The Last Dive

  The Last Dive

  (First Edition)

  Copyright © 2017 Warren Court

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form (except for brief passages for the purposes of review) without the express written consent of the author

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Other books by Warren Court:

  Out of Time (Armour Black Mysteries Book One)

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07195HLR5

  Dead Girl Found (Armour Black Mysteries Book Two)

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GT8RN6H

  Hog Town (A John Temple Mystery)

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07996DXJT

  The Last Dive

  By Warren Court

  Chapter One

  A hundred and twenty feet below the surface of the Mediterranean, salvage diver Vincent Last stood on the listing deck of the sunken freighter. The Algiers Maru, a neo-tramp steamer, was hauling mixed commercial goods when it went down in a gale off the Italian coast a year before. The hatches gave in and she stove under, settling on the bottom fairly intact. Two of the twelve crewmen did not survive.

  Vince was tethered to a salvage boat on the surface by a bundle of tubing: two thick black hoses, a primary and backup air line, connected to the right side of his vintage Swindell helmet. A third hose, connected to his Taylor diving suit at his waist, pumped heated water throughout the suit. A thin radio wire was also part of the bundle and was hooked up to Vince’s helmet so that he could talk to Drago, owner of the salvage boat, who was working further up the ship’s deck. His sons were manning the boat up on the surface.

  Vince was working at freeing a crane that jutted out from the foredeck midway between the bow and the pilot house. He’d been at it for two days now and almost had it free. When Vince shone his light back up the deck at Drago, all he could see was a fuzzy apparition moving about in a blizzard of plankton and carbon dioxide bubbles. A forest of kelp attached to the ship’s deck swayed in the current like an upturned hula skirt.

  Vince shivered involuntarily. The warm water coursing through his “hot water” suit was inadequate and only seemed to draw attention to the surrounding chill. Vince ignored the discomfort—it was part of the job—and worked the flickering tongue of his plasma torch over the last piece of metal holding the crane in place. Built by the Fukushima Company, the crane was secured by six points to a spindle that could rotate three hundred and sixty degrees. Vince dug into the crane with his torch and a shower of sparks arced out into the blackness.

  “I go inside now,” Drago said, his sounding tinny over the small speaker in Vince’s helmet.

  “Right,” Vince replied, not looking up from his work.

  There were some good pickings in the pilot house. Brass fittings were the best. Drago would go to work on them with a variety of tools secured to his belt. The electronics would be left for the sea to take. A year at the bottom of the Med would have destroyed them beyond salvage.

  Drago would get fifteen percent of the salvage value of anything that could be brought up, and Vince’s cut was thirty-five percent of that payout. It would work out to about ten thousand pounds sterling for Vince, and the quicker they could get job done the lower Vince’s expenses like rent and food would be and therefore the higher the profit. Vince needed the money. Without steady work for almost a year, he had jumped at the chance to earn ten thousand quid. It might even be more.

  The torch passed through what Vince thought was the last metal stanchion. When the metal parted, Vince silently encouraged the crane to tip over. It should have started to fall slowly, like a lumberjacked pine, but it stayed stubbornly put.

  Jesus Christ. Tough old bugger. He moved back into position and bent down as best he could, his bulky, stiff diving suit robbing him of dexterity. From that vantage point he could see there was one last piece of metal holding the crane to the swivel. It was only visible now that the other pieces of metal had been cut loose, and it would be a bitch to get at.

  Vince bent down further, allowed his legs to kick out behind him, and floated down to the deck, careful to keep the lit torch at a safe distance. The thirty-foot-tall crane would bring in at least a couple thousand for the scrap metal alone. Maybe more if it could be put back into use. After it was freed, Drago and the boys would haul it up to the surface. It was too heavy to put on the salvage boat so they’d secure it alongside and bring it to the dock in Positano where a shore crane would retrieve it. And after that, Vince would go to work freeing the motor next to it.

  He crawled into position. Suddenly, for a split second the current changed, strengthened, and hit Vince from the starboard side. The one-ton crane wavered on that last remaining inch-thick piece of metal before collapsing down on Vince with a terrible screech, pinning his leg. Pain shot through Vince’s body. Fear rose up in his gut but he pushed it back down. Stay calm. His leg was stuck but he could move his boot. It had not pierced his suit; there was no blood. OK, good: he could probably wriggle free. It would just take some time. No need to call Drago. Not yet.

  It was then that Vince realized it was becoming harder to breathe. The air had to be sucked down the line, and this was becoming difficult. He quickly checked his hoses and could see them pinned under the crane. He cut the supply of gas to his torch, extinguishing the flame, and let it float free to the deck. The air coming into his helmet trickled off. He peered more intently through the gloom and could now see that the sharp metal of the crane was pinching the air lines. His shivering increased and he realized with growing horror that his warm water line had also been cut. He could see the end of it sheared off at the crane, the free end snaking back and forth as hot water spewed out into the ocean. He sucked in another large breath and held it. His air lines must be pinched but not cut, not yet. He switched over to his auxiliary. The pull was even harder. Out in the murk, another hose broke free and a torrent of air bubbles spewed out. That had been his main. Now he was stuck on his reserve and it would go soon too. In a matter of seconds he would have no air.

