Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  Perhaps King Cock sensed that Boone had had a fitful night’s sleep, waiting until nearly five before starting to crow. Boone shuffled out of bed to hit the shower. After toweling off, he checked his barren fridge, eating the last of some leftovers before bagging everything else up and taking out the trash. Back inside, he brushed his teeth and packed up his toiletries. Everything was in his suitcase or in the boxes in the corner. He sat on the bed and looked around his little rented house. It wasn’t much and was pretty rundown, but this place had been home for the last three years and he was going to miss it. I’ll miss a lot more than the house, he thought.

  There wasn’t much left to do and he still had time to kill before Emily showed so he sat on the floor in the lotus position and centered himself, breathing deeply and taking stock. He found himself thinking about all the people he’d met here, bringing up memorable moments with each and every one. His mind even drifted back to Curaçao… to Florida… to Tennessee. He was brought abruptly back to the present by a rap at the screen door.

  “Boone, you in there? Your chauffeur is here.” Emily spotted him through the screen. “What are you doing down there, Zen Boy? You better be packed.”

  Boone uncoiled his wiry limbs and stood. “Sorry, lost track of time. Meant to be outside waiting for you.”

  “I know, you made me get out of the jeep and walk ten whole steps, you inconsiderate wanker.”

  He grabbed his suitcase and carry-on and Emily held the spring-loaded screen door open for him. Boone locked up and tucked the keys under a rock. He’d taken a picture of the rock and emailed it to Anders, so the new tenant would have no trouble finding it. When he stood back up, Emily had his suitcase almost to the jeep. He grabbed his carry-on and trotted toward her.

  “What are you doing, I’ll do that.”

  “No, no, no… it’s all part of the Emily Durand airport limo package,” she said, rolling the heavy bag faster along the rough ground. “Just leave your other bag there and get in the jeep—”

  “Don’t be silly,” Boone said, catching up with her and wrestling his suitcase from her grip. He was about to lift it to put it into the rear when he stopped short. There, in the back compartment, was a bright green suitcase and carry-on. He whirled around to find Emily biting her lower lip, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh, bugger! I wanted to see what you were gonna say to me the whole ride to the airport.”

  Boone looked at her in bewilderment. “Wait… yesterday…”

  “Yesterday when I was too busy to see you? Yeah, well, I had to get Frenchy to let me take a vacation on short notice, help him find a substitute, print out the photo of the submarine I promised him, make arrangements for my jeep, pack my clothes, sneak over to Martin’s snack and ask him a few things, go back to the shop and grab some gear—”

  Boone found a grin of his own creeping onto his face. “You’re coming to Saba?”

  “Wha? Where the hell is Saba? I’m going to Cancun, baby! Woooo!” She punched his arm. “Course I’m going to Saba, you silly git. Frenchy’s giving me two weeks but I bet I can nudge it more, he’s such a softy. Where we staying?”

  As soon as they left Rincon, Emily cranked the Bari on her jeep, taking Kaminda tras di Montaña (literally, “on the way behind the mountain”), a rough road that headed toward the rugged eastern coast before plunging south through largely uninhabited scrub—no stoplights, no traffic, only the occasional donkey. They were treated to the sunrise just as they reached the coast and right on cue, Emily flipped her big sunglasses down from her forehead. Boone started to apologize again for not telling her about his transfer sooner but Emily told him to shut the hell up about that and tell her about Saba instead.

  “Well, it’s part of the Dutch Caribbean. Used to be part of the Netherlands Antilles but when that was dissolved in 2010, it became a ‘special municipality’ of the Netherlands, just like Bonaire. Less than two thousand people live there. The whole island is basically one big mountain rising up out of the sea—a volcano, actually.”

  “Boone, you’re not planning to get me buried in ash and lava, are you?”

  “Nah, it hasn’t erupted since the 1600’s and there’s very little activity, except some hot springs.”

  “Ooh! Volcano spa!”

  “The diving is supposed to be spectacular—diving down along the sides of a mountain in the ocean—lots of pinnacles.”

