Suddenly, at that instant, a flashbulb flooded the cavern in a bright blue light.

"Nobody smiled," Woodson observed sourly. He had drifted off to the far wall of the cavern, trying for the widest possible lens angle.

"Next time, yell sex," Spencer joked back.

"It wouldn't matter," Woodson grunted. "None of you know what it means anyway."

Pitt grinned and moved off. He rolled forward and jackknifed, diving to the bottom like an airplane on a strafing run. The others followed, spaced out at ten-foot intervals.

The forest of counterfeit kelp was thick and nearly impenetrable. Thin branches rose from the bottom to the surface, flaring into a wide, spreading canopy. Hersong was right; it was a work of art. Even at arm's length Pitt couldn't have told the plastic from the real thing. He unsheathed the knife and began slicing his way through the brown swaying stems. Working his way forward, stopping only to untangle his air tank, he finally broke into another tunnel. The second had a larger diameter than the first but was much shorter in length. After four stout kicks, Pitt surfaced in a new cavern, only to be enveloped in the unending white mist. Every few moments, the splash of a head breaking the water announced the arrival of another member of the team.

"See anything?" The voice was Spencer's.

"Not yet," Pitt replied. Mechanically, his eyes strained unblinkingly into the damp gloom. He thought he saw something now, something more imagined than real. Gradually, he became aware of a dark shape, materializing out of the fog. And then suddenly, it was absolutely and concretely there—the smooth, black metal hull of a submarine. Pitt spat out his mouthpiece, swam over to the sub and grabbed hold of the bow planes, pulling himself onto the deck.

Pitt's mind became absorbed in the submarine. At least ten times he'd wondered how he'd react, how he would feel when he finally touched the heroin's underwater carrier. Elation at being proved right—that and more. Anger and disgust flooded over him. If they could only talk, what tales of insidious tragedies these steel plates could relate.

"Please drop your spear on the deck and keep very, very still." The voice behind Pitt was hard, and so was the gun barrel that dug into his spine. He eased the pole spear slowly to the wet deck. "Good. Now order your men to drop their weapons on the bottom. No tricks. A concussion grenade in the water can turn a swimmer into an ugly mass of jelly."

Pitt nodded at the five floating heads. "You heard the man. Drop the spearguns…the knives too. There's no sense in antagonizing these nice people. I'm sorry men. It looks like I've blown it."