It was a long night. The Bonanza ploughed northwards, gently rolling with the long Atlantic swells. Nobody showed up in the saloon for dinner: Tucker was asleep, Nathan had had too much sun, Elsie was typing and Potgieter was on watch, studying the U-boat book with furrowed brow. McQuade ate alone, then went up to the bridge and plotted their latest position. He reckoned they would reach their destination before dawn. Then Tucker showed up with his long face and McQuade disappeared back to bed to forestall any discussion.
But he had difficulty going to sleep. He tried to think of Sarah.
It was four a.m. when Potgieter woke him. ‘We’re there, hey, man.’
He went up to the bridge. The sky was full of stars. Half a mile away he could see the ghostly Skeleton Coast.
He checked the depth-sounder. The radar. The sat-nav. He dropped the anchor. And went back to bed. But he could not sleep. Nor could he read. He could not even concentrate on Sarah. When he could, he just wanted her here to hold his hand, to tell him it was going to be okay. To think it was exciting, to see it through journalist’s eyes – a big deal, diving to retrieve the treasure of Heinrich Muller, Hitler’s head of the Gestapo, no less, and maybe then he would see it through her eyes, and then he would not be so shit-scared. Maybe with Sarah watching he would dive down on it without the horror of that tomb overwhelming him, the veritable fear of God …
He swung out of his bunk, went to the bridge and switched on the spreader-lights. All the equipment was laid out on the foredeck. Tucker had made an implement for clearing the barnacles off the tube, a shovel-head lashed to a pole, and had also made another spear, a carving-knife lashed to a broomstick. McQuade checked everything again: the gas-tanks, the harnesses, the regulators, the new tank-contents gauges, the toolbags, the ropes, the underwater torches.
At sunrise everybody was up. Nathan was in his busybody good spirits, rubbing his beefy hands and making jokes, Tucker looking as if he was going to a funeral and complaining he had not slept at all, not at all. Elsie was making breakfast. Only Pottie Potgieter looked happy, trying to be helpful, doing another check of this and having another look at that, and then fetching four more mugs of coffee. As the sun came up, glorious red and gold, the Skeleton Coast was born again, mauve-black on riotous fire.
‘Okay. Everybody up on the bridge, and we go through everything one more time.’
‘Oh Lord,’ Tucker prayed.
McQuade had decided to leave Potgieter on board, rather than Elsie, in case the ship dragged anchor. The dinghy lay alongside the Bonanza. Elsie climbed down the rope ladder into it. They lowered the gear down on a rope. Then Nathan clambered down, and then McQuade, followed by Tucker, in their wetsuits. Elsie started the outboard motor. Potgieter cast the dinghy off. ‘Good luck, hey!’
Nathan shouted, ‘Put champagne on ice!’ as the dinghy surged away.
The yellow marker-float rode over the long swells, then disappeared down into the troughs. The dinghy went churning towards it, down into the troughs and over the swells. They surged up to it and McQuade grabbed it. He tied the dinghy’s painter to it. The dinghy rode on the swells, anchored now to the submarine.
Elsie tied the end of a coil of rope to the bottom of the sacks containing the spare gas tanks, while McQuade and Tucker hefted on their harnesses. Then he tied another coil to the other end of the sack. McQuade put his regulator into his mouth and tested the airflow. He took it out and said to Tucker, ‘Remember to take shallow breaths.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Tucker’s face was pale.
‘And keep an eye on your tank-contents gauge. When the needle enters the red area you’ve only got about five minutes of air. Less if you breathe hard.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Tucker said miserably.
McQuade spat in his mask, smeared the saliva across the lens, then washed it off in the sea. He pulled the mask on, then his gloves, and before he could hesitate he toppled himself over backwards. There was the blow of cold sea and the roaring of bubbles. He broke surface and grabbed the dinghy. Nathan handed him his toolbag, which he slung around his neck. Elsie passed him one end of rope, with a loop tied in it. McQuade thrust his arm through it. Finally Elsie handed him one spear and the barnacle scraper. ‘Good luck, darling.’ McQuade buried his head beneath the water, lifted his buttocks, and he kicked.
