Chapter 6 and Chapter 7 below. If you need to catch up, you can read the entire manuscript to date here: https://read.bookfunnel.com/read/arg7vlfwtp
Chapter 6
The verbiage was clear. Wood was contractually obligated to use Wigner’s firm for all inspections. That meant his plan to call in another inspector wouldn’t satisfy the requirement.
Contracting was a balancing act based on a triangle with time, quality, and cost at the points. The general rule was that only two were attainable on any one project. If you were looking to save money, you had to sacrifice either time or quality. The formula worked in any combination.
Wood had fought the triangle for years and with some success. His secret was the Keys. No one there expected anything to be done in a timely manner. Between the mañana attitude, difficulty in procuring materials, and the lack of skilled workers, most people resigned themselves to project timelines that would shock many mainlanders.
The paradigm worked in reverse also. If you lost control of one aspect, one of the remaining two attributes would fall with it. The present delay was going to cost Wood money, both in lost production and whatever it was going to cost to satisfy Wigner. He knew eating crow—an apology and promise that he wouldn’t do it again—might satisfy the engineer. It wasn’t his way, though.
Without the inspection, his next progress payment, which he needed to continue, would be delayed. While he didn’t have the reserves, he did have a solution. Salvaging more silver would handle everything.
Wood wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last, to bank his future on treasure. He was well aware that it was a desperate measure that failed exponentially more often than it succeeded. For every “today’s the day,” there were countless “there’s always tomorrow.”
Wood put Wigner out of his mind and focused on the afternoon. He made a couple of sandwiches and met Mac at the truck. “You all set?”
“Yeah. Thinking about a heavier wetsuit.”
Wood cast him a glance that told him they’d had enough delays.
“I’ll get by today.”
Wood handed him a sandwich and got in the truck. “That’ll have to do.” Despite the eighty-degree water temperatures, the long shallow-water dives would suck the heat out of a diver. It rarely happened, and the victim needed to be in the water for a very long time but people had succumbed to hypothermia in tropical waters.
“What’d you have?” Wood asked as he pulled out of the driveway.
“Just the three mil. I’d be happier with a thicker suit.”
“We’ll keep it short today.”
“What about the inspection?” Mac asked.
“Trying to decide if I should eat crow or do the work again.”
“Only took me a couple of hours. I could grind down the welds and reuse the steel. Figure we’d lose a half-day’s labor.”
“Something to consider.” Wood pursed his lips. “I hate kowtowing to that son of a bitch.”
He glanced at Mac, who shrugged. He let the gesture pass and they drove in silence to the ramp.
“We could slide the barge over and use that for a platform instead of the skiff.”
“Good idea.”
“Too bad I never got around to making that blower for the outboards.”
“That would be the opposite of discreet.”
Thousands of vehicles passed over the bridge every day. The iconic blower would attract attention, both in its shape as well as the mountain of silt it would disturb. “Make short work of it.”
There was something to be said for speed. A blower mounted on an outboard could move tons of sand in a few hours. The makeshift scooter wouldn’t move a fraction of that. Wood decided in this case the modified scooter would be better. The search area was limited to the bridge, at least for now.
Both men peered over the guardrail to gauge the tide as they passed over the bridge. Neither side showed the telltale wake that indicated current.
“Looks doable.” Wood clicked on his turn signal, swung across the westbound lanes, and entered the boat ramp.
After leaving Wigner a few hours ago, Wood was surprised to see one of his trucks waiting for him. A woman exited the vehicle when she saw them pull up. She held an envelope in her hand. Wood tried to recall her name, thinking it started with a K. She marched up to the truck and waited, standing with her hands on her hips.
“There’s a live wire for you, Travis. You could use some company, if you know what I mean.”
Mac didn’t reply—he just stared at the woman.
Wood got out of the truck and knowing she wasn’t going away, walked toward her. She extended the envelope. He had a pretty good idea what was in it, and she was not one to be deterred, so he took it.
