The Golden Countess: Mike Edwards Adventures, #1

PROLOGUE

THE NINE MEN HUDDLED together around the table in the captain’s quarters of the Nuestra Senora de Atocha, flagship of the flotilla. Each man a captain; each man responsible for the safe return of his ship and its priceless cargo.

The group comprised the leadership of the Tierra Firme Flota; nine Spanish Galleons that had sailed from Spain in the year 1622. They sailed down the west coast of Africa to the Cape Verde Islands. From there they turned west pushed by the prevailing winds into the Caribbean Sea; then on to their first port of call, Cartagena in South America. They would spend a month bartering with the natives in Cartagena, Nombe de Dios, and Porto Bello. Once their holds were filled with gold, silver, emeralds, furs, exotic woods, copper, tobacco and sugar gained from their negotiations, the now heavily laden ships would depart for a rendezvoused with the Nueva Espana Flota in Havana Cuba; Spain’s strongest outpost in the New World. The Nueva Espana Flota was a similar flotilla of galleons that had sailed to Vera Cruz, Mexico for the same purpose; bring back to Spain as much treasure as they could carry. 

It was September third, in the Year of Our Lord, 1622. It was nearly fall in Spain, a time of comfortable temperatures and cool breezes, but in the Cuban port of Havana the fall was just as stifling as the summer.

The heat and humidity in the Captains Quarters was nearly unbearable; adding to the misery of the men was the clothing of the period. The heavy coats and shirts of the day covered them completely, except for the hands and face. They could cause a man to pass out from heat exhaustion, if he wasn’t careful. The crew could work with out their shirts in the heat, but not the officers, they had an image to uphold, and skin darkened by the sun was the sign of a commoner, not an aristocratic naval officer. If for only this reason, the men wished that the meeting that had been called would be a short one.

Captain General Hernando Vasquez de Coronado, master of the Atocha, and leader of the flotilla had called for the meeting. He walked into the small crowded room and went immediately to the head of the table, to an ornately carved and gold inlayed chair.

Gentlemen, I have called you here to announce to you that we will be leaving for Spain tomorrow.

The room suddenly erupted in spontaneous, overlapping conversation and questions.

Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Order! Order please! General Coronado demanded.

The voices in the room slowly returned to silence; with the exception of the raspy deep voice of Captain Bernardino de Lugo, master of the Santa Margarita.

Captain General, we are already six weeks behind schedule and now in the middle of the storm season. Surly waiting another six weeks until the end of the season would be a wiser choice.

I would agree with you Captain, if it were not for the letter I received today from His Majesty King Phillip. He has said the Spain is in urgent economical need of our cargo. Apparently the war with the English is becoming quite expensive. There for by order of the King we sail on the morning tide.

Captain General? a nervous voice spoke up from the back of the room. The General watched as a young thin Spaniard with a sharply cut mustache and beard stepped forward. I am Captain Juan Francisco de Mendoza, he said with a degree of an apologetic tone.

"You are the Captain of Los Espanoles Condesa, are you not?" the General asked.

I am Captain General, at your service.

You have a question Captain?

Captain General; this is the first voyage for my ship and my crew and it would be of a comfort to them to know that we will be leaving with the Lords Blessing.

"I understand that this is your first ship as well, is it not Captain?"

It is Captain General.

The General smiled at the young Captain, Go to your crew and tell them that not only do we have the Lords blessing, but my personal Astrologer has assured me that the stars favor us leaving tomorrow.

Thank you Captain General, I will.

The young Captain faded back out of eye shot of the General, he had gotten his blessing, but it did not calm the nauseous grinding in the pit of his stomach. I hope my wife will remember that I loved her, he thought.

Good, now with that you are all dismissed, make ready for departure, the General said as he stood up from his chair.  

The flotilla was already forty miles out on a north easterly heading when the sun broke over the eastern ocean, yellow red fingers of unhampered light reaching out to claim a new day. This was Captain Juan Francisco de Mendoza’s favorite part of the day. As he stood on the poop deck of the galleon Los Espanoles Condesa he was able to make out the shapes of the other ships in the flotilla. The La Santa Margarita and the Nuestra Senora Rosario sailed abreast of each other at the head of the gaggle of ships. Their sister ship, the Nuestra Senora de Atocha, was the Almiranta and brought up the rear. His newly commissioned ship the Espanoles Condesa was somewhere in the middle of the pack. A much smaller galleon than the other three she carried mostly copper, tobacco and sugar.

