66 Metres

by J. F. Kirwan

  The hut at fifty, where he’d left the pony – that was his destination. But he chased after the larger tank, looking for the bubble-stream – his own tank would be empty imminently, and the pony wouldn’t last long at depth. By descending again he was going way off the deco-tables, but decompression sickness was preferable to what the SEALs would do to him. Besides, it bought Nadia time, and she was resourceful.

  Legs locked together, he dolphin-kicked hard, holding his breath, the speed of his descent pressing his facemask back against his forehead and cheekbones. For a moment he lost the stream of bubbles from the tank and slowed, circling to find them, then continued downwards. Whoever had dropped the tanks had tried to make it land on the Tsuba, and as he passed the wreck’s funnel he saw a familiar grey cylinder lodged against one of the shed-like structures on the ship’s aft section. As soon as he reached it he shut off the valve. There was no way of knowing how much air was in it, but a diver never wastes air, and the valve had only been cracked open a quarter of a turn, so he reckoned it was at least half full. Anchoring himself by placing the ends of his fins on the sloping deck, he picked it up, still barely breathing – determined to leave no trail for the SEALs – and swam to the open hatch where he’d left the pony. He entered the wreck.

  He’d been inside this part of the Tsuba twice before, but years ago, so he didn’t remember it too well. Rather than switching on his torch, he reached into his stab jacket pocket and took out a thin plastic tube the size of a cigar, and bent it till the mid-section snapped open. The light-stick began to glow a dull fluorescent green, casting a ghoulish light on his surroundings: a corridor straight ahead and up, then a staircase leading deeper into the ship. He took a short breath and headed in.

  At the foot of the rusted metal stairs was a square room, algae-encrusted pipes lining floor and ceiling. The room had a single opening at the lower end – too small to get through with all his gear on – and at the other end a sealed hatch. First things first – air – since his main tank would be empty soon. But it was hard to think. The inevitable narcosis made his brain feel like a sponge soaked in rum. Concentrate! Three tanks: one ten-litre half-full, one nearly empty, and the smaller three-litre pony cylinder. Two SEALs. What to do?

  His brain wasn’t co-operating. It was like staring at words, unable to decipher their meaning. On the surface he could work it out in an instant. A light flickered above, and he knew he’d run out of time. Clearly the SEALs had a detector and the locator code for the Rose, even though it only worked over a limited distance. He swam to the hatch, tried to heave it open. Rusted solid. Light beams danced around the bottom of the stairs. He swam back to the smaller hole at the lower end of the chamber, and dropped the pony bottle, with its regulator attached, straight through. He heard a clunk two seconds later.

  As he turned around the first SEAL appeared. Nice rebreather kit, he had to admit; serious, professional. Jake pulled out his diver’s knife – Sean’s knife – and faced him. But the SEAL aimed a spear-gun at him, and gestured for him to drop the knife, just as the second SEAL arrived, squeezing in next to his comrade. Jake knew he might be dead either way, so he turned his back and went to the opening, and shoved the Rose, inside its bag, through the hole. He heard it hit bottom.

  He expected to be speared at any moment, but the two SEALs stayed put, one of them nodding to the knife still clasped in Jake’s hand. Their eyes looked clear, alert, whereas he knew his own would appear groggy, half-closed and bloodshot. He let the knife slide from his grasp. One of the SEALs handed his spear-gun to the other, then approached Jake, his own knife drawn, and pushed past him to the opening. He shone a torch into it, then grabbed Jake’s stab jacket, and began unbuckling it. He then backed away, pointed to the hole, then to Jake.

  It took Jake a few seconds to understand. Two spear-guns. Two options. Retrieve the Rose, or be killed here and now, after which one of them would go and fetch it. Reluctantly he slipped out of his stab jacket and let the whole ensemble, stab and tank, drop to the floor, but he kept the regulator in his mouth. He felt naked. He checked his air gauge – thirty bar. At this depth, it would last a few minutes, tops.

  Unbuckling the tank from the stab’s harness, he turned, relishing each breath, and faced the dark hole. It looked like a giant letter box. The only way in was to put the tank through first, then follow it. Without his stab jacket he’d sink easily, especially carrying the tank, and finning back up to the hole would be difficult. He pointed to the other tank lying on the floor, the half-full one. The SEALs both shook their heads.

