"Grantville Gazette.Volume 22" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

Deep Water
Kerryn Offord

In October of 1633 Al and Sam Morton became instant heroes when they sank six enemy ships at anchor in the River Trave just down river from the city of Luebeck.

But that was then.

It took all of a couple of weeks before the city fathers reconsidered the status of the Mortons. In their careless enthusiasm, the brothers had sunk the ships plumb in the middle of the deep water channel. It was potentially a very expensive problem. With the channel effectively blocked, shallow draft coastal ships could sail around the wrecks, but no large merchant would be able to make it in or out of Luebeck. Someone was going to have to clear the deep water channel. The city fathers dumped the problem on the people responsible for creating it: Al and Sam Morton.

June 1634, Travemunde, Luebeck Bay

Sam Morton reassembled the non-return valves and attached the first one to the testing rig. These valves were too important not to be tested regularly. If he and his brother had ever forgotten the stories from their dive instructor about his time as a hard-hat diver, the recent stories coming out of Denmark would have been more than enough warning.

"Any word on a new diver yet?" Al asked.

Sam shook his head. "Nah, I guess the stories coming out about King Christian's latest execution machine have scared everyone off."

"You'd think the fact that we use the rig ourselves would be enough to give them confidence."

"Nah. They think we've just been lucky so far."

"Lucky? It's proper safety systems and preventative maintenance that's stopped us from having any system failures. Do they have any idea what the consequences are of a systems failure underwater?"

"You mean like what happened in Copenhagen?" Sam asked. "I think they know what the consequences are and they aren't willing to risk them."

"What we need is someone who doesn't know about the events in Copenhagen, or is too dumb or cocky to care."

"Where're we going to find anybody who hasn't heard about Copenhagen?" Sam asked.

"It'd have to be someone who hasn't seen the papers. That kind of death is too gruesome not to have been picked up by the media. I guess that leaves dumb or cocky, and I won't dive with 'dumb.'"

Sam grinned. "That leaves cocky, and I know someone who might fit the bill."

"Who?"

"Matt Tisdel. We certainly know he can swim."

"Yeah, I guess a state age group champion knows how to swim. Any idea what he's doing these days?"

"He was two years behind me at school, so he should have graduated this year. Let's send a cable and ask."

"Nah, we'd better go through channels and pass a request on to the Navy and let them ask Matt if he's interested in diving."

Luebeck

The harbor at Luebeck was hardly a hive of activity. The only vessels in port were those caught before the siege and small coastal traders able to make their way around the wrecks blocking the deep water channel. Miquel spat into the harbor. There was nothing there for a respectable sailor. It was the hiring hall again for him.

Miquel couldn't believe his luck. Not only did he have the chance of a job, but it was a well-paying one. If he got this job there would be no more sailor's hostel and miserable day laborer's wages. The Americans were offering employment for a whole quarter, by which time he should be able to secure a place on a ship out of Luebeck.

He looked down at the scrawled note from the hiring hall. It was in German, which he couldn't read. He approached a dockworker for help.

Travemunde, Luebeck Bay

Miquel knocked hesitantly on the door he'd been directed toward.

"Come on in, the door's open."

Miquel paused. That request had been in English. He knew enough of the language to recognize the instruction, but the accent was new. He pushed open the door to find two young men sitting at a table. "I am Miquel. I have come about the job, the diving job."

Miquel's English was fractured, and it was immediately obvious that the two young men had difficulty understanding him. He thrust the note from the hiring hall towards one of them.

Sam accepted the note, read it, and then passed it to his brother. "You have come about the diving job?"

Miquel was relieved that they spoke German, a language he knew reasonably well. "Yes, the diving job. I am a good diver. I dive for coral off the Isla del Aire."

"Where's that?" Al asked.

"It is an island off the southern tip of Menorca."

Sam shook his head. "Never heard of it. Where's Menorca, Miquel?"

