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"The Roacherian Effect" A novel by John C. Delavan
Chapter Fifteen
After a long day of depositions and dictation Patti was relaxing in Skipper's spacious living room watching the sun drop below the horizon in a spectacular Pacific sunset -- the hues over the ocean fading from oranges and pale blues to pinks, violets and indigo. When the last vestige of color died and the quiet stars began their ascendancy to the heavens she turned her attention to the fire softly crackling in the fireplace, sipped a glass of orange juice and wondered how Skipper was doing in Japan.
Using his house while he was gone was like being on vacation -- no dishes to wash, not even her bed to make -- his housekeeper took care of everything... even the fish he had jokingly asked her to feed were well cared for by a professional.
She pushed away intrusive thoughts of Skipper being in danger, but sometimes they stole through, leaving her momentarily concerned. After a minute or two she shook it off and concentrated on her new Clive Cussler novel. Clive's hero, Dirk Pitt, was in trouble again -- wouldn't he ever learn?
The streams of bubbles that broke the surface of the black nighttime sea were concealed by the foam and chop as the surf relentlessly spent itself against a rocky outcropping extending from shore. There were many such places in Laguna and this one marked the edge of Skipper's property. Skipper often went scuba diving here, following the outcropping to a series of reef formations. The shallow ocean floor ultimately dropped off several hundred feet nearly half a mile out to sea at a spot marked by a buoy to which a small, powerful sport fisherman was now illegally moored.
The stream of bubbles led down fifteen feet to a pair of scuba divers making their way through the inky blackness along the reef toward shore. The lead diver stopped his rhythmic kicking, causing his companion to glide up and bump gently into his air tank from behind. Shining his red-lensed light so his companion could see he signaled that he was going to the surface to check his bearings. Returning an "OK" sign the companion sat patiently on the bottom and checked the luminous dials on his gauges. The surge of the tide caused him to grab an outcropping of barnacle-encrusted rock as he read: Depth - 15 feet; Tank pressure - 1800 pounds; Time - 1918 hours. He'd been down for almost seventeen minutes after having stayed on the surface most of the way in from the cabin cruiser. They dove and began swimming submerged about 200 yards from shore to avoid detection. He personally thought it was a waste of time since nobody could see them anyway, but the boss was being super careful and the boss paid the rent.
Seeing a light flicker above he answered with a flash of his own light then sat in darkness again. The other diver loomed in front of his face mask and made a sign with his finger pointing down and then a thumbs-up. This meant they would leave their scuba gear here on the bottom and swim the rest of the way on top through the surf. Unfastening their harnesses they removed their tanks, took a last breath of air, dropped their weight belts and shot upward.
Gently breaking the surface the divers saw they were only about fifty feet from a rocky section of shoreline that was bordered by a narrow stretch of sandy beach extending back about a hundred feet to a low cliff. The line of the cliff was broken by a wooden staircase that led up to a magnificent house with a two-story, glass wall. The glass wall was divided in the middle by a gigantic natural stone chimney. Light from the fireplace flickered within, beckoning to seafarers, telling of warmth and safety inside. They were right on target.
As they crawled from the cover of the sea the two became one with the dark mottled colors of the landscape, the flat black color of their "dry suits" picking up sand and dirt in a natural camouflage.
* *
Patti was jarred from her novel by the chime of the door bell. She was surprised because the gate guard was supposed to call before allowing anyone into the private community. She peered cautiously through the peep hole in the carved oak door and was relieved to see two security officers. She opened the door without further question, unable to see the pile of diving gear by the cliff wall next to the house.Dae Suk Choi was intently watching the shore in front of the big house through his binoculars when he saw the flashlight signaling on the beach. "Now! We go to shore to pick them up now!" The captain of the rented fishing boat cast off from the buoy, pushed the throttles to the limit and steered toward shore. He operated a local charter service and business had been poor lately. It seemed fewer and fewer people wanted to charter a small, independent boat these days. He was behind in his payments and the bank was about to repossess his boat. The offer to make more than his best six months' income ever, for just one evening's work and keeping his mouth shut, was too good to pass up. That they paid up front without argument clinched the deal.
When he got to within a hundred yards of shore he saw the light blinking again in the water just ahead of him. He throttled back and swung the bow around, slowing to a stop just in front of the three people in the water and maintaining just enough thrust from the twin diesels to hold his position against the driving surf. From the flying bridge he watched as Choi helped the two divers heave a woman up onto the dive platform and then onto the afterdeck. She appeared to be very drunk and was unable to stand without assistance. She was wearing only a thin, buoyant life vest. It wasn't any of his business so he turned his head back to watch the seas. Choi called out to him in a strong oriental accent. "Go now!"
The Skipper shoved the throttles forward and headed back toward Long Beach harbor. He'd drink himself to sleep tonight. Never again. No, never again would he do something like this. Not even to keep his boat.
Three hours later, Choi had Patti in a Cessna Citation III twin-engine jet heading back to Korea.