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

was still and hot, but he dared not open the windows, lest a swarm of malarial mosquitoes come for his moist, pale skin. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. It was close to midnight. He was exhausted, but something wouldn’t let him sleep just yet.

In the corner of the room, Upali’s belongings were neatly arranged. He padded over and gingerly sorted through them. It seemed almost sacrilege. A large black cockroach flitted out from beneath the duffel bag, making straight for the bathroom door. Tusker jumped back, swore, and nearly stomped on it before realizing he was barefoot. “You live another day,” he called after it.

He picked up Upali’s leather and canvas shoulder bag, the faded one Tusker had given him many years ago as a birthday gift. “It’ll help you fit in better here,” Tusker had joked with him. Upali had carried it throughout their college days in Michigan. A wave of sadness passed through Tusker as he opened it.

Inside was a notebook and laptop computer, along with an energy bar and a crumpled lightweight rain jacket. He pulled out the notebook and thumbed its pages, which were rippled and smeared from moisture. He found the last page. In Upali’s hurried, sloppy penmanship was simply a set of GPS coordinates and the word, underlined: “Helmet?”

Had they found a military helmet? If it was a navy vessel, this wouldn’t be unusual. So why had he questioned it?

Tusker set aside the notebook and pulled out the laptop, an old MacBook covered in decals. He opened it and booted it up. It was locked. Tusker cursed. What was Upali’s password? He tried to remember if he’d ever shared it. He tried a few configurations of “UpaliK,” to no avail. Then variations of “MOCHA,” with no luck. What was Upali’s mother’s name? His cat?

Then something came to mind. Back at Michigan Tech, he and Upali’d taken a course in deep-water shipwreck archaeology. The most famous wreck in the Great Lakes was the Edmund Fitzgerald, a 700-foot long freighter that sank in a storm in 1975. It was a case study in how to survey a deep wreck, since the ship lay in over 500 feet of water in Lake Superior. “The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee.” The Lightfoot song. They’d just been singing last week in Galle. It was worth a try.

Tusker typed “gitchegumee.” The computer screen opened up. There was a series of folders on the computer’s desktop named for dates. He chose the last one and opened it. It was a series of video files with long, nonsensical names. He methodically began double-clicking on each one, watching the harsh, contrasty footage from what was obviously the ROV. It showed the Vampire. There was the bow railing; there was a nine-inch cannon. The crumpled superstructure. Incredible. But no clues.

Tusker yawned and looked at his watch. It was 1:30. He opened the last video. The ROV was approaching a hatch in the hull of the wreck. It went in, its landing skid barely brushing the edge of the opening. Damn, Suresh was good. The bright lights pierced the darkness inside the ship, and then, there it was. Tusker’s skin went cold.

He picked up the notebook again. Now it made sense. The helmet.

Exotic Gas

Four miles south of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The next day.

“That’s suicide!” Sebastian shouted over the noise of the compressor. “I’m sorry, but we aren’t equipped to support a dive that deep. You’d need safety divers, bailout bottles, and a bigger boat for all those cylinders!” He switched off the compressor and turned to face Tusker. “You’ve already put one diver in the chamber this week. More than that starts to look bad for business!”

Tusker stood with his hands in his pockets. He’d anticipated this reaction when he told Sebastian he wanted to dive the Vampire instead of the Taprobane. “Look, I appreciate your concern and the seriousness of doing a dive like this. I’ve done it before, in far more dangerous conditions.” Back in ’08, Tusker led an expedition to dive the wreck of the Carl D. Bradley, to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of that freighter’s sinking. It had gone down in 330 feet of water in Lake Michigan, taking all but one of its 30 crew members with her. Not that it mattered. Sebastian didn’t ask.

Sebastian brushed past Tusker. “Well, you’re not going out on my boat and I’m not letting my daughter go with you.”

“OK, fine,” Tusker called back and followed Sebastian out of the workshop. “We’ll stick to the Taprobane. I assume Roland can take us again?”

Sebastian stared warily for a moment then nodded. “Yes. He’s already loading the boat. Samanthi will be here at 9:00.”

Tusker went back into the workshop and gathered up his dive gear, remembering to give his booties a good shake. He’d go down on the Vampire. After Sebastian left with the Russians in the morning, he’d load up the extra tanks. Roland surely wouldn’t care which wreck they dove. And Sam could be a safety diver. He wouldn’t expect her to take the same risk as him, but he could use her help during the long deco stops, ferrying extra bottles down to him.

Hanging next to his own kit was Ian’s, still damp from yesterday’s diving. Tusker thought of his friend, lying up in Trinco in the hyperbaric chamber.

Was he being reckless? Would it be smarter to go plead with the police or the navy to investigate? He could show them the ROV footage and tell them about the Taprobane.

No. That could take days, and imagine looking at the police captain’s face again; besides, the police and the navy had a turf war. The Vampire. He owed it to Upali, and now to Ian, to sort this out himself.

He heard the crunch of a vehicle on the gravel driveway behind the workshop. It was the old blue Land Rover. Sam stepped out. The driver’s door didn’t