Per Fine Ounce
Page 11
Before departing Johannesburg, he had been given access to all the most up to date information available from British Intelligence sources. The South African Air Force had not immediately disclosed the reason for the Transall aircraft being in this area, and he could imagine the consternation behind the scenes, aware that this clandestine flight had not been known to all the top brass in the Air Force. Somebody had to have a damn lot of explaining to do. Finally, it was leaked that it was a maritime reconnaissance flight — the Air Force using Hercules C130s, DC3s and Transalls for this purpose since their old British Avro Shackletons were redundant. South Africa was unable to replace her naval reconnaissance aircraft as the country was still subject to an arms embargo, and replacement reconnaissance aircraft were not accessible. This explanation was eventually accepted by all. He, as well as the British and American Intelligence services, knew it to be a blatant lie — the Transall flight had been on no recon mission.
After the mid-air collision, the two aircraft had separated. The American investigating team had established that while the Transall had plunged straight into the sea directly below the point of impact, the C130 had continued to fly for a few miles. It managed to transmit a mayday distress call before it broke up, crashing into the sea and disappearing. Nobody had seen what had happened.
Peace had initially been sceptical about his part in the aircraft recovery, but it had been explained to him that the continental shelf off the Skeleton Coast was shallow and sloped very gradually. The British, who certainly had a vested interest in the gold, were not certain whether a submarine could approach close enough to launch an underwater recovery unit. Any plan to recover the gold from the surface was out of the question, as those were not international waters. Yes, the Americans had permission to enter the coastal waters since the one wrecked aircraft below the waves belonged to them, however, it was believed that they had no knowledge of any gold shipment. To have refused the Americans would have created an incident. Peace, with his rubber Zodiac and diving equipment, was vital to the plan in that he could confirm exactly where on the bottom the Transall lay and keep an eye on precisely what the South Africans were doing.
He could just make out the American salvage ship to the north where it swung on its anchor a mile or so beyond the surf line. Through the binoculars, he saw the large naval helicopter lashed to the rear helipad deck. The Americans did not consider the Transall their business, provided there was an open exchange of all information that pertained to the crash. The South African government had given them that assurance.
The problem was that the South African authorities had prohibited any approach to the position where it was said the Transall had disappeared. Peace had been given the exact coordinates by the British Admiralty, who had obtained these from the Americans. An American NASA surveillance satellite had picked up the bright flash caused by the collision as well as the exact coordinates. A South African Navy coastal patrol boat was out there to ensure the integrity of the site, although there had been no sight of it. For all he knew, it had not yet arrived.
Peace wasn’t sure what he was to do with all the diving equipment he had been given. Without a suitable vessel, nobody was going to raise tons of gold from the seabed. The coastline and seabed were treacherous and a continuous strong northerly current just aggravated the situation. Besides, the South African patrol boat would immediately investigate any suspicious activity, if it was in the vicinity.
The question was whether the South African authorities knew that the Transall had been loaded with bullion, or whether this information was limited to Van Rhyn and his political associates alone. Nobody had any idea what the South African Air Force’s true involvement was.
Where the hell was Van Rhyn? Peace wondered. Surely, the man must already have put wheels in motion to recover the gold?
At that moment, a small British attack submarine was supposedly nearing the Namibian coast, having departed Gibraltar more than a week before, its destination the crash site. The Transall’s position on the seabed was said to be just before the continental shelf, which rapidly fell off to the deep ocean seabed beyond. The plan was to bring the submarine close to the underwater cliff that lay a few miles offshore, and remove the gold using frogmen and submersible chariots. This had been kept so secret that he’d heard of this only just prior to his departure for the coast. He knew this would be a formidable undertaking. It intrigued him to think how Van Rhyn would go about it.
*
The next morning he rose just before the first light of dawn appeared. The coast was shrouded in fog, reducing visibility to no more than fifty yards. After an hour, the fog slowly began to disperse, allowing the sun to break through occasionally, with only a few wisps remaining. He looked out to sea and was surprised to see a large, squat ship just beyond where the sea bottom became shallower. He rushed to the bungalow to retrieve his binoculars and when he focused on it, he recognised it to be a salvage tug with the name Johan de Waldt, painted on the bow. He knew of the boat — it was a renowned, independently owned, ocean-salvage vessel that plied its trade in southern waters. It was certainly no government or naval vessel.
He realised that it had to be Van Rhyn who had commissioned it and its crew for his own purpose. Damn — it has its own helicopter. The binoculars provided by MI6 incorporated a laser rangefinder, and from the readings, he realised that the salvage ship was moored a good distance from the wreck site, probably because at that point the seabed did not afford sufficient draft, especially at low tide. This was to his advantage. The patrol boat, if it was in the vicinity, had evidently not challenged the salvage ship’s presence. This again had to be Van Rhyn’s doing.
*
Cherry arrived that afternoon.
They immediately sat down on the small bungalow porch that overlooked the sea, the sun already low near the horizon.
