by John Day
“I believed the truck was inside the hull and from what I was told, it was impossible to get at, because most of the vehicles slid over when the hull hit the seabed and were all mangled together.”
“I had lost everything and had to hide for years, from the gang I smuggled for. They left me alone after they caught the other man, Manuel, who stole from me, but then he escaped from them. Last month, purely by chance I saw this photo taken by an amateur diver. The truck looked familiar, and I bought the copy. I enlarged the number plate and could see it was Manuel’s truck, the man who ran me down! How he knew I had found it, I don’t know, but I’ve been on the run ever since.”
He reached inside his wallet again. “My family,” he said, offering a letter. On the piece of paper, a letter from his wife, was her address.
“My request of you is to recover the stones, if they are still there, and take what you will, but see some goes to my family, to take care of them.” His hand grasped Max’s wrist and looked pleading into Max’s eyes. He licked the rising blood from his lips, swallowed it to clear his mouth and summoned his last dregs of life. “I have to trust you or my family will get nothing. I have ruined my life and theirs, and there is only this good thing I can do for them, if you will help me!”
His grip tightened and then relaxed, his breath rattled away in a sighing gasp. His focused eyes unfocused and drifted as though looking through Max.
The man had died, but probably could still hear, as hearing is the last of the senses to fade. “I will!” Shouted Max, in the belief George had heard him and if so could rest in peace. Max pulled the still gripping hand away from his wrist, laying it by George’s side.
Max walked away and gave what information he could to the waiting police and hospital personnel.
Max eventually returned to the ship and explained everything to Carla.
“So we learn to wreck dive and get the sunken treasure,” she joked.
“Yes,” replied Max seriously. “But first I have something for you.”
He kissed her tenderly and said. “Gosh, I love you; I love you so much I could burst.”
“Squirt more like.” She chuckled, pulling him into her. 20 minutes later, exhausted, they lay in each other’s arms.
“Three squirts actually, ” he said and drifted off to sleep.
They woke up to the sound of Carla’s phone. It was Amy, wondering where they were for the breakfast date. Carla explained briefly and said. “Better make it lunch now.”
At lunch, the accident as it was referred to was brought up again, but nothing else was revealed and the girly talk resumed.
Max spotted a loose hair on Amy’s shoulder and at the first opportunity plucked it off unnoticed, saving it in a tissue.
David and Amy were leaving port the next morning for three weeks, but wanted to meet when they returned. Everyone agreed, same place, same time, in three weeks.
Chapter - A little bug.
“When shall we go to Larnaca?” Asked Max, as they got back to the ship.
“Better speak to Sam first,” said Carla. “See what he has for us.”
Sam had nothing for them, but thanked them both for their part with the statuette.
He confirmed a bank transfer of £3,000 to Max’s numbered Account, for services rendered.
“Oh! By the way, it seems our clients’ agent has disappeared with the statuette. He phoned the client from the helicopter, the client could hear the engine. Stephen said the pilot tried to shoot him, but he killed the pilot and how could he land the helicopter? A search for the wreck is now on, but we all think it’s a double-cross. Anyway the Organisation is in the clear, and we have been paid, so that’s the main thing.” Sam ended the conversation with a cheerful “I’ll call if I need you, bye!”
Max’s eyes lit up, and he was about to say something when he thought better of it. He rushed out of the cabin to the radio room.
The radio room was quite a bit more than that, it was a state of the art Communication Centre and Mark Goodliffe, the communications officer, a 36 year old displaying more technical degrees than the cabin wall space allowed, ran it.
“You know that bug you built for me?” Asked Max.
“Yes,” Mark replied.
“Well, would it still be working?”
“Theoretically, yes if no one has found it, why, do you want to find it?”
“Yes and rather quickly before the batteries go flat.”
“Oh! That will not happen for about three weeks, the transmission is very powerful, but it sends a burst transmission for 75 milliseconds every 20 seconds. I did it that way, so it is almost impossible to detect with debugging equipment.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, not only do you need to know the approximate frequency, but also, you would have to sit and wait for up to 20 seconds before you see or hear a blip on the detector. A short blip like that could be anything, a light switch, arcing, interference, anything.”
