Marine D SBS

by Peter Cave

  The dark bulk of the sunken MTB seemed to materialize suddenly out of the darkness with a faintly shuddering motion, gradually assuming a solid form.

  Experienced divers, both men were used to the foreshortening effect of deep water, but the sudden appearance of the wreck came as something of a surprise nevertheless. They stopped kicking, hovering in the water some ten feet above the sunken hulk and turning down the air supply through their regulators. Crewes made a grand gesture of pointing to his watch and holding up three fingers under Willerbey’s nose.

  Willerbey responded with a thumbs up to show he understood. He unclipped the underwater camera from his belt and dived down again towards the seabed, swimming slowly along the side of the ship towards the prow.

  The vessel was tilted only slightly to one side, resting more or less on her belly with her keel buried in the sand. Apart from a luxuriant crop of barnacles and small, razor-edged clams all over the superstructure, she seemed in remarkably good condition, almost undamaged. It was as if some giant hand had simply picked her up from the surface and placed her on the sea bottom, Willerbey thought fancifully. He continued around the prow of the wreck just below deck level, investigating the far side of the hull. It too was intact, as was the entire superstructure. To Willerbey it was a complete mystery why she had gone down. It was not until he had completed his full sweep of the hull and come around the boat’s stern that the mystery finally resolved itself.

  There was no stern! Where the back of the ship should have been there was only a vast, gaping, jagged hole, through which could be seen a crazy abstract sculpture of twisted girders and buckled steel plate before everything was swallowed in a black void. Willerbey brought the camera up to his eyes and backed off until he had the whole scene in frame. For a split second the flash of the camera turned the sunken wreck into a luminous-green ghost ship. Startled by the light, a small octopus flew out of the darkness, jetting towards the diver’s face and away over the top of his head. Recovering from a brief moment of shock, he took two more photographs from slightly different angles and glanced at his watch. The three minutes were almost up. It was his last chance to return directly to the surface without making at least two decompression stops on the way up. He looked around for Crewes but there was no sign of him. He had positioned the location beacon and already started back up, Willerbey assumed. Attaching the camera to his belt again, he straightened up in the water and looked upwards, kicking lazily towards the pale-green luminescence of the surface.

  A sense of relief filled him as Martin reached over the side of the Rigid Raider to help pull him up and he saw Crewes already wrapping himself in a dry blanket. After scrambling aboard, Willerbey tore off his face mask and spat out his mouthpiece. He began to strip off his tank harness as Williams gunned the twin Johnsons into life and turned the Raider back towards home.

  Shivering, Willerbey realized for the first time that he felt chilled through to the bone. Even with a double-skin neoprene wetsuit, the water at 140 feet was wickedly cold, and it didn’t take long to leech every drop of heat from the human body. Making a mental note to add an inner thermal layer next time he went down, he accepted a blanket from Martin gratefully, wrapping it tightly around his wet body as the CO produced a large vacuum flask from the floor of the boat and poured the divers a hot coffee. They both sipped it in silence for several minutes.

  ‘Well, what’s your assessment of the state of things down there?’ Martin asked Willerbey eventually. ‘Crewes seems to think that the hull is more or less intact.’

  Willerbey described the wreck carefully, in as much detail as he could remember. ‘It’s certainly going to be no trouble getting in there,’ he concluded. ‘You could drive a couple of bleeding tanks through that hole in the stern.’

  Martin gave a grunt of satisfaction. It made things a lot easier – and a lot safer – if they didn’t have to start cutting into the hull or wrenching off rusted hatch covers. ‘What do you think happened to her?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘She was trying to lay tethered mines, right?’ said Willerbey.

  Martin nodded. ‘That’s the information I have.’

  Willerbey snorted scornfully. ‘Well, that was sheer bloody stupidity, from an MTB,’ he observed. ‘And it looks like they paid the price for it. My guess is that the poor dumb bastards managed to suck one of their own mines into the props. Basically, they blew their own fucking arse off. She’ll have gone down faster than a whore’s drawers on a Saturday night. The crew wouldn’t have stood a snowball’s chance in hell.’

