McElroy tentatively climbed down into the maw. Dive Control could only hear his breathing become rapid as he struggled among the debris. Most of it was unrecognizable as anything from a warship from its seven decades decaying underwater. The bulkhead to his right had partially collapsed in and with it, what appeared to be a shelf unit or rack that had spilled its contents into a jumbled pile that McElroy slipped on as he made his way. Artillery shells? Pipework? Bottles? He tried to discern by the cylindrical shapes he felt with his booted feet. It occurred to him that it might be unexploded ordnance and tried to tread lightly on the debris.

After a half-minute of heavy breathing, McElroy finally spoke. “I don’t see the cargo,” his Scottish-accented, helium-distorted voice came through. “It’s a mess in here, shit everywhere.”

“Whatever it takes,” came the reply. It was Rausing’s voice. McElroy could picture him standing in Dive Control, arms folded. “Given its size, it’s most likely fallen to the very bottom of the room.”

Easy for you to say. McElroy picked his way down, further into the jagged, twisted obstacle course that conspired to entangle him. He knew what he was looking for. Rausing had prepared them for this, with archival photos, ship’s plans, and sketches.

Then he saw it, lying on top of what used to be a stack of wooden crates, now long since disintegrated into rubble that would crumble at the slightest touch. It looked like a cartoon drawing of a bomb, with a bulbous nose and tail fins. It was about the size of his prized 1972 Mini Cooper back home in Dundee, McElroy thought, momentarily amused. Probably weighs as much too.

He located two lifting rings on what would have been the top of the bomb, unfurled two large yellow JW Automarine lift bags, and clipped one to each ring. Then he held a pneumatic hose underneath the bags’ open ends. He carefully puffed gas into each one until they evenly inflated, lifting the heavy, bulbous cylinder from its resting place. As it rose from the bottom, it dislodged a cloud of silt that rendered McElroy blind. According to plan, Aitkens was waiting outside the wreck, ready to secure the lift cable that snaked down from a powerful hoist onboard the Depth Charge.

“Ach, I’m having trouble seeing in here,” came McElroy’s voice. He sounded rattled.

“Calm yourself, McElroy.” Rausing’s voice again, with no measure of reassurance, only a command. He abhorred incompetence and fear, especially if either got in the way of his goals. Then, to Aitkens: “Can you reach the cargo yet?”

“Negative,” Aitkens replied, “It’s still too deep inside.”

Before Rausing could reply, there was a muffled cry and McElroy’s panicked, helium-inflected voice cut in. “I’ve slipped down the hold and somehow wedged my foot in something.”