Miquel tried to keep the disbelief off his face. How could they not know where Menorca was? They were up-timers; they were supposed to know everything. "It is the northernmost of the Islas Baleares." This time Miquel saw the blank looks and preempted the question. "They are islands off the Spanish mainland, east of Valencia."

"I guess if its east of the mainland it has to be in the Mediterranean." Sam said.

Miquel was surprised that the up-timer could even work out that detail. "Yes, the Mediterranean."

"A coral diver. Hey, Al, that's better than we expected. Miquel, welcome to the team."

That night

"You know what?" Al asked.

Sam rolled in his bunk and looked through the shadows toward his brother. "What?"

"I don't think Miquel knows about what happened in Copenhagen."

"How could he not know? It must have been in all the papers."

"Yeah, but I don't think he can read and write."

Sam considered that for a few moments. "Do we tell him?"

"Nah! Let's just make sure he understands about the non-return valve and what it's there for. Then when he finally hears the story, he'll understand that he hasn't been at risk."

"Okay. Now try and get some sleep. We have to start teaching Miquel how to use the dive suit in the morning."

Late June

Miquel peeked over the salvage assessor's shoulder. He couldn't read the writing, but he could read the numbers. They were low, but a fair assessment of the collection of junk which was all he'd been finding. Hefollowed the assessor into the office where Sam and Al were working.

"The assessment, gentlemen," Gotthard vonHoveln said, handing his clip board over to Al. "If this is the best you're finding on the wreck then I will authorize the final breaking up of the wreck and you may proceed to the Falken."

"You think there's anything else to find, Miquel?" Al asked.

"No. The wreck was pretty much picked clean before we started. About the only thing of any value we found were her anchors."

"Right, then I guess we blow this wreck to pieces and move onto the Falken. "

Miquel was happy to hear that. Whereas the other ships had sunk in barely a dozen feet of water-easy pickings for anybody with a boat, or willing to risk walking on the ice when the river froze during the winter-the Falken had sunk in probably the deepest hole in the Trave. With only the tops of her upper galleries breaking the surface she had to be in a hole at least thirty feet deep. That should have put the gun deck and the hold out of easy reach. The pickings should be better.

A couple of days later

Al walked into the cabin with a letter in his hand. "Sam, we've got a problem."

"How do you mean?"

"The admiral wants us in Copenhagen as soon as possible."

"So we go to Copenhagen. Where's the problem?" Sam asked.

"You're forgetting the little matter of the city fathers and their deep water channel. They're going to insist we finish what we started.

"

"Oh!"

"Yeah, oh! Miquel's competent, and the surface crews are well drilled, but for safety's sake we're going to have to find an assistant diver for Miquel before we can head for Copenhagen."

"Hell, it took long enough to find Miquel." Sam sighed. "Maybe he's got a friend."

"I don't think so. He spends nearly all his time on the dive tender."

"So what do we do now?"

"Send out an S.O.S. to the Navy. If they want us in Copenhagen, they need to find us a new diver to finish clearing the channel."

Hard hat diving. Matt Tisdel never thought he'd ever be doing that, but that was the assignment he'd been offered. There had been a few carrots attached. With the reputation of hard hat diving having taken a real dive with the stories coming out of Copenhagen, the Navy had been generous with its bribes.

He checked his travel orders. Yep, he was in the right place. He tossed his sea bags onto his shoulders and walked past the dive tender toward the office.

Matt had filled out a bit since Al had last seen him and it took a few seconds before recognition dawned. "Matt, what brings you here?"

"The Navy sent me."

Al gestured to a chair. "Take a seat. Actually we asked the Navy to ask if you were interested in doing some salvage diving, but that was a month ago."

"Well, I got my orders just a couple of days ago. Maybe they thought you still wanted me."

Sam poked his head through the door. "Hey, Matt. What brings you here?"

"The Navy sent him," Al answered.

"Does that mean I don't have to send that S.O.S.?" Sam asked.

"S. O. S.?"

"We just got instructions from Admiral Simpson to head to Copenhagen and we were wondering how we could be in two places at once. It seems you're the Navy's answer," Al explained. "So, first question how's your Spanish?"