  So, that was how it was.

  Clambering through the hole, tank first, Jake fell rather than swam down, the regulator mouthpiece tugging against his teeth. After five metres, during which he felt as if he’d just downed two pints, he hit the metal floor. The SEALs must be shining their torches downwards, as he could see everything lit up in stark twilight, small clouds of silt puffed up from the floor where he’d landed. A completely sealed room, no other way out, but there was a tall metal cupboard, mesh doors hanging off their hinges. He found the bag and could see the Rose inside, blinking innocently next to his pony bottle. He stood over the pony as he fished out the Rose, so they couldn’t see what he was doing, and moved the pony and regulator into the cupboard, along with the bag, then turned to face the two torch beams.

  He kicked hard, causing a cloud of silt to mushroom up from the floor, kicked a few more times, then launched upwards, finning furiously to climb back up to the letter box, cradling the almost-empty tank in his left arm. He passed the Rose through to one of the SEALs, then held onto the lip of the hole, and heaved his tank through, sure it would give out at any moment.

  Jake expected the worst. He wasn’t disappointed. They yanked the tank from him, tore the regulator from his mouth, and then he saw the tip of a spear-gun right in front of his facemask. He pushed sideways with his left arm against the opening, just as the SEAL fired. White-hot pain lanced through Jake’s shoulder. He spiralled down into the cloud of silt, banging his other shoulder against the bulkhead. Another spear phished past him, slashing his wetsuit, cutting his thigh, but that was minor, a flesh wound. The torch beams were scattered by the silt, two suns trying to break through cloud. Good, they couldn’t see. Come and get me.

  He landed in darkness, knew they would be reloading, so clawed his way to the cupboard, groped desperately for the pony’s regulator, and found it. He gasped in air, but breathed out carefully, into the top of the cupboard, so the bubbles were trapped there. The torch lights continued to hunt him, but Jake knew the silt would take ten minutes to settle. Two more spears shot down, one clanging into the floor, the other striking the top of the cupboard. The beams waved some more, then it darkened. He heard a loud hiss from up above. They were emptying both his tanks.

  Bastards.

  Jake squeezed his eyes shut, dared to touch the short metal shaft sticking out of his shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It wasn’t in too deep – the spear’s momentum had been slowed by his neoprene wetsuit – but he had no intention of ripping his shoulder wide open trying to extract it.

  It grew dark again, and he heard clangs as the SEALs departed, leaving him to die. He slumped down inside the cupboard, and breathed heavily from the pony. It wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t matter. This was it. He’d been beaten. He’d finally join Sean. Not the way he’d intended.

  The pain burned. He was losing blood. Where was nitrogen narcosis, or for that matter, oxygen poisoning, when he really needed it. He sucked in a few more breaths, knowing these were his last. He wondered what Sean would say. But he already knew what his son would say. Dad, get the fuck up! That’s what he’d say. Nadia and the others are on the surface depending on you. You weren’t there when I most needed you, you’d better be there for them!

  His eyes blurry, Jake staggered out of the cupboard. He released his weight-belt and lowered it to the floor. He found the bag he’d used to carry the Rose, and breathed out into it, then sw
am a few strokes upwards, carrying the pony, his teeth clamping down on the pain from his shoulder. When he got through the entrance, he found Sean’s knife and sheathed it. Each time he breathed out, he did so into the bag, creating a small balloon.

  Drunk with pain, he made his way outside the ship, and stood for a moment on the deck. What are you waiting for? Sean said.

  Jake kicked off, hanging from the homemade balloon that billowed as he ascended, and as the water pressure reduced, the bag began to lift him. He could almost feel the nitrogen flashing out of his bloodstream, forming small bubbles, searching for his joints, his heart, his brain. Just another way to die underwater. At thirty metres the pony resisted his in-breath. Sudden, though not unexpected. He was out of air. Forget about it. Every diving instructor knew the physics. From here on the air in his lungs would expand, and he wouldn’t need to breathe in, just breathe out, as if whistling, and by ten metres, he’d need to exhale in one long continuous scream. That would come easy. He let go of the pony bottle, withdrew Sean’s knife, tilted his head back, and began the long exhale.

