The Shark Rider (12 page)

Lunch was good, but Tristan was disappointed that it wasn't another undersea gadget.

“Hey, how about some food up here for the one flying the plane,” Coach Fred said over the intercom.

Director Davis chuckled and carried two of the box lunches into the cockpit.

Tristan offered to get Hugh a drink. He didn't think his friend was going to undo his seatbelt anytime soon. While they munched on sandwiches, Tristan, Hugh, and Sam examined their maps.

“There's Beef Island, where we're headed,” Hugh pointed out. “It's right beside that island, Tortola, and pretty close to guess what?”

“Virgin Gorda,” Sam and Tristan answered together.

Along with Tortola and Virgin Gorda, there were smaller islands to both the south and north, including
Norman, Peter, Mosquito, Great Thatch, and Little Thatch. Some specific locations were also marked on the map—The Baths, Deadman's Cove, Invisible Bay, Rogue Rocks, and Treasure Caves.

The director came back through the plane to get drinks and noticed the teens staring at their maps. “Bet you're wondering where those names come from.” He sat on the couch across from them.

“It's quite a story actually. The British Virgin Islands were discovered by Columbus in 1493 and soon became a favorite hideout for pirates. Some of the most dubious and infamous characters of the high seas sailed the waters of the BVIs. The sheltered coves and uncharted reefs of its some forty small islands were great places for the pirates to stage raids from and stash their loot—at least that's what people say. Notice Great and Little Thatch Islands. Those were named after Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard.”

Rosina and Ryder had turned around and were now listening as well.

“And Beef Island, where we'll be landing, was—as the story goes—home to a widow who poisoned a band of thieves during a dinner party. The conversation during that dinner must have truly been
toxic
.”

When the campers failed to laugh at his joke, the director continued, “Pirates are said to have buried treasure on Norman Island, and supposedly it inspired Robert Louis Stevenson's book
Treasure Island
. Who knows what you'll come across during your investigation!”

Tristan found Norman Island on the map. It was the island the yellow rubber ducky had circled near in the computer model. Treasure Caves was on the southwest side of the island.

“Are there, like, pirates there now?” Ryder asked.

“Not that I know of,” the director replied. “But you never know where unsavory characters will pop up.” He raised his eyebrows at them and then headed back to the cockpit.

“Not very reassuring, is he?” Hugh said to Sam and Tristan.

Unsavory characters? Surely the man was just joking, as usual. Tristan thought again of Rickerton. At least that was something they wouldn't have to worry about. He looked over at Hugh, who was examining the robo-jelly again. Sam was drumming her fingers on her seat's armrest. Her eyes moved nervously from Tristan to Hugh to the map and then out the window.

“Okay, everyone settle down and get some rest,” Director Davis said from up front. “We'll be touching down in a few hours.”

Tristan, Hugh, and Sam sat quietly talking, but together the drone of the plane and the soft leather seats were like sedatives. Soon their eyelids got droopy, and their heads began to bob. Just before Tristan nodded off, he glanced out the window.
Were there still any pirates in the British Virgin Islands?

10

THE
R/V REEF RUNNER

T
RISTAN DREAMT HE WAS FALLING
. H
E WAS SURROUNDED
by water in his dream, yet it felt like he was spiraling down through air. He snapped awake and instantly realized it wasn't a dream, at least the falling part. The plane had just dropped sharply along with Tristan's stomach. Nobody aboard was asleep now.

“Nothing to worry about,” Director Davis said over the intercom. “Just a little turbulence. Please remain seated with those seatbelts fastened.”

Ghostly pale and verging on green, Hugh clutched his seat's armrests with a rigor mortis grip. “Yeah, like I'm going to get up and start twerking right now.”

Tristan stared out the window. It was not a comforting sight. A towering, dark cloud billowed upward, growing taller and blacker by the minute. Lightning
flashed within. “Looks like we're flying around a storm.”

“Ya think?” Rosina muttered.

The plane angled sharply to the left and then banked right.

“Stay calm, campers. A little storm's no problem for this expert pilot,” Coach Fred boasted. “We'll be down shortly.”

Looking down, Tristan could see the ocean through breaks in the clouds.

“Down? Did he say down?” Hugh groaned. “There's nothing but water down there.”

The plane dropped again, and a gust of wind shoved it sideways. The teens gasped, each of them turning varying shades of green.

“I'm sure there's land down there, somewhere,” Sam said. “I mean, I'm sure it's close. We just can't see it. But it's down there, probably right in front of the plane. I'm sure of it . . . sort of.”

The plane shuddered again, slowed, and angled down.

“Water, I just see water,” Hugh moaned.

Tristan heard the landing gear lower. They were definitely descending. He stared anxiously out the window. Hugh was right: there was no land or runway in sight. Rain streamed across the windows and lightning flashed. The sharp crack of thunder reverberated through the airplane. Tristan and the others jumped at the sound. He gripped the armrest and looked out the window again. The windswept ocean flashed by below.
Tristan shut his eyes and then opened them, deciding it would be better to watch when they crashed into the sea. He'd probably have a better chance of surviving that way.

A flash of green passed by, and then the edge of a runway came into view. They were about to land. Tristan let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. Another strong gust of wind shoved the airplane's back end sideways, and thunder boomed. Tristan crossed his fingers as sweat began to trickle down his neck. Suddenly, the plane's engines revved, powering up loudly. They angled skyward, climbing fast and steep. Tristan's heart hammered in his chest.

“Nothing to worry about,” Director Davis assured them over the intercom. “We're just going to wait a bit for the squall to pass before landing.”

The teens sat still and uncommonly quiet. Hugh barely seemed to be breathing. He looked like he wished he could teleport himself somewhere,
anywhere
, else.

