Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (21 page)

“That’s him,” Kurt told Charon. “Get going. I’ll stay
out of the way in case he remembers me from last night.”
Rob Chapman who was manhandling dive tanks
from a trolley onto the deck of a small twenty-three foot dive
boat, turned and saw Dillon. He waved, and went along the
pontoon to join him, passing Charon who stopped to light
a cigarette close enough to listen to them.
As Chapman got closer to Dillon, he said
incredulously. “My God, you look as if you’ve been pulled
through a hedge backwards. What the hell happened to
you?”
“Something like that, but I’m really not in the mood
to talk about just now, Rob.”
“Well, let me give you a hand to stow your equipment
aboard, and then we’ll get under way.”
They moved away, Charon waited, and then made
his way back along the dock to join Kurt.

Chapman had a wide range of dive equipment laid
out on the deck of his boat, and Dillon commented on this
as he stepped down onto the deck.

“Have you got one of these, Jake?” Chapman asked,
handing Dillon the dive computer he’d just picked up.
“Yes, I picked up one from the dive shop just the
other day. Remarkable bit of kit.” Dillon said, turning it
over in his hands, and then added, “Especially for someone
like me, who is absolutely dreadful at mental arithmetic.
All I can say, is thank goodness for the age of technology.”
Dillon gave the dive computer back to Chapman.
“So what have you got planned?”
“Oh, nothing too arduous, you’ll see.” Chapman
smiled. “Let’s get going,” and jumped back up onto the
pontoon, and untied the bow and stern lines. The next
minute, He was firing the inboard diesel engine, and
manoeuvring away from the dock.
Zola Charon dropped down into the inflatable. “By
the looks of it, they’re going out to dive.”
“Are they now?” Kurt said.
As Dillon and Chapman passed by the inflatable, the
big German ducked down out of sight, only reappearing
after they’d left the marina area, and had moved out into
the mainstream of the harbour.
Kurt said, “Was there a name on that boat, Charon?”
“Wave Dancer that’s what it’s called,” Charon told
him. “I asked up at the dive shop. You know I’ve done a
lot of diving around these islands, and I’ve heard of this
Chapman. He’s one hell of a diver.”
Kurt nodded. “Okay, we’d better get back and let
Herr Malakoff know what’s happening.”
Charon cast off, Kurt started the outboard, and they
moved away.
The Wave Dancer was doing a steady fifteen knots.
The sea was not as calm as it could have been, and Dillon
held on tight as the boat rode up over each rolling wave and
then plunged back down again.
“Do you suffer from sea-sickness?” Chapman asked.
“Not that I know of,” Dillon shouted above the roar
of the engine.
“I’m glad to hear it, because it’s going to get worse
before it gets better. But, we’ve not got much further to go
now.”
Waves rolled in, long and steep, and the Wave Dancer
continued to carve her way through them. Dillon hung on,
taking in the incredible scenery, and then they were close to
Fiquet Bay, turned in towards it and moved into the calmer
waters of the small deserted bay.
“Fiquet Bay,” Chapman said. “A nice dive.” He
pressed a button on the consul and the anchor dropped.
“There’s not much to tell you. Thirty to eighty-five
feet, and only a light current at this time of the day. The
reason I’ve brought you here is because of the wreck. It’s
lying on a ridge at about sixty feet. Nothing special to
say about it, except that it’s about seventy years old, and
thought to be a French trawler that ran onto the rocks
during a storm.”
“Sounds like the kind of place you’d bring novices,”
Dillon said, pulling on his black and red wetsuit.
“Doesn’t matter whether you’re a novice or an
experienced diver. This site is not only interesting. It’s safe.”
Chapman told him calmly.
Dillon got into his gear quickly and fastened a weight
belt around his waist. Chapman had already clamped air
tanks to their inflatable jackets, and helped Dillon ease into
his while sitting on the dive platform in the stern. Dillon
pulled on his gloves and adjusted his mask.
Chapman said, “See you at the anchor.”
Dillon nodded, checked that the air was flowing
freely through his regulator, and went over backwards into
the sea. He swam under the keel of the boat until he saw
the anchor line, and then followed it down, pausing only to
equalise the pressure in his ears by swallowing. A technique
designed to alleviate the discomfort felt as one descends and
ascends on a dive.
He reached the ridge, paused with a hand on the
anchor, and looking up saw Chapman’s blue wet suit rip
through the surface in a gush of white bubbles, before
descending to join him. A large shoal of mackerel scattered
as Chapman swam to where Dillon was patiently waiting
for him. At that moment, an amazing thing happened. A
grey seal about two metres in length shot out of the gloom,
and on seeing Dillon, turned and darted off towards the
shallower waters of the bay.
Chapman made the okay sign with his finger and
thumb, and Dillon responded in kind before following him
as he led the way along the ridge. As they went over the
edge of the reef Chapman pointed towards the sheer wall
of granite that disappeared straight down into the darkness
of the deep water. It was covered in elegant sea fans and
soft coral. All crammed together with jewel anemones in
every shade of the rainbow. Chapman paused, pointing,
and Dillon saw a huge reef conger pass in the distance.
It was a pleasant dive, but nothing out of the
ordinary and after about thirty-five minutes they were back
at the anchor line. Dillon followed Chapman up the line
nice and slow, finally swam under the keel and surfaced at
the stern. Chapman unfastened the harness of his buoyancy
compensator jacket and took it off. With practised ease,
he hauled himself up onto the dive platform pulling his
gear behind him. Dillon did the same with his jacket, and
Chapman reached down and pulled it and the air tank on
board. Dillon joined him a moment later.
Chapman went straight to work, clipping fresh tanks
to the jackets, and then went and pulled in the anchor. Dillon
towelled himself dry and then poured himself a coffee from
the thermos flask that Chapman had brought with them.
“The grey seal,” he said. “Does that happen often?”
“Not often enough, I’m afraid. Think yourself
privileged to have seen one at such close quarters.”
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen one in open
water.”
“I’ve been diving these waters for years, and it never
ceases to amaze me just how graceful they are down there.”
Chapman told him.
“How often would you see one of those grey seals?”
“How often, well, let me put it this way. I doubt very
much whether you’ll see another while you’re staying here.
Sure, they’re dotted around the island, but they’re very shy
and afraid of humans, and they have good reason to be as
history shows. Did you enjoy the dive, by the way?”
“Yes, it was fine thank you.” Dillon shrugged.
“Which means that you thought it was a little
tame and you’d like a little more excitement.” Chapman
started the engine and engaged the gear. “Okay, let’s go for
something a little more exciting then.” Chapman said, and
he opened up the throttle and took the Wave Dancer out of
the bay into open water.