  “I hope it has better beaches than here.”

  “Uhhh…”

  Up went the sunglasses. “Are there beaches?”

  “Technically, yes. They made a little artificial one a few years ago. There’s a tiny black sand beach, too, but it’s only there some of the time.”

  Emily gave him a look.

  “People don’t go to Saba for the beaches. Besides the diving, there’s a whole mountain to explore—the top of it’s in the clouds half the time. And the views—wait til you see where we’re staying.”

  Boone started to describe the cottages he had rooms in for the first part of his stay, but in no time they had reached Bonaire International Airport, or “Flamingo Airport”, the main terminal painted a festive pink. They checked in with InselAir and grabbed a quick breakfast at Tecnobar just inside the entrance, before heading for the departure gate. There were no direct flights to Sint Maarten from Bonaire so they had to take a turboprop aircraft over to Curaçao and fly from there. Bonaire and Curaçao were only thirty miles apart at their closest point and they were in the air less than twenty minutes before they landed.

  “Funny, you have to go back to your past island to leave your present island to get to your future island,” Emily said, giving Boone a nudge as they touched down.

  Their flight to Sint Maarten was on time and it wasn’t long before they were in the air again. The flight was only an hour and a half but Boone and Emily were exhausted and were both fast asleep before the plane reached cruising altitude.

  Boone woke when he felt the plane start its descent. Emily leaned against him, still fast asleep. The pilot’s voice came over the speakers.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We have begun our descent toward Princess Juliana Airport in Philipsburg, Sint Maarten. It’s a beautiful day down below, thirty degrees Celsius… eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit for any Americans on board. Partly sunny, moderate winds. We should have you at the gate a few minutes ahead of schedule. Estimated arrival time, 10:32 a.m.”

  Emily mumbled something and raised her head. “Sorry, I may have drooled on you. Are we there yet?”

  “One more flight… and I think you’ll enjoy that one.”

  The island of Saint Martin was an unusual place, divided into two parts with French Saint-Martin in the north and Dutch Sint Maarten in the south. Though there were a few more inhabitants on the Dutch side, the populations were about equal, and there were roughly 80,000 people living there. Oddly enough, here on this French/Dutch island the most widely spoken language was English. The French side was known for its cuisine and high-end shopping, the Dutch side for its beaches, indigenous rums, and nightlife. Basically, you went to the Saint-Martin side to shop and eat and you went to the Sint Maarten side to party.

  Arriving at Princess Juliana Airport on the Dutch side, Boone and Emily got their bags and headed for the WinAir counter. They’d be taking a tiny puddle jumper over to Saba and passengers had to bring their own checked bags to the counter. They had time to kill so Boone stopped in at a gift shop. “We need to get some Ma Doudou rum. I had it when I was in Statia—so good.”

  “Not sure I want to drink anything with ‘doo doo’ in the name—whoa, look at these pretty bottles!”

  “That’s them. Hand painted bottles, and the flavored rum is handcrafted—all-natural ingredients. Pick one! But just get one with a plastic bottle. The weight allowance on the WinAir flights can be strict.”

  While Emily went th
rough the flavors, Boone sought out a T-shirt he’d seen before. In no time, he found it and grabbed an extra-small.

  “Banana vanilla, yeah?” Emily said, joining Boone at the cash register.

  “Ladies’ choice.” He paid and promptly handed Emily the T-shirt. “Here, pour vous.”

  “Pour moi? Merci!” She opened it up. “I Survived the Saba Landing… oh crap, I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

  “Shortest commercial runway in the world, I hear. It’s an experience! Hey, it’s a quarter past eleven and our flight’s not til after four,” Boone said. “We could check in and then hit Maho Beach, right by the airport. There’s some cool little bars where you can watch planes blow people into the water.”

  “What?”

  “Certain runways are right up to the beach, so when an airplane taxies, sometimes the back blast can send people flying. Someone was seriously hurt last month but most of the time people just get hurled into the water. And when the planes come in, man, that’s a sight. They buzz right over your head!”

