The Last Airship

by Christopher Cartwright

  The water was warmer than Tom expected, and frothier too. He slid out into the water from the back end of the pilot house, and despite his survival suit, he found himself being dragged deep, below the turbulent surface of the sea.

  His survival suit was caught on something.

  Its buoyancy had somehow managed to become snagged on something in the pilot house ceiling.

  Because of his training, Tom managed to maintain his control and determined that he had only three to four minutes to free himself and reach the surface if he was going to survive.

  Tom started kicking with his legs, but soon realized that it wasn’t making any difference, and that all he was doing was wasting his precious energy and worsening his hypoxia.

  A minute later, the Hayward Bulk began to list to its starboard side. Before he could get his bearings, he was freed from the ceiling and floated out the port side of the pilot house, spinning several times, and colliding with some debris before eventually breaking the surface.

  At last, he could breathe.

  He was alive.

  Death, he knew, may come at any time.

  As the hours passed, he closed his eyes and drifted in and out of consciousness.

  He became conscious a number of times and had no idea how long he’d been in the water by the time he first saw it. The fourth time he opened his eyes, he staring at something bright and shining right at him.

  Fuck me – surely they’re not coming back to kill me?

  It was then that he heard the voice of Matthew, the skipper of the Maria Helena.

  “Hang in there, Tom. We’ll have you out of the drink in no time.”

  *

  Climbing the deck of the Maria Helena, Tom could feel every muscle in his body begin to ache – his adrenaline only just starting to subside.

  “Tom, you lucky bastard, you’re alive!” said Matthew, the skipper, who, despite their differences, looked genuinely pleased to see him.

  “Of course I am.” Tom shrugged it off, as though his survival should have been expected.

  “Old man Reilly’s been waiting to talk to you on the Sat phone for the past twenty minutes. He’s gonna be mad as hell that you made him wait so long – not to mention, losing one of his ships.”

  Tom stepped into the pilot house and the Sat phone was shoved into his hand. Clearly the skipper already knew that there had been no uranium on board the Hayward Bulk.

  “Tom here,” he said.

  “Tom, they tell me those bastards sunk my ship!”

  “Yeah, so they did.”

  “How soon can you dive it?”

  Although he’d known the old man since he was a boy, Tom still couldn’t believe that James Reilly didn’t have the decency to at least ask if everyone was still alive.

  “Dive it? What are you talking about? We’re still in the middle of a bloody cyclone!”

  “Of course, but how soon can you dive?” Old man Reilly seemed undeterred by the dangerous weather. “I can only trust you to get me what I need. It’s paramount that you get back in the water and that you do so before the cyclone is over.”

  “Not going to happen for at least a couple days. We’re still looking for survivors.”

  “It’ll be gone in days.” James Reilly’s voice was firm. “You need to be back in the water now.”

  “What the hell is so important?” Tom asked.

  It took James Reilly a couple of minutes to explain. In the end, Tom hung up the phone without telling him that he’d do it.

  “What was that all about?” The skipper asked.

  “I have to dive the wreck immediately.”

  *

  Tom quickly exchanged his survival suit for a diving one.

  He would have preferred to rest for a few hours and have a warm meal before he re-entered the water, but he now knew that time was more pressing than his physical comfort.

  It didn’t take long for the Maria Helena to locate the two parts of the Hayward Bulk’s hull. It was resting in just 65 feet of water, and even in the middle of a cyclone, the super bulker stood out. Had it sunk vertically, the pilothouse structure would still be visible above the surface.

  “Who do you want on your dive team?” The skipper asked.

  “No one. It’s stupid enough that I’m about to risk my life for it – there’s no need to risk anyone else’s. Besides, it will be more comfortable under the water than above it.”

  “It’s trying to get you back up out of the water that worries me,” the skipper said.

  “Don’t worry about that. Michael’s got a plan to retrieve me. He’ll send an anchor to the bottom with plenty of wire on the winch. Once I retrieve what I’ve come for I’ll return to it, connect, and then be reeled in like the ugliest marlin you ever did see. Don’t worry about me!”

  Tom then dropped into the still vehement waters astride his Sea-Doo.

  With its buoyancy set at zero he sank like a stone and in seconds he left the raging storm above him.

  His vision was remarkably clear despite the cyclone. In front of him, no more than 300 feet away he could see the Hayward Bulk. She was resting on the shallow, sandy seabed, broken into two separate pieces.

  The aft section, which was the one in which James Reilly had installed his private vault, was listing 45 degrees to its port side.

  The vault had been built into the starboard side.

  Tom turned the throttle of his Sea-Doo and approached it.

  He could see the damage to the main superstructure as he rounded the torn midsection.

  Whoever was responsible for this damage, must have prepared for it weeks earlier. It looked as though someone had taken a gigantic razor blade and cut through the entire ship. Someone had obviously taken the time to place dozens of small bombs at structurally important points, knowing full well that the water tight compartments and modern pumps would ensure the Hayward Bulk remained afloat, despite multiple disruptions to her hull. In doing so, they’d correctly determined that the most certain way to sink her, was to split her in two.

