Depth Charge

by Jason Heaton

  Depth Charge

  —————

  a novel by Jason Heaton

  Copyright © 2021 by Jason Heaton

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at jason@swimpruf.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Swimpruf Press, Minneapolis

  www.swimpruf.com

  First Edition, April, 2021

  Cover design, map, and diagram by Paul Andrews.

  Depth Charge

  

  

  Contents

  Prologue

  Blow Down

  Tube Alloys

  Invertebrates and a Crow’s Foot

  Into the Vampire

  The Taprobane

  Night Moves

  Circle of Life

  Deep Salvage

  Bastard Son

  The Deep Blue

  The Buddhist Power Army

  The China Bay Club

  A Police Matter

  Sunken Crime Scene

  Gitche Gumee

  Exotic Gas

  Dark Descent

  Free Ascent

  Adrift

  Strange Catch

  The Kindness of Strangers

  A Father’s Secret

  Chance Encounter

  Car Trouble

  Trinco

  Looking for a Ship

  Terminal Depth

  Deep Despair

  Consigned to the Depths

  The Depth Charge

  A Grisly Errand

  Decompression Sickness

  Blast Radius

  Prevailing Winds

  Fallout

  Mad Dogs and Michiganders

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Gishani, and for Mom, my two Number One fans

  “You don't reach Serendib by plotting a course for it. You have to set out in good faith for elsewhere and lose your bearings.”

  — John Barth, The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor

  Prologue

  Cavendish Laboratories, Cambridge, England.

  9 April, 1942

  “Sir John, there’s someone here to see you.” Sir John Havelock’s secretary averted eye contact, knowing her boss hated to be disturbed. “He says it’s urgent,” she added, to emphasize that this interruption was not her idea.

  “Send him in, Mary,” Havelock grumbled without looking up from his desk. His consent mattered little, as the man strode into the office before the secretary had turned to go. Havelock glanced up and then did a double take. The man was young, but with a maturity on his face that war lends. He was dressed in the dark blue wool of a Royal Navy greatcoat, its gilt buttons glittering in the faint light of the dim office.

  “Lieutenant James McGuinn, Sir John,” he said in a hurried voice with a hint of an Irish accent. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” It could only be bad when a naval officer made the trip to Cambridge. This week of all weeks, Havelock feared the worst.

  “We’ve lost HMAS Vampire, sir,” McGuinn said, his voice breaking. Havelock slowly set down his pen and swiveled his leather chair to face the windows. Dusty shafts of light angled through the scrim-taped X’s. “Japs sunk her and Hermes off of Ceylon. Only nine lost, but Hermes lost over 300 at last count.”

  Havelock didn’t care about the crew at the moment. He could only think of Vampire’s precious cargo, now lying on the bottom of the Indian Ocean. He needed to know if it was safe. This was a question he couldn’t ask the young lieutenant who stood across his desk, now uncomfortably clearing his throat. There were only a handful who knew what the destroyer was carrying.

  “And… Commander Moran?” Havelock tried to sound casual but concerned. Moran was one of the handful. After all,Vampire was his ship.

  “I’m afraid he went down with her, according to survivors’ accounts,” McGuinn replied, finding it curious that Havelock would inquire only after the captain. Perhaps they were friends.

  In fact, Sir John Havelock had never met Commander William Thomas Alldis Moran, Royal Australian Navy. Havelock was a civilian, a scientist who hadn’t left England since the war began, but he’d learned enough about Moran to trust him with England’s top secret. Born in Fremantle, Moran had served as a torpedo man in the British Royal Navy before being promoted to Commander at the relatively young age of 33. By 1940, he was given command of Australia’s HMAS Vampire, a scrappy 300-foot destroyer that saw plenty of action, including surviving the fierce bombardment off of Malaya that sunk two battleships, HMS Repulse and Prince of Wales.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  The question stirred Havelock from his thoughts. “No, thank you, Lieutenant,” he said with a somber smile and stood to shake the man’s hand. “A pity about this loss. One day we’ll avenge their deaths.”

  An oddly belligerent remark from this tweedy scientist, thought McGuinn as he turned to leave the office, wondering why he was told to deliver the news of a specific naval loss to an academic in Cambridge.

  Once he was gone, Havelock pushed back his chair with a defiant huff and walked to the door, calling out to his secretary, “Mary, tea please. And get Paget Thomson on the phone. I need to speak with him right away.”

  He strode over to the windows and peered out. His office at the Cavendish Laboratories overlooked Free School Lane. It was a sunny spring morning, and the narrow street would normally have been full of students out enjoying some of the season’s first warmth. Today it was nearly empty. The war seemed to have put every aspect of life on hold. Havelock turned back to his desk and wondered to himself how deep Vampire was. Could her cargo be salvaged? It would be risky, yes, but this was war. Risks must be taken. Mary entered his office balancing a cup and saucer.

