by Jake Bible
He got himself together and studied the creature as it rolled past him and began to dive. He estimated it at fifty feet or more. Probably more. He knew his marine life and had never seen anything like it before. He couldn’t match what he saw with any whale he knew of. The body was too thick, the tail was too wide, and the brief seconds he’d seen the creature’s head, he’d taken notice of a jaw that shouldn’t have existed on any contemporary whale.
That meant it wasn’t a contemporary whale. It was something new. Or, as he’d find out when he was back aboard ship and had time to research, it was something old. Very old.
He had been hooked from then on.
He told himself that he had to leave the SEALs because the creature had spooked him. It was a millisecond, but enough for a SEAL to question himself. He’d killed men and women; destroyed villages and apartment complexes; wiped out terrorist cells and drug cartels. None of that bothered him, or at least, he didn’t let it. But for a whale to freeze him up? Not acceptable.
Or that’s what he told himself. It was harder to admit that he was obsessed. He was a SEAL and didn’t get obsessed. Which was utter bullshit, since most SEALs lived in an OCD-fueled wonderland of hyperactive intelligence that bordered on insanity. All contained in a hardened discipline of perfect calm and empty headedness. It was a life of contradictions.
So he walked.
It took him a year to get a crew together that didn’t think he was completely fucked in the head. With some charm and creative financing, he’d managed to buy a ship and start his obsession in earnest. The whale was out there and he knew it. So did half of his crew. The other half just wanted to believe, and thought it was pretty cool their captain was an ex-SEAL.
But the cool wore off quickly and Darren had gone through more crew members than he could remember. He sure as shit couldn’t remember their names. But his Chief Officer stuck with him the entire time. And that was who he called as the cab got closer to the Port.
“You fucking listen to any of those voicemails, oh, Captain, my Captain?” CO Marty Lake asked as he answered his phone. “I’m guessing by the lack of screaming that you haven’t.”
Chief Officer Martin Hogarth Lake was close to the same age as Darren, but years ahead in wisdom. He kept it all cool when the shit hit the fan, and he made sure Darren could have his freak outs when the frustration got to him. He never let the crew think anything but the highest for their Captain, even if it meant dangling one or two over the rail to teach a lesson. Lessons were learned quickly when around CO Lake.
Except for Darren, who never learned his lesson. That lesson being, always listen to his CO. Especially when the man was telling him they were going to lose the ship.
“I don’t need to,” Darren said, “I got the gist of it from the banker. Motherfucker was there to stall me, wasn’t he?”
“If you mean to distract you from the auction that just ended so you didn’t turn the bidders into a pile of split fuck? Yeah, that was his job. And he did a splendid job since you didn’t even answer your fucking phone.”
“Is it gone?” Darren asked.
“What? The Hooyah? Yep. Crew’s here though. I’d put you on speaker so you can cheer them up, but they’re busy cursing your name.”
“What about all of the equipment?” Darren asked. “Our files?”
“Files are at my feet and on flash drives,” Lake said. “Don’t worry about the research.”
“But…?”
“The equipment was purchased with the bank’s money, Captain. It was part of the package.”
“Fuck,” Darren said as he rubbed his forehead. He glanced ahead out the windshield and sighed. “I’m pulling into the Port now. See ya in a second.”
He hung up and jammed his phone into his jeans pocket, and then fished out his wallet. Twenty rand was all he had.
“Pull up there,” Darren told the cab driver. “Wait for a second and I’ll get some cash.”
“Oh, no ya don’t,” the cab driver said as he pulled to a stop, “pay me now, bra.”
“Listen, my Chief Officer has cash. I’m tapped right now. Didn’t get my change from the bartender because of that fight. Cut me some slack, bra. I won’t stiff ya.”
“Pay. Now,” the cab driver said.
The automatic lock clicked down and Darren stared at it for a second. Then moved. Using his elbow, he busted out the window and pulled himself out of the cab before the driver could protest. The cab driver shoved his door open and jumped out, a long baton in his hand. He leveled it at Darren’s chest.
