Depth Charge

by Jason Heaton

  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 shut the first time and she gave it a hard slam.

  “British engineering at its finest, eh?” Tusker laughed. Sam smiled back behind her aviators.

  She opened the tailgate. In the back was a faded mesh duffel full of diving gear. He walked over to give her a hand. “Thathi told me about Ian. That’s rough. We’ve had a handful of guys get slightly bent on the Hermes, but it sounds like he’s got it bad.” She shouldered the duffel and handed a pair of fins to Tusker.

  “We dove a similar profile, but he really got hit hard,” Tusker said. He mentally debated how to tell her he was going to dive the Vampire.

  “Well, let’s be careful today, yeah?” Sam said. She had on a pair of cutoff denim jeans and a faded t-shirt from the University of New South Wales. He could see the tied strap of a bikini top poking out of the neckline.

  They walked through the workshop, where Tusker picked up his gear, then down the sandy path through the screw pine to the beach where the skiff was pulled up. There, they heaped the gear into the boat and turned back. Tusker was already sweating profusely. Stay hydrated, he told himself, remembering that one of the contributing factors of decompression sickness is dehydration.

  “I assume we’re diving air at the bottom and 50 percent nitrox for deco?” Sam asked as they walked back to the workshop.

  “I’m thinking of breathing something a little more… exotic,” Tusker said.

  “Why?” Sam shot back. “This wreck is what, 55, 60 meters?”

  “I might want to explore something a little deeper and a helium blend might be a nice cushion,” Tusker said casually. He was going to have to tell her. She stopped walking and put her hands on her hips.

  “Look, man, I’m up for anything, but you have to give me a little more detail. None of this cowboy diving shit.” Her accent got more clipped and the Australian came through.

  Tusker lowered his voice and glanced around for Sebastian. He caught sight of him talking to the Russians in the dining area. “Mind if we go back to my room?”

  “Well, you don’t waste time, do you?” she smirked. “I said I was up for anything, but we only just met.”

  Tusker laughed. “I just want to show you something. Then you can decide what you’re up for.”

  They walked back to Room 4 and slipped in, hoping Sebastian wouldn’t see them. Tusker felt like a guilty teenager. The room was still dark and cool and he didn’t switch on the light. He pulled out Upali’s laptop and Sam sat down next to him on the bed and leaned in close to the screen. Her hair brushed his arm. She smelled of sandalwood.

  Tusker showed her the video clips from the Vampire, from the very beginning right up to the yellow diving helmet. She drew in her breath when it came onto the screen, then sat back and looked at him.

  “See, this is why I need to get down there,” he said. “Something is not right here.”

  The last clip was paused showing the yellow helmet. Sam pointed at the corner of the screen, where the ROV’s digital statistics were overlaid. “There’s a reason whoever was down there had a diving helmet. 100 meters is saturation diving territory.”

  “Well, it looks like that didn’t go so well for them, doesn’t it?” He tapped the helmet on the screen. “I know right where to look. If I can just get a few more clips on a GoPro, I’ll have definitive proof to take to the
police, or the navy. I’m thinking ten minutes on the bottom, no more.”

  Sam leaned back on the bed, resting on her elbows. “What’s the deco time for a dive that deep for that long?”

  “Just shy of three hours. We can take sling bottles of nitrox for deco and hang a couple of 100 percent O2 tanks from the skiff at ten feet. This all assumes Roland is up for it.” He suddenly realized he’d included her in this plan. “That is, only if you’re comfortable with it. You could stay shallower and be my safety diver…”

  “I’m game,” she interrupted. “I’ve been to 75 meters on a wreck in Aussie. What is that in old currency… 230 feet? We dove trimix for that. If we stick to a plan and keep an eye on each other, we can do this.”

  Tusker had the sudden urge to lean over and kiss her hard on the mouth. Something about the impending risk of the dive and her willingness to go along with it sent a palpable charge fizzing through the dark room. Did she sense it too? Sam sat up quickly and got to her feet. “Alright, let’s see what Thathi’s got for helium in the shop. He usually keeps some to blend for the rebreather divers.”

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Tusker said before she got to the door. “Your father said he won’t allow this and doesn’t want you to go. I told him we’re sticking to the Taprobane.”

  She grinned mischievously. “This feels like school days. I used to meet this guy…” She paused. “Oh, never mind. I won’t tell him if you don’t.” She walked out and left the door open.

  Two hours later, they were motoring out of the lagoon. The skiff was badly overloaded with tanks and Roland had to carefully maneuver it through the shallows. The midday heat was already bringing the steady offshore breeze, and outside the shelter of the lagoon, swells were kicking up, sending spray into the boat.

  “It’s going to be harder to find that buoy in these waves,” Roland shouted above the noise of the under-matched outboard.

  Tusker looked at Sam, then back to Roland. “We’re going somewhere different today, if you don’t mind,” he shouted. “It’s only a bit further north. I’ve got the GPS coordinates. I’ll tell you when we’re close.”

  Roland frowned but didn’t reply. Tusker pulled out a small handheld GPS unit. It was an old Garmin he’d used since grad school to mark anomaly sites during sonar surveys. He pushed his sunglasses up on the brim of his cap and squinted at the tiny screen. Without lifting his head, he gestured ahead and to the right, guiding Roland. The skiff bounced over the swells, the motor straining.

  “All right, slow down!” Tusker called out. Roland throttled back the little Yamaha outboard. “40 meters… 30… OK, Sam get the anchor ready.”

  Sam shimmied to the bow of the skiff and pulled a small grapple from the pile of life jackets and rope. She perched herself on the gunwale, waiting for Tusker’s command. “I hope there’s enough line!” She shouted over her shoulder.

