Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (37 page)

I blew the dust from the ring, wet my forefinger and rubbed away the remaining dirt. It was a man’s gold signet ring, old gold and heavy too, with a cluster of minute diamonds circling the initials J.M etched on the ring’s face. I’d probably found the only evidence that could identify the victim of the rock fall. Though I don’t usually rob the dead of their personal treasure, bearing in mind I don’t usually find bodies, what the ring could indicate was an explanation on how the submarine had arrived inside the cavern in the first place. I placed the ring in my water resistant pocket for safe keeping.

I decided that if this had been the main entrance to the cavern by land then the rock fall had ended its existence. I considered the chances of excavating the rock fall, but from where I stood any attempt to dislodge the rocks would have resulted in a cave-in. I certainly didn’t want to be in the vicinity if it did and I decided I’d leave that to the experts if the situation should arise. I turned my attention to the submarine instead.

I spent a few moments speculating a number of possibilities on how I could climb aboard the submarine. The most feasible was to scramble up the side to get onto the deck or conning tower and try the escape hatches. I moved round the hull to the other side of the submarine and discovered I wouldn’t need to waste that kind of energy. Where the submarine leaned over precariously, I’d found my way inside. It was a straightforward man made entrance through a section of the hull obviously cut out by the oxyacetylene. I shone the torch beam into the dark hole and cautiously entered the torpedo room. What I found inside highlighted the horrors of what had happened.

With a quick head count I estimated there were at least twenty skeletal frames and all in bullet riddled uniforms of submariners. They had dropped where they died, scattered around the torpedo room, some of the skeletons at distorted angles and probable victims of hand grenade explosions. I could only imagine the fierce gun battle that had taken place. I moved on deeper inside, carefully treading over and around more skeletons. I’d stopped counting the submariners after thirty, finding more victims around the submariners sleeping quarters and empty cargo bays. I’d the feeling that the further I ventured inside the belly of the I-52, the more bones I’d find. And I did. For a fleeting moment I wondered which one could be Tanamoto’s father though impossible to identify amongst the mess.

There was no question that it had been a one-sided massacre. The Japanese submariners had never stood a chance. Blackened bulkheads and overheads showed more explosions had occurred, probably from many more hand grenades and resulting in more unfortunate dismembered skeletons caught up in the blasts and all now part of a mixed-up skeletal jigsaw puzzle. I could almost smell the gory mess of death.

The stern of the submarine, mainly the engine room and battery room was submerged in sea water and was impassable. I decided against a dive because it would have told me nothing other than confirm that the enlarged aerial photographs showing the saboteurs attaching their mines was correct and the mines had done their job savagely. I assumed there would be more victims there, if the sea hadn’t already devoured the bones. I explored further rooms with the same results; death and destruction. The control deck showed signs that there had been a serious fire, some skeletons still had taut flesh stuck to their bones like melted plastic.

I looked up inside the conning tower tunnel and saw that the hatch was open. I climbed the metal rung ladder. I found a lone skeleton draped over the conning tower defence cannon. It gave me a thought. Perhaps the battling submariner had fired a couple of cannon shells that had been the probable cause of the rock fall that had trapped the person whose skeleton was embedded in the entrance tunnel. Maybe the aftershock of the cannon shells exploding inside the cavern had also brought down the seabed entrance. I suddenly had moving images of the battle inside the cavern inside my head as I put together the pieces of what I thought had occurred in 1944. It was horrific no doubt; the raging battle; the sound of bullets splattering flesh; the inevitable screams from dying men.

I broke off. I’d seen enough of the battling ghosts and returned the way I had entered, glad to escape the death hole. I also came out of the cargo hold empty-handed. Whatever had been aboard at the time of the hijacking, it had gone now. And the gold bullion too, that had gone. It meant my friends had died for nothing. It meant that my plan of luring out of hiding the mastermind behind this murderous campaign had gone too. That had been my intention all along; to dangle the pot of gold in front of the baddies and lure the bastards out into the open. Though I hadn’t quite worked out how I would have exacted my revenge. I made my way out of the submarines belly dejectedly.

