Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  “That frigate commander said they only found one terrorist body and some oil, right? If a body was blown clear of the submarine… wouldn’t there have to be some debris? Maybe not chunks of the hull, but wouldn’t there be bits of whatever else was near the man? Personal effects, charts, food wrappers. And what about the other bodies? He couldn’t have been driving that thing himself, could he?”

  “I didn’t serve in anti-submarine warfare but I learned a bit in officer candidate training. When a submarine’s hull is breached, the higher pressure on the outside tends to keep things in—but it’s possible a few other things have floated free by now. That being said, the U.S. Navy isn’t taking any chances. My contact says they’ve got a destroyer on the way to Saint Thomas and a large number of Coast Guard assets are already on station. Even the Dutch are sending a frigate they have nearby. Plus, the Navy is flying a Poseidon patrol plane down there along with an older P-3 Orion. Between them, they have some of the most advanced anti-submarine sensors available. If the sub survived there’s little chance it’ll make it into Charlotte Amalie’s harbor.”

  It was mid-morning by the time the Yachty McYachtface pulled alongside the pier near the Black Durgon Inn. Boone had radioed Frenchy the Belgian and given him a Reader’s Digest rundown of what had happened and let him know they’d miss the morning dives. As it happened, the only divers scheduled were Rick and Ron so that turned out not to be an issue. Frenchy said he was just doing bookkeeping and maintenance and would probably close up early. Emily took the handset from Boone and told Frenchy not to leave until she got there.

  While Rick settled accounts with Darcy, Boone and Emily hopped across to the pier and tied up. When they finished, Boone cleared his throat.

  “Em…”

  “Ride your bike back and grab my jeep, yeah?” she said quickly, smiling. “I don’t think Darcy wants to sit here too long, and we’ve got a lot of gear to take back.”

  Boone biked back to Rock Beauty divers to grab Emily’s jeep. When he returned, everyone was waiting on the edge of the dock with their gear. As they began loading the jeep, Darcy called him over.

  “Here,” he said, holding up a plastic bag. “Since you gave away Martin’s Glocks, one to a drug lord and the other to the sea, here’s something from my personal stash to tide him over. Tell him I’ll bring him another next time I’m in the neighborhood.”

  Boone took the bag—heavy, but it clearly contained only one pistol. He stuffed it into his backpack. “Thanks, Darcy.”

  “So… Saba, huh? Hope you like hiking.” When Boone wrinkled his brow, Darcy continued. “Your girlfriend may have mentioned you were leaving. Here.” He held out a business card.

  Boone took it. “DaSilva Transport…”

  “Actually, what I wrote on the back may be more useful.”

  Boone flipped it over. There was just a name, “Reynaldo”, and an international phone number.

  “He’s someone in a similar line of work. Lives over in Sint Eustatius.”

  “Statia. Yeah, I know it. Been there, actually. Right across from Saba.”

  “He runs things between the Northern Leewards. You need something, tell him Darcy sent you.”

  When they pulled into the alley by the dive shop, Emily jumped out without a word and headed for the office. Boone watched her go, then began helping the Claassens unload their gear and scuba tanks.

  “You ever been to Saba?” Rick asked, as he grabbed a couple empties and walked with Boone to the refill room.

  “Just the little airstrip, on my way over to Statia. We had to wait for a squall over there to pass so I hung out at Saba’s airport, looking up at Mount Scenery. Never forgotten that view. When are you and your brother heading back to Florida?”

  “We had a few more days here but the Navy wants a debrief. We fly out tonight.”

  Boone stuck out his hand. “Thank you for what you and your brother did.”

  Rick smiled and shook Boone’s hand firmly. “Hell, we oughta be thanking you and Emily. If it weren’t for you two…” He dug out his wallet and found a receipt from the Zhung Kong supermarket down the road. “I don’t have a fancy card or anything but this’ll do.” He flipped over the receipt, found a pen, and wrote down some information. “Here’s my email and cell, and Ron’s too. If you’re ever in Florida, give us a call. Heck, if you ever need anything, let me know.” He handed Boone the slip of paper. “We went through it, didn’t we?”

