Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  Stopping the engine he let the boat drift while he double checked the depth, and studied his chart one more time until he was certain that he was above the formation of rocks that always remained concealed, even at low tide. The anchor slid out of its housing, hitting the water with a splash, and only stopped when it had snagged on the bottom. He whistled a simple tune as he stripped, pulled on the bright blue and yellow wet suit, and then methodically assembled his equipment, clamping a tank to his inflatable. He strapped on his dive computer then eased himself into the jacket, adjusting and securing the Velcro straps across his waist as he took the weight of it. Onto his weight belt he attached a high powered spotlight. He pulled on a pair of diving gloves and then sitting on the edge of the deck at the stern, pulled on his fins. After spitting in to his mask, he rinsed it in salt water, adjusted it to fit his face, and then simply rolled back over the side and into the water.

  As expected the water was incredibly cold but crystal clear. He swam under the keel to the anchor chain, paused for a brief moment then started down, following the line. The sensation of weightlessness never ceased to amaze him when he entered this silent, and mysterious, world. The bright sunlight quickly fading as he descended towards the bottom.

  The sea floor was a forest of seaweed and kelp with shoals of silvery coloured fish swimming in and out of the thick lush vegetation, suddenly scattering this way and that as Cunningham swam overhead. He checked his dive computer which not only indicated the depth that he was at but more importantly told him how long he was safe to be there and constantly altered its reading with any change of depth he made during the dive. The small screen showed that he was at forty-five feet and he headed over towards the right, circling the enormous group of rocks to the other side where it dropped away to sixty feet or more. He drifted there for a moment taking in the long deep channel that stretched out in both directions, before he went over the edge, then started down towards the bottom.

  There seemed to be a strong cold water current flowing through the centre of the channel that he could feel pushing him backwards as he went deeper. He thought that in any other weather conditions this dive would most certainly not be possible. At the same time he was also intrigued as to where the flow was coming from. He thought that it wasn’t all that strange for fresh water to come through the granite, but having studied the topographical chart for this part of the island he couldn’t remember ever seeing any reference made to this long gouge on the seabed or the water flow either.

  As he swam up the channel towards the sheer wall of granite that was Jersey, he noted with interest that there were large areas of the seabed where the vegetation had been ripped out quite recently; leaving nothing more than fine white sand. Presumably the result of the storm the night before or perhaps from a surge of the extraordinary current which he now found himself battling against.

  Up ahead he could clearly see that a whole section of the cliff face had collapsed, to expose a fissure in the granite. Cunningham remained motionless for a moment, evaluating the situation, and then cautiously approached.

  Taking the powerful spotlight, he shone the beam through the gap in the rock face. It was then that his eagerness to explore almost got the better of him. He checked the dive computer, it told him he only had another five minutes at his depth of fifty feet. It would be an act of suicide to venture into any underwater tunnel, let alone one that was unknown to him, without a full tank of air and a spare one for backup that he would leave behind at the tunnel entrance.

  So he slowly went back up to the surface; and once aboard the Nautical Lady lost no time in replacing his almost empty air tank with a full one. He could hardly contain the excitement he felt as he hurriedly put on his inflatable again taking care to re-adjust the Velcro straps for a comfortable fit. Before getting back into the water he tied a long length of nylon cord around the neck of the spare tank of air and lowered it over the side. Seconds later, he went in feet first, and followed it all the way back down to the seabed.

  In his twenty-two years of Royal Navy service Nathan Cunningham had been conditioned and trained to follow procedures without question. This ensured the smooth running of the ships that he’d had the privilege to command and the safety of the men that he’d been in charge of. Yet here he was, fifty feet under the English Channel about to dive headfirst into a tunnel without anyone to back him up, and not knowing how deep it was or where it led to.

  He glanced up, as a large shoal of mackerel swam overhead, then shone the powerful light into the blackness; the spare air tank went first and then he pulled himself into the tunnel through a four-foot wide gap in one smooth action. Before venturing any further he left the air cylinder just inside the opening, he tied the loose end of the nylon cord to his weight belt, just in case he needed to find his way back in a hurry.

  * * * The interior of the tunnel was much larger than he had expected it to be, at least thirty feet in diameter. The flow of the current inside was much stronger and the water icy cold, which sent a shiver through Nathan’s whole body. But he was dammed if this was going to stop him having a look at what was at the other end. In the shadowy light he could make out that the walls had been worn smooth with age and the constant torrent of water over the granite. He checked his computer and set off, keeping close to the tunnel floor. After three minutes he was still at a depth of fifty feet and he had only twenty-five minutes of air left at the most, before he needed to either; get back to the spare air tank or surface at the other end.

  He considered his options for a brief moment, and then made his way further into the tunnel. His curiosity had got the better of his otherwise cautious nature, and he pushed his body and mind to the absolute limit for another four minutes. His gamble paid off, because Nathan Cunningham then received the most amazing surprise of his entire life as he came out of the turbulent water, and into a calm and tranquil place where he let himself drift up.