  ‘Which means there are probably still bodies in there,’ Crewes pointed out, with a faint shudder of distaste. ‘I suppose the Greeks would like us to recover them as well?’

  It was a point Martin hadn’t even thought of, and Selina had certainly not mentioned it. He looked at Crewes almost apologetically. ‘Yes, I suppose it might be a decent gesture,’ he said. ‘That’s assuming we can bring skeletons up from that depth without them falling to pieces.’

  ‘Damn!’ Crewes exploded. ‘I hate skeletons. I don’t mind blood, or even bodies with bits missing – but skeletons give me the fucking willies.’

  With this last morbid observation, he lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey back to base.

  19

  It took the Greek authorities a full week to come up with the promised boat and equipment, but Martin wasn’t unduly bothered about the delay. He had his cover story now, and with Selina’s full cooperation he spent the time setting it firmly in place.

  A few telephone calls were made on an open line to order various specialist items of diving equipment, and a few more daylight trips undertaken to the site of the wreck. On Martin’s direct orders, his men visited the tavernas of Samos Town and Pythagoria in their off-duty hours and openly discussed the operation so that their conversations might be overheard by the locals. At Selina’s instigation, the Greek Coastguard placed clearly visible marker boys in the vicinity of the wreck and issued public shipping warnings that salvage operations would shortly be taking place in the area.

  The week was well spent, Martin told himself with satisfaction. By the end of it the perfectly plausible explanation for the presence of British maritime salvage and demolition experts in the area was clear to the most casual observer – let alone anyone who had been making it their business to find out.

  And there was a bonus, of course. Underneath all the subterfuge, Bright, Mallory and Janice Reece were quietly getting on with the real work. Inspired by their access to computer design software which was still protected by military secrecy and probably at least two years away from commercial release, they had zipped through the final design stage and were already into the first phase of construction.

  Things seemed to be going well, Martin thought, as he prepared to make one of his periodic progress checks around the base. He headed first for the common room, where Pavlaski was conducting a Russian class for some of the men. Besides Selina and himself, only Sergeant Graham spoke Russian fluently, although all the others had at least a working command of the language. It was standard SBS procedure to include lessons in several key languages as part of continuation training, and as long as the Cold War lasted, Russian remained high on the list. Pavlaski’s input, however, was twofold. Besides serving as a simple refresher course, his unique knowledge of shipboard slang and the sort of vernacular likely to be used by the average Russian deck-hand might come in useful if the men were verbally challenged. At least, that had been Martin’s thinking.

  Pavlaski fell silent as Martin entered the room. Martin surveyed his men benignly. ‘Everybody having fun?’ he asked.

  Sooty grinned up at him. ‘Great, boss. Next time I need to tell a Russki that his mother dropped out of a horse’s arse, I’ve got it off pat.’

  Martin smiled. ‘Keep up the good work, gentlemen,’ he said, before turning on his heel and going off in search of Mallory.

  The American was putting the finishing touches to a mock-up
constructed out of bits of card, balsa-wood, wire and glue. He set it down on his desk as Martin entered. Nodding his head towards the model, he grinned and said: ‘Ugly bastard, ain’t it?’

  Martin had to agree. The machine was indeed an ungainly-looking contraption, lacking the faintest vestige of aesthetic appeal. ‘Point is, will it do the job?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, it’ll work OK,’ Mallory said confidently. ‘Just don’t expect me to paint my name on the side. This mother could set my business back ten years.’ He broke off, seeing that Martin wasn’t really in the mood for light-hearted banter. ‘Seriously, she’s aerodynamically sound, even if she does look like a flying lawnmower. The only detail I haven’t finalized yet is the size of the engine – but that’s down to you.’

  Martin looked puzzled. He didn’t understand. ‘Why me? I’m no engineer.’