He dived down into the gloom, following the line of the yellow float, clutching the spear and scraper, dragging the rope, Down he swam, his eyes wide, peering, then suddenly it emerged out of the gloom, the shrouds of nets, then the long, ghostly shape, fading away into greyness. His heart was knocking and he clenched the regulator and he kicked.
Down he went, his breathing roaring. Now he could see the hordes of fish, all sizes and colours, the tentacles of nets were waving above his head, the conning tower was looming at him, frosted in weed and barnacles, the guns of the wintergarten pointing ghost-like at him. He grabbed the rim of the conning tower. He pulled himself down into the bridge. He unslung the toolbag. Then he slid the rope off his arm, and tied the end to the handrail.
He looked upwards. The rope trailed away between the waving nets. He gave two sharp tugs on it. Up in the dinghy, Elsie hefted the first sack up onto the gunnel. Tucker whispered, ‘Help me now, Lord,’ and crossed himself fervently, then toppled backwards into the sea. He reappeared with a wild-eyed gush and Nathan handed him his toolbag. Tucker slung it round his neck frantically, then Nathan passed him the spear. Tucker clutched it, crossed himself frantically one more time, then rammed his head under the water. And Elsie gripped the rope and tipped the first sack into the sea.
It crashed under water about Tucker’s terrified head, and Elsie gave three tugs on the rope and down in the conning tower McQuade began to pull. Wild-eyed, Tucker began to swim down beside the sack, guiding it. Down in the conning tower McQuade pulled on the rope, peering upwards, while up in the dinghy Elsie fed the rope out on demand.
McQuade saw the shape of Tucker materialize between the waving nets, his legs kicking like a desperate frog, his spear clutched in one hand, the other desperately clutching the sack, trying to steer it clear of the nets, heave and kick, heave and kick … McQuade pulled, watching this apparition, praying the nets didn’t snag Tucker, and down Tucker came, his spear-arm frantically trying to paddle sideways away from the nets. The sack cleared the nets, and McQuade closed his eyes in relief. He heaved the sack towards him and Tucker came roaring down to him.
McQuade turned to the hatch. Tucker looked at the black opening fearfully. One small fish, a finger long, came wandering out, unperturbed by their giant shapes bubbling goggle-eyed at it. McQuade pulled out his torch. He peered down into the black chamber below.
There were a few fish swimming around amongst the weeds, and two crayfish this time. But no sign of octopus. Before his nerve failed him he surged down through the hatch, in a roar of bubbles. Tucker thrust the spear down to him. McQuade took it and approached the lower hatch slowly, then shone his torch down it.
No octopus came flying out. All he could see was the murky deck at the bottom of the tube, yellow-grey in the torchlight and the toe of the seaman’s boot. He shone the torch shakily down the hole for a minute, to see if any creatures came into the light: only one crab scuttled past. He signalled up to Tucker. The sack appeared and McQuade grabbed it. Then came Tucker’s spear and the scraper. Then came Tucker, surging down wide-eyed.
Tucker shone the torch down the tube. McQuade shoved the scraper into the hatch and began to knock off the barnacles.
It took twenty minutes to get all the barnacles off. The water was cloudy with particles. McQuade looked at his gauge; it was almost thirty-five minutes since he had left the dinghy. The gauge needle was in the red, so he had less than five minutes of air left in his tank. He turned to the sack. He pulled out the two spare harnesses and tanks. He unbuckled his harness and shucked it off, keeping the regulator in his mouth. Tucker feverishly unbuckled his own harness and pulled on a new one. McQuade pulled out a coil of rope and tied it onto his new harness, which had a lead weight tied to it to overcome its buoyancy. He handed the coil to Tucker, and then turned to the dreadful hatch.
He pulled his fins off his feet and put the regulator from the new harness into his mouth. He took a deep breath, and slid both feet into the fearful black hole. He gripped the rim and shoved himself down until his shoulders were level with the rim. He clung there, his heart pounding, and Tucker crouched over him, holding the new harness and the rope. McQuade scowled at him fiercely, and Tucker nodded nervously. Then McQuade closed his terrified eyes and he shoved himself downwards, and Tucker lowered the harness down after him. McQuade’s feet hit the lower deck of the submarine.