“Now you pay for that too!” the cab driver shouted, the baton almost touching Darren’s chest. “Who the fok you think you are, bra?”
“Just put that away,” Darren said, his hands up. “I’m gonna get your money. Chill, bra. All I have to do is---”
The baton stabbed Darren in the chest.
“Ya call who ya need to call, bra,” the cab driver said, “but ya don’t go nowhere until ya pay me.”
“Fuck,” Darren said, “the hard way. Second time tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“I said it’s gonna have to be the hard way. Sorry.”
“No need for that, Mr. Chambers,” a man said as he placed a hand on Darren’s shoulder. “I’ll cover it.”
Darren looked over his shoulder at a man about his height of six-two. The man was a couple decades older than Darren, fit and tan; well weathered by the sea, but not aged yet. Dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, the man looked like a golf pro. He gave Darren a smile and took his hand away. Not quickly out of alarm for the look on Darren’s face, but out of respect for his personal space.
The man looked at the window and grimaced as he pulled out his wallet. “What’ll that cost you?”
The cab driver shrugged. “More than you have in that wallet.”
“Assumptions make an ass out of you and me,” the man said as he fished out a few thousand rand. He had an American accent and Darren tried to place it, but couldn’t. “Here ya go, pal. This should do.”
The cab driver carefully took the sheaf of bills and counted them out, his eyes going from the money to Darren to the American and back to the money.
“Will that do?” the American asked.
“Yeah, it’ll do,” the cab driver said as he stuffed the cash in his pocket and got back in his taxi. He pointed the baton at Darren. “You got lucky, bra. I know how to use this.”
Darren and the American watched as the cab pulled away, and then turned to each other.
“I believe he was the lucky one,” the American chuckled. “Am I right?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Darren asked.
“Mr. Ballantine,” the American said, holding out his hand, “good to meet you.”
Darren shook the hand that was offered. “Got a first name?”
“No,” Mr. Ballantine said.
“That’s bullshit,” Darren said. “But whatever. Thanks. I’ll get the money to pay you back. You take PayPal? Just give me your email and I’ll send it right over.”
“We both know that’s not true, don’t we?” Mr. Ballantine said. “Those rand in your wallet are all you have to your name. And while Chief Officer Lake may have some cash tucked away in his duffel, he doesn’t have as much as I just gave that cab driver.”
“How the fuck do you know my CO’s name?” Darren asked, his body tensing, ready.
“Relax, operator,” Mr. Ballantine asked, “or do you go by Captain?”
“Captain,” Darren replied, “I’m not an operator any longer.” He looked down the dock and in the direction of the Hooyah. “May not be a Captain any longer either.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short,” Mr. Ballantine said. “Captain Chambers it is, and I have a feeling it’ll stay that way.”
“What the fuck, man? You seem to know a lot about me,” Darren said. He could feel a pain start to build behind his right eye and knew a migraine was coming. Fuck. He hadn’t had one in months and from the feel of
it, it would be a nasty little bitch. “I can’t pay you. We’ve established that. And personally, I’d like you to go the fuck away. You creep me out. Thanks for paying for the cab. Have a good one.”
Darren started to walk away, but the American grabbed his arm. Darren’s first instinct was to take the fucker down; slam him to the ground and wrench that arm of his out of the socket. But something in the grip made Darren think twice. Both thoughts took all of .02 seconds.
“I think you and your crew need me, Captain Chambers,” Mr. Ballantine said.
“Let go of my arm, sir,” Darren warned. The American did immediately, but offered no apology. “You don’t know what I need. You looked up some shit on Google and now you’re trying to do whatever it is you’re doing. Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. Like I said, you creep me out. You have con man written all over you. You even smell plastic, like a fucking Ken doll just out of the packaging. Again, thanks for paying for the cab. See ya later.”
“Captain Chambers,” Mr. Ballantine said, “you need to listen to me. I have an offer you will want to hear.”
“You really want to push me? Is that how you want your night to go?” Darren asked. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Mr. Ballantine,” Mr. Ballantine replied, “I already said that.”