“Might want to have a look in case there are questions.”
Wood needed to buy some time. He was pretty sure the envelope contained a red tag, an official notice to stop work until corrections were made. In this case, it would be the welding inspection. He looked back at Travis and thought he might make a good sacrifice. Mac’s monk-like existence had been wearing on his nerves lately. Wood rationalized that maybe he’d be doing all three of them a favor by making the introduction.
He motioned with his head. Wood and Mac had been working together long enough that body language was often enough to communicate. Travis stepped out of the truck and came next to him.
“This here’s Mac Travis. You kids should maybe get together.”
They were both caught by surprise, neither expecting the introduction, let alone a hook-up.
Finally, the woman extended her hand. “Kristin. Nice to meet you.”
Wood watched Mac, hoping he didn’t fumble the ball. For his plan to work, he needed Kristin to leave before he opened the envelope. That way he could claim that he’d never seen the contents. He knew it was childish, but it would also buy him some time. With the weekend coming up, he only needed a few days.
Mac shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, when are you two going out? Tonight would be good. We’re gonna knock off here in a couple of hours.”
Wood was enjoying the confused look on their faces.
“You’re blunt,” she said.
“Just trying to do the universe a favor.” Wood knew he’d won. She was too stubborn not to accept the challenge, and Travis was meek around women. There was good reason for that. After seeing his crazy ex chase him from Galveston, it was time he got some confidence. Kristin would surely divert his attention.
“Dinner tonight would be okay,” Mac finally said.
Wood released a pent-up breath.
“Sure. I’m in Marathon,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” Wood walked to the back of the truck, dropped the tailgate, and grabbed the two tanks by the valves. Just as he was about to pull them out, she called to him.
“I still need you to open that.”
“Shit,” Wood cursed under his breath. He continued to haul the tanks to the edge of the tailgate, then hoisted them one at a time to the ground. He couldn’t let her see that she’d won.
Mac and Kristin were still talking when he returned. With no other choice, Wood ripped open the envelope and saw two pieces of paper. One he expected—a stop-work notice. The other was a bill, with a note that no further inspections would be performed until it was paid.
The bill was in order, including the last failed inspection.
Contracting can be a tough business. Profits generally ranged about 5 to 7 percent on bid jobs. It was a small percentage, but with the overall cost of building it could add up. That wasn’t the problem unless you couldn’t find work.
Where most stumbled was managing the large contracts, which were oftentimes multiples of their yearly income. Very few had the reserves to handle the cash flow required to complete the work. That made timely progress payments essential.
Wigner’s bill should have come out of the next progress payment, which was now delayed. He stuffed the papers back in the envelope and crammed them in the glove compartment of the truck.
“Better get on with it, Travis. Daylight’s burning.”
Kristin turned to him. “You do understand that we faxed the state a copy of the stop-work order?”
“Got nothing to do with that. We lost some tools overboard.”
“Okay, if that’s all it is.”
Wood appreciated how she stuck up for her boss, then backed down when there was a reasonable explanation.
“I’ll be in touch.” Wood turned back to the truck and grabbed the scooter. “You comin’, Travis?” He waited while Mac said goodbye and Kristin was back in the firm’s truck. “Gonna need to cultivate that relationship, if you know what I mean.”
“Figured you were up to more than matchmaking,” Mac said, grabbing the scooter from Wood.
Wood didn’t mind Travis being mad. He often worked better that way, and if Wood was going to pay that bill, he needed to find a couple more of those silver bars.
Mac wasn’t the only one angry. The two men only muttered the basic information needed to shuttle the equipment to the barge and prepare to dive. Wood watched as Travis geared up. Diving together would have at least distracted him from his problems and given two more hands and eyes to the operation.