  OK, now it was time to call Drago. Using the last of his precious oxygen, he called “Drago, help”. No reply. Shit. His comms line must have been severed as well.

  Vince started to work desperately on freeing his leg. Panic had come now, and sat next to Vince on the deck of the freighter. It patiently waited for his attention. Death was hovering out there in the blackness. Vince’s years of experience had trained him to ignore them both, to keep them where they were. Urgently but methodically, he struggled to get free: he had to get over to his remaining air line and keep it from being severed.

  He pulled on his leg. It was just a matter of finding the right angle to get his boot out. The torch—could he relight it and cut into the metal trapping his leg? No chance: it would take too long even if he could light it quickly. The torch belonged to Drago, and like all of his equipment, it was old and finicky. The air was down to a trickle now and it took more and more effort for Vince to draw it down the line. He was going to die with help only fifty feet away. A sheet of stars shot across Vince’s vision but he kept at it. With a final twist and a tug, he found the right angle and his foot came free. At the same moment, the air line pinched closed. In an instant it would be permanently cut. He used his hands to pull himself, over to where the crane was pinned against the deck and tugged on the bundle of tubing with all his might, but could gain no leverage in the weightlessness. Only one option was left to him. He wrestled half a lungful of air out the little bit still left inside his helmet, held it, and disconnected the bundle of hoses. There was no going back.

  Chapter Two

  The crimson Bentley Arnage glided through the streets of London’s West End, headed in the direction of the Petroleum Club. It came to a stop in front of that prestigious establishment, double parking next to a pearl-grey Rolls Royce. A chauffeur got out of the Bentley and moved quickly around to the passenger side to open the rear door.

  Sir Lesley Townes, adorned in the finest three-piece suit from Gieves and Hawkes of Savile Row, emerged from the Bentley and headed up the marble steps to the club’s front door. His portly five-foot-six frame jiggled awkwardly as he reached the top and he paused to catch his breath. What was left of his hair was grey and cut short. It clustered into two ovals on either side of his head, leaving a glazed and spotted dome on top.

  A uniformed man at the top of the steps opened the door for Sir Les and tipped himself forward slightly in a Prussian salute. Townes checked his Rolex and ignored the doorman. He had just enough time for this distraction before dinner with Charlotte, a twenty-eight-year-old blackjack dealer with great tits whom he’d met at a casino in Monte Carlo. She hated to be kept waiting, though Townes had found that the sex was better if she was riled up a bit, so he wasn’t going be too punctual.

  Townes discreetly employed a waiter at the Petroleum Club who kept him informed of the comings and goings of the various members. The waiter had been given special instructions to call Townes immediately when a certain person entered. Townes had received just such a call only twenty minutes before and had ordered his chauffeur to make the diversion from his rendezvous with Charlotte.

  As he stepped into the darkened club, he
was assaulted by a blinding cloud of rancid cigar smoke. When his eyes adjusted, he registered who was in attendance. Most of them he knew—they were the regulars who never seemed to be anywhere else, the ones who talked the loudest about deals but never made any. Then there were the few like him who were true high rollers; they were infrequent attendees at the club but the regulars hung on their every word. A few heads nodded in Townes’ direction as he moved towards the bar, then quickly turned back to their talk and their drinks.

  Townes’ no-holds-barred approach to business and to his knighthood had gained him more enemies than admirers. He had spent three decades working, bribing, and stealing his way to the top, and he wasn’t about to stop. The victims of his business tactics were left completely shattered, or at the very least strongly dissuaded from pursuing their fortunes in the oil business. Those who had not come under direct fire from Townes and still patronized the Petroleum Club kept their distance from “the Butcher.” Townes knew they called him that behind his back, and he loved it. Revelled in it. The club would have blackballed Townes long ago if not for his generous contributions to its various charitable works and the general upkeep of the place.

  He approached the bar and took a stool. He saw his spy on the far side of the room, but the man stayed where he was: Townes had instructed him never to speak to him in person other than to take his drink order. For the information he relayed and his discretion, the waiter received a retainer of five hundred pounds a week. Any information that resulted in a coup for Townes meant a bonus.

  Without being told, the bartender simultaneously poured Townes a snifter of brandy and put flame to the unlit cigar protruding from the captain of industry’s mouth. Townes spun his leather bar stool around and surveyed the room until he located his latest target, the one the waiter had alerted him to.

  Lex Hogenbosch from Amsterdam was sitting among some lesser players that Townes barely knew. Townes could hear Hogenbosch’s Dutch accent as he bragged about some future venture he was working on in some godforsaken place. Townes knew it was just posturing. The men sitting with Hogenbosch had a bit of money but would only part with it on a sure thing. Hogenbosch was trying his best to assure them that was what he had. The reality was that Hogenbosch did not have a pot to piss in, and the next couple of days would see him a pauper if Townes had his way.

  Townes sipped his brandy and let the warm alcohol seep into his tongue before sending it down his throat. When his target was getting to the point in his talk where he asked for their support, Townes strolled over to the table.