“Listen, pal, I’m thankful for you bailing me out there, but you can fuck off with the mystery,” Darren said. “Tell me who you are or you’re getting put down.”
“Walk with me,” Mr. Ballantine said, gesturing towards the dock that led to what used to be Darren’s ship. “I’ll explain as we go to meet your crew.”
“You aren’t meeting shit, asshole!” Darren yelled. The migraine was coming on strong and he could start to see small spots floating in his vision. The lights that ringed the parking lot were like daggers. “FUCK OFF!”
Mr. Ballantine stared at Darren for a second then nodded. “Yes, of course. My mistake. All of my research told me you were the man for the job. Obviously, I did some assuming of my own. I am sorry to have wasted your time.”
He held out his hand, but Darren didn’t take it. He didn’t even look at it, instead keeping his focus on Mr. Ballantine’s eyes. There was something in them that Darren knew and recognized. He saw the same look in his eyes every morning when he looked in the mirror. There were a select few in the world that had that look.
“Good evening,” Mr. Ballantine said, dropping his hand and giving Darren a farewell nod. “I’d say this is goodbye, but I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
“Fuck off,” Darren said and started to turn, but headlights lit the two men up as Mr. Ballantine turned away.
The creep level escalated quickly and Darren changed his stance slightly, giving him more stability and also access to the Walther he had strapped to his ankle. The car, a black Mercedes with tinted windows, pulled in front of Mr. Ballantine and the driver got out and came around to open the backdoor for the man. Darren was surprised the driver was a woman -barely five feet tall and looked like she weighed maybe a hundred pounds wet, but didn’t make any assumptions about her. The way she held herself told him she was trained. And she wore dark sunglasses at night. That was always a red flag.
Mr. Ballantine gave Darren a brief smile and got in the car. The driver didn’t even glance at Darren, just closed the door and resumed her place behind the wheel. Darren watched the car drive off and didn’t move until he had counted to thirty and was sure the vehicle was gone.
“Fucking crazy night,” Darren said as he took a couple steps backwards before turning and heading down the dock.
By the time he got to the Hooyah, his head was screaming and pounding. Half the vision in his right eye was gone. All he wanted was a dark room, some Percocet, and for the world to fuck off. But the looks on his crew’s faces told him he was going to be the one doing the fucking off.
“They just tugged it away,” Lake said as he walked up to Darren.
Tall, tan, with close-cropped black hair and deep-set brown eyes, Lake would have been considered dashing, but the scar that ran from his hairline, through the brow of his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, and across his right cheek, made him look like the henchman to an evil overlord bent on world domination. Which Lake was cool with. Kept the crew in line.
“Shit, Marty,” Darren said, “I fucked this up royal. I honestly thought the bank would extend the loan. I mean, I showed the guy the video. Shit! Now I don’t even have my fucking tablet!”
“Bank took that too?” Lake asked.
“I left it at the bar,” Darren said, “classic.”
“Care to say a few words to the crew?” Lake asked. “Some words of wisdom? A last farewell? Maybe some ideas on what they should search on Monster.com? I’m thinking ‘goose chase expert’ might be appropriate.”
“Kiss my ass, Marty,” Darren said, stepping past his CO to the rest of the crew.
The Hooyah wasn’t a large ship by any stretch of the imagination and only took eight men, including Darren, to fill out the crew. Lake stood behind Darren which left six men, their duffels stuffed with their possession and set on the dock at their feet, staring at their former captain. Darren looked them over, gauging their moods and possible anger levels. But all looked more sad than angry, which almost made it worse. Darren could handle the anger, but the looks of defeat killed him.
“I owe each of you an apology,” Darren said. “You signed on with me on faith. Faith that I knew what I was doing and that our research would lead to something. Half of you think I’m full of shit, half of you think I’m crazy.”
