The Titanic Enigma (30 page)

He heard an incredibly loud crash, looked up and saw a wall of water rushing straight towards him across the reception area. Jolting to his feet, he turned and ran towards the
corridor.

He reached it just as the water completed its sweep across reception. It flowed back out onto the deck through the main doors. Fortescue heard a cry and caught a glimpse of one of
the young men who had slammed through the door a few moments earlier. The wave of water picked him up and propelled him over the rail.

Water slewed into the corridor and was spraying up the walls, bringing down paintings and signs. It rampaged towards him and he stumbled, falling face first onto the carpet. He
twisted and turned under the three-foot-high swell, the icy water so cold it felt as though it was cutting through him. He felt the box containing the isotope start to slip from under his arm and
just managed to catch the handle. And as the water lost some of its power he pulled himself up and let it rush over his lower half.

Wading through the torrent, Fortescue reached the door to his cabin. Water cascaded into the room and spread out across the plush carpet, lapping around the legs of the chairs and
the bed. He watched as the seawater flowed hungrily under the bed where Charles Grantham’s corpse lay.

Rushing over to the desk, he wrenched open a drawer and tugged out a dry piece of paper. He found his pen in the inside pocket of his coat, leaned over the desk and scribbled
something on the sheet of paper. It was in a code he had created for himself when he was an undergraduate at Cambridge; it described where missing elements of his work could be found
–
Security Box 19AS, Cargo Hold Number 4
. He lifted the boxes to the table, pulled the briefcase from the larger of the pair, stuffed the note inside, returned the bag, slammed shut the lid of
the box and locked it.

A loud boom shook the cabin. Fortescue could hear metal grating against metal, the floor shifting under his feet. He gripped the desk with both hands and felt the room vibrate. More
water rushed in from the corridor and swept about his knees.

He went to his wardrobe, opened the door and water cascaded in. He swept his clothes along the rail, grabbed under the water for any remaining shoes and accessories and pushed them
away. At the base of the wardrobe was a wooden panel. From a pocket of his jacket he took his door key. Leaning down, in the dim light, he could not see the base of the wardrobe through the grey
water, but he could feel his way. He slipped the key along the back of the panel, found a small concealed groove, slid the key into it and levered up the wooden base.

Lifting the larger box, he shoved it into the opening in the base of the wardrobe, just managing to squeeze it inside by shuffling it along under the main part of the raised
cupboard.

He felt the cabin shudder. Looking down, he noticed the water about him was red with his own blood. Strangely, his wound no longer hurt.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle of the small metal box containing the ibnium isotope and started to pull it towards the wardrobe under the water. He felt a sharp pain in the
back of his left knee. Something submerged in the murk had stabbed him, he crashed into the water and lost his grip on the isotope box.

Scrambling around frantically, the water up to his thighs, Fortescue spun round and staggered back towards the desk. The cabin reverberated with another horrendous crash. From far
off, he could hear terrible screams. He looked up and saw a metal beam slide through the ceiling plaster. It flew downwards and speared the bed. He was thrown to one side, before twisting and
landing heavily, spread-eagled and face down across the desk, smashing his nose and teeth.

The desk was almost submerged. He slipped off and crashed into the water, hitting his head on something hard and immovable. Vomit rose up into his mouth and he swallowed a mouthful
of water and teeth. Grabbing the edge of the desk, gasping and groaning, he pulled himself up and filled his lungs with air.

The room was poised at a terrifying angle. A roaring sound came from above. It built and built like a massive creature charging towards him from the darkest reaches of his worst
nightmare.

Then he heard something new, something he had never heard before, something he could never have imagined hearing. For perhaps two seconds he could not understand what it was. Then
suddenly he knew. It was the sound of a thousand voices calling out to God.

From the corner of his eye Egbert Fortescue caught a glimpse of movement. A bulkhead slammed through the cabin wall. It struck him side-on, sending him through the water. The last
thing he saw was the bulkhead twist and buckle as it came down on him and he added his own sad lament to the dying chorus of his fellow doomed passengers.

