CHAPTER 1

Jack Abromski saw the first glint of gold in the faint sunlight reaching the ocean floor, far below his thirty-five-foot trawler. His heart skipped a beat. He had found the wreck, and now he had found its treasure. A quick check of his diving watch told him he had only fifteen minutes left to explore before running out of air. Jack snatched up two gold coins and pocketed them, then explored more of the wreckage. It was spread out over a wide area of the seabed. Rotted remains of the ancient ship’s hull, masts, and decking lay scattered all around. Several rusted, barnacle coated gun cannons lay about in the sand — all of which would make for terrific exploration at some future date. Schools of fish served as the only guardians to the three-hundred-year-old ruins. For now, he focused on the real value the ship presented — its gold and silver. 

Jack did what reconnaissance he could in the time he had left. Two spots held accumulations of coins and bars, and he knew there’d be plenty more nearby. If the ship was what his research said it was, the Concepcion, there’d be at least a hundred chests of treasure that went down with the Spanish galleon, whose grave now laid fifteen miles from Georgetown, off the South Carolina coast at a depth of eighty-five feet.

Jack glanced at his watch. It was time to head to the surface. He couldn’t tamp down his excitement but forced himself to breathe steadily into his respirator. He had to remain calm and take his time without risking the bends. It had been a while since he dove at this depth, but Jack knew the procedure. He paused at sixty feet to avoid the decompression contamination of nitrogen in his bloodstream. Breathing slowly, he allowed the necessary changes to happen naturally while conserving his precious air. 

Jack ascended toward thirty feet, unable to put the coins out of his mind. They were certainly gold, as there were no stains or corrosion of any kind. He recognized the imprint on the coin’s head as a Jerusalem cross. And the date — the date was proof he had found what he was looking for — 713; common Spanish coinage indicating a mint date of 1713. It had to be one of the missing treasure ships from the lost fleet.

When he reached thirty feet, the surface came into view, and with it, the first sign of trouble. In addition to the hull of his trawler, the Sunny Daze, another hull floated next to it. Jack had company at the worst possible time. His first thought was maybe the Coast Guard, but that made little sense. Jack had told no one about his exploratory excursion today; not his partner Neil, not his fiancée Emmy — no one. Was he followed? Maybe it was another fisherman in the vicinity, coming to check why his boat was floating unmanned, stationary on the open sea. But the other hull didn’t appear to be a fishing boat. It looked more like a speed boat of some kind with a large twin outboard motor.

Jack gave a brief thought to jettisoning the coins. If there was trouble on the surface, it’d be best not to have the evidence on him. But then he’d have to go back down to get them again, and he didn’t have enough air in the tank for another dive today. Plus, with the hurricane bearing down, no telling how long before he could get back out. In one of those moments when the seemingly rational mind dismisses its own intuition, Jack proceeded to the surface. 

He regretted it the instant he grabbed the ladder attached to the stern’s gunwale and pushed his mask to the top of his head. When he looked up, he stared into the barrel of a handgun. Jack’s eyes bulged behind his mask. “Shit,” he muttered, as the trouble he feared suddenly came to fruition.

“Come on up, Jack,” said the man with the gun. “Let’s see what you got.”

Jack had no choice but to climb the ladder and step foot on the trawler’s back deck. He kept his eyes glued to the man with the gun, but noticed an accomplice was also on his boat. He didn’t recognize either of them. “Who are you, and how did you find me?” Jack demanded.

The man with the gun laughed. “Jack, we’ll be asking the questions here. Now, take off your tank and fins, then we’ll have a little chat.”

Jack thought for a moment about jumping back into the ocean, but realized it would be a fool’s choice. He’d be on the surface again within ten minutes and would have no choice but to return to the boat. It wasn’t as if he could swim the fifteen miles to Georgetown, and even if he tried, they’d intercept him long before he got there. Just see this through, he thought, gritting his teeth as he removed the tank from his shoulders. Then he slipped off his two flippers, never taking his eye off the gun pointed at his chest. 

Once he had only his diving wetsuit on, the man with the gun ordered him to the edge of the boat. Jack backed up to the gunwale with his hands raised, glaring at his captors. He turned his head and inspected the water all around. Nothing but sheer deep blue ocean butting up to an azure sky. Not a cloud in sight, nor any other boat clear to the horizon.

“Forget being rescued, Jack. There’s not another boat within ten miles of here.” The man took a step towards Jack. “Now, why don’t you show us what you pulled up from that wreck.” 

Jack assessed the man again as he searched his memory for any connection. Well-tanned, he had a hard, chiseled look about him. Dark hair hung below his ears and a scrabble beard partially hid a scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. The man had a Spanish accent. His buddy, who hadn’t said a word, was shorter and overweight. Jack tried to delay the inevitable. 

“I didn’t pull anything up. The wreck is just an old fishing boat, probably nineteenth century. Nothing much worth exploring.”

“Ha,” the man cackled. Then much more seriously, “That’s bullshit, Jack, and you know it.” He approached Jack and aimed the gun a few inches from his face, then turned to the other guy and nodded his head. “Buscarlo,” he ordered.

The short, fat one, who obviously didn’t understand English, moved toward Jack, and patted down his wetsuit. He found what he was looking for easy enough. The small zip pocket on the back of Jack’s hip held the two gold coins. The man’s eyes lit up when he unzipped the pocket and removed the coins. “Mira monedas de oro!” 

“Si, mi amigo — oro.” The gunman smirked.

The short fat one handed over the coins. The gunman inspected them and nodded his head in approval. Then he took a closer look, and a wide grin broke out on his face. He turned his anger back at Jack. “Nothing to find, eh, Jack? I’d say you stumbled on quite the find here.” He held up the coin’s face to Jack. “Jerusalem cross. You know what that means?”

“It’s Spanish,” Jack replied with disgust, his upper lip curling.

 “Yes — it’s Spanish. But look at this. This coin was minted in 1713.” The man’s voice deepened in anger. “What does that tell you, Mr. Jack Abromski? Mr. Wanna-be-treasure-hunter. Huh?” 

Jack glared at his captor with even more antipathy. “The 1715 Treasure Fleet,” he spit back. 

The gunman laughed. “This is true. You know your history. And you knew there were three missing ships from that fleet, didn’t you? Congratulations on such a historic find.” He examined the coins once again, his grin broadening even more, before placing them in his pocket. His attitude hardened again. “Too bad you won’t be around to see the rest of it brought up.” He lowered the aim of the gun to Jack’s chest and fired three times. 

Jack let out one scream that evaporated in the warm sea air. As he collapsed to his ship’s deck, his last vision was of a seagull, witness to his brutal murder, flying over the top of the Sunny Daze.

About Author Marvin Levine…