Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

was already running, sending air through the hose to the gooseneck fittings at the back of the helmets. With two thumbs down reciprocated from the tenders on deck, the divers stepped backwards into the sea and sank like stones. The tenders watched them descend in a torrent of bubbles, and then returned their eyes to the horizon, scouting for Japanese planes or ships.

The pneumofathometer on the compressor’s panel showing the divers’ depth went past 300 feet, the accepted limit of what could be safely dived while breathing air, and kept dropping. It stopped at 348 feet. The tenders held tight to the divers’ safety ropes and ensured that the air and communication lines didn’t get fouled on the Drake’s stanchions.

“I’ve lost communications, sir!” shouted the young seaman manning the two-way telephone. “I’m only getting static. Should we bring them up?” It had been only six minutes since the divers went into the water.

“Leave them another few minutes,” the Naval Intelligence officer replied calmly. “If they get into trouble, they know the rope signals.” The tenders manning the safety lines looked at each other but stayed quiet. Unbeknownst to them, 350 feet below, one of the divers was in trouble.

Stanwick had landed directly on the upturned hull of the sunken Vampire. His lead boots were better suited for walking on the sea floor than on the rounded, smooth hull of a sunken ship and he scrabbled for footing. With a gloved hand, he gripped a railing on the edge of the hull and tugged on it to steady himself. This forced him off balance and he fell to his knees, straining to stay upright.

It was vital when wearing these positive pressure helmets to remain vertical or else they would fill with water. Stanwick was panting with exertion and with each breath, he was pulling in lungfuls of toxic, compressed oxygen. Where was Rausing? Through the tiny porthole, his eyes searched the gloomy darkness for his partner. But he was nowhere in sight.

Angus Rausing had landed forward of the ship’s superstructure, touching down almost directly on a searchlight near the starboard railing. The ship was in eerily good condition. The grey paint reflected back his torchlight and he could see that most of the windows on the pilothouse remained intact. Bubbles emanated from the wreck’s bowels, even one week after her sinking. But there was no time to take in the scenery. Rausing knew from the engineering sketches he’d been shown that their target was aft of his current position by at least 20 yards. He had to make his way back along the wreck, no easy feat in his lead boots and heavy suit. He took pains to control his pace and breathing so as not to become hypoxic. The cold of the deep ocean penetrated his suit and woolen undergarments and the sweat on his back from his time at the surface began to chill him.

When Rausing got to Stanwick, the Newcastle man had already blacked out and was lying on his side, his helmet full of water. Rausing called into his helmet’s telephone transceiver, but got back only static. He then tried to right Stanwick and purge the helmet, but he was aware of his own exertion and knew there was little he could do to revive Stanwick. He thought about giving the “four tugs” signal on Wick’s rope so the tenders could start to pull him up, but then decided not to. They might also pull him up, and he still had a chance to find his target and that was his strict instruction. Official secrets and all. No hope for Wick anyway, he coldly thought. Might as well get on with the job.

In the dim yellow cone of his dive torch, he left Wick behind and made his way across the now vertical rear deck of the stricken destroyer to the bulkhead door leading into the bomb room. Everything not attached to the deck now lay below him on the sea floor. Rausing wondered if he would see any dead bodies. Probably not, he guessed. With only nine lost in the sinking, he doubted any would be this far back, in the bomb room, during an aerial attack.

Visualizing the ship’s layout, he easily found the bomb room. Entering meant shimmying in sideways but once inside, he easily walked on what used to be the wall until it opened up into the large space. The sinking had sent the contents of the room down against the upturned inner wall at the far end of the room. In the dim light of his torch, he saw spilled racks of depth charges, crates of 105-millimeter shells and an arsenal of rifles scattered among other debris. He made mental notes of what he saw to report back to the Naval Intelligence man on the Drake. There must be something more important in here, he thought. Then he saw it. In the corner was the largest bomb he’d ever seen. It was at least ten feet long, with a bulbous nose and telltale fins at the back. This was no torpedo. This was meant to be dropped from a plane. This is what I’ve been sent for. No doubt there would be a second dive to retrieve the bomb, but without Wick and no other divers on board the Drake, could he do it alone?

Just then, his torch flickered and died. Flooded, no doubt, he calmly thought. Rausing found himself in complete blackness. He slowly backpedaled, retracing his steps up the corridor to the outside hatch. The dimmest of ambient light guided him. He didn’t panic. He’d been here before, inside a wreck, in the dark. But unlike the old wrecks he dived in Scotland, this one was newly sunk and there was no silt to kick up and obscure his vision and by pulling on his own air hose he was able to climb back out on to the tilted deck of the Vampire.

Somewhere in the dark in front of him