Max cut in. “But you could still find it?”
“Well, yes, if we are in range and that may be anything from a few feet if it’s in a steel safe to 1000 miles of open sea from a plane.”
Max’s hopes fell.
“Don’t look so despondent, I’ll do a scan now and let you know in just over 10 minutes”
"Great!" Said Max and left, fingers crossed.
Later, Mark called on the internal phone. “Not good news I’m afraid, there is something there, but it must be at the limit of its range, an aircraft would have a better chance of locating the bug. Perhaps it is still in the helicopter and is screening the signal.”
Max asked, “Can you get me some kit to use?”
“No problem, I’ll show you how to use it when you come to collect it.”
“Thanks,” said Max. “I’ll call you later.”
Chapter - The Zenobia.
The following day, Max and Carla flew to Cyprus and checked into a comfortable hotel in Ayia Napa. Next day they began their training as scuba divers, starting as an open - water diver, then advanced open-water diver.
They dived five times on the wreck during training and managed to identify the truck on the penultimate dive.
A night dive was planned as the only possibility of recovering the jewels, because the site was constantly dived on, during the day.
To break the trail back to them, should anything go wrong, they rented a rundown stone terraced house in Larnaca with a garage at the back, and bought a battered red pickup truck, all paid for in cash. Next, they hired a small boat along with the purchase of full night-dive equipment, lifting bags, and a wrench, suitable for lorry wheel nuts. Again, all paid for in cash.
It was a reasonable possibility the wheel nuts would be too corroded to fit the wrench or they might be too corroded onto the studs to undo them. A machine shop made up a special tool that developed enough force to twist in half a 12-millimetre diameter high tensile steel bar. If necessary, they could shear the wheel nuts off.
They waited a couple of nights for a moonless sky before they made the dive. It was also cloudy that night, so only the harbour lights gave any illumination. Finding the marker buoy for the wreck was not difficult, but judging from its angle in the water, a moderate current was flowing. Disconcertingly, a large cruiser had moored about 100 yards away, but it left shortly after they tied up to the buoy.
Weighted down with high volume steel tanks, dive lights, the flotation bags and tools, they flopped backwards over the side of the boat into the inky blackness, surfacing again long enough to gather up the equipment, and find the guide rope down to the wreck.
To avoid showing lights, they entered the water in darkness and fixed the first glow stick a few feet below the surface. Another glow stick and reserve air would be fixed at five metres below the surface, where they would have to stop to decompress. They would need to stay at that depth on their return from the seabed, to allow time for the nitrogen absorbed in their blood, to dissipate. This would take many minutes if t
hey were to avoid the bends, a condition brought on when the nitrogen dissolved in the blood, forms bubbles in blood and joints and can result in paralysis or death.
Releasing the air from their buoyancy jackets and lift-bags, they sank into the inky blackness again, in a rumble of noisy bubbles.
Just below the surface, they turned their dive lights on and followed the rope line ever deeper, into the depths.
Max did not like this dive. It was deep and, apart from the line that suddenly vanished into the darkness, there was no visual reference as to their depth. Regular checks on their dive computers strapped to their wrists, showed the depth all right, but that was just a number in this unnatural world.
The powerful light beams seem to go no distance at all into the black void and gently sinking down weightlessly, gave no sense of up or down. Only the air bubbles from their regulators, knew their way, for sure.
The current was quite strong and constantly threatened to tear them away from the thick, slimy rope as it slid through their lightly clenched hands.
The guide rope was attached to the rail, at the rear of the ferry. From there, they would have to swim halfway along the wreck, against the current to get to the truck, which dangled over the ship's side by two old rusty chains.
The ship’s rail suddenly appeared in the light beam below them and Carla attached a light stick to it.
