine, was it?"
"Chardonnay," said Sheridan, her expression having relaxed somewhat with his apology.
Logan disappeared into the club and returned presently with another glass of wine and an ice cold glass of beer for himself. He placed the wine in front of her and she immediately took several extended sips. When Logan had reseated himself, he drank from his glass and watched her from over the foaming head.
She was a classic beauty, he decided. Her blond hair, blue eyes and sun-tanned skin would have blended right into the Gold Coast scene. He would have thought her a local if he didn't already know that she was an American tourist. She had high, almost proud cheek bones, a smooth jaw and a small, petite nose above lipstick advertisement-quality lips. However, beautiful or not, he would let that in no way affect any decisions he made regarding her problem.
He took another mouthful from his glass and placed it on the desk.
"So you want me to go out there, hunt down this mysterious...beast, creature, animal, whatever it is, and kill it."
She nodded and lit a fourth cigarette. "I'll pay you of course. I have money."
"Well, I should certainly think so. I wouldn't lend out my services and equipment for free to a perfect stranger. I'm not trying to be callous again, but to me this is business. I'm not personally involved."
Sheridan sat there thinking a moment. She wasn't sure how much she should offer him for the job. She considered asking him to name his price, but quickly dismissed that idea. He could rattle off any ridiculous figure. Eventually she made an offer.
"I'll pay you five thousand Australian dollars to hunt it down and destroy it."
Logan looked at her stunned for a moment, then he smiled broadly and shook his head. "I'm sorry, lady. I'd like to help you, but not for that amount. That'd be lucky to cover fuel for my boat. Apart from that, this thing that killed your brother sounds highly dangerous. I'm not about to risk my butt for a measly five grand."
Feeling embarrassed, Sheridan said curtly, "Then how much do you want, Mr. Logan?"
"Fifty," he replied immediately.
She frowned.
"Fifty thousand, Miss McCabe."
Sheridan sighed and shook her head. "I'll have to think about it."
"Well, don't think about it too long." Logan picked up his glass and took a drink. "The longer you procrastinate, the less chance we've got of finding the killer...whatever-it-is."
Sheridan stood up. "Have you got a number I can reach you on?"
Logan slid a business card across the desk. "That has my mobile number on it. You can reach me on that any time, day or night."
She slipped the card into her purse. "You'll hear from me tomorrow if I want you to pursue the matter further," she said in a clipped, business-like manner.
Logan nodded and replied confidently, "I'll speak to you then."
Sheridan turned and strode quickly out the door, closing it rather loudly behind her.
Six
At eight AM in mid-summer the sun was already quite high above the horizon. Cutting a smooth path through the pellucid water toward the rising sun, the fourteen metre motor launch gleamed white and pristine.
Logan stood behind the wheel in the towering fly-bridge, keeping a keen eye out ahead for the reef which lay submerged and dormant just below the smooth surface of the ocean. He wore sunglasses to ward off the morning glare and a vinyl canopy kept the heat of the sun off his bare shoulders.
Sheridan stood beside him, dressed casually in a blue bikini top and black shorts. She briefly took in Logan's fit and muscled physique as he gently guided the craft away from the shores of South Stradbroke Island. His only clothing, white shorts, contrasted strikingly with his deep coastal tan.
"We're getting close to the spot now," Sheridan told him.
She heard the chink of glass on glass and turned to see Gus Edwards climbing the fly-bridge ladder, three small bottles of lemonade clasped between the fingers of one hand. He, too, was shirtless and in excellent physical condition, his ebony skin stretched taut over bulging muscles. Gus handed round the drinks. He twisted the cap from his own, took a long swallow and then rubbed the cold glass over his sweating forehead.
"Man it's hot," he complained.
Logan grinned. "You should be used to it where you come from. It's a wonder you're not shivering from the cold."
He shrugged nonchalantly. "I've acclimatised."
The craft slowed noticeably as Logan eased off the throttle lever. It's speed dropped to just above idle, the pitch of the diesel engine humming low and deep like a steady bass beat.
"I just remembered something," Sheridan said suddenly. "I'd forgotten all about it, even when the police questioned me." Both Logan and Gus eyed her expectantly. "The other day, just before we dived on the reef, we found a dead dolphin floating on the surface. Its body had been slit from head to tail and peeled open. Gene assumed a fisherman had done it, but now I'm not so sure."
Logan drank some lemonade to ease his arid throat. "You think what killed your brother could have been responsible for the dolphin as well?"
"It's highly possible."
Turning to Gus, Logan asked, "Have you got the sounder on down below?" Gus nodded. "Then let's go downstairs and see if anything shows up on the scanner."
They climbed down to the spacious deck below and stepped into the cabin through an open door. The interior was decked out with thick carpet in a living area equipped with television, a video, DVD player and hi-fi system, and several plush built-in couches on either side. The small kitchen, or galley, adjoined the living room. It was decorated with all the modern conveniences. Beyond the galley an open doorway and staircase led down below to the head and sleeping quarters. Steps either side of the doorway climbed up to a raised interior bridge.
Logan mounted the stairs on the left hand side. His first manoeuvre was to flick a switch on the console to transfer control of the vessel from the fly-bridge above to the interior bridge. When that was done, he made sure the throttle lever was set to neutral, then turned his attention to a forty-five centimetre screen mounted just left of the expansive windscreen. The screen was actually a computer monitor rather than an ordinary depth sounder screen. All the images sounded back from the depths below could be computer enhanced by issuing a few on-screen instructions with the use of a mouse and computer keyboard. Currently the image was in standard mode. The screen showed a blue outline of the sea bed, with a few gentle rises indicating small ridges of sand.
