Thunder Point

feet higher. He and Carney hung suspended, watching them, and then the American gestured forward and led the way back to the anchor line. They paused there and looked up and saw the keel of the launch moving in a wide circle. Carney started up the line and Dillon followed him, finally surfacing at the stern.

“When did they arrive?” Dillon asked Ferguson as he shrugged off his jacket and tank.

“About ten minutes after you went down. Roared up at a hell of a speed, didn’t put the anchor down, simply dropped two divers over the stern.”

“We saw them.” Dillon took his gear off and looked across at the launch. “There’s Serra the captain and our old chum Algaro glowering away.”

“They did a neat job of trailing us, I’ll say that,” Carney said. “Anyway, let’s get moving.”

“Are we still going to try this South Drop Place?” Dillon asked.

“I’m game if you are. Haul up the anchor.”

Noval and Pinto surfaced beside the launch and heaved themselves in as Dillon went into the prow and started to pull in the anchor, only it wouldn’t come. “I’ll start the engine and try a little movement,” Carney said.

It made no difference and Dillon looked up. “Stuck fast.”

“Okay.” Carney nodded. “One of us will have to go down and pull it free.”

“Well that’s me obviously.” Dillon picked up his jacket and tank. “We need you to handle the boat.”

Ferguson said, “Have you got enough air left in that thing?”

Dillon checked. “Five hundred. That’s ample.”

“Your turn, Brigadier,” Carney said. “Get in the prow and haul that anchor up the moment it’s free and try not to give yourself a hernia.”

“I’ll do my best, dear boy.”

“One thing, Dillon,” Carney called. “You won’t have the line to come up on and there’s a one- to two-knot current so you’ll most probably surface well away from the boat. Just inflate your jacket and I’ll come and get you.”

As Dillon went in off the stern Algaro said, “What’s happening?”

“Probably the anchor got stuck,” Noval said.

Dillon had, in fact, reached it at that precise moment. It was firmly wedged in a deep crevasse. Above him Carney was working the boat on minimum engine power, and as the line slackened Dillon pulled the anchor free. It dragged over coral for a moment, then started up. He tried to follow, was aware of the current pushing him to one side and didn’t fight it, simply drifted up slowly and surfaced. He was perhaps fifty yards away from Sea Raider and inflated his jacket, lifted high on the heavy swell.

The Brigadier had just about got the anchor in and Noval was the first one to spot Dillon. “There he is.”

“Wonderful.” Algaro shouldered Serra aside and took over the wheel. “I’ll show him.”

He gunned the engine, the launch bore down on Dillon, who frantically swam to one side, just managing to avoid it. Carney cried out a warning, swinging Sea Raider round from the prow, Ferguson almost falling into the sea. Dillon had his left hand raised, holding up the tube that allowed him to expel the air from his buoyancy jacket. The launch swerved in again, brushing him to one side. Algaro, laughing like a maniac, the sound clear across the water, was turning in a wide circle to come in again.

The Brigadier had the AK out of the holdall, was wrestling with it when Carney came down the ladder, his hands sliding on the guard rails. “I know how those things work, you don’t, Brigadier.”

He put it on full automatic, fired a burst over the launch. Serra was wrestling with Algaro now and Noval and Pinto had hit the deck. Carney fired another careful burst that ripped up some decking in the prow. By that time Dillon had disappeared and Serra had taken over the wheel. He turned in a wide circle and took off at full speed.

Ferguson surveyed the area anxiously. “Has he gone?”

Dillon surfaced some little distance away and Carney put down the AK, went into the lower wheelhouse and took the boat toward him. Dillon came in at the stern and Carney hurried back to relieve him of his jacket and tank.

“Jesus, but that was lively,” Dillon said when he reached the deck. “What happened?”

“Algaro decided to run you down,” the Brigadier told him.

Dillon reached for a towel and saw the AK. “I thought I heard a little gunfire.” He looked up at Carney. “You?”

“Hell, they made me mad,” Carney said. “You still want to try South Drop?”

“Why not?” Ferguson looked at the dwindling launch. “I don’t think they’ll be bothering us again.”

“Not likely.” Carney pointed south. “Rain squall rolling in and that’s good because I know where I’m going and they don’t,” and he went up the ladder to the flying bridge.

The launch slowed half a mile away and Serra raised the glasses to his eyes and watched Sea Raider disappear into the curtain of rain and mist. He checked the screen. “They’re moving south.”

“Where are they going? Any ideas?” Algaro asked.

Serra took the dive-site handbook from a shelf, opened it and checked the map. “That was French Cap. The only one marked here further out is called South Drop.” He riffled through the pages. “Here we are. There’s a ridge at about seventy feet, around a hundred and sixty or seventy on one side, then it just drops on the other, all the way to the bottom. Maybe two thousand.”

“Could that be it?”

“I doubt it. The very fact that it’s in the handbook means it’s dived reasonably frequently.”

Noval said, “The way it works is simple. Dive masters only bring clients this far out in good weather. Any other kind and the trip is too long and rough, people get sick.” He shrugged. “So a place like South Drop wouldn’t get dived as often, but Captain Serra is right. The fact that it’s in the handbook at all makes it very unlikely the U-boat is there. Somebody would have spotted it years ago.”

“And that’s a professional’s opinion,” Serra said. “I think Senor Santiago is right. Carney doesn’t know anything. He’s just taking them to one or two far-out places for want of something better to do. Senor Santiago thinks the girl is our only chance, so it’s a question of waiting for her return.”

“I’d still like to teach those swine a lesson,” Algaro told him.

“And get shot at again.”

“That was an AK Carney was firing, I recognized the sound. He could have knocked us all off.” Algaro shrugged. “He didn’t and he won’t now.”

Pinto was reading the section on South Drop in the site guide. “It sounds a good dive,” he said to Noval, “except for one thing. It says here that black tip reef sharks have been noted.”

“Are they dangerous?” Algaro demanded.

“Depends on the situation. If they get stirred up the wrong way, they can be a real threat.”

Algaro’s smile was unholy. “Have we still got any of that filthy stuff left you had in the bucket when you were fishing from the launch yesterday?” he asked Noval.

“You mean the bait we were using?” Noval turned to Pinto. “Is there any left?”

Pinto moved to the stern, found a large plastic bucket and took the lid off. The smell was appalling. There were all kinds of cut-up fish in there, mingled with intestines, rotting meat and oil.

“I bet the sharks would like that,” Algaro said. “That would bring them in from miles around.”

Noval looked horrified. “It would drive them crazy.”

“Good, then this is what we do.” Algaro turned to Serra. “Once they’ve stopped, we close in through the rain nice and quietly. We’re bound to home in on them with that electronic gadget, am I right?”

Serra looked troubled. “Yes, but…”

“I don’t want to hear any buts. We wait, give them time to go down, then we go in very fast, dump this shit over the side and get the hell out of it.” There was a smile of pure joy on his face. “With any kind of luck Dillon could lose a leg.”

The Sea Raider was at anchor, lifting in a heavy, rolling swell. Ferguson sat in the deckhouse watching as the other two got ready. Carney opened the deck locker and took out a long tube with a