Theo and Riley crowded him, blocking his light, and he blinked as the sweat dripped into his eyes. He thumped the box with the heel of his hand, trying to loosen it from the earth. When it broke free, he lifted the box out of the hole and sat back on his heels. For a moment, he felt light-headed after hanging upside down in the hole. The shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trees danced with Tinkerbell-sized balls of sparkling light.
“So, come on. Open it,” Riley said. “What are you waiting for?”
He closed his eyes for a second trying to clear his vision, hoping the dizziness would pass. “Wait a minute,” he said, trying not to smile. “Didn’t we skip lunch? Maybe we should take a break. Theo, what have you got to eat in that pack of yours?”
“Are you nuts?” Riley asked.
Cole opened his eyes in time to see the look Theo gave her.
Theo said. “Riley, do you have to ask that question?”
Cole smiled at the two of them, wanting to savor the moment, but unable to keep his fingers from working to loosen the tight-fitting lid. Riley handed him her pocket knife, and he slid the blade under the lid and wiggled it to break loose the bond of rust.
“Okay, okay, boys and girls. Let’s not squabble.” Cole yanked the top off the tin. Inside was what looked like a wad of old newspapers. But it was too heavy for paper. He dropped the tin and began to unwrap the layers of newsprint. Inside, he found another package wrapped in an olive green oilcloth. He turned it over and unfolded the flaps of the cloth.
“I was really hoping,” Riley said, “that it would turn out you were just crazy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Atlantic south of Bermuda
February 13, 1942
Woolsey saw Sean McKay stagger back a step when the bullet struck him in the shoulder. McKay managed to stay on his feet, and he hung tight to the crate.
Lamoreaux babbled away to the ensign, while Woolsey remained on the deck where he had fallen, nursing his bloody mouth — thanks to Gohin. Woolsey hoped the captain was persuading Gohin not to take another shot. If that bomb went off out here, just over their heads, it would kill them all for certain. Woolsey watched as McKay tucked the crate under his wounded arm. He then climbed down the ladder to the gun deck. No one tried to stop him. Gohin was still covering him with the pistol, but his eyes were wide with apprehension now. Lamoreaux must have succeeded at explaining the situation.
“Mister McKay,” the captain said. “Put the box down. Ensign Gohin here will shoot you again if you don’t comply.”
The big man twitched as though to repel a mosquito buzzing about his ear. The blood that soaked the front of his sweater appeared black in the starlight. McKay paused at the bottom of the ladder, his dark hair fluttering in the wind, his eyes focused on something in the distance back in the boat’s white wake. The two Frenchmen were quiet for a change, waiting to see what McKay was going to do next.
Gohin broke the silence first by shouting what sounded like orders. The man couldn’t seem to comprehend that his French was no good at all with the Englishmen.
McKay shook his head, as though waking himself from a reverie. He walked straight across the deck, a trail of black-looking blood following him, his eyes focused on the distance as though the other men were not even there. He ducked around the 37-mm cannons, staggered to get his balance back, then headed for the rear of the gun deck. The ladder down to the main deck was off to the port side, but McKay didn’t head for the opening to descend.
Injured as he was, Woolsey wondered if Sean McKay would be able to throw the bomb far enough away from the sub to prevent damage in the event it should go off.
When McKay stopped at the far starboard aft corner, Gohin began shouting and raised the pistol to aim at the English sailor.
“Arrete,” he yelled. “Arrete.”
“McKay, you fool,” Woolsey said more to himself than with any hope that the signalman would hear him.
McKay turned round and faced the opening opposite him. He spread his legs wide for balance and wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve. His mouth was a thin straight line, his cheeks creased from the effort of holding on. He swayed, unsteady on his feet.
Gohin shouted more French gibberish, but McKay appeared not to hear him. The French ensign was working himself into a lather over the Englishman who would not recognize him as commander of the submarine.
McKay stood stock still for several seconds and Woolsey watched, waiting for the shot.
Then, McKay threw back his head, opened his mouth and let loose a wounded roar as he launched himself into a dead run. He crossed the twenty feet of deck that separated him from the opening in the railing in seconds. Gohin fired, but the shot went wide as McKay hurled himself into the air in a powerful rugby player’s leap that carried him over the side deck and into the sea.
Woolsey scrambled to his feet just in time to be blown back onto the deck again as the bomb exploded in the water off the boat’s port side. The submarine rocked as though it had been hit with a depth charge. Sea water and bits of what was left of Sean McKay rained down on the deck around them.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Indian River, Dominica
March 27, 2008
2:00 p.m.
“Did you hear that?” Riley asked.
Cole stopped shoveling the dirt back into the hole where he was burying the newspaper and the tin. He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Forget that.” Theo waved his hands at Cole’s efforts with the shovel. “It’s too quiet, mon. I can’t even hear the birds. It’s not natural.”
Riley felt certain she had heard some noise that didn’t belong out here. Perhaps it had been a land crab or some small animal that had come to drink at the stream and been startled by the three humans there. Or maybe it was her nerves.
She shrugged, then extended her hand palm up, nodding at the bundle in Theo’s hands. When he handed it to her, she turned back the flaps of oil cloth and examined the device more carefully this time, wondering what new games Cole’s father would put them through now.
She had no doubt that this was something buried by James Thatcher. It was some sort of fancy desktop paperweight. More numbers. The small object was the size and shape of a hockey puck, and the outer casing looked like green marble. Felt cushioned the bottom, while the top facing was covered by two layers of brass plate; the uppermost plate was more like a ring with holes punched in it that revealed the dates and the days of the week that were engraved on the lower plate. She slid the upper plate around and it revealed dozens and dozens of numbers. At the center were written the words “For 40 years Calendar, 1998-2037.” Cole stood, folded the shovel, and stuck it into Theo’s pack. He turned to her brushing his hands on the sides of his shorts. “What do you make of it?”
Theo answered first, his voice still low. “Looks like a cipher disk to me, or that’s how your old man meant for us to use it. Plenty of time to examine it when we get out of here.” His head swiveled around, his round eyes staring into the woods around them. “I don’t like this. Come on. Let’s get moving.”
Riley lifted her head and listened again. She agreed with Theo. Something wasn’t right. It was too quiet.
Cole put out his hand to take the device from her, and this time all three of them froze at the loud crack of a branch breaking and the anguished word, “Fuck!” They sure weren’t islanders.
Cole shoved the device deep into Theo’s rucksack and slung the pack onto his own back as Riley scanned the jungle around them searching for an escape route. She waved her finger back and forth in the air to signal the others to move out, then she started into the bush, leading them, stepping to avoid hard wood and turning her body sideways to ease past the bigger branches of the trees, palmettos, and ferns. The Indian River followed the narrow rocky ravine until it reached the coastal plateau and the broad forested swamps. Up here, the rain forest canopy was high, but the brush on the ground was still thick, prickly and almost impenetrable. She didn’t want to veer too far from the stream bed for fear they would get lost.
