by Jason Heaton
She stood up and brushed past Tusker, letting her hand linger on his chest as she passed him in the doorway. It was now 7:30, a full day since they’d been brought ashore. They’d slept an entire day and the following night. Where they’d ended up he didn’t know but it was a stroke of luck that the fisherman happened upon them.
“Pottuvil,” Sam called out to him, as if knowing what he was wondering. She’d been talking to the woman while sitting with her own plate of food. “My Tamil’s not great, but she says her husband and son brought us in yesterday. Her name is Devika and her husband is Chandin. Their son is Ajith.” The woman smiled and nodded at Tusker as she heard the names. “They’re still out fishing now.”
“Wow, we drifted a long way!” Tusker exclaimed. “Your father must be worried sick.”
“Yeah, I should call the Deep Blue and at least tell him we’re alive. They don’t have a phone, but apparently we’re not too far from a guest house and we can walk over and make a call there. I can ask Thathi to send someone to pick us up.”
“Good point,” Tusker said, “I hate to impose on these people any further. Any chance there’s a place we can have a bath before we set off?”
“She said they’ve got a small outdoor tap we can use and some soap,” Sam said. “It’s not much, but like I said, you could sure use it.” She winked at Tusker. He grinned back at her. Devika walked to a small dresser and opened the top drawer. She pulled out two cotton sarongs and handed one to Sam and one to Tusker.
“Make sure you tie it correctly,” Sam said to Tusker. “She’ll kick us out if you have a wardrobe malfunction.”
Tusker laughed as he walked to the side door. “No guarantees!”
The tap was at waist height, on a naked pipe coming out of the side of the house and perched above a slab of cracked concrete. It was dark besides the light from the window and Tusker cautiously looked around before slipping out of his swim trunks. The water was cold but felt good on his salt-dried skin. He lathered up with the tiny sliver of soap and then rinsed off and shut off the tap. He was dripping wet but with no towel to dry off, he reached for the sarong, which hung on a peg nearby. When he turned, Sam was there. In the shadows, he could see that she was also naked.
“My turn,” she said quietly with a smile. She walked past him to the tap, trailing her hand along his naked flank. “Go inside and wait for me,” she said firmly. “And be careful,” she said, eyeing him below the waist. That sarong doesn’t leave much to the imagination. We don’t want to scare our poor hostess.”
A Father’s Secret
Aberdeen, Scotland. Two years earlier.
Malcolm Rausing rarely stepped foot on dry land. He preferred the freedom of the open sea, with its murky and arcane laws. Rausing Oceanic’s ships were built by the lowest bidder, paid for by the highest bidder, flagged in Panama or Liberia, operated by Pakistanis and Filipinos and largely immune from oversight or prosecution. The high seas were the last frontier, the Wild West, and that was just the way Rausing liked it.
When he decided it was time to shutter the company’s de facto headquarters once and for all, Malcolm Rausing sailed into Aberdeen aboard his latest ship, the DSV Depth Charge, to pay a final visit. The office, in a harbor-front building that once looked out on the company’s fleet, sat neglected, its view now blocked by shiny condominiums. It was staffed by an underpaid skeleton crew of secretaries and cleaning crew who rarely showed up to work. Rausing ordered all of the company’s legacy documentation be digitized and then destroyed. This was all to be done secretly by employees promised a lucrative pension. Only his personal office, once Angus Rausing’s, was to be left untouched. He would look to that.
His father’s old desk was a massive oak affair, built from leftover timber from Rausing Oceanic’s first ship in the 1950s. Its surface was scarred and covered with a film of dust and heaped with unopened mail. A scrimshaw letter opener lay in a tray beneath a green shaded lamp and an assortment of nautical paraphernalia lined the corners, booty salvaged by Angus during his time as a diver. Malcolm Rausing hated this place. It was drafty and dark and smelled of the past, a past he never knew, yet disdained. His father’s portrait glowered from the reception area. Burn it with the rest, Rausing thought.
