As the robot camera sank silently into the depths, there was silence in the control room as everyone strained their eyes, desperate to catch the first glimpse of the object. The sea, clouded with microscopic grains of sand, made the visibility poor. Suddenly there was a brief but clear picture on the screen, showing a positive view of some metallic wreckage. The object, the powerful lamp attached to the robot’s camera, vanished almost as soon as it had appeared to be replaced with the image of shell encrusted rocks, passing rapidly by the screen as it swept out of control along the uneven seabed.
Big J tried to valiantly to slow down the robot camera but the current was so strong now that he could not persuade the tiny motor to hold against its growing power.
“It’s no go boys — I can’t hold her. I’m going to have to bring her up. Can’t risk getting snagged down there. Sorry! Wind her up!” he ordered curtly into the microphone then turned to face the disappointed audience. “Tomorrow boys. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow, when the tide is slack.” He turned back to the microphone. “Let me know when she’s back on board.”
“I’ll print some stills from that brief image, see if it tell us anything.” Greg suggested to the silent crew.
Five minutes later he stood before the expectant divers.
“What do you make of that then?” He placed the A4 size prints on the wardroom table. Two were pictures of some coral encrusted metal; the third showed a round aperture in a metal panel. It appeared to be a tube; two small fish hovered inside close to the centre where a domed object protruded.
“Tell me what you think. Though I’ve got a bloody good idea of exactly what we’re looking at.” Greg stood back.
The others crowded around the table expectantly. “Looks like a porthole or something,” the taller Australian suggested.
“More like a torpedo tube if you ask me,” said one of the other divers quietly, “and with a fucking torpedo stuck in it too!”
“Let me look at that!” Big J pushed himself forward. “Christ I think you’re right. What scale are we looking at Greg?” he asked urgently.
Big J had never officially appointed him but Greg had instinctively assumed the position of second-in-command when John left to take over his prize vessel.
“It’s about ten to one; and I think you’re right. It’s a torpedo,” Greg grinned.
“My God at least that means we found a sub!” the taller Australian gasped.
“That’s true” Big J agreed cautiously, “so let’s hope that baby’s a dud eh?” He looked up at Greg. “I think we should call your friend Alex on the cargo boat — he’s supposed to be a munitions expert isn’t he?”
Oscar, who had been silently standing in the background, stepped forward. “You’re right, he is. I’ll call him right away.”
“Not on the VHF eh. Use the satellite telephone — it is supposed to be secure,” Greg urged him.
When John returned with the cargo vessel to take part in the “treasure hunt”, Alex moved across to it, as did Ming Ho’s daughter Ellie-Mae and her son Ming Lee, which significantly eased the pressure on the tug’s passenger accommodation. Ellie-Mae immediately took charge of the catering aboard the cargo boat, much to the relief of the rest of the crew who had endured the engineer’s makeshift cooking.
Dick and Annie had just returned from a supply run to Manila with a good selection of provisions so Ellie-Mae was able to cook them their “first civilised meal for days”, as the relieved engineer described it. Relaxed and contented, they were sitting in the tiny mess room enjoying their second glass of the French Cognac Dick had miraculously produced, when the satellite telephone rang. John moved up to the bridge and lifted the receiver.
“Good evening,” he cheerfully addressed the phone.
“Hi John, Oscar here. Is Alex about?”
“Right here,” John happily replied, holding out the receiver to Alex. “Oscar.”
A somewhat relaxed Alex took the proffered instrument.
“Oscar my old friend, how nice of you to call.” Oscar ignored the light-hearted banter and explained about the photographs of the suspected torpedo.
Alex sobered up immediately.
“Well if it is a torpedo we must take extreme care — the Japanese munitions were usually made with cheap and dangerously volatile explosives, which could mean that if the warhead is not damaged and the explosive is still dry, it could be quite easily detonated. When are they going to resume the search?”
“Slack water tomorrow with any luck,” Oscar confirmed.
“I recommend extreme caution and only robot probes for the moment, at least until we are sure it’s our sub. No point in taking risks if it’s not the one eh?” Alex thought for a moment. “I suggest we move away a couple of miles into shallow water and anchor until dawn, then start again, but no heroics OK?”
“Aye skipper — I’ll tell Big J. Goodnight — see you tomorrow.” Oscar replaced the telephone and relayed Alex’s stark warning.
“That’s all we want isn’t it!” the tall Australian muttered, “tons of gold buried under a pile of delicate explosive.”
“Maybe it’s the way to unearth the gold — blow the old wreck apart?” the other Australian offered with a grin.
“Yes, well first we move as suggested, then we’ll see tomorrow. Come on, we’re going inshore a bit to anchor for the night as Alex suggested.” Big J’s words closed the conversation as he rose and move towards the wheelhouse.
So quiet and peaceful, it was a near perfect night; the stars twinkled like snowflakes in the crystal clear sky, the sea as calm as the proverbial millpond, allowed the tug and the cargo vessel to rest tugging gently at their anchors.
Some two hundred miles south in a little port on the Southern Philippine island of Panay the scene was very different. Angered and frustrated by the news that their cargo of arms and munitions had been lost, together with the information that one of their trusted allies from Manila had been murdered, the leaders of the Abu Sayyaf terrorist group, were feverishly preparing to exact their revenge. Franco Ebola had taken little persuasion when invited by the lawyer to assist the terrorists, especially when he learned of the two hundred and fifty thousand dollar fee.
“We must exact revenge on the western pigs,” the enraged leader screamed with passion. Ebola was of course not fired by such fanatical religious fervour, merely by the opportunity to get his hands on the cash and possibly the gold bullion he now knew the westerners were diving for.
Elboa had been provided with twenty heavily armed men and three high-speed offshore boats. His own boats were no match for these sleek-looking thoroughbreds. His instructions were simple: kill the westerners responsible and anyone else aboard the two ships that got in their way, then recover the gold; his bonus would be a handsome share of the booty.
Ten of the men were experienced divers; their gas air bottles together with large compressor and other “special items” the diver in charge of loading had said, tapping his nose in the traditional knowing all sign, formed the largest bulk of the group’s equipment. Finally, with the fuel tanks full to the brim and everything secured, they sailed out of the harbour at midnight. Travelling at a comfortable and economic twenty knots, they settled into a V shaped convoy formation, carving three clean white wakes in the flat calm sea. They were scheduled to arrive at the little fishing village three miles south of Manila around noon the following day.