Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (4 page)

As expected the water was incredibly cold but crystal
clear. He swam under the keel to the anchor chain, paused
for a brief moment then started down, following the line.
The sensation of weightlessness never ceased to amaze him
when he entered this silent, and mysterious, world. The
bright sunlight quickly fading as he descended towards the
bottom.
The sea floor was a forest of seaweed and kelp with
shoals of silvery coloured fish swimming in and out of the
thick lush vegetation, suddenly scattering this way and
that as Cunningham swam overhead. He checked his dive
computer which not only indicated the depth that he was
at but more importantly told him how long he was safe to
be there and constantly altered its reading with any change
of depth he made during the dive. The small screen showed
that he was at forty-five feet and he headed over towards
the right, circling the enormous group of rocks to the other
side where it dropped away to sixty feet or more. He drifted
there for a moment taking in the long deep channel that
stretched out in both directions, before he went over the
edge, then started down towards the bottom.
There seemed to be a strong cold water current flowing
through the centre of the channel that he could feel pushing
him backwards as he went deeper. He thought that in any
other weather conditions this dive would most certainly not
be possible. At the same time he was also intrigued as to
where the flow was coming from. He thought that it wasn’t
all that strange for fresh water to come through the granite,
but having studied the topographical chart for this part of
the island he couldn’t remember ever seeing any reference
made to this long gouge on the seabed or the water flow
either.
As he swam up the channel towards the sheer wall
of granite that was Jersey, he noted with interest that there
were large areas of the seabed where the vegetation had
been ripped out quite recently; leaving nothing more than
fine white sand. Presumably the result of the storm the night
before or perhaps from a surge of the extraordinary current
which he now found himself battling against.
Up ahead he could clearly see that a whole section
of the cliff face had collapsed, to expose a fissure in the
granite. Cunningham remained motionless for a moment,
evaluating the situation, and then cautiously approached.
Taking the powerful spotlight, he shone the beam
through the gap in the rock face. It was then that his
eagerness to explore almost got the better of him. He
checked the dive computer, it told him he only had another
five minutes at his depth of fifty feet. It would be an act of
suicide to venture into any underwater tunnel, let alone one
that was unknown to him, without a full tank of air and
a spare one for backup that he would leave behind at the
tunnel entrance.
So he slowly went back up to the surface; and once
aboard the Nautical Lady lost no time in replacing his almost
empty air tank with a full one. He could hardly contain the
excitement he felt as he hurriedly put on his inflatable again
taking care to re-adjust the Velcro straps for a comfortable
fit. Before getting back into the water he tied a long length
of nylon cord around the neck of the spare tank of air and
lowered it over the side. Seconds later, he went in feet first,
and followed it all the way back down to the seabed.
In his twenty-two years of Royal Navy service
Nathan Cunningham had been conditioned and trained
to follow procedures without question. This ensured the
smooth running of the ships that he’d had the privilege to
command and the safety of the men that he’d been in charge
of. Yet here he was, fifty feet under the English Channel
about to dive headfirst into a tunnel without anyone to
back him up, and not knowing how deep it was or where
it led to.
He glanced up, as a large shoal of mackerel swam
overhead, then shone the powerful light into the blackness;
the spare air tank went first and then he pulled himself into
the tunnel through a four-foot wide gap in one smooth
action. Before venturing any further he left the air cylinder
just inside the opening, he tied the loose end of the nylon
cord to his weight belt, just in case he needed to find his
way back in a hurry.

The interior of the tunnel was much larger than he
had expected it to be, at least thirty feet in diameter. The
flow of the current inside was much stronger and the water
icy cold, which sent a shiver through Nathan’s whole body.
But he was dammed if this was going to stop him having
a look at what was at the other end. In the shadowy light
he could make out that the walls had been worn smooth
with age and the constant torrent of water over the granite.
He checked his computer and set off, keeping close to the
tunnel floor. After three minutes he was still at a depth of
fifty feet and he had only twenty-five minutes of air left at
the most, before he needed to either; get back to the spare
air tank or surface at the other end.

He considered his options for a brief moment, and
then made his way further into the tunnel. His curiosity
had got the better of his otherwise cautious nature, and
he pushed his body and mind to the absolute limit for
another four minutes. His gamble paid off, because Nathan
Cunningham then received the most amazing surprise of his
entire life as he came out of the turbulent water, and into a
calm and tranquil place where he let himself drift up.

He broke the surface of the still water, and found
himself inside an enormous cavern, the size of which he
had never seen before. The powerful beam from his torch
cast strange shadows that danced and flickered all around
the interior of the subterranean waterway. No more than
twenty feet above his head, icicle-shaped stalactites of all
sizes just hung quietly dripping as they had done for many
hundreds of years. As he swung the torch beam around, the
light glinted off of something large and metallic just off to
his right hand side. The large dark object sticking out of the
water was the upper half of a submarine-conning tower.

Cunningham knew enough about Second World
War maritime history to recognise instantly, that this was
a German Kreigsmarine U-boat. As he swam closer, he
saw that the conning tower was in a poor condition, but
although chipped, bent and the paint flaking, he could
still discern the unusual bright red leaping devil insignia
painted on the side, which if he remembered correctly was
quite unique to this type of submarine. While serving in
the Navy he had come across archive material concerning
Second World War German submarines and recalled that
the rubber coated hull was two hundred and twenty feet
long with a twenty-foot beam and a draught of sixteen feet.

This was a big vessel that displaced around seven
hundred and seventy tons. It had a range of six thousand
nautical miles and carried one hundred and ten tons of
diesel fuel, that enabled it to achieve around twelve knots
and safely dive to about four hundred and forty feet.

