by Albert Able
At that moment the blood vessels in his nasal tract burst and his facemask was splashed with a mixture of blood and mucus. Beginning to panic now, he nervously gulped at the compressed air but could not pull enough through his regulator. His brain seemed to be swelling inside his skull. Desperately he tried again to clear the pressure and clear his mask; pushing his thumb up inside the seal he gingerly let in some water, it was only partially successful.
He was breathing too fast; the nitrogen pumped into his adrenalin-filled blood far too quickly. With his brain starved of oxygen, his body and mind were in turmoil. Suddenly the panic left him and he felt calm. Somehow he knew that he was not going back to the surface but he didn’t seem to mind as the inevitable narcosis permeated into his deranged mind. Everything had stopped spinning now; as he just floated and relaxed he was suddenly aware of how beautiful it was relaxing in the half-light.
A small fish drifted up to his visor. He could see that it was panting for air. He knew that he could save it. Removing his mouthpiece, he offered it to the gulping creature but it backed away. He tried to follow as it moved but he had become tangled in the safety line, so he couldn’t catch up with the silly fish. He held out his hand as far as he could to offer the life-saving mouthpiece. He tried calling but no sound emitted from his purple lips. The water flowed softly into his lungs, it soothed the pain, and soon he could rest. His final thoughts were of that stupid fish, “If only he’d accepted the air! He didn’t need to drown.”
The diver relaxed. He was warm and contented.
When the other two divers found him he was floating with his mouthpiece held out firmly in front of him. They tried to make him breathe but it was already too late. They tried to pull him to the surface but his safety line was hopelessly tangled with his legs and some broken metal debris. They tried to cut him free - but both fumbled in their distress, dropping their knives within seconds. In mild panic now, and aware that their own submerged time had been significantly exceeded, they abandoned their comrade and rushed to the surface without stopping to decompress at any level. They broke the surface, ripping their masks off and gulping greedily at the air. They were pulled onto the safety boat and craned up to the rig where both were found to be suffering from severe shock and, even more seriously, having surfaced far too quickly, showed symptoms of the “bends”. There were no decompression facilities on the rig to support them.
Far beneath the waves, the body of the diver, still attached by the safety line, drifted alongside the wellhead where it dangled like bait on a fishing line.
When Big J met the other Chinese divers (all of whom spoke English, having originated in Hong Kong he was relieved to note) the first thing they excitedly reported was the desperate condition of their two young comrades and the tragic and unnecessary death of the third.
Big J was angry.
“What’s the matter with you people? You should know better than trying to show-off underwater. Nobody’s fucking politics can ever bend the rules of nature and diving rules are sacred with me. Get those buggers across here pronto! We’ll have to waste precious space in our chamber now.” He stomped away angrily then shouted down to his own crew, who had casually assembled at the sound of the excitement.
“I won’t have heroes in my team. Remember, we work as a team. Clever buggers like those stupid sods cause more trouble than they’re worth. So just you look at this bunch and remember!”
He pointed towards the ailing divers as they were being carried across to the tug.
“And don’t any of you forget, I don’t write letters to no weeping widows.” He paused looking seriously down from the bridge, a few seconds ticked by. “I can’t bloody write anyway,” he grinned at his men.
There were a couple of patronising guffaws but none was really amused. They were all too well aware of the thin line between life and death beneath the surface of the sea.
“OK let’s get some work done?” He turned to John standing at his side. “How long has he been down there?”
“About ten hours I guess?” John replied with a grimace.
“Not good, not good,” Big J repeated, shaking his head. “It’s not that deep so I suppose we’d better get the small dive chamber ready first and send a couple of the boys down on helium. Three minute dives only.” He stopped pacing. “Wait, perhaps a better idea would be to send Jake - he’s got the strongest stomach - and the other two Chinese divers; we’ll let them recover their own mate or what’s left of him.” He looked through the screen to the men busying themselves on deck. “It should teach them a lesson in following the rules!” He walked away shaking his head. “What a bloody waste,” he mumbled in despair.
The three divers entered the cramped pressurised capsule, where normal atmospheric pressure would be maintained, and were lowered to the seabed.
The divers would be able to leave the pressure vessel and, by breathing a sophisticated mixture of gases be able to spend just a few minutes at a time on the outside, without any risk. In this way the whole crew would be able to surface quickly and without decompression.
The remote video camera scanned the murky water for the wellhead and the lost diver. Within seconds, the slimy metal side of the vast manifold came into view. They manoeuvred slowly along the metal wall; suddenly they came across a great army of crabs piled up in a pyramid. As the sphere got closer the crabs began waving their arms and claws in protest. The object of their attention suddenly became sickeningly clear. According to the survivors the diver had been tangled in some kind of obstruction. The lure of dead flesh had soon attracted hoards of predators to a welcome feast.
The sharks had on this occasion paid little attention to the bait. It lacked the excitement of life’s final struggle and the absence of blood. The crabs, however, immediately sensed the potential banquet. It had been a struggle for them at first, trying to get to the body as it swayed gently from the safety line but, when the current changed, the body nudged into the buckled angle iron brackets, allowing them to quickly scramble aboard to gorge on their prize.