  Mallory hastened to explain. ‘The engine size is the deciding factor in a complicated set of equations on speed, payload and range. The bigger the engine, the more it weighs and the more fuel it’s going to burn. Which means more fuel, more weight – and that comes at the expense of either payload capacity or the distance she’ll fly given that amount of fuel.’ Seeing the continued bafflement on Martin’s face, Mallory picked up a computer printout and handed it to him. ‘Look, I’ve run a whole series of calculations giving you a range of options,’ he explained. ‘Working on the basis that your average pilot and personal equipment is going to weigh around 85 kilos, you need to tell me which gives you the best deal.’

  Martin scanned the sheet of complicated equations and wasn’t much wiser. ‘Can you simplify this, for a poor layman?’ he almost pleaded.

  Mallory nodded sympathetically. ‘Sure. The sharp end is that it boils down to two key questions. Do you want these birds to fly a short distance fast, a long distance slowly – or do you want the best compromise between the two?’

  ‘And that’s it?’ Martin asked, slightly surprised that the problem could be expressed that simply.

  Mallory let out a short laugh. ‘Well, no, not really,’ he admitted. ‘But you did ask for a simplification.’

  Martin was thoughtful for a long time, trying to take into account the additional factors which Mallory didn’t know about. ‘Let’s say I was looking for the best of both worlds,’ he said after a while. ‘What’s the best compromise you could offer me?’

  Mallory took the computer sheet from Martin and studied it intently. ‘OK, I’ll narrow it down to two options for you,’ he offered. ‘You can take a top airspeed of seventy miles per hour and a maximum flying time of two and a half hours. Both dependent on prevailing wind speed and direction, of course. That means your absolute ceiling range is 180 miles, given the best possible conditions.’

  Martin considered for a few seconds, shaking his head uncertainly. ‘I was hoping for a greater range than that,’ he admitted. ‘Considerably greater, in fact.’

  ‘OK, let’s take a look,’ said Mallory. He transcribed one set of equations on to a spare slip of paper and ran a couple of new calculations through a pocket calculator. After scribbling a few lines on the sheet, he looked up at Martin again. ‘How about this?’ he suggested. ‘We use the smallest possible engine that’s going to actually keep this beast in the air. That won’t be powerful enough to get it off the ground for a static take-off, by the way, so we’re going to have to launch from the cliffs straight out over the sea. If one of these babies has to put down for any reason, it’ll never get up again.’

  ‘That’s perfectly acceptable,’ said Martin, sounding more hopeful. ‘What does that give us?’

  Mallory checked his figures again. ‘Top airspeed of around fifty-five miles per hour and enough fuel for four and a half hours of flying time. Say 260 miles – again given optimum weather conditions.’

  It was better, but not good enough, Martin thought. ‘Any way you can improve on that?’ he asked bluntly. ‘I need 300 miles.’

  Mallory shook his head dubiously. ‘Now you’re asking for something,’ he said. Nevertheless he returned to his calculations and pored over them for several minutes, finally confirming with a faint nod that he had managed to improve the performance figures. ‘OK, you’ve got your 300 miles. It means reverting to the bigger engine and adding another four square metres to the wings, but I’m pretty sure I can do it.’

  ‘Time in the air?’ Martin wanted to know. It was the one critical factor he had not discussed with Mallory – mainly for reasons of security. The actual mission depended on making a strike during the hours of darkness. Assuming that the microlights took off from Samos at dusk, that left an absolute maximum of six hours for the attack, including time on the water.

  ‘About four and a half hours. And that’s allowing for a standard rate of fuel burn-off, and absolutely no leeway for any kind of safety margin.’ Mallory paused as an afterthought struck him. ‘Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what? Is there something else you can do?’

  Mallory looked at Martin directly. ‘I could probably gain a very small margin for error by modifying the flying harness,’ he suggested. ‘It really depends on what degree of discomfort your men are prepared to put up with.’

  Martin flashed him a wry smile. ‘They’re not expecting to fly executive class, that’s for sure. What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I allowed for a seated harness,’ Mallory explained. ‘It would give each pilot a more comfortable flying position and a certain degree of flexibility for body movement in the case of cramp or just physical tiredness.’

