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bars and trunks full of gold and silver coins.”
    The doc nodded, as if pleased that his student was learning. “And there were passengers, as well. Some of them extremely wealthy. The hurricane season was past. They thought they were safe. Then, when they were halfway between Jamaica and the now-Honduran coast, a freak storm came up. Two of the ships pressed on to safe harbor in Jamaica, one made it back to Cartagena, but four of the ships went down.”
    He flicked a glance toward the blue-green sea outside the window. “Hundreds of millions in treasure was lost, and thirteen hundred passengers drowned in the violent seas off the treacherous Serranilla Banks.”
    He turned back to Conn and a faint smile curved his lips. “At least that is what most of the academic community believes.” Marlin was an archeologist, an expert on the Spanish treasure fleets that sailed from Spain in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Conn had heard this recitation before, but it never seemed to bore him.
    He took a sip of his coffee, then grimaced at the bitter taste of the hours-old brew. “According to the history books, most people think all four ships were lost in the shallows, but you think one of them—the Nuestra Señora de Rosa —was making for Jamaica when she was blown off course. Your theory is she survived as far as what was then called Isla Tormenta, and went down on the reefs around the island.”
    “Exactly. Which brings us to the point of your visit. You want to know if the ship could have gone down somewhere along the southern shore instead of on the reef to the north.”
    “I’m concerned that it might be possible, and if it is, we might be looking in the wrong place.”
    The professor leaned over the map and pointed to the tiny speck of land lying south of Jamaica. The Spanish had called it Isla Tormenta —Storm Island. Eddie Markham, its latest owner, had renamed the place Pleasure Island to give it a better image.
    “You’re discouraged because the reef is so thick,” Doc Marlin went on. “You think it could be hiding the ship and you might never find it.”
    “It seems like a good possibility. We’ve been out there for weeks and haven’t found a thing. I was thinking maybe we’d do some side-scanning along the southern shoreline.”
    “I think you should stick with the reefs a while longer. Leasing a boat the size of the Conquest isn’t cheap. We need to make the most of the time we have use of it.”
    “We aren’t paying for the boat—Brad Talbot is. And he doesn’t seem overly concerned with the cost. But you’re right. We need to concentrate our efforts where they’ll most likely be rewarded. For now, we’ll stay near the reef.”
    “Maybe you’ll pick up a signal from one of the cannons or maybe an anchor.” He was talking about the magnetometer, a device that could detect undersea metal objects. So far it had only found a couple of rusting oil drums.
    “Yeah, maybe we’ll get lucky. Thanks, Doc. I’d better get going. I need to catch that plane heading back to the island.”
    “Call if you need anything else.”
    Conn just nodded.
    As he left the office, he reached into the pocket of his khaki shorts and pulled out the single gold coin that was his good-luck piece. He had been managing a dive school on Key West but visiting a friend, diving off a place just north of Vero Beach, when he had found the coin. A couple of galleons had gone down in the area, his best friend, Joe Ramirez, had told him, and occasionally after a storm, artifacts turned up.
    Joe was one of the guys on his former Navy SEAL team, a Cuban-American, the cliché of a hot-tempered Latino, but bigger than most. Both of them had left the SEALs some years back but were using their diving skills to make a living.
    When the coin turned up, Joe had been nearly as excited as Conn. And both of them were determined to discover which ship it had come from.
    “I know this guy,” Joe had said. “My archeology professor