The Scuba Club Read online

  THE

  SCUBA

  CLUB

  RENE FOMBY

  Book Ness Monster Press

  4530 Blue Ridge Drive

  Belton, Texas 76513

  Copyright © 2020 by Rene Fomby.

  Kindle ISBN: 978-1-947304-15-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.renefomby.com

  Fomby, Rene. The Scuba Club. Book Ness Monster Press. Kindle Edition.

  To Elizabeth,

  the true inspiration for this book

  Table of Contents

  1

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  3

  4

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  8

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  11

  12

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  62

  Acknowledgments

  Other Books by Rene Fomby

  1

  Cozumel – Sunday Night

  Tiny pinpoints of light swirled around him in the endless black expanse, some soaring overhead, a few more slipping past him underneath. It was a fairyland almost completely devoid of color, soundless except for his own labored breathing and the small bubbles rising slowly from his mouth.

  Where are they?

  He had torn his eyes away for only a few seconds, but in this current, even one second was more than enough time to spell imminent danger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw that his buddies had drifted down the reef several dozen feet or more, and with a strong kick he rushed to catch up. But as it turned out, it wasn’t his diving group, after all—it was someone else, another group entirely. Spinning around in a slow pirouette, he tried desperately to locate his friends among the swarm of almost identical dark wetsuits and underwater lights, but it was no use. He was lost, sixty feet or so beneath the surface, which meant he was now plumb out of alternatives. He had to go up, and hope to find them all on the surface. Plan the dive, dive the plan. Except now the entire plan had gone pear shaped on him, and it was time to abort.

  He kicked his fins, pushing hard in the direction of what he hoped was up, and his dive computer told him he was right as his depth crept slowly toward zero. In his panic, he had forgotten to breathe, a deadly mistake to make during this kind of ascent, so he quickly blew out his air and sucked in another small puff, holding his inflator high above his head to vent the extra gas in his vest as he rose. At twenty feet he paused for a safety stop, holding his depth for several more minutes to let the nitrogen seep out of his blood, protecting him from the dreaded “bends.” Time he also needed to process what had just happened.

  The current near the surface was even stronger than it was at the bottom, where the reefs surrounding him provided some small degree of shelter, and he was now quickly being swept north, the lights below him disappearing into the night, leaving him all alone in the black emptiness of the endless sea. Despite all his training and experience, he began to panic.

  How long had it been?

  He checked his dive computer, but only half a minute had elapsed since he had first leveled off. He also noticed he had slipped up to fifteen feet, probably from holding his breath again, so he exhaled deeply to drop back down to his safety depth. Ever so slowly his watch ticked down the last few minutes, and when it showed ten seconds left he gave up and started kicking his way to the surface.

  As he broke through the waves up top, he inflated his vest for buoyancy and started spinning around, searching desperately for the small boat that had been trailing them for the dive. The waves had kicked up a little since their descent, and when he spit out his mouthpiece one of them immediately splashed over his head, forcing cold salty water down his throat. He grabbed again for his mouthpiece and shoved it back inside his mouth. After only thirty minutes on the bottom, he had more than enough pressure left in his tanks to make it to safety, and with his air now secure he started looking around again for the dive boat.

  There! Closer to shore!

  He waved his dive light high over his head to get the boat’s attention, and almost immediately he heard the sound of the boat’s motors revving up as it headed his way.

  He pulled out his mouthpiece, holding it carefully in his right hand. He wasn’t about to make that mistake again. “Hey! Hey! Over here!”

  The boat slowed to a crawl as it pulled up to within a few dozen feet. With the prop still rotating in the back, that was as close as they dared get to him. He’d have to swim the rest of the way to the ladder.

  “Señor! Which boat are you looking for?” someone shouted from the boat. A dive hand.

  He pulled his mouthpiece out again to respond. “Pescado!”

  The dive hand turned toward the water stretching out behind him, searching. “I think they are further south, señor. Where are your friends? Your dive buddies?”

  “I lost them during the dive. My wife and friends, during our night dive. I got separated from my group, so I came up early, hoping I could at least find the boat.”

  The dive hand nodded. It was nothing he hadn’t seen at least a hundred times before. “Okay. I’ll get them on the radio. Do you want to wait for them in the water?”

  “No, if you don’t mind, can I come on board while I wait? The waves are making it pretty rocky out here.”

  “Sure, sure, no problemo. Just swim to the ladder. I’ll help you with your gear.”