  “Or…” Emily said, as they reached the WinAir counter. “We could go to Saba early.” She pointed. A placard with the word “delayed” was next to the 11 a.m. flight.

  Boone walked up to the little counter, manned by a plump islander with pink streaks in her hair. “Excuse me. We’re on the 4:40 for Saba. Any chance there are seats left on the delayed flight?”

  “I tink so.” She tapped her keys. “You’re in luck, we had a couple cancellations dis morning. One of de aircraft had a maintenance issue but we just heard it was sorted. You gonna fly the triangle, though—over to Statia first, den Saba. Lemme weigh your bags, these are little planes.”

  Boone’s bag was a little over the limit but the lady winked and set it by the door. Within fifteen minutes, Emily and Boone boarded a De Havilland Twin Otter. The little aircraft had less than twenty seats crammed into its narrow cabin. Boone grabbed a pair of seats right behind the pilots, making sure Emily was at the window on the right. The pilots ran down their checklist and the plane started to taxi, the cabin vibrating from the twin propellers. Emily leaned over Boone, looking into the cockpit.

  “This is cool, yeah? Smallest plane I’ve ever been on.”

  “I read about them after flying on one,” Boone said. “These Twin Otters don’t need a lot of runway—one of the only planes that can take off and land at Saba.”

  The pilot overheard them. “We can take off in just a thousand feet if we have to.” He had a rough Londoner accent and Emily leaned further, crowding past Boone.

  “You a Brit?”

  “I am. Croydon.”

  “One of my best mates at university was from there! I’m from Greenwich.”

  “Thought you sounded like a Southie.”

  “What you doing here?”

  “Flying you to Statia or Saba. I live over in the B.V.I. but they’ve got me over here right now. Charles here is a Statian.”

  The copilot raised a hand in greeting. The two men returned their focus to their instruments, throttling the engines up to a roar. The plane rolled down the runway, heading away from the ocean. All at once it seemed to leap into the sky. Emily gave a squeal.

  Charles turned a bit toward them, keeping his eyes ahead. He had to practically shout to be heard. “He’s just showing off. Mike, you quit trying to impress the young lady, can’t you see she’s taken.”

  Emily punched Boone’s arm. “Yeah, Mike.”

  Boone grinned and pointed out the window. “Quit hitting me and take in the view.”

  Below, the sun sparkled off of turquoise waters. Pleasure boats and an occasional yacht headed to and fro.

  “That’s Simpson Bay,” Mike said over the engines. “Beautiful beach there. And coming up we’ve got Great Bay. You two going to Statia or Saba?”

  “Saba,” Boone replied. “Going to be divemastering there.”

  “Well, then you might be visiting Great Bay. The Saba ferry operates from there. It’s between the marina and the cruise ship piers.”

  “Boone, check it, there’s five cruise ships down there!”

  Boone leaned toward the window and looked. Two long piers jutted from shore and five cruise ships were alongside, two of them quite large. “There’s another one out to sea, coming in.”

  “Busy day,” Charles called back. “Most I’ve ever seen was seven.”

  “It’s leaving,” Zougam said, watching the periscope viewscreen as the little dive boat headed back around Saba toward Fort Bay. The submarine had arrived nearly an hour ago to find a single dive boat on the southeast corner.

  “Good. That was probably their second dive.” From his impromptu dive trip to Bonaire with Popov, Samarkandi remembered that most places dived twice in the morning, took lunch, then again in the afternoon. “Lenox, bring us closer to the cliff. Not too close, we don’t want to drift into the island, but I want to be out of view of any houses up top.” He keyed the active sonar, scoping out the underwater terrain ahead. This island is fascinating. It just drops off into the ocean. Once he was satisfied with their location he gave the order to surface. He needed to go out and take a look at the shafts where they entered the hull. He had not been able to affect repairs while they were underway and he had a suspicion that something was awry on the outside.

  “We are at the surface,” Lenox announced.