“What a trip,” she said. “That was some of the most awe-inspiring scenery I’ve ever seen. You really get to experience the feeling of being completely alone. I know some people who would give their eye-teeth for this.”
She had driven virtually non-stop and was exhausted. Peace poured her a drink and she sat back and scanned the sea.
Peace took a sip of his drink. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Cherry pointed at the ships on the horizon. “Whose ships are those?” she asked.
“I’m not entirely sure but I think one’s American and the other either South African or Van Rhyn’s,” he replied.
“So, we’ll be in the water tomorrow?”
“No, we must wait until the sub has arrived.”
Chapter Twelve
Peace had been contacting London periodically on the satellite phone, waiting to hear whether the submarine was in position, and received his answer the day after Cherry arrived.
Previously, at the conference briefing in Pretoria, with Sir John’s voice coming through the scrambler phone from London, he learned that the submarine would remain hidden, submerged on the seabed at the threshold to shallower waters, since it was too dangerous to approach any nearer to the crash site. A specially adapted submersible container had been fitted to it and bolted to the deck directly behind the conning tower, which was crammed with all the underwater equipment necessary to lift the gold bullion from the seabed. A complement of the Special Boat Service and specialised naval recovery experts were on board and they were to carry out the salvage of the gold bullion.
VA was convinced the recovery operation would encounter some resistance. In fact, he was emphatic.
He had said, “Of course, you must realise our friend Van Rhyn will make an all-out attempt to recover the bullion. Whether he mounts a recovery operation of his own or ropes in the South African Navy through his dubious connections, remains to be seen. If he uses their Special Forces from Langebaan in the Cape, you’ve got a problem. They were pretty active during the civil war and are combat tested and a dangerous lot. The Angolans and Cubans will vouch for that. However, in view o
f the sensitivity, I believe it’s sure to be his own party. You can be certain that after what occurred at the mine at Copperton, he may believe we are aware of the gold on board the Transall, having put two and two together. That it departed Copperton while there were agents in his town just has to be too coincidental — he’ll make the conclusion we know of the gold and must assume we’ll make our own effort to recover it… So, as I mentioned to my colleagues, if you propose to join the Navy under the waves, make sure you’re suitably armed, even if only with spear guns. You can be damn sure Van Rhyn’s people will be… they’ll be expecting trouble.”
Peace had realised VA had a point and made a mental note of the warning.
VA had then given him a proposed rendezvous time when he could expect to meet the Navy’s recovery crew on the seabed.
Fortunately, the coastal patrol boat had left on the arrival of the South African salvage ship, presumably because the salvage ship had government clearance and support. This supposition was confirmed to him during a satellite call to VA.
During the night, he and Cherry prepared the raft, and in the early hours of the morning, while the sea was still shrouded in mist, they launched it. This was the best time to do so, as there was little wind. A partially protected small cove enabled him to launch a light craft — no doubt the reason the owners of the bungalows had chosen this spot. However, there remained the danger of navigating through the line of surf and avoiding the reefs in deeper waters. This could only be undertaken on those days when the westwinds[12] were not blowing at storm strength trying to pound the coastline into submission.
Once out on the open sea, things proved hair-raising. He had to gun the engine intermittently to ensure they crested the waves before these broke and washed over them. From the shallow raft, the approaching waves appeared enormous, and several times the sea cascaded over the inflatable’s bow, drenching them. Fortunately, the outboard engine was powerful and enabled them to double-back occasionally and outrun the surf, but each time a wave threatened to break over them, Peace could feel his heart rate speed up. Peace soon realised that Cherry knew how to handle herself in a boat. No doubt she had learned this during the thirteen weeks of training she did with the Special Boat Service, as part of her induction course, which was mandatory for any MI6 field operative.
Begrudgingly, she shared that during this time her name had led to much ribbing from the nearly all-male training squad. He could well believe it.
Once through the surf line and with the assistance of a sophisticated GPS, they were soon bobbing on the swells over the wreck site. Everything had been checked and double-checked before they left the shore. Peace wore a one-piece neoprene dry-suit, dubbed an FL — in a twist of humour this was diving jargon for French Letter. It was supposed to be watertight and if it leaked you might still live, but in cold water, there was the possibility of death from hyperthermia. This was the Benguela Current which originated in the Antarctic, and at this latitude, sea temperatures were about 10ºC.
“Look, we’ve got a few hours before the fog begins to lift,” Peace said. “I don’t quite know what the lads below have in mind, but I’m going to find out.”
He stuck the scuba mouthpiece between his teeth and opened the supply valve until he could hear the hiss of compressed air, then brought the facemask down and rolled backwards into the sea. The water was freezing and plankton reduced visibility to no more than five yards. According to the depth finder, the seabed was about sixty feet below him. With the taste of compressed air in his mouth, he slowly followed the length of the weighted line, which Cherry had thrown overboard.