Gus and Sheridan joined him in the control room.
"Anything showing up, Chief?" Gus said, looking at the monitor.
"Nothing but sand," informed Logan.
"I hope we find something," Sheridan put in.
Logan glanced her way. "If there's anything there in the vicinity of the reef, we'll find it."
A pained expression crossed Sheridan's face.
"What did I say?" said Logan.
She shook her head. "Nothing, really. It's just that some of Gene's last words sounded similar to what you just said then. I hope they won't be some of your last words."
Logan grunted unappreciatively and eased the throttle lever forward a touch. "You're not exactly filling me with confidence and goodwill here."
"Sorry," she offered. "Maybe I should just keep my thoughts to myself."
"Only if they're not productive ones."
She turned and walked down the steps. "I'm going outside for a smoke." When she was gone, Gus said to Logan, "I know you don't mean anything by it. I know you pretty well and it's just your way. But maybe you could be a little more sympathetic towards her. She's just lost her brother. She doesn't mean to be negative and depressing."
Logan nodded his assent. "Yeah, you're right. I just don't want someone reading me my last rights just yet, that's all."
"Everything will be cool," Gus was optimistic. "If there's something out there we can track it with this." He touched the computer monitor. "Chances are you won't even have to get wet."
Logan grinned. "Sensitive new age and logical. An unlikely combination," he said facetiously.
Gus returned his smile, his teeth bright white in his dark face. "I don't know about the sensitive new age part. Not many women have ever labeled me that."
At that moment the reef showed up in the top right corner of the monitor. Logan clicked the right mouse button on the screen, which served to zoom in fifty percent and enhance the reef's latent outline. He then guided the craft around to port until it was lined up parallel to the reef. Once in position he trolled the boat slowly along the western side of the coral.
Sheridan came back in and helped herself to a cup of coffee from a pot that was simmering on a hotplate in the galley. When she'd filled a cup and added milk, she went back outside again without saying a word.
Gus watched her swaying butt as she stepped outside. "It's a pity she doesn't like you, man. She's got one of the nicest butts I've ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on. And that's just a part of the package."
Logan shrugged with disinterest. "I've got no claims on her. Try your luck."
Gus shook his head. "Uh, uh. Somehow I get the feeling she might not be in the mood for any on-board romance."
They scanned the water on the mainland side for half an hour without the sonar detecting anything other than the coral and the sandy bottom.
"Not even a school of fish," Logan noted. "This is going nowhere. I'm gonna try on the seaward side."
He increased power until the engine throbbed and the craft sped along the reef until it disappeared off the screen. Then he brought the launch around in a wide arc to starboard and eased off the throttle again until the boat was trolling slowly once more.
They maintained a steady course until they reached the end of the reef, then Logan brought them round hard left and followed a straight line some thirty metres east of the coral ridge. He continued riding that pattern until they were a hundred metres seaward of the reef.
Gus suddenly tapped Logan's shoulder and Logan put the boat in idle.
"I saw a flicker of something at the top of the screen as you made the last turn. Take her back south again and see if we can find what it was."
Logan spun the vessel around until the bow was nosing south and cut a slow path through the water. He'd traveled not more than sixty metres or so when Gus was tapping him frantically on the shoulder again.
"Got it!" he said excitedly. "Take her a few degrees to port and I'll see if I can enhance the image somewhat." Gus issued a few commands to the computer. The on-screen image zoomed in and enhanced until the outline of the object was clear and defined. He announced, "We've got ourselves a boat down there. And a fresh one I'd say. She looks pretty intact."
"How big?" Logan quizzed, keeping his eyes on the water outside the windshield.
Gus checked some figures on the screen that estimated length and beam of the sunken vessel. "Between twenty and twenty-five metres long by ten to twelve metres across the beam at its widest point."
Logan brought the launch to idle and cut the motor. He pressed one of the many switches on the console and engaged the anchor winch, sending the heavy metal claw down to the sea bed. When that was done, he studied the image of the boat on the monitor.
The outline was quite sharp already, but Logan wanted a closer look so he zoomed in some more until the entire screen was taken up with the image of the stern half of the ship.
"What do you make of it?" asked Gus.
"Not sure," he replied, shrugging. "I thought I knew every sunken relic in these waters. And I haven't heard of any boats going down recently."
Gus suggested, "Maybe the storm uncovered it the other night. That happens."
"It happens, but it's not very likely. If that ship down there had been totally buried under sand, one storm hardly seems enough to exhume it totally." He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin. "No, I'd say you were spot on the money before. She's fresh. The obvious question now is: Why didn't they send out a mayday call?"
"Who's to say they didn't?"
"They can't have. If they did," Logan pointed out, "a rescue attempt would have been launched. And that would have been covered by the news media. But I've heard nothing." He rubbed at his chin again while studying the screen. "No, a shroud of mystery surrounds this baby."
"You going down for a look?" Gus asked.
Logan nodded.
"I'll come with you."
"No. I want you to stay topside and keep scanning the area surrounding the ship. If that thing that killed Gene McCabe comes back, I want to know about it."
Logan disappeared below the bridge into the sleeping quarters. Just outside the master bed suite there was a door that opened into a storeroom. He stripped out of his shorts down to his bathers and struggled into a mid-thigh length wetsuit with short sleeves. Gus aided him in carting the necessary diving equipment up to the deck.
Sheridan was sitting in the sun on a padded seat, gazing idly out over the ocean. She turned her attention to the two men when they appeared and asked, "What's going on?"