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T
he next time Sturman got drunk, he wouldn’t do it the night before a rough day at sea. Although it was a beautiful Sunday morning, the heaving Pacific swells were much larger than they had been recently. Some storm in the southern hemisphere had sent them up overnight. Well, at least the surfers would be happy.

Sturman made the promise to himself—a promise he had broken many times before—as he gripped the helm of his boat to keep his balance. He swallowed hard, forcing back the bitter bile rising in his throat.

Maria
was out in the open ocean, idling over a small area. The boat bobbed up and down, her flying bridge swaying from side to side as Sturman followed his search route. The bright sunlight glinting off the waves made scanning the water very difficult, and amplified his headache and nausea.

Sturman sometimes volunteered with the county sheriff’s office on their large-scale marine search-and-rescue operations. One drawback was the lack of early notification. The night before, he had polished off most of a bottle of rum and passed out on his flying bridge.

At dawn, his cell’s ringtone had woken him with a request from Joe Montoya to join the search this morning. His head pounding and his mouth dry and tasting of stale alcohol, he had called Joe back and reluctantly agreed to help.

He wasn’t very optimistic about today’s search, and wished he had asked for more information before he agreed to assist. This looked like it was going to be more of a search for bodies than a rescue. Probably a homicide, based on the witness’s story. During the briefing, Sturman had learned that this guy had claimed his brother and niece had fallen off his boat last night. The man had said both of them had gone under, although the sea had been much calmer yesterday.

Not a very good story. Sturman figured if you were going to kill someone, you should probably use a little more imagination.

He felt another wave of nausea as the boat pitched to one side. He looked at the Asian man sitting next to him in the flying bridge, a small, animated guy about Sturman’s age who had been talking for the past several minutes. Sturman wished he could get some solitude today.

When you went out with the county on SAR operations, you never went alone. Today, he had been forced to take Mike Phan on board. Mike, another volunteer, was an amicable guy and normally good company. He wasn’t the best passenger when you didn’t feel like conversation, though. The guy never quit talking.

“. . . her swimsuit bottom on the sand, and then I look up and realize she’s standing right there. Buck-naked! Holy shit, man, it was funny. Sturman? Hey, man? Are you hearing anything I’m saying?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not hearing a word out of my mouth, you big prick.”

“Watch it, you little bastard. For a minute, I thought I saw something over there.”

“Nothing?”

“Guess not.”

“This is what you get for getting smashed again.”

“Are you my mother, you little Oriental bastard?”

“Asian, not Oriental, you fuckin’ redneck. Seriously, Sturman. You need to slow down on that shit.”

“Mike, watch our heading for a minute.” Sturman moved past the small Vietnamese man to the ladder, then hustled down and made for the stern. He reached it just in time to lean out and vomit into the churning wake of his boat. He finished with a few dry heaves, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up and tipped his cowboy hat at Mike. He felt better.

Mike was at the helm of Sturman’s boat in the flying bridge. He shook his head. “Joe know you’re still drunk when you head out on these searches?”

Mike was usually assigned to Sturman’s boat when they went out on SAR operations. He didn’t have his own boat, but he was a certified rescue diver like Sturman, could drive a boat pretty well, and was happy to have an excuse for a free day at sea. He managed a call center in La Mesa, and Sturman knew he didn’t get to spend a lot of time on the water.

The pair had been out for several hours now, cruising in their designated search pattern off the coast of La Jolla. Sturman didn’t think they’d find anything. If the uncle had dumped his victims in the ocean, he probably wouldn’t hand over the exact coordinates to the search team. The SAR team had estimated the ocean’s currents at the location the uncle had given, then sent the volunteers off to search different areas based on predicted drift patterns. Volunteers were assigned to the perimeter of the larger search area, with Coast Guard and other official vessels nearer the center. The operation was focusing on a patch of open water northeast of the location where the two had gone into the ocean, much closer to shore, though still well off the coast. The ocean had been relatively empty all morning, save for the other rescue boats nearby and a few weekend fishing vessels visible from the tops of each swell.

Sturman stood at the bottom of the boat, facing south. Down here, closer to the water, the boat rocked less violently. He looked at the surface of the ocean, trying to see past the sunlight glinting off the millions of angles on the waves, thankful for his polarized aviator sunglasses. Searching right now was probably a waste of time. The sun was almost to its zenith, and it was practically impossible to spot anything on the glinting surface. He turned away from the sun and looked toward the northern horizon, focusing where there was slightly less sun glare. He was looking into the waves and thinking about sleep when something nearby caught his eye.

Something orange.

He was sure he had seen a small flash of orange at the crest of the wave, but moments later it had disappeared. Not much out here was that color. Unless a dead garibaldi had floated up, he had seen a man-made object. Possibly a life vest.

