Bodies were still washing up down the coast near the small fishing village of Pasikudah when the Drake steamed into position offshore. The southeast monsoon season hadn’t yet blown itself out and the surface was choppy, with uneven swells and whitecaps. The Drake idled over what was thought to be Vampire’s final resting place, extrapolated from survivors’ dead reckoning and the heaviest concentration of debris and leaking fuel oil.

The Drake’s captain, a Welshman named Llewellyn, came out of the pilothouse and surveyed the frothy seas. Among the whitecaps was a calmer radius of water, flattened out by the leaking oil from the wreck below. He turned to the dark-haired man standing in the shade of the ship’s foc’sle.

“This is your operation, Lieutenant,” he said, studying the impassive eyes. “But 60 fathoms is awfully deep.”

The other man, dressed in a navy blue Mackintosh coat against the spray didn’t make eye contact with Llewellyn. “Yes it is, Captain. But needs must.” Then he turned and spoke directly. “Your crew has all signed the Official Secrets Act, I trust?”

“Yes, they have, including the divers,” the captain replied. “I’ve put the signed copies in your stateroom.” The intelligence officer nodded, turned, and walked aft along the railing with the steadiness of a man who had been to sea many times.

On the broad deck amidships, two men in red watch caps sat in heavy canvas suits while tenders fitted their heavy breastplates, cinched rope to their harnesses and fastened their lead boots. It could have been an ancient scene, squires readying armored knights for battle. Then the copper helmets were ceremonially fitted over their heads. It was difficult work in the uneven seas but the two divers joked with each other right up until their helmets were clicked into place. One tender checked the air hose connections while another confirmed that the wired telephone connection worked, with a tinny “Testing, 1,2,3…” echoing inside the helmets.

The two divers chosen for the job were the most experienced in the Royal Navy, with hundreds of hours of diving between them. One was Lionel Stanwick, a good-humored shipbuilder’s son from Newcastle. Growing up around the Swan Hunter shipyard, “Wick” as everyone called him, was well suited for salvage work on sunken ships similar to many built just down the road from his childhood home.