“All of us think that, Captain,” Second Officer Daryl Jennings said. Average height and build, with a receding hairline of thinning red hair, Jennings was an unassuming figure. Darren knew better, having found him in an Australian jail (even though the man was as American as the rest of the crew) after nearly taking on an entire dockside bar himself. “Only half of us know it.”
Darren smiled and most of the crew smiled with him. “Thanks, Jennings. That makes this easier.”
“It ain’t easy for me,” Boatswain Trevor “Popeye” De Bruhl said. “I don’t know shit about working on land. And ain’t no boats hiring. I checked.”
De Bruhl got his nickname for a very good reason, he looked just like the cartoon character. Short, thin, bald, with massive forearms that were covered in tattoos, De Bruhl even had a one-eyed squint like the real Popeye. He drew the line at the corn cob pipe, though. He hated smoking and had zero problems with snatching a cigarette straight from a man’s mouth if it bothered him. Popeye was American born and raised, having lived there for most of his forty-two years on the planet, but both parents were South African nationals, giving him dual citizenship and privileges that came in handy for the Hooyah. Or did.
“I’m going to need a ride back to Mobile,” Chief Engineer Karl “Bach” Breytenbach said. “No way I’m walking all the way to Alabama.”
Probably the most versatile of Darren’s crew, Bach had a way with machinery and anything having to do with boats. His father’s family owned a marina close to one of the casinos that filled Mobile Bay in the Gulf Coast. From a young age, Bach had spent all of his free time playing with engines and nautical systems. He could strip, clean, and reassemble an Envinrude E30MRL in almost the same time that it took Darren to strip, clean, and reassemble his Colt M4 carbine.
Even with only one hand.
The hand Bach did have was scratching at the grey stubble on his scalp. Six feet and two hundred pounds, Bach wasn’t small, but he had a way of seeming smaller because of the missing appendage. Most people saw him, but looked past, dismissing him because of his “handicap.” Their mistake. Bach had spent most of his fifty years hardening the stump at the end of his left arm so that it could pack quite a wallop.
“I’ll get everything straight,” Darren said, “for all of you.”
First Assistant Engineer Morgan “Cougher” Colfer, always at Bach’s right hand, nodded
, his long, stringy black hair flopping in his face. The Batman t-shirt he always wore was stained with grease and what Darren hoped was ketchup. Darren nodded to him and Cougher nodded back, then buried his face in the crook of his elbow and let loose a goose honk of a cough.
Standing behind Cougher was Chief Steward Beau McWhitt. He just stared out at the night shrouded water of the port, his thumbs hooked into the armpits of his tank top, his biceps seeming to flex and quiver on their own. Darren made a note to ask the kid if he was back on the ‘roids. He turned his head and looked at Darren finally, the breeze catching his white-blond hair and blowing it into his baby face. At five feet six, he had the features of a teenage boy, just without the acne, perpetually looking like he was just about to hit his growth spurt. But being twenty-three years old that was a dream left in the past.
“Where’s Gunnar?” Darren asked. “Did he already take off?”
Lake turned and nodded down the dock to a figure seated at the far edge, barely seen in the gloom of the night.
“Shit,” Darren said, “how bad is he taking it?”
“They took everything, Captain,” Jennings said. “Most of the equipment he’d built himself. The guy’s fucking all tore up.”
Everyone muttered their agreement.
“Shit,” Darren said again, “I’ll go talk to him.”
“He’s got his knife,” Cougher said, “been flipping it about since the tug showed up.”
“Noted,” Darren said, “thanks.”
They had been friends since well before Darren had enlisted in the Navy and trained to be a SEAL. It was hard for Darren to draw up a memory that didn’t have Gunnar firmly planted in it. Childhood friends, they had grown up together in the same neighborhood, their backyards butting against each other. They had competed in everything throughout school, sports, games, cars, everything. They would have competed in the Navy also, both having a love of the sea, but Gunnar chose medical school instead of life as a sailor. He ended up top of his class at Johns Hopkins, and then decided after his residency that he didn’t want to be a surgeon and pursued a doctorate in marine biology. Everyone was shocked, but Darren understood.