"Spanish? Okay I guess. I've been in Ms. DiCastro's Spanish class the last three years, why?"

"Because your co-diver's a Spaniard. His English is lousy, and his German isn't a lot better. Come on through and we'll introduce you to Miquel.

Two weeks later

Miquel looked at the gun deck and swore. There was barely five and half feet of head room. Normally that wouldn't present a problem, but with the dive helmet on he couldn't stand up without banging his head. That meant he would have to go in on his knees. He pulled in enough line and air hose to give him some slack and went in.

He stumped along on his knees, dragging his weighted feet behind. Every couple of steps he reached out with his barge pole, searching in the dark for anything that might be interesting. There wasn't much though. When the Mortons sank the Falken they'd been a little over-enthusiastic. The blast that sank her had sent nearly every cannon on the Falken rolling around. He and Matt had managed to salvage the lighter cannon from the top decks and some through the gun ports, but Miquel expected to find the heaviest of them in one big tangled mess somewhere on the gun deck.

He tugged on his lines, telling Matt to give him some more slack, and moved forward on his knees, trying to keep his head high without hitting it on the low beams.

Further into the gun deck he hooked onto something solid. He worked his way closer until he was finally right on top of his discovery. It was a cannon, and one still attached to its carriage at that. He felt through his lines looking for the thick leader line. Hauling on the leader he soon had a heavy hauling line. He tied that around the cannon and worked his way back to Matt. Together they hauled on the line, to no effect.

Miquel sighed. It was too heavy and too entangled. He signaled to Matt that they should surface.

Miquel sat at the unsuiting area staring out to where the Falken just broke the surface. "The cannon are in a tangled mess and we can't move them," he told Daniel Spieker.

"What about making a lifting bag and using one of the spare air hoses to fill it?" Matt asked.

"Not enough height on the gun deck, Matt," Daniel said. "We'd need a bag about five feet in diameter, and with the gun deck barely five and half feet high, well, I'm sure you see the problem."

"Then what about cutting open the deck and lifting them straight up?" Matt asked.

"Cutting the deck with what?" Miquel asked. "Those decks have to be three or four inches thick. Using a saw underwater would take forever."

"What about explosives?" Matt asked.

"Do we have any, Daniel?" Miquel asked.

"No. The Mortons took it all with them to Copenhagen."

"Can't we order some more through the Navy?" Matt asked.

Miquel thought about it. Explosives would surely be a quick way to make a hole in the Falken's deck. "Daniel, would you write up a request for me and see that the Navy gets it?"

A week later

When he suggested ordering some explosives through the Navy, Matt had firmly expected it to arrive complete with someone skilled in its use. He'd been wrong. What they got was a demolitions kit, complete with a simple instruction booklet. The Mortons wouldn't have had any problems with what was sent, but they weren't in Luebeck.

Matt read through the booklet. On the face of it there wasn't much to working with explosives. You prepared your charge. Placed it where you wanted it. Set the detonator and after retiring a safe distance, set it off. It sounded simple. Too simple. "Miquel, I'd feel a lot better about this if we did a little experimenting with really small charges until we're confident enough to set a big charge."

"Nonsense, Matt. Sam and Al never played around with small practice charges. They went straight in and set their main charges. I have seen them do it. Read the manual and we'll see about setting our charges."

Matt sighed. It was times like this he wished Miquel could read. Then he'd know that Sam and Al didn't exactly follow best practice when using explosives. However, Miquel was the boss, and anyway, he wanted to see if he could do it.

"Okay, but I'll be placing the charges in snorkeling gear. There's no way I'm going to handle explosives for the first time in a dive suit."

"Whatever makes you happy, Matt."

Matt swam to the surface unrolling the spool of wire as he went. He handed the spool to Miquel and hauled himself onto the dive tender. "That's done. Give the order to clear the water while I connect the wires to the blasting box."

