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

Tusker knew Ian was waiting, but he badly needed a shower, having skipped one last night. The previous day, he’d borrowed a bicycle and ridden down to the resort town of Unawatuna. There he spent the day playing cricket with the local kids, and pounding back Lion lagers at a beach bar until midnight. As he flicked on the anemic fluorescent bulb in the bathroom, he caught movement up near the ceiling. A gecko clung to the wall, its tail flicking. In its mouth was a half-consumed black cockroach, rear legs still twitching. “Circle of life,” Tusker said aloud.

He dropped his sarong to the floor and turned on the bathtub’s tap. There was no shower curtain and the leaky plastic spray wand was on a hose connected to the spigot. There was only one handle: cold. Rust-colored water gushed out. When it cleared, Tusker braced himself and stepped into the tub. Now he was awake.

He brushed his teeth and finger-combed an unruly mop of blonde hair away from his forehead. In the mirror, under the fluorescent light and against his deeply tanned face, his eyes looked even more blue. He noticed the creases seemed to be getting more pronounced, and remembered his ex-wife always telling him to wear sunscreen to stay looking young. Can’t help things now, he thought, and switched off the bathroom light.

The relative cool of dawn had quickly evaporated, replaced by the sultry heat that would build all day. Tusker hoped they could finish surveying the promising site they’d found last week. It’d be great to finish out his stay in Sri Lanka with a big discovery.

He dressed in a pair of rumpled cotton cargo shorts and one of those supposedly “insect proof” shirts he’d stocked up on before coming to Sri Lanka. He filled his water bottle from a jug in the corner of his room, tucked it in his backpack and headed downstairs. He’d grab a couple of egg hoppers, those delicious thin coconut pancakes unique to Sri Lanka, from the stall next door to take along for breakfast.

Ian was waiting for him in the lobby with a grave face.

“Bad weekend?” Tusker asked. “Did that girl at The Lighthouse shoot you down again?”

Ian ignored his joke. “Took your sweet time getting down here,” he said.“Upali’s dead.”

“Well, that’s a pretty extreme way to get out of digging in the mud here,” Tusker said, smiling. “Come on, let’s grab some hoppers and get down to the shed. We found something promising on Friday that I want to show you.”

“No, mate, I’m serious. The research boat caught on fire and they’re saying no survivors.” Ian’s eyes were dark and earnest. He held up his iPhone to show a news site’s homepage. There was an old file photo of the R/V Taprobane, MOCHA’s sonar and dive boat. Headline: “Ministry Boat Sunk, No Survivors.”

“When did this happen? It has to be a mistake. I got a text yesterday from Upali saying they’d found something.” Tusker snatched the phone from Ian’s hands and pulled it close to his face, as if looking for some clue that this was a hoax.

“It was early this morning, apparently. I got a call from Dinesh at MOCHA in Colombo an hour ago and came here straightaway,” Ian said. “I couldn’t quite gather what had happened. He said the boat just suddenly exploded or something. There was a search, fishermen helped and all, but they’ve found no survivors. Dinesh is driving over to Batti this morning to meet with the police.”

Tusker handed the phone back and stared at Ian. “What the hell? That was a pretty new boat. Upali’s always safe. I’m going to go over there. You got the van here?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, outside. I already packed some things. I assumed you’d want to head over there.”

Tusker wasn’t listening anymore. It was only a few days earlier when he and Upali were diving in Galle harbor and clinking lagers in the shed. Now, gone. It hit him viscerally, like a blow to the back of the head.

The winter when Tusker met Upali was one of the coldest Michigan’s Upper Peninsula had faced, the kind where you leave your car running all night so it starts the next morning. Tusker remembered sitting in the archaeology department’s lab, looking out the window and seeing this Indian-looking guy repeatedly slipping and falling on the icy sidewalk. He was wearing a cheap parka that was woefully inadequate in the face of the minus-30 windchills.

Tusker loved the winter, relishing the challenge of not only surviving it, but getting out and enjoying its frigid beauty. He and Upali couldn’t have been more opposite, but ended up sharing an apartment on campus and became best friends. Upali would always crank up the thermostat when Tusker was away so that when Tusker would return, he’d find Upali studying at the dining table in shorts and a T-shirt. Tusker would turn down the heat and fling open the windows, Upali laughing gleefully. Then he’d do it again the next day.

During the next four years at school, Tusker learned to cook curry and eat spicy foods. Upali learned to ski. Tusker grew to respect Upali for tolerating not only the cold and the chilly drysuit dives in Lake Superior, but also the homogeneous culture of the upper Midwest. By the end of their third year, they were selling curry packets out of the back of Tusker’s pickup truck at the farmer’s market, a little slice of Sri Lanka in Michigan.

“We can collect our dive gear at the shed and then head out.” Ian broke into Tusker’s thoughts. “I’ve phoned ahead to this guy, Sebastian, who runs the Deep Blue, where the MOCHA team was staying. He said we can stay there.”

Newly vacant rooms, Tusker thought and grimaced. He was already turning to head back upstairs. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’m going to grab a few things in my room.”

The MOCHA van was one of those small Toyota models you see all over the