They went back around the island anti-clockwise
passing St. Catherine’s Bay on the way. Some distance away
the Solitaire was at anchor in deep water half a mile off
Rozel Bay. Pierre was on the upper deck, scanning the area
with binoculars. He recognised Chapman’s boat and told
Captain Armand who examined the chart, and then looked
up on one of the computers a list of dive sites in the Channel
Islands.

“They’re dropping anchor,” Pierre informed Armand,
“and it looks like they’re running up the dive flag.”
“Saie Harbour,” Armand said. “That’s where they’re
diving.”
At the moment Kurt came in and held the door open
for Malakoff who was wearing a dark blue blazer, open
neck shirt, and pair of lightweight beige trousers.
“What have you to report, Captain?”
“Chapman and Dillon are about to go diving,
Monsieur.” Armand pointed in the direction of Saie
Harbour and handed Malakoff the binoculars.
Malakoff could just make out the two men moving
about in the stern of the Wave Dancer. He said, “Could that
be where the tunnel entrance is?”
“No way, Monsieur,” Armand told him. “It’s a fairly
difficult place to dive, but it’s popular with all of the dive
schools and visited many times a week throughout the
summer season.”
“Is that so?” Malakoff said. “Well, put the inflatable
in the water, and we’ll go and have a look anyway. I think
this is a good opportunity to see what these two divers of
yours, Mazzarin and Zola, can do.”
“At your command, Monsieur, I’ll get things
organised,” and Armand left the bridge followed by Pierre.
Kurt said, “You wish me to come too, Mien Herr?”
“What a splendid idea.” Malakoff said. “Even
if Dillon sees you, it really doesn’t matter. After all, he
definitely knows you exist.”