  ‘And the option?’

  ‘A prone harness. It would be marginally lighter, and it would also cut down wind resistance. The only trouble is, four and a half hours lying stretched out in one fixed position ain’t gonna be much fun.’

  Martin grinned inwardly. The young American obviously had little idea of the sort of rigours the average SBS Marine went through as part of his day-to-day continuation training. Any man who could hide out for up to five days in a cold and muddy ditch, or survive a week in the wilderness living on whatever food he could find or catch was certainly capable of putting up with a few hours of discomfort.

  ‘Do it,’ he said to Mallory. ‘They’ll cope.’

  The faintest trace of admiration showed fleetingly on Mallory’s face. ‘OK, you got it,’ he said. ‘It will certainly help.’

  Martin felt pleased. Everything seemed to be settled more or less to his satisfaction. ‘So when can you get down to construction of the first prototype?’ he asked.

  ‘As soon as you dig into that generous back pocket of yours,’ Mallory told him flatly. ‘Got another handy six or seven grand lying around?’

  Martin didn’t quibble for a second. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘The engines,’ Mallory said. ‘I’d better have six, just in case I need to cannibalize one for spares. They don’t come cheap.’ He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and began to scribble on it. ‘There may be other places, but this is the one company in England that I’m confident will have a supply of these spare engines in stock.’

  He handed the piece of paper to Martin, who stared at what Mallory had written with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘A garden centre in Sussex?’

  Mallory nodded. ‘British main agents for the American Turfmaster range of industrial grass-cutters,’ he explained. ‘Best little 150cc engine in the world.’ He looked up at Martin, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Didn’t I tell you this was a flying bloody lawnmower?’

  20

  The Greeks might have taken their time but they certainly hadn’t short-changed him when it came to delivering the goods, Martin conceded. The boat they eventually delivered was a sturdy and serviceable twenty-eight-footer, fully equipped for diving and salvage work with a proper diving platform, main and back-up compressor units, a winch and derrick and even an on-board one-man decompression tank for emergency use. They even offered a crew, which Martin politely declined. Apart from the operating instructions, which were written in G
reek, there wasn’t a single piece of equipment on board that his men were not completely familiar with and had not been fully trained in the use of.

  Martin already had one hundred per cent volunteer status from his men, so there was no problem in picking his final team. The only minor headache was which of the equally enthusiastic Marines he had to disappoint by leaving behind on guard duty at the base. In the end, the task fell to Bailey and Donnelly. With Willerbey and Sooty in regulation diving suits, Crewes and Graham wearing scuba gear and Williams and himself as deck crew, Martin was ready to go.

  It was a bright, clear and still morning, with no more than a gentle undulation disturbing the mirror-like surface of the water once they were clear of the coastal swell. Ideal diving conditions, Martin told himself with a sense of satisfaction, and particularly suited to their specific task, should they have to bring up anything especially delicate or volatile.

  The journey out to the wreck was as peaceful as a Sunday family boat trip, the only minor excitement being the appearance of a pair of dolphins which they picked up about a mile out, and who frolicked in the bow-waves of the boat for nearly fifteen minutes before finally swimming off at a tangent.

  The disappearance of the friendly cetaceans became the starting point for a discussion on sharks and other marine dangers. The four divers spent the rest of the voyage trying to shock and frighten each other with stories of various deep-sea horrors, from Great Whites to stingrays and moray eels. The anecdotes became increasingly horrific and implausible as each man tried to outdo his companions, culminating in Crewes’ claim to have known a man who had known a man who had managed to get his sexual equipment bitten clean off by a snapping turtle while swimming naked in a lake in Florida.

  It was all harmless fun, Martin reflected, aware that the banter was therapy against the very real perils which a diver could encounter. He remembered his own instructor’s words, many years ago: ‘A diver without fear is either a liar or a fool.’ Equipment and techniques may have improved over the years, but that adage still held true, he felt certain.