Depth Charge

by Jason Heaton

  As they drove across the lagoon bridge, Tusker watched the fishermen poling the placid water for crabs. Another time perhaps, this scene would seem serene. It reminded him of road trips he’d taken back home, a girlfriend sleeping off an early start while he enjoyed a Lake Michigan summer sunrise. But he could only think of Upali.

  The town of Batticaloa lies roughly halfway down Sri Lanka’s eastern flank. In addition to its famous crabs, it boasts a lighthouse built by the British in the early 1800s. The town’s population has changed over its history, first Buddhist Sinhalese, then ethnic Tamils brought in by the British to work, and now, a large Muslim community. It is a small town, with a bustling high street jam packed with shops festooned with competing, mismatched signs and walls dripping with dark mildew. Women in hijabs carry umbrellas against the scorching equatorial sun and dodge the swaying buses that lurch past down the narrow streets.

  Batticaloa has had a troubled history. It was at the heart of the eastern territory controlled by the rebel Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam during the civil war that ripped the country apart for decades. Then came the tsunami and Batticaloa was ground zero. The low-lying town was consumed by a two-story wave that swept a mile inland, killing over 3,000 people and laying waste to anything in its path.

  Road travel was exhausting in Sri Lanka. There was never a stretch of road where you could relax. The countless animals, motorbikes, and people on the narrow, winding roads meant it was constant slowing, stopping, and accelerating, all the while being pitched back and forth nauseatingly.

  Ian managed to sleep in the front passenger seat for most of the six-hour drive, while Tusker brooded in the back, perched uncomfortably over the hot, noisy engine. A full day wasted in this damn van, he thought, looking out the dirty side window at the flashing scenery. When they stopped for a lunch of fish buns and tea at a roadside cafe back in Gampaha, Tusker didn’t talk much, picking at his food and leaving his tea half drunk.

  Back on the road, he turned over every possibility of how the Taprobane could have sunk. We’ll get out there and dive it as soon as possible, he resolved to himself. There will be clues. I’m an archaeologist after all.

  On the outskirts of Batticaloa, along an empty strip of sand and scrub pine, are several pockets of buildings that somehow survived the tsunami or were partially rebuilt. Stalks of rebar poke up from cement foundations, houses forever unfinished. It is out here, at the end of a long hard packed sand road, where you’ll find the Deep Blue Resort and Diving School.

  As the tired van bumped and lurched across the road, trailing a plume of dust, Tusker wondered why this man, Sebastian, would want to run a dive resort at this desolate dead end. He was starting to doubt they’d ever find it. Srivathnan had to stop every half mile or so to ask locals on bicycles where the place was, and it seemed like every one sent them in a different direction than the last. But finally, after passing under a canopy of low, thorny trees, Tusker saw the whitewashed wall of a building with the silhouette of a diver on it and the words, “Deep Blue Resort — We’re the Wrecks-perts” on it.

  Tusker slid open the van’s side door and shimmied out, bending over to stretch out his stiff back. Ian emerged sleepily, rubbing his eyes. The grounds of the resort were strangely silent, other than the ticking of the cooling engine and a chorus of buzzing cicadas somewhere in the trees. No one came to greet them and the place seemed deserted.

  The Deep Blue was a series of single story, white buildings with red tile roofs laid out almost like barracks, in a line with a stone path running in front of them. Each “hut” had a number on it, presumably the room numbers. Opposite the sleeping quarters was an open air dining area covered by a thatched roof and an enclosed kitchen at one end.

  “Where’s the welcoming committee?” Ian said. “I was expecting a pretty girl with an umbrella drink.”

  Tusker ignored him and crunched further up the path. At the far end, there was a larger building, a bit more industrial looking than the rest and painted dark green. He could hear the unmistakable muffled roar of a compressor emanating from within. He 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 of
f 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 the site where the Taprobane went down,” Sam said as she unpacked the water bottles and shoved them into a small refrigerator.

  “Well, why don’t we all chat about it after we get settled in our room,” Ian said, his arms still full of dive gear from the van.

  “Sure thing,” Sam said. “I tried to tidy it as best I could. I put Upali’s things in a duffel bag in the corner and laid some clean sheets on the table. Sorry, it’s as far as I got.”

  “No problem, we’ll manage,” Tusker said. “So, I didn’t ask. You work here with Sebastian?”

  Sam chuckled. “Sometimes I help out here. I’m a marine biologist by training, but this time of year, a lot of people come to dive the Hermes and I dust off my old dive instructor certificate.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize…” Tusker stumbled. He felt silly. Now her accent and style made sense. She’d probably studied in England or Australia.

  Sam winked. “No worries. Most of my work is now in a lab or office, but every once in a while I like to get wet.”

  Tusker blushed. Ian broke in with an exaggerated cough, staring at Tusker.

  “Alrighty, then,” Tusker said then turned to leave and picked up his duffel. “We’ll go get settled and catch up with you later. We’re meeting with Dinesh from MOCHA this evening at the China Bay Club to see what he’s found out.”

  “Sounds good,” Sam said. “If you need to eat, we serve dinner anytime after seven.”

  Ian had turned and was walking up the path towards Room 4, his arms full of dive gear. He gave a side glance at Tusker and grinned. “Careful there, Romeo. She’s clearly out of your league.”

  Tusker blushed. “Romance is the last thing on my mind,” he said, as much to convince himself as Ian. He heaped his dive gear against the bare wall and caught sight of Upali’s duffel. Focus, Julian, focus, he thought.

