Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  Popov looked at his watch. Nearly a quarter to four. “Where is the cocaine? I thought the trucks were to arrive fifteen minutes ago.”

  “They are late. The roads in the area can be problematic, especially if the trucks have a heavy load, si? But I received a call from the convoy a little while ago, they should be here soon.”

  As if to prove his point, the guard called down from the hatch, “Jefe! Están aquí!”

  “Bueno! We are still on schedule.”

  Suddenly, the night was ripped apart by an avalanche of automatic weapons fire, explosions, and shouts of alarm. An intense firefight erupted outside—even muffled inside the interior of the submarine, the volume of gunfire was intense.

  Samarkandi ran toward them from the engine room. “What is happening? Is it the army?”

  “We’re the army!” Muñoz barked. “No, it is probably a rival group. Someone talked! Start the engines. My men are excellent fighters but we can use the submarine to escape if needed. Igor! Go up and take a look. I may be their target, so I will stay put.”

  Popov climbed the short ladder into the conning tower and poked his head out. He could see a trio of army supply trucks on the edge of the dirt road alongside the river. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. Fernando’s escort was crouched, an AK-103 assault rifle raised to his shoulder.

  “Madre de dios!” The guard then switched to English for Popov’s benefit. “They came out of the trucks! It was an ambush!”

  A roaring boat engine from behind caught Popov’s attention and he looked out to sea. A cartel tugboat was a hundred yards off, its crew firing ineffectually toward shore, but that wasn’t the boat motor he’d heard. Some sort of high-speed patrol boat, painted gray, skidded up behind the tugboat in a shower of spray. A pair of smoke trails reached out from the intruder and the two RPG rockets blew the small tugboat to splinters. The guard turned his head to witness this new horror, and Popov was treated to a horror of his own: a high velocity sniper bullet punched into the side of the guard’s head, sending a spray of brain, blood, and bone into the waters beyond.

  And then Popov heard it. The sound chilled his soul.

  “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

  Jolted by a rush of fear, Popov retreated into the conning tower and slammed the hatch shut, spinning the locking wheel. “Start the engines! It’s not a rival gang!” He slid down the ladder and spun around. “We have to get out of here, it’s…”

  Hamid Samarkandi stood over the prone figure of Muñoz, an automatic pistol raised and pointed at Popov’s face.

  “Allahu akbar,” he said serenely.

  The gun flashed and Popov saw no more.

  Later that morning.

  Rincon, Bonaire.

  Boone’s alarm went off a few minutes after four in the morning, his “alarm clock” being a low-tech model by the name of “King Cock”. The King was a feisty rooster who lived in the scrub of an abandoned lot nearby. While most roosters in the neighborhood tended to crow a bit later, King Cock wanted everyone to know that he was the lord of Rincon, the second largest city in Bonaire. Of course, Bonaire only had two cities, the largest being Kralendijk to the south. With a population under two thousand, Rincon was, at best, a town. Tucked away in a valley on the north end of the island, she was the oldest inhabited settlement in the Dutch Caribbean. In an effort to protect themselves from pirates, settlers built Rincon away from the coast, several miles from the relative bustle of Kralendijk. That was where all the action was: the restaurants, bars, grocery stores and, of course, the ubiquitous dive shops like Rock Beauty Divers where Boone worked as a divemaster.

  Swinging his long legs off the edge of his bed, Boone sat up and listened to King Cock’s performance. He reached over and tapped his smartphone to life. It was 4:05 a.m., Wednesday, August 23, and a single text message floated on the lock screen: I’m baaaaaaaack. He smiled. Emily Durand returned to work today—her flight had been delayed and she must have arrived after he’d fallen asleep. She’d been in London for two weeks, attending her sister’s wedding. Probably catching up with her boyfriend, too, he thought, rising and shuffling into his tiny bathroom.

  Pausing at the mirror, he brushed his fingertips across his sparse beard and opted to shave it off after his morning exercise. He’d let it go over the past two weeks and had enjoyed the experiment, but figured Em would prefer coming back to a friendly face, and not an embryonic hipster beard.

