“I believe you may be correct. That is, unless the claustrophobia in here gets the better of me,” Julie replied. “I don’t know how you two manage the confinement in here on a regular basis.”
Though Julie was a tall woman, she still gave up a few inches to both Dahlgren and the woman seated in the copilot’s seat. Summer Pitt turned and flashed her a comforting smile.
“If you focus your vision on the world out there,” she said, motioning toward the submersible’s forward viewing port, “then you tend to forget how cramped it is in here.”
With long red hair and bright gray eyes, Summer posed a striking figure even in her grease-stained dive jumpsuit. Standing six feet tall in her bare feet, the daughter of NUMA’s Director, and the twin sibling to her brother, Dirk, she was well accustomed to tight quarters. Employed as an oceanographer for the underwater agency, she had spent many an hour studying the seafloor from the constricted confines of small submersibles.
“How about I shed a little light on the matter,” Dahlgren said, reaching up and flicking a pair of overhead toggle switches. Twin banks of external floodlights suddenly came on, illuminating the dark green sea surrounding them.
“That’s better,” Julie said, peering nearly forty feet into the depths. “I had no idea that we would be able to see so far.”
“The water is surprisingly clear,” Summer remarked. “It’s much better visibility than we had in Norway.” Summer and the crew of the Odin were returning from a three-week project off the Norwegian coast where they had monitored temperature changes in the sea and its impact on local marine life.
“Depth of one hundred seventy feet,” Dahlgren reported. “We should be nearing the bottom.”
He adjusted the submersible’s ballast tanks to neutral buoyancy as a sandy brown bottom appeared in the depths beneath them. Engaging the vessel’s electric motor, he applied forward thrust, making a slight course correction as he eyed a gyrocompass.
“We’re near high water, and the current is still ripping through here at about two knots,” he said, feeling the push against the submersible’s outer hull.
“Not a fun place to go free diving,” Summer replied.
They glided just a short distance before a large tubular object filled the view port.
“Mark one funnel,” Dahlgren said as they hovered over the huge tube.
“It’s so large,” Julie said excitedly. “I’m used to looking at the funnels in proportion to the ship on grainy old black-and-white photographs.”
“Looks like it came down pretty hard,” Summer remarked, noting one end of the thin rusting funnel was twisted and crushed flat.
“Eyewitness reports claim that the Hampshire stood on her bow and actually flipped over as she sank,” Julie said. “The funnels would have popped out at that point, if not earlier.”
Summer reached to a console and engaged a pair of high-definition video cameras.
“Cameras rolling. Jack, it looks like there’s the beginning of a debris field to our left.”
“I’m on it,” Dahlgren replied, guiding the submersible across the current.
A short distance beyond the funnel, a scattering of dark objects poked from the sand. They were mostly undecipherable debris long on corrosion that had fallen from the ship as it tilted and sank to the bottom.
Summer noted a brass shell casing and a ceramic plate mixed with unidentifiable bits and pieces as the concentration of objects intensified. Then a towering black figure slowly materialized in the water directly ahead of them. Inching closer, they saw it was the unmistakable form of a massive shipwreck.
A near century underwater had taken its toll on the World War I British cruiser. The vessel appeared as a tangled mass of rusted steel, sitting upright on the bottom with a heavy lean to starboard. Sections of the ship were nearly buried in sand, due to the effects of a scouring current. Summer could see that the superstructure had long since collapsed, while the teak decking had eroded away decades ago. Even sections of the hull plating had fallen in. The grand cruiser and survivor of Jutland was sadly just a shadow of her former self.
Dahlgren guided the submersible over the Hampshire’s stern, hovering above it like a helicopter. He then piloted it across the ship’s length until reaching the bow, which was partially buried in the sand, the ship having augured into the seabed by her prow. He turned and guided the submersible several more times across its length, a video camera capturing digital footage while a secondary still camera snapped images that would later be pieced into a mosaic photo of the entire wreck.
As they returned to the stern, Summer pointed to a jagged hole cut into the exposed deck plate near an aft hold. Beside the hole was an orderly pile of debris that stood several feet high.
“That’s an odd hole,” she remarked. “Doesn’t look like it had anything to do with the ship’s sinking.”
“The pile of debris alongside tells me that some salvors have been aboard,” Dahlgren said. “Did somebody get inside her before the government protected the wreck site?”
“Yes, the wreck was first discovered by Sir Basil Zaharoff in the nineteen thirties and partially salvaged,” Julie said. “They were after some gold rumored to have been aboard. Due to the treacherous currents, they reportedly didn’t salvage a great deal off the ship. Nobody seems to believe they found much gold, if any at all.”
Dahlgren guided them over the curved surface of the stern hull until he found a pair of empty drive shafts protruding from below.
“Somebody got her big bronze propellers, anyway,” Dahlgren noted.
“The British government didn’t secure the wreck site until 1973. No one has legally been allowed to dive on the wreck since. It took me three years to obtain approval simply to conduct a photographic survey, and that only happened because my uncle is an MP.”
“Never hurts to have family in high places,” Dahlgren remarked, giving Summer a wink.
