Rumple nodded his OK. “The radar also has a viewing monitor below, sir.”
“You’ll find it in a concealed dropdown compartment over the dining area.”
“Thank you, Rumple.” I then called Charlie and Miss Price to join me below for a final briefing. Afterwards, I took Rumple up a hot chocolate, for which he was extremely grateful.
We were heading steadily westward, keeping close to the shore, the green black sea rolled gently beneath us, only to meet with a violent foaming end as it hissed and crashed onto the white rocks. Rumple pointed out how each individual rock or formation that we were passing has its dangers and its name. We saw Old Harry Rocks, Dancing Ledge, but I knew the most dangerous rocks were the ones that are completely covered at high water.
Those enormous flat slabs of stone around Dancing Ledge were where many a small vessel had been smashed to smithereens.
I watched the two screens intently for a few minutes. Charlie was on the aft deck smoking one of the cheroots he favoured. Miss Price was also there, but she was huddled in the corner under layers of clothing and a large waterproof jacket. Rumple had turned the sleek craft ninety degrees away from the shoreline; we were now heading straight out to sea towards the Gin Fizz.
We started to pull on our wet suits and arrange the equipment to hand.
Rumple called down as he swung the boat round in a large arc. “We’ve missed it, I’m afraid. I’m going round and across again. I could have put a marker buoy down yesterday but…”
“No, you did right Rumple,” I told him. “Let’s keep it discreet.”
Charlie was keeping an eye on both screens yelling out as we passed over the wreck. Rumple killed the engines and then immediately reversed the thrust, bringing the forty-six foot craft to a stop. With the engines idling, the automatic anchor winch cut in splashing overboard and Rumple let it go until the multi prongs snagged on the bottom.
Miss Price adjusted her air-bottles. Under the wetsuit, her profile showed a slender, fit body tone. I tapped her arm.
“I don’t want you down there until we’ve retrieved what it is we’ve come here for, do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly clear Mr Dillon, I’ll stay on deck with Mr Rumple. But please remember my own orders are perfectly clear too. That logbook must return to London with me, or questions will be asked.”
I turned to Charlie, who was listening, “Check the anchor line first thing when you descend. Mr Rumple — Miss Price is under your personal supervision, she goes down only when and if you say.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Oh, and Rumple any sign of trouble break out the little toy in the forward rack and alert us immediately on the comm. please.”
“Very well sir, understood. Good luck down there.”
Charlie eased his feet into the large fins, pulled his facemask into place and carefully put one leg over the side of the dive platform. In spite of the sunshine during the day, the English Channel is always cold, whatever the time of year. Charlie grimaced behind his mask, then he gently dropped overboard, waters surging over his shoulders, and he was instantly gone in the darkness of the water.
Rumple hit a switch and the entire bottom of the boat lit up. For an instant, I could make out Charlie’s blue wetsuit as he swam towards the anchor chain and then down into the darkness. His lean silhouette shattered into a dozen blue moving patches as he sank, and a gush of white bubbles ripped to the surface. In parts of the Caribbean one can see well over one hundred feet but we were armed with just a few feet of visibility at most.
Charlie had quickly gone.
The sea was making background music; our boat was handed from wave to wave like a hospital patient between specialists. At its highest peak I could just see the lights of the cross channel ferry making its way over the horizon towards Poole. Miss Price tried to light a cigarette, but the gusting wind and movement foiled her each time until she flicked the long white shape away.
The weather was coming in fast from the West. Rumple came down towards me and by the look on his face it was not good news.
“The weather’s closing in, the Met Office is warning of a force eight blowing up, and by this swell I would say we only have limited time here.”
From the corner of my eye I caught Miss Price waving her arms at us frantically and shouting something, but her words were carried away on the wind. She pointed at the anchor chain which was juggling up and down, dark blue patterns danced in the powerful lights under the boat and then glued themselves into one shape as Charlie’s blue rubber head broke the surface.
He swam round to the stern and grabbed hold of the dive platform rail. He unstrapped the big torch from his wrist and passed it into the boat. He removed his dark blue fins under water and threw those into the boat. They landed with a wet thud. Then he grasped the rail with both of his gloved hands. With one great heave he came unstuck from the wave-tops and toppled onto the dive platform. Rumple had the Thermos flask of hot sloe gin ready, and Charlie emptied the metal container in one gulp and held it out for a refill. Blood was trickling down the outside of the wetsuit from a deep cut on his right hand. Rumple produced antiseptic from the boat’s first aid box and dabbed at it with cotton wool. Charlie stamped around the deck with pain as the antiseptic hit his bloodstream and the dark coloured liquid ran off his fingers.
After that we all went into the cabin, and Charlie went off to get out of his wetsuit. He took a hot shower and changed into a pair of casual cargo pants, an old rugby shirt and dark blue fleece before returning to where we all sat listening to the Met report on the radio. He turned to me and said, “It’s pretty bad down there, the bottom is just a maelstrom, visibility is zero.”
He said there was no point in Miss Price or I diving tonight, and lit a cheroot.
Rumple went up to the helm and spun the engines and wound in the anchor.
Disappointment showed on all our faces. We were going to have to return and try again the next day. Weather permitting.
After breakfast Charlie set up the laptop computer for his presentation, connecting this to the large cinema screen that came with the house. A secure line video link was also established to LJ’s office in London to enable him to get a live OPs report showing the position and angle at which the Gin Fizz was lying.
“A factor we were not aware of is that the wreck is perched on the edge of a rock sided trench. There is what I judge to be a six-knot current pressing the hull into a vertical formation…”
Charlie was always on firmer ground when dealing with reports like this. He made arrow marks across the screen.
“The Gin Fizz is approximately forty foot in length, and she has a broad beam, which makes her a good-sized boat. But all this…” On his side view of the craft Charlie now drew a line along the middle of the virtual image and indicated the area forward of the main cabin area and below his line, “…is filled with what looks like small packages, possibly explosives. They’re floating all over the place inside this main area. To go inside the boat in that storm would, I felt, have been almost certain suicide. But, the hull looks intact, as is the deck areas and control cabin. There are no bodies down there either which, even with the strong currents, I feel is very odd. But I suppose they could have been swept away?” I noticed that the cut on the back of Charlie’s hand was bleeding again.
I leaned over to him and said quietly, “Why don’t you let Mrs Rumple take a look at that hand of yours? She’s very proficient with a needle, you know.”