Austin turned to the right and saw a thin black line running from the surface toward the bottom. “I see it. Notice anything funny?”
“Yeah,” Zavala said as they cruised by. “No rocks under the buoy.”
“Bet you a bottle of Cuervo that all the other warnings are phony, too.”
“I’ll take the bottle but not the bet. Someone wants to keep people out of here.”
“That’s obvious. How’s this buggy handling?”
“Getting into a little backwash from the water swishing out of the lagoon, but it’s still easier than driving on the Beltway,” Zavala said, referring to the highway that separates Washington from the rest of the country geographically and politically. “She handles like an—uh-oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Sonar is picking up multiple targets. Lots of them. About fifty yards dead ahead.”
Austin had been lulled into complacency by the tranquillity of the trip. In his imagination he pictured a line of underwater guards waiting in ambush.
“Divers?”
“Sonar hits are too small. Little or no movement.”
Austin strained his eyes in an attempt to pierce the gauzy blue.
Thinking ahead, he said, “What’s the Brogan’s top speed if we have to get out of here in a hurry?”
“Seven knots, pedal to the metal. She was made more for vertical travel than horizontal, and we’re carrying a couple of hundred extra pounds of beef.”
“I’ll join Weight Watchers when we get back,” Austin said. “Move in real slow, but be prepared to make a dash for it.”
They crawled ahead at half speed. Within moments dozens of dark objects materialized, stretching from the surface to the bottom and rolling off both directions in a great wall.
Fish.
“Looks like a net,” Austin advised. “Stop before we get snagged.”
The Brogan slowed to a complete halt and hovered in place.
Austin ducked his head in reflex as a streamlined silhouette glided in from above and behind him. The shark was only there for an instant, long enough for Austin to see its round white eye and to estimate the hungry predator’s length at more than six feet. Its toothy jaws opened then clamped shut to grab half a struggling fish in one bite before disappearing from sight with a flick of its high tail fin.
Zavala had seen the same thing. “Kurt, are you okay?” he shouted.
Austin laughed. “Yeah. Don’t worry. That guy doesn’t want a tough old human to chew on when he’s got a whole seafood buffet.”
“Glad to hear you say that, because he invited some of his friends for dinner.”
Several more sharks swooped in, grabbed a bite, then, wary of the sub, quickly left. It was less a wild feeding frenzy than a gathering of discriminating gourmands picking from the choicest items on the menu. Hundreds of fish were caught in the fine mesh. They came in all sizes, shapes, and species. Some, still alive, were making fruitless attempts to free themselves, only to attract the attention of the sharks. Others had only their heads left, and bones marked the remains of many more.
“No one has been tending the net,” Austin said.
“Maybe someone hung it here to keep nosy guys like us out.”
“I don’t think so,” Austin said after a moment’s reflection. “That net is made of monofilament. You could cut your way through it with a nail clipper. No electrical wiring, so it doesn’t seem to have an alarm signal attached.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Let’s think about it. Whatever’s in that lagoon killed a pod of whales. The locals would begin asking questions if they started seeing hundreds of dead fish. The folks who bring you Baja Tortillas don’t like attention. So they stick the net here to keep the fish out and any dead ones in.”
“Makes sense,” Zavala agreed. “What next?”