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

Despite the impulse to hurry, Sam and Tusker slowly, deliberately ascended, no faster than 30 feet per minute, until they reached their first stop, prescribed by Tusker’s Sherwood computer. The deco plan he’d scrawled on his wrist slate before the dive was obsolete given their added bottom time swimming the length of the wreck and searching for the anchor line. Now their safety was left to the dive computer’s algorithms, which would adjust on the fly as they ascended. And that would only get them to the surface.

They hung at 120 feet for eight minutes. At least there was some light filtering down from the surface now. Tusker looked across at Sam. He could see the worry crease her face, even behind the mask and hood. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. He wanted to reassure her that it would be OK, he’d somehow get them out of this, even though he knew it was a lie. He reached out and gripped both of her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. Her expression didn’t change.

He thought of Sebastian, back at the Deep Blue. It was 3:30. He’d be back from diving the Hermes with the Russians and wonder where they were. Tusker wished he’d told someone else where they were going. At least then a search party could be mounted when they didn’t return. It was basic safety on any expedition to tell a few people where you were going, but Tusker had been impulsive, reckless.

And what of Roland? Would he have dared to go back to the Deep Blue, or was he gone for good? Tusker was convinced now that he was somehow connected to all of this—the Depth Charge, the Vampire. Who knows, maybe he was even the one who’d blown up the Taprobane. Tusker vowed to find him. What he’d do when he did he wasn’t sure. But first, they had to somehow get ashore. And at the moment, that possibility seemed remote.

The Sherwood beeped. Time to go up to the next stop. 80 feet for seven minutes. Tusker checked his pressure gauge. He’d breathe down the big tanks as long as he could but soon they’d need something with a little more oxygen to speed decompression. He glanced over at Sam’s gauges, upside down. She was fine. He found himself studying her as they hung in the current. She floated horizontal and motionless, her fins out behind her, perfect form. Decompression was best if your entire body was in the same plane, to allow equal off-gassing from all tissues. Even here, behind the tangle of hoses and tanks, she looked athletic and confident.

Beep. Time to ascend. At 60 feet, Tusker and Sam switched to their 80-cubic-foot bottles of nitrox, a blend of 50 % oxygen and 50 % nitrogen. The nitrogen would be nearly harmless at this depth and the extra oxygen would accelerate their decompression. These tanks would have to take them up to the ten foot stop, where they’d finally switch to a small tank of 100 percent oxygen. Tusker tried to breathe evenly. He had to make this tank last close to three hours.

And so they went on, being pulled south at progressively shallower depths. Tusker was shivering noticeably now and Sam rubbed his arms. They were up to 30 feet and the water was warm now, but the chill had gotten into his core. He was also dehydrated from sucking dry gas for three hours. His tank was down to 700 pounds per square inch, less than a quarter of its contents remaining. It would be a close call. He hoped he didn’t need to ask Sam for any of her gas.

At one point, the baritone gurgle of a boat motor seemed to come close and they both swiveled their heads, looking for it. It sounded too big to be Roland in the skiff and Tusker’s hope faded when he realized there was nothing he could do anyway to signal it. Their only hope would be if someone saw their bubbles. But at dusk, in rolling ocean swells, this was unlikely. He wished he’d brought his reel. He could have hooked on his surface marker buoy to a line and sent it up with a puff of air to drift along with them, as some signal of their presence. Rookie mistake, not bringing it. He’d been in such a hurry to clandestinely load the skiff earlier that he’d forgotten it.

After three and a half hours, the Sherwood beeped again. It was nearly as dark now as it had been down on the wreck. They ascended to ten feet, where they both switched regulators to finally breathe off of the small bottle of pure oxygen under their right arms. Tusker wiggled his limbs, trying to detect any telltale aches or pains that might be an early sign of decompression sickness. Aside from the throb in his shoulder where he’d been cut, and a stiff neck, he felt OK. They’d been careful. He was still cold and his lips felt cracked and dry. Neither of them had drunk any water for hours and who knew when they would have a chance to again. He wondered what they would see when they came to the surface. Would the shoreline be visible? Lights from a town along the coast or a boat?

At last, the Sherwood beeped a different tone. Tusker shined his torch on its display: “All Clear.” God, I hope so. He held his mask close to Sam’s and nodded. She returned the nod and they kicked the remaining ten feet to the surface.

Adrift

Somewhere off the east coast of Sri Lanka. That night.

There is no place more lonely and despairing than the open ocean. Tusker and Sam surfaced into a moonless night. The sea was black, the sky was black, the horizon was black. They might as well have been in outer space. Their chances of rescue were about as good out here.

“We need