Copyright © 2019 by Nicholas Harvey
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2019
ISBN-13: 9781710723601
Author photograph by Katy Short Photography
Cover design by author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner unless noted otherwise. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Except Jen and her Greenhouse Restaurant, you can’t make up Jen.
Both Jen from Greenhouse Cafe and Rosa from Heritage Kitchen kindly provided their permission to use their characters and locations. The Raptor is a fictitious wreck. The U-1026 is a fictitious wreck as you know… if you’ve read Twelve Mile Bank! The Fox and Hare is a fictitious pub… I wish it wasn’t, so someone please open one just like it, you have my permission to use the name. Hasn’t been the same since the Triple Crown on SMB closed.
This one’s for my dear Dad.
There’s a gaping hole in the world, and my life, since he’s been gone. A truly beautiful soul. His influence and example filled my life, and the pages of my books.
Tony Harvey 1935 - 2019
Chapter 1
July 1974
The bow of the wreck loomed from the edge of visibility like an industrial monster climbing from the depths of the ocean. The first sight of the vessel took Whitey Snow’s breath away. Although he had made the dive several times before, it always took his breath away. Unmarked and rarely dived, the 120’ freighter had begun accumulating signs of colourful coral growth during her first year on the sea floor. Resting perfectly upright, facing the west end of Grand Cayman, the top of the bow was 70’ down; her stern was much deeper as the reef sloped steeply away. Approaching the bow, Whitey barely finned, with the strong current carrying him closer to the wreck as he continued deeper. The wreck of the Raptor was a thrilling challenge; a dive to savour, and marvel at its grandeur. But not for Whitey. Not today.
Glancing up through the gin-clear water, he made sure the small boat at the surface was following his bubbles before he cleared the bow, crossed over the forward deck, and descended into the vast, vacant space of the open cargo hold. Finally sheltered from the current, he kicked briskly, continuing deeper until he reached the floor of the hold, with the superstructure towering overhead. Before him, a door lay half open, wedged so by a steel crowbar. Whitey checked his tank pressure gauge and the time on his watch before taking a settling breath and slipping through the narrow opening into the dark belly of the ghost ship.
The engine room was alive with shadows cast from the trickle of ambient light leaking in through the door, and a multitude of small fish scattered from the noisy, bubble-blowing creature invading their home. Whitey flicked the switch on his unwieldy Dive Bright aluminium-bodied lantern and illuminated the big diesel engine that once propelled the Raptor. The room was cramped with no space given for a six-foot diver to manoeuvre easily amongst the various pipes and lines extending through the ceiling. Without delay, he gently kicked his Voit fins to glide over the top of the engine, between the lines, and reach the port side of the diesel. Whitey flashed his lantern along the side of the algae-covered metal block until he located an oil filter housing with a clean-looking filter attached. Reaching down, he tried turning the filter with his free hand, but it wouldn’t budge. Surprised, as it hadn’t been long since his last visit, he repositioned, hanging over the side of the motor to gain a better purchase. He tried the filter again with his long, lean, muscular arm. This time it gave and turned one revolution before dropping away from the housing.
The sudden jerk of the filter coming free stirred up silt and debris around him and movement caught his eye from below the old engine. He froze as a five-foot green moray eel brushed against his bare leg, wriggling its way around him and across the engine room to find quieter refuge. Whitey sucked a few hard breaths through his state-of-the-art Aqualung Alizé single-hose regulator before returning his attention to the filter. Shining the light inside revealed a rag wadded up where the filter element used to live. Resting the light on the top of the engine he freed up his hand to carefully retrieve the cloth. He cautiously set the filter down next to the lantern. It required both hands to unfurl the rag, which contained a thick, greasy mess. Dipping a finger inside the axle grease, he hooked out a small object and used the edges of the rag to wipe it clean. Whitey paused and looked at the silver-coloured key, illuminated by the beam from his lantern. All the plans he’d carefully devised, the plans he’d been sure to be foolproof, were now crashing down around him like a sandcastle at high tide. He’d had two options, as best he’d seen it: die on the boat above by refusing to dive, or die later that day after making the dive. Later seemed the better choice, even if he was simply prolonging the inevitable. They were a long way from shore with currents too strong for him to sneak away underwater; besides, Ainsley was on the boat. He couldn’t abandon his best mate, even if it meant he was returning to the surface to meet his maker. At least they’d die together. Just like his shipmates in the war, they’d rather have died together than alone. While he still breathed there was always a glimmer of hope. He thought about replacing the filter but what was the point? He smiled to himself at the irony and, clutching the key, he half pulled, half finned his way back to the door.
