Tomb of Atlantis (10 page)

Jack noticed the time on his watch: nine thirty-eight. It was nearly time to turn around. He took one last look down the hole at the mother crab and her babies and slowly backed away. With a kick of his fins, he moved forward along his course. As he swam, he thought about the crab and its home. Something about it began to gnaw at him, something he just couldn’t put a finger on.

Swimming quickly and nearing the end of his time, Jack was coming to grips with the fact that he would probably come up empty. Whatever it was that he had seen six years before, was not in the path he had taken. Jack's disappointment turned to guarded optimism, as he knew he had one more dive planned for the following day. Tomorrow's track would take him in the opposite direction from the anchor point. This was his last hope, but even his eternal optimism couldn't mask the knowledge of reality—finding the metallic object was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Taking one last long look at the vegetated and rocky landscape
, he turned around and headed back toward the anchor. With the towline marking his return course, he carefully coiled it back onto the spool as he swam, all the while continuing his search.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw some irregular movement. Turning his head, there once again was the mother crab standing guard over her home. Like a replayed movie, she repeated her challenge of
his presence.

"Well, I got to hand it to you there, Mama. You sure are consistent,"
he said through his regulator, sending an extra-large stream of bubbles higher.

Startled by the roiling air bubbles, the mother crab snapped at Jack, then darted back down through the large hole at the top of her tiny cave.
He stared on the hole for a moment, waiting for her return, but she never reappeared. Just like before, he knew she was at the bottom guarding her children.

Jack stared at the hole again. Something was off
, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He swam up to the edge of the hole and ran his hand around its opening.

"Oh
my God!" he called out loud.

He unstrapped his knife from his leg and dug away at the top of the hole. Carefully, he wedged the point into a small pocket and broke off a large cluster of barnacles. Again, he worked his knife into another spot next to the scar he just created. With a small "pop,” another piece came off.

Jack ran his bare fingers over the spot he had just cleared. It felt smooth and flat. He lightly scraped his knife over the area, clearing away smaller particles attached to it. Running his fingers over the flattened spot once more, his heart started to pound. This was not just a pile of rocks and that tiny cave the crab was living in was not just a chance cavity provided by nature.

The hole at the top of the rocks was far too perfect. Upon clearing off the debris, Jack had found a rim of something manmade. This wasn't some old soda can someone had tossed off a passing ship. This wasn't a piece of metal off a recent shipwreck.

Jack couldn't believe what he was about to say. The possibilities astounded the mind.

"It's an urn. Holy Shit, it’s a freakin' urn!"
he said out loud, his own words sending a chill through his body.

He moved back a bit and took in the overall shape. He ran his hand down the sides trying to visualize where the edges lay. Looking closely, he could see that rock, barnacles and seaweed not only covered the entire surface, but also appeared to cover the surface of at least two more urn's lying against the main urn. Although the two lower urns appeared to be unbroken, the openings in their tops seemed to be covered with a layer of rock and barnacles, giving them the appearance of being a solid mound of rock.

Jack took his knife and quickly began to work the bottom edge of the upper urn. Breaking off small bits and pieces at a time, he was very careful not to act too aggressive for fear of breaking the object.

Keeping an eye on the time,
he noted he had less than ten minutes to make it back to the anchor, a reasonable amount of time if he wasn’t preoccupied. As it was, he was only halfway through breaking away the bottom encrusted surface. Although the rock and barnacle composition was very brittle, breaking through the rest and freeing the urn before time ran out would be a difficult chore at best.

Jack stabbed at the hardened surface, trying to break loose larger chunks to help speed up the process. The more he worked at it, the better and more accurate he became.

Suddenly, he noticed his little friend sitting at the top of the urn, staring menacingly at him as he worked. Feeling the vibration inside her home, the mother crab came out to investigate. Waving her claws and snapping wildly at him, she refused to lose her home without a fight.

"Sorry, Momma. I know this sucks, but you're going to have to find a lower rent district. This one's way too valuable," Jack said out loud, once again sending a large volume of air bubbles skyward.

Seeing the cloud of bubbles, the mother crab darted back inside her home. Jack smiled a bit and continued with his work. Having loosened a large fragment that wrapped around the back side of the urn, Jack carefully slipped the tip of his knife between it and the rock. Wiggling the blade back and forth, a very large piece broke off and fell to the ground in front of him.

Without warning, the urn lurched forward. Jack immediately arrested the heavy urn's fall and carefully propped it back up. Instantly, he watched the angry mother crab and her children file out of the top and scatter down the sides.

"Apologies, Madam," he said through his regulator.

Jack noted the time: nine fifty-two. He had one minute to make it back to the anchor. He knew he was pushing the limits of danger, but felt he couldn't just leave the urn where it was and risk the possibility of never finding it again.

Quickly, like he had practiced so many times before the trip, he unsnapped the hoist bag from his waist belt and unfurled it in front of him. He then wrapped some netting around the urn and hooked it up to the hoist bag. Using his spare regulator, Jack began to fill the hoist bag with air bubbles. Slowly at first, until the bag took shape, then more quickly as the bag began to lift its cargo, he pumped the air in, all the while keeping an eye on the time and the pressure in his tank.

Moments later,
he let go and watched the hoist bag rise very slowly toward the surface. He observed his treasure rise out of sight, then quickly turned and began to follow the towline.