Eventually, the flat rocky bottom emerged out of the green murk. Interspersed with rock were patches of flat sand and clumps of green and brown seaweed. Peace, speargun in hand, was amazed at the number of fish. Small schools seemingly of every description swam before him and took little notice of the presence of this sudden and strange intruder. They had no predators, as the sharks and seals remained out at sea in pursuit of pilchard, sardine, and anchovy. Peace was well aware that the cold Benguela Current off the coast harboured very few, if any, predator sharks. Only in the warmer waters of the Indian Ocean and off the southern coastline of South Africa where shark attacks occur annually, were the homes of the tiger, Zambezi, and great white sharks to be found.
He started swimming in a circle and as he gradually widened it, he began to encounter the torn and shattered pieces of the downed Transall. He was amazed that the Americans had been able to supply the exact coordinates and marvelled at the technology that had enabled them to find the wreck.
He continued to swim in ever-widening circles, inspecting the wreckage and looking for the submarine’s divers who were to rendezvous with him at the site. He saw no sign of them, nor the bullion boxes. He thought that strange. He knew that the salvage ship had to be preparing to initiate its own diving operations for he’d seen the large diving tender with its two small derricks lashed to the ship’s rear deck, open to the sea with a ramp that sloped down to the water. The ship’s powerful winches could launch this within minutes but he assumed they’d wait until the fog lifted.
Suddenly a dark shape loomed out of the murk. It was with relief that he recognised it as a British Navy submersible two-man craft, which resembled a torpedo with an open cockpit. Two scuba divers straddled the cockpit. He swam towards them and came alongside. They gave each other a thumbs up in greeting.
Gesturing with his hands, Peace indicated he had found no trace of the gold. One of the scuba-men pointed to the bottom and shook his head, then pointed in a northerly direction and with spread fingers showed his hands five times to Peace, probably indicating a distance of fifty yards or so. They evidently knew where the gold was. The other produced a slate on which were written coordinates; he handed this to Peace and pointed upwards.
Peace swam towards the Zodiac’s mooring line, tied the slate to it, gave three strong jerks, and waited until he saw it being retrieved. He knew Cherry would realise the meaning of the new coordinates and move the raft. He wondered if the fog remained. Would she have time to do so and still allow him to come aboard before the mist lifted?
He grabbed the submersible in order to hitch a ride. Moments later, the submersible’s screw started to turn and the three frogmen moved north. Moving across the seabed, he could still see wreckage, the pieces lying well spread out on the seafloor.
Suddenly, through the murk, he saw the first bullion container, and then another, and another. They were concentrated in a small area. He then saw a turbo-prop engine, the bent propeller blades still fixed to it. As they continued north, another dark shape loomed out of the translucent pea soup — it was the fuselage’s nose section, which had broken off just behind the cockpit. He let go of the submersible and swam towards the cockpit that lay upright on the seabed. All the Perspex had been torn from the windows and he could just make out some movement in the interior. He suddenly realised what he was looking at. The two pilots were still strapped in their seats and wearing their light-blue short-sleeved shirts, but their exposed limbs crawled with crayfish. Already some parts of the soft tissue had been eaten away.
From the surface above him, he heard a faint drumming sound. It had to be Cherry bringing the raft to their new position. The weighted diving line appeared, snaking its way to the bottom. He saw that the two SBS divers had started to open the bullion boxes with a long crowbar and load ingots into the chariot. The salvage operation had begun, so he swam to assist them.
Soon the chariot could hold no further ingots as the ballast tanks could barely cope and the vessel was about to sink to the ocean floor. The two frogmen indicated they were about to leave. Peace showed that he understood and began his slow ascent, mindful that he needed to decompress.
Ten minutes later his head broke the surface to find the Zodiac only a few feet away. He was relieved to see the fog had still not dispersed, but knew it would not be long before the sun burned it off. He’d come up just in time.
“Quickly!” he urged. “Get the line in; we need to head back to the coast before we’re seen by the de Waldt.” He pulled his arms out of the straps to release the cylinders and looked around, but there was no sign of the salvage ship.
Cherry soon had the engine started. He told her to keep the engine noise down. With the engine just above an idle, they moved slowly towards the shore. Only when the raft approached the white waters of the shoreline did she speed up. She handled the raft superbly, positioning it in front of a swell and then racing before it as it towered behind them, starting to curl. It then broke, and a cauldron of foam chased them until it began to dissipate. She then slowed and let the remnants of the breaker pass beneath them, and followed the white line of foam rushing ahead of the Zodiac until they slipped into the cove.
“Let’s get everything out of here,” he said, unscrewing the lugs that held the outboard to the transom.
The engine was heavy and she helped him manhandle it to the top of the terraced ground. There, again with her assistance, he swung it onto a shoulder and carried it the seventy yards to the bungalow. They deflated the Zodiac and between them carried it to a small garage adjoining the bungalow which they squeezed it into. Within ten minutes, there was no trace of it.
A half-hour later, the sun began to break through the fog. Gradually, the salvage ship became visible, its diving tender wallowing in the swells between it and the shore. A diver’s cage hung suspended above the water from a derrick. He wondered whether the divers were still below. They were in the wrong place. What was disturbing was that the helipad was empty.