12,600 feet below the Atlantic Ocean. Present day.

Lou and Kate jumped back as the swirling water tipped the frozen form of the commander to one side. She teetered on one leg then fell slowly to the ocean floor, bouncing
twice on the hard sand.

The horror lasted only a second and then they clicked into automatic survival mode. Kate was first to the opening. She eased it back another couple of inches and they both squeezed inside. Lou
dashed for the inner lock, a wheel that was a twin of the one outside, and pulled the door shut. Lou whirled the wheel round and the lock bolt shot horizontally into a groove in the wall of the
hold.

Kate spotted the water evacuation pump on the wall. It was a hand-cranked hydraulic device. Grabbing the handle, she pulled down. Lou stood close by to her left. Silently the lever began to rise
and the pump started to suck out the water.

‘Can’t wait,’ Lou snapped through the comms. ‘I’m going to open the inner door. So what if we get a little water in the hold?’

Before Kate could respond, Lou had reached for the inner door lock, his suited fingers gripping the handle. He turned it, first left, then right. It wouldn’t budge.

‘SHIT!’ he cried and glanced at Kate, her pupils huge behind her visor.

‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ She started to panic and felt vomit rise up into her throat.

‘Hang on,’ Lou said. ‘It will work but not while there’s water in the airlock. It’s a safety mechanism.’

The water was down to their knees now.

‘Come on!’ Lou hissed and tried the handle again. ‘Come on, you fucker!’

They could no longer look at each other. The only thought in their minds was that the suits would go, that any second, any single moment, their puny soft human bodies would be crushed to
oblivion.

Lou wrenched the handle for a third time; hard left, hard right. It was stuck rigid.

Kate began to sob. Lou looked at her, saw tears slithering down her cheeks. He pressed his visor against the front of hers.

‘I love you.’ They said it simultaneously.

Lou pulled away, took a deep breath, turned again to the metal handle. He could see the last of the water between his feet, hardly more than a puddle. He turned the handle far left.

Nothing.

‘Aggghh!’ he screamed and leaned on it with all his weight, pushing it to the right.

It gave. The door swung inwards. Lou stumbled through into the hold, landing awkwardly on his front.

Kate dashed inside, pushing the door shut and pulling the lock into place.

‘Switch off the suit, Lou,’ she commanded and reached for the control panel on her sleeve, tapping in the code and deactivating her suit.

Lou didn’t respond. She felt a terrible panic rush through her as she pulled back her helmet. Her suit deflated and she crouched down, dreading what she might see.

Lou was out cold. She pulled him round, found the computer screen on his sleeve, ran her hands over the touch pad, dumping the code into the system. Lou’s suit switched off.

She shook his shoulders, pulled his deflated helmet over his head, slapped his face. No reaction. She hit him again, much harder.

‘Lou! Lou! Wake up!’

He opened his eyes and drew breath from his tank mouthpiece.

‘Wow!’ he spluttered, pulling himself up. Then he vomited over his front.

The six mercenaries had been holed up with Sterling Van Lee in the 297 square feet of storage area 45, Corridor F, Deck 3C for twenty-six hours. They had limited rations and no
sanitation; it was dark, the air stale. Even with their training and experience it was a trial without precedent.

Van Lee spent most of his time running through the operation plans over and over again, looking for flaws, searching for potential problems. He had requisitioned a corner of the cramped space
and when he was not surveying the ship’s schematics, cleaning his weapons by torchlight or studying the mission plan on an iPad, he gazed periodically at a GPS readout. In this way, at every
moment, he knew precisely where they were so that when the time came he would be ready to give the word to strike.

At exactly 23.20 Van Lee opened the door to storage area 45; the assault team fanned out along different routes to the control room on the bridge.

Van Lee and his partner, former SEAL Chris Tomkin, were last out. They turned right along Corridor F, then up a flight of stairs to Deck 3B, all senses alert, adrenalin pumping.