In a locked lower drawer of the desk was his father’s dive logbook. Malcolm had never bothered to look at it. He’d heard enough of his father’s war stories of diving in far flung places, refloating sunken ships, de-mining harbors, and retrieving bodies. But before tossing it on to the growing pile of papers to be destroyed, something compelled him to open it. He flipped its wrinkled, stained pages, mostly scratched with depths, bottom times and locations, until he reached the final entry, scrawled in a shaky hand that he recognized as that of his crippled father:
Ceylon. 15 April, 1942. Vampire salvage, 59 fathoms.
It had been his last dive — killed his partner, too. Angus Rausing had told Malcolm little about it, and he’d only pieced together sketchy details. He read the last line in the dive log’s final entry:
Weapon. Aft bomb room. Atomic?
He thumbed the pages thoughtfully. Ceylon. What did they call it now? Yes, Sri Lanka. He slipped the logbook into his briefcase, clicked off the lamp and strode out of the office. “I’m finished here,” he said to no one in particular, shutting the door behind him.
A month after Rausing sailed out of Aberdeen for the last time, the offices of Rausing Oceanic burned to the ground. Local authorities traced the cause to some old wiring and insurance paid out £2 million. By the following spring, the footings for new condominiums had been laid on the property.
Chance Encounter
Four miles south of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. Present day.
The taxi rattled off, its loud exhaust coughing well into the distance. Tusker and Sam stood slightly dazed in front of the Deep Blue Resort, both in sarongs, their diving fins and buoyancy harnesses at their feet. It was two in the afternoon and the place was quiet.
The old cook was peeling potatoes and looked up as she entered, startled to see her. He clutched her in a tight, awkward embrace and then stepped towards Tusker, who stood behind her. He thought twice about hugging him, but nodded his head and smiled a toothless grin. Sam exchanged excited words with him in Sinhala.
“Thathi went up to Trincomalee after we called this morning to talk to the navy about what happened,” she said to Tusker. “We should get changed and get up there. I’ll drive.” She left the kitchen and hurried to her room. Tusker jogged to catch up.
“Did the cook say where Roland is?”
“He’s gone,” she said tersely. “Never came back apparently.”
Tusker nodded. “I’ll grab Upali’s laptop so we can show the ROV footage to someone at the navy. That should spur some action.”
The GoPro he’d taken on their Vampire dive was now somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, having fallen off during their long night of drifting. The ROV video of the helmet would have to suffice. Tusker set off in a jog towards his room.
Someone had been there. The room wasn’t any messier than he’d left it, but his backpack was not hanging on the back of the door. Upali’s computer bag was on Ian’s bed. The laptop was gone. He’d have normally suspected a burglary, but Ian’s Omega watch was still sitting on the bedside table next to his passport. Tusker quickly changed into a polo shirt and fresh khaki shorts and left to find Sam.
Ten minutes later, they were bashing down the road from the Deep Blue in the Land Rover. The truck lurched and bounced violently on the ruts and potholes. As they reached the junction with the main road, Tusker reached for a seatbelt.
“Sorry,” she said while looking over her shoulder for an opening in the traffic, “this one’s ex-military. They stripped out any amenities, including the seatbelts. You’ll have to trust my driving.” He saw himself reflected in her sunglasses as she smirked at him.
Sam swung the Land Rover through a roundabout, expertly double-clutching a downshift into second gear and snea
king in ahead of a groaning Leyland bus. As they gained speed, a hot breeze blew in through the crude cabin vent flaps and sliding windows, doing little to counteract the sweat that poured freely down Tusker’s face.
“What do you think your father can get the navy to do?” Tusker shouted above the din of the engine and road noise.
“Thathi used to serve in the navy,” she replied. “He’s got an old pal that works at the base. I’m not sure what they can do, but it’ll be good to have their support.”