  Boone nodded.

  “How you holding up?”

  Boone thought of the terrorist struggling in his grip—the slackening of tension in the man’s muscles as he drowned. Back at the lighthouse, Rick had come outside after he and Emily had performed CPR—he probably didn’t realize that Boone had initially killed the man. He didn’t want to go into that right now. “I’m still processing, I guess.”

  Ron entered with the last of the empty tanks. “Got the last of the gear.” He grabbed Boone in a bearhug. “You take care of yourself, Boone. Rick, let’s go settle up with Frenchy.”

  Boone finished unloading his and Emily’s gear, taking it to their lockers. He started to stow away his personal gear before remembering where he would be tomorrow. Leaving the dive shop’s gear on a workbench, he grabbed his dive computer, mask, and regulator and added them to his bulging backpack. He went ahead and put Emily’s gear into her locker and headed back outside to find her saying goodbye to the Claassens at the door to the dive shop.

  “Let’s not do that again, yeah?” she said. “Next time you’re here, we’ll stick to turtles and rays, and maybe a shark.” As they headed back in to finish up with Frenchy, Emily headed toward her jeep. “You got my gear? How gallant.”

  “Least I could do. Hey, Em… do you want to grab a bite or a beer…?”

  She was already getting into her jeep. “Boone, I’ve actually had something come up and I’m gonna be a busy little bee today. How about a rain check?”

  “Look, Emily, I’m sorry—”

  “Boone, shut up a sec. It’s okay…you’re a guy who just goes with the flow, wherever life takes you. I get that. It’s one of the things I like about you.” She got an odd look in her eye. “I might try it myself sometime.” She slid her huge sunglasses on and started the jeep. “One question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Put your brain in that Zen mode of yours and don’t think—just answer. If you got the call today, right now, asking if you’d like to transfer to Saba… would you stay or go?”

  Boone didn’t hesitate. “I’d stay.”

  Emily’s face struggled to suppress a grin—she managed to tamp it down to a sly smile. “That’s what I thought.” Without another word, she backed down the alley and headed onto the road toward town, the sounds of Papa Papiamentu’s Bari music trailing behind her.

  Boone stood in the alley in a fog of confusion. That was… odd. She had every right to be mad, but he’d seen her mad before and when she was ticked, there was no mistaking it—she wasn’t the passive aggressive type. Still, he’d give Emily her space, maybe give her a call in a few hours.

  “Hey Dutchy, don’t go running off with any of my gear!” Frenchy had finished with the Claassens and was exiting the shop with them. The brothers headed toward the side gate to their condo complex and the dive shop owner waved Boone toward him.

  “I put my Rock Beauty gear on the workbench,” Boone said. “Figured you’d want to give it a once over.”

  “And I’ve got your pay. They use US Dollars over in Saba too, so I figure you’ll want that.”

  Boone nodded toward the Kleine Dancer, which was tied up at the dock. “You brought the boat in. Got an afternoon dive? I can go out for you. I don’t have all that much to pack and Martin’s going to ship some things for me.”

  “No, I’ve got a substitute from Buddy who’s happy for the extra work. Besides, I have to learn to get by without you.�
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  “Well, you’ve still got Emily.”

  “Yes. Yes I do, don’t I?” Boone got an odd vibe from Frenchy, and there was a mischievous glint in his eye as he turned and headed into the shop. “Come on in and get your money, mon ami. And let me get you a fresh Rock Beauty T-shirt to take with you. Never hurts to advertise!”

  Back in Rincon, Boone coasted by Martin’s snack. It was after the lunch rush and he didn’t see the old cook; sometimes Martin popped back home to freshen up if things were slow. Boone decided to swing by later, cycling home to finish packing. There wasn’t all that much to do. Never much of a materialist, he lived a spartan existence and didn’t have many possessions. Books on a Kindle, music and movies through the internet. He only owned about a week’s worth of clothes and a couple jackets and hats, and they were already packed away in his luggage. He added his laptop and a few other electronic devices, camera, binoculars. In the corner were a couple boxes of household goods and some other things that would ship over later. He put a few remaining items into the last box and taped it up. Grabbing a scrap of paper with a Saba address, he filled out a shipping label. The young man who was replacing him, Anders, was taking over Boone’s lease and would ship his boxes to him—Boone would reciprocate. Unlike Anders, Boone didn’t have permanent lodging lined up yet, so his boxes would go to the post office in The Bottom, the capital of Saba.