The bright glare from the Caribbean sun at the surface made him squint and blink through his oval-shaped mask as his eyes readjusted once clear of the door. Whitey switched off his bulky dive light and scanned the surface for Ainsley’s boat. The superstructure of cabins and wheelhouse partially obscured his view, so he began to ascend out of the cargo hold into more open water. At 75’ he paused again, kicking to hold position against the current; he rotated 360 degrees, searching the surface. Nothing. Had they abandoned him out here? That made no sense, he had the key. He swung around again, looking up, and suddenly stopped when he made out something floating on the surface, above the stern of the Raptor. It was clearly the outline of a body, dancing slowly with the rhythm of the gentle surface waves. A dark cloud spread away from the body like a ghastly fog and curious fish were circling below, eagerly taking an interest. The sight of the body paralysed Whitey. As much as he’d known this day would almost certainly be his last, the immediacy of someone else’s brutal demise was a sharp reality that struck home. Who was it? It had to be one of two people; he could only pray it wasn’t his best friend. And where was the damn boat? He swam up farther and desperately searched the waters around him. As he rose to see over the wheelhouse of the wreck, a second sight halted him, and his breathing. He found Ainsley’s boat. Slowly descending beyond the stern of the wrecked freighter, the 25’ cuddy cabin was disappearing from view, carried away by the currents towards the drop-off, and a long journey down to the sea floor more than a thousand feet below.
Chapter 2
November 2019
Strings of colourful lights enveloped the perimeter of the backyard, strung from shrub to tree to shrub before finally reaching the bungalow on each side. Eighties English music played loudly, but the sound of the crowd’s laughter and chatter still overwhelmed Culture Club’s best efforts. Reg Moore sipped from a glass of Scotch whisky over ice, a glow of perspiration on his forehead from the balmy Cayman evening. He scowled at his wife, Pearl.
“I can’t take much more of this bloody music,” he shouted.
Pearl chuckled and looked up at the broad-
shouldered man with his scruffy grey beard and mop of salt-and-pepper hair.
“You’ll manage, she’ll only turn thirty once; we can probably wait ten years to do this again.”
He shook his head but couldn’t help a grin creeping across his face as he looked down at the woman he adored. After fifty-seven laps around the sun, she used some product to keep her wavy hair blonde, and she carried a few more pounds than when they married thirty-four years ago. But she was as beautiful as ever, her voluptuous figure still stopped traffic and he loved the fact she’d always been oblivious to the effect she had on men. Except for Reg. He made sure she knew the effect she’d always had on him. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
A young, tall, lean Caymanian man pushed through the crowd and halted abruptly in front of Reg and Pearl.
“Boss, it’s time, don’t you think? Can we give her her present now?” His accented voice burst with enthusiasm matched by the expression on his sweaty face.
Reg grinned and nodded, “Alright Thomas, get someone to turn down this shitty music. I’ll go get it.”
Thomas left as keenly as he’d arrived, and before Reg had reached the back door to the house, the music volume turned down and the crowd noise lessened as they sensed something happening.
Pearl called out, “AJ? Where’s the birthday girl?!”
Shouts and cheers gave away her location and Pearl burrowed her way through the crowd in that direction. Her diminutive size made it impossible to see over anyone, but soon an opening appeared, and AJ Bailey was reluctantly held in the middle by Thomas and AJ’s boyfriend Jackson.
“There you are!” Pearl laughed.
“You sneaky buggers are killing me, you know I hate all this fuss.” AJ’s pretty face looked flushed from a mixture of drinks, dancing and embarrassment. In jean shorts and a tank top, with a toned and tanned, slender figure, she didn’t look like a woman who’d grown up on the Sussex coast of England. Purple streaks highlighted her short blonde hair and tattoos adorning both arms made her look more like a pop star than the daughter of a barrister and company CEO.
Reg easily split the crowd, his big frame parting the seas like a warship and his deep voice hushing the cheers.
“Alright you lot, quieten down, we’re gonna really embarrass her now.”
After some laughter, the group grew silent and Pearl put her arm around AJ. Reg fumbled with his words to start – he was not a man given to speeches.
“You lot know this girl means the world to Pearl and me. Not having brats of our own, she’s the closest thing we’ve got...” He clenched his teeth to keep a tear from giving away his emotion that everyone could see anyway.
“Anyway, her mum and dad, who couldn’t make it over tonight, got together with Pearl and I, and young Thomas here, and got her something special to help her get over the fact she’s turning thirty and is officially summiting the hill, if not going over it.”
Laughing, he presented a small, brightly wrapped gift box to AJ, who did have tears on her cheeks. She took the box and threw her arms around Reg, giving him a big hug to a cheer from the crowd.
Releasing him she studied the box. “Thanks Reg, touching speech, up to the hill part.” She smirked at him.
“Well open it!” Pearl urged.
AJ tore into the wrapping paper to reveal a cream-coloured cardboard sleeve with a gold crown on it. She slid the sleeve aside and held a green case with a smaller gold crown emblazoned on it.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered to herself as she opened the hinged lid of the box.
A shiny Rolex Submariner watch glistened up at her with silver and gold band and traditional blue face.
“We knew you’d never buy anything like this for yourself and figured it was a good way to remind you of your incredible accomplishment finding the U-1026,” Reg said softly, his face beaming with pride.
AJ stood speechless, staring at the gorgeous watch as Thomas stepped forward holding a mobile phone out in front of him. On the screen were Beryl and Bob Bailey, AJ’s parents.