  Throwing on a pair of bike shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, he grabbed an insulated water bottle from the nearly empty fridge and headed for the screen door. Stepping outside his little rented house on Kaya Mango, he unchained his bicycle, a sturdy mountain bike he’d bought used in Curaçao. Hopping aboard, he pedaled down his street, heading north past the Rincon Cemetery, its little white tombs glowing in the moonlight. Like most limestone islands, Bonaire had aboveground plots, the limestone being difficult to excavate and arable soil being too valuable to waste. Turning left at Rincon’s Catholic church, Boone headed down the main drag, past the Cadushy Distillery, a festively painted compound where they sold cactus vodka and a green liqueur made from the Kadushi cactus.

  Leaving town, Boone passed lengthy “cactus fences”, a distinctive Bonairean construction of interlocking Yatu cacti, a tradition going back hundreds of years. They had a rugged beauty, and also kept wandering donkeys and goats from traipsing onto your property. This morning, he skipped the entrance to the Kunuku biking trail and headed for Kaminda Meer, the main road that traveled into the southern part of the Washington-Slagbaai park. In the local creole language of Papiamentu, “Kaminda” meant “on the way” and Boone was on the way to Goto Meer, a large saltwater lake at the edge of the park. Leaning over his handlebars, he took the last half mile at full speed, navigating the ruts and bumps, before skidding to a stop at a rise overlooking the lake. Resting his bicycle against a cactus, Boone drained half his water bottle before grabbing a small pair of binoculars and heading off the road to his favorite spot, a flat rock near a gentle drop-off. A sleeping iguana in a branch overhead was startled by his approach and scrabbled a couple feet along the branch before deciding there was no threat and instantly falling back asleep. The tree it was perched in was gnarled, its leaves sparse. Bonaire, along with her sister islands Aruba and Curaçao, was an arid place, having more in common with desert scrublands than the lush, tropical gardens of the rest of the Caribbean.

  Boone loved Washington-Slagbaai National Park. Named for two former plantations, the park had existed for nearly fifty years, and took up the entire northern portion of Bonaire. Fringed by protected shoreline and full of trails and wildlife, it was an oasis for nesting turtles, iguanas, parrots, flamingos, and the occasional wild goat or donkey. Reaching his makeshift boulder-bench, Boone sat, closed his eyes, and simply… breathed.

  Boone Fischer had always been an active young man, biking, running, and swimming since he was quite young. In college, he’d taken up martial arts, finding himself drawn to capoeira and Brazilian jiu jitsu, the former for its wildly acrobatic moves, and the latter for the advantages it gave a lightly built man to overcome a larger opponent. Both played to Boone’s strengths: he was lean and wiry, his body sculpted in ropy muscle and his lighter frame allowed for excellent agility. In the last few years he had taken up yoga and meditation; Boone had a busy mind and at times he needed to calm the storm of thoughts that occasionally roiled up inside.

  He cleared his mind, but a smiling face soon swam into view behind his closed eyelids. It was no surprise to Boone that the image of Emily in his mind was sporting a pair of huge sunglasses. A smile grew on his tranquil face. He had to admit, things had been a bit boring without the impish little Brit around. It’s going to be good to see her again, he thought, before allowing the image to float away.

  Once he felt centered, Boone opened his eyes and raised his binoculars. On the edges of the lake, he could see numerous flamingos sleeping
in their trademark fashion, stilted atop one leg. But this wasn’t all of them, by any means. A large flock was on the opposite side of the island in Pekelmeer, next to the Cargill salt works, and even more roosted across the sea; this time of year, many flamingos traveled back and forth between Venezuela and Bonaire. Boone checked his dive watch: a quarter to five. Right on cue, he heard the distant warbling grunts coming from the south. Boone, lowered his binoculars, preferring to take in the whole of the avian mass about to make its appearance. Dawn was almost an hour away but the sky above was clear and the moon and stars shone brightly. In moments, the sky was filled with the ungainly birds, the moonlight illuminating their wings as they transitioned to a gliding approach, water-skiing into the salty surface of the lake. Boone watched them join their one-legged brethren for a few minutes before retrieving his bicycle and returning to town.