  He nodded his thanks to the dive hand and quickly headed for the rear of the boat. As he neared the swim ladder, he checked one last time to make sure the props were no longer turning, then pulled off his fins and handed them up. With his feet now free, he grabbed the sides of the swim ladder and climbed up into the small boat, his scuba tank hanging cumbersomely on his back, making him feel like a large sea turtle just inches from being forced onto its back. The dive hand steadied him as he unclipped his vest, slipped free of the tank, and then found a bench to plop down on as his vest and tank were secured.

  The dive hand offered him a bottle of cold water. “I talked to your boat, and they said they are busy right now recovering the rest of your group, señor. Your dive master asked if I could
drop you off later, after my two divers come up. That okay with you?”

  “Uh, sure, thanks. I really appreciate all your help. I’ve never been on a night dive in the open water like that before, and the current was a lot faster than we were told when we first went in. It’s all pretty disorienting—”

  “It can be that way even for those of us who have been diving out here all our lives. And the currents—if you’re not careful, they can carry you all the way around the northern tip of the island, and before you know it your body is washing up on the beach in Cuba, if it even makes it that far. Very dangerous.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t thank you enough—what did you say your name was?”

  “Miguel. Miguel Tortuga. Like the turtle.”

  “Ah, well, nice to meet you, Miguel. I’m Trevor. Trevor Johnson. And I think I see your divers coming up right now, just over there.”

  He pointed out the unmistakable glow of two underwater flashlights, rising slowly to the surface just behind them. In minutes, the divers were climbing on board, Miguel quickly and efficiently stowing away their gear and grabbing bottles of water for them from the cooler up front.

  An English couple. Trevor introduced himself, and they all sat back and sipped quietly on their waters as Miguel fired up the engines again and headed back toward shore.

  After depositing the English couple and their equipment at the docks near the Occidental Hotel, Miguel turned his attention to his final passenger.

  “Señor Trevor. Where is this boat you’re staying on?”

  Trevor pointed back toward the main town on the island. “We’re moored just off San Miguel, out in the bay. It’s a sixty-seven-foot catamaran yacht. You can’t miss it.”

  “Sí, I know the one. I passed it just this morning on my way out to Palancar. Very fancy, señor.” He raised his dark eyebrows meaningfully.

  Trevor smiled, his pride now fully on display. “Yes, well, it’s a new toy, first time Katy and I have taken her out. I have a group of old friends from back in high school, we meet up out here at right about this time every year to go scuba diving. Kind of like a high school reunion. This is our tenth trip out here, so I thought I’d splurge a little.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is very nice,” Miguel said before turning back to the helm. The waves had gotten even choppier, and it was getting harder to keep the small dive boat from being tossed about in the growing surf. Picking up speed helped, though, and in short order they made it past the handful of cruise boats that were overnighting on the island and pulled up next to the yacht. A small group of men and women in their late twenties were gathered around a large table in the transom, finishing off what appeared to be their second bottle of champagne, judging from the one empty perched precariously on the far side of the table. Miguel tossed a mooring line across, and one of the men caught it and walked it aft, where broad teak steps and a large swim platform were positioned down near the waterline. In less than a minute, Miguel managed to secure his boat to the yacht, throwing a pair of fenders over the side to keep the two boats from crashing into each other in the rough seas.

  Trevor grabbed his fins and tank, leaning out over the side of the dive boat to hand them to his friend, who had been watching Miguel’s efforts from the swim platform. “Hey, Brett, grab these for me, will ya buddy?”

  Even as Brett reached out to snag the equipment, his eyes played quickly across the open expanse of the dive boat, a quizzical look suddenly sweeping just as quickly across his face.

  “Uh, Trev—where’s Katy?”

  2

  Washington D.C. – Monday Morning

  Breakfast this morning had been an unusually cold affair. And not just because instead of his usual eggs, bacon and biscuits with Southern gravy, Gavin had to make do with cereal, one percent milk and strawberries that had long since passed the first week’s anniversary of their sell by date. No, the arctic chill that had wafted unmistakably through the tiny kitchen this morning didn’t come from the open refrigerator door or from the food. It came from Andy, still frosty from last night’s “discussion.” And from the fact that her husband, who had been raised up on a cotton farm in Wild West Texas and still wore the boots to prove it, had managed to dig those boot heels in like a stubborn mule and refused to budge an inch.

  Which largely explained his mood as he checked off one more missing persons case file on his screen, this one from a seaman who had stepped off a flattop in San Diego and then failed to step back on. Clearing it brought up a screen full of almost identical cases. Cold cases, stories that had long since been abandoned by anyone with a lick of common sense.

