collector. My name is Steve Stanton. I want to hire your boat.”
Jeff looked at Cooper. Cooper knew what his partner was thinking — this kid certainly wasn’t the type who worked in the marine construction and salvage industry. Cooper shrugged.
Jeff offered his hand. “Jeff Brockman.” The kid shook the hand, winced a little at Jeff’s overzealous grip.
“Ah, sorry,” Jeff said. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength, know what I mean? This is my partner, Cooper Mitchell.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cooper said, shaking the kid’s hand. “What kind of work do you need?”
Stanton adjusted his computer bag. It was so heavy he had to lean to the side a little to balance himself.
“My boss is looking for Northwest Airlines Flight 2501.”
Cooper felt a spark of excitement, of hope — if this kid was some kind of treasure hunter, he might have money for the job. No one was going to find Flight 2501, but that didn’t matter if he could write a check that wouldn’t bounce.
“It went down in 1950 over Lake Michigan,” Stanton said. “It was a DC-4, flying from New York to Minneapolis, had to—”
“Reroute due to weather,” Jeff finished. “We’re familiar. Fifty-eight people died, worst crash in American history at the time, blah-blah-blah, and so on and so forth. It’s the Flying Dutchman of the Great Lakes. No one has found the wreckage.”
Steve looked surprised that Jeff knew about the disaster. If this kid thought he’d discovered something unique, he didn’t know a damn thing about the Lakes culture.
“No, no one found the wreckage,” he said. “Or the bodies.”
Jeff smiled and looked to the ceiling. This wasn’t his overeager
whatever it takes to win your business
smile, but rather his
I smell bullshit and you’re wasting my time
smile. Cooper wanted to strangle his friend:
just play along, you idiot
.
“Got news for you,” Jeff said. “After all this time, there ain’t gonna
be
no bodies.”
Steve Stanton laughed, the sound short and choppy, overly loud. “That’s the point,” he said. “That’s why the insurance companies never paid out to the families of the crash victims, because no bodies were found.”
This was a play for insurance money?
Cooper’s hope sparked higher. “You don’t look like a lawyer, Mister Stanton.”
“I’m not, but my boss is,” Steve said. “He’s gathered a bunch of descendants together and is ready to file a
huge
lawsuit on their behalf. All kinds of compound interest and stuff, it’s gonna be
mad
stacks.”
Mad stacks? Cooper looked at Jeff. Jeff shrugged: he didn’t know what it meant either.
“Money,” the kid said. “A
lot
of money.”
That
Cooper understood.
“But Northwest isn’t even around anymore.”
Steve nodded. “No. Delta is, though. They bought out Northwest, and they’ve got deep pockets.”
Jeff ran his fingers through his hair, lifted it, let the heavy strands drop down a few at a time.
“People have been looking for 2501 for decades,” he said. “
Experts
, people who make me look like I know nothing, and trust me, buddy, I know a
lot
. Besides … if it’s in the deep water, like below three hundred feet, we just don’t have the equipment for that.”
Cooper felt a pain in his jaw — he was grinding his teeth together. Couldn’t Jeff just be a
little
dishonest for once?
Steve Stanton smiled. “I don’t need you to find it, or go down and get it.I’m an engineer. I designed a remotely operated vehicle that can cover a lot of ground faster and better than anything that came before it. You guys take me out for a few days, maybe a week, we let the ROV survey the bottom for a few days, see if we get lucky and make my boss happy.”
Jeff sighed, crossed his arms. He tilted his head a little to the right, an expression Cooper knew all too well. Jeff was about to show Stanton the door. Cooper had to do something, fast, something that would change Jeff’s mind.
“It would be
Jeff looked at Cooper. Cooper knew what his partner was thinking — this kid certainly wasn’t the type who worked in the marine construction and salvage industry. Cooper shrugged.
Jeff offered his hand. “Jeff Brockman.” The kid shook the hand, winced a little at Jeff’s overzealous grip.
“Ah, sorry,” Jeff said. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength, know what I mean? This is my partner, Cooper Mitchell.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cooper said, shaking the kid’s hand. “What kind of work do you need?”
Stanton adjusted his computer bag. It was so heavy he had to lean to the side a little to balance himself.
“My boss is looking for Northwest Airlines Flight 2501.”
Cooper felt a spark of excitement, of hope — if this kid was some kind of treasure hunter, he might have money for the job. No one was going to find Flight 2501, but that didn’t matter if he could write a check that wouldn’t bounce.
“It went down in 1950 over Lake Michigan,” Stanton said. “It was a DC-4, flying from New York to Minneapolis, had to—”
“Reroute due to weather,” Jeff finished. “We’re familiar. Fifty-eight people died, worst crash in American history at the time, blah-blah-blah, and so on and so forth. It’s the Flying Dutchman of the Great Lakes. No one has found the wreckage.”
Steve looked surprised that Jeff knew about the disaster. If this kid thought he’d discovered something unique, he didn’t know a damn thing about the Lakes culture.
“No, no one found the wreckage,” he said. “Or the bodies.”
Jeff smiled and looked to the ceiling. This wasn’t his overeager
whatever it takes to win your business
smile, but rather his
I smell bullshit and you’re wasting my time
smile. Cooper wanted to strangle his friend:
just play along, you idiot
.
“Got news for you,” Jeff said. “After all this time, there ain’t gonna
be
no bodies.”
Steve Stanton laughed, the sound short and choppy, overly loud. “That’s the point,” he said. “That’s why the insurance companies never paid out to the families of the crash victims, because no bodies were found.”
This was a play for insurance money?
Cooper’s hope sparked higher. “You don’t look like a lawyer, Mister Stanton.”
“I’m not, but my boss is,” Steve said. “He’s gathered a bunch of descendants together and is ready to file a
huge
lawsuit on their behalf. All kinds of compound interest and stuff, it’s gonna be
mad
stacks.”
Mad stacks? Cooper looked at Jeff. Jeff shrugged: he didn’t know what it meant either.
“Money,” the kid said. “A
lot
of money.”
That
Cooper understood.
“But Northwest isn’t even around anymore.”
Steve nodded. “No. Delta is, though. They bought out Northwest, and they’ve got deep pockets.”
Jeff ran his fingers through his hair, lifted it, let the heavy strands drop down a few at a time.
“People have been looking for 2501 for decades,” he said. “
Experts
, people who make me look like I know nothing, and trust me, buddy, I know a
lot
. Besides … if it’s in the deep water, like below three hundred feet, we just don’t have the equipment for that.”
Cooper felt a pain in his jaw — he was grinding his teeth together. Couldn’t Jeff just be a
little
dishonest for once?
Steve Stanton smiled. “I don’t need you to find it, or go down and get it.I’m an engineer. I designed a remotely operated vehicle that can cover a lot of ground faster and better than anything that came before it. You guys take me out for a few days, maybe a week, we let the ROV survey the bottom for a few days, see if we get lucky and make my boss happy.”
Jeff sighed, crossed his arms. He tilted his head a little to the right, an expression Cooper knew all too well. Jeff was about to show Stanton the door. Cooper had to do something, fast, something that would change Jeff’s mind.
“It would be
Similar Books
