Tusker looked at Sam, then back to Roland. “We’re going somewhere different today, if you don’t mind,” he shouted. “It’s only a bit further north. I’ve got the GPS coordinates. I’ll tell you when we’re close.”

Roland frowned but didn’t reply. Tusker pulled out a small handheld GPS unit. It was an old Garmin he’d used since grad school to mark anomaly sites during sonar surveys. He pushed his sunglasses up on the brim of his cap and squinted at the tiny screen. Without lifting his head, he gestured ahead and to the right, guiding Roland. The skiff bounced over the swells, the motor straining.

“All right, slow down!” Tusker called out. Roland throttled back the little Yamaha outboard. “40 meters… 30… OK, Sam get the anchor ready.”

Sam shimmied to the bow of the skiff and pulled a small grapple from the pile of life jackets and rope. She perched herself on the gunwale, waiting for Tusker’s command. “I hope there’s enough line!” She shouted over her shoulder.

Tusker hadn’t thought of that.“OK, let’s try here. Drop the anchor!”

Sam hurled the anchor over the side and paid out the rope, making sure it didn’t foul on the chaos of gear that clogged the bottom of the boat. The rope snaked out for what seemed like minutes. Finally it went slack.

“OK, Roland, let’s slowly motor forward to see if we’re hooked.”

Roland revved the motor and the skiff moved forward. Sam held the rope with both hands and pulled on it. It went tight. “I think we’re good!” she called out.

Nice work, Upali, Tusker thought. Dead on, first try. His coordinates were perfect. In the bow of the skiff, Tusker noticed that there was no spare line coiled. They’d used it all.

“What’s this spot?” Roland asked in the silence after he switched off the motor.

“We want to check out this new wreck Upali thought he found,” Tusker replied as he stripped off his T-shirt.

“Huh, that Aussie warship he was on about?” Roland asked, fishing for his cigarette pack.

“We’ll find out,” Tusker smiled cagily. Shipwreck hunters were a secretive bunch, their obsession with privacy only exceeded by the CIA and maybe Swiss banks. Part of it came from the early days of claiming salvage rights to whatever booty could be plundered from a wreck, but even weekend trollers on the Great Lakes were tight lipped about their sonar grids. Tusker didn’t know Roland very well, nor did he trust him all that much. But today he’d have to, since he and Sam would be hanging underneath his boat for the whole afternoon.

“This is gonna be a deep one, Roland,” he conceded a bit, to gain the Dutchman’s confidence. “We may be down there a while. Maybe three, three and a half hours.”