  Today’s list already seemed endless, and he’d only focused on the five-star candidates so far. The ones that should be solvable, given enough resources. But in the bankrupt hallways of the United States system of justice, he was the only resource remaining who ever bothered to look into any of these cases anymore. Sure, there were the lone wolves who prowled around the edges, mostly retired policemen who could never seem to give up on that one last case that ate away at their souls like a cancer, the one case that invaded their dreams like a Stephen King horror movie stuck in an endless rewind loop. The retirees who spent their lonely Saturday nights combing through illegally obtained copies of official records hoping to turn over one last detail, some seemingly trivial detail that would miraculously break the case wide open. But the sad truth was, that just wasn’t reality. That “aha” moment, if it hadn’t happened while the crime was still ripe and the facts were still fresh and pungent, it wasn’t going to somehow pop up out of nowhere like some kind of childhood crank clown toy. Without some kind of convincing new evidence, evidence like DNA, for example, a cold case would likely remain a cold case forever.

  There was no better way to put it, really. Gavin was bored with his life. And deeply frustrated. When Bob Sanders had first sold him on the idea of setting up the new Naval Intelligence special investigations office, Gavin assumed he would be up to his ass in Navy projects starting day one. But instead the office was like a long-abandoned ghost town. Without even a chatty little ghost or two to keep him company along the way.

  He could call Andy, see if she wanted to meet up for lunch. But one quick glance at his watch showed that it was still ten minutes to ten, way too early for lunch. And lunch with the wife might not be the best idea after all, thinking back to breakfast.

  Besides, unlike Gavin, Lieutenant Commander Andrea Patterson wasn’t exactly starved for work right now. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was deep in her element, taking point on a complete redesign of the military’s signals intercept and processing technology. She even had a satellite ready to blast off in less than a month. Not that Gavin knew much about it—top secret was top secret, even for a husband who was also in the intelligence business.

  Gavin pulled up the movie listings for a theater down the street and was scrolling quickly through the long list of mostly forgettable titles when his desk phone buzzed. He checked the name on the display—Sanders. He snatched up the handset so fast he almost dropped it and had to juggle it two-handed for a second before he finally managed to press it to his ear.

  “Mr. Sanders, what a nice surprise! I hope to hell you finally have a case for me.”

  Sanders chuckled lightly on the other end. “Is it really all that bad? I’d have bet you’d be complaining about being understaffed and overworked right about now, and asking for more money.”

  “Understaffed? Far from it. Things are so quiet around here, I could swear I can hear the paint drying from last month’s remodel. Matter of fact, I haven’t even given so much as a second thought to hiring anyone to answer the danged phones around here. Because, except for your call right now, they pretty much never ring. I even called the number myself last week, just to make sure it was still working.”

  “Hmm. Well, hopefully that’s about to change. I’ve got a short little job down south of here a ways I’d like you to handle. As a favor to me. The bad new
s is, I think it’ll just be an in-and-out. Long trip down, poke your head in the door for a second or two to confirm that everything’s on the up and up, then head on back home.”

  “Okay,” Gavin drawled in his deep West Texas accent. “What’s the good news?”

  “It’s out in Cozumel, off the Yucatan peninsula in Mexico. Maybe you can drag Andrea along, make a vacation out of it. On my dime.”

  Gavin frowned, and the tone of his voice reflected it. “Yeah. Wish I could, Bob, but as you of all people should know, Andy’s got that satellite of hers coming up hot and heavy on the calendar. She barely tears herself away from the office long enough to eat and sleep. Let alone stop long enough to notice whether or not I’m still alive. And you know damned well what she’s like when she tunnels in on something like that.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, after almost ten years working with her I do know what she’s like. When she gets her mind set on something, she’s like a dog on a bone. But okay, I see your dilemma. I could get somebody else—”

  “No, no, I’m itching to get out of the office and into the field, believe you me. And Andy won’t even notice I’m gone, the way she is these days. So, what’s going on down Mexico way?”

  Sanders paused, a character trait of his Gavin knew all too well. But seldom ever saw. Bob Sanders was a man of action, and rarely ever hesitated to get to the point. So this must be serious. Dead serious, in fact.

  “Agent Larson, you remember Senator Mulcahey, passed away a few years back?”

  “From Texas? Yeah. Big fellow, very likeable, lots of oil money?”

  “That’s the one. I worked with him on some special projects teams for a short while, many lifetimes ago. Went our separate ways, or so I thought, then out of the blue he called me up and asked me to serve as godfather to his daughter, his only child. The apple of his eye if there ever was one. Well, now she’s turned up missing down there in Mexico. Supposedly she disappeared last night during a routine dive, went into the water and somehow just never came back out. I need you to confirm that it’s true, that it was all just a sad, tragic accident of some sort. And not something else.”