"Have a look at this one first," Raeburn said, shining his lantern on the rusted hatch and wheel. "You can put the gear down here while we decide what to do. The hatch in the conning tower is probably going to be easiest, but our friends may simply not have had the physical strength to shift this one."
Plunkett gratefully obeyed, donning a pair of work gloves that he pulled from a rear pocket and then bending his back to the wheel that dogged down the hatch. It refused to budge.
"Try the one aft," Raeburn said, handing Plunkett his torch.
He and the monks accompanied Plunkett as far as the salt-corroded ladder that led up into the conning tower, but the second deck hatch proved no more cooperative than the first. As Plunkett reluctantly returned, Raeburn took back his lantern and shone it up the ladder.
"Up you go, Mr. Plunkett."
Plunkett climbed carefully, testing each rung. Raeburn followed right on his heels. The skipper of the Rose was already straining at the wheel atop the hatch as Raeburn came onto the bridge.
"Nope, can't budge this one, either," Plunkett said nervously, bidding Raeburn bring the lantern closer as he continued to inspect the hatch. "It - ah - is cleaner than the others, though - probably because it hasn't been submerged twice a day for fifty years."
"So, what do you propose?" Raeburn asked.
Plunkett sat back on his heels, fearful of meeting Raeburn's gaze beyond the glare of the lantern.
"Well, we might chisel our way in, but that would take a while. I'd rather try the cutting gear before we resort to explosives. I don't even know what you brought."
"Standard SBG and Cortex fuse - exactly what you're accustomed to working with," Raeburn replied.
Plunkett raised an eyebrow. "Well, that'll get you inside in next to no time, all right, but the concussion could bring the cave down on us."
"I think not," Raeburn said, with a glance down at the Phurba priests, who shook their heads impassively.
"Right." Plunkett drew a nervous breath, then exhaled gustily as he considered the matter.
"All right, this may not be as bad as I'd expected," he allowed. "Not being underwater makes life much easier. Since you seem to be in a hurry, I think we can manage just by binding a length of Cortex round the hatchway and setting it off."
"I'll bring you what you need," Raeburn said with a faint smile.
He left the two Phurba priests to keep an eye on Plunkett while he went back to the pile of equipment by the forward hatch and fetched the smaller of the two canvas satchels. Kavanagh had briefed him on what would be needed, depending on circumstances. He watched Plunkett carefully as he deposited the satchel beside the hatch.
Unpacked, the Cortex looked like nothing so much as a coil of white plastic washing line, but Plunkett's heavy face was beaded with sweat as he measured off the requisite length of fuse and cut it loose with the Swiss Army knife from his pocket. After pressing the fuse down around the hatch, he connected it up to a detonator that Raeburn handed him. The detonator, in turn, he wired to a 9-volt battery.
"We'd all better get well back from the conning tower," Plunkett advised as they came down off the ladder. "This stuff packs a wallop when it blows."
At Raeburn's gesture, both the Phurba priests retreated with them as far as the forward hatch, Plunkett stringing out wire as they went.
"Brace yourselves," Plunkett muttered, and made the final connection.
The Cortex exploded with an earsplitting crack. The deck underfoot gave a violent answering shudder. After a brief, smoldering rain of rust particles, everything fell silent.
"Now, let's see just how good you are," Raeburn muttered, urging Plunkett back toward the conning tower with a push.
He made Plunkett go first back up the ladder. The hatchway showed a blackened fringe of torn metal where the Cortex had ripped away the surrounding matrix of rust and corrosion. Slipping his work gloves back on, Plunkett gingerly seized hold of the hatch-wheel and gave it an experimental tug. There was an answering grating noise as the hatch shifted.
"It's free," he announced.
"Excellent," Raeburn said. "Let's have it open, then."
Gritting his teeth, Plunkett heaved the hatch-cover up the rest of the way. The exertion left him gasping as he dropped forward onto his knees to peer inside - and came face to face with a mummified corpse lodged on the inside access ladder.
The corpse was bearded, and wearing the grey uniform of a German naval lieutenant. It had one withered arm wound tightly around the uppermost rung. The other had dropped away from the underside wheel of the hatch-cover with a loose rattle of finger-bones against the ladder below and the flap of an empty grey sleeve. Plunkett recoiled with a yip, then froze as he felt the sudden, icy pressure of a gun barrel against the back of his head.
"Thank you, Mr. Plunkett," Raeburn said softly. "You've been very helpful. Unfortunately, your services are no longer required."
The Walther's blast sent echoes reverberating in the cavern and in the depths of the boat as the big Irishman collapsed forward, blood and brain matter seeping from the hole in the back of his skull and the larger exit wound in the center of his forehead. After pausing to holster his weapon, Raeburn hauled the body up by its jacket and sent it tumbling over the conning tower railing. It bounced heavily off the deck and slid into the water with a sucking splash as the two impassive Phurba priests started up the ladder to join him.
Eager now to be on with it, Raeburn turned his attention to clearing the hatchway. A couple of kicks knocked the German corpse loose from the ladder, sending it tumbling back into the dark womb of the ship. He stood back as the first of the two Phurba priests entered the hatch and started down, the second lighting his way and then handing down a lantern. Raeburn followed more slowly, fumbling with his own lantern until he could gain floor-level.
The hatch gave access to the control room. As he stepped off the ladder, Raeburn's wary gaze met an eerie tableau. The two Phurba priests were standing motionless near the periscope column in the center of the control room. But beyond them, the probing glare of the two electric lanterns picked out nearly a dozen mummified corpses in grey German naval uniforms, all loosely slumped at their duty stations as if death had taken them unawares.
A thin current of fresh air, filtering down the hatchway, stirred up the dust of nearly five decades and reawakened the reek of old decay. Raeburn studied the scene for a long moment, momentarily at a loss to read the riddle.
"They were gassed," said Nagpo, speaking from the shadows.
Raeburn shifted his gaze. "Why?"
"It was necessary that there should remain a command crew on board," the monk replied.
"Why?" Raeburn persisted.
This time he got no response. Impervious to the stench and the shadows, the two Phurba priests moved off toward the aft section of the control room. Raeburn followed them with the second light. Skirting the base of the periscope, he fetched up short at the sight of a third monkish figure, attired like his companions in robes of orange silk, one bony shoulder bare, seated cross-legged on the floor in an attitude of meditation.