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

“Tusker?” Just as he’d made up his mind, Sam’s voice came on the intercom. He closed his eyes, imagining her dark eyes, her glossy hair. “Tusker, look, I can take care of myself up here. You just finish what you started.” She almost sounded cheery. “Besides, this asshole doesn’t scare me.” Then, a sharp noise, and silence. Tusker clenched his jaw. Damn it!

“Consider my offer, Mr. Tusk,” Rausing’s voice again. “Finish the job and we’ll bring you to the surface. We’ll lock Ms. de Silva in the hyperbaric chamber. You can join her there and decompress… together.” There was a smirk in the voice.

Tusker looked around the bell for anything of use. There was a dive helmet, a cutting torch, some coiled umbilical. Nothing to aid in his escape. He had to cooperate. They had no doubt pressurized the chamber now, with Sam in it, effectively trapping her at the same depth as he was.

“My offer expires in ten seconds, Mr. Tusk,” Rausing said, impatient. “Then we’ll flood the bell and decompress the chamber with Ms. de Silva in it. Have you ever seen what happens to a body under rapid decompression, Mr. Tusk?”

The water below the hatch started to rise, bubbling into the bell. It swirled around his ankles. They had started decompressing the bell, allowing the sea to fill it up. He would either be decompressed too quickly, or drown. He wasn’t sure which would happen first.

“You win, Rausing,” he shouted. “I’ll go hook the bomb.”

“Wise decision, Mr. Tusk. Use the spare helmet attached to the Diver 3 umbilical. Secure it to the hoist and then return to the bell. Then we’ll see you on board. And don’t try anything stupid. We can see everything you do.” The radio clicked off.

Tusker pulled the yellow helmet over his head and switched on the valve marked “Diver 3”. With a hiss, breathing gas gushed into the helmet. He took a last look at the camera and stepped back into the dark sea.

The Depth Charge

Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa. The same night.

When Sam opened her eyes, she couldn’t see anything. Her scalp felt tender and damp. Even turning her head resulted in such pain, she almost passed out.

Swimming back to the skiff where Thathi was waiting in the dark, she’d been intercepted by a rubber boat with a powerful outboard motor. Two men silently hauled her aboard and threw her dive gear over the side. Before she could even scream, one of the men hit her and pulled a sack over her head. She felt the fast boat swing crisply around and moaned helplessly as it bounced on the swells back to the Depth Charge. Then, still blinded by the sack, she was pushed up a metal staircase, two decks above the water line. She heard shouts and more footsteps approaching, and could feel the sway of the ship on the swells and the sound of ocean spray.

One of the men who’d captured her roughly pulled the sack off her head. She stood, squinting and dripping in her wetsuit, on the dive deck. Then she saw a familiar face: Roland’s.

“I suppose yer wantin’ a cup of tea now, eh?” He stood across from her, wearing Tusker’s red Mount Gay Rum cap, his feet planted wide and his arms at his sides. He wore a large knife in a sheath at his hip, prominently displayed for her to see. “But first,” he grinned and eyed her hungrily, “we should get you out of those wet clothes.” He warily walked towards her, one hand on the knife’s handle.

Sam remembered her own dive knife, in a leg sheath strapped over her wetsuit. It was a small, razor-sharp Spyderco she’d bought in Australia and always carried for cutting fishing nets. Her captors hadn’t noticed it in the darkness. She tried to appear weak as Roland approached.

“I always wanted to see what you look like under that wetsuit, but had to play nice around yer daddy.” He stepped closer and whispered, “Rausing can’t expect us to not have a little fun now and then.” The two men who’d brought her aboard stood a few feet behind Roland, and looked at each other uncomfortably.

Roland was close enough that Sam could smell his sour nicotine breath. She let out an exaggerated groan and doubled over, as if in pain. “Get up!” hissed Roland.

In the same movement, she managed to pull the small blade from its sheath and conceal it in her palm. She stood up, facing Roland. Her head was pounding. Bending over had made her light headed. Don’t pass out now!

Roland held up his knife. It was the same one he’d always carried on the skiff and around the dive shop, corroded and probably dull. He poked its tip through the front of her wetsuit at her chest and slid the blade up, parting the neoprene. Up near the neck, where the rubber seal was thicker, the blade snagged and Roland used both hands to saw at the material. Now! Sam pivoted the tiny Spyderco in her hand so she gripped the hilt. In one motion, she grabbed the back of Roland’s sweaty head with her free hand and punched the knife into his left eye. He screamed and fell away, clutching his face. Both knives hit the ship’s steel decking with a clatter.

“Bitch!” Roland screamed.

Sam was already running. She’d been brought aboard forward of the moonpool, which was open to the sea. Sam could hear waves lapping deep within it and she briefly thought of jumping into it. But then she’d be trapped. She skirted the moon pool on the starboard side and when she reached the ship’s railing, she looked both directions. To her right, she saw her two captors jogging towards her. Above them at the pilothouse railing was Rausing, glowering down at her with those pale eyes. Sam turned and continued running, finding herself suddenly on