by Jason Heaton
The loss of diver comms and pressure would alert Dive Control aboard the Depth Charge and, no doubt, the second diver inside the wreck. There was no time to wait. Tusker had to move, fast.
The wreck loomed like a dead whale carcass, lying on its side with its long shadows of debris and coral dancing and swaying. Tusker caught his breath and took a second to check his pressure gauge. He was already past the first third of his bottom gas. He should be turning around now, but there was no point in dwelling on this. He was committed. He remembered the tight quarters inside the hull from his first dive here and quickly unclipped his decompression bottles from his harness and laid them down on the sand.
With three kicks, he lifted off the sea bed and was at the opening in the hull of the Vampire. The light inside was gone now: absolute darkness. He could hear the gurgle of a hard-hat diver’s gas supply somewhere beneath him. Someone was waiting for him to enter. Tusker fumbled for his torch and switched it on, quickly swinging its beam back and forth inside the black hole. Suddenly, from his right, just inside the wreck, a hand reached out and ripped the mouthpiece from between his teeth. He took in a gulp of seawater and swung his arm instinctively. The torch fell from his hand and dangled from its tether on his wrist, its beam bouncing wildly around in the darkness. With his left hand, Tusker took his second regulator, which hung on a rubber strap close around his neck, and pushed it into his mouth, coughing into it. He still couldn’t see the other diver but felt his presence close by.
Instinctively, Tusker ducked low and pushed off the inside of the hull, going deeper into the hold. As he did, he brushed past what he was sure was the other diver, caught his torch and swung it around. It was the dead naked body he’d seen on his first dive, now bloated and pale, floating freely around the confined space. The man’s features were unrecognizable now. The eyes had been eaten by something and the flesh was already soft and pocked with bite marks. Tusker wretched and pushed the body away, his hand sinking into the flesh of the stomach. Where was the other diver?
Then he saw him. A large man in a black dive suit was moving towards him, pulling hand over hand on some overhead pipes on the bulkhead. His lack of fins made him awkward and his feet pedaled uselessly against the water. But he was gaining ground on Tusker. A large knife flashed in his right hand. Tusker saw the man’s eyes behind the faceplate of the yellow Kirby-Morgan helmet. He gritted his teeth on his mouthpiece and kicked hard with his fins. The two men met in an awkward underwater dance, both of them thrashing, grabbing, and slashing. Their violence kicked up clouds of silt that hung suspended in the water, causing a complete whiteout.
Tusker’s mask was a foot from the other diver’s helmet and the two men made eye contact. Tusker dropped his torch and, with two hands, grasped the helmet on both sides and twisted, as if trying to unscrew the other man’s head from his body. The diver lurched away into the cloud, vanishing for a moment. Tusker regained his buoyancy and shone his torch around, but it was like using high-beam headlamps in a blizzard. Behind him he felt a tug, then heard a roar. He couldn’t breathe! His regulator hose had been cut and his double tanks were draining precious gas in a torrent of bubbles. Tusker again switched regulators, but he had to quickly shut off the valve of the severed hose or lose his gas. He reached back behind his head, feeling for the large knurled knob. In the dark, he was drifting down. Or was it up? He crashed into something hard and pinballed away from it, still fumbling for the valve. Finally, he found it and turned it one agonizing revolution at a time until the gushing became a hiss, then stopped.
How much gas had he lost? He didn’t have time to check his gauge. He regained control of his dangling torch and cast it around the space. He’d drifted up and was pinned against the top of the wreck, which was actually the inside of the starboard hull of the capsized ship. Far below, he saw the beam of the diver’s helmet torch through the silt. He was working at the bomb, filling one of the lift bags attached to it. It would be risky to try to swim down and stop him. He would be nearly out of breathing gas now. There was no doubt that Rausing knew what was happening, given the video feed.
Tusker glanced down at his wrist. The Aquastar was gone. It must have been torn from his wrist in the struggle with the Depth Charge diver. The watch he’d worn on every dive he’d done since age nine was now ticking away somewhere in the bowels of the wreck. Tusker didn’t have time to curse. He had to stop the bomb, even if it meant breathing down his tanks to nothing. There’s only one way back to the surface now anyway.
Consigned to the Depths
350 feet beneath the Indian Ocean. The same night.
In the bottom of the bomb room, Murray caught his breath after his struggle with the scuba diver. Amidst the settling silt, he inflated the two massive lift bags that were slung on the bomb, left on their first dive by McElroy, whose bloated body floated somewhere above. Murray slowly inched the now-buoyant cargo towards the opening in the wreck. It was awkward going in the cramped confines of the cluttered room, made harder by the almost zero visibility. Once outside, he would hook it to the hoist dropped from the Depth Charge, which lay on the seafloor. Dive Control had already told him that Aitkens had been “incapacitated.” I better get double pay for this.
He maneuvered toward the exit hole. Suddenly, out of the blackness, he was hit, hard, and knocked back into the wreck. The blow extinguished his head torch and he spun downwards in darkness, landing with a grunt on a pile of wooden crates that disintegrated into a cloud of dust on his impact.
Immediately, the other diver was on him, holding his helmet by the umbilical and shaking him. Murray struggled to gain his footing and clawed at the other man’s mask. He managed to pull it sideways, flooding it and rendering him blind. Now was his chance. He pushed the flailing diver aside and used his umbilical to pull himself up the hull to the opening. Never mind the bomb. This was more than he’d signed up for.
