66 Metres (34 page)

So, that was how it was.

Clambering through the hole, tank first, Jake fell rather than swam down, the regulator mouthpiece tugging against his teeth. After five metres, during which he felt as if he'd just downed two pints, he hit the metal floor. The SEALs must be shining their torches downwards, as he could see everything lit up in stark twilight, small clouds of silt puffed up from the floor where he'd landed. A completely sealed room, no other way out, but there was a tall metal cupboard, mesh doors hanging off their hinges. He found the bag and could see the Rose inside, blinking innocently next to his pony bottle. He stood over the pony as he fished out the Rose, so they couldn't see what he was doing, and moved the pony and regulator into the cupboard, along with the bag, then turned to face the two torch beams.

He kicked hard, causing a cloud of silt to mushroom up from the floor, kicked a few more times, then launched upwards, finning furiously to climb back up to the letter box, cradling the almost-empty tank in his left arm. He passed the Rose through to one of the SEALs, then held onto the lip of the hole, and heaved his tank through, sure it would give out at any moment.

Jake expected the worst. He wasn't disappointed. They yanked the tank from him, tore the regulator from his mouth, and then he saw the tip of a spear-gun right in front of his facemask. He pushed sideways with his left arm against the opening, just as the SEAL fired. White-hot pain lanced through Jake's shoulder. He spiralled down into the cloud of silt, banging his other shoulder against the bulkhead. Another spear phished past him, slashing his wetsuit, cutting his thigh, but that was minor, a flesh wound. The torch beams were scattered by the silt, two suns trying to break through cloud. Good, they couldn't see.
Come and get me.

He landed in darkness, knew they would be reloading, so clawed his way to the cupboard, groped desperately for the pony's regulator, and found it. He gasped in air, but breathed out carefully, into the top of the cupboard, so the bubbles were trapped there. The torch lights continued to hunt him, but Jake knew the silt would take ten minutes to settle. Two more spears shot down, one clanging into the floor, the other striking the top of the cupboard. The beams waved some more, then it darkened. He heard a loud hiss from up above. They were emptying both his tanks.

Bastards.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, dared to touch the short metal shaft sticking out of his shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn't. It wasn't in too deep – the spear's momentum had been slowed by his neoprene wetsuit – but he had no intention of ripping his shoulder wide open trying to extract it.

It grew dark again, and he heard clangs as the SEALs departed, leaving him to die. He slumped down inside the cupboard, and breathed heavily from the pony. It wouldn't last long, but it didn't matter. This was it. He'd been beaten. He'd finally join Sean. Not the way he'd intended.

The pain burned. He was losing blood. Where was nitrogen narcosis, or for that matter, oxygen poisoning, when he really needed it. He sucked in a few more breaths, knowing these were his last. He wondered what Sean would say. But he already knew what his son would say.
Dad, get the fuck up!
That's what he'd say.
Nadia and the others are on the surface depending on you. You weren't there when I most needed you, you'd better be there for them!

His eyes blurry, Jake staggered out of the cupboard. He released his weight-belt and lowered it to the floor. He found the bag he'd used to carry the Rose, and breathed out into it, then swam a few strokes upwards, carrying the pony, his teeth clamping down on the pain from his shoulder. When he got through the entrance, he found Sean's knife and sheathed it. Each time he breathed out, he did so into the bag, creating a small balloon.

Drunk with pain, he made his way outside the ship, and stood for a moment on the deck.
What are you waiting for?
Sean said.

Jake kicked off, hanging from the homemade balloon that billowed as he ascended, and as the water pressure reduced, the bag began to lift him. He could almost feel the nitrogen flashing out of his bloodstream, forming small bubbles, searching for his joints, his heart, his brain. Just another way to die underwater. At thirty metres the pony resisted his in-breath. Sudden, though not unexpected. He was out of air. Forget about it. Every diving instructor knew the physics. From here on the air in his lungs would expand, and he wouldn't need to breathe in, just breathe out, as if whistling, and by ten metres, he'd need to exhale in one long continuous scream. That would come easy. He let go of the pony bottle, withdrew Sean's knife, tilted his head back, and began the long exhale.