My feet seemed to drag heavily through the sand as I trudged away from the I-52 in deep thought, coughing with the accumulation of thick diesel smoke in the air. I was so mad with my failure to find anything worthwhile to salvage that I would have no doubt missed what I kicked in the sand if it hadn’t flicked up a few inches and the glitter of light it reflected caught my eye. Natural inquisitiveness made me pick it up. It was a metal block approximately three inches long and one inch wide and half an inch thick. It had three Japanese symbols stamped in the metal. The sand had kept it clean and I knew old gold when I saw it and the ingot I held in my hand brightened my belief. I wondered how many more pieces of gold lay buried in the sand.

It was moments like these that I wished I’d brought my metal detector along with me instead of having to sift gently through the sand with my feet. But after a few unproductive minutes I realized I was wasting my time, as there were no more ingots to be found. Whatever amount of gold had been available it was no longer in this place of death and probably gone forever. More significantly, if this solitary ingot was part of the cargo then it proved conclusively that the gold had existed and Tanamoto’s inventory was correct. It gave me plenty to think about. But everything led to the one question: where the frigging hell was the gold now?

I placed the ingot into the same waist belt pocket which held the ring I’d taken from skeleton, refastened the pocket securely, and then I went to collect my diving gear and switch off the Lister engine for the last time.

Within three steps my body had seized to an abrupt stop by the thunderous voice shouting over the clattering of the generator motor. It scared the hell out of me. My body felt as if someone had punched me violently in the heart region. I quickly located the source, a diver emerging from the water.

“Stand still!” The powerful foreign toned voice ordered me

I thought in my best interest I should comply with the request.

“One wrong move and you die, English pig!”

I was guessing, but by the sound of his voice I thought the approaching diver was a Russian. He was holding a polythene bag in one hand, the shape inside the bag was the distinctively shape of a machine-pistol and one that was pointing in my direction. He meant business that was for sure. I watched him remove his fins and throw them onto the sand as he came ashore. I thought about running but in what direction and to where? How far would I have gotten before he cut me down with bullets.

“Hand’s high, where I can see them.”

I raised them a fraction.

“You are alone?”

“No, strictly speaking.”

“Put your hands higher, now!” There was anxiousness in his voice, his eyes frantically flicking in different directions while still trying to keep one eye on me. “Where are the others?”

I flicked my head in the direction of the submarine and said, “In that tin coffin over there. It’s full of Japanese crewmen. But don’t panic, they’re not here for a beach party. They’re all dead.”

“You think you’re funny, pig shit?”

I’d been called a few names in the past but
pig shit!
I’d no answer to that.”

“Where’s the gold?” The Russian spouted.

I shook my head. “There’s no gold; nothing but ghosts.”

The diver moved closer, pushing his facemask up onto his forehead. His expression told me he was agitated, and I was right about him being a Russian; he had the look of a Russian.

“Lying English bastard!” he shouted, the echo of his voice bouncing across the cavern walls before being overwhelmed by the noise of the Lister engine.

“Look here, “I said strongly. “English Bastard I don’t mind. But I take offence to being called a liar! There’s no gold, just a rusting piece of scrap submarine doubling as coffin. Why don’t you go and see for yourself.”

He gestured with the gun for me to move. “Towards the sub and no tricks,” he ordered.

With reluctance I turned around and began trudging back to the sub while formulating a plan in my head of how I was going to relieve the Russian of his gun and shove it up the arse of his rubber suit. Even under threat I still felt confident I wasn’t about to get a bullet in my back, well, at least not until he’d discovered for himself that there was nothing to find aboard the I-52 other than what I’d discovered.

When we reached the burnt hole in the side of the I-52, he peered inside, the gun still angled towards my face in case I decided to be the hero. He wasn’t happy. “Where are the boxes?”

“You’ll only find exactly what I told you, there’s nothing here but corpses.”

“Where is the gold?”