“I’m just glad your agency offered the resources to help,” Julie said. “I’m not sure I could have obtained the grant money necessary to hire a commercial submersible and crew.”
“We had the help of a couple of Cambridge microbiologists on our Norway project,” Dahlgren replied. “Brought some Old Speckled Hen with them. Darn nice people, so we were only glad to reciprocate.”
“Old Speckled Hen?” Julie asked.
“An English beer,” Summer said with a slight roll of her eyes. “The fact of the matter is, once Jack heard there was a shipwreck involved, there was no way we weren’t going to help.”
Dahlgren just smiled as he powered the submersible along a few feet above the cruiser. “Let’s see if we can find out where they struck that mine,” he said finally.
“Was it a mine or a torpedo that sank the Hampshire?” Summer asked.
“Most historians believe she struck a mine. There was a fierce gale blowing the night she sank. The Hampshire attempted to sail with several escort destroyers, but they couldn’t keep pace in the rough seas so the cruiser continued on without them. An explosion occurred near the bow, which supports a collision with a mine. The German submarine U-75 was in the area and had reported releasing a number of mines farther up the coast.”
“It sounds as if it was a terrible tragedy,” Summer remarked.
“The ship sank in less than ten minutes. Only a handful of lifeboats were lowered, and they were either crushed against the ship or capsized in the heavy seas. Those men that were able to stay afloat were still doused by the frigid water. Most of the crew died of exposure long before reaching shore. Of the six hundred and fifty-five crewmen aboard, only twelve men survived.”
“Lord Kitchener not being one of them,” Summer said quietly. “Did they find his body?”
“No,” Julie replied. “The famed field marshal didn’t take to the lifeboats but went down with the ship.”
A reflective silence filled the submersible as the occupants pondered the sunken war grave visible just beneath them. Dahlgren steered along the port h
ull near the main deck, which had collapsed in some areas by several feet. As they neared the bow, Dahlgren detected some buckling along the hull plates. Then the underwater lights fell upon a gaping cavity near the waterline that stretched almost twenty feet across.
“No wonder she sank so fast,” Dahlgren remarked. “You could drive a pickup truck through that hole.”
He angled the submersible until its lights were pointed inside the blast hole, revealing a twisted mass of metallic carnage that spread over two decks. A large haddock emerged from the interior, staring curiously at the bright lights before disappearing into the darkness.
“Are the cameras still shooting?” Julie asked. “This will make for some great research footage.”
“Yes, we’re still rolling,” Summer replied. “Jack, can you move us a little closer to the impact?” she asked, staring intently out the view port.
Dahlgren tweaked the propulsion controls until they hovered just a foot or two from the gouged section of hull.
“Something in particular catch your eye?” Julie asked.
“Yes. Take a look at the blast edge.”
Julie scanned the jagged rust-covered steel without comprehension. In the pilot’s seat, Dahlgren’s eyes suddenly widened.
“I’ll be. The lip of that mangled steel looks to be shoved outward,” he said.
“Appears to be the case around the entire perimeter,” Summer said.
Julie looked from Dahlgren to Summer in confusion.
“What are you saying?” she finally asked.
“I think she’s saying that the Germans got a bum rap,” Dahlgren replied.
“How so?”
“Because,” Summer said, pointing to the hole, “the blast that sank the Hampshire appears to have come from inside the ship.”
NINETY MINUTES LATER, the trio sat in the wardroom of the Odin reviewing video footage of the Hampshire on a large flat-screen monitor. Dahlgren sped through the wreck’s initial footage, then slowed the viewing speed as the camera approached the port-side hole. Julie and Summer sat alongside with their noses to the screen, carefully studying the images.
“Stop right there,” Summer directed.
Dahlgren froze the video on a close-up image of the shattered hull plate.
“That view shows it quite clearly,” Summer said, pointing to the serrated steel edge that flared out like flower petals. “The force of the blast that created that had to come from within the ship.”
“Could it have been caused by Zaharoff’s salvage team?” Julie asked.
“Not likely,” Dahlgren replied. “Though they probably made use of explosives here and there, they probably cut their way into the interior spaces they were seeking. They would have had no reason to create such a massive entry point, especially this close to the main deck.” He hit the “Play” button on the video controls as he spoke. “We saw evidence of an internal explosion all around the opening, which wouldn’t be the case if Zaharoff had just tried to enlarge the existing hole.”
“How about an internal munitions explosion that might have been triggered by a mine or torpedo attack?” Summer asked.
“Not big enough,” Dahlgren replied. “From what we could view inside, there was plenty of internal damage, but it was all focused near the hull. If the ship’s munitions had gone off, it would have blown away major sections of the ship.”
“Then that leaves an internal explosion,” Julie said. “Perhaps there is something to the old rumors after all.”
“What rumors would those be?” Summer asked.
“The death of Lord Kitchener in 1916 was a momentous event. He had been the hero of Khartoum in the Sudan two decades earlier and was considered a key architect for the eventual defeat of Germany in World War One. Of course, he may have been best known for his iconic recruiting poster, which displayed his image pointing an outstretched finger, urging you to join the Army. When his body was never found, wild conspiracy theories took root, suggesting that he had survived the sinking or that a double had been sailing in his place. Others claimed that the IRA had planted a bomb aboard the ship when it was overhauled in Belfast a few months earlier.”
