The second diver was a young, sandy-haired man named Angus Rausing. Rausing cut an imposing figure with his broad shoulders, piercing pale eyes, and serious demeanor. He’d learned his craft the hard way, in the cold, dark waters of Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands. The unpopular son of Swedish immigrant parents, Angus built his own diving helmet out of an old boiler tank and some garden hose and recruited a school mate to crank the pump while he explored the German wrecks that littered the waters around the islands. When the war started, he signed up to be a clearance diver at the age of 17.

The divers and crew knew better than to ask why the Vampire took such priority over the larger British ship, Hermes. It was an unusual mission to begin with for divers used to clearing munitions and debris from shallow harbors. They were told only to try to gain entry into the bomb room near the stern of the ship and inventory its contents. Then, possibly, a retrieval.

The two men awkwardly climbed down ladders on the side of the pitching Drake. Their lead boots made descending the wet rungs treacherous in the morning swell. A gas compressor on deck was already running, sending air through the hose to the gooseneck fittings at the back of the helmets. With two thumbs down reciprocated from the tenders on deck, the divers stepped backwards into the sea and sank like stones. The tenders watched them descend in a torrent of bubbles, and then returned their eyes to the horizon, scouting for Japanese planes or ships.

The pneumofathometer on the compressor’s panel showing the divers’ depth went past 300 feet, the accepted limit of what could be safely dived while breathing air, and kept dropping. It stopped at 348 feet. The tenders held tight to the divers’ safety ropes and ensured that the air and communication lines didn’t get fouled on the Drake’s stanchions.

“I’ve lost communications, sir!” shouted the young seaman manning the two-way telephone. “I’m only getting static. Should we bring them up?” It had been only six minutes since the divers went into the water.

“Leave them another few minutes,” the Naval Intelligence officer replied calmly. “If they get into trouble, they know the rope signals.” The tenders manning the safety lines looked at each other but stayed quiet. Unbeknownst to them, 350 feet below, one of the divers was in trouble.

Stanwick had landed directly on the upturned hull of the sunken Vampire. His lead boots were better suited for walking on the sea floor than on the rounded, smooth hull of a sunken ship and he scrabbled for footing. With a gloved hand, he gripped a railing on the edge of the hull and tugged on it to steady himself. This forced him off balance and he fell to his knees, straining to stay upright.