The corner of my top lip arched. “Give me a break, will you! It’s a wreck, that’s all. I’m just a wreck hunter. I’m not even interested in the salvage rights.”

“Shut it, pig shit!”

“Is pig shit the best you can come up with?” I asked, only for the tip of the machine pistol to squash my left nostril and for me to smell the odour of a cheap plastic bag.

“You don’t listen, pig shit!”

I can usually take an insult once without over-reacting. I can probably take the same insult twice with just a cringe. The third time rather out-stepped the boundaries of pleasantness, and this piece of frigging arrogance deserved a smack very quickly. I deliberated on how my plan of action would commence. In the meantime, he pushed the gun nozzle into my spine encouraging me to retreat back towards our discarded fins at the water’s edge.

I decided that when the chance came I would execute a jumping back-kick. And when the chance arose I was just positioning myself for the attack when another diver broke the surface of the water and my strategy needed a rethink damn frigging quick. I could only curse the inconvenience; one man I could handle comfortably but two was risky. I held back sensibly.

The emerging diver shoved his facemask up onto his forehead. In one hand he too carried a machine pistol wrapped in a polythene bag, and in his other hand he held a rather fearsome and powerful gas propelled spear gun. I wouldn’t be far wrong in assuming he wasn’t after the fish. And I gathered by the smirk across his face that his sighting of the submarine impressed him greatly, but for how long?

“The contraband, it is here?” his deep voice also had the tone of a Russian.

From the corner of my eye I saw the Russian behind me shake his head. The second Russian began talking into a communication mouthpiece he had squeezed out from beneath the neck of his neoprene diving suit. It was impossible for me to hear the conversation he was having but by the look in his eyes as he talked and listened to ever he was communicating with, it sort of warned me that I might be in serious trouble and that a rethink of strategy to fight back had to mature very quick and now.

It’s hard to think when you’re under pressure. It’s doubly hard to think when your life is in danger, and mine was seriously in that category. I’d only a split second thinking time. There was perhaps twenty feet between me and the spear gun I could see clearly being raised by the Russian in the water, its pointed projectile deliberately aimed in my direction. The twenty feet diminished to ten feet as the Russian moved towards me. I don’t think he would have missed me from there.

Everyone has a right to survive the merciless intentions of a cold-blooded killer. When death threatens, the natural instinct is to either run for your life or stay and fight. Despite the odds I stood my ground in readiness.

Managing a slight glance over my shoulder I saw the sadistic grin appear on the face of the Russian who was now beside me; his slight shuffle to one side to put space between us instantly warned me that the moment was coming. I concentrated hard on the Russian in the water watching his trigger finger on the spear gun, waiting for the finger to curl and pull and when the finger did curl I reacted swiftly, surprising Mister Hapless at the side of me.

With lightening reactions I palmed away the tip of the machine pistol that dug into my ribs and dragged the startled Russian into the path of the oncoming spear. I felt the vibration of the spear penetrating Mister Hapless somewhere in the midriff. I even heard the muffled squelch as the sharp spear ripped through the neoprene of his diving suit, embedding deep into the lining of his stomach. He slumped forward as if he’d been thumped in the solar plexus. Instantly I grabbed his falling gun hand and raised the machine pistol, pushing the dying forefinger hard down on the trigger unleashing a line of bullets that zipped across the water. I hit anything that moved and the diver in the water caught the brunt of the bullets as he frantically attempted to lift his own machine pistol. I’d beaten him to the draw. The diver arched backwards spectacularly, rolled over, spasmodically jerked and laid faced down drifting in the water.

I let go of the diver I held and let the body slump to the floor. I stepped back breathing heavily, looking down at the embedded spear in the Russian’s midriff, the blood pumping from the wound. I listened to the last gasps of a dying man and for a moment I didn’t care less that I’d been responsible for the deaths of two men. Not that I enjoyed the moment. Far from it, as a sickly taste rose from the depths of my stomach and I almost threw up when I realized that it could have been me laying there instead of the Russian. One thing I could be certain of, I’d never make any money being a hardened killer. I’d too much of a conscience for that.