  He broke the surface of the still water, and found himself inside an enormous cavern, the size of which he had never seen before. The powerful beam from his torch cast strange shadows that danced and flickered all around the interior of the subterranean waterway. No more than twenty feet above his head, icicle-shaped stalactites of all sizes just hung quietly dripping as they had done for many hundreds of years. As he swung the torch beam around, the light glinted off of something large and metallic just off to his right hand side. The large dark object sticking out of the water was the upper half of a submarine-conning tower.

  Cunningham knew enough about Second World War maritime history to recognise instantly, that this was a German Kreigsmarine U-boat. As he swam closer, he saw that the conning tower was in a poor condition, but although chipped, bent and the paint flaking, he could still discern the unusual bright red leaping devil insignia painted on the side, which if he remembered correctly was quite unique to this type of submarine. While serving in the Navy he had come across archive material concerning Second World War German submarines and recalled that the rubber coated hull was two hundred and twenty feet long with a twenty-foot beam and a draught of sixteen feet.

  This was a big vessel that displaced around seven hundred and seventy tons. It had a range of six thousand nautical miles and carried one hundred and ten tons of diesel fuel, that enabled it to achieve around twelve knots and safely dive to about four hundred and forty feet.

  He paused, grabbing hold of a section of metal rail that had been bent and twisted down into the water with great force and looked up at the sheer black side. Nathan pulled off his fins and hooked them over the rail that he had been holding onto before starting to climb the ladder. He pulled himself over the top of the tower and could see that there was considerable damage to the structure, trying to imagine what had taken place here all those years before.

  Cunningham gasped as his torch beam captured a partially uniformed skeleton, still propped up on the other side of the confined deck. The lower jaw was now relaxed, giving the skull a look of sheer horror. And
a rusty metal pole, that he’d either fallen on, or had been pushed back on, had forced its way through skin, vital organs and bone, smashing ribs, and had exited out of the chest cavity. Nathan stood taking in the gruesome scene, thinking that it was a messy way for anyone to go. The thought sent a shiver up and down his spine, and all the way through Nathan’s body. He shone the spot-light down through the hatch, and into the main control room which, he soon discovered, was completely flooded.

  Slowly he descended the ladder, down into the ice cold water inside the main control room. He checked his computer. On the bridge he was still at a depth of fifty-five feet and had only seventeen minutes of air left. This meant that he only had seven minutes inside the submarine. The remaining ten minutes would be needed to take him safely back to the spare air cylinder at the other end of the tunnel.

  The submarine interior, although completely flooded, was in remarkably good condition. Nathan floated like an inert jellyfish in the middle of the dark and gloomy control room as he became more acclimatised to the cramped space. It was a reasonable assumption to Nathan, that the U-boat had come through the tunnel, and then docked in the cavern. But why? The extreme damage to the hull and conning tower did not match the orderly scene that he was now surveying inside. He was fully aware of the Nazi occupation of the island, and that there had been a lot of U-boat activity in the region due to the submarine pens at Brest, St Nazaire, Lorient, Bordeaux and Trondheim. But he was never aware of one on Jersey.

  He could feel the excitement rising inside him once again. He’d heard the tales about strange things happening towards the end of the Second World War. About how a particular area on the northern shore of the island; had been made strictly out of bounds to all local residents and how if anyone was found there they were shot on sight.

  The Nazis had also used local superstition and fear to keep people away from the Devil’s Hole; so called because of the weird and some say hellish sounds that can be heard coming up through the water and from within the granite itself. But Cunningham had never really believed in this story that was usually told by the older fishermen, and had discarded it as a fanciful yarn that was for the benefit of the tourists, after a few pints of ale.

  He half swam, half pulled himself through the control room being careful not to disturb anything around him. As he moved around he noticed that the watertight doors, both aft and forward had been sealed off, and that this was the only evidence of there having been any crew members on board at the time of flooding. There were half a dozen rifles scattered around the bridge, as if their owners had dropped them in their haste to leave. The torch beam picked out a curved object lying in the sediment on the floor. It was just forward of the conning tower ladder. Swimming over he reached out with his gloved hand and grabbed hold of what remained of the gold braided peak of the Korvetenkapitan’s cap. Surprising that there was any trace at all after so many years, Cunningham thought as he turned to go.

  He kicked off the floor and the sediment swirled up around him to reveal a flat silvery coloured briefcase. Instinctively, he reached for it, stirring up the sediment, and found himself clutching it, like a small child would. Who’s just been given a present and doesn’t want anyone to take it off him. A feeling of foreboding also washed over him, of something evil that had possibly taken place all those years ago, and suddenly he felt cold and vulnerable. It was as if he was trespassing, and shouldn’t be there. Checking his dive computer he saw that it was time to leave.

  He made it with only a few minutes to spare. Bloody idiot, he said to himself, taking such a big risk at his age and he pulled himself out of the tunnel. He ascended slowly by the book, one foot per second, up the anchor chain, the briefcase tied to his weight belt, leaving the chain at thirty feet to swim under the boat to the stern platform.