They headed east and began to circle within a thick, gray shroud of clouds. More turbulence. Tristan's stomach did another flip-flop. He was beginning to wish he were someplace else as well. If he survived the crash, his parents would definitely pull him out of Sea Camp. The plane banked once more and continued to circle.

A very long ten minutes later, the clouds around them began to break up.

“Look down, everyone,” Director Davis suggested over the intercom.

Sunlight broke through the parting clouds, spotlighting a green hilltop on a small island. The ride smoothed out, and a loud sigh of relief echoed through the airplane. A larger, longer island came into view. It was skinny and low at the ends, but hilly in the middle.

“That's Virgin Gorda down there,” the director announced. “Columbus thought the island resembled an attractive, pleasantly plump woman lying down, so he named it the fat virgin. Ha, that's a good one.”

They passed over a stretch of dark water, a cluster of rocky islets, and then a small, crescent-shaped island. It, too, was hilly and green at the middle, with rocky cliffs along one side and a long, white beach on the other. Tristan thought he saw some small huts behind the beach and what appeared to be a sprawling mansion atop the cliffs. He pointed it out to Sam and Hugh.

“All clear. Taking her down,” Coach announced.

They headed west past a few more small islands and then began to descend. Tristan felt the plane slow. He knowingly held his breath this time as the ocean flashed by below. Just as the runway came into view, the airplane dropped steeply. It bounced once and then settled onto the asphalt. Coach hit the brakes. As he was thrown forward, Tristan exhaled and prayed they wouldn't slide off the rain-slickened pavement.

“A snap, Snappers,” Director Davis said, chuckling. “We're making a tight turnaround here. Our contact should be waiting. I'll be picking up a pilot and heading back to Sea Camp . . . things to take care of. But I'll
be monitoring your progress and staying in close communication with Coach Fred. Good luck and, above all else, stay safe.”

The plane taxied down the runway, passing what looked to be the regular airport terminal where passengers were just getting off a commercial flight. As soon as they stopped, Director Davis opened the door, lowered the stairs, and ushered the teens off. Coach Fred led them toward a low, white, concrete building. Walking briskly toward them and waving was an athletic-looking woman wearing a tan baseball hat and a fire-engine red foul weather jacket that fell nearly to her knees.

“Wasn't sure you'd make it in,” the woman announced. “That was one nasty squall that just went through.” She shook Coach Fred's hand, smiling. “I'm Dr. Margaret Gladfell, but please just call me Meg. Guess I don't need these anymore.” She took off her hat and the foul weather jacket. Underneath, she had on flowered shorts and a T-shirt that said
Virgin Islands Institute
over two circling fish in silhouette. Her dark blonde hair came to her chin in a perky bob. And when she smiled, small lines crinkled around her bright hazel eyes.

“Uh, just a little rough coming in. Not too bad,” Coach Fred said, running his hand over his dark, slicked-back hair.

Tristan was expecting some bluster about how the storm hardly tested his amazing piloting skills, but instead, Coach seemed to almost stumble over his
words. And Tristan could swear the man blushed when he shook the woman's hand. That was a first.

Before Coach could introduce them, Meg said, “Well, I'm just glad you made it in. No time to waste. We can save the rest of the introductions for the ship. It's all set to go. I've taken care of the necessary paperwork and stocked up. It's just a short way to the dock from the private terminal here.”

The scientist turned and strode toward the low, white building. They had to jog just to keep up with her. A taxi van was waiting for them outside. They piled in. Coach then loaded their bags along with some bottles and several large jugs of Sea Camp water. The van left the airport, made two quick turns, passed through a parking lot full of beat-up, dusty cars, and pulled up alongside a wooden dock.

Tristan stared at the boat tied up at the dock, thinking maybe they made a wrong turn.

“We're going on that?” Rosina asked.

“Like, this must be some sort of joke,” Ryder added.

“I know she's not much to look at,” Meg said. “However, our newer vessel is down with engine problems. Anyway, this one's plenty seaworthy and a good work boat.”

Tristan and the others got out of the van. They gazed at the vessel with obvious doubt regarding her seaworthiness. The ship was some sixty feet long. Its steel hull was spotted with rust and the remains of what once may have been a coating of forest-green paint. The faded white superstructure was two stories
high. And the chipped, warped deck appeared in need of some serious TLC or a complete overhaul. On the side of the bow was written “R/V Re Run”.

“What kind of name is Re Run?” Rosina asked.

“No, no. It's the
Reef Runner
, just missing a few letters is all,” Meg said. “Been meaning to get that fixed.”

A narrow gangplank stretched from the dock to the ship.

Meg led the way aboard. “C'mon, captain's below and anxious to get going.”

The teens hesitated until Sam slung her backpack over her shoulder and jumped onto the gangplank. “C'mon, you guys, she looks fine. This'll be great.”

The others followed her aboard, clearly less enthusiastic about their next mode of transportation. Tristan crossed the gangplank especially uncertain. Once aboard, he promptly stubbed his toe, stumbled into Hugh, and nearly stepped on the tail of a large orange cat curled up on the deck. The cat eyed him like he would be the first to “walk the plank.”
Great start
, Tristan thought.

They gathered on the stern, the open back deck. Meg pointed out a rusty A-frame used to deploy nets and other instruments off the ship. She then showed them a small, gray, inflatable boat sitting on a cradle to the side, and led them into the ship through an open garage-like area. As they passed through, Tristan recognized a small, remotely operated vehicle with a camera on it attached to a huge spool of cable. Some scuba gear sat off to the side, stored in a wire cage.
The teens weaved their way around more equipment before going through a door-sized hatchway. Tristan hit his shin on the raised ledge at the base, nearly tumbling in face-first. He decided the ship's tight spaces and littered deck were going to be seriously bad for his health.
So much for a more bruise-free summer.