The cliffs, at first glance, appeared alive with gulls
and terns of every kind perched up on the ridge. Some
circled high above the turbulent sea, squawking as they
soared effortlessly on the offshore breeze.

“Saie Harbour,” Chapman said. “I’d rate this as an
advanced dive and most definitely not for the faint hearted.
Drops down to about ninety-five feet. There’s the wreck
of a De Havilland mosquito down there, that the Nazis
shot down as it was making its way back from the coast
of France. There are a number of ravines, fissures, two or
three smallish tunnels and a wonderful show of rock and
coral reefs. Unfortunately there is one problem, the current,
it’s especially strong at this time of the day.”

“How strong?” Dillon asked as he fastened his
buoyancy jacket.
“Eight to ten knots is fairly common. Anything
above ten gets interesting.” He looked over the side of the
Wave Dancer and raised his eyebrows. “I’d say it’s more
like twelve to thirteen today.”
Dillon smiled and said, “Sounds as if it could be
fun.”
“It’s your shout Jake.”
Chapman got his own gear on, and Dillon went
down onto the dive platform to rinse out his mask.
“Looks like we’ve got company?” Dillon said, as the
inflatable rib made its way towards them.
Chapman turned to look. “Well it’s not anyone I
know. And the dive schools wouldn’t come here today with
this current running. They’d almost certainly go somewhere
easier.”
The swell was much bigger now; the Wave Dancer
bucked up and down on the anchor line. Dillon went over
and paused to check his air supply, and then immediately
started down towards the thick forest of kelp below.
He paused on the bottom, and waited until Chapman
had reached him, beckoned and turned towards a large
formation of rocks. Dillon followed, amazed at the force of
the current pushing against him, and was aware of a stream
of white bubbles over his right shoulder. A moment later he
saw an anchor descend.

On the inflatable, Malakoff was sitting in the stern
while Armand went forward and dropped the anchor. Pierre
was helping Mazzarin and Zola into their buoyancy jackets.

After five minutes Armand said, “They’re ready to
go, Monsieur, what are your orders?”
“Instruct them to have a good look around,”
Malakoff said. “But, they’re to leave Chapman and Dillon
alone. I don’t want any trouble, understand?”
“At your command, Monsieur.”
Mazzarin and Zola were sitting together on the
starboard side. Armand nodded and together they rolled
backwards over the side and into the water.

Chapman kept close to the seabed as he swam
towards a large rising rock formation. Dillon followed,
but with increasing difficulty against the strength of the
current that followed a deep channel, leading through to
the other side of the rocks. The force was quite tremendous;
Chapman was wriggling himself under an enormous flat
rock and pulling himself through the opening with gloved
hands. Dillon went after him, reaching for one handhold
after another and having to continuously fight the flow of
the current. In the gloom, he could see Chapman’s fins just
four or five feet in front of him.

After three to four minutes of scrabbling along on his
belly, Dillon glanced down at his dive computer. It showed
the depth to be at eighty feet, a rise of fifteen feet from
where they had first entered the narrow opening.

Chapman was motionless for a while, and then with
a lot of effort, hauled himself over a ledge and through to
the other side. Dillon did the same, fighting the immense
current as he went, and was through and into the most
amazingly colourful place.

As Dillon came through the opening he turned,
and looking up through the crystal clear water, could see
sunlight glinting off the surface some eighty feet above him.
The spectacle was breath taking and as he surged forward,
he found himself in amongst a school of big black bream,
and above them five or more mixed rays including large
blondes weighing up to fifteen kilos or more.

Chapman plunged down the sheer wall of granite that
fell away below, and Dillon followed him. He was aware
of the current as he closed in on Chapman, and turning
saw Mazzarin and Zola trying to come through the narrow
opening and over the ledge. Zola almost made it, but lost
his grip and was pushed back into Mazzarin, disappearing
a moment later back into the tunnel.

Chapman moved on and Dillon followed, down to
ninety-five feet, where the fierce current swept and bounced
them along the smooth face of the rock and through a series
of wide fissures. Dillon was having the time of his life, and
had never felt so excited. They seemed to be dragged along
forever and then the current slackened and Chapman was
using his fins now and climbing steadily through the black
glass like water.