“Do you like it my love?” Bob smiled through the Internet video call.
AJ looked up, not having noticed the phone before, and stammered through tears, taking the phone in her other hand.
“This is beautiful, Dad. It’s too much, you guys...” She looked around at everyone staring at her. “You shouldn’t have, but this is the coolest thing ever!”
Her mum leaned a little closer to the phone on their end as though it would bring her closer to her little girl. “Take it out and look at the back.”
AJ handed the phone back to Thomas so she could free up her hand and remove the watch from the plush, cushioned box.
“What time is it there? It must be three in the morning!” she asked as she removed the watch and turned it over to see the back of the case.
“It is, but this is worth it,” her mum whispered.
Inscribed in the case were the words ‘From U-1026 with Love’.
AJ shook her head slowly in disbelief. Handing the box off to Pearl, she slipped the watch over her hand and clasped its bulky weight to her wrist.
“This week we dive the sub – I can take the watch down to see her.”
Chapter 3
March 1974
The view from the full-length windows of the living room extended across Huánuco to the beautiful mountains bordering the city. From where the sprawling house and grounds nestled in the foothills of the opposing mountains, the Río Huallaga could be clearly seen winding its way through the middle of the long narrow town in the valley. The morning sun set the mountains alight with a rich golden glow and glistened off the river where the waters followed the valley in a slow arc east. At 6,275 feet above sea level, the city had a surprisingly moderate climate, with warm days, cool nights, and a refreshing breeze running through the valley. Late summer in the southern hemisphere meant the peaks in the distance were clear of the long-present winter snow.
Whitey sipped his lemonade the housekeeper had insisted on making him from fresh lemons, and admired the view some more. He would turn forty-seven later this year and despite being incredibly fit and lean for his age, the travelling still wore him out more than it used to. He’d started at Grand Cayman’s Owen Roberts airport, hopped to Kingston, Jamaica, which at least was a small jet these days instead of the old twin prop. After a day in Jamaica, he’d flown to Miami, Florida, where he could get a non-stop to Lima, Peru. From Lima it was a small prop plane that had brought him into Huánuco the previous night for a few hours’ rest before the car picked him up to bring him to the Caveros’ estate that morning. Whitey had been working for Mariano Cavero for a few years, but he still got a small knot in his stomach each time he met the imposing man. At 5’ 7” and seventy years old, the Peruvian wasn’t physically imposing, but he carried an aura of power and strength that made him the centre of attention in any room. When he walked in, whether it was in his own home or a large restaurant, heads turned and conversation lowered. A presence entered the room, and everyone felt it.
A deep, cheerful voice boomed from across the living room and surprised Whitey.
“Good morning my friend,” Mariano bellowed in Spanish.
Wearing white linen pants and a beige cotton dress shirt, Mariano strode across the expansive room with his arms outstretched, looking like he was welcoming a movie star aboard his yacht. Whitey smiled and managed to put his glass down before he was bear hugged. Mariano released him and slapped him on the shoulder.
“Whitey, so good to see you. Lucía made you a drink I see – are you hungry? She can fix you some breakfast?”
Whitey held up his hands as the man assaulted him with offerings. “No, please Señor Cavero, I had breakfast, I’m good,” he replied in fluent Spanish, despite his strong London accent.
“Then let’s sit on the veranda and talk, it’s a beautiful morning.”
Mariano ushered the Englishman out of a door to the covered veranda off the living room, and they settled into a pair
of wicker chairs. Lucía appeared out of nowhere, replenished Whitey’s lemonade, and placed two coffees on the table between them.
Mariano nodded in her direction before speaking, “Gabriel will be sad he missed your visit, he’s with his brother in the northern valley taking care of some things for me.”
Whitey’s connection to the family had come through Gabriel, and although they were fifteen years apart in age, he’d become firm friends with Mariano’s son. He certainly felt more comfortable when Gabby was present for these meetings.
“Next time hopefully. We talked about taking a week in the Caribbean somewhere but we’ve both been too busy,” Whitey replied.
Mariano laughed heartily. “Good, it means you’re both making me money! You’ll have plenty of time for beaches and girls, and plenty of money to spend on them. All in good time.”
“So, let us talk business my friend, what did you learn on this trip?” Mariano continued, his tone turning serious.
Whitey took a sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine from the strong Peruvian beans would sharpen his tired mind; he knew what was riding on this conversation.
“As we thought, Jamaica is a mess, the PNP are supported by Castro and the Russians and it’s rumoured the CIA are funding the JLP to counter. Both sides are paying groups and gangs to press the voters their way, and there’s going to be more protests and uprisings, like they had in the sixties.” Whitey knew this wasn’t necessarily how they both thought, but he needed to use all the subtle persuasions he could.
Mariano frowned and nodded so Whitey continued, “The Cayman Islands are much more interesting; as you know, they ditched the Jamaican dollar in favour of their own currency two years ago, and in April it will be locked to the US dollar. That’s when it gets really useful: it’s rate will be 1.2 to 1.”
Wreck of the Raptor Page 1