by John Day
His imagination shifted to a confrontation with Mr Mendez. How would that happen? Would he be bundled into the back of a gleaming black SUV or perhaps the side entry of a less noticeable, probably shabby van. Either way the result would be the same.
His options were limited. He could tell the FBI that he was duped into money laundering, but at this late stage, they would throw him in jail and shut down his company. Mr Mendez would be out of pocket of course, and out of FBI jurisdiction.
In jail, he would meet someone paid by Mendez to settle the score. Perhaps not the bullet in the guts, as promised, but a frantic stabbing with a sharpened plastic toothbrush handle. No quick, clean death, either way.
He could just blow out his brains and beat them to it. A coward’s way out, and he had failed to do that once already. That was a dreadful experience. He would never forget the bitter taste of the metal barrel as it jarred against his front teeth and the tension, anticipating the gun going off, as he squeezed the trigger. No, he just couldn’t face that, not again.
Of course, he could get in first and pay a hitman to do away with Mr Mendez. There would be some satisfaction in that, but it was not in his nature.
Never-the-less, the money laundering revelation to the authorities and payment of debts would still remain. His staff would be punished as well by facing great hardship, and then there was Sarah. She would be destroyed emotionally now their mutual feelings of love were out in the open. Albeit marred by the embrace between Sarah and Ellen. He had never suspected Sarah swung the other way, but it might explain why they had always remained close friends and never lovers.
Finding the treasure was the only way out.
Benny, like any of them, could return to Cabo at some later date and see what the native could tell them.
However, time marched on and he had an inkling that Mendez would be keeping a watch on him. Mendez was out of pocket for the unsuccessful sonar survey and while not finding the sub was a business gamble, he was not likely to give up now.
Being here with the others and without Mendez would not sit well with the man. The excuse that it was just a 5-berth boat, and therefore no room for him, would not win him over.
OK, perhaps he could bring Mendez in on the search, but if the native had nothing to tell him, he was no closer to the bullion. Yes, that would be the story for Mendez.
***
Sarah was broken-hearted. Now all she had to look forward to was returning home alone to a mountain of business paperwork.
Alan had made his feelings clear to her by being distant. She knew he loved her, but the mistake with Ellen had soured that. He saw enough of what happened to know ‘it is not what it looked like’ was ‘what it looked like’. How could she ever come back from that error of judgement? Her life was in ruins, frankly, it was over.
***
Ellen and Walter had found true friends in Alan and Sarah. Something their exciting and charmed lives of opulent excesses had lacked. It was all over now and they would very soon split up to go their different ways.
Somehow, returning with Benny and pursuing the hunt for Kaltman’s secret cargo would be like stabbing Alan and Sarah in the back. Ellen felt bad enough about damaging the relationship between Sarah and Alan that it bordered on regret.
Ellen didn’t do regret, it is not something high functioning psychopaths do. She still craved intimacy with Sarah and drifted off to sleep every night, dreaming vividly of being with the girl. Soon she wouldn’t even have the pleasure of following the fluid movement of Sarah’s lithe body, with her hungry eyes. Nor to stand so close, they brushed skin.
Ellen could easily buy the perfume Sarah wore but without her pheromones, the ache she felt deep down as she breathed Sarah’s scent, would never be sated.
Ellen wondered how far off Sarah’s tipping point actually was. The natural Champaign blond never once moved away as their wet bodies slithered together sensually in the sea. Even on deck, clad only in the scantiest clothing, Sarah was not repulsed.
Unseen by the men, Ellen often passed her hands over Sarah’s bare skin. Accidental touching or an excited hug it might be to the casual eye, but there was an awful lot of it.
Alone at night, Ellen would replay every nuance of the tactile encounter, clawing and biting her pillow to quench the lustful desire that burned within her.
It puzzled Ellen as to why Alan had instantly cooled the romance with Sarah, after he had seen her and Sarah kiss outside the bedroom. He seemed quite alright with the close company of a blatant lesbian, and he obviously still adored his stepsister.
***
Walter could sense the emotions going on in Ellen’s head. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Alan was no longer touchy-feely with Sarah and Ellen was up to her old tricks. Still, so long as everyone was getting along well and having a wonderful time, he was not worried.
Alan was the only man with whom he felt he could lower his guard. The guy was not into any masculine arms race or interested in one-up-man-ship, he just wanted a nice life.
Walter also knew that Ellen would certainly side with Benny and snatch the treasure for herself. She had no conscience, so double crossing her new friends wouldn’t hold her back.
It made him feel bad though, he still had the remnants of a heart, but the spell Ellen had over him got him through it.
***
Benny had tasted friendship and a wonderful social experience. Both were new to him. Perhaps the human race knew something he never suspected.
Being all together on the boat and having fun made suspicion and dirty dealing unnecessary. But soon, they would revert to the old ways and he had to keep ahead of all of them.
Charles Henshaw must be pretty ticked off by now, having to follow at a distance and being unaware whether or not the U-159 was there.
No doubt Mr Mendez was lurking somewhere, feeling excluded.
