The Last Airship (10 page)

Tom
again looked down at the
Time to Destination
marker. It read:
4
minutes 32 seconds.

All
systems were now back on.

But,
did they have enough time for it to make a difference?

The
ship started to turn as quickly as was possible for a super bulker like the
Hayward Bulk.

It
was painfully slow.

Through
the large windows on the bridge, Tom could see the white froth of the waves breaking
on the reef. Normally, nothing more than a patch of green in an otherwise deep
blue water, the reef was now creating a gigantic bombora with the cyclonic
waves.

The
ship turned as if it were on a single giant axis and then that axis moved at a
rate of 4 knots towards the lethal, jagged edge of the Great Barrier Reef.

It
was going to be close.

There
was no doubt about it.  Tom decided that if he survived this, it would be his
closest escape from death yet.

The
stern of the ship approached the bombora, and Captain Ambrose straightened the
rudder. For the first time since Tom landed on the ship, the Hayward Bulk
started to make its way forward.

It
was at less than half a knot, but it was progress away from their peril.

They
had made it.

“I
don’t believe it.” Captain Ambrose finally smiled. “We made it!”

“So
we did!” Tom said jovially, and then, removing his feet from atop the table in
front of him, where they’d comfortably rested throughout the entire drama, he
jumped off the high navigator’s stool and said, “Is there any place I can get
some food around here?”

“There
sure is, buddy.”

And
then, the entire ship shuddered under a series of detonations.

The
series of detonations tore through the ship like a Roman candle. The vibrations
in the hull of the Hayward Bulk were strong enough to knock Tom onto the floor.
They continued for a couple of minutes, and then stopped.

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.

Tom
peered inside the door, but he was too late.

The
bomb proof door was already wide open and the contents were entirely missing.

Sam
Reilly had slept for nearly twenty four hours straight since leaving Hobart.

He
needed it after what he’d endured. Every muscle in his body still hurt. He was
in this deep sleep when the AIS alarm began to sound.

AIS
stood for Automated Identification System and was used to monitor the proximity
and direction of nearby ships.

Sam
slowly rolled out of his bunk.

The
GPS system, located at the end of his bunk, indicated that he was now
positioned off the coast of Shoal Haven. His eyes tentatively made note of the
fact that he was approximately 2 nautical miles offshore. The depth reader next
to the GPS indicated that he was sitting in the relatively shallow waters at
110 feet. The electronic compass showed him traveling along a course of zero
degrees, due north. The wind speed had died down to a leisurely fifteen knots,
due east, and his speed over ground was just eight knots. Technically, he was
sailing at nine and a half knots, but an offshore current was drifting at one
and a half knots.

In
the background, he could still hear the gentle warning of the AIS alarm in the
cockpit.

Something
had entered into close proximity with
Second Chance
.

Sam
stood up and stretched his back, his movement more feline in appearance, than a
fatigued sailor.

There
was no rush.

He’d
set the alarm to go off at one nautical mile from a possible collision. He
continued to stretch his back, and then went to the front of the boat to use
the head.

He
then strolled on to the deck.

His
eyes scanned the horizon for any immediate threats, and then, having reassured
himself that none were present, he went to his AIS monitor. There was one
vessel ahead of him, and that vessel had intentionally blocked its name, size
and destination from AIS. Reilly wasn’t worried. This was a common practice for
sailing vessels, whose skippers assumed that by hiding such information, people
might give it a wider berth, just in case it was a large container ship.
Maritime law and the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea
require AIS to be fitted aboard international voyaging ships with a gross
tonnage (GT) of 300 or more, and all passenger ships regardless of size. There
was no requirement for smaller privately owned vessels to provide any
information, and he assumed that was what was approaching.

Sam
took out his binoculars from a compartment built into the helm.

He
scanned the distance where the ship approached.

It
looked like an icebreaker that had been modified for experiments or scientific
research. It was painted dark blue and had a thirty-plus foot high gunwale,
presumably made of steel and designed for breaking through ice as if it weren’t
there.

