Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Dillon glanced at his computer. Seventeen minutes. Carney nodded and Dillon turned and went out through the rent, rose to the edge of the cliff, went straight to the anchor and started up the line, holding on with one hand, Carney just behind him. As they left the line at fifteen feet and moved under the keel of the stern, he checked the computer again. Twenty-one minutes. He broke through to the surface, slipped out of his jacket and climbed on to the diving platform.

“You found it?” Ferguson demanded.

“Just like Carney said,” Dillon told him. “In like Flynn and out again. Twenty minutes, that’s all. Just twenty bloody minutes.”

Carney was changing the tanks for fresh ones. “Sweet Jesus, I’ve never seen such a sight. I’ve been diving twenty years or more and I’ve got to tell you, I’ve never seen anything to beat that.”

Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo. “Santiago, eat your heart out.”

“I’d like to take him down, weight him with lead and leave him inside,” Carney said, “except it would be an insult to brave sailors who died down there.”

The surface of the sea lifted, spray scattering, foam appeared, moved outwards in concentric circles over the swell. They stood at the rail watching until the activity dwindled.

Finally Carney said, “That’s it. Let’s get moving.”

They got their diving gear on again. Dillon said, “What happens now? I mean, how long?”

“If we’re lucky and we find what we want straightaway, then there’s no problem. The whole forward part of the boat has been sealed all these years.” Carney tightened his weight belt. “That should mean no silt, very little detritus. Human remains will have dissolved years ago except for a few bones. In other words, it should be relatively clear.” He sat on the thwart and pulled on his fins. “If I think we should stop on the way back, I’ll just signal and hang in there.”

Dillon followed him down, aware of motion in the water, some sort of current like shockwaves that hadn’t been there before. Carney hovered over the edge of the cliff and when Dillon joined him, he saw the problem at once. The force of the explosion had caused the U-boat to move, the stern had lifted, the prow, stretching out over that 2,000-feet drop, was already dipping.

They held on to the bridge rail beside the gun and Dillon could actually feel the boat move. He looked at Carney and the American shook his head. He was right, of course, another few feet higher at the stern and U180 would slide straight over into oblivion, and Dillon couldn’t accept that.

He turned to go down, was aware of Carney’s restraining hand, managed to pull free and jack-knifed, heading for the rent in the hull, pulling himself into the control room. Everything was stirring with the effects from the explosion, the movement of the boat. He switched on his spot lamp and moved forward and saw the great ragged hole where the hatch cover had been.

It was dark in there, far murkier than he had expected, again from the effects of the explosion. He shone his spotlight inside and as he pulled himself through was aware of a strange, eerie noise as if some living creature was groaning in pain, was aware of the boat moving, lurching a little. Too late to retreat now and his own stubbornness refused to let him.

The radio and sound room was on the right, the captain’s quarters opposite to his left, no curtain left now, long since decayed over the years. There was a metal locker, a door hanging off, the skeleton of a bunk. He splayed the beam of the torch around and saw it lying in the corner, coated with filth, a metal briefcase with a handle, just like the one Baker had taken to London.

He ran a hand across it, silver gleamed dully, and then the floor tilted at an alarming angle and everything seemed to be moving. He bounced against the bulkhead, dropping the case, grabbed it again, turned and started through the hatch. His jacket snagged and he stopped dead, struggling frantically, aware of the boat tilting farther. And then Carney was in front of him, reaching through to release him.

The American turned and made for that gash in the hull and Dillon went after him, the whole boat tilting now, sliding, the strange, groaning noises, metal scraping across the edge, and Carney was through, drifting up, and Dillon rose to join him, hovering on the edge of the cliff, and as they turned to look down, the great whalelike shape of U180 slid over the edge and plunged into the void.

Carney made the okay sign, Dillon responded, then followed him across the ridge to the anchor line. He checked his computer. Another twenty minutes, which was fine, and he followed up the line slowly, but Carney was taking no chances. At fifteen feet he stopped and looked down. Dillon nodded, moved up beside him and raised the briefcase in his right hand. He could tell that Carney was smiling.

They stayed there for five minutes, then surfaced at the stern to find Ferguson leaning over anxiously. “Dear God. I thought the end of the world had come,” he said.

They stowed the gear, made everything shipshape. Carney pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt, Dillon his tracksuit. Ferguson got the thermos, poured coffee and added brandy from the half-bottle.

“The whole bloody sea erupted,” he said. “Never seen anything like it. Sort of boiled over. What happened?”

“She was lying on a ledge, Brigadier, you knew that,” Carney said. “Already sticking right out, and the force of the explosion made her start to move.”

“Good God!”

Carney drank some of the coffee. “Christ, that’s good. Anyway, this idiot here decided he was going to go inside anyway.”

“Always suspected you were a fool, Dillon,” Ferguson told him.

“I got the briefcase, didn’t I? It was in the corner of the captain’s quarters on the floor, and then the whole damn boat started to go, taking me with it because I got snagged trying to get back out of the hatch.”

“What happened?”

“A mad, impetuous fool called Bob Carney who’d decided to follow me and pulled me through.”

Carney went and looked over the side, still drinking his coffee. “A long, long way down. That’s the last anyone will ever see of U180. It’s as if she never existed.”

“Oh, yes, she did,” Ferguson said. “And we have this to prove it,” and he held up the briefcase.

There wasn’t much encrusting. Carney got a small wire brush from the tool kit and an old towel. The surface cleaned up surprisingly well, the Kriegsmarine insignia clearly etched into the right-hand corner. Carney unfastened the two clips and tried to raise the lid. It refused to move.

“Shall I force it, Brigadier?”

“Get on with it,” Ferguson told him, his face pale with excitement.

Carney pushed a thin-bladed knife under the edge by the lock, exerted pressure. There was a cracking sound and the lid moved. At that moment it started to rain. Ferguson took the briefcase into the deckhouse, sat down with it on his knees and opened it.

The documents were in sealed envelopes. Ferguson opened the first one, took out a letter and unfolded it. He passed it to Dillon. “My German is a little rusty, you’re the language expert.”

Dillon read it aloud. “From the Leader and Chancellor of the State. Reichsleiter Martin Bormann is acting under my personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the State. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military or civil, without distinction of rank, will assist him in any way he sees fit.” Dillon handed it back. “It’s signed Adolf Hitler.”

“Really?” Ferguson folded it again and put it back in its envelope. “That would fetch a few thousand at auction at Christie’s.” He passed another, larger envelope over. “Try that.”