Tusker straightened his mask and managed to clear the water by exhaling through his nose and lifting the bottom skirt. Nearly blinded from the salt and the silt, he swam towards the vague glow and saw a silhouette climbing up the inside of the hull. As he neared it, the bright yellow of the lift bag caught his eye. The bomb. It was floating near the exit, neutrally buoyant. Tusker swam up, up, up to Murray and, just as the big man reached the opening, grabbed a D-ring on the back of Murray’s tool belt and pulled on it, hard. Murray lost his balance and teetered backwards. In a single, swift motion, Tusker clipped Murray’s D-ring to the lift bag’s carabiner and ripped the balloon’s deflation cord.
Murray, suddenly attached to a 1,400-pound bulb of lead and uranium, fell off the hull like a stone and disappeared into the black hold of the Vampire, his helmet torch a wild, spinning beam. The tremendous weight and momentum sent him crashing through the remains of cargo, which fell on top of him, trapping him, weighted and buried in the 75-year old detritus of the dead British war machine. For a moment his umbilical was stretched taut, connecting Murray inside the wreck to the bell, and to the Depth Charge above. Then it gave way like a whip in a roar of bubbles.
Tusker turned away and found the cut in the hull outlined by the glow of the bell’s flood lights. He kicked over to the opening. His breathing gas supply was near zero and the bailout bottles he’d stashed earlier were too rich a mixture for this depth. He had to get to the bell. As he exited the wreck he saw the heavy hook from the Depth Charge’s hoist lying on the muddy bottom. He swam cautiously towards the suspended bell. With his two divers dead and no bomb, why would Rausing bother to even hoist him to the surface, much less keep him under pressure long enough to decompress? He would have to negotiate. But what leverage did he have, alone and 350 feet deep? It would be just as easy for Rausing to flood the bell and kill him. No one would be the wiser.
Tusker crept up alongside the bell. He couldn’t be sure what the gas mix was inside. But he had to take that chance. His pressure gauges were nearing zero. He climbed up into the bell and took the regulator out of his mouth. It was st
range to suddenly be standing dry and breathing without a mouthpiece. He took a few cautious breaths. The helium mix in the bell was similar to what he’d been breathing in his tanks. A camera was suspended in the corner. There was nowhere to hide now. Everyone, including Rausing, knew he was in the bell.
As if in answer, a voice came over the intercom.
“You’re out of options, Mr. Tusk.” It was Rausing. He paused. “Except one.”
“Go to hell,” Tusker said, staring at the camera, his voice distorted by the helium.
“We have the girl,” Rausing said, this time more sternly.
Sam! Was he bluffing? Tusker thought of her, swimming back to the skiff in the darkness after he descended. She could have easily been spotted, captured, maybe even killed already. And what about Sebastian?
“Bring me the bomb and then we can talk about your future.” Rausing remained calm, a Human Resources manager talking to an employee.
“If you have her, put her on the radio,” Tusker said. There was a long pause. Was Rausing stalling? Tusker considered his options. Think of Sam, do what Rausing asked and hope to foil their plans later, aboard the Depth Charge? He knew there was a slim possibility he’d be kept alive after a ride to the surface, much less hours of decompression aboard the ship. Rausing would no doubt find some creative and painful way to kill him. He loved Sam, but this was bigger than all of that. Much bigger. He had to return to the wreck and destroy the bomb, even if it killed him and Sam.
“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 the open aft deck. Two men were busy maneuvering the hoist, which hung suspended from the crane over the moon pool. She sprinted past them.
“Stop her!” Rausing shouted from behind. Two more men, who were at the ship’s aft hoist near the stern, registered what was happening and started after her. But she had a head start and was dodging the puddles of hydraulic fluid and coiled cable on her way to the back of the ship, where she assumed she’d find a motor skiff or dinghy tied up. When she reached the ship’s stern, sure enough, a rubber boat was there, bobbing on the swells, tethered to a bollard, but only accessible from the next deck below.
Sam looked back. The two thugs from the pilothouse and the two men from the moon pool were now fanning out to surround her. It was at least a 25-foot drop to the Zodiac. If she landed on it, she’d break an ankle at the very least. It was no use. She turned to the men and held up her hands in surrender. Roland walked up behind them, clutching his eye socket, which was still pouring blood.
At least Thathi’s not here, she thought. I can survive whatever they’ve got in store. She glanced around, making mental notes to plot
a later escape. The shoreline twinkled to the west, miles away. A swim would be a long shot. It would have to be the rubber boat.
“And you must be the lovely Ms. de Silva.” Rausing had walked up behind Roland, calmly. “I’ve half a mind to drop you where we found you, but with a little less…” He paused and a half smile crossed his face. “Buoyancy.”
“But,” he continued, “keeping you around a bit longer may prove useful.”
A man wearing a headset microphone crossed the open deck of the boat and whispered in Rausing’s ear. He cocked his head and thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to Sam.
“Well, well, speak of the Devil,” he said, and motioned to the two large men from the Zodiac to bring her and follow. “Go clean yourself up,” he said coldly to Roland as they walked past. “And make sure she doesn’t have any more weapons on her.”