  Tusker hadn’t thought of that.“OK, let’s try here. Drop the anchor!”

  Sam hurled the anchor over the side and paid out the rope, making sure it didn’t foul on the chaos of gear that clogged the bottom of the boat. The rope snaked out for what seemed like minutes. Finally it went slack.

  “OK, Roland, let’s slowly motor forward to see if we’re hooked.”

  Roland revved the motor and the skiff moved forward. Sam held the rope with both hands and pulled on it. It went tight. “I think we’re good!” she called out.

  Nice work, Upali, Tusker thought. Dead on, first try. His coordinates were perfect. In the bow of the skiff, Tusker noticed that there was no spare line coiled. They’d used it all.

  “What’s this spot?” Roland asked in the silence after he switched off the motor.

  “We want to check out this new wreck Upali thought he found,” Tusker replied as he stripped off his T-shirt.

  “Huh, that Aussie warship he was on about?” Roland asked, fishing for his cigarette pack.

  “We’ll find out,” Tusker smiled cagily. Shipwreck hunters were a secretive bunch, their obsession with privacy only exceeded by the CIA and maybe Swiss banks. Part of it came from the early days of claiming salvage rights to whatever booty could be plundered from a wreck, but even weekend trollers on the Great Lakes were tight lipped about their sonar grids. Tusker didn’t know Roland very well, nor did he trust him all that much. But today he’d have to, since he and Sam would be hanging underneath his boat for the whole afternoon.

  “This is gonna be a deep one, Roland,” he conceded a bit, to gain the Dutchman’s confidence. “We may be down there a while. Maybe three, three and a half hours.”

  Roland smiled, his tobacco-stained teeth flashing. “Roger that, Cap’n. Cell signal is good enough out here for me to stream some porn. Should keep me occupied.” He shot a leering glance at Sam, who’d stripped down to her bikini and was pulling on a wetsuit. “Just to kill some time.”

  She ignored him and shimmied halfway into a black five-millimeter suit. Tusker watched her from the corner of his eye while he pulled on his own wetsuit. Her shoulders were deep brown and tight with muscle and as she reached up to tie her hair back, he saw her flat stomach. Her navel had a silver ring through it.

  He turned to Roland, who winked. Tusker frowned back at him. “Just don’t fall asleep and let the anchor come unhooked. And if you can, hang some O2 bottles over the side for our last deco stop.”

  “Sure thing, Cap’n.” He blew out a stream of smoke and leaned back against the gunwale.

  Tusker took off his Mount Gay Rum cap and tossed it in the bottom of the skiff. “Don’t lose my cap, Roland.”

  The Dutchman nodded back. “I’ll keep it safe.”

  He and Sam busied themselves kitting up, a heavy process made all the more difficult by the cramped quarters of the tiny skiff. The dozen tanks were piled on top of each other, and they had to awkwardly walk over them to reach their gear. Roland made no effort to help.

  Finally, Sam and Tusker were ready: twin tanks on their backs, a smaller bottle clipped under each arm, coils of hose for their two regulators across their chests like bandoliers. Tusker had strapped on a waterproof writing slate next to his dive computer on his right wrist. Sam wore a two-millimeter neoprene hood and checked the seal of her mask one last time before giving Tusker an OK sign. He wished he’d opted for a thicker suit. His two-millimeter suit was threadbare and used up. It would be little thermal protection against the chill at 350 feet and the hours of motionless hanging on the way back up.

  He cursed his poor planning, then shook it out of his head and signaled back to Sam. They heaved themselves and the two hundred extra pounds of weight they carried onto the edge of the gunwale and tipped back clumsily into the sea.

  “See you when I see you,” Roland grinned over the side as they bobbed up, mercifully unweighted. Tusker had already put his regulator in his mouth and simply gave Roland a small nod before deflating his buoyancy wing and disappearing under the surface.

  Dark Descent

  Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The same day.

  The descent took a full four minutes. They went down hand over hand, first pulling on the anchor line to break their initial buoyancy and then letting go, dropping as if pulled down by the invisible wreck below. Tusker took mental note of a light north-south current drawing him away from the taut yellow line. Decompression in a current could be difficult. He and Sam made occasional eye contact as they dropped, watching for telltale signs of mental or physical impairment and keeping an eye on tank valves and regulators for bubbles. Even a tiny leak at depth was cause for concern. They’d need every cubic foot of gas for their long decompression, or else they’d get bent or drown.

  Tusker watched the numbers on his depth gauge tick off. The streams of sunlight, so friendly in the first 100 feet, gradually diminished to a flat grey at 150 feet, then to a sort of twilight below 200. As they approached 300, they switched on their handheld torches against the blackness. Tusker aimed his below. The dark water absorbed mos
t of the 5,000 lumens. No matter how many times Tusker had done these deep dives, he never got used to the apprehension of dropping into a black void. Besides the increasing pressure on his eardrums, which he occasionally relieved by wiggling his jaw from side to side, there was no sense of going up or down since there was no reference point in the dark water.

  He felt the wreck before he saw it. It was an imperceptible change in the water column — the presence of something huge nearby. Then, his beam fell on a section of hull. The unmistakable shape of a ship, so out of place in this lonely spot. The Vampire. He reached up to his inflation hose and added a burst of gas into his buoyancy wing.

  At this depth, and with four heavy tanks, the wing was almost fully inflated before it arrested his descent. He came to a stop just a foot above the coral-encrusted steel. Tusker made sure to stay as shallow as possible, near the top of the wreck. Even a few feet made a big difference in the minutes of deco time they’d have to spend on the way back up.