“Oh-two’s lost pressure!” Aitkens said in an annoyed Scottish brogue that was made even less comprehensible by the effects of the helium gas on his voice. At this depth, divers breathe a blend of 80 percent helium and 20 percent oxygen, known as “heliox.” The helium replaces all of the nitrogen in normal air to eliminate its narcotic effects. Heliox provides a clear mind but does have its drawbacks: Helium causes the vocal cords to vibrate faster, raising the voice’s pitch to a comical tone. It also carries warmth away from the body faster; hence the hot water that circulated through Aitkens’ suit.

“Sorry, pressure regulator glitch,” a tinny reply came back down through 100 meters of water. Dive Control onboard DSV Depth Charge was monitoring the entire dive via an audio feed of all divers and the cameras inside the bell and on the divers’ helmets.

McElroy, waiting on the sea bed nearby, heard the exchange, and chimed in through his own helmet’s radio, “Topside, you asleep at the wheel, or what?”

Aitkens chuckled, “We should’ve gotten paid by the hour!” No reply from above, so Aitkens thought better of continuing.

A few minutes later, the high-pressure oxygen feed from the surface resumed. “Should be good now, Rory,” Dive Control squawked. Aitkens squeezed the trigger and sparked the torch back to life.

After another 45 minutes of cutting, the plate, which now resembled a burned outline, hung by a mere few inches of uncut plate on each end. Aitkens had intentionally left these retaining tabs in place so the heavy section of hull wouldn’t fall inwards too quickly and crush what lay below it.

“I’m about done,” he announced. “Another couple of cuts and she’ll collapse in.”

“What are you waiting for?” came Rausing’s voice over the radio, sounding impatient. Rausing had lured the dive team to Sri Lanka with the promise of an easy job and good money: $25,000 each for this one night’s work, plus a bit of decompression time. And for their silence.

Aitkens was about to reply with something snarky but then thought better of it. No point in pissing off the boss. By next Monday he’d be in Bangkok’s red light district, where the girls were prettier and they washed your dick when they were done.

Aitkens lit the torch again and slowly sliced through the last small tabs of steel. The 75-year-old metal shrieked in one final protest, then hinged on itself and disappeared down into the black hold of the Vampire. A cloud of silt billowed up from inside.

“Still pretty silty,” McElroy said a minute later, shining his headlamp into the eerie cloud, “but I’m going in.” The view through his helmet faceplate reminded him of driving in a blizzard during a Scottish winter, with visibility barely the length of his outstretched arm.