Page 2 of Claimed By the Deep
My target sits in restricted waters, technically a protected marine sanctuary, but Coast Guard patrols can't cover everything. According to records, a merchant vessel sank there in 1943. If my sonar readings from last week prove accurate, she rests in about sixty feet with her cargo hold intact.
Sixty feet poses no challenge. I've been diving since fourteen, taught by my father before he died. Some daughters inherit trust funds. I got diving certification and trauma.
I dress and head out. The morning air nips at my skin as I head out with my gear bag and the industrial-strength coffee that'll fuel the next few hours.
The walk to harbor takes just long enough to drain half my cup and mentally review today's plan. Deep Pockets waits at her mooring, looking almost toylike compared to the gleaming sport fishing boats and pleasure craft crowding Tidewash Harbor during tourist season. She's built for function over form—scarred hull still sound, temperamental engine reliable despite complaints, electronics cobbled together from new and salvaged parts.
"Morning, beautiful," I murmur, running my hand along her rail as I step aboard. She acknowledges my weight with a slight rock, our daily greeting.
Stowing gear, I run through pre-dive checks by rote. Air compressor functional. Emergency oxygen present. Weights, mask, fins, wetsuit all accounted for. Metal detector archaic but working, lifting bags patched but reliable.
The engine protests once before catching, settling into its familiar rumble that signals all systems operational. I cast off and navigate through the dock maze toward open water.
Dawn transforms Tidewash Harbor—weathered buildings stair-stepping up hillsides, fishing boats departing for daily labor, gulls circling for easy meals. A working harbor where everyone understands the ocean's balanced ledger of giving and taking.
The harbormaster's office remains dark as I pass—exactly as planned. Charlie Morrison's decent enough, but his job includes preventing boats like mine from entering restricted waters. I've paid enough fines to fund a Coast Guard vessel already.
Beyond the harbor entrance, I throttle up toward the sanctuary waters. Morning sunlight breaks through clouds, shifting the sea from slate to cobalt, and momentarily distracts me from those dreams.
Almost.
Watching waves roll past, I can't shake the certainty that something waits below. Something watching, waiting, calling me through channels I don't understand but feel more keenly than anything else in my waking life.
I bite my lip and adjust course, following last night's programmed coordinates. Whatever haunts my sleep can wait. Bills need paying and my boat needs maintenance—both require finding something worth selling.
The ocean stretches ahead, vast and secretive. I gun the engine toward whatever awaits in the deep.
Meridian
TWO
The GPS chirps when coordinates are reached. I cut Deep Pockets' engine, letting her drift with the current. Water here runs darker than typical for sixty feet—possibly from cloud cover thickening overhead. According to my research, the merchant vessel Caroline's Dream sank somewhere nearby during a winter storm in 1943. If she remains intact, her cargo hold might yield anything from machinery to personal effects—precisely the finds that stock Fergus's shop and cover my slip fees.
I drop anchor and consult my dive computer: sixty-two feet. Ideal.
The wetsuit never cooperates, especially not today, with water temperatures making it non-negotiable. I wrestle with unyielding neoprene, swearing when the zipper snags my hair. Diving knife strapped to my right thigh, metal detector clipped to weight belt, mesh collection bag secured to BC vest.
Midway through final equipment checks, the radio sputters alive. My gut tightens.
"This is Canadian Coast Guard Station Tidewash conducting routine patrol. All vessels in sector seven-alpha, please respond with vessel name and purpose."
Sector seven-alpha. Exactly where I'm floating.
I spot it: white hull slicing through waves two miles out, headed straight for me. I calculate distances against probable speeds—ten minutes before they arrive, possibly less.
Logic says pull anchor and run. Return to harbor claiming recreational cruising, pray they don't examine dive equipment too thoroughly. But logic doesn't pay three months of overdue slip fees.
I could dive quickly. Descend, sweep with the metal detector, grab anything valuable, resurface before they get close enough to catch me in the act. Dangerous, but risk defines this profession.
"Deep Pockets, this is Canadian Coast Guard vessel Albatross. Please respond with vessel name and purpose in this area."
Official authority crackles through the radio. Out of options, I key the mic, forcing casual steadiness into my voice.
"Canadian Coast Guard, this is the fishing vessel Deep Pockets. Trying my luck with some bottom fishing. No success yet today."
The silence stretches uncomfortably. "Deep Pockets, are you currently anchored?"
I eye the taut line disappearing into murky water. "Affirmative. Working a promising-looking structure."