Tusker’s damp shirt was sticking to the vinyl seat back. It was too loud to carry on a conversation and they drove in silence. He glanced across at Sam. She had put on the same olive colored shorts he’d first seen her in and a ribbed tank top with no bra underneath. Her neck and chest shimmered with a mist of perspiration. She’d kicked off her rubber slippers when she got into the Land Rover, and her bare feet worked the clutch, brake, and gas pedals as she rowed through the gears. He found the whole scene somehow erotic and he reached across and put his hand on her bare thigh. It was cool and firm.
“Is this what you call, in America, distracted driving?” She flashed a smile without taking her eyes off the road.
Tusker closed his eyes and thought back to the night before, in the small bed, their hands quietly learning each other’s bodies in the dark. Baila music played in the next room. He traced the outline of her firm breasts, felt the stubble under her arms and the moistness between her legs. She had silently rolled over and straddled him. The whole thing hadn’t lasted long, and they lay side by side panting quietly, going to sleep without a word.
“We need to stop for gas.” Sam’s voice jolted Tusker upright. They were passing through Pasikudah, the last big town between Batticaloa and Trincomalee. The streets were choked with all manner of people and animals on the move—tuk-tuks, taxis, buses, bicycles and cattle. It was slow going. Sam used the horn liberally as she ground the Land Rover into second, then third, the gearbox protesting with a crunch. Finally, she turned into a Ceypetco service station on a street corner and switched off the engine. An attendant ambled over to the open window and she handed him a sheaf of rupee notes.
“I’m roasting,” Tusker said as he peeled himself off the seat. “I’m going to run over to that shop and grab some bottles of water.” He jumped down from the truck and jogged across the road, dodging a swaying lorry that blasted a warning with its triple air horns.
The shop was sweltering and smelled of rotting fish. Several women floated up and down the small aisles in sarees and a bored-looking man sat behind the counter waving flies away. Tusker walked to a small refrigerated case at the back of the shop and took out four small plastic bottles of ice cold water. While he was waiting to pay, he looked out at the bright street. He could see Sam sitting in the Land Rover as the attendant finished filling the tank. A large vehicle flashed across his view. It was one of those oversized Toyota SUVs, a deluxe version with tinted glass and large tires. It came to a stop two doors down from the gas station at a branch office of the Royal Ceylon Bank. A man stepped out on to the road. A Western man in a red cap. It was Roland, and the cap he was wearing was Tusker’s.
“Bastard…” muttered Tusker through clenched teeth.
“Sir?” The man at the checkout said to Tusker, who looked down and clumsily handed over some cash.
“Keep the change,” Tusker said, taking the water bottles in his hand and moving towards the door, not taking his eyes off that Toyota. He glanced over at the gas station. Sam had started the Land Rover and was easing it onto the road, waiting to turn left and come across to pick him up. He hoped Roland wouldn’t see her. He wanted to see what he was up to first.
Roland was talking to a man in the left hand passenger side window of the Toyota, someone Tusker couldn’t see. He smiled and nodded. Then the door opened and a man stepped out onto the curb. He was tall and fair, with swept-back silver hair, a turtleneck and trousers. When he shielded his face against the harsh sun, an expensive watch glinted on his wrist. The man was a full head taller than Roland. It was Rausing.
As I suspected, Tusker thought to himself. Roland was connected to Rausing. He stood in the shade of the shop and continued to watch the two men, debating whether to confront Roland. Suddenly, a car horn blared. It was Sam in the Land Rover. She was double parked in the middle of the road, waving to Tusker to get in. He looked back at Roland and the man. The sound had made them look and Roland was staring right at Tusker with his mouth open. Rausing was frowning. Tusker quickly ran to the Land Rover and jumped into the passenger seat.
“Go,” he said to Sam, sternly. “Now!” She engaged the clutch and the truck narrowly dodged a bicycle. As they sped past the Toyota, Rausing fixed his pale eyes on Tusker under steeply arched brows. The Land Rover careened around a roundabout and roared north out of Pasikudah.
