The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon

on the float’s line again, until he could see the anchor; then off he swam again, south-west this time.

      He swam and swam, twenty-five feet below the surface, turning his head left and right, trying to keep an estimate of the distance he was covering. He knew he was breathing inefficiently in his nervousness and the air would probably last less than half the normal time. He tried to take shallow breaths. He swam and swam over waving weed and rambling rocky shelves and stretches of sand. Both the chart and his depth-sounder had told him that this part of the seabed was flat, and they were basically right, but every now and again there were ravines and grottos that faded into weedy darkness, waving, and all kinds of fish cruised and drifted amongst them. It was when he estimated that he had only about ten minutes of air left, that the submarine almost burst out of the watery gloom at him.

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      At one moment there was only gloom, the next there it was, materializing like a ghost twenty feet in front of him, and his heart lurched. For an instant he did not grasp what he was seeing: it was a long dark shape that seethed and beckoned like a mass of wraiths, giant webs reaching out to ensnare him. He recoiled, his eyes wide and his heart pounding with the roar of his bubbles, then he realized what he was looking at, and he stared at the big shrouded shape that disappeared off into the freezing darkness. Old fishing nets festooned the ghostly hulk, shrouds of nets partly supported by corks, stretching off into the gloom, great ghostly waving webs as high as a house wafting slowly back and forth and towards him like giant anemones. And behind these shrouds lay the long sleek tomb, festooned in waving weed and encrusted in barnacles, and hundreds of fish swam around like sentinels.

      McQuade hung in the water, wide-eyed, his heart pounding. He felt no excitement, only a primitive fear that made him want to whirl around and flee from a haunted place, with all his pounding heart he just wanted to get the hell away from this ghastly tomb from battles long ago, thrash his way back to the surface. Then he pulled himself together.

      At least he had to get a marker-float tied to this submarine … He looked over his shoulder, desperately hoping that the Kid would appear, but all he saw was gloom out of which anything could attack him. He hesitated, his heart knocking, and he knew that if he turned away now he might never find this dreadful machine again, and kicked himself towards it.

      He was near the stern section and could just make out one rudder. It was crushed against a large shelf of rock that rose abruptly out of the swirling weed. In front of it, embedded in the sand, was part of a propeller. He swam towards it, eyes wide, pulse racing, looking for a place to tie his float onto, but quickly turned aside: it was thickly shrouded in nets. He turned and swam up the side of the submarine.

      He moved fast, ten feet off the bottom and as far away from the ghostly hulk as he could, looking for a gap in the nets through which he could safely swim, in order to tie a float onto the submarine. There were fish everywhere. The hull stretched away, disappearing, encrusted with barnacles, half buried in the sand. There were many rents and gaps in the nets, but no way was he going to try any place where he might get snagged. He swam as fast as he could, desperate to get this over; then suddenly a big shape loomed up in front of him, and he recoiled again, as if he had seen a giant; then he realized he was looking at the conning tower.

      It rose up above him, dark and menacing behind the seething nets, and immediately behind it bristled the gun platform, the guns pointing towards the surface. McQuade hovered in the water, staring at it; the guns wavering with weed, fish swimming amongst them: and oh, that conning tower was the ghostliest part of all, like a giant guarding the portal to the mausoleum below, the way he had to enter the dreadful tomb. With all his heart he just wanted to thrash his way to the surface and get the hell away from this haunted place. Then he swam slowly towards it, and he could just make out some numbers showing through barnacles on the side of the tower; the letter U, then 1, then part of 0 or the top part of 9, then another 9, then 3 or part of an 8. And, beckoning at him, was a gap in the nets. It was big enough, but he wanted to see if there was an easier place, and he turned and swam on.

      The bow section of the submarine tapered away into mistiness, wafting in broken nets, swarming in fish. McQuade swam fast, desperate to get this over. There were no holes in the hull. He swam past the portside hydroplane; it was half-buried in sand, buckled against a wedge of rock. Then the hulk tapered into the bows, and the wafting nets ended.

      McQuade swam to the bows, fearful of what might burst out at him from around the point. But only fish darted out of his way. The bows were clear of the sand, elevated slightly as if the submarine had been driven backwards into the rocks at the stern. There were the four torpedo ports encrusted in barnacles, but apparently undamaged. He peered down the long deck. It was awash in weed, the nets wafting upwards on both sides. He could not see the conning tower from here. He took a deep rasping breath and kicked, and began to swim down the deck towards it.

      He swam down the avenue of waving nets, his eyes wide and darting and his heart pounding, the long barnacled foredeck a few feet beneath him; and now he could make out some planking between the weed; on he swam, on, his breathing roaring, nets wafting on either side, then his heart lurched again as the conning tower suddenly loomed up at him, dark and menacing. Closer and closer it loomed. Then he could make out a handrail, and he grabbed it.

      He clung to the rail, the tower above him, the shrouds of nets surging about him. He buried his hand into his pouch and feverishly pulled out a cork float. He partly unwound the nylon line and tied the end to the rail. Then he released the float. It went disappearing upwards, trailing its tail of line.

      McQuade clung there, staring fearfully about. He felt no excitement about the wealth within his grasp, only the nerve-cringing dread of what he had to do, struggle and fight his way inside, down into that terrible blackness, into a charnel house, pitch black and soupy with rotten bone and hair.

      But not now. No way was he going into that submarine alone. Right now he had only one more job to do: find out if those hatches were still open. Before his nerve could fail him he kicked himself up the barnacled side of the conning tower. He clasped the rim and looked over, into the bridge.

      There was the first hatch: big and circular. And it was open.

      McQuade clung and all he wanted to do was to thrash away up to the surface, but his job was not over yet. He still had to check the lower hatch, inside the conning tower, that led down into the dreadful bowels of the mausoleum. He clung a moment longer, sick in his guts and his cold flesh creeping; then he took a deep breath, swam over the rim and down to the hole. He grabbed the hatch-cover, to anchor himself, and feverishly pulled out his underwater-torch. He thrust it down inside the hatch and peered.

      It was a ghostly sight. He was looking into a steel oval chamber, black as death, down which a ladder led. The water was completely still. McQuade stared wide-eyed into the frightening place, his bubbles roaring, darting his torch around. There were swarms of small fish, dials and instruments, rusted and encrusted and blurred and furred with barnacle and weed. He feverishly looked for the lower hatch with its telescopic tube leading down below. He swept his torch across the weed-covered deck; and there it was. It was open, but barnacle-encrusted and half-clogged with weed and anemones.

      McQuade stared at it, his torchbeam trembling. God, surely there was nothing more for him to do except get out of here … But there was: he had to find out whether that escape tube was damaged, or obstructed in some way. He flashed his trembling torch around once more, then before he could funk it he shoved his head down into the hatch, gripped a ladder-rung and kicked.

      He surged down into the conning tower, then twisted himself upright frantically and clung to the ladder, and swung his torch onto the lower hatch feverishly. He bent and parted the weed with his torch, but he could not see properly. He let go of the ladder and pushed himself down. He hovered over the hatch and parted the weed with his free hand.

      There it was, the black tube of water leading down into the charnel house below. The sides were encrusted with barnacles. Up this tube H.M. and Horst Kohler had swum forty years ago leaving scores of dead men behind. Tomorrow he had to swim down it. But he still had to find out whether anything