  Reaching the starboard side, Tom maneuvered his craft approximately a hundred feet further aft of the ship, until he reached James Reilly’s infamous private vault.

  Tom peered inside the door, but he was too late.

  The bomb proof door was already wide open and the contents were entirely missing.

  Chapter Six

  Sam Reilly had slept for nearly twenty four hours straight since leaving Hobart.

  He needed it after what he’d endured. Every muscle in his body still hurt. He was in this deep sleep when the AIS alarm began to sound.

  AIS stood for Automated Identification System and was used to monitor the proximity and direction of nearby ships.

  Sam slowly rolled out of his bunk.

  The GPS system, located at the end of his bunk, indicated that he was now positioned off the coast of Shoal Haven. His eyes tentatively made note of the fact that he was approximately 2 nautical miles offshore. The depth reader next to the GPS indicated that he was sitting in the relatively shallow waters at 110 feet. The electronic compass showed him traveling along a course of zero degrees, due north. The wind speed had died down to a leisurely fifteen knots, due east, and his speed over ground was just eight knots. Technically, he was sailing at nine and a half knots, but an offshore current was drifting at one and a half knots.

  In the background, he could still hear the gentle warning of the AIS alarm in the cockpit.

  Something had entered into close proximity with Second Chance.

  Sam stood up and stretched his back, his movement more feline in appearance, than a fatigued sailor.

  There was no rush.

  He’d set the alarm to go off at one nautical mile from a possible collision. He continued to stretch his back, and then went to the front of the boat to use the head.

  He then strolled on to the deck.

  His eyes scanned the horizon for any immediate threats, and then, having reassured himself that none were prese
nt, he went to his AIS monitor. There was one vessel ahead of him, and that vessel had intentionally blocked its name, size and destination from AIS. Reilly wasn’t worried. This was a common practice for sailing vessels, whose skippers assumed that by hiding such information, people might give it a wider berth, just in case it was a large container ship. Maritime law and the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea require AIS to be fitted aboard international voyaging ships with a gross tonnage (GT) of 300 or more, and all passenger ships regardless of size. There was no requirement for smaller privately owned vessels to provide any information, and he assumed that was what was approaching.

  Sam took out his binoculars from a compartment built into the helm.

  He scanned the distance where the ship approached.

  It looked like an icebreaker that had been modified for experiments or scientific research. It was painted dark blue and had a thirty-plus foot high gunwale, presumably made of steel and designed for breaking through ice as if it weren’t there.

  Sam couldn’t see anyone on deck.

  It was the kind of menacing-looking ship which was run almost entirely by its advanced technology. In fact, it was highly likely that no one was at or even near the helm at the moment, and it was on a collision course directly towards him most probably by sheer coincidence.

  The ship was approximately five hundred feet away. It was far too close for the other ship not to have acknowledged that she had been seen.

  Although the rules of the sea state that a vessel under motor must give way to a vessel under sail, the law was irrelevant when you’re on a little sail boat that is about to be sunk by an icebreaker. Sam loosened the main sheet and turned forty five degrees to starboard so that he would pass the approaching vessel port side to port side.

  It was both a common courtesy and maritime law that two ships must avoid a collision at all costs, and if in doubt, both should steer starboard.

  He made the simple maneuver with a quick and efficient sequence, since it was a maneuver he had performed many times before on Second Chance.

  His new course now left plenty of room for the massive motor yacht to pass to his port side without any effort on its skipper’s part.

  To his dismay, the other ship immediately altered its course to collide.

  He sounded three sudden loud bursts with his fog horn.

  It was loud enough to wake the dead, the living, and anything in-between.

  And still no response!

  Sam turned on his engine and increased speed. There was no time to try to reverse his way out of the imminent collision. His only hope was to somehow pass in front of the other vessel’s bow by making a ninety degree tack to starboard.

  He heard the screech of his 150 horse power Yanmar Diesel engine exceed its maximum RPMs. He then gently pushed the throttle past its highest point and held it there with his hand against its will.

  He would have liked to get out a Mayday signal before the collision took place, but there was no time to do so.

  One hundred feet, turned into fifty.

  Still no change.

  Then fifty feet became twenty five.

  His bow and the center cockpit passed the other vessel’s evil wall of steel.

  It was going to be close.

  Maybe only a matter of a second, whether or not the other ship would clip his transom, the large butt at the end of Second Chance, which housed much of his equipment.

  At that moment, he realized there was nothing more he could do. He was going to collide with the larger vessel.

  Sam felt nothing but utter dismay at the fact that he was about to be demolished by a stupid rich guy’s toy off the coast of Australia, of all places.

  Surely it must be a mistake.

  Who’s ever heard of pirates in Australian waters?

  Then it happened.

  He knew it would, but the sound of metal and plastic colliding made the most sickening sound he had ever heard.

  And then it was over as the larger ship continued on.

  Innocently, its enormous propellers kept turning after it passed, without any hint that it had recently been in a collision.