  Pulling off his fins he threw them onto the platform. Untied the briefcase and placed it carefully on the other side of the deck rail, and then wriggled out of his equipment, which was always the worst part. He was feeling his age, as he scrambled up the ladder and turned to haul his airtank and buoyancy harness on board. He then methodically stowed away the tank and other equipment as he always did. But on this occasion he was impatient to finish the job as quickly as possible. Going below he towelled himself dry, changed into a pair of casual trousers and a fresh shirt, and then poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos. Back on deck, Nathan was sitting in one of the swivel chairs on the bridge. Thoughtfully staring at the silver briefcase on the table in front of him, and occasionally taking a sip from his coffee cup.

  He could clearly see that the case was made from aluminium and in remarkably good condition for its age. Etched into the metal and across the centre of the lid was the red leaping devil and in the top right hand corner, the eagle and swastika of the German Kreigsmarine. There were two clips and a lock that had rusted, securing it together. The clips opened easily enough, but the lid remained securely locked, which left Nathan little choice. He took the small cordless drill from his toolbox and placed a six millimetre high speed metal drilling bit into the chuck. The small lock gave way and the core of it fell apart with the second hole that he drilled. A moment later he was able to slowly lift the lid open. The inside was completely dry, as he had expected it to be, the contents a few official documents two letters opened but still in their envelopes and a leather bound diary with the gold Kreigsmarine insignia stamped on the front, indicating that this was possibly the submarine’s log.

  Cunningham’s grasp of the German language was at best, only schoolroom average. He opened the diary to the first entry that was dated 17th April 1945 with the heading, St Nazaire France. Below this a name, Korvetenkapitan’s Otto Sternberg, U683, the commander of the submarine and presumably the owner of this diary.

  Nathan thumbed through the rest of the pages, becoming more and more annoyed with himself for being so slow to decipher the written German. There were numerous entries throughout the twenty-one pages that showed the U-boat’s final voyage. From the time that it had left port at St Nazaire in France. It soon became obvious from the entries, that the submarine had been sent out into the Atlantic Ocean and south towards Africa. At the Cape of Good Hope U683 had then changed course towards the North again, passing Madagascar on its way to the Red Sea. There were various notations on the 27th April as the submarine passed through the Suez Canal and out into the Mediterranean. This all seemed very odd to Nathan Cunningham as he sat there pondering over what he had just read, and he genuinely thought that he had translated the entries incorrectly. The route didn’t make much sense to him. It was certainly the long way round, but he thought they obviously had their reasons for embarking on such an arduous voyage, but to what end? Nathan flicked quickly to the last entry that was on the 8th May 1945. D-Day he thought. That was the effective end of Hitler’s Third Reich. If that were correct, then what on earth was U683 doing in a secret subterranean waterway under the Island of Jersey?

  Cunningham sat there wondering what he was going to do with this phenomenal discovery, whom would he tell? Did he really want to share his secret? One thing he was certain about was that if news leaked out about such a find, then the island would be invaded within days or even hours with journalists, relic hunters and sightseers.

  He flicked back through the diary; stopping suddenly on the 28th April. A name jumped out at him, Heinrich Himmler, this made him flush and his pulse race. He read on excitedly, the entry had been made just before dawn, the submarine was to rendezvous with a Sicilian fishing vessel and take on board secret cargo of national importance to the Third Reich. Cunningham’s excitement was almost too much for him to contain. Heinrich Himmler, head of the Gestapo and the SS had been, next to Hitler and Martin Bormann, one of the most powerful and feared men in the Nazi Party. Had he really committed suicide just after capitulation or had it been another carefully staged deception, for which the Nazis were particularly skilled at. It had become almost run-of-the-mill during those last months of the war for man
y of the top ranking Nazis to have doubles. People who were taught to speak, behave, and even dress in the same uniform as those they were impersonating. This was simply so that those individuals who would otherwise be put to trial or death by the allies could escape. Nathan thought about how many academics and historians had speculated or written books on that subject?

  He put the diary to one side; picked up one of the envelopes and idly pulled the letter out. The name at the top of the sheet of paper made him sit up, Grossadmiral Karl Donitz. Nathan carefully read the letter and stared at it in utter amazement for some time before carefully placing it back inside the envelope, gathered up the documents, diary, and the letters and put them all back inside the aluminium case. He shut the lid, snapping the two clasps back in place and took the case below to put inside his holdall. Then he went back up, and started the engine, letting it idle while he engaged the automatic anchor chain winch.

  * * * Throughout his years as a serving officer in the Royal Navy, Cunningham had never seen or read about anything as mysterious as this. His instincts told him that whatever it was, it was absolute dynamite, it had to be. He had a U-boat tied up in an underground harbour, with a final diary entry on the last day of World War Two. There was a reference to one of the most evil men in the Nazi Party. As well as a letter from the Commander-in-Chief of the entire Kriegsmarine who eventually became the acting Head of State of the Third Reich.

  “What in hell’s name have I stumbled upon? My God, if this turns out, not to be a dream, then I’ve probably woken the devil himself?” He mumbled aloud.