He paused, grabbing hold of a section of metal rail
that had been bent and twisted down into the water with
great force and looked up at the sheer black side. Nathan
pulled off his fins and hooked them over the rail that he
had been holding onto before starting to climb the ladder.
He pulled himself over the top of the tower and could see
that there was considerable damage to the structure, trying
to imagine what had taken place here all those years before.

Cunningham gasped as his torch beam captured a
partially uniformed skeleton, still propped up on the other
side of the confined deck. The lower jaw was now relaxed,
giving the skull a look of sheer horror. And a rusty metal
pole, that he’d either fallen on, or had been pushed back
on, had forced its way through skin, vital organs and bone,
smashing ribs, and had exited out of the chest cavity. Nathan
stood taking in the gruesome scene, thinking that it was
a messy way for anyone to go. The thought sent a shiver
up and down his spine, and all the way through Nathan’s
body. He shone the spot-light down through the hatch, and
into the main control room which, he soon discovered, was
completely flooded.

Slowly he descended the ladder, down into the ice
cold water inside the main control room. He checked his
computer. On the bridge he was still at a depth of fifty-five
feet and had only seventeen minutes of air left. This meant
that he only had seven minutes inside the submarine. The
remaining ten minutes would be needed to take him safely
back to the spare air cylinder at the other end of the tunnel.

The submarine interior, although completely flooded,
was in remarkably good condition. Nathan floated like an
inert jellyfish in the middle of the dark and gloomy control
room as he became more acclimatised to the cramped
space. It was a reasonable assumption to Nathan, that the
U-boat had come through the tunnel, and then docked
in the cavern. But why? The extreme damage to the hull
and conning tower did not match the orderly scene that he
was now surveying inside. He was fully aware of the Nazi
occupation of the island, and that there had been a lot of
U-boat activity in the region due to the submarine pens at
Brest, St Nazaire, Lorient, Bordeaux and Trondheim. But
he was never aware of one on Jersey.

He could feel the excitement rising inside him once
again. He’d heard the tales about strange things happening
towards the end of the Second World War. About how a
particular area on the northern shore of the island; had
been made strictly out of bounds to all local residents and
how if anyone was found there they were shot on sight.

The Nazis had also used local superstition and
fear to keep people away from the Devil’s Hole; so called
because of the weird and some say hellish sounds that can
be heard coming up through the water and from within the
granite itself. But Cunningham had never really believed in
this story that was usually told by the older fishermen, and
had discarded it as a fanciful yarn that was for the benefit
of the tourists, after a few pints of ale.

He half swam, half pulled himself through the control
room being careful not to disturb anything around him. As
he moved around he noticed that the watertight doors, both
aft and forward had been sealed off, and that this was the
only evidence of there having been any crew members on
board at the time of flooding. There were half a dozen rifles
scattered around the bridge, as if their owners had dropped
them in their haste to leave. The torch beam picked out a
curved object lying in the sediment on the floor. It was just
forward of the conning tower ladder. Swimming over he
reached out with his gloved hand and grabbed hold of what
remained of the gold braided peak of the Korvetenkapitan’s
cap. Surprising that there was any trace at all after so many
years, Cunningham thought as he turned to go.

He kicked off the floor and the sediment swirled
up around him to reveal a flat silvery coloured briefcase.
Instinctively, he reached for it, stirring up the sediment, and
found himself clutching it, like a small child would. Who’s
just been given a present and doesn’t want anyone to take
it off him. A feeling of foreboding also washed over him, of
something evil that had possibly taken place all those years
ago, and suddenly he felt cold and vulnerable. It was as if
he was trespassing, and shouldn’t be there. Checking his
dive computer he saw that it was time to leave.

He made it with only a few minutes to spare. Bloody
idiot, he said to himself, taking such a big risk at his age
and he pulled himself out of the tunnel. He ascended slowly
by the book, one foot per second, up the anchor chain, the
briefcase tied to his weight belt, leaving the chain at thirty
feet to swim under the boat to the stern platform.

Pulling off his fins he threw them onto the platform.
Untied the briefcase and placed it carefully on the other side
of the deck rail, and then wriggled out of his equipment,
which was always the worst part. He was feeling his age,
as he scrambled up the ladder and turned to haul his airtank and buoyancy harness on board. He then methodically
stowed away the tank and other equipment as he always
did. But on this occasion he was impatient to finish the job
as quickly as possible. Going below he towelled himself dry,
changed into a pair of casual trousers and a fresh shirt, and
then poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos. Back
on deck, Nathan was sitting in one of the swivel chairs on
the bridge. Thoughtfully staring at the silver briefcase on
the table in front of him, and occasionally taking a sip from
his coffee cup.

He could clearly see that the case was made from
aluminium and in remarkably good condition for its age.
Etched into the metal and across the centre of the lid was the
red leaping devil and in the top right hand corner, the eagle
and swastika of the German Kreigsmarine. There were two
clips and a lock that had rusted, securing it together. The
clips opened easily enough, but the lid remained securely
locked, which left Nathan little choice. He took the small
cordless drill from his toolbox and placed a six millimetre
high speed metal drilling bit into the chuck. The small lock
gave way and the core of it fell apart with the second hole
that he drilled. A moment later he was able to slowly lift the
lid open. The inside was completely dry, as he had expected
it to be, the contents a few official documents two letters
opened but still in their envelopes and a leather bound diary
with the gold Kreigsmarine insignia stamped on the front,
indicating that this was possibly the submarine’s log.

Cunningham’s grasp of the German language was at
best, only schoolroom average. He opened the diary to the
first entry that was dated 17th April 1945 with the heading,
St Nazaire France. Below this a name, Korvetenkapitan’s
Otto Sternberg, U683, the commander of the submarine
and presumably the owner of this diary.