After getting their bearings, they followed the side of the ship until they reached the first truck. As he looked back, Max wished he had fixed more light sticks to show a clear path back. The rail was lost in the blackness the moment the torchlight moved away from it.
Holding a torch in one hand and dragging the equipment between them with the other, they swam forward together against the strong current.
Keeping close to see enough of the vessel in the pencil of light was difficult enough, they had to avoid sharp protruding pipes, cables and other hazards that suddenly appeared, only if caught in the light beam. Neither of them dared think about the invisible web of old fishing line, or worse, fishing nets that could entangle them, or rusting fishing hooks that could tear into flesh through the dive suit. Four divers had already died in the wreck, in daylight.
Carla nearly ripped open her stomach on a needle-sharp, corroded pipe. Her sharp intake of breath was just enough to buoy her above it, only to have to exhale quickly to sink under a piece of superstructure.
Counting the trucks was easy, but as the articulated part was often dangling down into the depths, after the cab, there was nothing to follow until the side of the ship showed in the slender beam of light.
The invisible tug and swirl of the current, one moment, pulling them into the blackness, then pushing them into the hazardous metal, was tiring them out extremely quickly. Their limited air supply was also going fast, about eight times as fast at this depth, due to the strenuous swim against the current.
They would be down for some time, yet they still had to remove the wheel and ascend extremely slowly, to decompress. Time was actually running out terribly quickly.
The truck they wanted suddenly materialised out of the gloom. The number plate checked out, so they manoeuvred behind the cab to get at the spare wheel.
When the ferry finally sank, it hit the seabed extremely hard and with a slight list. The truck had snapped its rear chain with the sudden shock. It then slid bodily sideways over the side of the ferry, suspended in space by the remains of the front chain, still fixed to the deck. With just the front and rear of the cab attached, the articulated trailer part, dangle down towards the seabed, as though it had jackknifed.
The two grasped the rubber tyre of the spare wheel and aligned themselves, at the same time fighting the turbulence caused by the strong current, around the cab.
“This is impossible,” thought Max, checking the remaining air, time, and depth. At this rate, he had seven minutes left before he had to leave for the surface. Carla was slightly better off, with her smaller lungs, young and super-fit body, she had 15 minutes left.
Good luck smiled on them briefly, the wheel nuts looked OK once they removed the surface detritus with a wire brush. The spider fitted perfectly with hardly any slackness around the nut.
Gripping the tyre with one hand and turning the spider with the other, did not work. Max rotated, not the nut! So Max removed his fins and with his knees gripping either side of the tyre, and feet on the chassis, he tried again. The nut undid easily, chewing rust off the stud like smoke, instantly swept away in the current.
Because this was a spare wheel, the fixing had fewer nuts and not over tight like they would have been, fixed to the axle.
Carla clung on to the rusted shell of the cab as best she could, aiming the light in the right place whilst holding the suspended tool bag, and Max’s fins. Max worked furiously, racing against the clock.
The last nut holding the wheel in place was nearly free, so Max attached the lift-bag.
This was going to be tricky, he thought, with too much air in the lift-bag, he would have a runaway assent on his hands, too little, and the heavy wheel would drop to the seabed at a depth far beyond their reach.
Having tied on the lift bag and put a little of his precious air in it from his regulator he refitted his fins. Carla tapped him on the shoulder with the torch and shone a light on the dive computer screen. Max knew they were out of time. They must leave now, drown, or die from the bends. He shook his head; he was moments away from success. More precious air was lost to the lift-bag; now the moment-of-truth!
A couple of turns and the final nut came off. He gave the spider to Carla and pulled the wheel away.
Damn it was still too heavy!
Carla let go of the cab and pulled up the wheel by swimming upward, frantically using her fins; it was just enough. Max put more of his precious air into the bag, to achieve neutral buoyancy.
As they rose above the cab, the current swept them away into the blackness. They fully exhaled and sank together just keeping the deck in sight.
Suddenly, in front of them from out of nowhere came two dive lights. Had someone seen them, also on a night dive, or was this Manuel, after the wheel?