While Miquel hurried off to order everyone out of the water Matt connected the wires to the blasting box. When that was finished, Miquel was standing beside him. "All clear?" he asked.

"All clear," Miquel confirmed.

Matt nodded and started loudly calling out the countdown. "Blasting in five, four, three, two, one…"

BOOM!

The water over the middle of the wreck erupted.

"I hope that doesn't mean we used too much," Miquel commented.

"I used as much as the formulas said I needed to cut through those main beams, Miquel. What is it you're worried about?"

"If the blast was that violent on the surface, might it not have also blasted the gun deck? We don't want to make a hole in the roof just to find the cannon have fallen through a hole in the floor."

Matt stared at the wreck. Miquel had a point. The blast could have damaged the gun deck. "It should be okay. There's at least five feet of water between the charges and the gun deck. Anyway, we'll know soon enough."

Less than a quarter of an hour later Matt was back in the water in his snorkeling rig swimming around on the surface examining the hole he'd made in the Falken's deck. Satisfied that there were not going to be any danger he took a deep breath and duck-dived down for a closer look. The hole was a little bigger than he'd planned, and the edges had a lot of sharp splinters that might catch on the lines or air hoses. Whoever was acting as dive assistant would have to take special care at that point. He poked his head through the hole and looked around. With the additional light his new hole let in, he could make out the tangle of cannon and the ropes that should have restrained them. They were still going to have fun getting the cannon out, but the hole would certainly make things a lot easier.

Later that day

Matt accepted the rope from Miquel and looped it around the top cannon. When he was satisfied he tugged on a signal line and settled back in the gun deck well away from the cannon should it swing about when it lifted.

Matt found himself counting the hiss-click of his non-return valve as he waited for the cannon to start moving. Well into the four hundreds it finally started to move. Matt stopped counting and signaled Miquel.

Slowly the cannon lifted, trailing thick ropes. It was going to be his job to deal with the ropes if they caught on anything.

The cannon rose only a few inches before its progress was stopped by a rope. Matt stumped forward in his weighted boots and pulled on the offending ropes. That didn't achieve anything. Above water they'd use an axe to cut the rope, but that wasn't possible underwater. Matt had to saw at it with a machete-like blade.

After a few minutes sawing, he swapped hands. A few minutes later, he swapped back. Sweat was starting to run down his face, and the face plate was starting to fog up. There was nothing he could do about the sweat, but he could clear his face plate. He stopped sawing at the rope to suck in some water through the spit cock and sprayed it on the glass. Then he spent the next few minutes futilely trying to remove the foul taste of the river from his tongue.

Eventually he cut through the rope and the cannon rose again. To be stopped by another rope. Matt sighed and moved in to cut it away.

Matt was completely exhausted even before the cannon was freed. Watching it slowly ascend he signaled to Miquel that he needed to talk. This was way too much like hard work.

"How long did it take to clear that cannon?" Matt asked.

"You were down a bit over two hours," Daniel answered.

Matt turned to Miquel. "At this rate we could be here until Christmas. There has to be an easier way to cut those ropes."

"How would you cut them up-time?" Miquel asked.

"Cutting shears, I suppose."

"Well, we don't have any. Any other ideas?"

Matt shook his head. "No, but could we at least attach the cutting blade to a pole? Every time I had to crawl under the cannon to cut a rope I was terrified it was going to fall."

"Daniel?" Miquel asked.

"Sure, I can do that. I should have thought of it earlier actually. With a pole you should be able to use both hands and put more power into each cut."

"That would be great, Daniel. It was darned hard work doing it one handed," Matt said.

Two hours later

Miquel paused in his sawing and tried to relax his shoulders. If this was how it felt using Daniel's new cutting pole he could only admire Matt's perseverance with the hand blade. It might not take them until Christmas as Matt had suggested, but it was going to take several days to get to the bottom of the tangled pile of cannon.

That evening

Matt sank lower into the steaming bathtub. "I'm going to need a new set of shoulders tomorrow."

"You weak Americans. A little real work and you're out of work for a week."

