Neptune's Garden

By Jeremy Gosnell

Underwater explorer and journalist Eric Rayner hasnt written a word since his wife Sara died almost one year ago. Instead, hes been drowning in self-pity and alcohol since the crash of the Boeing 747 that took Saras life and that of 237 others. A marine biologist, she was traveling to Raja Ampat in Indonesia to study the sea life. It was the sea that cemented Eric and Saras relationship.

Now, Eric only drinks and sleeps. But when Proteus Marine Research contacts him, he is intrigued. Th is mysterious marine research foundation located in Vero Beach, Florida, was founded by sixty-six-year-old Thomas Chandley, a cryptozoologist. Although skeptical, Eric learns about Chandleys unique connection to his late wife, and he agrees to become part of the Neptune project that will explore what might be the lost city of Atlantis.

As Eric fi nds himself once again thrust beneath the surface of the sea in search of adventure among the diverse coral reefs, he learns that the real adventure lies in finding himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450207089

Jeremy Gosnell

Jeremy Gosnell is a lifelong marine aquarist and scuba diver. His diving expeditions and experience with marine animals have given him a unique insight into the fragile ecology of our blue planet. He is a feature author for Tropical Fish Hobbyist Magazine. Gosnell resides in the mountains of Western Maryland.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The waves of desire in the world-ocean are intoxicating wine.

—Sri Guru Granth Sahib

The orange glow of the sun disappeared under the clouds. Soon the clouds that had looked like snow-capped peaks became a dark blanket twinkling with starlight. With that, the easy radiance of the evening was defeated by the darkness of night.

Sara Rayner reached into her bag and rummaged through to find her passport. She flipped it open. Just beyond her many stamped visas was a picture of her husband, Eric. His smiling face looked back at her. Sara closed her eyes and dreamed of the gin-clear waters that awaited her where she would study the sea life around Raja Ampat in Indonesia. But sadness took precedent over excitement. Sara knew she would greatly miss Eric, and they had parted on a sour note. Thousands of miles away, hopping through a gigantic island chain, she had no real way to remedy the argument she and Eric had just before she left.

The Boeing 747 cruised at an altitude of 32,500 feet, gliding across the state of California and out above the open water of Monterey Bay, California. The pilot, Roger Wilstat, and his first officer, Markus Reely, chatted in the cockpit about life as airline pilots and the many adventures and joys of flying they had experienced.

Roger was forty-seven, which was old compared to many airline pilots. He had flown a large reconnaissance plane during the original Gulf War. A hefty oak and glass display in his home served as quarters to the many medals he had earned while flying secret operations in the war. Roger’s greatest accomplishment was landing a C12 transport and recon plane moving at 400 knots onto an aircraft carrier. It wouldn’t have been a great feat if it hadn’t been for the unique fact that three Iraqi scud missiles were hot on his tail as he landed. In an amazing twist of fate, the aircraft carrier’s 50mm machine guns were able to detonate the missiles before they overtook Roger’s plane.

You should have seen it, Mark. You should have fucking seen it. Those bastards were right on my ass. I had seconds, several bloody seconds, and they would have blown me to hell. I’ll never forget it, Roger said as he checked his instrument panel.

Markus Reely, thirty-four, was not a former air force pilot. In fact, he was roughly sixty pounds overweight and under strict review by Continental. They preferred their pilots to be in tip-top physical condition, and Markus was far from that. He preferred a meal to exercise—a fact that he feared, if not remedied, could cost him a very lucrative position with the airline. Markus leaned back in his chair.

This flight feels like it’s taking all night.

It is taking all fucking night, Roger replied. Looking down at the instrument panel, Roger noticed the jet aircraft was cruising at a perfect 525 knots.

Great night for flying, kid, Roger said.

Markus—a deeply religious individual who tried in every possible way to neither swear nor use the Lord’s name in vain—tightened up and nearly corrected Roger’s language, as he almost did each time Roger used the words fuck or shit or any other obscenity with such lack of conviction. On the runway just before a long flight to Italy last year, an air traffic controller had refused to approve Roger for takeoff until an incoming jet had landed. Like this evening, Markus had been the first officer on the flight. The takeoff delay had visibly angered Roger.

Cock-sucking motherfucker! Roger had yelled and slammed his headset down.

You know, Roger, Markus said, I would really prefer you use some more appropriate language.

