Allan's men efficiently laid down a roadway of planks that led to the cave entrance, boots squishing and sinking in the sucking mud. At the rim of the entry point, they erected a platform wide enough for Mr. Jonassen, all six of their team and gear, and with room to spare. The morning sun intensified.
Simon Jonassen imagined himself completing his quest. The treasure had been promised to Allan and his men for their expertise in navigating and disarming the snares that surely awaited. Fidgeting, he clenched the leather pouch in his pocket. He had other business to tend to.
A warm trickle ran over his lips. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his chin. Red splotches like an impressionist painting dotted the pressed, white surface. I'm not dead—yet.
"I still have time," he murmured to himself.
"Let's go, ladies. It's time." The captain growled. "That treasure ain't gonna be handed over willingly like your prom date's virginity. Final systems check in five minutes. Come on, move it!"
The men scrambled, strapping waterproof gear bags onto the dive rigs.
Allan handed Simon a dive mask outfitted with a communication suite. "Just like I showed you, Mr. Jonassen." He pressed a button on the side of the mask, and a heads-up display flickered to life on the peripherals of the single wide lens. "The dive computer is integrated into the mask." He pointed to each of the corners in turn. "Depth and descent here. Oxygen remaining, down left. Water temp and alkalinity here. Ascension rate and decompression, top right."
He zipped up his own wetsuit and then Simon's, donned his dive mask, and flashed an Okay sign. "Good to go."
The silty waters kept the visibility to less than fifteen feet. Captain Edgars' men entered the well first, the only water remaining in the lake. They descended slowly into the shaft of the cave entrance, their bright LED dive lights disappearing in the murky depths. Twin bright-red cords pulled taught, fastened to the diving platform, the other ends winding off the giant spools in the lead divers' hands somewhere in the darkness.
"You're up, Mr. Jonassen."
Simon inhaled sharply and put on his mask. He stepped down onto the aluminum ledge that brought the water up to his waist. The captain handed him a pair of fins and a flashlight. "Clip on to this line. Here." He steered the line closer and clipped on himself. "I'll be right behind you. Me and Fang."
Captain Edgars loaded an arsenal of weapons onto his person. Grenades across his chest, multiple knives, and a pair of Heckler and Koch Desert VP9 pistols strapped to the inside of his thighs. He loaded an Uzi, a MP5 submachine gun, and at least three other guns Simon couldn't identify, into a watertight gear bag and cinched it shut.
The mercenary patted the sleek, matte-black machine gun strapped around his buoyancy compensator diving vest. When the captain pulled the lever on the stock, an eighteen-inch bayonet jabbed out from its hiding place. He repeated the act and the knife disappeared back into the gun. Edgars grinned. He tapped a button on the side of his dive mask and a red light began to blink. "We're recording."
Simon looked to the sky one last time before flashing Captain Edgars the Okay sign and plunging below.
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