  Back in Rincon, Boone quickly shaved off his beard, before hopping in the shower and dressing for work: swim trunks and T-shirt. He’d add some sandals to his ensemble once he reached the dive shop, but for now his ratty old sneakers were needed for the bike ride into Kralendijk. He tossed a few items in a small backpack and headed for the door, nearly tripping over a packing box filled with kitchen supplies. He tucked it into the corner with several other boxes and his suitcase. Boone sighed. You’re not leaving yet, he thought. He returned to his bike and headed out.

  Nearing the end of his street, he smelled something delicious and knew his friend Martin Petersen was hard at work getting ready to open. Martin ran a “snack”, a special kind of establishment in the Dutch Caribbean. Snacks were specially licensed businesses that could sell beer and inexpensive, local food. They could have no more than five tables and the emphasis was on cheap and fast. Many locals enjoyed relaxing at a snack with the neighbors, playing cards and swigging cold Polar beers from Venezuela. One of the best regulations for snacks: the beer had to be under two dollars and kept at the freezing point.

  Boone walked his bike to the back door of Martin’s little “snack” and strolled into the kitchen. “Good morning, Martin. I can smell your food from down the block.”

  “Bon dia, Boone. I can smell you down the block. You been bike riding in the dark again? Crazy Dutchy.”

  Boone was only half Dutch, and the skinny old man loved to razz him about it. Martin Petersen was Bonairean, born and bred; he claimed ancestry from the slaves that were brought to the island in the seventeenth century to work the salt pans for the Dutch. His grandfather had worked on both the Washington and Slagbaai plantations as a day laborer, harvesting aloe for export and building cactus fences for the livestock. Martin himself was known on the island as one of the few locals who could build a cactus fence properly and he supplemented his restaurant income with occasional custom orders. Though in his early seventies, he had the energy of a man half his age. When Boone had first come to Bonaire to work in the diving industry, he had visited Rincon while searching for housing. Looking for a quick bite and a beer he had spotted Martin’s sign: Washington-Snackbaai. After he finished laughing, Boone had sat down and ordered a beer, talking with the feisty old man well into the night. Within the week he had rented a small house just up the street.

  “How you doing this morning, Martin.”

  “Mi ta bon, danki,” Martin said, telling Boone: “I’m good, thanks.” Though Dutch was the official language, the vast majority of Bonaireans spoke Papiamentu, a creole mish-mash of Portuguese, Spanish, English, Dutch, Caribbean Indian, and several African languages. Fortunately for Boone, English was spoken quite widely on the island. “Oh, thank God, you got rid of that beard.”

  “Yeah, I figured it had its time.”

  “If it had any more time, you woulda looked like a goat.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You got my breakfast pastechi?”

  “Just took them outta the fryer. Grab yourself some coffee, ya moocher.”

  Boone retrieved his mug from a hook and helped himself to a jolt of caffeine. Over the years, Boone had pitched in around the snack during his downtime, helping with repairs and introducing the old man to the joys of streaming music and a decent set of speakers. “Alexa. Play David Bowie.”

  When nothing happened, Martin burst into laughter. “I changed it. Saying Alexa this, Alexa that, I felt like I had a girlfriend. My wife, God rest her soul, was the only woman for me.”

  “What did you change it to?”

  “I’ll never tell. You’re leaving me, anyway… what do you care?”

  “Ah. You heard.” In three days, Boone was leaving for another dive op in the Northern Caribbean on the mountainous Dutch island of Saba. He’d agreed to do an “island swap” with another divemaster, a practice to keep dive staff fresh and engaged. “Look, Martin… I just heard the other day. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.”

  “I’m just teasing you, boy. You’ll be back. Once the Diver’s Paradise has her hooks in you, you’ll always come back. Besides, where you gonna find someone to make the crazy pastechi you ask for?”

  Pastechi were a type of empanada popular in the Dutch islands; basically, a fried pastry filled with chicken, beef, fish, cheese… or, in Boone’s case, eggs. He had talked Martin into making a custom “breakfast pastechi” of eggs, cheese, and a little chorizo. Martin always groused about having to make it but Boone knew it was now the most popular option he sold. Many of the dive ops had staff living in Rincon and they were early risers—for many, breakfast meant eggs. Martin had actually taken another suggestion from Boone, creating a vegetarian pastechi full of pumpkin, onion, and hot peppers. The old man was a master of krioyo (creole) cooking and it was his pumpkin sopa that had given Boone the idea.