Sam
couldn’t see anyone on deck.

It
was the kind of menacing-looking ship which was run almost entirely by its
advanced technology. In fact, it was highly likely that no one was at or even
near the helm at the moment, and it was on a collision course directly towards
him most probably by sheer coincidence.

The
ship was approximately five hundred feet away. It was far too close for the
other ship not to have acknowledged that she had been seen.

Although
the rules of the sea state that a vessel under motor must give way to a vessel
under sail, the law was irrelevant when you’re on a little sail boat that is
about to be sunk by an icebreaker. Sam loosened the main sheet and turned forty
five degrees to starboard so that he would pass the approaching vessel port
side to port side.

It
was both a common courtesy and maritime law that two ships must avoid a collision
at all costs, and if in doubt, both should steer starboard.

He
made the simple maneuver with a quick and efficient sequence, since it was a
maneuver he had performed many times before on
Second Chance
.

His
new course now left plenty of room for the massive motor yacht to pass to his
port side without any effort on its skipper’s part.

To
his dismay, the other ship immediately altered its course to collide.

He
sounded three sudden loud bursts with his fog horn.

It
was loud enough to wake the dead, the living, and anything in-between.

And
still no response!

Sam
turned on his engine and increased speed. There was no time to try to reverse
his way out of the imminent collision. His only hope was to somehow pass in
front of the other vessel’s bow by making a ninety degree tack to starboard.

He
heard the screech of his 150 horse power Yanmar Diesel engine exceed its
maximum RPMs. He then gently pushed the throttle past its highest point and
held it there with his hand against its will.

He
would have liked to get out a Mayday signal before the collision took place,
but there was no time to do so.

One
hundred feet, turned into fifty.

Still
no change.

Then
fifty feet became twenty five.

His
bow and the center cockpit passed the other vessel’s evil wall of steel.

It
was going to be close.

Maybe
only a matter of a second, whether or not the other ship would clip his
transom, the large butt at the end of
Second Chance
, which housed much
of his equipment.

At
that moment, he realized there was nothing more he could do. He was going to
collide with the larger vessel.

Sam
felt nothing but utter dismay at the fact that he was about to be demolished by
a stupid rich guy’s toy off the coast of Australia, of all places.

Surely
it must be a mistake.

Who’s
ever heard of pirates in Australian waters?

Then
it happened.

He
knew it would, but the sound of metal and plastic colliding made the most
sickening sound he had ever heard.

And
then it was over as the larger ship continued on.

Innocently,
its enormous propellers kept turning after it passed, without any hint that it
had recently been in a collision.

*

Sam’s
thoughts were taken to another world.

Accidents
like this one never happened in modern times, certainly not with the modern
technologies available and required on such large vessels. He struggled to
comprehend what had just happened.

At
first, he didn’t even notice the enormous hole in the stern of
Second Chance
,
where seawater was now flooding in. Instead, Sam looked up at the huge transom
of the other vessel as it was slowly moving away, like the evil machine it was,
totally unaware of the carnage it had just inflicted.

It
was painted entirely blue, and it bore no registration number or name on the
hull. Located on its aft deck was a small helipad and tied down on it, was what
Sam recognized as a black Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King helicopter – the kind most
commonly used by the U.S. Navy for anti-submarine warfare.

What’s
that doing on a civilian vessel?

On
the rear of the helicopter, Sam could make out the words, “Wolfgang
Corporation.”

His
curiosity abated when he noticed how quickly his beautiful ketch was taking on
water. The entire transom was missing. “Taking on water” was an understatement.
In truth, the seawater was gushing in. He’d heard about ships hit by containers
out at sea sinking so quickly that its occupants never even realized what had
happened. He was about to see firsthand just how such a catastrophe actually
happened.

Although
Second Chance
held so much safety equipment on board, Sam had no time to
reach any of it. He cursed himself for his distraction. His mind simply
couldn’t accept the fact that he’d be in a collision just two miles offshore
from a holiday town in Australian waters!