Hunters, road crews, and rescue teams wore fluorescent orange or green for a reason: they were the most visible colors to the human eye. They also stood out in dim light, unlike the color red. Sturman, once a hunter and aspiring fireman, knew this was the reason many fire trucks and hunting vests had decades ago been switched from red to fluorescent green and bright orange.

“Hey, Mike, slow up a minute.”

“You see something, man?”

“Maybe. Off our port side, maybe fifty yards. Something orange.”

Mike slowed the boat, turning the helm to the left. Both men stared off to where Sturman had seen the flash of color. For thirty seconds, both men were quiet, focusing on the waves.

“I don’t see anything. Where did you see it again?”

“There! We just passed it.” Sturman was pointing aft of the boat, over the port side. “I’ll keep my eye on it, Mike. Bring the boat around.”

“Got it.”

As Mike steered the Wellcraft toward the floating object, Sturman grabbed a net and walked to the starboard side, just behind and below Mike. It would be easier for Mike to drive right alongside the object if he kept it to his side of the boat. They failed to retrieve the object on the first pass in the rough seas, but it gave the men a good look at the object. Something white and orange, about the size of a beer bottle. When Mike came around the second time, he brought the boat within a few feet of it. Sturman scooped it into his fishing net.

“Get a GPS, Mike.” They would need a waypoint of the location where they had recovered the object.

“Good eye spotting that thing. What the hell is it?”

Sturman lifted the orange and white object out of the net. It appeared to be made of heavy-duty PVC, with a metal cap. It seemed hollow. “Not sure. There’s writing on it, though. ‘Property of P-L-A-R-G. Reward if found.’ There’s a phone number, and some writing in Spanish that I think says the same thing.”

“PLARG. The Point Lobos Aquarium Research Group. That’s a research institute up in Monterey Bay,” Mike said. He pronounced it “plarge.”

“A research institute. Well, this probably isn’t going to help us much.”

Sturman headed to his radio to call in what he’d found. Part of the search protocol. Unless the uncle or his brother had brought this thing onto their fishing boat, it probably was unrelated to their search. He picked up the mouthpiece of his marine radio.

“Three-four-one, Sturman, over.”

The radio crackled back.
“Sturman, this is three forty-one. Go ahead.”

“Hey, Montoya. Phan and I have found something.”

I
t was dark at the wreck of the
HMCS Redemption
, as it always was a hundred feet down. But it was peaceful. This ship had always made Sturman think of a church cathedral, and in a way it was.

When he had been a kid growing up in the mountains of Colorado, he had felt the most connected to God when out in the woods. Hunting alone on quiet mornings in the snowy pines and watching the sun rise over distant purple peaks, or sitting atop a bluff near his father’s ranch and watching the sun set over red rocks to the west in the summertime, he had somehow felt connected to it all. When he dove down to the silent, otherworldly stage set by the
Redemption
, he sometimes had the same feeling.

Now, as he approached the deck of the huge vessel, he felt a strong urge to enter the hull and explore. He had time, and he wasn’t worried about the divers he had brought down with him. Had he even brought down other divers? He couldn’t remember, but it didn’t seem to matter.

He felt no fear as he swam through the black recesses of the hull. Only a strange calm, despite being alone deep underwater. As he passed through a hatchway, he glimpsed another diver.

Dark hair flowed around her head, but even with help from the bright beam of his dive light he couldn’t make out her face in the blackness. Yet there was something familiar about her petite figure, the way she moved gracefully even under the bulk of her scuba gear. He drew closer, trying to see who was behind the dive mask. Just as he was drawing close enough to see her face, he caught a playful look in her eyes, and she spun effortlessly in the water and disappeared through an opening in the ship.

Sturman’s heart leapt at the thought, although he knew it was impossible. He kicked powerfully and hurtled after her. As he entered the next chamber, he saw that she was waiting on the far side, looking back at him. When he approached, she again darted away, deeper into the ship. He smiled and continued after her.

He followed her for several minutes, her teasing him by staying a short distance in front of him and enticing him to follow. He entered a larger room, perhaps a galley, to find that she was not there. He hovered weightless in the darkness, scanning three openings set into the walls of the room. Which way had she gone?
There.
He saw a thin stream of bubbles rising through an opening to his left.

He entered the next room. She was there, but something was wrong.

She looked at him differently now. She was not floating in a relaxed manner as she prepared to lead the chase. Instead, he noticed that for some reason she was turned toward him with her body positioned over a smaller exit. Her arms were outstretched to either side, hands gripping the sides of the hatchway. As though she was trying to hold on. Suddenly she was pulled violently backward, and a burst of bubbles escaped her mouth as she strained to maintain her grasp.

Heart pounding, he thrust himself into the room and kicked toward her. He could now see her eyes in the dive light. They were wide with horror, pleading.
Help me.
He hurried forward, desperate to reach her, but the thing in the blackness behind her tugged violently at her waist again. This time, she lost her grip and was wrenched backward through the opening, disappearing into darkness.

