Treasure

"Why did you pull in all four survey ships?" Jake Rawlings strode into Oceanic Exploration's largest corner office and slammed the door behind him. Harold Puttlim, OEI's head honcho, glanced up from the maps and surveys strewn in front of him. "You tell me, Jake." He tossed his pen aside and leaned back in his chair, folding his bent, arthritic fingers over the small paunch of his stomach. "For two months you've been running all four ships practically nonstop looking for theConcha.What have you got for me?" He nailed Jake with his characteristic show-me-the-money gaze. "Are you any closer to finding it than you were two years ago? Ten years ago?" No. Jake couldn't truthfully make that claim. But then neither could anyone else. Treasure hunters had been climbing all overthemselves looking for the shipwrecked Spanish galleonConchasince it went down in a hurricane off the coast of Florida almost four hundred years ago. With a main cargo hold loaded with enough gold, silver and gems to fetch close to a billion dollars, no shipwreck was more coveted, none more elusive. "I made a promise," Jake said evenly. "Don't stand in my way." Harold seemed to chew on that, his cool gray eyes warming with sentiment. "Your dad and I were partners long before you owned your first set of flippers. I know how much he wanted theConcha." He paused, all trace of emotion draining away. "But a personal promise made on a death bed holds no place in business." He knew Harold was right. Still, there was the little matter of that smile on his dad's grizzled face after Jake had sworn he'd find theConcha.The glint of pride in the old man's eyes as he lay in that hospital wasting away had stuck with Jake like barnacles on the hull of an old wooden boat. "We were close this time." Jake resisted the urge to slam his fist against the antique mahogany desk. "I know it.""How do you know?" "Trust me, Harold. I know. The way a man knows his best friend just slept with his wife." Harold raised his bushy white eyebrows. "Considering that happens to be your area of expertise and not mine, it doesn't do me much good, now, does it?" Jake bit back a nasty comeback and walked across the plush gray carpet to the wall of windows, keeping his gait as normal as possible. His ankle was aching to high heaven today, but he wasn't about to show any manner of weakness to Harold, or anyone else for that matter. "The fact is you've exhausted your crews," Harold continued. "Pissed off everyone from cook to captain. Spent millions this summer. And all you've got to show for it is a feeling you're close." Flipping back his baseball cap, Jake said quietly, "I never said this search would be cheap or easy." "You did commit to finding it this diving season. With that tropical storm brewing and another one right behind it, you're running out of time." "I'm doing everything I can." Since hisdad had died, responsibility for OEI and its employees nipped at Jake's heels like sharks after bloody prey. He'd pumped most of his savings into the company and quit taking a salary months ago, but the debt continued growing. They had to find theConcha.Soon. Several seagulls fighting over a washed-up fish carcass distracted him for a welcome moment. Although this time of year the surf still rolled gently onto the sand, it was already the end of August, well into hurricane season. They were diving on borrowed time. "If my survey crews chart for four hours--" Jake paced, edgy to get back on theMaAana.To do something, rather than talk "--I chart for six. If my divers are under for six, I'm under for eight. What more do you want from me?" "I want you to open up that hard head of yours and consider another approach." Harold rested his knobby fingers on the desktop. "The right on-board marine archBrenna, Helen is the author of 'Treasure ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373714032 and ISBN 0373714033.