Page 3 of Claimed By the Deep
"Roger that. We'll be conducting a routine safety inspection. Please prepare for boarding."
My fingers tremble slightly as I clip the radio to its mount. Safety inspection means fishing license verification, equipment examination, probing questions about my presence in restricted waters. The dive gear presents a problem, especially with no fishing tackle aboard.
The Coast Guard vessel looms larger with each passing minute, the wake carving foam trails across dark water. Nausea builds as I assess my situation. This goes beyond warnings or fines—diving in sanctuary waters carries criminal charges.
I tap the wheel, cycling through excuses. Mechanical problems might work—anchored while troubleshooting engine issues. But they'll inspect that too, and Deep Pockets purrs too reliably for that story to convince anyone.
Wind freshens noticeably. Clouds mass faster than the weather service predicted, swells growing steeper. The air carries that distinct pre-storm pressure. Worth trying.
"Canadian Coast Guard vessel Albatross, this is Deep Pockets. Weather building rapidly southwest. Seas deteriorating."
"Copy that, Deep Pockets. We're tracking the same system. All the more reason to complete the inspection promptly."
Damn. No deterring them with weather warnings.
They're close enough now to distinguish individual crew members. Two prepare a zodiac for launch—standard boarding protocol for smaller vessels. Five minutes before they climb aboard asking questions I can't answer convincingly.
I stare at the water that's haunted my dreams, imagining Caroline's Dream resting silently below. Sixty feet down might lie enough salvage to fund months of operation. Might as well be on Jupiter for all the good it does me now.
I haul the anchor, muscle memory taking over while my mind spins alibis. Metal detector stowed in the gear locker, dive weights hidden under canvas, wetsuit hopefully inconspicuous among cabin clutter.
Their zodiac splashes just as I secure the anchor. Two officers approach, professional in orange vests and utility belts. The younger one radiates Coast Guard College freshness, eager to enforce regulations. The older one bears the weathered expression of someone who's heard every oceanic lie ever conceived.
"Permission to come aboard?" the senior officer calls alongside.
"Granted," I answer, knowing refusal only compounds suspicion.
They tie off to my stern cleat and board with professional efficiency. The senior officer—nameplate reading LEBLANC—surveys my deck with a gaze that catalogs everything.
"Captain Montgomery. Conducting routine safety inspections in this area."
"Of course." I project composed professionalism. "What do you need to see?"
"Let's start with documentation. Registration, insurance,fishing license."
I provide the paperwork, all current and legitimate. LeBlanc scrutinizes each document while Ross inspects the boat. His attention lingers on the heavy-duty winch mounted astern—equipment better suited for hauling artifacts than landing fish.
"Fish these waters often, Captain?" LeBlanc asks without looking up.
"When weather permits. Slim pickings lately, though. Considering other locations."
"Hmm." He returns my documents and walks to the rail, studying the water. "Sixty-two feet here. Good depth for bottom species, but recreational fishermen rarely venture into sanctuary waters."
My throat constricts. "Sanctuary waters?"
"Approximately half a mile inside the Maritime Heritage Sanctuary boundary. Fishing allowed with proper permits, but diving and salvage operations strictly prohibited."
He's testing me, gauging whether I'll claim ignorance or admit knowledge. I opt for a straightforward approach.
"I had no idea I crossed the boundary. GPS must be miscalibrated." I tap the chartplotter that's functioning perfectly. "I'll move outside immediately."
"Appreciated." LeBlanc maintains professional neutrality. "We've had reports of unauthorized diving here. Someone's been working these waters regularly, based on seabed disturbance patterns."
Ross emerges from the cabin clutching my dive mask and fins. "Found these forward, Leading Seaman."
My hopes sink. LeBlanc examines the equipment, then fixes me with a questioning look.
"Dive gear on a fishing vessel, Captain?"
