Last Op

Chapter 2

During summer months, it wasn’t unusual for the water temperature to reach sixty-two degrees in the Celtic Sea. When the sea was calm, visibility underwater could be sixty-five feet, but the currents here can be strong. It’s at this point where sea meets the English Channel.

Today he wore a regular wetsuit, more than enough to keep him comfortable, considering the temperatures he’d been exposed to in the past. He still remembered the sensation of sudden chills as freezing water would seep into the neck of his drysuit when missions took him into the Bering Sea, North Atlantic or Pacific.

He didn’t have his Draeger, only scuba tanks, swim fins and mask. Grant Stevens wasn’t on any mission, but on two weeks’ leave. And he was in one of his favorite playgrounds — water.

Six days ago he arrived at RAF Mildenhall and spent the night at the military lodge. The next day he rented a car and drove seventy miles to London. After making a quick stop at Navy Headquarters on Audley Street, he headed to his final destination for some well deserved R&R.

Newquay, once just a small fishing port, had grown into a favorite vacation spot for the British. The population was normally fifteen thousand, but during the summer season it swelled to nearly one hundred thousand. This coast of England had become known as the “Cornish Riviera.”

Quaint shops lined narrow streets throughout the downtown area, with Newquay Harbor sheltering a small fleet of fishing boats and private boats, both motor and sail.

Tolcarne, Towan and Fistral were three of the popular wide, soft sand beaches near downtown, with Fistral being a famous beach for surfers. A well-known fact for those who came here, was the tide along this coast could range from ten to twenty feet.

Grant wasn’t here for sightseeing, though. He came specifically for scuba diving. The southern point of the U.K. was known for having some of the best dive sites in all of Cornwall.

Hearing the sound of scuba bubbles, Grant swam around the forward section of a sunken ship. Today’s dive was a non-penetration dive, meaning he and his dive buddy would only swim over and around the outside of this particular wreck. He checked the oxygen levels in his tanks then gave an okay sign to his dive buddy who was swimming toward him.

When Grant drove down from Newquay in search of a dive boat, he met Chaz Davis. Davis was one of the owners of the dive shop, Ro An Mor (in Cornish means “Pride of the Sea”), and the dive boat — Goin’ Down. When Davis asked about Grant’s diving qualifications, Grant simply said he was a Navy diver on leave.

Davis, thirty-two years old, was nearly six feet tall, with straight, sandy-colored hair hanging just below his ears. He looked as if he worked out at the gym everyday, but it was the constant lifting of scuba tanks and swimming in strong currents that kept him in shape.

He reached for a small underwater slate and pencil attached to his weight belt. He wrote: “Reef?”

Grant responded with a thumb’s up, and the two swam side by side toward the granite pinnacle.

The granite pinnacle of the Runnel Stone rose from one hundred fourteen feet or more, to within twenty feet of the surface. At one time the pinnacle used to show above the surface at low water. In 1923, the SS City of Westminster was headed to Rotterdam when it struck the pinnacle, knocking the top off. The remains of the ship rested in ninety-eight feet of water, jammed into a gully on the eastern side of the stone.

The position of the Runnel Stone, one of the most dangerous areas for ships, was currently marked by a buoy with a flashing light and bell that pealed with the movement of the waves.

Ascending the reef slowly, they encountered a variety of marine life, then with one arm reaching straight overhead, they broke the water’s surface.

Grant removed his mouthpiece, spitting out seawater. Treading water, he raised the face mask, letting it rest on top of his head. Davis was next to him, waving for the dive boat.

“That was one helluva dive!” Grant said with a grin, as he shook water from his head, then wiped a hand over his face.

Davis gave a thumb’s up. “Wait until tomorrow when you see the next spot!”

The dive boat pulled alongside. The two men handed their swim fins to one of the crew, then they climbed the ladder onto a teak platform on the stern. They sat on the edge, their legs dangling over the side, as a crewman helped them with their tanks.

Grant pushed his wetsuit hood back, as he was handed a towel. “So, where we going tomorrow?”

Davis scrubbed his hair with a white towel, as he answered, “Mount’s Bay. There’s a wreck of a steamer down about thirty meters. Her hull is pretty much intact, with the screw and rudder still in place.”

Grant nodded. “Hey, isn’t that where St. Michael’s Mount is?”

“It is,” Davis answered. “Want a tour?”

“When we’ve finished touring underwater!”

St. Michael’s Mount is the Cornish counterpart to Mont Saint Michel in Normandy, France, with the same wicked tides. It was simply known by the local Cornish as “The Mount.”

“Ready to head in?” Davis asked, as he stood on the platform.

“Let’s go,” Grant responded, as he followed Davis into the boat. Grant changed into a pair of jeans, white T-shirt and sneakers. A shower would have to wait until he got back to the hotel.

Once the boat was docked in the harbor and the gear offloaded, the two men rinsed their wetsuits with fresh water, then Grant stored his in a wetsuit bag.

Davis walked with him to the rental car, a British racing green MGB roadster. The convertible top was down.

“Where are you staying in Newquay, Grant?”

“The Atlantic,” Grant answered, dropping the wetsuit bag in the boot (trunk). He went around the side and reached over the door, lifting his baseball cap from the seat.

“Have you been to the pub, the Sailor’s Arms?”

Grant shook his head, as he put on his cap. “No. Something special?”

Davis laughed. “Well, it was until you Yanks invaded!”

Arching an eyebrow, Grant asked, “We invaded a pub?”

“Yank Marines and Navy from St. Mawgan have called it ‘home’ for several years now. Why don’t I drive up and meet you there tonight? We’ll lift a pint or two.”

“Sounds good! How about 2100 hours? That’s nine p.m. Brit time,” Grant smirked. He eased his 6’1” frame behind the right-hand drive steering wheel, then started the engine, and shifted into first gear.

Davis slapped the car door. “Stay on the proper side of the road, Yank! That’s the left side to you!”