by Conrad Jones
If he was correct in his assumptions then the authorities would be monitoring the Bay of Liverpool area, and searching for him. The good news was that his divers and their salvage teams had made a Sonar contact about a mile from one of the sites which had been marked on the charts by the junior submarine commander in 1943. Christopher was hoping that it was one of the alleged spy ships.
“This is it here,” the charts also showed a steep slope running along the seabed from the suspected site to the Sonar contact. “You can see how close the contours are here. If a wreck hit the seabed here it would roll down the slope and come to rest somewhere near here, which is where we made a contact.”
Christopher clapped his hands together with glee like a child at Christmas. That meant that the ship could have been torpedoed and sunk and simply rolled down the trench at the bottom of the sea for nearly a mile before coming to its final resting place. There was no way that the authorities could have known that, even if they had the charts in their possession, unless they had also surveyed the geography of the seabed. They would be looking in a completely different part of the bay. He had to get the salvage operation underway immediately, before they realised their mistake.
“Okay, we start diving tonight, I must be sure that it is my wreck. We can investigate and remove a selection of samples for analysis,” Christopher clapped his hands with delight.
“We can’t dive tonight. To attempt to penetrate a wreck at night with such limited visibility would be an act of madness,” the dive master retorted.
“We will start the salvage operation tonight or I’ll find divers that will step into your shoes. What is it to be?” Christopher Walsh sniped.
“I don’t understand what the rush is, and why do we need to dive at night? You said that you have the salvage rights which would give you unlimited access to the wreck.”
“I lied about the salvage rights,” Christopher admitted. “I’m sorry about that.” He smiled and turned away from the diver to camouflage his mirth. He hadn’t told the dive team the true goal of his salvage operation. They were criminals but even so he couldn’t risk them knowing what he was planning to retrieve.
“Now you have decided to tell the truth I would like to know everything before my team enters the water. I know the law well, and we can get around the legal problems by claiming rights on the wreck tomorrow and then we will have no problem diving in daylight. What exactly are you trying to recover?”
“Shells,” he said. Christopher looked out of the bridge at the sea. There was a stiff breeze picking up and the boat was swaying gently against the swell.
“Shells?” the dive master asked confused.
“Yes. Brass shells.”
“Brass shells?” the diver was becoming impatient. There was certain amount confusion caused by the language barrier but Christopher’s vagueness was frustrating him.
“Yes. The ship was loaded with tens of thousands of artillery shells. It was torpedoed with the loss of all hands. Each shell has a brass casing which is worth over ten pounds as scrap metal,” Christopher sounded convincing.
“I don’t see the problem with diving in the daylight,” the dive master shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s simple, all hands were lost on that ship which means it is a war grave,” Christopher explained. “We would never get legal permission to dive on the wreck. What difference does it make if it is daylight anyway? Surely it will be dark at that depth.”
“The diving is not the problem Mr Walsh. It will be dark and the visibility will be limited, but if you require salvage to be recovered from the wreck then we cannot bring it up to the surface safely at night,” the diver was being pedantic. The more problems he raised the higher the final bill would be.
“I see.” Christopher turned away from the diver. His face was flushed with anger. A huge oil tanker was cruising past on the other side of the river. “I was under the impression from Uri that you were the best.”
“We are the best Mr Walsh. The sea is an unforgiving place to work in. Diving at night was never discussed, and neither was working with munitions.”
“If you cannot dive at night, remove the shells and bring them up to the surface then there is no salvage job for you,” Christopher stared at the diver as he spoke. He realised that they were embroiled in a mental wrestling match. The winner would take a greater slice of the financial rewards.
“I did not say that we couldn’t dive at night,” the diver back peddled. “Technically it is much more difficult and we would need some very expensive equipment to recover the salvage.”
“Go on,” Christopher baited the trap.
“We would need to hire submersibles. That way we could load sledges with salvage and use the subs to bring them up safely. The divers would need cutting gear, which we can run from the subs power source. It is the only way to do it safely at night and not attract unwanted attention,” the diver explained. He was pleased with his pitch so far. He guessed that his new employer would have absolutely no idea what he was talking about. He could pick a figure out of the air and double it.
Christopher reached into a pile of papers and retrieved a file containing some pictures and a diving magazine. He placed them on the table at the rear of the lightship bridge. The dive master walked toward them with a curious look on his face.
“I have two submersibles in the water ready to go. They are fitted with oxyacetylene torches and cargo sledges. My lightship is a familiar vessel in the bay, and so she will act as your support vessel, unless, you have any more objections that is?” Christopher pushed home his advantage and watched as the dive master’s lip quivered.