Benny shuddered at the thought.
Hooked!
Suddenly the party was over. Each person’s private thoughts wiped smiles from their faces and destroyed appetites.
Walter eased back his chair.
“Alan, can I give you a hand with the anchor and getting under way?”
“Thanks Walter, I’ll start the engine and get the power to the winch. Can you watch the anchor come up and stow it?”
Walter walked away and signalled with a cheery wave that he was on his way to do it.
Up on the bridge, Alan flicked switches and looked around to make certain everyone was out of harm’s way. The control panel gave it’s warning scream before the starter engaged. The small diesel engine turned over and fired up. Perfect.
Walter released the anchor rope around the cleat and checked it was free, then engaged the winch to pull up the small anchor. It was no surprise that the catamaran pulled forward as the slack was taken up. They had chosen the large bed of rock and coral out to sea, so the anchor had something solid to hook into. Otherwise, it would have just dragged through the sandy seabed.
Alarmed at the way the winch was straining and the bow was dipping, Walter stopped the winch.
He released the winch lever and the taut, vibrating rope grew slack again.
He lay on the deck with his arms over the side, tugging the slimy wet rope, trying to jiggle the flukes free, but they were not budging.
Irritated at defeat, he got up and strode back to the bridge.
“The anchor is caught on something, I should gear up and dive down. What depth are we showing?”
He looked at the echo sounder reading.
“36 metres, so not a problem, I will go straight down, free the anchor and come straight back up. I won’t need long to decompress.”
He was speaking his thoughts, Alan knew that.
“Actually Walter, I want to go, I fancy the dive. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. I’ll give you a hand with your scuba gear.”
Benny and the two women wandered up and asked what was happening. Walter explained as Al
an back flipped over the side.
***
The cloud of small silver bubbles cleared around him, Alan swam forward and used the anchor rope to pull himself quickly into the dark depths, over the rocky spur.
The sandy bottom at about 40 metres deep showed up as a light shade of murky green, surrounding the heap of black rock.
The water felt distinctly cold near the bottom, the warmth of the scorching sun never reaching down this far. Even the brilliant sunlight was so attenuated that the brightly coloured fish, shoaling over the rock and between the coral, were practically a dull shade of uniform greenish grey.
Alan realised the anchor must be somewhere down in the tangle of fishing nets that shrouded the rocks. He pulled himself down the rope and thrust his arms through the hole in the fine net, as far as he could reach.
His first thought was that the outrigger spar of a dugout canoe was jutting from the rocks, the almost horizontal spar supported the net like a tent ridge. Whatever it was, the anchor was still below in the gloom. He pulled himself down further using the anchor rope.
As he tugged on the rope he could hear the galvanised steel anchor clang loosely against something. It was not the sound of steel on rock that he was expecting.
Somehow Alan needed to enlarge the hole in the fishing net so he could reach the anchor. If only he had brought his torch to see into the dark hole, and his knife, to slice through the thin mesh.
He should go back up and get the two items, and he ought to have someone with him as well. Many careful divers had died, caught in the tenuous grip of fishing nets, he didn’t want to join them.
So near, yet so far, he thought. I’d better give it another try, then if I can’t free it I will go back.
As he tugged at the rotted net, link after link snapped and the hole got bigger. The hole was now a long tear and easily big enough to swim through. He pulled apart the mesh, descended into the hole and flipped his swim fins hard to avoid becoming tangled. The wafting currents swirled the mesh back, closing the tear. His concentration and physical exertion were intense, so he hardly noticed.
It all made sense now, this was an old shipwreck and their anchor had slipped behind a steel valve wheel. Pulling himself closer, he could see the sturdy iron rimmed wheel with four thick spokes and a spike-like handle sticking out from it. The sort that a gunner would use to wind the turret around or elevate the barrel.
Unhooking the anchor, was all it took to free it. Alan looked around. He was standing on the remains of a decayed wooden deck. Whatever the ship was, it had a very narrow deck and a large gun.
The net tent seemed to continue into the gloom and over a tall indistinct vertical mass. Although it could only be a large chunk of rock, it appeared to be vaguely regular, unlike the expanse of small coral covered boulders all around.
Against his better judgement, Alan swam towards the dark shape, still carrying the anchor. He didn’t want to lose the rope that would guide him back to the hole, or have the anchor trapped again.
The ominous dark mass rose up vertically from the remains of the deck. There were pipes and machinery in the space under the remaining boards. Definitely a dangerous place to step into. Trapped there, he would never break free.
Alan jabbed the anchor at the huge dark shape.
Clang!
It was steel, very thick steel at that. Slowly he ascended examining the sea life encrusted surface as he went.
Then he saw it. The shock hit him like a million volts…
Shocking discovery.
The four crew on Lady Jane peered down into the depths. Alan should have come up by now, there was no need for lengthy decompression. Was he in trouble?
Walter could see from the angle of the anchor rope that it was less vertical now. The catamaran was slowly drifting out to sea, that could only happen if the anchor was free.
Something was keeping Alan down there, perhaps he had become caught in nets or something.