  ***

  Nadia hung from the underside of Pete’s boat, ten metres down a line of nylon rope at the first tank, the second one stationed higher, at five metres. Her legs cradled the steel cylinder, her head angled backwards to gaze towards the surface through the cascade of expanding exhaust bubbles. It was still choppy up there. The rope alternately tugged her up and down, rocking her like a manic yo-yo. Occasionally a more savage yank made her grip the tank harder with her knees.

  At least she had plenty of air now, as she breathed from the hang-tank, twenty bar left in the one on her back. She closed her eyes and thought of Jake down below, where every sliver of oxygen would count. Could she go back down after him? No. She’d never find him, and with the SEALs down there, and the narcosis that would return as soon as she descended, it would just get complicated. No, focus on the surface, act before they return. Right now his job was down there, hers was on the surface.

  First she had to decompress a little, or risk being incapacitated. Five more minutes. Her computer demanded fifteen, but dive computers were conservative by design to protect their makers from being sued, and the algorithms were for average divers from a large age range and variable states of fitness. She’d been taught using Russian Navy tables, based on fit eighteen-year-old sailors diving in freezing Siberian lakes. Five minutes was tight, but she couldn’t wait any longer. Once the SEALs were up, she’d be outmanoeuvred. She knew what she had to do. Breathe deep, flush the nitrogen out of her blood and back into her lungs. She concentrated on that, while the boat rocked her like bait on a fishing line.

  Her mind was clear. The narcosis during the deep search, only minutes ago, seemed like yesterday’s nightmare. But it wasn’t over for Jake. At least she hoped it wasn’t.

  A whirring noise made Nadia open her eyes. The second boat swirled into view: sleek grey hull, two black props spinning in the water. After a while it backed away a little. Whoever it was knew a diver was down there, could see the spreading patch of her bubbles on the surface. But she couldn’t see anything topside, the waves were still too big, white foam from the surf distorting everything. No bodies in the water, not yet at any rate. And a bullet wouldn’t even scratch her through five metres of water, let alone ten.

  But Jake was still down there with the Rose, two SEALs on his tail. A chill raked down her spine. Who was she kidding? They’d kill him. Her breathing sped up. They’d kill Jake. Her head swam. Fuck. She unhooked her legs from the tank, held onto the line with one hand, and gazed downwards, her teeth grinding on the regulator mouthpiece. How many would end up dead for Katya? Janssen and Danton deserved it, sure, but Jake? Pete and the others topside?

  She squinted down into the blue, tried to see, wondered what struggle was going on down there. A savage yank wrenched her shoulder, nearly dislodging her. Pull yourself together. You’re no use to anyone thinking like this. Store it for later. Better still, channel it. And then it hit her. She knew what she had to do.

  It was Adamson up there. Had to be. He and the SEALs would kill everyone else. So… she had to kill Adamson. Not aim to wound him, like Janssen, not have someone else do it for her, like with Danton. No, this one was down to her. What Jake and the others needed right now was a cold-blooded killer on their side. Time to embrace her destiny. Her breathing slowed, and she gazed upwards.

  The second boat patrolled the surface, monitoring her bubbles, watching Pete’s boat, probably training a gun on them. If it was Adamson, he was smart enough to make sure they got rid of her Beretta and the flare gun, so her going up would just make it easier for him.

  What could she do? If she surfaced, he’d probably shoot her outright. She stared at the fibreglass hull of Adamson’s boat. Her knife wouldn’t penetrate it. She could puncture one of the tubes, but the boat would still stay afloat, and Adamson could shoot her in the head through a couple of feet of water. Her gaze drifted towards the back of his RIB: the two props, fizzing into action every ten seconds or so. Of course.

