Free The Aztec Heresy by Paul Christopher

that was left, but after her refit the Hispaniola had been equipped with every piece of automated marine equipment you could think of, and under ordinary circumstances she was relatively easy to operate. With the addition of Lloyd Terco, an old Bahamian friend, as cook and able seaman, the seven-person crew was complete.
    ‘‘Home again, home again,’’ said Sidney, pulling the Toyota to a shuddering stop on the pier. Beside them, the black-hulled Hispaniola loomed over them, her superstructure blinding white. A warehouse beside them breathed rotten fruit. The harbor smelled of diesel oil and dead fish. On the tin roof of the warehouse you could still read the old painted slogan used by the tourist authority, faded away almost to nothing: ‘‘It’s Better in the Bahamas.’’
    Finn and Billy climbed out of the taxi and stretched. Under a makeshift awning set up above the bridge deck, Guido waved a cheerful welcome, his tanned bald head covered by a raffia Shady Brady fedora, his torso covered by a loose floral-print shirt.
    ‘‘Feestelijk inhalen!’’ Guido called out enthusiastically.
    A split second later Run-Run McSeveney pushed out through the chart room door directly below Guido’s perch and glared up at him. ‘‘Speak English, ya bluidy tulip seller! I’ve told ye that a hunnert times. This is one of Her Majesty’s colonies and ye’ll speak her tongue when ye’re here, mind!’’
    ‘‘Loop naar de hel, eikel.’’ Guido laughed.
    ‘‘What did he say?’’ Billy asked.
    ‘‘I think eikel means ‘dickhead,’ ’’ said Finn. ‘‘I don’t know about the rest of it.’’
    They took their bags out of the Toyota and Sidney drove off. The two young people climbed up the companionway and stepped onto the main deck. Everything looked exactly the way they’d left it. Briney Hanson, the Hispaniola ’s master, came down from the deck above and they headed into the main lounge amidships. Lloyd Terco appeared, stringy as ever wearing flip-flops and one of his signature wife-beater undershirts. He gave the two a happy smile, welcomed them back, and took their bags down to their cabins.
    The lounge was fitted with built-in couches, a few old leather chairs, and had a Ping-Pong table at one end and a vintage Bally pinball machine and a soft-drink machine at the other. On Billy’s standing order the soft-drink machine only dispensed cans of Kalik beer.
    Hanson guided them to a pair of comfortable club chairs, then sprawled on one of the couches and lit one of his clove-scented cigarettes. The deeply tanned, dark-haired, muscular-looking Dane eyed them curiously.
    ‘‘Your e-mail was pretty vague. Did you find out anything?’’
    ‘‘The Bimini Road,’’ said Billy Pilgrim. He nodded toward Finn. ‘‘Our fearless leader is about to take us into the realm of the supernatural.’’
    ‘‘You’re kidding,’’ sighed Hanson.
    ‘‘Atlantis, actually,’’ Billy said and laughed. ‘‘Which apparently was located about a hundred miles east of Walt Disney World.’’
    ‘‘It figures,’’ said Hanson, sighing again, with feeling.

9
    The old Foxtrot submarine surfaced in the predawn darkness, the jungle coastline of the Yucatán Peninsula a darker shadow on the nighttime horizon barely a mile away. Water streamed from the rounded shoulders of her pale sleek hull as it heaved itself into the air. Bright foam swirled around the conning tower as it broke through the turquoise swell, leaving a phosphorescent scar in the troubled water.
    Enrico Ramirez, Arkady Cruz’s second in command, knocked on the bulkhead beside the curtain over the entrance to the small niche that passed for a cabin on board the Babaloo. Cruz came awake almost instantly.
    ‘‘Yes?’’
    ‘‘We’re here.’’
    ‘‘What time is it?’’
    "O five hundred.’’
    ‘‘How much under the keel?’’
    ‘‘Sixty fathoms, sir.’’
    ‘‘All right.’’ Cruz slipped out of the built-in bunk fully clothed and