The ship remained stable.
“Are we still afloat?” Tom asked the captain.
“Of course we are! It would take much more than a few pieces of plastic explosive to sink my ship.” He then reached for his microphone and said, “Engine room. Report status.”
There was no response.
He tried again, but again, still there was no response.
And there never would be.
A moment later, the Hayward Bulk’s enormous hull started to split down the middle.
“My God, she’s being torn in two…” There was no fear in the Captain’s voice, just total shock.
“And you only had the one life boat on board?” Tom asked.
“Yes. It took forty people — more than we’ve ever had on board at one time.”
“Well, that’s it then… no one could survive in these waters on their own.” Tom accepted his fate.
The captain then moved to a large cupboard at the back of the pilot house. Opening it, he revealed four large survival suits. They were designed to keep the wearer dry, and at the same time, to provide the equivalent buoyancy of five life jackets.
“Here, put this on. It might help.”
Tom quickly donned his, and then pulled up the water tight zipper until it reached just below his chin. Pulling the hood over his face, he discovered that the suit came complete with a crude mask and snorkel with a small air cylinder.
The captain helped him pull it over his face and said, “Don’t take that off your face until you’re on the deck of the Maria Helena, whatever you do!”
It was the last thing the captain said to him before the sudden deluge of seawater swamped the pilot house and both men were swept away. Tom never saw the man again.
The water was warmer than Tom expected, and frothier too. He slid out into the water from the back end of the pilot house, and despite his survival suit, he found himself being dragged deep, below the turbulent surface of the sea.
His survival suit was caught on something.
Its buoyancy had somehow managed to become snagged on something in the pilot house ceiling.
Because of his training, Tom managed to maintain his control and determined that he had only three to four minutes to free himself and reach the surface if he was going to survive.
Tom started kicking with his legs, but soon realized that it wasn’t making any difference, and that all he was doing was wasting his precious energy and worsening his hypoxia.
A minute later, the Hayward Bulk began to list to its starboard side. Before he could get his bearings, he was freed from the ceiling and floated out the port side of the pilot house, spinning several times, and colliding with some debris before eventually breaking the surface.
At last, he could breathe.
He was alive.
Death, he knew, may come at any time.
As the hours passed, he closed his eyes and drifted in and out of consciousness.
He became conscious a number of times and had no idea how long he’d been in the water by the time he first saw it. The fourth time he opened his eyes, he staring at something bright and shining right at him.
Fuck me — surely they’re not coming back to kill me?
It was then that he heard the voice of Matthew, the skipper of the Maria Helena.
“Hang in there, Tom. We’ll have you out of the drink in no time.”
Climbing the deck of the Maria Helena, Tom could feel every muscle in his body begin to ache — his adrenaline only just starting to subside.
“Tom, you lucky bastard, you’re alive!” said Matthew, the skipper, who, despite their differences, looked genuinely pleased to see him.
“Of course I am.” Tom shrugged it off, as though his survival should have been expected.
“Old man Reilly’s been waiting to talk to you on the Sat phone for the past twenty minutes. He’s gonna be mad as hell that you made him wait so long — not to mention, losing one of his ships.”
Tom stepped into the pilot house and the Sat phone was shoved into his hand. Clearly the skipper already knew that there had been no uranium on board the Hayward Bulk.
“Tom here,” he said.
“Tom, they tell me those bastards sunk my ship!”
“Yeah, so they did.”
“How soon can you dive it?”
Although he’d known the old man since he was a boy, Tom still couldn’t believe that James Reilly didn’t have the decency to at least ask if everyone was still alive.
“Dive it? What are you talking about? We’re still in the middle of a bloody cyclone!”
“Of course, but how soon can you dive?” Old man Reilly seemed undeterred by the dangerous weather. “I can only trust you to get me what I need. It’s paramount that you get back in the water and that you do so before the cyclone is over.”
“Not going to happen for at least a couple days. We’re still looking for survivors.”
“It’ll be gone in days.” James Reilly’s voice was firm. “You need to be back in the water now.”
“What the hell is so important?” Tom asked.
It took James Reilly a couple of minutes to explain. In the end, Tom hung up the phone without telling him that he’d do it.
“What was that all about?” The skipper asked.
“I have to dive the wreck immediately.”
Tom quickly exchanged his survival suit for a diving one.
He would have preferred to rest for a few hours and have a warm meal before he re-entered the water, but he now knew that time was more pressing than his physical comfort.
It didn’t take long for the Maria Helena to locate the two parts of the Hayward Bulk’s hull. It was resting in just 65 feet of water, and even in the middle of a cyclone, the super bulker stood out. Had it sunk vertically, the pilothouse structure would still be visible above the surface.
“Who do you want on your dive team?” The skipper asked.
“No one. It’s stupid enough that I’m about to risk my life for it — there’s no need to risk anyone else’s. Besides, it will be more comfortable under the water than above it.”
“It’s trying to get you back up out of the water that worries me,” the skipper said.
“Don’t worry about that. Michael’s got a plan to retrieve me. He’ll send an anchor to the bottom with plenty of wire on the winch. Once I retrieve what I’ve come for I’ll return to it, connect, and then be reeled in like the ugliest marlin you ever did see. Don’t worry about me!”
Tom then dropped into the still vehement waters astride his Sea-Doo.
With its buoyancy set at zero he sank like a stone and in seconds he left the raging storm above him.
His vision was remarkably clear despite the cyclone. In front of him, no more than 300 feet away he could see the Hayward Bulk. She was resting on the shallow, sandy seabed, broken into two separate pieces.
The aft section, which was the one in which James Reilly had installed his private vault, was listing 45 degrees to its port side.
The vault had been built into the starboard side.
Tom turned the throttle of his Sea-Doo and approached it.
He could see the damage to the main superstructure as he rounded the torn midsection.
Whoever was responsible for this damage, must have prepared for it weeks earlier. It looked as though someone had taken a gigantic razor blade and cut through the entire ship. Someone had obviously taken the time to place dozens of small bombs at structurally important points, knowing full well that the water tight compartments and modern pumps would ensure the Hayward Bulk remained afloat, despite multiple disruptions to her hull. In doing so, they’d correctly determined that the most certain way to sink her, was to split her in two.
Reaching the starboard side, Tom maneuvered his craft approximately a hundred feet further aft of the ship, until he reached James Reilly’s infamous private vault.