A harpoon just missed Carla and clanged against the steel plating of the wreck.
Max switched out his dive light. Carla immediately did the same. Together they swung to the left over towards the centre of the deck. They could see nothing except the scything dive lights looking for them.
Max was convinced it must be Manuel and a fellow diver. Manuel was not the sort to snatch the wheel and leave witnesses.
The current drift was fast now, and for all they knew they could be floating up or down or away from the ship. Carla fumbled with one hand, for Max’s small back up dive light or a light stick. She found the light. Holding it over her dive computer, she switched it on. In the restricted glow of the small light, she checked her reading. Depth was constant, and she continued to monitor it. Max checked the flow of air bubbles; they were drifting along on their backs as though leaning backwards in a rocking chair. Guiding Carla upright, he briefly turned on his dive light pointing it down. Yes, he could see the deck. Turning his head, he could see the searchers’ lights, but they had lost sight of Max and Carla.
Suddenly Max struck his head. Christ it hurt, stars lit up the black water where ever he looked and a deeper blackness was enfolding him. Carla heard the sound and felt the sudden impact through Max’s hand as he held onto her arm, Max’s grip was weakening, and she pulled him close to her, wrapped her legs around him and grabbed the wheel lift-bag in her free hand.
Gathering the tools and wheel lift-bag together in one hand, she used the small backup dive light dangling from Max’s strap, to examine him. His eyes flickered in the light, so he was just about conscious. Rust particles and blood drifted around his head as they moved with the current. For the moment, he was still alive.
She rechecked her depth and decided to exhale fully to descend a bit closer to the deck; this would reduce the risk of missing
the stern rail and line to the surface.
She could now see the glow stick and guide rope, in the weak beam of the backup light.
Manuel’s lights were now heading towards them and the rear of the wreck.
Logic told her to use the line to the surface, it leads to safety and the air supply at five-metres, where they must stop to decompress. She knew the safety would be temporary though, because Manuel had been down less time and would have used less air and energy. He would catch them at the five metre mark where they were forced to wait. An ascent without the line would be OK, except there will be no air at five metres to save them. She figured their safe decompression time would be about 15 minutes, holding one’s breath for that time was not an option. Manuel, on the other hand, probably only needed three or four minutes.
She knew what she must do. She breathed in and exhaled slowly, starting her slow ascent. She checked her rate of ascent every five to ten seconds. She was spot on, keeping pace with the rise of the smallest silver bubbles around them.
By judging her position over the deck by Manuel’s dive lights, she estimated she would drift with the line on her left, and so her dive light beam would not shine in Manuel’s direction. She felt safe because she could only just make out the disc of light from their lamps. The beam itself was lost in the gloom.
She scythed her light, but saw nothing. Manuel’s lights were moving across, under her. “Shit!” She bubbled through her regulator. “I’ve missed the guideline.”
Arcing the main dive light she saw the guideline behind her and to the left. With her lamp arm around Max’s waist, she kicked hard towards it.
Dragging the equipment and Max against the current was draining her energy, fast, and she was making agonisingly slow progress towards the rope, tantalisingly out of reach.
Her breathing was a deep panting, and at any second, the regulator would be unable to supply her tortured lungs with enough air. If that happened, they would both drown. Her outstretched hand was just inches away from the safety of the thick rope guideline when the airflow was stifled; the demand through the system was now too high. In a desperate threshing of her fins and clutching of her outstretched hand, the gap continued to close. Suffocating and on the borderline of panic, she made a final lunge, screaming through the suffocating regulator with the effort. Her slender fingers at last gripped the thick rope, and she clung on. Her body was continuing to suffer from oxygen deprivation, and although the physical exertion had stopped, her lungs demanded more air. It was like stopping after a long, hard run and wanting to pant furiously, but forced to breathe slowly. At one point she nearly panicked and ripped the mouthpiece away, to breathe without the restriction, just one good breath, that’s all! Gradually her breathing rate dropped to meet supply, and she refocused on her predicament.