Sturman fought his way forward, but realized he was hardly moving anymore. A current was pushing seawater into the opening through which she had vanished, driving him away. The water flowing out was very cold, and somehow even darker than the water around him. He struggled against the powerful surge and managed to reach the hatch. As he grasped the rough steel of the ship and strained to pull himself forward, he came face-to-face with the woman.
Maria.

Her dark eyes bore an expression of terror inside the dive mask, and her brown hair swirled around her head in the icy current. Her hands were outstretched toward him.

As he extended his free hand to save her from the invisible thing drawing her away, her regulator erupted from her mouth, and even in the heavy press of the water he was able to hear her muffled scream. Her body was torn away from him, wrenched into the blackness and out of the glow of his light.

Sturman cried out in fear and pulled himself forward, but then his fingers slipped off the edge of the opening and the powerful current sent him tumbling backward, away from her. His dive light went out and he began to spin in the blackness, helpless in the grip of the merciless black water.

In the darkness, something fleshy began to touch the side of his face, sliding along his cheek and into his lips. He cried out as the thing ran over his skin, swinging his fists toward the unseen evil.

Sturman bolted upright in his bed, causing Bud to leap backward. The dog wagged his tail warily and looked at his master with a confused expression. Sturman was covered in sweat and breathing hard.
Only another dream.

He rubbed his face and felt dog slobber on his cheek. Maybe he had accidentally struck Bud while gripped by the nightmare. “Come here, buddy. I’m sorry.”

After a moment of coaxing, the dog padded back over to him and let him scratch his ears.

“That’s what I get for staying sober, pal. More damn nightmares.”

 

 

After a cold swim to wash away the dream, Sturman toweled off and fixed himself a pot of black coffee in the boat’s cramped galley. He threw on some clothes and sat in the stern, soaking up the morning sun as the warmth returned to his body.

As he sipped the steaming coffee, he studied the orange-and-white object in his hands. There was something alluring about it, as though it represented more than a simple fish marker. Sturman realized that despite having what many would consider a very exciting job, he lived a very routine life. Eat. Dive. Drink. Sleep. Something as small as finding this unique object provided a much-needed distraction.

It was a typical July morning in San Diego. There was a thin marine layer obscuring the sun, but it would burn off in a few hours. Sturman was comfortable in just shorts and a T-shirt even this early in the morning, and the country music playing over the radio was helping him relax.

Yesterday had been a long day. Sturman hadn’t pulled
Maria
into her slip until dark. Not surprisingly, they hadn’t found any evidence of the missing father and daughter. Sturman had fixed himself a steak before sunset, and then fallen onto his bed and into a heavy slumber.

As the county SAR official in charge of the operation, Sergeant Joe Montoya had let Sturman keep the orange device after a member of the Coast Guard on another vessel identified it as a pop-off tag marine biologists used to study large fish and marine mammals. Apparently, the tag had detached from a tuna or sea lion or some other larger animal, then floated to the surface. It had only been in the search area by coincidence. Finding unrelated detritus on the ocean surface when conducting searches was nothing new. All kinds of junk could be seen floating off Southern California: fast-food packaging, water bottles, plastic bags by the thousands. If they kept every piece of trash they found on SAR missions, the investigators wouldn’t know where to start on a case, so the search teams acted as a filter and didn’t mention all the miscellaneous man-made debris they found.

The floating tag had a phone number listed on it because apparently it wasn’t actually a transmitter—just some sort of recording device. So the researchers who had deployed it had no way of finding it unless someone reported it to them. Probably a less-expensive option than a transmitting tag, especially if you were planning to tag a number of fish. The Spanish writing on it made sense, too, since they were so close to Mexico . . . and because so many in California spoke Spanish as their first language. His Spanish had gotten a little rusty since losing Maria.

Sturman fired up his aging laptop as he sipped the bitter black coffee and typed “PLARG” into the search box on his homepage. Topping the list of results was a website for the Point Lobos Aquarium Research Group. PLARG conducted marine research all over the world, focusing on deep-sea organisms and environments. He browsed through the site, but found no specific information about pop-up tags.

“Hey, Bud, should we call them?”

At the mention of his name, Sturman’s dog rose from his bed inside the cabin and climbed the stairs to place his head in Sturman’s lap. He scratched behind Bud’s short, floppy ears, and the dun-colored dog grunted with pleasure.

“We could use a reward, pal. If we don’t start making more money, I’ll have to eat you soon.”

There were two phone numbers on the orange tag. One had an 831 Monterey County area code, and Sturman could tell that the other was set up for dialing in Mexico. He picked up his cell and dialed the first number. The line rang. He took a deep breath.

“Come on, big money. . . .”