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ancient ship. “What did you tell me when we first saw the ground-penetrating sonar scan?”
    â€œI said the wreck was a Carthaginian ship,” Kurt recalled. “And you put your money on it being a Roman galley—which, to my great consternation, has been proven correct by all the artifacts we’ve recovered.”
    â€œBut what if I was only fifty percent right?”
    â€œThen I’d say you’re doing better than normal.”
    Joe laughed again and turned toward Michelle. “Show him what we’ve found.”
    She waved Kurt over and directed her lights down into the excavated section. There, a long, pointed spike that was the bow ram of the Roman galley was clearly entangled with another type of wood. Where she and Joe had excavated the sand, Kurt could see the broken hull of a second vessel.
    â€œWhat am I looking at?” Kurt asked.
    â€œThat, my friend, is a
corvus,
” Joe said.
    The word meant
raven
, and the ancient iron spike looked enough like the sharp beak of a bird that Kurt could imagine where the name had come from.
    â€œIn case you forgot your history,” Joe continued, “the Romans were poor sailors. Far outclassed by the Carthaginians. But they were better soldiers and they found a way to turn this to theiradvantage: by ramming their enemies, slamming this iron beak into the boat’s hull and using a swinging bridge to board their opponent’s vessels. With this tactic, they turned every confrontation at sea into a close-quarters battle of hand-to-hand combat.”
    â€œSo there are two ships here?”
    Joe nodded. “A Roman trireme and a Carthaginian vessel, still held together by the
corvus
. This is a battle scene from two thousand years ago all but frozen in time.”
    Kurt marveled at the discovery. “How did they sink like this?”
    â€œThe stress of the collision probably cracked their hulls,” Joe guessed. The Romans must have been unable to release the
corvus
as their ships foundered. They went down arm in arm, linked together for all eternity.”
    â€œWhich means we’re both right,” Kurt said. “Guess you won’t be paying me that dollar after all.”
    â€œA dollar?” This came from Michelle. “You two have been going on and on about this bet for a month all over one measly dollar?”
    â€œIt’s really more about bragging rights,” Kurt said.
    â€œPlus, he keeps docking my pay,” Joe said. “So that’s all I can afford to wager.”
    â€œYou’re both incorrigible,” she said.
    Kurt would have agreed with that statement proudly, but he didn’t get the chance because a different voice came through the intercom system and interrupted him.
    A readout on the helmet-mounted display confirmed the transmission was coming in from the
Sea Dragon
up on the surface. A little padlocked symbol with his name and Joe’s beside it told Kurt the call was being patched through to them only.
    â€œKurt, this is Gary,” the voice said. “You and Zavala reading me okay?”
    Gary Reynolds was the
Sea Dragon
’s skipper.
    â€œLoud and clear,” Kurt said. “I see you’ve got us on a private channel. Is something wrong?”
    â€œAfraid so. We’ve picked up a distress call. And I’m not sure how to respond.”
    â€œWhy is that?” Kurt asked.
    â€œBecause the call isn’t coming from a vessel,” Reynolds said. “It’s coming from Lampedusa.”
    â€œFrom the island?”
    Lampedusa was a small island with a population of five thousand. It was Italian territory, but was actually closer to Libya than to the southern tip of Sicily. The
Sea Dragon
had docked there for one night each week, picking up supplies and refueling, before heading back out to hold station over the wreck site. Even now, there were five members of NUMA onshore, handling the logistics and cataloging the artifacts recovered