He felt the seaman’s boot crunch under his foot. Gargling in horror, he bent his knees, hollowed his back, and shoved. He surged under the lower end of the tube. He burst through backwards into the pitch black water, and the harness bumped onto the deck below the tube. He scrambled frantically, groped and seized it, and burst above the water into the fetid blackness, sucking on the regulator. He fumbled blindly for the knot on the rope, pulled it apart, and swung the harness onto his back feverishly. He buckled it on, buried his hand into his toolbag, and frantically pulled out his torch. He crouched, and stared.
And, oh God, it was a frightening place. He was in the Zentrale, the control centre of the submarine, and his trembling torch threw leaping shadows over the fearful place. There hung the periscope, and all around were dials, valves, gauges, pipes, gear, all blackened and blurred. All around him, up to his waist, was black water, thick as broth, choked with shreds of cloth and wisps of human hair, soupy with particles of human matter. McQuade crouched there, rasping, horrified, his flesh crawling, then he retched.
In one awful instant his stomach heaved in revulsion and his regulator shot out his mouth and he retched, convulsed, and then he sucked in the fetid black atmosphere, reeking of death and he clutched his throat and gagged, horrified, aghast, and he retched again, and up his throat it erupted, coughing, shuddering. He grabbed frantically for his regulator and rammed it back into his mouth. He staggered forwards, rasping in clean air, convulsing at the taste of fetid death, and clutched at the periscope. He clung there, desperately trying to force his convulsing stomach under control; for half a minute, rasping, shuddering, then he shook his head feverishly. He opened his eyes, and made himself shine his torch all around, dreading what he might see.
He did not know what he was looking for. How would the loot be contained? In crates? In sacks? They could be submerged in this stinking water. But most probably it would not have been stored in this room, which would always have been manned. He flashed his torch all around, then shoved himself away from the periscope and made for the first forward hatch. He waded towards it, rasping, his legs trembling, his heart pounding. His feet stirred up squelchy things that crunched, and he desperately tried to force that out of his mind. The top of the circular hatch was visible above the black waterline, and in one frantic movement, before he could recoil, he sunk his head under the thick black water and ducked through. He burst into the next compartment and stood up with a gush.
He was in the commander’s cabin. On the port side was the commander’s bunk. Lockers were above the waterline. He waded feverishly towards them, wrenched open the nearest one and shone his torch inside.
It held mouldy clothing. He pulled it out, and rummaged through. If only he knew what he was looking for! Surely Muller would not have hidden his loot amongst the skipper’s things? He waded further, opening each locker above the waterline, rummaging, feeling like a grave robber. Only clothes. Then he took a deep breath and he plunged his head under the water.
God, it was awful. His bubbles roaring and his light shining through the awful soupiness, particles of human matter suspended. He shone his torch over the bunk. Thank God, there was no dreadful relic of a human being on it. He pulled the lower lockers open, and rummaged through them frantically, desperate to get it over. He shone his torch onto the lockers underneath the bunk. His eyes widened in horror and he gagged, and he burst up out of the water, aghast. He splashed backwards and crashed against the bulkhead. He clutched it, rasping: he had just shone his torch onto a skeleton.
An entire skeleton; the rotting cloth sagging over soupy white bones, the skull staring at him. He must have trodden on a leg, for it had broken away from the rest. McQuade leant against the bulkhead, and with all his horrified heart he just wanted to get out of this terrible place. And oh God this terrible search was hopeless, with so many places to hide things and most of them under this death-laden water. It could take weeks of searching! He clenched his teeth, and reached out for the door leading to the officers’ cabin, and his foot crunched on something and his nerves screamed and he wanted to retch. He waded desperately through the doorway, his heart pounding, and shone his torch around.
The lower bunks were under the black water, and the two upper bunks were partly hidden by rotting curtains. This was where Horst Kohler would have slept. McQuade shone his torch around shakily, then his stomach turned over again, as he saw a man’s boot.
The foot protruded from an upper bunk, the rest of the skeleton concealed by the rotting curtain. He stood there, staring at the terrible foot; and oh God he just wanted to give up this terrifying search. He reached out and pulled back the curtain.
It came away in his hand. And he felt his heart lurch. He recoiled and stared.
He was looking at another entire skeleton. It was in a tattered uniform, and the head was turned towards him in a terrible grimace. Stretched over the skull was dried skin, wrinkled, the hair clinging in salty black curls. The eye-sockets were empty, and in the centre of the forehead was a round, ragged hole.