  *

  Sam’s thoughts were taken to another world.

  Accidents like this one never happened in modern times, certainly not with the modern technologies available and required on such large vessels. He struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

  At first, he didn’t even notice the enormous hole in the stern of Second Chance, where seawater was now flooding in. Instead, Sam looked up at the huge transom of the other vessel as it was slowly moving away, like the evil machine it was, totally unaware of the carnage it had just inflicted.

  It was painted entirely blue, and it bore no registration number or name on the hull. Located on its aft deck was a small helipad and tied down on it, was what Sam recognized as a black Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King helicopter – the kind most commonly used by the U.S. Navy for anti-submarine warfare.

  What’s that doing on a civilian vessel?

  On the rear of the helicopter, Sam could make out the words, “Wolfgang Corporation.”

  His curiosity abated when he noticed how quickly his beautiful ketch was taking on water. The entire transom was missing. “Taking on water” was an understatement. In truth, the seawater was gushing in. He’d heard about ships hit by containers out at sea sinking so quickly that its occupants never even realized what had happened. He was about to see firsthand just how such a catastrophe actually happened.

  Although Second Chance held so much safety equipment on board, Sam had no time to reach any of it. He cursed himself for his distraction. His mind simply couldn’t accept the fact that he’d be in a collision just two miles offshore from a holiday town in Australian waters!

  He barely had enough time to pop the lid off his inflatable life raft.

  The thing weighed forty five kilograms and required that he pull the emergency tabs and throw it overboard to allow it to inflate properly away from the sinking yacht. Forty-five kilograms wasn’t too onerous a weight for a grown man to lift, especially one who is experiencing the adrenaline rush that came from his fight or flight response on a sinking vessel.

  Sam carefully tied one end of the safety raft to a cleat on Second Chance’s bow. He heaved the box overboard. The sodium crystals dissolved in the salt water, triggering the release mechanism, and the box popped open. Seconds later, the carbon dioxide canister deployed and could be heard releasing its gas, instantly inflating the four-man life raft.

  Sam felt relieved.

  The water was now more than half way up the inside of Second Chance’s hull.

  He considered going back for his radio and satellite phone. Even his mobile phone would have coverage, but since he was so close to land, he decided against it. If the ship went down while he was deep inside it, there was no telling where he’d end up or if he’d be able to escape its bowels.

  Sam then pulled the life raft back aboard, so that it rested comfortably against Second Chance’s shrinking freeboard. He was just about to say good bye to his beloved ship and step into the raft before it was too late.

  At that exact moment, he noticed the malevolent ship make an abrupt 180 degree turn. It was, as though either the captain or a crew member finally noticed that they had nearly killed someone.

  For the first time since the other vessel approached Second Chance, Sam was actually able to see someone high up on the bow of the ship. The man had blond hair, and appeared to be quite large, but otherwise had no distinguishable characteristics at that distance.

  He seemed to be waving something at Sam.

  Did they have a lower transom or at least a cargo net I can use to climb aboard her?

  As the ship returned, Sam was finally able to get a clearer view of the man who was waving to him.

  What is that in his hand? Is it a life preserver?

  Then it hit him.

  The man was holding a weapon.

  At this d
istance, Sam couldn’t be certain of the type, but as the man took aim, he its purpose became obvious.

  Someone wanted him dead.

  The revelation struck him with painful slow clarity as he watched his life raft burst apart as the first round fired. There was a brief pause and he realized that the shooter changed the cartridge before he started firing again.

  This time the bullets were shredding what was left of his yacht.

  Sam was out of options, so he dived into the now almost completely water-filled hull of his sinking boat. Holding his breath, he swam down and towards the back of the ship. The water was surprisingly clear and he could just make out the location of the hole at the back end of his ship where his transom once was.

  He watched the blurred trails of a number of bullets as they whizzed by him through the water, only a couple of feet ahead of him and then cease.

  The shooter must be reloading his weapon.

  Then the real reason occurred to him.

  Sam noticed that his ears were starting to hurt.

  Everything had turned black.

  Second Chance had reached its critical point, at which it was no longer able to displace the surface tension of the water, and now it was starting its journey to the seabed below.

  He felt as if he’d been plunged into a washing machine as he tumbled around inside the sinking boat.

  His instinct was to swim out of the hole where the transom used to be. It wasn’t far. Perhaps only another fifteen feet away – an easy swim.

  And then it struck him.

  Someone wants me dead? Like, really dead.

  He knew then that they were going to wait until Second Chance had sunk below the surface, and then they’d spray the surface with more bullets. He would never be able to hold his breath long enough to return to the surface. Instead, he would have to swim underwater, as far away from here as possible, without first dying from hypoxia.

  He tried to remember his ship’s last location and the current depth beneath her keel. They were two miles off Shoal Haven heads. There would be less than a hundred feet of water at the seabed.

  Sam couldn’t accept that he might die with the ship he loved. His mind fought for a solution and then it presented him with one – a very simple one.