However, because of the vast amount of treasures gathered she was also tasked to haul three tons of gold and silver. It was a far cry from the forty seven tons of gold, silver and precious stones that the Atocha held in her womb, but he felt honored to have been asked to carry the balance.

It was less than an hour after the sun rose that he noticed the rapidly building clouds to the North West. He had seen storm clouds many time before, but none like these. They towered tens of thousands of feet above him and were almost black in color, rolling over themselves like bread dough being kneaded as they made a steady advance. The Captain General would turn back if this were one of those monstrous new world storms, he thought, trying to reassure himself.

By the time the noon day meal was served the wind was picking up, he saw the other ships hauling out canvas he ordered his crew to do the same. Between this wind and the ocean currents in the area we will make it home in record time, he thought, but he still watched the sky growing darker as the clouds closed the gap between them. The Flotilla was now under full sail, they had out every square foot of canvas the masts and yardarms could carry. The ships were moving at an awesome speed, the weight of the cargo had laden the ships enough that it allowed them to cut through the rising seas with little notice.

The sunset had nearly been robbed from the young Captain by the hellish black clouds he had been watching throughout the day, but the golden slivers of the dieing daylight stabbed out from under the storm clouds.

The winds had built upward since the midday and were, at his estimate, to be thirty to forty knots. The seas were making it difficult to walk about the deck without a handhold. He ordered the men to secure the ship for the impending storm. He watched as they scurried about the deck lashing and tying down anything that was loose or could come loose, hatchways were secured against water seeping in from the deck, the men ran lines to various points on the ship, these were called hogging lines, something to hold on to if it got bad, and it looked like it was going to get very —very bad.  

He ordered men aloft to take in most of the sails, if the wind and the seas continued to rise he wouldn’t be able to haul them in and the weather would rip them apart, if it didn’t destroy the masts first.  The rain started just as the last bit of light was extinguished and the evening fell into night.

By ten o’clock the seas had risen so high that the ship was rising at a sharp angle as she climbed the face or the wave and then would slam down with a violent shudder as she came down the back.

No one was able to sleep; sailors began to vomit from seasickness, hanging their heads from their bunks only long enough to relive themselves of their stomachs contents. The sounds of the retching, the splattering of the liquid on the wood deck and the stench of the vomit in the closed compartment made even the most seasoned of them convulse and gag.

The morning brought no relief, the young captain weak from a night long vigil of vomiting and being tossed about his cabin decided to venture out to check his ship, what he saw when he opened the hatch was the most terrifying site he had ever witnessed. Waves rose to three times the height of his ship. The surface of the water was ripped into white foam that streaked along the sides of the waves giving them the appearance of veins pulsing with white blood. The rain screamed at him horizontally and with such force that it felt as if his flesh were being ripped from his face. There was such a torrent of rain coming at him he could barely see past the main mast.  The wind was so loud that he could hear nothing but the scream of it as it passed by him. Waves crashed across the deck, one coming over the bow and the next from the starboard side, washing away every thing that wasn’t tied down. One sudden wind gust was so violent that it slammed the hatch shut knocking him back into the compartment with such force that he was nearly knocked unconscious when he hit the bulkhead.

It took several attempts before he was able to standup; he forced the hatch open and grabbed the hogging line that had been secured to the outside bulkhead. He pulled himself around a corner and heaved his body up the short flight of stairs that led to the Poop Deck and the ships steering wheel, several times falling backwards.

If it wasn’t for the hogging line he would have fallen to the main deck and been washed away. He made it to the steering station and tied a line around his waist that was tied off to one of the stanchions. There were two helmsman at the wheel, both were was tied to the wheel station and fighting to hold the wheel steady,  they’re faces were white from fear, their hands bleeding from having the wheel ripped from their hands over and over again, the blood was washed away as quickly as their body could pump it out. He had to place his face inches from the helmsman on duty and shout as loud as he could to be heard.

WHAT IS OUR HEADING?

EAST, THAT’S ALL I KNOW CAPTAIN.

HAVE YOU SEEN THE REST OF THE FLEET?

SOMETIMES WE SEE A MAST IN THE DISTANCE, BUT THAT’S ALL.

DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THE HEADING, KEEP HER POINTED INTO THE SEAS

YES CAPTAIN.

I’LL GET SOMEONE TO RELIEVE YOU, STAY WITH HER.

