The Sky Beneath Her(72)

“Ready to dive?” Nathan stopped the boat and dropped anchor.

An affirmative rumbled over the group.

“I can’t hear you,” Nathan said.

The group responded with a louder yes. Nathan and Bob suited up in their scuba gear.

“I’ll get you some awesome footage, Tula,” Bob said. “It’ll be so good you’ll think you’re at the wreck.”

I could feel the sunken ship’s pull. “Thanks.”

“Let me know over the radio if there’s trouble on top,” Nathan said.

“Will do.” Clear sky dipped to smooth waters. “Looks perfect again. You have the luck of the Irish, Nathan.”

“Here’s hoping.” The divers moved to the platform. Bob had a camera resting on his shoulder. Nathan jumped in, and the rest soon followed.

They vanished below the surface.

I lingered around the edge of the boat, watching the waters lap against the sides. I leaned over and dipped my hand into the water, letting its cool touch wrap around my fingers. A rolling wave bumped the side of the boat, nearly knocking me off balance and into the water. Cold, salty droplets splattered my face and shirt.

Heart pumping in my chest, I grabbed a bracket on the side of the boat and willed my body to straighten and steady. The waves rose close to my face, teasing my cheek, before I pulled myself upright.

“What the hell,” I said. “Not playing fair.”

The waters rolled gently as if smiling an apology.

“You aren’t sorry.”

Water slapped the side of the boat.

The divers were under the water for forty-five minutes.

And when they returned to the surface, Bob pulled off his mask. He looked pale and slightly shaken.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


Tula





Monday, June 15, 2026, 9:00 a.m.


Bob’s video footage started wide, capturing the hazy waters of the Atlantic. Schools of fish swam past the camera, fanning around the screen as if putting on a show for the rare camera. Nathan swam into view and led the way deeper into the water toward the ocean floor, where the visibility was dimmer and murkier.

It wasn’t long before the other divers and Nathan reached the smooth sandy bottom, covered in trails of small, flat shells. I remembered slipping my fingers along that silty bottom on my last dive with Mom. The undisturbed floor had puffed into clouds as I swirled my fingers through the sandy muck. I’d felt oddly nervous, as if I was trespassing.

Pressure formed in my chest as I watched Nathan glide along the ocean bottom. The sea had never made a secret of its dangers. Never. Humans were tentative guests in the undersea world, and we entered at our own peril. And maybe that was the appeal. We were entering the forbidden.

“We approached the Oceanus from her stern,” Nathan said. He stood close behind me. I could feel the cool ocean’s damp waters still clinging to his bare chest.

I’d forgotten he was standing behind me. Certain he’d warn me if there was something I shouldn’t see, I didn’t speak as my gaze remained locked on the screen.

And then the vessel’s debris field appeared. The Oceanus had drifted from Carova Beach to the spot where she finally sank and had deposited trinkets and items along the way. Many items had been found by weekend divers. When it was still legal to harvest their finds, many had donated their discoveries to local museums, and some had not.

The debris field grew heavier, and I could envision the dying ship listing badly in the choppy waters as waves jostled her guts onto the ocean floor.

The first crumbs in the debris trail were small pieces of jagged and torn metal that looked as thin as paper. Next a tangle of twisted metal, and beside it an uncorked wine bottle that had never broken, snarled chains, and a soldier’s helmet. Portions of a mast covered in barnacles lay quietly in the silt.

These markers pointed toward a familiar trail that I’d swum past seven years ago. To see the debris field untouched felt odd. Life on the surface continued and changed, but down here, the world was locked in its own time capsule.

Up next would be the stern. The blunted edge was intact, as it had been seven years ago. Thicker layers of barnacles covered her metal hull. The faded word Oceanus came into focus. My heartbeat quickened.

I thought about the image I’d seen of Dr. Brooks standing in front of the Oceanus in Port of Spain. The ship stood proud and muscular, and the doctor wore a mild expression. His ordinariness had made him almost unforgettable by anyone passing by.

The vessel’s bow nosed toward the north, marking the original path of the Oceanus’ final days. After her engines had stopped working, the southward prevailing winds and current had pushed her south, carrying her farther away from New York City. When the ship finally sank to the ocean bottom, she was 300 nautical miles from New York City.

The camera hovered over the raw jagged hole on the upward-facing starboard side. Bent metal twisted inward, marking the path of the single torpedo. The strike hit below the waterline, and the explosion had destroyed one of the lifeboats.

The ship’s .50 caliber guns that Jeff had seen, and Chief Mate Kevin Riggs had bragged about, remained pointing upward, as if, given a chance, they could fire again. I thought about the young officer who’d overseen the ship’s day-to-day operations. He’d survived but was long dead, and I was sorry I couldn’t talk to him.