Matt snorted. "And I didn't hear a certain Spaniard complaining about his sore shoulders?"

"No, that was just your over-active imagination. There are no Spaniards here."

"This ignorant American thinks that the Balearic Islands are part of Spain."

"Then the ignorant American is truly ignorant."

"Yeah, anyway, what are your plans for when we finish clearing out the Falken?"

"I was hoping just to save a little money and then get a place on a ship out of Luebeck, but since using the new diving equipment I've been thinking about buying a couple of the new snorkeling sets and trying my luck doing salvage work in the Caribbean."

"You mean treasure hunting?"

"Yes. On my last trip to the Caribbean, I was able to dive on the site of the Santa Margarita."

Matt heard a heavy sigh from Miquel. "What's the problem?"

"A snorkeling set will be better than what I used last time, but I would still be limited to a few minutes at a time. What I need is a hardhat suit. The trouble is, I can never afford one."

"Hey, for a share of anything you can find I'm willing to chip in some of my savings and anything we get as a bonus from this job."

"Thank you, Matt, but even if we recover all the cannon our shares wouldn't be enough for a full hard hat rig."

"Don't forget the cannon balls."

"Yes, Matt, one shouldn't forget the cannon balls. There are many thousands of them, and we will have to lift each one to the surface. You think cutting the ropes today was bad, wait until you have individually picked up three or four thousand cannon balls. It is no picnic."

Matt could feel his shoulders tighten at the thought of lifting that many cannon balls. "Does it have to be a hard hat? Why not SCUBA? How deep are you planning on diving?"

"The waters where the Santa Margarita was lost were a little over forty feet deep."

"At those depths in the Caribbean you won't need a dive suit. Why don't we talk to the guy who made the helmets and see if he can make us a SCUBA rig?"

Workshop of Asmus Brockmann

Asmus put aside the books Matt and Miquel had provided and sat back in his chair. Closing his eyes he thought about the SCUBA rig the American and his colleague wanted.

"I know the books say the diaphragm is rubber, but maybe you can use leather," Matt said.

"You are behind the times, Herr Tisdel."

"Huh?"

"You haven't heard about the Gribbleflotz Kirlian Imager?"

"No." Matt shook his head. "What's that?"

"Never mind what it is. Just accept that it uses rubber. I will ask my contacts in Magdeburg about getting some." Asmus steepled his hands. "Of course that will take time."

"How much time?"

"I'm sure I can have a working regulator available well before anybody can make SCUBA tanks."

"SCUBA tanks are going to be difficult?" Matt asked.

Asmus opened his eyes and smiled. "Anything small enough for a man to carry that holds enough air to be worthwhile will be difficult. So, do you still want me to start work on your new underwater breathing apparatus?"

"Can you make one that can connect to a surface compressor?" Miquel asked.

Asmus sat up. "You mean replace the existing helmet with just a regulator on the end of the hose?"

Miquel nodded.

"Well, I suppose that could work. There is the problem of a reservoir for the diver to breathe from…" Asmus started doodling on the pad he was using to take notes.

"Reservoir?" Miquel asked.

"Yes, normally the helmet acts as the diver's air reservoir. If you do away with the helmet, the diver needs a reservoir of pressurized air to draw on… I think we will need a storage tank. Nothing very big, just enough to ensure the diver has a steady supply of air."

"You could make one?" Matt asked.

"I think so. A reservoir tank fed from a compressor doesn't need to hold more than a few minutes of air. We can probably get away with only a couple of hundred pounds pressure. And the plumbing will be simpler. Yes, if I can get the rubber it should be possible."

Matt stood up. "Well, if there's anything we can do to help, you know where to find us."

Asmus escorted the two divers out and returned to sit at his desk. He gazed at his doodles for a few minutes before turning to a clean page and started to sketch breathing apparatus.

A week later

Matt cut the last fiber of the last rope and the cannon floated free. At last. He pushed on his pole with the saw bladed knife attached, then carefully got to his feet. Kneeling in the dive suit while he cut the ropes anchoring the cannon was extremely uncomfortable and he welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs.