With that Captain Mendoza untied himself and hand over hand, pull himself back down the stairs and into the relative safety of the compartment. After he closed the hatch all he could do was fall against it and slide down to the deck, exhausted. He slowly rubbed his face with both hands wiping the rain and sea from his face. As he sat there more water dripped from his face; tears, he started crying holding his face in his hands. He had never been so frightened in his life, but the tears were not from fear, they were from the sadness he felt knowing he would never see his wife and his new son again.

Suddenly he realized he couldn’t let the crew see him this way, he worked his way to his feet, wiped his eyes and moved towards the crew quarters to send up a relief crew.

As the day grew older the captain and crew of the Condesa could do nothing but hold on. The vomiting had nearly stopped, but only because it had been more than twenty hours since they had last eaten. Suddenly, the wind slowed its howl; it was immediately noticed by the Captain who raced to the hatchway. He opened the hatch to see the rain had stopped, the winds were slowly diminishing, the seas were starting to calm and the sun was starting to shine, We are alive, by the grace of God we have survived, he thought. He raced up the stairs to the helmsmen at the wheel.

We made it! he said with a beaming grin. Can you see anyone else?

"Off the port quarter Captain, it looks like the Atocha."

The captain ran to the port side rail and peered at the ship, it was the Atocha. As he watched signal flags began to climb the main mast of the Atocha. He watched with a curious pride, expecting that the Captain General was about to congratulate him for making it through the storm.

Instead, what he read nearly buckled his knees. It was a general order to all ships in the flotilla, RETURN TO HAVANNA IMMEDIATLY, STORM RETURNING. Now he remembered what the old captains had told him about these monsters, If the demon does not kill your ship and drown you, do not count your good fortune, for a second even more terrifying one will come from behind the first one.

He turned and ran back to the helmsmen, Come about, we go back to Havana!

Captain? the confused helmsmen asked.

Back to Havana! Call the crew, all hands on deck, set sail.

The second helmsman untied himself and raced below deck shouting, "ALL HANDS ON DECK, SET SAIL!"

The captain watched as weak and sick men crawled out of the protection of the holds and started to climb the rigging.

The helmsman spun the wheel so fast the spokes were a blur; the crew felt their ship lay over on her side, desperately trying to obey the command from the rudder. They were going back.

Three hours later the demon pounced from the darkness, just as the old captains had said it would. This time it was worse, if that was possible, all through the night the flotilla was hammered and violated by the demon.

Winds reached an estimated one hundred and ten miles an hour, waves climbed to unimaginable heights. Men prayed to God, others swore at him, some cried and consoled each other. By early morning on the sixth of September the once proud flotilla was scattered along sixty miles of the Cuban coast.

Nine ships were lost that night, out of twenty nine that started, over three hundred men. Among the lost were, The Santa Margarita and Nuestra Senora de Atocha.

The Margarita and Atocha would remain lost for three hundred and sixty years, until a treasure hunter named Mel Fisher would bring them back from the dead.

As for Los Espanoles Condesa; with the least experienced captain aboard, she made it to within sight of Havana, But before she could make the safety of the harbor she was breeched, picked up at her center by a huge wave. The weight of her cargo proved to be too much; without the support of the water at her bow and stern, she broke in half. It took less than two minutes for her to sink with all hands.

Captain Juan Francisco de Mendoza never did make it home to his wife and his new baby; but she knew he loved her.

History records the flotilla as having only twenty eight ships, Los Espanoles Condesa had been a new ship with a new crew, added to the flotilla in Spain at the last minute; it was a simple clerical omission that kept her out of history - until now.

CHAPTER ONE

THE DIVING BELL WAS one hundred and fifty feet off the bottom of the Indian Ocean and rising with some two hundred and fifty feet to go till it reached the surface. After that it was nearly one hundred feet to the deck of the oil platform. In the utter blackness of the deep ocean the exterior flood lights shot out from its sides like white hot rods of steel, penetrating over one hundred feet in the crystal clear ocean.  

The interior of the bell was painted a high gloss white to reflect the maximum amount of light. The walls of the six foot sphere were covered with a spider’s web of stainless steel tubing running to various regulators and control boxes that controlled the breathing gases, hot water, for the special suits that kept them warm in the thirty degree water, communications and lighting for the inside and exterior of the bell. At opposite walls were molded plastic seats for each of the two occupants, around the seats were the tangled webbing of the seat belts and shoulder harnesses.