  “Swing us around. I want our stern to the cliffs. If we drift in with the waves, we can engage the port engine to adjust—preferably not when I’m in the water. Brother Zougam, will you join me on deck? I want to see if we are in view of any buildings.”

  The two terrorists went topside. Above them, sheer cliffs rose into lush green foliage. He could see a few red roofs here and there but they seemed to be in a blind spot for much of the community overhead.

  “There are a couple wealthy homes up there that could see us,” Zougam said, pointing off to the northwest.

  “Their wealthy owners are probably off visiting their other mansions across the world. Besides, they are very far away and our camouflage paint scheme won’t draw the eye.” Samarkandi glanced at a closer spot up on the mountainside. He could just see a pair of little cottages on the edge overhead, but there was a lot of foliage, and if they brought the sub in close they should be shielded from view by the cliffs. “I think we’ve found an excellent spot. Let me get to work.”

  Fifteen minutes after they left Sint Maarten, the distinctive shape of Sint Eustatius came into view.

  “A lot of oil tankers down there,” Boone remarked.

  “Yeah. Ever since NuStar bought up the terminal, the traffic has gone way up,” Charles said. “When I was a boy, Statia was one of the quietest places in the Caribbean. It’s still pretty quiet but a lot of workers moved in.”

  “Is that a volcano?” Emily asked.

  “That there is The Quill. Beautiful hike, you ever find yourself back here. Orchids everywhere and the crater’s got a rainforest in it.”

  The plane descended across the coast and a sparse town flashed by their window as they came in for a landing, before taxiing to the airport terminal, a small yellow and green building. A pair of airport staff approached once the propellers wound down.

  “Roosevelt Airport, Statia,” the pilot called out. He turned in his seat. “We’re dropping off three and picking up one. Be a minute or two while they get the bags. They try to put the bags for the first stop on the outside, but you never know. So, how long you guys in Saba for?”

  Boone opened his mouth to answer but then closed it. I don’t actually know, he thought.

  “Open ended,” Emily supplied.

  “Well, I may see you two again then.” He held out his hand. “Mike Burling. And this is Charles Goforth.”

  “Boone Fischer, and this is Emily Durand. Hey, Charles, do you know a Reynaldo on the island?”

  Charles gave a surpri
sed laugh. “Everybody knows Reynaldo—why you ask?”

  “A friend gave me his number.”

  “Oh, a ‘friend’, huh?” He laughed again. “Reynaldo is a character, let me tell you. Good guy. Anything you need, he can find it, you get me?”

  Boone gave a good-natured chuckle, not knowing how outside the box this Reynaldo was. “I was just curious—I’ve never actually spoken to the guy.” Outside the window, a couple who’d been on their plane was loading their luggage into the bed of a red truck, a circular logo with “Golden Rock Diver Center” on the door. “Hey, I dove with those guys. Owner was Glenn, from Texas.”

  “Oh, yeah, Glenn and Michele sold the shop a few months ago, though,” Charles said. “They’re still on the island.” An elderly gentleman sporting a decidedly untropical tweed vest climbed aboard. Charles addressed him. “Good morning, Mr. Hollenbeck, how are we this morning?”

  “A day older and a dollar poorer, but all the wiser for it,” the man replied, a breezy Shakespearean flair to his speech. “I trust you are mentally prepared for the Saba landing?”

  “No worries, Gordon. Weather’s good and we’ve had our coffee.”

  “Capital. All the same, let me know when we are stationary.” With that, the man put on a sleeping mask and settled into his seat.

  “Gordon here was a dresser on Broadway before he retired to Saba,” Charles informed them.

  Gordon Hollenbeck remained blindfolded but raised a hand in a half-hearted royal wave. Mike started the engines and the plane taxied to the runway. Minutes later they were airborne, heading west over the Atlantic side of the island, the massive Quill adorning their window with its green bulk before the aircraft banked left.

  “We’ll be in Saba in ten minutes,” the pilot said back to them. “If you look over our shoulders, you’ll see it ahead. You ever see the original King Kong? They used Saba for the first glimpse of ‘Skull Island.’ No other island like it in the Caribbean.”