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“Charming, isn’t it?”
“Hope nobody lights a match around here or we’re all going up.”
Leonid arrived a few minutes later and they stood together, staring impatiently at the horizon. Leonid shifted from foot to foot as the sun blazed down unrelentingly, clearly anxious to get to the bay.
“How did the dive go?” Sam asked, eyeing the Russian’s still-damp hair.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
The satellite phone trilled. When Sam retrieved the phone from his backpack, he didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“G’day. Sam Fargo?” The Australian accent of the cheery male voice was pronounced even over the noise of the wind and a rumbling motor in the background.
“That’s me.”
“Captain Desmond Francis. Des, to most. Wanted to see if you’re ready for a pickup?”
“Yes. We’re at the Honiara docks.”
“Brilliant. We should be rounding the point in ten minutes. I’ll send a tender for you, if that works.”
“Of course. How will we know you?”
Des laughed. “Hard not to spot us, mate. Bright red hull and a bad attitude.”
“We’ll be watching for you.”
Captain Des was right—they couldn’t miss the Darwin on approach. Painted neon red, it had a stylized gaping shark’s mouth emblazoned in yellow on the bow, replete with oversized teeth. Remi laughed when she saw it and elbowed Sam.
“What have you gotten us into this time?” she whispered.
“Blame Selma. I just asked for a boat.”
A crane swiveled on the ship’s deck and lowered a twenty-foot fiberglass tender onto the water and soon the small skiff was cutting across the small waves toward the wharf. Sam walked to the edge of the concrete dock and waved both hands over his head and the research vessel changed course to approach.
The skiff pulled alongside a metal ladder and the pilot, a twenty-something-year-old man with long unruly hair and a goatee, grinned up at them.
“G’day. Looking for a ride?” he called.
“You bet,” Sam said, and they descended the rungs to where the tender bobbed on the swells.
Once they were aboard, the young man introduced himself.
“Name’s Kent. Kent Warren. I’m the dive master aboard the Darwin,” he called from his position in the stern of the craft. “I’ll shake everyone’s hand once we’re on the ship. Which will be in no time.” With that, he twisted the throttle and the tender surged away from the dock, its bow slicing through the chop as it rapidly picked up speed.
When they neared the Darwin, they could see she was a serious research vessel, built for rough seas, her bow impressively high out of the water, her steel hull steady in the waves. Her pilothouse bristled with antennae, and as the skiff approached a tall man wearing a red shirt waved from the bridge.
They climbed aboard and the red-shirted man, Captain Des, introduced them to the rest of the crew—a dozen men in all. His mate, Elton Simms, gave them an orientation belowdecks as the captain pointed the bow west and the big ship lumbered forward.
“These are the guest cabins. I reckon you’ll be staying aboard while we map the site,” Simms said, his Australian accent so thick they could barely understand him.
Remi eyed the three simple staterooms, each equipped with four fold-up bunk beds bolted to steel support beams running from floor to ceiling, and glared at Sam, who smiled engagingly.
“To be determined. We may commute out to the site,” he said.
“Fair enough. But we’ve got room, if you’re so inclined. The galley’s over here, and the equipment room’s astern down that passage.”