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

pilothouse, which was visible through the thick front porthole, but as inaccessible to them as the shore itself.

“It seems we’re destined to always be lost at sea together,” Sam said, smiling wearily.

“At least this time we have rations,” Tusker replied, holding up a pair of packaged meals he’d found. “Now if we could only find the beer fridge.”

Prevailing Winds

Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa. Later that day.

It had been 30 years since Sebastian de Silva had been on a naval vessel. Now he found himself pacing the decks of the SLNS Samudra, a patrol boat stationed out of Trincomalee, a pair of binoculars pressed to the goggles of his protective mask. He was sweating profusely inside a bright orange hazmat suit. He felt a gloved hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find them, machang,” Captain Fonseka addressed him informally, though his reassurance was less than convincing. He was also wearing a hazmat suit, just like the rest of the crew who were scanning the water. Sebastian didn’t lower the binoculars from his face. The scene was carnage: dead fish, a raft of debris.

“This must have been ground zero,” he said grimly. “The radius of debris seems to spiral out from here.”

“Yes, and the prevailing wind is offshore, which is good and bad,” Fonseka replied. “The radiation cloud has blown to the east, but it also means so have Samanthi and Mr. Tusk, if…” he trailed off. “There’s little point lingering in this area,” he continued. “I’ll direct the captain to get beyond the debris and we’ll sweep arcs. I’ve also got helicopters coming to search from the air.” He patted Sebastian’s shoulder once more and then walked away.

______________________________________

Inside the hyperbaric lifeboat, Tusker had busied himself with tidying the cabin. He re-stowed the life jackets in their overhead racks, rehung the survival suits in their lockers, and stacked the remaining pile of waterproof cases in a corner. If we’re going to be in here for a few days, might as well. Sam was asleep on one of the small bunks built into the wall of the lifeboat, mouth slightly open, snoring quietly. Tusker’s gaze lingered on her face and tangled, loose braid and he smiled briefly.

With no means of driving or navigating the lifeboat, they were at the mercy of the currents and wind. At least we’ll be able to safely decompress and have food and water for a few days, Tusker thought. Someone will find us.

He walked over to a starboard porthole and peered out. The view was distorted from the thick Perspex, but the air looked hazy and to the west he could still see a dark cloud hovering high above the water. He wondered how much damage had been done. Had his plan caused more damage than good? He’d meant to use the limpet mine to destroy the bomb inside the Vampire, not on the surface. Had a wave flooded the coastline, killing thousands? And what about the radiation?

How long had they been drifting? He glanced at his wrist, then remembered his watch had been lost in the wreck. It made him think of his father, and of the day he had given him the Aquastar. It was on their cabin’s dock at Lac La Belle in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Tusker was nine and had just emerged from the water, struggling with the heavy scuba cylinder. His father, in his wheelchair, shouted encouragement. Looking back he realized that his father knew he was dying. The bends he’d sustained five years earlier had paralyzed him from the chest down. Worsening pneumonia had made it difficult for him to breathe. But he insisted that he would teach Tusker to dive, even if it meant doing it from the dock.

“Stay too long, too deep, and you’ll end up like me,” he had smiled at young Julian. “You’re going to need a good watch.” He pressed the Aquastar into Tusker’s palm.

Tusker felt a deep sadness looking at his empty wrist and wondered what his father would have thought of him now. He hoped he’d be proud of him.

Suddenly, he was jolted out of his thoughts by a loud thwack-thwack. He knew what it was immediately. A helicopter.

Fallout

Sri Lanka. Six months later.

A month after the mysterious explosion, the coastline between Trinco and Batticaloa still stank from the dead fish drifting ashore. Debris was washing up as far south as Arugam Bay and a mutilated corpse was discovered in the lagoon at Pasikudah. Fishermen returned to harbor with empty holds and recreational diving was declared off limits by the marine authorities.

President Halangoda’s opponents accused him of a cover up. Rumors of a secret deal with the Chinese swirled. The president deflected the criticism, suggesting an ISIS connection and even briefly jailing the mayor of Batticaloa. Ramadan was a subdued affair, with the minority celebrants wary of backlash and violence. After a brief delay and cleanup from the flooding, the harbor project resumed. A Chinese diving firm was brought in to finish the underwater work there.

Despite the turmoil, Halangoda easily won re-election, running on a nationalist anti-Muslim platform with the strong backing of the Sinhalese majority and the Buddhist Power Army. In the swearing in of the new government at Parliament, a traditional Buddhist blessing was given by the Venerable Udugala Dhammasara.

Sebastian de Silva closed down the Deep Blue Diving Resort and headed back to Colombo to await the start of the West Coast diving season. It promised to be a challenging one. Tourism was down and the southwest monsoon was running late this year.

Ahmed Raheem had had enough. He shuttered his garage in Pasikudah and made plans to move his family to Pakistan, where his brother assured him he could find work repairing farm equipment. Before he closed the heavy overhead door to his shop, he took a last look at the half-assembled old Land Rover inside, still on jack stands. He’d been restoring it for years, but it would be too expensive to ship. The new shop owner promised to finish the