  “Everything OK, sir?” she gently asked, setting the tea down on top of some papers, along with a small pile of shortbread biscuits. “I heard that officer mention a shipwreck.”

  “An Australian destroyer was sunk in Ceylon,” he muttered distractedly. “A shame, a great shame.”

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” Mary said, and turned to leave the office. “Oh, Mr. Paget Thomson will be calling shortly. He was in a meeting in London.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Havelock waved her off as he put his lips to the steaming cup, then pulled back. “And one more thing. I’ll be needing a nautical chart of the east coast of Ceylon.”

  Blow Down

  Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. Present day.

  Malcolm Rausing gazed out the pilothouse window of the dive support vessel Depth Charge into the black night. In the distance to the west he could just make out the twinkling lights of Batticaloa. Otherwise it was pitch black, and he could hear the waves gently lapping at the hull 40 feet below. It was a new moon, so no silver beams of light on the sea, no reflection of any kind. Rausing’s face was illuminated by the green light of the instrument panel in front of him. The crescent scar on his forehead stood out in relief, disappearing into his V-shaped hairline. In the artificial light, his pale blond hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail, had the cast of silver mercury. His large grey eyes were intelligent and probin
g as he scanned the horizon, like a nocturnal predator searching for prey. Satisfied with what he saw, he turned to face the group of three men who stood a respectful distance behind him, all of them wearing black starched shirts with epaulets and the sleeves rolled up neatly, buttoned at their biceps.

  “We’ll dive in an hour,” Rausing said to them. “Get the divers blown down to bottom pressure.”

  “Yes, sir,” the big man on the end said with a Scandinavian accent. He turned on his heel and left the pilothouse through the outside door, his footfall receding as he clanged down the metal staircase. The humid sea air had briefly entered the cabin, adding some warmth to the chill of the air conditioning.

  “Scholz, make sure we have a couple of Zodiacs around the perimeter of the ship keeping an eye out for fishermen,” he said to the angular man with the shaved head and mustache. Scholz nodded and also left the pilothouse, this time through the rear door to the ship’s interior, leaving only the captain, a bearded, portly man with a bad complexion, and Rausing.

  “The scope shows no other boats in the vicinity, and the fishing fleet won’t be back this way until dawn,” the captain said with the heavy tongue of an Eastern European accent. He stepped forward towards the ship’s controls before catching Rausing’s piercing eyes and stopping short. Rausing smiled and patted Captain Balázs Kovács on the shoulder like a principal reassuring a wary schoolboy.

  “I’ll leave you to it then, Captain,” Rausing said. “This is your ship.” Kovács knew better. He may have been responsible for driving the ship and overseeing the crew’s daily duties, but Rausing was really in control. The Depth Charge was his boat, part of the Rausing Oceanic fleet, acquired five years earlier and retrofitted to be a dive support vessel, with a hoist, pressure chamber, hyperbaric lifeboat, and moon pool. Rausing had even changed the ship’s name, ordering the paint spelling out Baltic Star scrubbed from its hull, in defiance of superstition. In a matter of only a few months, all remnants of its former life as a gritty North Sea salvage boat were gone, replaced by the starched uniforms and gilt logo china plates of the DSV Depth Charge. Captain Kovács didn’t complain. Life was better than ever, with a fat salary, a sparkling refurbished ship, and the tropical climate of his new temporary home, Sri Lanka.

  “I’ll be in my quarters until dive time. Fetch me if anything changes out there,” Rausing said, gesturing towards the black sea outside, though the windows only reflected their own green lit faces. He strode to the door and was gone. Kovács exhaled, then stepped out of the port-side door onto the stairs for a cigarette. Rausing disapproved of smoking but hadn’t forbidden it other than among the team of divers, but Kovács still felt sneaky every time he lit up.

  On the dive deck two levels below and aft of the pilothouse, two clean-shaven, fit-looking men were contorting into heavy dive suits made of black crushed neoprene. Few words were exchanged between them and a third man, Murray, the bell man, besides affirmatives after each zipper was snugged. The divers, Rory Aitkens and Gus McElroy—both Scots—sat side by side on a bench, sweating profusely in the tropical night air. Under their neoprene they wore woolen union suits to ward off a hypothermic chill at the sea bottom.

  “Transfer to the chamber for blowdown,” echoed a canned voice from a speaker mounted on the wall. It was Dive Control, the command center for all diving activities on the Depth Charge, housed in a dark room in the ship’s belly. The divers each lifted a gloved hand to the camera mounted in the corner of the room and gave the “OK” sign with index finger and thumb pressed together.

  Aitkens and McElroy were saturation divers, about as far from recreational scuba divers as a kite-flying child is from a fighter pilot. Rather than swimming freely with tanks on their backs, their breathing gas, a mix of helium and oxygen, would be continually pumped down to them through a long “umbilical” system from the support ship. This umbilical also bundled communication cables and electrical power for their headlamps and camera. A hot water system circulated warm water through their suits. Though the surface temperature of the Indian Ocean was 87 degrees Fahrenheit, at 350 feet, it would be in the 60s, enough to chill a diver working for several hours.

