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With that burned on my vision, I twist in liquid free-fall and kick my way down.
I should’ve brought proper flippers. Luckily, my own weight and the slight flare of my insulated diving shoes is enough to send me gliding down swiftly enough.
This time of day, it’s bright even down here—
Until it’s not.
The light falls away like I’ve crossed some invisible threshold. I snap on my palm light and aim it ahead of me as my eyes adjust to the cloudy darkness.
Fish flit past, lake trout and bigger species bursting apart in shimmering clouds of surprise, darting away.
I catch a few more slow-gliding, undulating shapes that could be weeds or water snakes.
Mostly, I’m focused on the shape below me.
It’s almost T-shaped, larger than it seemed from above, murky at first but as I get down deeper, closer, I can see.
My light dances across a strip of dull, degraded red. A racing stripe, I realize, painted down the side of a white outer shell.
I kick back, slowing my descent, holding as still as I can while I pan the light over the full shape of it. It’s halfway buried in silt, in debris, one wing snapped clean in half and the destroyed bit wedged upright between some rocks.
Yep.
No fucking doubt about it.
It’s a plane.
A Cessna, just like Felicity said her dad’s was, and considering the location, there’s zero doubt it’s his.
She’s either gonna love this or hate it. Or scream because we found it and she won’t know what to even feel.
I’m not sure myself.
I’ve got my camera off my belt in a heartbeat, snapping photos with one hand and aiming the lens with the other. I get a few full shots from up high, then move in closer for more detailed shots of the nose, the tail, the debris burying it.
One window looks shattered, the interior completely flooded. I can still make out the inside of the cockpit.
Might as well get a few shots inside to see if there’s anything interesting.
Anything worth hauling up the entire plane, or maybe she’ll just want to let sleeping dogs—and crashed planes—lie.
I manage to get an arm inside and snap a few shots.
What’s really striking is that the seat belt is unfastened. Most people don’t have the presence of mind to unlatch a seat belt when they’re crashing and drowning at the same time.
Not unless they planned it.
Fuck, I don’t know.
My mind whirls with freakish possibilities to explain this wreck. This mystery Felicity’s wrapped up in preys on my thoughts and makes me wonder things that are none of my business. I can think on land when I’m not counting the oxygen I have left.
There’s just one last section I want to check out.
The cargo hold.
The cockpit doors are locked from the inside, the water pressure sealing them in place anyway, and there’s no way I’m fitting my giant ass through that broken window without gutting myself.
So I kick back, circling, aiming my light till I pick out the seam of the cargo hatch outlined in lichen and moss, and dive down deeper to try to see if it’ll come open.
Easy? Hell no.
I end up clipping my camera back on my belt and sliding my palm light up to my wrist so I can get a good grip on the latch. With my feet braced against either side, I give it my all, throwing my strength into a heaving corkscrew twist.
Just when I’m about to give up, the door pops off like the top on a can of goddamned chips, nearly rocking me backward as the seal breaks.
I’m left floating there, door hanging from my hand while I stare dumbly at the broken hinges in the faint flickers of light from my wrist.
Must’ve rusted more than I thought after so many years down here—or maybe I don’t know my own strength.
I let the door go, not really paying attention as it drifts into a cloud of silty sand, and beam my light into the cargo hold.
It bounces off something reflective.
Something brilliantly bright.
My throat tightens.
Holy shit.
I fumble for my camera with numb fingers, breathing so hard I surround myself with a cloud of bubbles that still can’t obscure the glittering secret stashed inside that cargo hold.
Gold.
At least a hundred thick, heavy bars of it.
I snap shot after shot, forgetting the oxygen in my tank to get as many photos as I can.
I have to show Felicity.
She’s going to lose her shit.
Hell, I might lose my shit.
Though I’ve got a few uneasy questions, too.
Like whether or not she knew this was down here.
What the hell was her father doing with it?
And did this gold belong to someone else first, and if it did...won’t they come looking for it?
7
Worth Its Weight In (Felicity)
Alaska’s face says volumes when he comes up.
He’s found something big.
He crests the water like some kind of sea god, all dark and sleek in his wetsuit with his hair slicked back against his skull, hard body gleaming in tight, hard contours against a rubber skin that leaves very little to the imagination.