The first to hear the crewman approach was Van Lee. He pulled in behind a bulkhead, Tomkin a fraction of a second behind him. They let the man pass, then Van Lee came up behind him, pulled the
garrotte about his neck and jerked it back. The man struggled, gurgled and died. The team leader let the body slip to the floor. Tomkin had moved along the corridor, found a door to a cupboard and
helped drag the corpse along the floor.

From there, the two men had a clear run up to the boat deck on the port side. Van Lee checked his watch. Delayed by the crewman they had so efficiently dispatched, they managed to catch up a few
seconds as they ran fast along the exit corridor.

Nearing the bridge, the two men slunk along the deck and up the first set of steps. In a few seconds they were just yards from the control room. Van Lee caught a glimpse of the other two teams.
One was poised close to the door into the room, the other had held back from the starboard exit.

Van Lee checked his watch again, raised his arm and gave the signal to go. Tightening his grip on his G3 assault rifle, he turned the handle on the control room door and charged inside.

There were six men in the room. Two heard the door open and turned. They each received a bullet between the eyes. Van Lee darted in, firing as he went, killing another crewman. One of the
officers dived for cover, pulled his weapon and went to fire. Tomkin blew the man’s chest apart with his G3.

The remaining two sailors, a young guy who looked as though he had only just left his teens behind, the other a man in his thirties, a couple of stripes on his sleeve, raised their hands. Two of
Van Lee’s party were already at the controls of the ship.

‘Down,’ Van Lee hissed at the two crewmen.

They lowered to their knees, their hands on their heads. Van Lee walked behind them and shot them in the back of the neck. They fell forward onto the metal floor.

The team leader nodded to Tomkin, who stepped over to the main control panel. At the door he called to his men at the starboard exit. ‘Secured . . . Clean up the rest of the
ship.’

They turned without a word and slipped away.

‘The captain isn’t here,’ Van Lee said as he came back onto the bridge. ‘Grainger, find him.’

Phil Grainger turned from the control panel and left, his G3 at waist height.

*

Captain Derham was in the galley kitchen a short distance from the bridge and had just filled his mug with strong black coffee when he heard the first shots. He pulled his
revolver from its holster and fell back to the door.

Straining to hear, he discerned at least four voices, some belonging to his own crew, some he did not recognize. Then there were more shots. He heard a pair of loud thumps coming from the bridge
and went out into the corridor.

Derham slid along the wall, reached a junction and heard a man giving instructions. He ducked behind a bulkhead.

Phil Grainger was a big man, six foot four and 250 pounds of solid muscle, but he could move like a leopard. He emerged from the control room, took a right and then a left, turning on his heel
every three steps, scanning the corridor. He reached the passage leading to the galley. He had no idea Derham was poised to spring.

The mercenary took two paces along the corridor and a fist slammed into his face with such force his nose cartilage shattered. He fell back in a spray of blood, but got up as Derham stepped
forward with his gun pointed at his forehead. Grainger swung out his right hand as he straightened and connected with Derham’s wrist, sending his gun flying. The captain fell back and
Grainger was on him.

Slipping a hand behind his back, Derham found his commando dagger in its sheath on his belt, pulled it round and shoved it into Grainger’s side, aiming for his heart. He leaned back so he
could shift his weight and twisted the man over onto his side, caught sight of his gun a few feet to his left, reached it, and swung it round just as Grainger, his front drenched in red, levelled
his assault rifle.

Derham fired and dived to one side almost simultaneously. He heard the dull thud of a bullet hitting flesh and straightened to see the side of Grainger’s head gaping open, his right eye
socket obliterated. The man’s G3 went off as he fell back, his dead finger jammed on the trigger. The gun waved around, bullets spraying the ceiling and ricocheting along the corridor.

Derham jumped up, pulled the assault rifle away, found a full magazine tucked into Grainger’s belt and listened for anyone approaching. Satisfied, he slunk to the end of the corridor.