He glanced around. A handful of kayakers were nearby and at least a dozen fishermen were above on the bridge. He’d placed caution tape to keep them from dropping lines into the work area. Curiosity was more of a worry than being snagged by a line, though. The kayakers could get nosy as well. There was no telling with that lot if they understood the water. This group had sea kayaks, not the sit-on-top rentals. The enclosed cockpit and narrower design were for more experienced paddlers—ones who would or should know the tides. Coming up on slack tide, they could easily navigate the bridge pilings and get curious as well. There was always the chance of a state inspector coming by or Wigner returning.
As much as he wanted to be in the water, he decided that it would be better if they worked in shifts.
“Give it an hour. I’ll go after that.” With four tanks, that would be all the time the tide allowed.
Mac nodded. He placed his mask on his face, then swept his right arm around his back to snag the regulator and stuffed it into his mouth. Two breaths later he gave Wood a nod, placed one hand over his face to keep the impact from dislodging the mask or regulator, and rolled backward into the water. He surfaced a few seconds later and reached out for the scooter and rigging, then dropped below.
Wood watched his bubbles, trying to anticipate what Travis was doing. For the scooter to work as a blower instead of a propulsion device, Mac would have to rig several anchors. When using a mailbox, a salvage vessel would drop several standard anchors to secure the boat against the thrust of the propellers, Travis would need to be creative.
Screw augers were the answer, as long as he could find suitable bottom. With the clear water, Wood was able to follow Mac’s progress as he rigged three anchors. A few minutes later the water became turbid, then cloudy as the blast from the scooter cleared the loose material from the bottom.
There was nothing to see at this point, allowing Wood to turn his attention to his surroundings. The fishermen were looking at the disturbance in the water, but so far no one had come to check it out. A flash of sunlight on the paddle blades told Wood that the kayakers were heading out to explore Big Mangrove Key.
What he hadn’t been watching was boat traffic. Two channels ran underneath the bridge, the deeper and most used on the other side, well away from the work. The noise from outboard engines was like mosquitos’ buzzing and tended to blend into the background. The piers also helped stop the sound and the wakes from reaching them. The steady stream of traffic didn’t concern Wood, but when he saw a boat idling two piers away, he directed his attention in that direction.
Chapter 7
The boat’s presence didn’t really bother Wood. The sea floor under and around the bridges was excellent bottom for fish and crustaceans. Over time the swift currents had undercut ledges and exposed hard bottom. Construction debris littered the bottom as well, though much was disguised by years of growth. The pilings themselves were structures providing predators with an eddy on the downstream side of the current to wait and ambush prey.
All these conditions made them popular with fishermen. Some stopped on their way out to catch bait, others after a hard day at the reef or offshore to catch dinner. Sheltered from most winds, the bridges were a good choice in bad weather. The only downside was the traffic noise.
The boat continued to close on the work area, cruising slowly by the cofferdam. It stopped briefly as if to inspect the work, then moved toward the barge. Wood called out and pointed to the red flag with its thick, white diagonal stripe. The diver-down flag was intended to alert boaters to the presence of a diver and required them to stay clear. Below it flew the blue and white Alpha flag. Though not as well known the international flag was required for legal and insurance reasons.
The “stay clear” distance was different in open water, where the buffer was 300 feet, versus channels and restricted areas, where it was a hundred. Wood showed a little leniency, as distance was hard to estimate on the water.
Boat lengths were the easiest way to gauge distance, especially when close by, and when the thirty-foot boat was clearly within two lengths Wood called out and pointed to the flags.
The driver slowed and turned at a tangent to the silted area. When he was just past three boat lengths he stopped. That told Wood that he knew the rules and was purposefully disobeying them. His intentions could have been harmless. The cofferdam and silt cloud could arouse the curious or the churned-up water might attract fishermen looking for an advantage with the dirtier water.
Wood suspected that neither was the case. The way the man held his position showed he was an experienced operator. That still didn’t make him guilty of anything. Wood kept one eye on the water and the other on the boat, hoping Mac would stay under or at least not toss a silver bar at his feet.