Car Trouble
Pasikudah, Sri Lanka. Later that day.
Sam kept the gas pedal of the Land Rover pressed to the floor. The underpowered truck hurtled up the A15 in a cacophony of rattles and whining gears. Tusker looked back, expecting to see the black Land Cruiser right behind them, but it didn’t materialize.
“I think we’re fine, you can let up,” he shouted over to Sam. Normal conversation was difficult in this truck at idle; above 40 miles per hour, it was nearly impossible. She nodded and let off the accelerator.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang and the Land Rover skidded to the right, careening across the road and narrowly missing a tuk-tuk headed the other direction.
“What the hell!” Tusker yelled as he was pitched across the slippery vinyl seats. Sam jammed on the brakes and wrestled the steering wheel to bring the truck to a stop just before it tipped into a grassy ditch.
Sam shut off the ignition and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, exasperated, but didn’t say anything.
“What was it?” Tusker asked. “What was that bang? Did we hit something?”
Sam shook her head and looked out the windscreen at the traffic they were now facing. “Sounded like a blown diff.”
“The differential?” Tusker said. Sam nodded and opened the door. Tusker followed. There was an acrid smell of burnt rubber and hot metal and a fresh streak of black leading from the middle of the highway to where the truck now sat. A lorry streaked by, its wind horn gaily calling in full Doppler effect.
“I’m just glad this happened when the traffic is light,” Tusker gestured to the passing lorry. Sam didn’t reply but dropped to her hands and knees and peered under the Land Rover.
“I’m guessing you don’t have any sort of roadside assistance for this thing,” he said.
Sam ignored his comment. “There’s a mechanic back in Pasikudah who’s good with these Landies. If we can limp into town, I bet he’s got a spare differential lying about.”
“I don’t think it’ll move, much less limp,” Tusker said.
“Nah, it’ll get us there,” Sam smiled confidently and jumped up, brushing gravel from her knees. She went back to the passenger seat and lifted off the cushion revealing a storage box. She slid off the cover, pulled out a rolled-up canvas pouch, and dropped it on the ground. A crowd had gathered now, a few skinny kids and an old man on a bicycle.
“I’m going to need you to support the driveshaft while I disconnect it from the differential,” Sam said and dropped to the ground again. She fished out a handful of open-end wrenches and slid under the truck so that only her bare legs extended out. Tusker went around to the other side and joined her underneath. The metal was hot and there was already a puddle of oil collecting under the gearbox.
Sam tried a couple of wrenches before finding the right fit and grunted as she twisted on the bolts that held the driveshaft into the rear differential housing. Tusker watched her work admiringly. She caught his look.
“Make yourself useful and hold up the driveshaft,” she told him. “It’s gonna come loose here shortly, and be careful. It’s a lot heavier than you think it will be.”
; When the last bolt came out, the full weight of the shaft dropped onto Tusker’s hands. She was right, it was heavy.
“OK, just hang on for a bit while I rig up some wire to support it.” She slid out from under the truck and he could hear her fishing around in the tool roll. Tusker’s arms started to quiver from the weight. He could see Sam’s legs and those of all the spectators on the road side of the vehicle. The crowd had grown.
Sam dropped back down and joined Tusker underneath. She was clutching a wad of wire and a snips. “You doing OK there?” she smiled at Tusker, who was sweating profusely, both from the effort and his proximity to the hot exhaust pipe. “Fancy a tea break?”
“Just get on with it!” he barked back.
Sam laughed and wiped her nose, leaving a black streak of grease. She threaded the wire around the driveshaft and then up around the crossmember of the truck’s chassis. After four loops, she told him to let go. The wire held. Sam cut the excess wire and shimmied out. Tusker followed. The old man rolled his bike forward and said something to Sam in Tamil, smiling toothlessly. Sam replied and the two shared a hearty laugh.