As the cannon floated through the hole he'd made in the top deck he stepped forward, probing with his pole, trying to decide which of the half dozen remaining cannon to work on next.

There was a strong jerk on his safety line. Then it was repeated, rapidly. He looked up to see what was pulling on the line, and froze. The cannon he'd just seen heading for the surface was now heading for him. He threw himself backwards. At least he tried to throw himself backwards. Most of his body moved easily out of the plunging cannon's way, but his feet, each of them in special boots weighed down with nearly twenty pounds of lead, stayed anchored to the deck.

The cannon missed his foot, just, but it crashed through the gundeck, and the trailing ropes and the deflated lifting bag dragged him down.

He bashed his head on the back of the helmet when it hit the deck on the way down, then his feet hit the bottom, and his torso continued falling until it hit the cargo in the main hold.

Bruised and aching, Matt tried to step out of the tangle of ropes and lifting bag. His left foot moved easily enough, but his right foot was caught. Using his belt knife he cut away the various ropes until he could see what was holding his foot.

"Oh, shit!"

The cannon had smashed open a large box and his foot had followed the gun barrel into the box. The cannon and its carriage were crowding the opening so he couldn't pull his foot out.

He tried to reach down to remove the boot, but the bulk of the helmet and the heavy breastplate made it impossible to get a hand near his foot.

"God damn sonofabitch." Matt tried to move the cannon. It wouldn't budge. He leaned on it, breathing heavily, and wondered what the hell to do. Then he realized all he could hear was his own breathing and he knew he was in real trouble.

On deck

Everything was going as normal. Miquel had just signaled that a cannon was on its way up and preparations were being made to lift the cannon onto the tender. Then Daniel noticed the change in rhythm of the number one compressor. "Keep pumping, Hans."

A sudden increase in the rhythm of the compressor meant that the resistance to the flow of air had been reduced. It could be nothing, just a momentary glitch, or it could signal something really drastic, like a break in the air hose.

"Matt's in trouble," Jurgen Weidemann called.

"Georg, what's Miquel doing?" Daniel asked Miquel's attendant.

"He's asked for more slack," Jurgen replied.

Twenty-five feet underwater

Miquel spotted the major problem quickly. The "whip" hose between Matt's helmet and the control valve had been ripped apart, leaving him with only the air trapped in his suit. He descended toward Matt. If he could free him quickly, getting him to the surface would be a simple matter.

A few seconds was all it took to realize there was going to be no quick fix. Although the cannon carriage didn't appear to be crushing Matt's leg, it did make it impossible to free his trapped foot. Mindful that he didn't have a lot of time before Matt ran out of air Miquel tapped Matt on the shoulder and signaled that he was going up for a replacement whip hose.

Matt knew something was wrong with his air supply because he couldn't hear the regular hiss-click of the non-return valve. He must have torn it when he crashed through the gundeck. He had to trust Miquel and the support team. If anything could be done, they would do it. He just had to try and relax so they would have the maximum amount of time to change his connection to a new air hose. He tried to distance himself from what was happening, because every time he thought about his situation he started to gulp air, wasting it. A working diver at thirty-three feet needs nine cubic feet of air every minute. The helmet and suit probably have about six cubic feet.

Of course half of those nine cubic feet a working diver should receive were safety factor. So, at a pinch, at this depth, a working diver could function on only four and a half cubic feet per minute-or he could work for about one and a half minutes on the contents of the suit and helmet alone. However, right now he wasn't working. That meant the air in his suit and helmet should last longer.

But how much longer?

On deck

"Emergency ascent, Miquel's coming up. Get the stage into the water," Georg Doppel called.

Daniel swung into action. "Jurgen, Hans, help swing the stage."

The three men had the stage swung overboard and into the water when Miquel burst through the surface and bobbed about.

"Jurgen, pull him closer to the stage," Daniel called.