The dynamic changed when the man reached down and came up with a camera. From that distance, Wood wasn’t particularly disturbed about pictures being taken. That was until he saw the foot-long telephoto lens.
Alarm bells went off in Wood’s head. It wasn’t that they were doing anything wrong. There was no restriction, other than fear of sharks or stiff current, for diving the bridges. They were far enough away from the construction site that it wouldn’t give Wigner any reason to cause trouble.
The only explanation that Wood could come up with was that the man suspected what they were doing. Maybe Wood was slightly paranoid. Beside the treasure, there was also the county and state building officials. Silt was a problem that the authorities were just starting to address. Erosion from construction sites had been an easy target. If the wrong person saw the cloud under the bridge it could mean trouble. The last thing he needed was for the state or the county paying him a visit. The guy could be a photographer for the Keys Weekly or even working freelance. There were probably a dozen explanations, but Wood had made his way in a tough world in part by being paranoid. Recognizing that, the only conclusion that he could make was that because Wigner had seen the silver bar, the engineer had sent the man to spy on him.
The realization forced him to action.
With the other boat close enough to technically infringe on the safety zone signaled by the dive flag, Wood hopped into the skiff, started the engine, and cast off the line. Travis would no doubt have heard both engines and be aware there were boats in the area. Unless he was low on air, he would stay under until the threat was gone.
Scuba diving can be a relaxing pastime, but it can also be deadly. Most of the dangers are within a diver's control, though. To obtain even a basic open-water certification, the diver has to spend hours underwater in both a pool and a large body of water. Skills such as mask clearing, as well as removal and replacement, regulator recovery, and buddy breathing are drilled with each session. The physics of diving are taught in a classroom setting. Both are tested.
Once certified, divers know how to descend and ascend correctly, as well as maintain neutral buoyancy. They are also made aware of the dangers of boats on the surface.
Sound waves travel differently underwater than on the surface. They move faster, but the danger is that their origin is harder to discern. That meant once Mac heard the sound of the propellers above, he would be extra cautious. Unless there was an emergency, he wouldn’t surface until the boats had moved away.
Wood pushed down on the throttle and sped toward the boat. His first goal was to put the cameraman off balance with his wake.
He watched as the wake slammed the other boat, then closed to within shouting distance. “Can’t you see the damned flag? I got a diver in the water over there.”
The man recovered, and though the wake continued to unsettle the boat, he had gained his balance. The camera came up and he started to take pictures of Wood, which only infuriated him.
Already on the edge, he breathed in a ragged breath and exhaled. “One hundred feet is that piling over there.”
Apparently, the visitor had all he wanted. He yelled, “Okay!” and sped away.
Wood stood in the skiff watching him, braced against the new wake as well as the old one rebounding off the pilings. Once the water settled, he idled back to the barge wondering who the man was and what he wanted.
He would, of course, assume the worst.
While he contemplated the implications, he found Travis’ bubble trail. Crossing back to the barge, he took an iron bar and smacked it against the side. A minute later Travis surfaced.
He spat out the mouthpiece. “I need a few more minutes for the water to clear.”
Wood glanced toward the north to see the cloud of murky water moving slowly toward the Gulf. They could only dive during slack tide, which hurt them when having to wait for the slow-moving water to clear.
“We had a visitor while you were down. Some clown taking pictures.”
“Any markings on the boat?”
“Not that I could see.”
Travis’ eyes, magnified by the mask, showed that wasn’t a surprise. Wood fought against most things, age included. Even though he knew it was one battle he wasn’t going to win, he still refused to get glasses.
Grasping the barge, Travis pulled himself a foot or so out of the water and turned toward the silt cloud. “A few more minutes and I’ll give it another shot.”
“See anything?” Wood was anxious. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he needed more silver. He knew it was desperation and probably wasting his time. Relying on a cache of treasure below the bridge was a last-ditch effort.