In the circumstances, the divers chose not to exit the protection of their pressure sphere. Instead, using the robotic arm, they tapped the seething mass of shells, attempting to frighten them away. Some took the metallic hint but a significant majority chose to ignore the intrusion, probably believing it was a challenge for their lunch. Jake banged even harder, dislodging more of the prehistoric-looking carnivores. Eventually, he was able to grab the diver’s weight belt. He tugged on the arm and called to the winch man to raise them a metre. The crabs fell away in a tangled heap, revealing the air tanks, the weight belt and tattered remains of the neoprene suit. There were no hands nor head; all that remained of the body was inside the suit. To add to the macabre scene, the suit moved and bulged periodically as smaller crabs inside it continued unhindered to strip the remains of the skeleton.
There was a tense silence in the confined sphere. The two Chinese divers looked away from the screen and covered their faces, forcing back the bile. The true horror of the pathetic remains seeped slowly into each of the observers’ minds. Even Jake, the toughest and most experienced of all of Big J’s divers, swallowed several times.
“Come on then,” he growled eventually, “lets get the fuck out of here!”
w
The flight from Tokyo was only half full; the airlines of the world were still struggling to shake off the effects of the September eleventh terrorist attacks in New York.
It was evening as Alex Scott checked into his hotel overlooking the teeming Hong Kong waterfront. As soon as he was in his room and using his new, all singing and dancing mobile telephone, he called the contact given to him by Tokyo Police Chief Haki.
The phone bleeped. Almost immediately a voice answered in Chinese.
“Hello, Haki’s friend, I believe you’re expecting my call?” Alex responded.
There was a slight pause. “Mr Scott?” another pause “Mr Alexander Scott?” came the agreed response.
&n
bsp; “You got it in one,” Alex confirmed. “When can we meet please?”
“I’ll come to you,” the voice answered. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
Alex agreed and the phone went dead; he looked at the handset for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and switched on the television. As the set warmed into life. The Simpsons blared out at him in English. “Not really very Chinese!” he noted to himself, switching to another channel. The local news in Chinese, he decided, was more typical but no more entertaining. He turned the set off. A few moments later, a tap on the door made him jump up from his chair. He cautiously opened the door. Standing in the corridor was a medium height man carrying a large rolled up golfing umbrella.
“Mr. Scott I presume?” the man asked, presenting the umbrella.
Alex smiled. Haki just loved these cloak and dagger introductions. He opened the door wide and invited the man into the room.
The man extended his free hand. “Ling,” he said, introducing himself.
Alex took the hand; it had a good firm grip, he noted.
“Come on in, make yourself at home.” Alex pointed to the free armchair. “I can’t offer you any hospitality without calling room service.”
Ling waved his hand.
“Thank you but no thank you,” he smiled politely.
They sat facing each other. Ling laid his umbrella on the floor beside the chair before leaning forward, clasping his well-manicured hands together.
“Haki asked me to put myself at your disposal. He told me very little other than that you are looking for an unusual cargo and the Syndicate are involved.”
Ling spoke English immaculately. He was oriental but it occurred to Alex that he must have some European ancestry.
“Yes that’s right. The Syndicate are very much involved and are suspected of smuggling a lethal cargo of military arms and munitions out of China to the Philippines. I need your help to intercept and destroy it.”
“I presume that this cargo is to be transported by sea?” Ling, not showing emotion of any kind, asked by way of a reply.
Alex nodded.
“Then it has to be stored close to the docks, yes?”
Alex nodded again.
His confidence growing, Ling sat back.
“In my opinion therefore, it would be more successful if the cargo were to be destroyed in transit. In neutral waters so to speak? Do you agree?”
“That also makes good sense, assuming that we know how and when it is to be shipped,” Alex replied, adding, “I take it then that you will assist?”
“Yes of course, Haki is an old friend, we have worked together on many occasions. He tells me that you helped him when his son was murdered in Manila.” He looked saddened for a moment. Then, looking up, he asserted, “When Haki recommends someone to me, there is no need to ask any more questions. If there were more law enforcement officials like him in this world, we would be all the better off for it.” Ling stood up. “There is much to do and only a very few people can be trusted anymore. Oh, and just so that you understand, the last time I assisted with a SONIC versus Syndicate operation, two members of my family suffered unspeakable deaths. Had I cooperated with the Syndicate they might have lived. Just thought you should know. Now I have even more reason to oppose their evil regime.” He changed his tone. “I will call you in the morning, on your mobile, if I may have the number please.”
Alex scribbled the number on the hotel notepad.
Ling took the note, read it carefully, and then handed it back to Alex. “Thank you, I will remember the number. You must destroy that now.” They shook hands again and Ling turned to go, then, holding out the coloured umbrella, smiled briefly, “Will I need this for identification next time or can I leave it at home?” Using it like a walking stick, he left without looking back.
w
Greg and Oscar reported to the quay the next morning as planned. Dick was waiting patiently in the cockpit of his boat, holding a large mug of tea in his hand. The woman was up on the forward deck, re-lashing the fishing poles.