“I guess this throws a new wrench into your biography,” Summer remarked.
“Is that why you wanted to survey the Hampshire, because of Kitchener?” Dahlgren asked.
Julie nodded. “Documenting the state of the Hampshire was actually suggested by my dean, but the driving force was certainly my biography of the field marshal. I guess I’ll have to return to Kitchener’s old estate near Canterbury and take another look at his archives.”
“Canterbury?” Summer asked. “That’s not too far from London, is it?”
“No, less than a hundred miles.”
“London is my next stop after we return to Yarmouth.”
“Yarmouth is our next port of call after we drop you at Kirk-wall,” Dahlgren explained to Julie. “We’re going to resupply there, then some of us are headed to Greenland for another project,” he added, giving Summer an envious look.
“I will be flying to Istanbul next week to join my brother on a project in the Mediterranean.”
“Sounds sunny and warm,” Julie said.
“You’re telling me,” Dahlgren grunted.
“Maybe I can help you with your research for a few days, before my flight leaves London,” Summer offered.
“You’d do that?” Julie asked, surprised at the offer. “Diving into some dusty old books is not the same as diving into a shipwreck.”
“I don’t mind. I’m curious to know myself what happened with the Hampshire. Heck, it’s the least I can do since we helped open this can of worms.”
“Thank you, Summer. That would be marvelous.”
“No problem,” she replied with a smile. “After all, who doesn’t love a mystery?”
20
THE SHOP MARKED “SOLOMON BRANDY—ANTIQUITIES” was situated on a quiet side street in Jerusalem’s Old City, not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Like the seventy-four other licensed dealers in the country, Brandy was officially sanctioned by the State of Israel to sell and trade in antiquities, providing that the artifacts at hand were not stolen goods.
The legal stipulation was a minor impediment to most dealers, who simply reused legitimate tracking identification numbers to sell nebulous items that came in the back door. Israel’s antiquities laws strangely enough created a huge demand in Holy Land relics, and forgeries, by allowing the legal trade of artifacts, a practice banned by most other nations. Antiquities were often actually smuggled into Israel from neighboring countries, where they could be legitimized and sold to other dealers and collectors around the world.
Sophie Elkin stepped into Brandy’s well-lit shop, cringing at the sound of a loud buzzer that activated with the opening door. The small interior was empty of people but crammed with artifacts that overflowed from glass cases fronting all four walls. She moved to a center island case filled with small clay pots tagged with the label “Jericho.” Sophie’s trained eye could tell that they were all forgeries, which would soon be treasured heirlooms for unknowing tourists making their once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to the Holy Land.
A stumpy man with pancake eyes emerged from the back room, wearing a dusty apron over rumpled clothes. He set a small clay figurine down on the counter, then looked up at Sophie with unease.
“Miss Elkin, what a surprise,” he said in a flat tone that indicated her appearance was not quite welcomed.
“Hello, Sol,” Sophie replied. “No tourists in yet?”
“It’s still early. They see the sights in the morning, then shop in the afternoon.”
“We need to talk.”
“My license is current. I’ve filed my reporting in a timely manner,” he protested.
Sophie shook her head. “What can you tell me about the theft and shootings at Caesarea?”
Brandy visibly relaxed, then shook his head.
“A sad tragedy. One of your men was killed??
??
“Thomas Raban.”
“Yes, I remember him. Very loud and vociferous. He threatened to wrap a shovel around my neck once, as I recall,” he said with a smirk.
Sophie had caught Brandy in a sting operation two years earlier, accepting a large quantity of artifacts stolen from Masada. She’d dropped the charges when he agreed to secretly cooperate with the prosecution of the actual artifact thieves. But the antiquities agent used the old case to occasionally press him for information on other field investigations. Brandy would usually evade most of her inquiries, but in all her dealings with him he had never outright lied to her.
“I want the man who killed him,” Sophie said.
Brandy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You hear things, Solomon. Was it the Mules?”
Brandy gazed nervously toward the window, looking for any lingering strangers. “They are a dangerous organization, the Mules. Terrorists operating within our own borders. You don’t want to get too close to them, Miss Elkin.”
“Were they responsible?”
Brandy looked her in the eye. “There are suspicions,” he said in a low voice. “But I cannot say with certainty any more than you can.”
“I know of no others who steal artifacts at the point of a gun and are not afraid to pull the trigger.”
“Nor do I,” Brandy admitted. “At least not in our country.”
“Tell me, Solomon, who would have hired such a team?”
“Certainly not a dealer,” he spat indignantly. “I don’t have to tell you how things work in the black market. The preponderance of illegal excavating is done by dirt-poor Arabs who are paid a pittance for their discoveries. The artifacts are then passed through a series of middlemen—sometimes dealers, sometimes not—until finding a home with a public or private collector. But I can tell you that no dealer in Israel is going to jeopardize his livelihood by purchasing artifacts with blood on them. There’s just too much risk.”