The Drift (A Hans Larsson Novel Book 1) (5 page)

“
D
aily
routine, runner bean!”

Hans geed up his daughter for their early-morning exercise,
and, having downed a glass of water each, they set off for a jog around the
Barbican’s cobbled streets, pausing for push-ups and sit-ups on the way.

Upon their return, Penny suggested they take
Future
for
a run and check out an interesting dive site. Hans and Jessica filled their air
cylinders using the yacht’s compressor, and following a breakfast of bacon rolls
– “butties,” as Penny called them – coffee and juice, they slipped moorings and
cruised into Plymouth Sound.

As they passed Drake’s Island and the ominous breakwater
loomed in the distance, a huge white ship resplendent in blue-and-orange striping
bore down astern, a plume of oily black diesel fumes spewing horizontally from
its funnel before drifting upwards into a faultless blue sky.

“Brittany Ferries,” Penny shouted above the thunderous noise,
Hans tacking sharply to port to avoid a collision. “On its way to Roscoff in
France – close to where we’re heading next week.”

“Well, don’t they have it easy!” Hans joked. “Perhaps we’re
making it difficult for ourselves.”

The captain of the impressive vessel gave two prolonged and deafening
blasts of the horn, indicating he was passing to starboard. From the upper
deck, excited passengers gave friendly waves and were delighted when the yacht’s
crew returned them.

Sailing around the headland, Penny kept her eye on the
screen of
Future
’s sophisticated sonar, looking for signs of the shipwreck
and briefing Hans and Jessica on the vessel’s past as she did.

Built in the United States in 1944, the SS
James Eagan
Layne
carried cargo between the UK and Europe as part of the war effort. A German
U-boat torpedoed the liberty ship off the coast of Plymouth only three months
into her service. Amazingly, there were no casualties, and the
Layne
’s forlorn
skeleton was now one of Britain’s most popular dive sites.

Hans felt a wave of excitement wash over him – and not just as
a scuba diver and former naval rating. This was Anglo-American history, and to witness
it firsthand was an experience he only ever dreamt about back in Portland. He
felt indebted to Penny for her thoughtfulness.

Locating the
Layne
wasn’t difficult
.
A dive
boat had arrived before them, dropping buoyed shot lines on the wreck’s bow and
stern to act as guides for the divers. Hans furled in the mainsail, and Penny fired
up the motor to prevent
Future
drifting from the spot and onto the rocky
shore. As a safety precaution, Penny wouldn’t drop anchor, in case the current
carried Hans and Jessica away from the site during their dive or an emergency
arose.

“Hello, skipper!” Hans shouted across to the dive boat. “Do
you mind if we descend on your line?”

“Fill your boots, me ’andsome,” the captain replied as he
handed out steaming-hot drinks to his dripping-wet divers. “Tide’s slack at the
minute and vis is good. So make the most of it.”

True to his Scandinavian roots, Hans dived in a compressed-neoprene
dry suit made by the Waterproof Company of Sweden. Designed for subzero polar temperatures
and worn over a quilted undergarment, the durable black coverall would keep him
warm and dry. Jessica wore her tried and tested wetsuit, not a problem even this
early in the year because she never complained of the cold.

“Okay, sweet pea, remember the checklist?” Hans asked as Jessica
rubbed spit on her mask to prevent the lens from fogging.

“Bangkok Women Really Are Fellas!” she replied, second
nature, unaware of the joke behind the mnemonic.

Penny shot a look at Hans and suppressed a giggle.

“Go for it then,” he urged.

“Buoyancy.” Jessica pressed the inflation and deflation
buttons on Hans’ vest, waiting for a reassuring hiss of air before continuing. “Weights.”
She checked Hans had his belt done up with a right-handed opening in case he needed
to ditch his lead in an emergency. “Releases.” She patted the buckles on his
equipment to indicate she knew how to undo them in a tricky situation. “Air.”
She made sure it flowed freely from Hans’ mouthpiece and the “octopus” spare
and tasted fresh and not contaminated. Then she read his pressure gauge – 250
bar, plenty enough for a standard sports dive. “Final check.” She gave him a
determined once-over, making sure his hoses were connected and routed properly
and his mask and fins were at hand.