***

Nadia hung from the underside of Pete's boat, ten metres down a line of nylon rope at the first tank, the second one stationed higher, at five metres. Her legs cradled the steel cylinder, her head angled backwards to gaze towards the surface through the cascade of expanding exhaust bubbles. It was still choppy up there. The rope alternately tugged her up and down, rocking her like a manic yo-yo. Occasionally a more savage yank made her grip the tank harder with her knees.

At least she had plenty of air now, as she breathed from the hang-tank, twenty bar left in the one on her back. She closed her eyes and thought of Jake down below, where every sliver of oxygen would count. Could she go back down after him? No. She'd never find him, and with the SEALs down there, and the narcosis that would return as soon as she descended, it would just get complicated. No, focus on the surface, act before they return. Right now his job was down there, hers was on the surface.

First she had to decompress a little, or risk being incapacitated. Five more minutes. Her computer demanded fifteen, but dive computers were conservative by design to protect their makers from being sued, and the algorithms were for average divers from a large age range and variable states of fitness. She'd been taught using Russian Navy tables, based on fit eighteen-year-old sailors diving in freezing Siberian lakes. Five minutes was tight, but she couldn't wait any longer. Once the SEALs were up, she'd be outmanoeuvred. She knew what she had to do. Breathe deep, flush the nitrogen out of her blood and back into her lungs. She concentrated on that, while the boat rocked her like bait on a fishing line.

Her mind was clear. The narcosis during the deep search, only minutes ago, seemed like yesterday's nightmare. But it wasn't over for Jake. At least she hoped it wasn't.

A whirring noise made Nadia open her eyes. The second boat swirled into view: sleek grey hull, two black props spinning in the water. After a while it backed away a little. Whoever it was knew a diver was down there, could see the spreading patch of her bubbles on the surface. But she couldn't see anything topside, the waves were still too big, white foam from the surf distorting everything. No bodies in the water, not yet at any rate. And a bullet wouldn't even scratch her through five metres of water, let alone ten.

But Jake was still down there with the Rose, two SEALs on his tail. A chill raked down her spine. Who was she kidding? They'd kill him. Her breathing sped up. They'd kill Jake. Her head swam.
Fuck
. She unhooked her legs from the tank, held onto the line with one hand, and gazed downwards, her teeth grinding on the regulator mouthpiece. How many would end up dead for Katya? Janssen and Danton deserved it, sure, but Jake? Pete and the others topside?

She squinted down into the blue, tried to see, wondered what struggle was going on down there. A savage yank wrenched her shoulder, nearly dislodging her.
Pull yourself together
. You're no use to anyone thinking like this. Store it for later. Better still, channel it. And then it hit her. She knew what she had to do.

It was Adamson up there. Had to be. He and the SEALs would kill everyone else. So… she had to kill Adamson. Not aim to wound him, like Janssen, not have someone else do it for her, like with Danton. No, this one was down to her. What Jake and the others needed right now was a cold-blooded killer on their side. Time to embrace her destiny. Her breathing slowed, and she gazed upwards.

The second boat patrolled the surface, monitoring her bubbles, watching Pete's boat, probably training a gun on them. If it was Adamson, he was smart enough to make sure they got rid of her Beretta and the flare gun, so her going up would just make it easier for him.

What could she do? If she surfaced, he'd probably shoot her outright. She stared at the fibreglass hull of Adamson's boat. Her knife wouldn't penetrate it. She could puncture one of the tubes, but the boat would still stay afloat, and Adamson could shoot her in the head through a couple of feet of water. Her gaze drifted towards the back of his RIB: the two props, fizzing into action every ten seconds or so.
Of course
.

Nadia pulled out her short knife, swapped back to her own regulator, and finned a little, sliding up the line towards the next tank at five metres, letting out air from her jacket so as not to overshoot. Adamson gunned the engines and approached, her spreading puddle of bubbles on the surface no doubt announcing her ascent. When she reached the upper tank, she started sawing away at the line holding the deeper one in place. The nylon rope was bundled fibre, but slowly she sliced through each strand until there was just one left. She looped the rope around her left hand – the last thing she wanted to do was drop it – then cut through the final fibre. It snapped and immediately tugged her downward, head first. Cursing, because she had no free hand, she fumbled for her inflate button as she sank fast. She reached it and activated it, and almost dropped her knife in the process.