  Nadia pulled out her short knife, swapped back to her own regulator, and finned a little, sliding up the line towards the next tank at five metres, letting out air from her jacket so as not to overshoot. Adamson gunned the engines and approached, her spreading puddle of bubbles on the surface no doubt announcing her ascent. When she reached the upper tank, she started sawing away at the line holding the deeper one in place. The nylon rope was bundled fibre, but slowly she sliced through each strand until there was just one left. She looped the rope around her left hand – the last thing she wanted to do was drop it – then cut through the final fibre. It snapped and immediately tugged her downward, head first. Cursing, because she had no free hand, she fumbled for her inflate button as she sank fast. She reached it and activated it, and almost dropped her knife in the process.

  Regaining neutral buoyancy at around ten metres, she watched Adamson’s boat circling, probably wondering what was going on. Then she heard the dulled crack of a gunshot. What had just happened? She imagined he’d just shot Pete, though she couldn’t think why. And then she heard a new sound, another boat’s engines approaching, fast. Adamson’s boat – if that’s whose boat it was – stopped, facing Pete’s. She had to cripple Adamson’s boat, snag his propellers with the line and tank. The props probably had a slip clutch, so she couldn’t hope the tank would actually explode – but fouling the props might be enough to let the others escape.

  Nadia finned hard towards the back of Adamson’s boat, straight towards the propellers. If she misjudged it, or if Adamson suddenly moved the boat, she’d be chopped to ribbons. Another gunshot. Nadia pulled a stretch of the rope wide between her two outstretched hands – the tank still attached – and spun around so she was on her back, facing the hull, and kicked hard again.

  As she neared the props, she heard the unmistakeable clunk of Adamson slamming the boat into gear, and Nadia found herself inside an underwater cloud of froth harbouring two whirring blades of steel, the noise deafening in her ears. Arms stretched upwards, she held her breath, ready to let go of the rope as soon as the one of the propellers caught the line.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lazarus sighted the two boats through his binoculars. The image kept jogging up and down, and he had to pause every few seconds to keep an eye on Ben, who gazed straight ahead, punching the flame-coloured speedboat through wave after wave. It was difficult to see the other two dive boats clearly, because the Dragonfly kept pitching up and down, the prop occasionally spinning manically as it lifted out of the water. Lazarus was seated, not about to stand up and give Ben the opportunity to pitch him overboard with a sudden flick of the steering wheel. And so the scene ahead came to him in flashes he slowly pieced together.

  Adamson stood alone in the furthest boat, in a black trench coat, occasionally circling the other RIB which had three men in it and appeared to be moored. Which meant the SEALs were down below. Nadia wasn’t aboard either boat. So
, the Rose hadn’t been brought up to the surface. If it had, by now there would be blood in the water, fewer men standing.

  ‘Aim for the boat with three men in it,’ he shouted to Ben.

  ‘That would be my brother’s boat,’ Ben shouted back.

  Lazarus didn’t reply. Tactics. Right now it was him versus Adamson. But once the SEALs surfaced, the arithmetic would stack up against him.

  ‘Call your friends,’ he said.

  Ben picked up the receiver. ‘Subsea Divers, Subsea Divers, Subsea Divers, this is Dragonfly. Over.’

  He tried two more times. No answer. Lazarus watched the three men, and as far as he could see none of them moved, which meant their radio was disabled.

  ‘I want you to appear to ram Subsea Divers.’

  Ben craned his neck a moment to stare at Lazarus.

  ‘The key word is appear, Ben. At the last second, you’re going to make a sharp left turn, followed by a sharp right.’

  Ben continued staring at Lazarus, hands firm on the wheel. Lazarus noted that their course didn’t deviate a notch. Ben could probably pilot this boat blindfolded. They surfed down a steeper wave than normal, then hit the side of the rising crest, sending a curtain of spray over them both. The seawater burned Lazarus’ eyes but he didn’t wipe them, because Ben didn’t.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ Ben asked.

  ‘On the second turn I’m going to shoot the one holding your friends, and save the lives of the two divers in the water from the SEALs.’

  Ben narrowed his stare, then turned back to the front. He ramped up the speed. The Dragonfly surged forward. Lazarus put the binoculars away into a large, soggy pocket, and studied the inside of the boat. Spartan, very little gear or furniture. This wasn’t a RIB, this was a speedboat, narrower, with a deep ‘V’ feel to it. It had taken water throughout the trip, but a bilge pump on each side kept flushing it out the back, behind the black engine housing.