His financial situation wasn’t nearly as bad as he led people to believe. A more pragmatic approach would be to go to the bank and extend the line of credit on his house.. Unlike many contractors who were in hock to their eyeballs, Wood was the original miser. He’d paid down the mortgage on the house to where it was a fraction of the value. The truck, barge, boat, excavator, and other equipment, he owned outright.
In many ways that was a detriment. Florida law required that licensed contractors’ names and license numbers be placed on their vehicles. New trucks and equipment were like advertising. Customers didn’t understand that they had no bearing on the financial state of the contractor. Often the guys with the new trucks were the least solvent. Along with his own grizzled appearance, the old truck and battered equipment had cost him several jobs.
“I’m going back down. Got about thirty minutes of bottom time left.” Travis caught Wood’s eye, stuffed the regulator in his mouth, and held the low-pressure inflator hose over his head, releasing the air in his BC. Seconds later he was on the bottom.
The water had cleared enough for Wood to watch him. That at least gave him something to do other than worry. He watched as Travis worked methodically around the cleared area. Every few minutes he would pry at something, giving Wood a surge of hope.
That hope was the difference between salvage and treasure hunting. Salvors knew what they were after. They found it and pragmatically brought it to the surface. Treasure hunters had no idea what lay under the surface. Storms and tidal flow worked quickly to rearrange the sea floor hiding everything under sometimes inches, other times feet of sand. Treasure hunters fed off the cycle of hope and disappointment.
When Travis surfaced empty-handed after his allotted time, Wood felt the latter emotion. But it was his turn now and that quickly turned to hope.
Travis came aboard and started to strip his gear. “There’s something in the east side of the cut. You’ll need a bigger pry bar to dislodge it.”
Wood looked up. “More bars?”
“Could be. Manmade for sure. Looks to have been in the water about the same length of time. You might take the pressure washer and work around the edges. The coral’s got a grip on it.”
Mac had been using a foot-long flat bar. Wood finished with his gear and went back to the storage container mounted on the stern of the barge. He dug around, ignoring a three-foot bar, and grabbed the heavier six-footer. The tool would be awkward to handle underwater, but if Travis was right, there was no point in bringing a knife to a gunfight. As for the pressure washer, he decided to take a look and see what a motivated man’s strength could do.
Wood was well aware that the right tool was essential. That would be his pragmatic brain talking. Treasure hunting was emotional work. The elusive mother lode, be it gold in the hills, or treasure under the sea, changed rational men into crazed lunatics. Wood recognized the feeling, but was powerless to do anything about it.
Tunnel vision had taken over, and Wood had only one goal as he hit the water. The additional weight of the iron bar dragged him to the bottom well short of the cut. When doing this kind of work, both men preferred to dive sans fins. Instead they wore heavy neoprene boots that protected their feet from the sharp coral.
Wood trudged along the bottom, his focus on the area where Travis had removed the silt. He ignored everything around him as he moved toward the cut between the piers. Whether done intentionally or not, the original bridge builders had a hand in creating the deep cuts between the pilings. Some had been dredged, but decades of tidal flow directed by the piers had carved out this channel.
As he approached the area, he ignored the small fish schooling around the disturbed area and studied the open cut looking for the straight lines not found in nature. The three-foot-long object was impossible to miss and there was no question it was manmade.
With conflicting emotions, Wood moved toward the wall. On one hand, it could be the mother lode he was looking for. It wasn’t unusual for a stack of bars to weld themselves together. He recalled pictures from Mel Fisher’s finds that showed the same phenomenon.
The problem was the object could be a relic with historical significance. Revealing that to the authorities would halt the treasure hunt and the construction work. Wood decided to probe further and reserve judgment until he knew what it was.
He started to dig, wedging the tip of the long steel bar into a void above the object. After several attempts, it refused to yield and he moved back to reevaluate his approach. The perspective changed his view.
That was when he noticed a shadow move over him.