Regaining neutral buoyancy at around ten metres, she watched Adamson's boat circling, probably wondering what was going on. Then she heard the dulled crack of a gunshot. What had just happened? She imagined he'd just shot Pete, though she couldn't think why. And then she heard a new sound, another boat's engines approaching, fast. Adamson's boat – if that's whose boat it was – stopped, facing Pete's. She had to cripple Adamson's boat, snag his propellers with the line and tank. The props probably had a slip clutch, so she couldn't hope the tank would actually explode – but fouling the props might be enough to let the others escape.

Nadia finned hard towards the back of Adamson's boat, straight towards the propellers. If she misjudged it, or if Adamson suddenly moved the boat, she'd be chopped to ribbons. Another gunshot. Nadia pulled a stretch of the rope wide between her two outstretched hands – the tank still attached – and spun around so she was on her back, facing the hull, and kicked hard again.

As she neared the props, she heard the unmistakeable clunk of Adamson slamming the boat into gear, and Nadia found herself inside an underwater cloud of froth harbouring two whirring blades of steel, the noise deafening in her ears. Arms stretched upwards, she held her breath, ready to let go of the rope as soon as the one of the propellers caught the line.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lazarus sighted the two boats through his binoculars. The image kept jogging up and down, and he had to pause every few seconds to keep an eye on Ben, who gazed straight ahead, punching the flame-coloured speedboat through wave after wave. It was difficult to see the other two dive boats clearly, because the Dragonfly kept pitching up and down, the prop occasionally spinning manically as it lifted out of the water. Lazarus was seated, not about to stand up and give Ben the opportunity to pitch him overboard with a sudden flick of the steering wheel. And so the scene ahead came to him in flashes he slowly pieced together.

Adamson stood alone in the furthest boat, in a black trench coat, occasionally circling the other RIB which had three men in it and appeared to be moored. Which meant the SEALs were down below. Nadia wasn't aboard either boat. So, the Rose hadn't been brought up to the surface. If it had, by now there would be blood in the water, fewer men standing.

‘Aim for the boat with three men in it,' he shouted to Ben.

‘That would be my brother's boat,' Ben shouted back.

Lazarus didn't reply. Tactics. Right now it was him versus Adamson. But once the SEALs surfaced, the arithmetic would stack up against him.

‘Call your friends,' he said.

Ben picked up the receiver. ‘Subsea Divers, Subsea Divers, Subsea Divers, this is Dragonfly. Over.'

He tried two more times. No answer. Lazarus watched the three men, and as far as he could see none of them moved, which meant their radio was disabled.

‘I want you to appear to ram Subsea Divers.'

Ben craned his neck a moment to stare at Lazarus.

‘The key word is
appear
, Ben. At the last second, you're going to make a sharp left turn, followed by a sharp right.'

Ben continued staring at Lazarus, hands firm on the wheel. Lazarus noted that their course didn't deviate a notch. Ben could probably pilot this boat blindfolded. They surfed down a steeper wave than normal, then hit the side of the rising crest, sending a curtain of spray over them both. The seawater burned Lazarus' eyes but he didn't wipe them, because Ben didn't.

‘And what are you going to do?' Ben asked.

‘On the second turn I'm going to shoot the one holding your friends, and save the lives of the two divers in the water from the SEALs.'

Ben narrowed his stare, then turned back to the front. He ramped up the speed. The Dragonfly surged forward. Lazarus put the binoculars away into a large, soggy pocket, and studied the inside of the boat. Spartan, very little gear or furniture. This wasn't a RIB, this was a speedboat, narrower, with a deep ‘V' feel to it. It had taken water throughout the trip, but a bilge pump on each side kept flushing it out the back, behind the black engine housing.

Lazarus needed to surprise Adamson, so he lay down on the floor, his right hand gripping the pistol to his chest, while his left clung to the inside lip of the boat, his feet and calves wedged against the interior of the fibreglass hull. All he could see was Ben, the sky, and occasionally a wall of blue-grey water as they raced down into a trough before climbing the next crest. Spray drenched him every five seconds, his clothes already soaked through. It didn't bother him. He remembered as a child falling into a lake fully clothed, whereupon his uncle told him not to worry, skin was waterproof. Besides, it was keeping the pain away for now. The point was, Adamson wouldn't be able to see him, only Ben. Armed with a pistol, Adamson would have to wait until quite late before shooting. Lazarus could surprise him as the Dragonfly veered away. That was the theory. Things rarely went to plan in Lazarus' experience.