Mike Edwards, lead diver and diver Jeff Hendricks were still stowing the dive hose and helmets on their welded racks and hooks inside the bell when the comms sounded.

Mike this is Tom you guys had better strap in, its gonn’a get rough. That storm landed early, we got thirty footers up here.

Mike pushed the talk switch I thought you said it wasn’t going to reach us for at least another four to five hours.

Yea, well I was wrong, I can’t control the weather, just get things ready, came the reply.

It was easy to tell from Tom’s voice that he was on edge, and when the dive super is on edge it makes for some very nervous divers.  Mike and Jeff worked themselves into the molded seats and pulled the shoulder harness over their heads.

Sounds echo in the metal interior of the bell but the click of the buckles seemed at lot louder than it should have been. The two looked at each other, and then braced themselves for the inevitable pounding they were about to receive. No words were spoken between the two they both knew how bad it could be. One hundred miles at sea storms in this part of the world came on quickly and could be extreme.

Tom looked out of the control shacks window at the wind blown, white topped waves; thirty footers was an understatement it was closer to forty and the one thing he had conveniently left out, was the wind. The wind gauge was showing fifty eight miles per hours and rising. He started to wonder if taking them off the bottom was the right thing to do when he became aware of someone calling his name.

Tom! Hey, Tom! it was Chuck, the Life Support Tech; he was seated at the LS control panel looking at Tom with a very worried look on his face. We should put them back on the bottom till this blows over.

Tom turned back to the control panel We can’t; that will put them into a saturation dive, that will take four days to decompress them, and the company can’t afford that, keep bringing them up.

Tom, that’s crazy we are way outside the recovery window. We need to put them back on the bottom!

Tom took a step in Chuck’s direction When I want your fucking opinion I’ll give it to you, now do what I tell you, Chuck scowled as he turned back to the panel and reached for the communications switch.

One hundred feet to go guys, you should start to feel the surge in about two minutes.

Mike keyed his comm. switch Thanks Chuck; hey Chuck?

Yea Mike.

When we reach the interface, make damn sure those winch monkeys haul ass on that winch.

Ten — four Mike, just hold on.

The tension in Chuck’s voice easily made it the one hundred feet to the bell.

The bell was still at sixty five feet when Mike and Jeff began to feel the underwater wave surge. At first the bell just seemed to sway a few feet to the right. But, as it came back to the left it rose several feet. At the apex of the left swing it fell back down in the trough of the underwater swell. The umbilical and lifting cable stopped the fall abruptly, jarring the occupants.

The next swell tossed the bell like a tether ball slamming it tight on its lifting cable. The force of the abrupt stop was compounded by the counter weight slung from the bottom of the bell. It was a large lead and steel weight suspended from the bottom of the bell to aid in sinking the bell to the bottom of the ocean. It could be released from inside the bell in an emergency and the bell would float up to the surface.

If it broke loose now the bell would rise faster than the winch could take in the slack. The bell would be slammed into the legs of the platform. If the impact didn’t kill the occupants the rapid decompression that would occur when the pressure seals broke would; and in a most unpleasant way.

On the platform’s deck the crew scrambled to haul in the umbilical as the winch took up the hoisting cable. The rain had started a few minutes ago; the horizontal wind driven rain smacked their faces like hundreds of needles. It narrowed their vision to only slits, they were only able to look at forty five degrees down towards the deck.

Looking out from the control shack window Tom could just barely see the winch crew through the driving wind and rain. He knew the winch and the men were in a desperate race to recover the bell before the sea claimed her prize.

How deep are they?

Chuck checked the depth gauge and replied, They’re in the worst of it — twenty five feet.

Mike and Jeff could do nothing except hang on. Having no control in a situation; any situation was one thing Mike did not like. Having his life depend on men and machines that he couldn’t see, hear or feel was unnerving, but both divers trusted the men on deck, they had to —they had no choice.

The spotter on deck saw the wave first. It was still a quarter of a mile way from the oil rig, rising from the ocean like a huge dragon with its wings fully extended trying to lift off the water. The top of it was torn into pure white raging foam from the wind trying to knock it backwards and it was headed directly for them.

The spotter’s blood went cold with fear. He turned and screamed at the top of his voice against the wind, ROUGE WAVE! IT’S HUGE!

The winch was at its maximum speed there was nothing else for them to do but watch, and pray. The bell was still fifteen feet below the surface of the water when the wave caught it.