“The equipment is fine Mr Walsh, but we still have the issue of handling munitions. We will need more money,” the diver tried to recover his position.
“Of course you will. Ten thousand pounds sterling for every sledge you recover?” Christopher said matter of factly. He held out a sweaty hand and the deal was cemented.
Chapter Seventeen
VICTOR BRASTZ
Victor glanced in the wing mirror of the Bentley and spotted the dark pick-up truck again. It was six or seven cars back but he was convinced that the driver was the same guy that had helped him out earlier on that day. It was dark now and he couldn’t see the driver anymore but it was the same vehicle. He was sure of it. The police hadn’t followed him for a long time, ever since he had turned informer. He was confused as to why someone would be tailing him, especially someone as dangerous as the man who stepped in and stopped him being kicked to death. The man was built like a battleship and he had walked through his attacker as if he wasn’t there. He wasn’t a conventional law enforcement officer of that he was certain. Victor clocked the registration plate of the truck and scribbled down the first three letters. He had to wait until the line of traffic behind him navigated a sharp left hand bend to get a clear look at the last digits. He scribbled them down and then stabbed a fat finger onto his car phone. The system cut off the stereo and filtered the telephone call through the speakers.
“Hello Victor,” a voice answered. The man was Victor’s handler from the Serious Crime Squad. He wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone but him.
“I’m being followed by someone and I want to know what the fuck is going on,” Victor growled down the line.
“Calm down Victor,” the officer said irritated by his tone. “I haven’t put a tail on you. What type of vehicle is it?”
“It’s a black or dark blue Nissan pick-up truck,” Victor replied.
“We don’t use them. As far as I’m aware only military units use that type of vehicle,” the officer sounded curious as he spoke.
“What types of military unit are you talking about and why is he following me?”
“I’m not sure, some of the counter terrorist agencies have used trucks in the past, but I’m not certain. You said why is ‘he’ following me,” the officer emphasised the singular.
“Yes, he is a man. Are you stupid?” Victor missed the po
int completely.
“I understand that Victor, what I mean is that he is alone in the vehicle,” the officer spoke slowly to try to help Victor to understand.
“Yes he is alone. Why does that matter?”
“It is significant because police and law enforcement agencies forbid officers to work alone at anytime,” the officer explained. “Are you sure he isn’t working for one of your associates?”
“No I can’t be sure of that, but I am sure that I don’t know him. I have the registration plate of the pickup. You can find out who it belongs to, right?” Victor read out his scribbled registration plate. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.
“I’m not supposed to run vehicle checks on the whim of a paid informant,” the officer said angrily.
“Look you might not have an informant if this guy is here to kill me,” Victor snarled.
“What, are you scared Victor? That’s not like you at all, is it?” the officer laughed as he mocked him.
“I’m glad you think that it’s funny, just find out who the pick-up belongs to, you idiot,” Victor was getting frustrated.
“I have the details on my screen Victor, and you’re not going to like what I’m looking at,” the officer’s voice tailed off as if he was preoccupied.
“Go on then, I’m waiting.”
“It’s a government vehicle, registered to the ministry of defence.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you have obviously attracted the attention of some very serious people Victor. What have you been up to?” the officer was intrigued by the fact that his informant was being tagged by a government agency. He was also pissed off that they were muscling in on his patch.
“Well do something about it then,” Victor shouted at the hands free kit.
“Victor even the divisional commander doesn’t have jurisdiction over these guys. I’m afraid that you will have to deal with this on your own, however I’ll make a few calls and see if I can shed some light on it.”
“Thanks a fucking bundle, how is that supposed to help me now?”
“It’s the best I can do under the circumstances. All I can suggest is that you keep out of trouble while they are following you.”
“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?” Victor snapped.
“One thing I can tell you though Victor,” the officer sounded cheery as he spoke.
“What?”
“If they wanted you dead then you would already be in a box. Stay calm while I make some calls and don’t do anything stupid,” the officer ended the call and the system fed the local radio station back through the vehicle’s speakers.