  Boone reached for a fresh pastechi and Martin whacked his knuckles with a wooden spoon he was about to employ in a Bonairean gumbo. “Ow!”

  “Still too hot. I just save your life.”

  “My hero.” Boone drained his coffee and rinsed his mug in the sink, returning it to its peg. By the time he finished, Martin had his pastechi wrapped and bagged.

  “You better get going, Dutchy. Wouldn’t want that cute little British girl to get to work before you. She might start making eyes at someone else.”

  Boone stared at Martin for a moment, his mouth in a half-smile, half-gape. “You mean Emily? Look… she’s…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my mistake. I forget, she’s just a friend. A friend who comes all the way up to Rincon several times a week to sit with you at my tables. Although, maybe she comes for me and my krioyo cooking. Maybe I should make her my tiki dushi, my little sweetheart.” Martin gave Boone a sly wink, holding out Boone’s breakfast.

  Boone shifted his feet and took the bag from the old Bonairean. “Hey, we have a blast together… I enjoy hanging with her.”

  Martin stirred the gumbo, shaking some proprietary spices into the pot without ever taking his eyes off of Boone. “Let us hope Saba has another Emily.”

  Along the banks of the jungle river, the fighters of the Islamic State gathered up the corpses of cartel members and began unloading pallets from the supply trucks they’d arrived in. In the midst of the organized chaos, Hamid Samarkandi slipped into the quiet of his thoughts, turning his eyes toward the still form of Igor Popov, lying in the sand. The man was an infidel. His death was necessary. And yet… Hamid remembered the good times they’d had together. Popov enjoyed his alcohol and his women, two sinful excesses that Hamid chose not to partake in, and the Russian was always chiding the Uzbek that he needed to loosen up a little. He found himself thinking of a particular time when Popov had declared a day of rest and taken him to Bonaire for some scuba diving. They’d enlisted the aid of a local who had taken them out to a little island off the Bonairean coast. Their guide, after receiving an eye-popping tip (in US dollars of course), had conveniently forgotten some of the requirements for dive certification training and given them a crash course. Hamid knew a little about diving—most men in the s
ubmarine business did—but he was astonished by the beauty of the corals and the fish. He looked again at the ruined face of his friend. No. Not a friend. A convenient acquaintance, provided to serve the will of Allah. Still… the undersea world had been so beautiful. And Igor could be quite funny when he was drunk…

  “Hamid! As-salāmu ‘alaykum.”

  The greeting snapped Hamid Samarkandi back to the present and he tore his eyes away from the man he had shot. “Wa‘alaykum as-salām.”

  The terrorist leader, Sulayman Zougam, came alongside the Uzbek, his well-trimmed beard and smooth skin showing no hint of the battle he’d just participated in. Zougam noted where the engineer had been looking and placed a hand on his shoulder. “He was an infidel, Hamid. It was required.”

  Hamid straightened his back and his eyes filled with fervor. “Or course, Sulayman. A moment of reflection. That is all. The operation was a success! And I heard no bullets strike the submarine while I was inside. I thank you for exercising care in the assault.”

  “Yes, I made sure only Abdul and his precious Dragunov fired on the sub. He killed the guard on the deck but that was the only round intentionally fired in its direction.”

  Samarkandi nodded. “How many casualties?”

  “Only three achieved martyrdom this day. The non-believers, on the other hand… we killed them all. Well… all except one, of course.”

  Just then, a pair of guards dragged a groggy Muñoz up to Zougam, his head covered by a black bag. The bag moaned.

  “Ohhh…my head,” the bag said in Spanish. “What the fuck is going on? Who are you people? Do you have any idea who I am?”

  Zougam whipped the bag off of the man’s head and responded in the same language, “Oh yes, Colonel Fernando Muñoz… I know exactly who you are.”

  Muñoz squinted in the moonlight. “Your accent. You are not South American.”