Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“That would make a big difference to the second dive,” Dillon said.

“It surely would.” The rain had stopped, the sea was calm again now and Carney glanced at his watch. “Time to get moving, gents,” and he went back up the ladder to the flying bridge.

In London it was nine o’clock in the morning and Francis Pamer was just finishing a delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon which his housekeeper had prepared when the phone rang. He picked it up. “Pamer here.”

“Simon Carter.”

“Morning, Simon,” Pamer said, “any word from Ferguson?”

“No, but something rather shocking which affects Ferguson has happened.”

“What would that be?”

“You know his assistant, the one he borrowed from Special Branch, Detective Inspector Lane?”

Pamer almost choked on the piece of toast he was eating. “Yes, of course I do,” he managed to say.

“Killed last night when he was leaving the Ministry of Defence around midnight. Hit and run. Stolen car apparently, which the police have recovered.”

“How terrible.”

“Thing is, Special Branch aren’t too happy about it. It seems the preliminary medical report indicates that he was hit twice. Of course, that could simply mean the driver panicked and reversed or something. On the other hand, Lane sent a lot of men to prison. There must be many who bore him a grudge.”

“I see,” Pamer said. “So Special Branch are investigating?”

“Oh, yes, you know what the police are like when one of their own gets hit. Free for lunch, Francis?”

“Yes,” Pamer said. “But it would have to be at the House. I’m taking part in the debate on the crisis in Croatia.”

“That’s all right. I’ll see you on the Terrace at twelve-thirty.”

Pamer put the phone down, his hand shaking, and looked at his watch. No sense in ringing Santiago now, it would be four in the morning over there. It would have to wait. He pushed his plate with the rest of his breakfast on it away from him, suddenly revolted, bile rising in his throat. The truth was he had never been so frightened in his life.

Way over toward the east the sun was rising as Sea Raider crept in toward Thunder Point, Carney checking the fathometer. “There it is,” he said as he saw the yellow ridged lines on the black screen. “You get to the anchor,” he told Dillon. “I’ll have to do some maneuvering so you can hit that ridge at seventy feet.”

There was a heavy swell, the boat, with the engines throttled back, just about holding her own. Dillon felt the anchor bite satisfactorily, called up to Carney on the flying bridge and the American switched off the engines.

Carney came down the ladder and looked over the side. “There’s a rough old current running here. Could be three knots at least.”

Ferguson said, “I must say the water seems exceptionally clear. I can see right down to the reef.”

“That’s because we’re so far from the mainland,” Carney said. “It means there is very little particulate matter in the water. In fact, it gives me an idea.”

“What’s that?” Dillon asked.

Carney took off his jeans and tee-shirt. “This water is so clear, I’m going to go trolling. That means I’ll stay at less than ten feet, work my way across and locate the edge of the cliff. If I’m lucky and the water down there is as clear as it looks, I might manage to pinpoint the U-boat.”

He zipped up his diving suit and Dillon helped him into his tank. “Do you want a line?”

Carney shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

He pulled on his mask, sat on the high thwart, waited for the swell to rise high and went over backwards. The water was so clear that they could mark his progress for a while.

“What’s the point of all this?” Ferguson asked.

“Well, by staying at such a shallow depth, it will have no effect on the diving later. It could save time, and time is crucial on this one, Brigadier. If we use too much of it, we just wouldn’t be able to dive again, perhaps for many hours.”

Carney surfaced a hundred yards away and waved his arms. Ferguson got out the old binoculars and focused them. “He’s beckoning.”

Carney’s voice echoed faintly. “Over here.”

Dillon switched on the engines by the deckhouse wheel and throttled down. “Try and get the anchor up, Brigadier, I’ll do my best to give you a bit of movement.”

Ferguson went round to the prow and got to work, while Dillon tried to give him some slack. Finally, it worked, the Brigadier shouted in triumph and hauled in. Dillon throttled down and coasted toward Carney.

When they came alongside, the American called, “Drop the hook right here.”

Ferguson complied, Dillon switched off the engine, Carney swam around to the dive platform, slipped off his jacket and climbed aboard.

“Clearest I’ve ever seen,” he said. “We’re right on the edge of the cliff. There’s been a lot of coral damage recently, maybe because of the hurricane, but I swear I can see something sticking out over a ledge.”

“You’re sure?” Ferguson demanded.

“Hell, nothing’s certain in this life, Brigadier, but if it is the U-boat, we can go straight down and be inside in a matter of minutes. Could make all the difference. Now let’s see what you’ve got in the bag, Dillon.”

Dillon produced the Semtex. “It’ll work better if it’s rolled into a rope and placed around the outer circle of the hatch.”

“You would know, would you?” Carney asked.

“I’ve used the stuff before.”

“Okay, let’s have a look at those chemical detonating fuses.” Dillon passed them to him and Carney examined them. “These are good. I’ve used them before. Ten- or thirty-minute delay. We’ll use a ten.”

Dillon was already into his diving suit and now he sliced a large section off the block of Semtex and first kneaded it, then rolled it between his hands into several long sausages. He put it into his dive bag with the detonating fuses.

“I’m ready when you are.”

Carney helped him on with his gear, then handed him an underwater spot lamp. “I’ll see you at the anchor and remember, Dillon, speed is everything, and be prepared for that current.”

Dillon nodded and did what Carney had done, simply sat on the thwart, waited until the swell lifted and went in backwards.

The water was astonishingly clear and very blue, the ridge below covered with elkhorn coral and large basket sponges in muted shades of orange. As he waited at the anchor, a school of barracuda-like fish called sennet moved past him and when he looked up, there were a number of large jacks overhead.

The current was strong, so fierce that when he held on to the anchor chain his body was extended to one side. He glanced up again and Carney came down toward him, paused for a moment, already drifting sideways, and gestured. Dillon went after him, checking his dive computer, noting that he was at sixty-five feet, followed Carney over the edge of the cliff, looking down into the blue infinity below and saw, to the left, the great scar where the coral had broken away, the bulk of U180, the prow sticking out from the ledge.

They descended to the conning tower, held on to the top of the bridge rail, dropped down from the high gun platform to the ragged fifteen-foot gash in the hull below the conning tower. Dillon hovered as Carney went inside, checked his dive computer and saw that it was seven minutes since leaving Sea Raider . He switched his spot lamp on and went after the American.

It was dark and gloomy, a confusion of twisted metal in spite of the illumination from Carney’s lamp. He was crouched beside the forward hatch, trying to turn the unlocking wheel with no success.

Dillon opened his dive bag, took out the Semtex and handed a coil to Carney. They worked together, Dillon taking the top of the hatch, Carney the bottom, pressing the plastic of the explosive in place until they had completed a full circle. They finished, Carney turned and held out a gloved hand. Dillon passed him two of the chemical detonating pencils. Carney paused, broke the first one and pushed it onto the Semtex at the top of the circular hatch. A small spiral of bubbles appeared at once. Carney did the same at the bottom of the circle with the other.