Pumping his legs and fins wildly, he knew he needed to make up time. Swimming as hard as he ever had in his life, Jack labored to breathe. He barely had time to exhale before he needed another large inhale, pushing him to the brink of hyperventilation.

Jack pointed the flashlight far out in front of him. Sleek and powerful, he glided through the water at great speed, as he tried to close the gap between the anchor and himself.

He squinted at first then widened his eyes and there, far out in front of him
, was the anchor line rising to the surface.

Looking down at his watch, he noted the time: nine fifty-five.

“This is bad. This is really bad,” he lamented to himself. “I’m way over the safe limit for exposure at this depth.” He thought about the situation for a moment then continued, “I guess I’m going to have to increase my hang time below the surface. There’s really nothing else I can do.”

He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to slow his breathing down a bit. He kicked his fins hard and continued to swim, focusing on the distant rope in front of him.

Jack exhaled half a breath, leaving enough air in his lungs to float several feet above the ocean floor. Swimming along, making good time, he began to inhale. Suddenly, without warning, his regulator stopped producing air. He could no longer breathe. Stopped in his tracks, he frantically tried to suck in some air, but nothing passed through the regulator.

“Oh
my God!” he cried out.

Jack immediately was overcome with raging fear. This was every diver’s worst night
mare. Of all the deaths in diving, this was the single greatest killer. Frantic for a breath, he continued to suck in on the regulator, hoping by some miracle, the mouthpiece would once again produce a stream of air. What little air was left in his lungs, quickly dissipated from fear and time. As quick as he could, he reached around and grabbed his spare regulator. Spitting out the broken one, he popped the spare into his mouth. Trying to take a welcome breath, he immediately found this one too, was broken.

Must be a stuck valve on the tank
, he thought, frantically.

Panic took over
his body. He needed air. His heart pounded. It now demanded air.

Jack felt the edges of a faint closing in on him. He was about to pass out. This was the end of his life. His mind whirled with crippling fear. He didn't want to die, not here, not this way, alone, one hundred feet under the water, in the middle of the ocean, two thousand miles from home. He thought about making a swim for the surface but knew he would be dead in less than a minute's time.

Suddenly, he had a moment of clarity. Through all his fear and hysteria, he had forgotten his pony bottle dangling from his weight belt. Immediately, he reached for it. Looking down, he watched his hands clumsily fumble with the locking clip. With blackness taking over his sight, he knew he had only seconds before death would overtake him. Twisting the bottle and pressing on the clip, Jack felt the miniature air tank come free. With his vision nearly gone, he brought the device up to his mouth. Unable to see, he placed his lips on the bottle and slid it down until he felt the regulator. Instantly, he sucked it into his mouth and drew in a gaping blast of air.

Life never felt so good. Jack exhaled carefully, only letting out half the air in his lungs, then pulled in another terrific gulp of air. Seconds later, his vision cleared, and his mind began to sharpen. Sitting at the bottom of the ocean, he breathed in a few more breaths, then stood up.

With his mind beginning to come back, he now realized he had less than five minutes of air in the tiny tank. His trip back to the other tank that sat fifteen feet below the surface, would take longer than five minutes. Jack was in trouble again. If he swam to the surface too fast, he would surely die from decompression sickness. If he took his time, he would die from asphyxiation. He thought about it for a split second, then made his decision: He would swim at an angle toward the top, doing his best to control his ascent. Timing was everything. He needed to time his ascent so that he ran out of air just as he made the second tank. If he was lucky, he might suffer only mild symptoms from the bends.

“Better than dying,” he thought
.

Not wasting any more time and air, he began to swim. He pumped his legs and arms wildly, trying to maximize his speed over the ground. Focusing on the anchor line far out in front of him, he swam up on a diagonal, trying to gain extra time by cutting out some of the travel.

Closing in on the ascending rope, he checked his gauges. He was now at the twenty foot level and climbing. With sixty-five feet to go and less than one minute of air remaining, he pointed the light upward and kicked hard. He knew he was in serious trouble.

Immediately, he passed the twenty-five foot marker. Looking skyward and moving fast, he couldn't tell if he was seeing sunlight or flashlight. Moments later, sunlight began to filter down through the water above him.

In a blink of an eye, he passed the fifty foot marker. Above him, the water looked clear and bright, but still no sign of the hanging tank at the fifteen foot level.

Traveling fast and without the aid of his flashlight now, a faint mass came into view. A few more feet and Jack made eye contact with his hanging tank.

Still kicking hard, he could see the seventy-five foot marker coming up fast. Suddenly, like a replay of a bad movie, Jack's pony bottle ran out of air. With no time to think, he continued on, pumping his legs even harder, slowly letting out what little air he had left.

The seventy-five foot marker flashed by him as he kicked wildly. The plane’s floats were clearly visible as well as the ocean's surface. Jack could feel the signs of a faint once more as his lungs strained against bursting. He could see his tank now, clearly, as if he could reach out and touch it. Focusing on the regulator,
he could feel himself slowing down.

It was going to be close. Just feet from the tank he struggled to keep himself from breathing in the ocean water. One slip and
his lungs would instantly fill. The darkness of the oncoming blackout filled his vision and he squinted to sharpen what little sight he had left.