Buried At Sea Read Online Free PDF Page A

Trailing wings of mist and spray, she whipped back and forth across a hundred square miles of ocean.
    The Barcelona's glassed-in bridge sat high above the main passenger cabin, which spanned her widely separated hulls. Her pilot station resembled an airbus flight deck, with digital readouts and flat-screen monitors relaying information from the engines, trim monitors, and navigational instruments.
    Big windows offered a bird's-eye view of the sea and there was ample room for the Barcelona's Australian delivery captain, his first officer, and the helmsman, as well as the American who had chartered her and his bodyguards. Three big blokes—quiet as mountain shadows—two white, one
    black. Ex–U.S. Navy SEALs, the Barcelona's captain guessed, judging by their swimmers' shoulders and barrel chests.
    "Mr. Nickels," the captain said, "we're running out of time." At well under six feet, Nickels was not as tall as his bodyguards, but as lean in the gut and big in the shoulders, and immensely powerful. The captain rated him Special Forces, what with the buzz cut, the high-top black Adidas, and the anvil build. His men looked the sort you might have a pint with, but there was a cold, bloodless emptiness in Nickels'
    s eyes that warned he was one vicious piece of work.
    It had been a long, long night and the captain, a hard-bitten, hard-drinking former salvage master, was fed up. What had looked like easy money back at the Panama Canal had turned into a royal pain in the butt.
    "I said we're running out of time, Mr. Nickels."
    The near silence on the bridge was broken only by the distant whine of the engines and the maddening on-again, off-again ping of the elusive homing signal. Finally, Andy Nickels looked up from the receiver and said to the Australian, "Shut your fucking mouth."
    "You've no call to talk that way, mate. I delivered. I've been tracking that bloody bug for three days."
    Nickels spoke to one of his shadows, who strode swiftly from the bridge. The captain watched the security cameras trace his route into the elevator, then down below to the main deck to the galley. Another camera picked him up as he flung open the door of the walk-in refrigerator and disappeared inside. Puzzled, the captain stole a glance at his first officer; Hoskins shot back a disgusted look that conveyed the message, Not my idea to accept an illicit off-the-books charter.
    "You know as well as I do that your ruddy bug has gone down. We've been running circles all night. I'm due in Spain. I told you from the get go, you paid for two extra days. You've had three and a half—that's it."
    Nickels said, "Stop the ship!"
    The captain hesitated. Nickels's other shadows stepped forward like Rotweilers.
    "Stop engines," he ordered. The helmsman gathered the throttle clutches—port in his left hand, starboard in his right—and hauled back. The big cat slowed rapidly as her hulls settled into the water.
    Nickels stood up and tucked the pinging monitor under his arm.
    "What do you say we catch some air, Captain?"
    The bodyguards crowded in behind the captain, and he started reluctantly after Nickels, who moved as lightly as a swordfish dancing on its tail.
    "Bring the mate:' Nickels called over his shoulder. "Leave the helmsman." Captain Moser nodded for Hoskins to come, too, and they followed Nickels through the main cabin, past rows and rows of reclining airline seats, then downstairs to the lobby on the embarkation deck and through an insulated door out to the fantail, an abbreviated stem deck fifteen feet above the water.
    Greg, the man Nickels had sent to the galley, was waiting with a five-gallon bucket of hamburger meat. At a nod from Nickels, he dipped into the bucket and flung a bloody handful into the water.
    The morning heat was in thick contrast to the air-conditioning. The cat was pitching a little as it drifted on the swell.
    "Dump it all!" snapped Nickels.
    Greg upended the bucket. He watched the meat splash red in the water and a moment