“Anything else, buddy?” Hans narrowed his eyes. “Like a
knnn—
”

“Knife!” she replied with a self-satisfied grin.

“Well done, honey.”

Hans tapped the stainless-steel knife’s plastic scabbard strapped
to his chest band. Unlike the majority of divers, who attach a knife to their
calf – the “Jacques Cousteaus,” as one of Hans’ military instructors used to mock
– he knew to keep his close at hand in case he became entangled in a fishing net
or kelp and was unable to reach his lower leg.

Having reciprocated the safety check, Hans conducted a dive
brief. “Okay, Jess. We’ll descend on the stern and it’s at a depth of . . .” He
looked to Penny.

“Twenty meters.”

“Take it steady going down the line, control your buoyancy
and remember to clear your ears. If you get a problem, give me the sign.” Hans
fluttered his hand palm downwards in a seesaw motion. “Then we’re gonna do
mask-clearing and buddy-breathing skills. Happy with that?”

“I’m happy.”

“Then we’ll fin along the ship to the prow – that’s the
front end, right?”

Jessica nodded. “How deep, Penny?”

Her father always reiterated the importance of finishing a
dive in shallow water if possible to extend the no-decompression time and
reduce air intake, increasing the safety margin should any last-minute issues
occur.

“About twelve meters, Jessie,” Penny replied.

“If you see anything interesting, give me the photo sign.”
Hans flexed his forefinger and patted a pocket on his buoyancy vest containing
a neat underwater camera bought on vacation in Hawaii. “What marine life can we
expect to see, Penny?”

“Good question. Probably a sea monster or two.” Her eyes
widened. “But don’t worry, Jess. They only eat boys.”

Jessica pursed her lips and screwed her eyelids, making the adults
laugh.

“Seriously, on a good dive with vis like today you can find
a lot. Check out the white anemones along the hull – they’re pretty weird. You’ll
probably see ling and pollack, which look a bit like cod. They’ll be hiding in
the ship’s compartments. You might come across a few crabs or a lobster, and if
you’re really lucky a
huge
conger!”

“What’s a conger, Penny?”

“It’s a very long eel, Jessie. About this big.” She spread
her hands right out. “But they’re extremely shy and won’t come near you.”

“Then we put up the safety sausage.” Hans waved the bright-orange
marker buoy rolled up and clipped to an aluminum D-ring on his vest. When
inflated using air from his regulator, the four-foot-long canvas tube would
shoot to the surface on a handline and warn the surface vessels of their
ascent. “Come up nice and slow, and we’ll do a safety stop at five meters.
Okay?”

“Okay,” she replied as Penny helped her with the mask and fins.

“Any questions?”

“Dive time, Papa?”

“Let’s keep it to thirty minutes. It looks pretty cold down
there.”

As father and daughter stepped awkwardly toward the yacht’s
stern, Penny grabbed Hans’ arm and whispered, “Bangkok Women Really Are Fellas?
What’s wrong with Big White Rabbits Are Fluffy?”

“Errm . . . no answer.”

Hans grinned and plunged into the sea, with Jessica close
behind. After a couple of minutes on the surface to focus and do a second
equipment check, Jessica gave her father the okay sign, followed by a thumbs-down
for
Let’s dive
.

Hans marveled at his daughter’s control as she dropped to
the wreck, her hand loosely clasped around the shot line for guidance. Every
few seconds she pinched her nose and blew to equalize the pressure on her
eardrums, putting short bursts of air into her jacket to slow the rate of
descent. Hans had witnessed many far more experienced divers struggle with
these basics. He floated down to kneel opposite her on the sandy bottom and
made the okay sign.

Jessica was more than okay, not a hint of anxiety showing in
her blue eyes.