  At four o’clock Boone decided to call Emily. He got her voicemail. Rather than leave a message, he texted her: Can we talk?

  There was no immediate reply so Boone busied himself going over the apartment, making sure it was in good shape for its new tenant. After a moment, his phone dinged and he grabbed it.

  Hey. Sorry, still busy. Not blowing you off. What time is your flight?

  Just before eight, Boone typed.

  I’ll give you a ride to the airport and we can talk then. Pick you up at six.

  OK. See you then.

  Boone watched the phone for a moment, waiting to see if there would be more. There wasn’t. Pocketing it, he decided he’d head over to Martin’s. Pausing to grab the bag with Darcy’s “gift”, he headed out the door and down the short street. He could hear music coming from inside the kitchen so he strolled in and found the owner cutting some carrots for one of his sopas.

  “Martin! You weren’t here earlier. Someone could’ve snuck in here and stolen your secret spice blend.”

  “Nah, they’d be torn apart by my vicious guard gecko.” The old man gestured with his knife to a corner near the ceiling where a little bug-eyed gecko clung to the wall, on the hunt for any bugs foolish enough to invade Martin’s snack.

  Boone had seen it before but didn’t realize it might be a permanent resident. “He got a name?”

  “Stupid Gecko,” Martin said. “He also answers to Get Off the Counter. One of these days, he’s gonna end up in a sopa, he’s not careful.” He finished with the carrots and set down the knife. Seeing the bag Boone was holding, Martin nodded toward it. “You returning my fishing supplies?”

  “Umm… not exactly.” Boone handed over the bag.

  Martin reached inside and extracted a pistol. “This ain’t no Glock… and it sure as hell ain’t no two Glocks.” He read a stamp on the barrel. “Beretta.”

  “It’s Darcy’s. He said he’d get you another next time he visits.”

  Martin eyed him warily. “Musta been some fishing expedition. You catch anything?”

  “Get me one of those Aruba beers and give me some vegetables to chop. This may take a while.”

  Nearly an hour (and two, ice cold Balashi beers) later, Boone had told the entire tale of the last two days.

  “You’re not sure they sunk it,” Martin said.

  “I dunno… just a feeling. But the frigate guy seemed pretty sure…”

  “The ‘frigate guy’ is probably covering his ass. Still, from what your Navy friend told you, if the Venezuelans didn’t get it, the Americans will.”

  A couple early customers arrived and Martin filled two plates with papaya and goat stew and a side of funchi while Boone fetched them a couple beers from the freezer.

  “You talk to the little Brit girl? She know you going?”

  “Yeah, I kinda fucked that up Martin. I was gonna tell her when she got back from London, but then the submarine…”

  Martin laughed. “What, like ‘the dog ate my homework?’ I was gonna tell a girl who’s sweet on me I’m leaving forever, but then I saw a submarine.” He took a swig from his beer. “Ah, it don’t matter, the Caribbean isn’t all that big a place. You’ll probably see her again someday. Besides, who knows what sort of food they got over there—you’re gonna miss my cooking and come crying back to me.”

  “You might be right. Speaking of which, do I get a last meal?”

  “I might have a couple lobster tails in the freezer, courtesy of a guy I know with a ridiculously named boat. You want some of the stew and funchi with that?”

  “And the pumpkin sopa.”

  “Oh, now that you’re leaving, now you’re gonna eat a lot, ya skinny Dutchy? Well, I’ll join you. Got to make sure you clean your plate.”

