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

entered what was a sort of workshop, with scuba cylinders on the floor, two long workbenches with tools and hoses and parts of diving regulators and tank manifolds on them. The noise was louder. He moved into the back room, which was very warm and smelled of diesel. A shirtless Sri Lankan man with the stocky, powerful physique of a wrestler was hunched over a series of tanks with noise-protection earmuffs on his head. Tusker reached out and gently tapped the man on his bare shoulder. The man jumped and swung around with wide eyes.

“Sorry!” Tusker shouted over the din. This had to be Sebastian de Silva, the owner of the Deep Blue. From what Upali had told him months earlier, Tusker knew Sebastian was a local diving legend, having been the first to locate the HMS Hermes wreck after Sri Lanka’s civil war. Divers came from all over the world to stay at his out-of-the-way resort and dive with him.

Sebastian stepped away from the tanks and into the workshop room where it was quieter. He took off the earmuffs and wiped the sweat from his face with a greasy rag.

“You can put your diving gear in here,” he said, bypassing any sort of greeting. He’d been expecting them. “With such short notice, I couldn’t get my cleaner to prepare a new room for you. You can have your… friend’s old room. Room 4.” The MOCHA team had been staying at the Deep Blue for the past couple of days while out doing their sonar work and diving. Sebastian had known the MOCHA team well, and the strain of what had happened showed on his face.

“Thanks, that’s not a problem,” Tusker said, “We appreciate you putting us up.” Sebastian ignored the comment and ducked back into the compressor room to disconnect the tank fill manifold. The compressor sang a higher pitch for a moment and then shut off. When Sebastian didn’t emerge after a moment, Tusker stuck his head around the corner.

Sebastian was sliding a set of heavy twin cylinders across the shop floor. He seemed wholly intent on his work, as if he couldn’t be bothered with niceties. If he felt bad about what had happened with the Taprobane, he didn’t show it.

Tusker persisted. “Do you have any other guests?”

“Yes, two Russians who came to dive the Hermes, a Swedish girl who’s doing a nitrox course, and then Roland. He’s Dutch. Helps me out here, driving the boat, dives occasionally.”

“I see,” replied Tusker. “We’ll get ourselves settled then and talk later.” Sebastian gave a single nod and went back to his work. Tusker walked back out to the van, where Ian had unloaded most of their gear. Srivathnan was having a smoke. He’d drive back to Galle that night. Tusker couldn’t imagine doing that trip in reverse again so soon, but the quiet driver wanted to get home.

Tusker picked up his duffel bag and slung his buoyancy harness over one shoulder. It was still damp from the previous week’s diving. Was Sebastian running this whole place by himself, with guests and dive courses to teach? he thought. As if in answer to his question, he heard an engine approach up the dusty entrance road. It was a battered blue Land Rover with a tire on its bonnet, probably from the 1970s. It came to a stop, the engine taking its time to shut off.

The driver’s-side door opened and a young woman stepped down. She flashed a brilliant white smile at Tusker. She was Sri Lankan but not dressed in the conservative saree of so many he’d seen on the streets in Galle. Rather, she wore a pair of olive-colored cotton shorts that showed off long sinewy thighs, with a khaki ribbed tank top under an unbuttoned linen shirt. On her wrist he noticed a beat-up Seiko diving watch hanging loosely on a metal band. Her hair was shiny black, knotted in a braid that hung over her right shoulder. She had a pair of Ray-Ban aviators perched atop her head. He suddenly realized he was staring at her.

“Mister… Tusk?” she asked, grinning as if she knew the effect she had on him. Her accent had the lilt of most South Asians but Tusker detected something else, as if she’d grown up or studied elsewhere. Something to ask later perhaps. She lifted a cardboard box full of plastic water bottles off the passenger seat and kicked the door of the Land Rover shut with her heel.

“Yes, Julian Tusk,” he finally replied, “but most people call me Tusker.” How ridiculous, he thought.

She laughed a full, deep laugh, almost a man’s laugh. “Why? Do you have big teeth, Mr. Tusk, or a big nose?”

“I’m just big,” Tusker winked back. “And you are… ?”

“I’m Samanthi, Sebastian’s daughter. I assume you’ve met Thathi, er… my father, already,” she continued. “And Tusker, you can call me Sam.” The smile again.

She remembered something and her face fell. “Dinesh from MOCHA told us you were arriving this afternoon. I’m really sorry about the circumstances. We really were fond of Upali and his team here. What a tragedy.”

“Thanks, yeah,” Tusker replied, following Sam as she carried the box to the Deep Blue’s kitchen. “We came straightaway when we got the news. Any new developments you’ve heard today?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Sam said, “Things progress slowly here in the best of times, Tusker. And this is not the best of times. The police are investigating what happened, but it’s a bit tough when the crime scene—if it was a crime—is at the bottom of the ocean.”

Ian joined them. “Has the navy offered to help? Surely they’ve got divers who could check things out.”

“That would make sense,” she answered, “but things here don’t always make sense. There’s a bit of a turf war between police and military, leftover grudge from the war, I guess.”

“Maybe we can offer some assistance to the police,” Tusker chimed in, “given our… unique skill set.” He gestured to his dive gear.

“They’ve only just buoyed