Malcolm Rausing emerged from his stateroom aboard the Depth Charge, locked the door, and descended the stairs to the dive deck. On the steel staircase overlooking the moon pool, he paused. It was pitch black aboard the ship, as he’d ordered, but he could hear the clanking of metal and the low chatter of men working below, readying the hoist and diving bell. The air was moist and smelled of the sea. The ship rolled heavily on big swells. These weren’t ideal conditions for diving, but Rausing couldn’t wait any longer.

Murray and Aitkens had been waiting in the hyperbaric chamber for three days since their first dive to the Vampire, remaining in saturation at an effective 350 feet of pressure until their second attempt to salvage the bomb. They passed the time watching porn on the internet, reading, and sleeping. McElroy’s personal effects lay in a heap on his bunk, a constant reminder of his horrific fate, but the two divers didn’t dare speak of him. They’d be diving without a third, a bell man. It would be risky, but then everything about this project was.

“Keep yer feckin’ dirty clothes on yer bunk, will ya?” Murray threw a pair of thermals at Aitkens, who laughed. The two men had known each other for years, having dived together out of Aberdeen in the ‘90s. It was Murray who’d coaxed Aitkens out of retirement for this “easy money” job in Sri Lanka, and the two men intended to treat it like a tropical holiday. They’d already planned to fly to the Maldives the next week with their newfound wealth.

“Prepare to transfer to the bell,” came the disembodied voice from Dive Control. Murray nodded up at the camera in the corner of the room. The two men moved to the ladder and climbed up to the pressure hatch in the ceiling.

“Equalized. Transfer to the bell.” Aitkens climbed the ladder, spun open the lock and pushed the hatch up into the diving bell. It was hot and muggy inside, and the two Scottish divers’ faces shone with sweat. Murray closed the hatch with a thud and spun the lock shut. They sat down on the metal benches surrounding the hatch, which would be their exit to the sea, while the hoist slowly began to lift them off of the pressure chamber. The men braced themselves as the bell swung free and rocked lightly. Like astronauts in a crude capsule, they were about to be sent into an alien and hostile environment.

“Good dive, gentlemen,” came Dive Control’s voice. Then Rausing’s voice.

“The cargo should be close to the hatch, with the lift bags still attached,” he said coldly. “Bring the hoist over to the opening so you can secure it close to the wreck.”

“Piece of cake, skipper,” Murray replied. “Like hooking a dead fish.” His joke was met with silence.