McQuade stared, aghast, forcing himself to keep his trembling flashlight on the dreadful face, his horrified mind fumbling. That was a bullet hole … This man had been shot in the head … This man had been murdered … He stared at the dreadful face. Then he grasped the nettle in both hands, turned to the opposite bunk, and ripped back the curtain.
He was staring, heart pounding, at another entire skeleton. It also was clothed. It lay on its back, its head partly turned away from him. Blond sparse hair clung to desiccated scalp, and in the temple was another ragged hole. McQuade looked at it a horrified moment, then he lurched away from the bunk, nauseous. He blundered forward to the next doorway.
This was the Oberfeldwebelraum, the chief petty officers’ quarters. There were four bunks. The starboard upper bunk was empty, the curtains open, but on the port upper bunk sat a man – and McQuade recoiled.
The desiccated corpse was slumped against the bulkhead. It wore a crumbling singlet over skeletal chest. From underpants protruded two legs, the flesh shrivelled to the bone. McQuade knew before he looked at the skull what he was going to see, but this one was worse than the others; the bullet had smashed the nose-bridge away, so the eye-sockets were joined into one gaping hole.
McQuade clung to the opposite bunk. Mass murder … That was what he had blundered upon! A hell-hole of mass murder of German seamen committed forty years ago. McQuade clung to the bunk, eyes closed, heart pounding. Then he shoved himself off and waded frantically on, to the last section.
This was the torpedo-room. There were nine bunks, half of them under water. All the curtains were drawn back. McQuade waded desperately down the alleyway, feverishly flashing his torch over the upper bunks. He saw one skeleton glaring at him with a bullet hole in the face. His feet bumped solid things. He blundered on, trying not to feel the terrible human debris underfoot. He came to the torpedo tubes.
He stopped in front of them, wild-eyed. He flashed his torch all around, looking for crates showing above the terrible waterline. This was the most likely storage place if the loot was in large containers, the only part of the submarine that had a fairly large open space.
Nothing protruded above the black water. He shone his torch over the torpedo tubes; the two above the waterline were closed. He waded frantically to the nearest tube-hatch, and seized the lock-handle. It was rusted solid. He turned hurriedly to the other tube-hatch and wrenched. It did not move. He groped frantically under the water for the lower tube-hatches. They were locked solid. He shone his torch over the top of the tubes, over the mass of pipes and cables and valves and dials – a thousand places where small packages could be hidden. He turned and groped with his feet under the water, desperately feeling for containers or sacks. His feet touched things that rolled aside and he desperately tried to close his convulsing mind to what he was stirring up: he waded up and down, groping with his feet through the fetid stinking black water. Up and down he waded, his stomach heaving, and all he felt was bones and skulls crunching and rolling. He leant against the bulkhead, rasping, nauseated. Nothing! And all he wanted to do was get out of here. He shoved himself off the bulkhead and started wading frantically back towards the Zentrale.
He blundered down the dreadful watery alleyway between the bunks, as if he were being pursued by the hounds of hell, and burst back into the Zentrale, the rotten, oily water running in globules down his mask.
For a moment he clung to the periscope, trying to get the pounding out of his heart, trying to tell himself that no dreadful fiends were pursuing him. All he wanted to do was plunge into that escape tube and go surging back up to that silvery surface, and burst through into God’s own glorious daylight and fresh air, but when he looked at his tank-contents gauge through the slime on his mask he saw that he had at least another fifteen minutes of air left. And, oh God, he had waded so far through horror that he should not give up now. He shoved himself off the periscope, and waded for the aft section. There was another circular hatch here. He plunged his head into that black water, burst up on the other side, and shoved up his mask.
He was in the Unteroffizierenraum, and his stomach lurched all over again. A broken-up skeleton was flung back in an upper bunk, grinning mouth open, and in the middle of the forehead was another jagged hole. McQuade took one horrified look, then he blundered on. He burst through a doorway, into the galley. He flashed his torch around; black water lapped at the rusted stove. On the other side was a lavatory, the bowl submerged. He waded feverishly on, into the engine room.