“You’re in good time gentlemen,” Dick greeted them. “Fancy a cup of tea while I warm up the engines?”
They both accepted the offer and the woman noted the request and dashed below to prepare it. She re-appeared moments later holding a plate with two stuffed rolls, each twice as wide as the plate.
“You like?” she smiled shyly.
They accepted out of courtesy, not knowing what was in them. The engines roared suddenly then settled back to a fast tick over, allowing time to warm up slowly. Oscar took a bite. It tastes good, he decided. In fact, as the flavour of whatever the rolls’ contents were spread gradually around his taste buds, he became aware of some thing mildly spicy and deliciously rich.
“I don’t know what it is Greg but it tastes really good!”
Oscar looked up at Greg, not noticing the woman looking for a sign of approval or otherwise as she peeped shyly through the companionway door. Greg, however, did notice and took a large bite from his bun, chewed briefly then grabbed at his throat, making gagging and choking sounds. The woman screamed and ran across to Dick looking for protection. Dick turned, momentarily unsure what was happening. Greg, however, realising that he had rather overplayed his hand, knelt down in front of the still unsure woman and begged forgiveness. Dick roared with laughter. The woman, not quite so easily reassured, skipped haughtily passed the grinning but still supplicant Greg, to vanish below.
“Sorry Dick - a poor joke at this time of day,” Greg apologised, getting up from his knees.
Dick just waved his hand dismissively and turned his attention to his beloved engines. Eventually two mugs of tea were placed on the floor at the entrance of the door; there was no sign of the lady.
“So where do we want to go today gentlemen?” Dick asked as he eased the throttles back to the idling position.
“Someone told us last night that there are some good wrecks somewhere off the island of Corregidor. Do you know any of them?” Greg asked innocently.
“I know where the island is alright but why go all that way when there are hundreds of equally good wrecks much closer?”
Dick looked away in disbelief.
“Anyway the current’s formidable out there - you have to be very accurate with the tide if you are to stay over a wreck for any time.” Then he added, obviously trying to emphasise the risk, “it’s also a sort of meeting place for half the sharks in the South China Sea!”
“Well in that case perhaps we could catch a shark without too much difficulty?” Greg offered in the same innocent tone.
Oscar made the final bit of reasoning.
“Well actually I’d quite like to see the island out of sheer curiosity. I’ve heard so much about it. It is the place where the Americans made their final defensive stand in the war isn’t it?”
Dick capitulated.
“Corregidor it is then. Annie?” he called, leaning over into the cabin.
The woman appeared, leapt nimbly ashore and released the mooring lines, skipping as lightly as a gazelle back onto the foredeck, where she curled them into tidy bundles and stowed them in a locker as they headed to the harbour mouth and the open sea of Manila Bay.
Greg discreetly switched on his GPS.
“You can sit back now gentlemen; its about forty-five miles.”
Dick looked straight ahead. “About two and a bit hours.” He looked back at his passengers and added, “or it could only take an hour and a bit, if you’re prepared to pay for the extra fuel for a quick trip?”
“Go ahead, let’s see what she can do!” Greg replied, genuinely excited. The engines hummed and the vessel picked up and skimmed through the water at close to forty knots.
“You better know,” Dick shouted above the unified roar of the powerful diesels, “she burns about two gallons a mile at his speed; is it still OK?” he grinned.
“You bet!” shouted Greg, signalling his approval with the diver’s OK sign.
After about
half an hour, the island appeared as a hazy smudge on the horizon.
“So what do you want, to visit the island or to fish?” Dick asked.
“Listen Dick, I suppose you’ll think were a couple of fools but we bought some wreck positions from a man at the restaurant last night. Here, have a look. Do you think we’ve been robbed? Are they real?”
Dick looked with indifference at the list of latitude and longitudinal positions. “Until we put them on the chart they don’t mean a thing to me,” he said honestly.
Leaving the helm to the autopilot, he took the list and carefully marked each of the positions on his paper chart. There were five positions on the list; two matched marks already on Dick’s own chart and the others were apparently new locations.
“There you are,” he declared. “I know those two and, who knows, the others may easily be wrecks - after all dozens of vessels have been lost in these waters over the years.” He pointed to the furthest mark, just beyond the island. “I should think that one’s a bit of a waste of time. It’s right on the edge of the landmass. The seabed shelves suddenly from seventy to five hundred metres; the currents out there are the strongest to be found anywhere in this part of the world,” he chatted on casually. “The other two could be worth a try though,” he ventured, looking up, raising his eyebrows and grinning philosophically.
Greg looked at Oscar.
“What do you fancy? Shall we try a bit of fishing then visit the island later?
“Whatever you think,” Oscar replied and looked at the chart. “Lets apply a little ‘lady luck’ and try...” He closed his eyes and stabbed his finger on the mark nearest to the so-called impossible position. He opened his eyes again.