  “What’s this, Hogenbosch? Another gamble on some unproven field?” Townes started off, beaming his Cheshire cat grin at rest of the men at the table. It was important to cut the Dutchman down quickly in front of his peers. Scare them off.

  Hogenbosch’s face flamed red as he looked up at his tormentor. He knew what Townes knew, and words failed him. Townes had hired the best private investigators and industrial espionage people to tear Hogenbosch’s life apart and present it up to him for inspection. Hogenbosch’s company had only one viable asset, a signed contract to pump the oil fields offshore of the dirt-poor banana republic of Bagoye, sandwiched between Ghana and the Ivory Coast. The Dutchman’s firm, Bagoye Oil and Gas, had acquired the contract ten years ago, but had failed to put a rig on the site. Townes had obtained a copy of Hogenbosch’s survey of the area and then had had his own conducted to verify it. The oil was there, more than Hogenbosch knew, but he had not come up with capital to drill. Until recently, that is. He had convinced some Russian businessman with more money than brains to invest in Bagoye Oil. The Russian had forked over just enough to allow Hogenbosch to purchase a rig and have it transported. Now Hogenbosch needed more money from the men he was having a drink with to get it up and running.

  Hogenbosch looked at his companions, who were equally embarrassed. Townes’ reputation preceded him, and if he had his sights set on Hogenbosch then they preferred not to be caught in the crossfire. One by one, they got to their feet and apologized to Hogenbosch for leaving so unexpectedly—a few had the grace to mumble about some forgotten appointment. Townes took one of the vacated seats. He never waited for anybody to ask him to sit down if that was what he wanted to do. It didn’t register with him that no one ever asked.

  “Look, Hoge.” Townes liked that nickname, like they were old chums. “Five million is my final offer.”

  Hogenbosch, a physically unintimidating man, clenched his fists and shrank into the burnished leather of his club chair. “That’s an insult. And I will never sell to you,” he said.

  “Then you’ll go down the tubes. That King of Bagoye, whatever his name is….”

  “His Majesty Kunle Segun,” said Hogenbosch.

  “Yes, whatever. He won’t let you keep him on a string for much longer. You’ve had that contract for ten years and you haven’t drilled a single barrel. The contract is null and void as far as he is concerned.”

  “You have no proof of that.”

  “I have my ways, Hogenbosch. Ask around about me. You’ll find I know what I’m talking about.”

  “I have asked about you. You’re the Butcher. You carve smaller oil companies up and swallow them down.”

  A thin smile formed on Townes’ face. If Hogenbosch only knew the half of it.

  “That five million will never land in my bank,” Hogenbosch said. “I’m told any offer from you is worthless. And besides, we will be drilling on that site within the month.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that old rig from Jakarta. Worthless. Aren’t you afraid it will tip over?”

  Hogenbosch’s anger flared. His voice rose and heads turned. Spit flew out between his lips. Though the others all hated Townes, this was good sport.

  “A rig will be on site within the month,” Hogenbosch shouted. He got up and stormed out.

  “We’ll see about that, Hoge old boy,” Townes muttered under his breath. “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Three

  Vince pushed off the crane with his feet and used his hands in a breast stroke motion to propel himself towards the pilot house. His heavy dive boots made it almost impossible to swim. He had to rely on his arms alone and they weren’t much better. The bulky suit made it difficult to move. He put his remaining strength into the task. If there was a God, and he wasn’t yet ready to take Vince into his bosom, Drago wouldn’t be too far inside the freighter.

  He reached the door to the pilot house and pulled himself inside. He had only a few seconds of air left. Darkness had wreathed his vision and a freight train pounded in his chest. Vince knew what it took to drown. There were two distinct sessions of panic and a few seconds of calm and serenity in between them as the body came to grips with the fact it wasn’t going to get any more oxygen. Vince was just coming out of that period of calm, hastened by the physical effort it took to swim to the wheelhouse.

  Drago was there, thank God. No time for explanation. Vince acted quickly, startling the little Croatian as he wrenched him around and yanked the auxiliary air hose off Drago’s chest. A torrent of oxygen spewed out of it. The Croat thought Vince was trying to kill him and made a move to stop him, but Vince was in his last moments of clarity. With a last burst of strength, he fended off the Croat and quickly hooked the hose up to his own unit. The air flooded into his helmet and Vince gulped it in. He saw Drago’s eyes widen as he realized Vince did not have his own bundle of tubing attached to him.

  After a few moments, punctuated only by the sound of his own greedy gulps for air, Drago wrote “what happen” on a slate with a piece of diver’s chalk. Vince took his time. Drinking in air was more important than letting Drago know what he had just gone through.

  “Air hose caught,” he finally wrote back.

  * * *

  The salvage boat, anchored two miles off the Amalfi coast, pitched and rolled in time to the lazy winter swells. Filip sat in his father’s chair on the bridge, his feet propped up on the control panel. He let the wheel jog back and forth unattended while he monitored the regulator that forced the mixed gases down to his father and the Welshman. He cupped his hands and blew into them, the winds of the North African deserts wouldn’t arrive for weeks.