The two rows of big diesel engines stretched on into the dreadful blackness; between them was the avenue of black oily water that had not been disturbed for forty years. There was not a sign of a body, but he knew that there were bodies all right. He flashed his trembling torch over the bulkheads. There were another thousand places to conceal small packages, but surely a crowded engine room was not the place where somebody would store loot? He went sloshing and rasping down the avenue of black water, and his feet bumped a multitude of bones, and his nerves screamed. He went frantically wading and slipping down that dreadful avenue, until he burst into the Electrical Room. He paused and flashed his trembling torch, then plunged on down into the blackness.
He came to the aft torpedo area. As he made for the tube, his foot slipped and he grabbed for support, and the torch shot out of his hand. He crashed over sideways. His head went under the dreadful water and all he knew was the gut-wrenching horror of the terrible soup on his maskless face. He frantically struggled upright in the total blackness, snorting the water out of his nostrils, and his foot crunched on something horrible and he lurched and crashed under again. He scrambled upright and crouched there in the blackness, snorting, gasping. And under the black churning water shone the glow of his torch and he pulled his mask down over his eyes and in one whimpering, heartgasping lunge he plunged his head back underwater and in the glowing soupiness he saw hair and fragments of cloth, and his hand closed over the torch. He burst back up. He staggered sideways and banged into the bulkhead.
He leant there, rasping, shuddering, the dreadful taste of death on his lips, then he lunged at that torpedo tube. He wrenched the handle, but it was rusted solid. He frantically flashed his torch over the churned-up black water, looking for containers showing through the surface. He started wading up and down, feeling with his feet, slipping and sliding – he sloshed and rasped his way up and down that terrible black space, and his feet touched nothing but bones and unspeakable matter. He leant against the bulkhead, flashing his torch around one last time, wild-eyed, nauseous, then he turned and plunged back towards the Zentrale.
He went floundering between the rows of machinery, pursued by all the ghosts of hell, his torch throwing jerking shadows on the bulkheads and bunks with their horrible skeletons. He plunged his head under the black water at the circular hatch, and he burst through into the Zentrale again. He paused, gasping, trying to wipe the dribbling slime from his mask. It was then that he saw the water move, and a gargle of horror welled in his throat.
It was at the far end of the Zentrale. Suddenly there was a big swirl in the black water, and then the movement went towards the escape tube. Halfway there, it stopped.
McQuade crouched, his heart pounding, horrified eyes wide. It was that octopus again! What was it doing now? Was it making for that tube also? Or was it waiting to see what he did, as frightened as he was? He had to restrain himself from scrambling up onto a bunk. He looked frantically at the tank-contents gauge – the needle was in the red. For a desperate moment he crouched there, then he took a terrified breath and charged at the escape tube, beating the water with both hands to frighten the beast away.
He blundered up to the tube, and forgot to take off his harness. He plunged under the water and twisted onto his back and shoved himself into the tube. It was only when his airtank banged against it that he remembered it and he gargled in horror, expecting to feel the dreadful tentacles close on his legs. For a terrified instant he was going to scramble out again and take the harness off, but then he kicked instead and he found himself fully inside the tube despite the harness. He looked frantically upwards and there was Tucker’s torchlight. He kicked fiercely, and he rose up the tube, scraping and bumping. He burst out through the hatch and clawed himself away from it. And, oh God, this seemed the cleanest, sweetest place! He jerked his head at Tucker, grabbed the ladder and he surged up through the upper hatch, looking fearfully about at the sea out there for sharks. Tucker came bubbling through the hatch, with the sack of empty airtanks. They kicked off.
McQuade rose towards the seething surface at the same pace as his bubbles, every nerve screaming. He spun wildly looking for the dinghy, then thrashed towards it with all his frantic might. He seized the gunnel and heaved.
He collapsed into the bottom of the dinghy, gasping, and wrenched out the regulator.
‘Oh my God … Oh my God, mass murder …’
Elsie and Nathan were staring at him. Tucker thrashed himself aboard and collapsed into the dinghy beside him. Elsie said, ‘What?’
McQuade rasped, ‘I’m going to find the bastard! Back to the ship!’
Nathan stared, then erupted, ‘What about my twenty grand?!’
McQuade jabbed a finger at the sea and shouted:
‘The only way we’ll find the loot is to find the bastard who hid it! The same bastard who murdered the entire crew!’