Jurgen used the safety line tied around Miquel's waist to pull him towards the decompression stage.

Miquel grabbed hold of the stage and pulled himself aboard. Then he unclamped the faceplate so he could call out to the deck crew. "Matt's trapped and his whip hose is torn. It's too fiddly to replace wearing gauntlets. Bring me aboard so I can unsuit. We can use my air hose and I'll free dive."

The deck crew guided the stage onto the deck, and while Hans and helped Miquel out of the helmet. Daniel ran to get the tools Miquel would need.

"Get me a face mask, and drop some weights into a tool bag as well, Daniel. I want to get down again fast. Matt doesn't have much time."

Miquel sat impatiently while Hans unbolted the breastplate and Jurgen removed the weight belt and the leather straps that held the helmet firmly down on Miquel's shoulders. He knew they were working as quickly as they could, but Matt was thirty feet underwater with only minutes of air.

Finally they got the breastplate clear. Miquel stood up as Hans and Jurgen pulled at the neck opening and the heavy suit slipped easily down his slim frame.

Miquel reached for the equipment he'd asked Daniel to get. He pulled on the up-time face mask before checking the contents of the tool bag. There were the two wrenches he'd need to reconnect the air hose and four six-pound cannon balls, more than enough to carry him straight down. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Daniel with the air hose. Miquel waited for him to tie it to the tool bag. Then with the weighted tool bad looped over his left arm, his left hand holding onto the air hose, and his right hand clamped over his face mask to stop the force of entry pulling it off, he jumped feet first into the water.

The weighted tool bag pulled him straight down onto the deck of the Falken. Within seconds he was looping the slack air hose ready to join Matt.

Matt had been drifting in and out of awareness, or maybe it was consciousness. He had a vague idea that carbon dioxide buildup would lead to unconsciousness. The fact that he was capable of that much thought reassured him. He wondered how it had been since Miquel left him. It couldn't be long, not if he was still conscious. He was breathing as slowly as he could, to give Miquel as much time as possible, but his body was starting to shake with cold. That wasn't good. It meant his body was burning the oxygen he needed to stay alive.

The clink of metal on metal ringing through his helmet dragged Matt back from the edge of panic. Then he realized something was holding his helmet. That had to be Miquel. He was back, and he was fitting a new hose to his helmet. Matt let loose a sigh of relief, and then he started worrying again. How long would it take him to replace the whip hose?

Suddenly water cascaded over the ports in his helmet. And then he heard it, the reassuring hiss-click of the non-return valve. The water must have been the contents of the whip hose. Miquel had done it. He'd saved his life.

He felt something, a hand, grasp his and squeeze it. He squeezed back. Then he saw Miquel. Hell, he was free diving. How long had he been holding his breath? Matt knew Miquel could hold his breath for a long time, but even sponge divers had limits. Which was one reason why he didn't panic when Miquel squeezed his hands once more before heading for the surface.

Matt watched Miquel follow his safety line up until he was out of sight. Then he just stood there, waiting patiently for Miquel to return, savoring to the life-giving sound of air passing through the valve.

Miquel broke the surface in a rush. "He's okay. Matt's alive," he called to the men on the support boat. "I'm going down again to try and free him."

"Understood," Daniel yelled back.

Miquel duck-dived, and using Matt's safety line, pulled himself down to Matt.

His explorations found that Matt's foot was trapped in a big, solid looking box, which had been badly damaged by the falling cannon. If the cannon had fallen another few inches its gun-carriage would have crushed Matt's leg. Instead it just obscured the opening, loosely trapping Matt's foot in the box. He tried to move Matt's foot. He could move it a little. He could even get a hand into the box to move around its contents to give more room, but the heavy dive boot wouldn't come free. He tried to unbuckle the boot, but with just the one hand he couldn't free the strap. There was only one thing for it. He reached up to Matt's belt for the dive knife.

It was a very good quality knife, with a razor sharp blade, but it still took a lot of effort to cut Matt's foot free of lacing and straps that held the heavy boot to his boot. Clamping the blade in his teeth Miquel eased Matt's bootless foot out of its trap.