  “Right, so what’s the plan then?”

  “Let’s hear what Dinesh knows. Then I’d like to get out and dive the Taprobane as soon as possible,” Tusker said as he emptied his duffel on one of the beds. He wondered which one was Upali’s.

  As if reading his mind, Ian stepped back and huffed. “Man, it’s hard to believe he’s gone. I mean, just last week…” his voice trailed off.

  The room was quiet and cool and dark. The ceiling fan ticked rhythmically above them.

  “We’ll find out what happened,” Tusker said finally. “We owe it to Upali.”

  The Buddhist Power Army

  Kandy, Sri Lanka. Present day.

  The Buddhist kingdom of Kandy was the last defiant holdout in Ceylon to foreign rule, fending off Portuguese and Dutch colonists for centuries, while the rest of Ceylon was subjugated. Finally, in 1815, the Kandyan royalty negotiated a truce with the British while maintaining a reputation for dignity and fierce resolve. While Colombo went on to become Sri Lanka’s seat of government and commerce, the city of Kandy, and the mountainous interior that surrounds it, has long remained known as the hub of Sri Lankan Buddhism.

  On the shores of picturesque Kandy Lake sits the Sri Dalada Maligawa, the temple of the sacred tooth relic, said to house a molar of the Buddha himself. It is a place of pilgrimage and ceremony for Buddhists and tourists alike. The annual Esala Perehara celebration sees elephant parades, music, and colorful dancers crowd the streets of Kandy in celebration of the tooth relic and Lord Buddha.

  The city rises from the rectangular lake’s banks, filling steep, verdant slopes with terraced gardens, old colonial houses, and humble neighborhoods. Orange robed monks are a common sight and the sound of Buddhist chanting mingles with the calls of tropical birds, often from dusk until dawn.

  Its headlamps piercing a slashing rain, a black Toyota Land Cruiser crunched up the winding driveway, its mirrors brushing back branches of the banyan trees that tightly lined it. The big truck came to a stop in front of a low slung white building set in a clearing. Its wide eaves, built to fend off just such monsoon rains, were lined with carved wooden filigree—a row of swastikas, the ancient Buddhist symbol said to represent the footsteps of the Buddha. Colorful striped flags hung damp in the deluge. A loudspeaker echoed with the evening chants, lending an eerie reverence to the woodsmoke-tinged air.

  Malcolm Rausing climbed out of the passenger seat and deployed a large black umbrella. He waved off Scholz, his driver, and walked towards the temple stairs, deftly stepping around the growing puddles. From the cool interior of the temple emerged a portly monk with a saffron robe slung over his shoulder. Rausing was struck by how smooth the man was: No eyebrows or body hair, head entirely shaved. He smiled and bowed, his palms together in the traditional Buddhist greeting.

  “Ayubowan,” said Venerable Udugala Dhammasara, wishing Rausing a long and blessed life, and gestured for him to enter. “Please remove your shoes, Mr. Rausing.” It was a high-pitched, soft voice that was incongruous with his bulk.

  “Ayubowan,” Rausing said, half-heartedly pressing his palms together. He slipped out of his shoes and ascended the stairs.

  Rausing wondered just how old the Venerable Udugala Dhammasara was. His soft physique and lack of body hair lent him the look of an overgrown infant, yet the creases near his eyes and the way he labored to walk hinted at a man in his sixth or even seventh decade. As his name indicated, he was born in the town of Udugala and joined a monastery near Kandy as a young monk.

  During the tumultuous 1980s, when the civil war divided Sri Lanka along ethnic and religious lines, splinter groups of Buddhist monks grew more and more aggressive, inciting riots and violence against the largely Hindu Tamil minority. One vocal leader, Venerable Pahathgoda Gnanaatissa, could even be seen on the front lines of mobs marching through the streets of Colombo, encouraging his followers to burn Tamil businesses, and sometimes, their owners.

  This crystalline resolve and singular focus resonated with Dhammasara and he became an acolyte of Gnanaatissa, rising through the ranks of his newly formed Bodu Bala Hamuda, the Buddhist Power Army. After the civil war ended, a new government swept into power and vowed to bring those who incited violence to justice. Gnanaatissa was jailed and Dhammasara took his place as the spiritual leader of the BBH. By this time, the BBH had a new target: the rising Muslim population in the east of Sri Lanka.

  “How are you finding Batticaloa?” Dhammasara asked
as they padded barefoot through the temple.

  “It’s hot,” Rausing replied flatly. “And definitely different from Kandy or Colombo.” He shot a knowing glance at the monk, who grunted in agreement. They walked together, passing a large chamber where a group of monks were sitting on the floor facing an elderly teacher.

  At the end of a corridor, Dhammasara ushered Rausing into a small room. It was an office, with a dark wood desk, a few chairs and a framed portrait on the wall. The big monk took his chair behind the desk. He caught Rausing’s gaze at the framed portrait. It was a sepia-tone photograph of a seated monk in a robe. The man wore a serious expression and, unlike the monks at this temple, had a full head of curly black hair.

  “Anagarika Dharmapala,” he said, answering the question he knew Rausing was about to ask. “He is the father of the Buddhist Protestant movement here in Sri Lanka and the spiritual ancestor of the Bodu Bala Hamuda.”

  Rausing studied the old photo. The subject’s eyes blazed white. Then he turned back to Dhammasara. He looked nothing like this historical forebear but his eyes were equally on fire.