  The divers would not travel to and from the sea bottom by their own power, but rather be transported inside a diving bell, pumped up to the same pressure as the surrounding water at depth, thus staying dry inside. Once at the bottom, the divers exited the bell and swam or walked to their work sites, where they could stay for hours. To get around lengthy decompression, the men would remain under pressure inside the bell on the way back to the surface, and then be transferred to a pressurized chamber on board the Depth Charge, where they could either remain at “bottom pressure” or slowly decompress for hours or even days while the ship sailed off-site.

  This kind of “saturation” diving has been around since the 1960s, and helped pioneer much of the North Sea and Gulf of Mexico oil fields, as well as numerous clandestine military operations carried out during the Cold War. But this empty stretch of Indian Ocean off the east coast of Sri Lanka held no oil reserves, nor was this a military operation.

  Murray, McElroy, and Aitkens ducked into the compression chamber, a schoolbus-length tube of thick steel in the hold of the ship. This would be their home between dives and during the long decompression to bring them slowly back to surface air pressure. An attendant sealed the hatch behind them and checked for leaks. Then the chamber was “blown down,” slowly pressurized to ten times the air pressure at the surface. The divers inside wiggled their jaws and blew against pinched noses as the atmosphere inside pushed against their eardrums.

  A face appeared in the thick, small window halfway up the side of the chamber. It was Malcolm Rausing. He pressed a button next to the window and spoke quietly into a microphone.

  “Remember what I told you,” he said, “eight meters forward of the starboard rudder and three meters up from the bilge keel.” The divers nodded. “Needless to say, be very careful with that cutting torch.” Again, nods. Rausing made eye contact with both men, but added no smile or well wishes. Then he stepped back and was gone.

  “Bottom pressure reached. Transfer to the bell,” the voice from Dive Control echoed in the chamber. The divers collected their helmets and tool belts and walked heavily to a ladder that accessed a hatch in the ceiling of their chamber. Murray climbed awkwardly to the top, spun open the locking wheel, and pushed the hatch open into the diving bell. The bell, which was mated to the chamber, was pressurized to the same ten atmospheres so the hatch opened easily. He ensured all valves were positioned correctly, verified that comms worked and then signaled for McElroy and Aitkens to climb up behind him.

  With the divers locked inside, the closet-sized bell was detached from the chamber and swung by a crane until it hung half submerged in the ship’s moon pool, an opening to the sea in the middle of the aft deck of the Depth Charge. As they settled into position for their elevator ride to the bottom, the divers could see some of the crew through a thick Perspex window. They were gathered on the aft deck of the ship silhouetted against the floodlights. Rausing, the tallest, stood with arms folded, a breeze lifting his hair so it wreathed his head in a sort of glowing crown.

  Up in the pilothouse, Captain Kovács hovered over a screen with a digital outline of the Depth Charge on it. The ship’s dynamic positioning system whirred on and off, its gimbals and GPS keeping it directly above the exact sea bed coordinates Rausing had specified. All was going to plan. With any luck, they’d be hauling the divers back up in the bell and hoisting their cargo by 0600 and be back in Batticaloa an hour later—nobody the wiser but a few fishermen who’d not thought to ask questions about this gleaming ship that had been in the harbor for the past several weeks.

  The hoist whined as it lowered the diving bell through the moon pool into the water. The ship’s floodlights illuminated the bell as it swung gently in the ocean swells. Small fish swarmed the scene, attracted by the light. Slowly, the bell grew smaller and then disappeared from sight,
leaving only a bubbling surface. Then the floodlights went dark.

  Tube Alloys

  Burlington House, London. 12 April, 1942

  Sir John Havelock surveyed the Royal Society’s meeting room at Burlington House. It was dimly lit and reeked of tobacco smoke. The other twelve members of the MAUD Committee were puffing on pipes, cigars, or cigarettes, and Havelock instinctively filled the bowl of his own briar pipe after hanging up his raincoat. A cut-glass decanter sat on a sideboard, and the men milled around, talking in hushed tones and sipping sherry from matching glasses.

  A door at the end of the room creaked open. In strode George Paget Thomson, the leader of the committee, and another man wearing a dark uniform. They made an odd pair—Thomson a bookish, slightly cross-eyed scientist, the other man a lean, serious-looking military type. The banter stopped and the committee members took seats around a large central table. Rain pattered on the window and, though it was midafternoon, the gloom made it feel like late evening.

  “Gents, this is Commander Ian Colter from the Royal Navy’s Intelligence division,” Thomson said, without even a greeting. He gestured for Colter to sit while he himself took a chair at the head of the table. “It seems that we may have a window of time in which to mount a salvage operation on the Vampire. Sir John has been in touch with the Australian Navy, and from what survivors have related, the ship sank fairly quickly after being hit, with most damage amidships. That bodes well for a recovery of our cargo.”