Hans made the
Watch me
sign with his index fingers and
peeled off his mask to simulate it becoming dislodged by another diver’s fin. He
purposely held it away from his body for several seconds to demonstrate how
little an issue it was. In measured steps he stretched out the rubber headband
and replaced the mask, then held the top of the lens and exhaled through his
nose to expel the flooded water. Jessica followed his example with a confidence
beyond her years.

Without warning Hans let the regulator drop from his mouth,
chopping a hand against his throat to simulate running out of air. Jessica calmly
offered him her spare, only Hans pretended it did not work either. Nonplussed, she
pulled out her own regulator and handed it over. Her father took two deep
breaths and passed it back. They repeated the exercise for a minute or so,
until Hans patted her on the arm and replaced his mouthpiece.

Continuing the dive, Hans was impressed with the sight greeting
them. The
James Egan Layne
’s barnacle-encrusted remains lay spread
across the seabed like a skeleton in a boneyard, all sprouting the strange marshmallow-like
anemones Penny spoke of, along with delicate coral fronds in both dull and
vivid colors. Wheelhouse, winches and sheets of riveted iron bulkhead – even the
porcelain in the ship’s head – were still visible, coated in a thick layer of sediment
and home to a variety of sea life.

Lesser-spotted dogfish lifted up out of the sand to glide snakelike
through futuristic gardens of swaying green and purple kelp. Shoals of pollack
holed up in the
Layne
’s murky compartments, unflinching as Hans played
the beam of his flashlight on them, their algae-colored camouflage perfectly
matched to this environment, their glassy black pupils bulging, as if afraid of
the worst.

Hans tapped Jessica on the arm and pointed out a magnificent
wrasse busy ripping barnacles off a section of bent and twisted railing with
its vicious incisors. Clad in an armor of coppery scales like coins in a
wishing well and swishing its spiny winglike fins, the creature gave the
impression of a mystical sea dragon.

Snapping shot after shot, Hans noticed a slight
discoloration in the sand about the size of a dinner plate. Two almost
imperceptible yet wonky angled eyes confirmed it was a flatfish. Evolution had allowed
the species to survive through millenniums and this individual to grow to quite
some age, but the American had something else on his mind
–
barbeque! –
and the fish’s contribution to the gene pool was about to end.

Hans whipped out his knife, exhaled deeply and sunk down to
spear the flatfish behind its misaligned orbs. The plaice attempted to shoot
away, but Hans kept the knife’s point pinned to the seabed, resulting in the
startled animal kicking up a storm of whirling sand with its futile butterflying
motion. Hans gripped the plaice with one hand, withdrew the blade and reversed
his grip, bringing the knife’s hefty metal pommel down sharply to end the creature’s
misery, the mere recollection of frying fish and wood smoke triggering the
pleasure receptors in his brain.

Hans was in the process of stowing his catch in a mesh bag
when he felt a nudge on his shoulder. He looked to his side to see Jessica, who
knew never to venture more than a few feet away, frantically pointing as Guz,
Plymouth’s much-loved sea lion, arched backwards in a graceful loop. Hans would
have whooped in delight had he not had a regulator in his mouth, for this was a
dive experience to beat most others. He gave Jessica the okay sign, which she returned
immediately, switching the camera to video mode as he settled beside her. He
had no concerns as to Guz’s intentions but remained wary of the sea lion’s excitement.

Fortunately, Guz just wanted to play, showing off in his
natural environment with more loops and turns, like a subaqua stunt pilot. Hans
glanced at the rate bubbles rose from Jessica’s exhalations, reassured to see she
was relaxed, reading her pressure gauge to find plenty of air. True to her
training, she took it as a cue to check his.

As Guz circuited the two of them, Hans had a feeling the
flatfish might be the catalyst behind his display, and, not wishing to risk
inviting any unwanted behavior, he pulled it from the bag. Guz’s finely tuned
senses saw him turn back on himself so acutely that his head traveling in one
direction passed his rear flippers sculling in the other. With a gentle tug of
his canine snout, Guz took the plaice from Hans’ fingers and then turned to
face them, bobbing his head as if to say thank you before shooting off through the
deep green curtain.