Walter sprang into action and shouted to no one in particular.
“Help me get kitted up, I need to go down immediately.”
Benny and the girls grabbed the neatly stowed equipment and placed it in order on the deck.
He lifted the air bottle and secured it with Velcro straps to the buoyancy jacket. Sarah fitted the regulator to the bottle and after a test of airflow, they lifted it onto Walter’s broad, muscular back.
Ellen slipped a knife in its sheath and a torch on a lanyard to a hook on the jacket.
As Walter sat down, the girls each jammed his feet into the swim fins.
Walter back flipped and fitted his face mask as he kicked hard to the seabed. He pressed the top of the mask to his forehead, and breathed out through his nose to expel the water from it.
***
Alan used the blades on the anchor to scrape the detritus from the distinctive eagle wings welded to the conning tower. It was a German submarine, of that there was no doubt, but which one?
He tried to swim around the conning tower, but the drifting catamaran had taken all the slack. Alan just had to know the number of the vessel, so he dropped the anchor into the under-deck plumbing with a resounding clang!
***
Walter swam frantically towards the taut anchor rope and homed in on the metal clang. He felt reassured it was not a sound of someone in trouble, but aside from the anchor, what other metal would be down here?
The slit in the net had closed around the rope. Walter tugged at the mesh and was surprised as it floated away forming a large hole.
We all have our demons, Walter’s was a fear of becoming trapped, and drowning. This was his worst nightmare and now he had to deal with it.
Ducking through, he continued to follow the rope under the tent of netting. At a glance, he knew this was a submarine, but the whys and wherefores didn’t concern him right now, Alan must be trapped, and might be drowning.
***
Alan eased between the draped net and the starboard side, about half way up the conning tower. In the dim light, he could see white paint peeking out between barnacles and swaying fronds of grey weed. Peeling off a swim fin, he used it like an ice scraper on a car windscreen.
In a combination of one legged kicking and frantic scraping, the detritus fell away.
Gradually the large white markings took shape - last seen by human eye 7 decades ago.
‘U’
It was certainly a U.
A dash. That was to be expected.
Something black obscured the remainder, a combination of charred paint and heavy rusting.
A thin white vertical gave a clue to what might have been obliterated, a 1 or the upright of a 4 perhaps.
Deciding to look on the other side of the conning tower, Alan tried to swim around, but the top of his air bottle became caught in the net and trapped him there. A surge of adrenalin kicked in and in a moment of panic, he struggled to break free. It refused to untangle.
Pulling himself together, he released the Velcro straps and slipped free of his jacket. Now he was free to turn and deal with the tangle around the air valve.
A sudden tugging on the net startled Alan, he imagined some large razor toothed fish lining up to attack, not another diver appearing from below him. It was Walter hacking the mesh with his knife.
Free at last, Alan slipped on his buoyancy jacket and signalled Walter that he wanted to swim the other side. Walter had already read the exposed paintwork. He nodded and touched thumb to finger to signal OK.
On the port side, the paintwork was still intact.
It is a ‘1’ not an L shaped 4
Both men were scraping furiously now, resulting in clouds of bubbles from breathing so hard.
‘5’ … and a ‘9’.
There was no doubt, the U-159 was right under their own boat!
Nothing else mattered to them now. They swam back along the hull and found the first hatch. It was sealed shut.
They followed the rope through the gash in the net and swam back over
the conning tower.
The periscope was just a short stump, the top having a cover plate welded over it to keep water out. Walter guessed it had been damaged in the blast from the homing torpedoes.
Cutting through the net, they could drop down inside the fairing around the front and sides of the conning tower. Again, the hatch was sealed.
Together they swam carefully along its whole length, to find all the hatches were closed. There were no obvious holes in the hull, apart from the section of buoyancy tanks on the starboard side below the conning tower.
The metal here was relatively thin and eaten through with rust. It was also torn away by countless currents and crumpled towards the pressure hull. Walter deduced that the blast outside the hull from the torpedoes had done that. The stricken craft had somehow limped here and eventually slipped below the waves.
The big question on their minds was, what would they find inside?
Alan was now keen to surface and tell the others about what they had found. He and Walter had been down so long, the girls would soon be on their way down to investigate.
***
After the decompression stop at 5 metres, they bobbed on the surface. Ripping their face masks away and spitting out their regulators, they yelled out, “We found U-159.”
Benny couldn’t believe their luck. He slipped away unnoticed to call Charles Henshaw on the radio. He hoped the vessel would still be shadowing the catamaran by radar, from the horizon.
“Hello Charles, we have found what we were looking for. Can you come immediately.”
“Are you certain it is the one we want?”
“No doubt about it, Alan and Walter have seen the number.” There was silence.
“We are on our way. Not sure we can stay though; the storm is sweeping our way and it is a big one.
“I have Mr Mendez with me too. He came aboard by helicopter. He is a very happy bunny at the news.”
The news about Mendez was like being diagnosed with terminal cancer with hours to live. Probably an identical prognosis.
Benny thought through the implications and decided not to mention it to Alan and Sarah. What good would it do?