Depth Charge by Jason Heaton (carter reed .txt) 📗

distance, as if carrying across water. An outboard? The Taprobane was anchored offshore and though theft from boats wasn’t common here, he was glad they brought the ROV and sonar equipment ashore every night.

His mind turned to the Depth Charge and the meeting he’d be having in a few hours up in Trincomalee with the navy lieutenant. He’d been vague on the phone when he scheduled the meeting. He wanted to make one more visit to the Vampire with the ROV before he presented his evidence, just to be certain.

The sound of the motor stopped, replaced by the buzzing and clicking of a million nocturnal insects outside. He flushed the toilet and crept back to his bed. He was asleep within two minutes.

_________________________________________

By watching the luminous minute hand of his diving watch, Scholz knew how far he’d swum. He slowed and looked up, 15 feet to the surface. Despite the lack of moonlight, he could see the waves and the large silhouette of a boat. Slowly rising, he broke the surface near the stern. The waves slapped lazily against the hull and the automatic bilge pump piddled out a stream of water and then shut off.

He slipped off his black fins and set them on the boat’s transom, then silently climbed out of the water, setting his tank and harness down in one motion. He paused to assess the open rear deck of the boat: no one aboard and the engine hatch right where he had been told it would be. He knelt and opened it, then unsealed the drybag he’d brought, pulling out what looked like a small, badly wrapped birthday gift. Except there was a tangle of wires protruding from one end, plugged into a cheap Casio digital watch.

Scholz unclipped a small torch from his harness and aimed its beam at the watch’s dial. He glanced at his own wristwatch and then fiddled with the Casio’s buttons. Rausing had told him to set the alarm for 7:00. They’d be on board by then. He reached down below the Mercury Marine engine and carefully wedged the package under its sump, then closed the hatch with a silent click.

Scholz gave one last look around, rolled up the empty drybag, shouldered his tank, and slipped into the black water at the back of the boat. Then he rotated the bezel of his compass 180 degrees, descended, and swam back the way he came.

Circle of Life

Rampart Inn, Galle Fort, Sri Lanka. The next day.

Tusker was underwater with Upali, working a dig site. He reached down to probe the sea bed, then saw his arm was bare. No wetsuit. No scuba gear at all. He was holding his breath. He waved his arms to get Upali’s attention—I need your regulator!— but Upali didn’t seem to notice. His friend swam just out of reach. Tusker kicked up, up, up toward the surface, felt his lungs about to burst.

He awoke, gasping, bathed in sweat.

Tusker rubbed his eyes. He’d had the dream before. What did it mean? He was never much for psychoanalysis or dream interpretation, but maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. The fan was buzzing on its stand in the corner. What had woken him?

There was a loud knock on his door. It was Sidath, the guesthouse owner, holding a tray with tea. Back home, Tusker was a coffee drinker, but since coming to Sri Lanka, he preferred what they did best here.

“Your friend, Mr. Walsh, is waiting for you downstairs, sir,” Sidath said quietly.

“Thanks, Sidath,” he said blearily, clutching his poorly tied sarong in one hand and reaching for the mug with the other. Sidath tipped his head side to side, in the typical South Asian expression that could mean a dozen things, this time, “You're welcome," then turned and padded quietly down the hallway.

Tusker shut the door and took a long draw on the tea. It was strong and sweet with milk, the color of wet clay and utterly delicious. Odd for Ian to come so early, thought Tusker, glancing at his watch. With Upali gone for the week, they’d agreed on a later start today. Maybe Ian forgot. In any case, Tusker thought, I’ve still got time for a shower and my tea. Ian can wait a bit.

He set the mug down on the small desk, dropped to the floor and hammered out five quick sets of 20 pushups. Though slinging diving gear all day was a workout by itself, Tusker had kept up this routine since college. He hated the gym, and his only steady exercise was pushups and the occasional open-water swim when he had the chance. By the time he was done with the fifth set, his lean, muscled torso glistened with sweat.

He walked over to the window and finished the tea in a few gulps. The fort was waking up. A man pedaled by on a heavy bicycle with an impossibly large load of fish on the back, no doubt the previous night’s catch. Tusker’s eyes caught those of an older woman in the upstairs apartment across the road, who was hanging wet towels to dry. He smiled at her but she averted her gaze and went back inside. Tusker was still shirtless, and suddenly felt very white and exposed.

When Tusker arrived in Sri Lanka six months ago, Upali had arranged lodging for him in a small guesthouse, the Rampart Inn, on Pedlar Street inside the Galle Fort. The inn was a small two-story building wedged between a trendy cafe and a Buddhist monastery. Just across the road were the sloping grassy ramparts, topped with stone battlements that dropped off to the sea 50 feet below. These ancient fort walls were what saved the residents of the fort from the wall of water that rolled in on Boxing Day, 2004, while most of the rest of Galle town was obliterated. Sidath had owned the Rampart Inn since the 1980s, and it had become a favorite of aid workers and NGOs during the aftermath of