He
barely had enough time to pop the lid off his inflatable life raft.

The
thing weighed forty five kilograms and required that he pull the emergency tabs
and throw it overboard to allow it to inflate properly away from the sinking
yacht. Forty-five kilograms wasn’t too onerous a weight for a grown man to
lift, especially one who is experiencing the adrenaline rush that came from his
fight or flight response on a sinking vessel.

Sam
carefully tied one end of the safety raft to a cleat on
Second Chance’s
bow. He heaved the box overboard. The sodium crystals dissolved in the salt
water, triggering the release mechanism, and the box popped open. Seconds later,
the carbon dioxide canister deployed and could be heard releasing its gas,
instantly inflating the four-man life raft. 

Sam
felt relieved.

The
water was now more than half way up the inside of
Second Chance’s
hull.

He
considered going back for his radio and satellite phone. Even his mobile phone
would have coverage, but since he was so close to land, he decided against it.
If the ship went down while he was deep inside it, there was no telling where
he’d end up or if he’d be able to escape its bowels.

Sam
then pulled the life raft back aboard, so that it rested comfortably against
Second
Chance’s
shrinking freeboard. He was just about to say good bye to his
beloved ship and step into the raft before it was too late.

At
that exact moment, he noticed the malevolent ship make an abrupt 180 degree
turn. It was, as though either the captain or a crew member finally noticed
that they had nearly killed someone.

For
the first time since the other vessel approached
Second Chance
, Sam was
actually able to see someone high up on the bow of the ship. The man had blond
hair, and appeared to be quite large, but otherwise had no distinguishable
characteristics at that distance.

He
seemed to be waving something at Sam.

Did
they have a lower transom or at least a cargo net I can use to climb aboard
her?

As
the ship returned, Sam was finally able to get a clearer view of the man who
was waving to him.

What
is that in his hand? Is it a life preserver?

Then
it hit him.

The
man was holding a weapon.

At
this distance, Sam couldn’t be certain of the type, but as the man took aim, he
its purpose became obvious.

Someone
wanted him dead.

The
revelation struck him with painful slow clarity as he watched his life raft
burst apart as the first round fired. There was a brief pause and he realized
that the shooter changed the cartridge before he started firing again.

This
time the bullets were shredding what was left of his yacht.

Sam
was out of options, so he dived into the now almost completely water-filled
hull of his sinking boat. Holding his breath, he swam down and towards the back
of the ship. The water was surprisingly clear and he could just make out the
location of the hole at the back end of his ship where his transom once was.

He
watched the blurred trails of a number of bullets as they whizzed by him
through the water, only a couple of feet ahead of him and then cease.

The
shooter must be reloading his weapon
.

Then
the real reason occurred to him.

Sam
noticed that his ears were starting to hurt.

Everything
had turned black.

Second
Chance
had reached its critical
point, at which it was no longer able to displace the surface tension of the
water, and now it was starting its journey to the seabed below.

He
felt as if he’d been plunged into a washing machine as he tumbled around inside
the sinking boat. 

His
instinct was to swim out of the hole where the transom used to be. It wasn’t
far. Perhaps only another fifteen feet away – an easy swim.

And
then it struck him.

Someone
wants me dead? Like, really dead.

He
knew then that they were going to wait until
Second Chance
had sunk
below the surface, and then they’d spray the surface with more bullets. He
would never be able to hold his breath long enough to return to the surface.
Instead, he would have to swim underwater, as far away from here as possible,
without first dying from hypoxia.

He
tried to remember his ship’s last location and the current depth beneath her
keel. They were two miles off Shoal Haven heads. There would be less than a
hundred feet of water at the seabed.

Sam
couldn’t accept that he might die with the ship he loved. His mind fought for a
solution and then it presented him with one – a very simple one.

The
diving equipment was kept at the back half of the yacht. He even had an air
compressor built into the transom.

But
the transom’s gone, what else will be missing?

Sam’s
hands began to feel around him, searching for some of his equipment.