  That night, stomach pleasantly full, Boone arrived home with the intention of getting to bed early. He paused to unchain his bicycle and bring it inside. He would let Anders take it. It hadn’t cost him much and it wasn’t worth the price to ship it inter-island. Maybe it’ll be here when I come back. If I come back. When he’d first put in for a switch with Saba and a couple other islands, he’d had the idea that he could travel from island to island, discovering new places, people, and histories. He’d certainly enjoyed switching from Curaçao to Bonaire. I didn’t have any qualms about that move, did I? He stripped down for sleep and lay in bed, listening to the quiet of the late evening. A Chonchorogai bird trilled its late night tseetsee-chrrrrr and somewhere down the road, music played at a distant snack or a backyard. Normally, Boone could find sleep in minutes. It took a little longer, this night.

  A loud bang woke Hamid Samarkandi from a sound sleep. He sat up in his cot, listening.

  “What was that?” Sulayman Zougam said, also rising from interrupted sleep.

  Another bang and one of the Oukabir brothers came forward from the engine room.

  “There is a loud banging coming fr—”

  “Yes, yes, we can all hear it!” Zougam snapped.

  Lenox Bua was at the conn, checking the gauges. “The needles for oil pressure and RPMs both jumped when the noise happened…”

  “Which shaft?” Samarkandi asked.

  “Starboard.”

  Samarkandi went aft and he could feel it now—an irregular vibration. “Kill the engines and bring her shallow!” he said, coming forward. “Periscope depth.”

  “What is it?” Zougam asked.

  “Hard to say but we may be about to damage a shaft, and there are a number of ways that could be irreparable.”

  “Can we operate on only one propeller?” Lenox asked, gradually blowing the ballast to bring the sub to twenty-five feet. Most military submarines had substantially taller masts, but the Zil had to get much closer to the surface to deploy its periscope.

  “If we run on one propeller, we’ll be constantly compensating with the rudder and it will substantially impact performance. Speed, range, everything will be degraded. And if this is related to the earlier oil leak, then both shafts will be affected eventually.” Samarkandi had rigged a simple syphon system to the oil drum from the Venezuelan base, transferring some into a reservoir every hour. He had hoped they could just keep adding oil, essentially ignoring the leak, but that was not going to work, not at this rate. “There is no choice, I have to make repairs. Where are we?”

  Zougam had raised the mast and they were able to get an update from the GPS. “About forty-eight miles southwest of Saint Kitts and Nevis.”

  Samarkandi looked at
the periscope viewscreen. “The wind has picked up—there’s a lot of chop. It would be difficult to do repairs in this sea state. We’ll need to get into the lee of one of the islands to surface in calmer waters.”

  “Where do you propose?” Zougam asked.

  He examined the digital map, then went to the nautical chart, preferring it to the blocky pixels of the GPS. He looked to the north. Sint Maarten was still a hundred miles away. Nearer were the tiny Dutch islands of Saba and Sint Eustatius. The plan had been to sail between those two and make the run toward Sint Maarten. Both had been very sleepy islands for much of the last century but the expansion of an oil terminal on Sint Eustatius now meant as many as ten tankers a day moved in and out of the facility. Samarkandi pointed at it. “This island has too much boat traffic. Here. Saba. I looked at this island briefly when we first began planning this mission. Very small population and the port is over on the southwest side. We’ll come here, to the southeast.” He pointed at the numbers indicating the depths around the island. “This island is basically a mountain in the water and the depth drops off rapidly. We can come in close and be out of view of the port here… and the airstrip here. When repairs are completed we’ll be in a perfect position to make our attack. Just thirty miles. If I can restore the engines and we are able to make at least twelve knots underwater, we’ll be in position to strike the cruise ship piers less than two and a half hours after we start our run.”

  “Very well. Do it.”

  “Lenox, bring us down to fifty feet and engage the port engine,” Samarkandi said. “Keep her at five knots. If I feel any vibrations we’ll reduce speed.” Ever since escaping the frigate they had avoided the surface. They had charged the batteries while waiting at Aves Island, and given the nature of the air independent propulsion system he had designed, Samarkandi was confident they could remain underwater for the rest of their mission, with the possible exception of a few hours for repairs—and they could add additional charge to the batteries while he worked. He looked at his watch. Just before midnight. Assuming he could make the repairs in under two hours, by half past four tomorrow afternoon, the cruise ship port in Phillipsburg, Sint Maarten would be filled with burning wreckage. Inshallah.