Once Matt was free it was the work of a few seconds to maneuver the boot until it came free. Miquel dropped a couple of the small bags he found inside the box into the boot before pulling it out of the box. He was interested in knowing what Matt had found. He dropped the boot and it's cargo into the tool bag and passed it over to Matt. There was no way he could swim to the surface carrying all that weight, but in his dive suit Matt should have no trouble.

On Deck

"Daniel, how long to fix this?" Miquel asked, holding up the dive boot he'd cut free.

Daniel accepted the dive boot and examined the damage. "Hans could have it ready in an hour or so." Then his exploring fingers discovered something inside. He tipped the boot and two small leather sacks fell out. "Hey, what's this?"

Miquel looked on curiously. "I forgot about those. They were in the box Matt got caught in. What's in them?"

Daniel opened the drawstring on one bag and emptied it into his hand. "Silver." He looked over towards Matt. "Jeez, if you fell into a midden you'd come out smelling of roses."

Gotthard vonHoveln, the ever present salvage assessor, held out his hand. "I'll take that, thank you. As salvage from the Falken, it is the property of the city of Luebeck."

"What the hell? Matt almost died for that," Daniel protested.

"That would have been most unfortunate, Herr Spieker. However, he didn't." Gotthard held up the moneybags. "Herr d'Alcaufar, could you describe the box you found these in?"

"It was about so wide, so high, and so deep," Miquel indicated using his hands.

For the very first time since Daniel had known the lawyer, he could have sworn there was a smile on his face. "Is that good?"

"Yes, that is very good. The manifest lists two strong boxes of about the size Herr d'Alcaufar indicated. These bags are but a small portion of what should be in those boxes."

"Shit! What are we doing sitting around doing nothing while there's a fortune sitting right below us? Hans, get this fixed." Daniel tossed the heavy dive boot to Hans. "Matt, are you okay to go down again?"

"Sure, as soon as Hans fixes that boot and we can rig a replacement hose and test it."

"Right, then I declare an early mid-day break. We'll resume diving in an hour."

That evening

Matt walked over to where Miquel was leaning on the gunwale looking overboard. "Thanks."

"You would have done the same for me," Miquel muttered.

"I would have tried, but I can't hold my breath as long as you can."

"Then we are fortunate that it was you in trouble and me who was available to come to your rescue."

"Yeah, but what about next time?"

"We worry about it when it happens. Come, let's join the others in drowning our sorrow at how little of the silver the city of Luebeck is letting us keep."

A few weeks later, in the workshop of Asmus Brockmann

Matt lifted the back pack with the small reservoir tank on it. "I thought the reservoir was going to be on the surface."

Asmus nodded. "That had been my original thought, but I after you left I got to thinking. If anything happened to the air line the diver would run out of air immediately. This way he has a couple of minutes to get to the surface. Also I noticed in the books you left that the up-timers often used the SCUBA supply to inflate a buoyancy vest and thought you might like that ability."

Matt stared at the air tank. A buoyancy vest would allow a diver using the new rig to control their buoyancy just like a hard hat diver. "That's great thinking, Herr Brockmann."

"Thank you. I hope it is what you want."

Matt thought about Miquel diving in the Caribbean. They might not be able to afford a hard hat rig, but this lightweight dive rig was within their means. "I think it's exactly what we want, Herr Brockmann."

1635, near Marquesas Keys, the Caribbean

Three of the team from Luebeck had decided to accompany Miquel to the Caribbean. The whole crew, though, had contributed funds to the treasure hunters. There wasn't enough to buy a hard hat rig, yet. However, a little success using the lightweight diving rig Asmus had built and they would be able to afford to have one built according to the plans they had with them.

Miquel put on his face-mask and pulled up some slack in the lines and air hose. He clamped a hand over his face mask and jumped feet-first into the warm brilliantly clear waters of the Caribbean. Using his pole he started searching along the sea bottom.