Victor punched the ceiling of the Bentley twice, scuffing the skin from his heavily scarred knuckles. Things hadn’t been going to plan recently, and now to top it all he had a government agent tailing him. He had been building a bank of cash up for the last six months. Victor was planning to flee back to the East away from the clutches of the police and his informer lifestyle. It was only a matter of time before the underworld realised that he was feeding information to the serious crime departments, and when they did he would end up being pushed through a band saw and fed to the fishes. That was not going to happen. The police had left him alone to a certain degree; as long as he fed titbits of information to his handler he was free to operate as normal. He had his fingers in lots of pies and his nest egg was growing nicely. Now that he was being tailed it would be far more difficult to disappear. Victor had to get rid of the man. There was only one person he could trust to help him out of this situation. He stabbed at the speed dial again and pulled up the number he needed. The name on the flashing screen was Uri.
Chapter Eighteen
The Task Force
Grace Farrington hung up the telephone and sat staring at it for a moment before she finally stood up and moved away from the desk. She joined Major Timms and Chen at the digital screen, which they were studying. The image on the screen was a satellite photograph of the Irish Sea. There was a zoom shot of the bay. The clarity was excellent. It showed the ocean wind farm which was situated off the North Wales coast near the tourist town of Rhyl. Across the bay, there were three gas-drilling rigs. The picture showed amazing detail and the rig workers could be seen on the platform. Their yellow hard hats were unmistakable against the metal structures.
“Is there anything unusual so far?”Grace asked as she joined the huddle.
“Not really,” the major said. “It’s a busy stretch of water. Supply ships and maintenance vessels are operating twenty four hours a day.”
“I’ve finished speaking to all the ports that could feasibly handle unloading heavy cargo and there are no new or unusual vessels expected by any of them,” Grace said.
“What about the possibility of smuggling salvage ashore somewhere and hiring the plant machines that would be needed to move it?” Chen asked.
“You can stick a pin in the map anywhere around the coast of Ireland where the bays and coves have been used to unload contraband for centuries,” Grace swept her hand along the southern coast of the emerald isle on the satellite picture. “We have alerted the coastguard and the local uniformed police divisions that there is the possibility of salvaged munitions being smuggled ashore. They’re on red alert and watching all the possible landing sites, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“We are still looking for the wrecks,” the Major turned to Grace as he spoke. “The Commander’s oceanographic charts were marked here, here, and here. The satellite pictures have picked up six possible soundings, but we know that the bay is full of wrecks of every size and description therefore we cannot take it for granted that any of them are our wrecks. We have requested a Royal Navy submarine to make a pass through the area to survey the possible wreck sites, but they don’t have a vessel close enough for a week.”
“We daren’t make too much noise on the subject of why we urgently need a submarine in the bay or the navy might become suspicious,” Chen added.
“We have acquired full use of the NASA satellite as it passes over the Irish Sea. All we can do now is monitor the bay and look for anything unusual going on,” the Major pointed to an aerial photograph of an area of the Bay of Liverpool, which was North West of the city. “The Navy are sending a mine sweeper to search this area here. It is the proposed site for an extension of the ocean wind farm which is sited there.” The Major indicated a sector of the bay, which was already the site of an experimental wind farm. The development of off shore green electricity production had been given the go ahead by the current government who were eager to boost their flagging ratings.
“We have requested a full sweep of the seabed prior to expansion of the wind farm in this area here.” The Major pointed out the proposed sites that he had identified.
It was perfectly normal for the Navy to search areas of the sea when a wind farm was to be built, especially in Liverpool Bay. The city was heavily bombed during the Second World War and there are hundreds of tons of unexploded ordinance offshore. Finding bombs when drilling the seabed is not advisable, hence the Royal Navy minesweepers are always sent in before any drilling work commences. It was the ideal ruse to get the Navy in the area without arousing suspicion.
“When will they have a ship available?” Grace asked.
“The day after tomorrow, the Major answered.”
“Will they report anything going on beneath the surface, I assume there is drilling going on out there?” Grace was worried that the area wasn’t being monitored twenty four hours a day.
“They will if we ask them to. When they arrive we’ll ask for detailed reporting from the area.”
“How did we get on tracing the submersibles that MI5 had information about? You had model numbers and pictures during our first briefing on the issue?” Grace asked Chen.
“MI5 were alerted by the purchase of the two subs. They investigated the purchase and discovered that they were acquired by a company registered in the
Cayman Isles which they then investigated. The submersibles were shipped to Rotterdam in freight containers, and the intelligence agencies tracked them as far as Dubai. When the containers landed, they were impounded and placed into a bonded customs warehouse and opened by a Dutch police unit which had followed them from Rotterdam. When they opened the containers there were no signs of the submersibles,” Chen shrugged and clicked the image on the screen to the one that he had used in the earlier briefing. “When they opened them the containers were full of BMW motorbikes. Somewhere along the voyage there had been a switch.”