Fuck off, Reely, you pussy, Roger had shouted back with a laugh.

Markus usually had a difficult time telling if the elder pilot was kidding or seriously angry. Markus anticipating the dinner the flight attendants would soon be serving thought about his recent divorce. Just as his mind drifted away in self-pity, the engine stall light illuminated.

Holy cow, look at that, Markus said.

We have a stall. Roger gasped. Our air position is perfect. Goddamn perfect! Roger yelled.

Neither the pilot nor the first officer realized that two of the Boeing’s engines had failed. One was so disrupted, it was about to explode. As the pilots scrambled to determine the cause of the engine stall, one of the seized engines erupted in an enormous outburst of flame.

The aircraft’s pitch changed abruptly, and the nose pointed downward.

Oh, God, Markus yelled.

Christ! Roger shouted. The fucking bird is falling apart!

Sara Rayner woke to a loud rumble. The plane shook violently, and as she looked around, she could feel the panic of her fellow passengers. A bright yellow oxygen mask shook before her eyes, and her ears began to ache. The cabin pressure changed, rising sharply. Sara’s ears became tight, pinching almost like her eardrums would explode. Then suddenly the pressure dropped, and a loud pop attacked Sara’s ears. Piercing screams erupted as passengers cried out. Some had been injured by the violent and turbulent shaking of the aircraft.

As Sara looked around, the sound of crunching metal and the high-pitched wail of the surrounding air pressure filled her ears. Voices sounded in unison, reciting the Lord’s Prayer as the aircraft continued to twitch and jerk above the sea. A large roar of one of the stalled engines exploding drowned out the passenger’s voices. A bright mosaic of flame filled Sara’s eyes as heat trace from the flame’s center blurred her vision. The sudden explosion warmed Sara’s face, and for just one moment, the shimmering flames and gentle heat soothed her.

She pushed the oxygen mask away as her left eardrum ruptured. Vertigo set in. Her equilibrium failed as the left wing of the aircraft tore off. The airflow pattern over the wing had changed after the engine explosion. The combination of hot flames and intense airflow had caused the compromised wing to release, taking part of the cabin’s hull with it.

Fluid ran from Sara’s ruptured eardrum as she watched her fellow passengers get sucked from their seats, one by one. Soon Sara would join them in the deep and cold waters of Monterey Bay, California.

Chapter 2

A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets.

—Gloria Stuart

Sara! Sara! Eric Rayner jumped from his bed, dripping with sweat.

A horrifying dream had woken him from a deep sleep. During the terror, Eric had witnessed his wife of seven years, Sara Rayner, ripped from a Boeing 747 as it crash-landed in the ocean just outside of Monterey Bay, California.

Eric felt the bedside for his wife. The bedside was empty—a stark reminder to a blunt truth. Just shy of one year earlier, Sara Rayner had been killed in a tragic aircraft accident. At 8:27 pm that fateful night, on its way from Seattle, Washington, to Hawaii, Continental Flight 2667 had sent an automated message to air traffic controllers in Monterey Bay, California. The message was simple: two of the aircraft’s four engines had failed. At 8:32 pm, the failed engine on the left wing exploded and torn away, taking a portion of the hull along with it. This caused an immense pressure change within the cabin, and the incredible speed of the aircraft compiled with the pressure at 29,000 feet tore passengers from their seats and into the open California air.

Eric’s wife had likely been ripped into multiple pieces long before she reached the waters of Monterey Bay. But the plane had never been found. Eric had received a letter from the United States Coast Guard:

Mr. Eric Rayner,

We have used the best technology available to us today in hopes of locating Flight 2667, the flight your wife, Dr. Sara Rayner, was aboard. Even utilizing the latest advancements in sonar imaging and underwater exploration technology, we are unable to locate any remnants associated with Flight 2667. The Pacific Ocean off of Monterey Bay, California, is known for extreme depth and hostile conditions. We believe that the conditions compiled with depth have created a situation where wreckage from the flight is simply unattainable. While we will continue our search for Flight 2667, as of this time, we have not found any debris associated with it. We are confident that none of the 238 passengers aboard Flight 2667 have survived, and we have ceased any efforts to locate survivors of this terrible tragedy.

With Sympathy,

Robert C. Conrad

United States Coast Guard

Marriage to Sara had been nearly like marriage to a Hollywood star.