by Jason Heaton
“Hey, come look at this,” Suresh called from the monitor. Upali yawned and came back inside. “There’s a perfectly rectangular hole in the hull here. There’s no sea life growing around it either. Almost looks… fresh.”
There, on the monitor, was a wide maw into the ship’s hold, outlined in a black jagged rectangle. It couldn’t be from a torpedo or explosion of any kind. “Maybe a hatch that came free when she sank?” Suresh mused.
“No, not there. That’s below the water line. I’ve never seen anything like that,” Upali replied. “Can you get inside there safely?”
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Suresh said, tweaking the joystick. The ROV responded. “That hole is big enough for a car to drive through.”
Inside was a jumble of debris, covered in seven decades of silt, unrecognizable. Upali gasped aloud. What a treasure trove for an archaeologist—a time capsule unseen since World War II. Suddenly, a bright object appeared on the monitor, so out of place it caused the two men to jump. It was yellow, spherical, and reflected back the white light of the ROV lamps. As Suresh moved the craft in closer, Upali leaned in and squinted. He could make out writing. He mouthed the words, “Kirby Morgan…”
“It’s a dive helmet!” he shouted, recognizing the famous maker of commercial diving gear. This was a saturation diver’s helmet, no question, and not the kind used for salvaging wrecks long ago. No, this was the kind of helmet seen on modern commercial divers welding oil pipeline and laying cable in the North Sea, the Gulf of Mexico… or Batticaloa harbor.
Upali’s skin went cold. The Depth Charge. That explained the fresh hole in the hull, the doused running lights, the nighttime anchorage. Were they cutting up the Vampire for her higher carbon steel, which would fetch millions on the market? But that sort of clandestine poaching was typically done by ill-outfitted amateurs in shallower waters, not a commercial diving company in over 300 feet of water. He’d have to report this to the police. No—the Sri Lankan Navy.
“All right, shut her down,” he said. “Let’s get back. We may have gotten into something a little deeper than our old shipwreck.”
Night Moves
Bay of Bengal, one mile offshore of Batticaloa. 2:48am the next morning.
The Zodiac bounced across the light swells, following the coastline. The two men in the Depth Charge’s rigid inflatable said nothing to each other, even as the sound of the motor raised a nearby school of dolphins, which arced out of the water as if to play. Scholz glanced at their silvery backs and then turned away again, training his eyes forward. To the west, the Batticaloa lighthouse stood impotent in the dark, its light long since extinguished.
The man at the back cut the outboard motor and the boat coasted to a sloshing stop. The only sound now was the distant roar of the surf breaking over the sandbar at the entrance of the lagoon. The handsome white cruiser lay at anchor ahead of them, about 200 yards away, a single white light atop its cabin illuminated for safety.
Scholz, perched at the bow of the Zodiac, was almost sure no one would be aboard at this hour, but he pulled a night vision scope out of a black duffel and scanned just to be certain. He tossed it back in the bag and nodded to the man at the motor, who wore a thin black rash guard of the type tropical surfers wore for sun protection. But here, in the wee hours of a Sri Lankan morning, he wore it for a different reason. In the humid air, his face glistened with sweat.
Scholz, who was wearing a black, two-millimeter hooded wetsuit, pulled on a pair of Scubapro Jet Fins and spat into a diving mask. He rubbed the glass with two fingers to keep it from fogging, rinsed it in the sea, hoisted an aluminum scuba cylinder and harness onto the Zodiac’s gunwale, secured his mask, bit down on his regulator’s mouthpiece, and backrolled into the water with only a small splash. He’d done this sort of thing before.
Bobbing to the surface, he held up the large bubble compass strapped to his wrist. He aligned the lubber line with the white boat in the distance, then signaled to the other man, who lifted a large rolltop drybag from the bottom of the Zodiac and handed it over the side. Scholz sank out of sight. After a few seconds, a trail of bubbles on the surface marked his progress straight towards his target.
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At around 3:00 in the morning, Upali Karuna awoke with a start. He lay on the hard mattress in his room at the Deep Blue Resort, his senses alert. Had Suresh said something? He listened. All he heard was the rhythmic breathing of his roommate in the next bed over and the ticking of the ceiling fan above him in the dark. Must have been a car backfiring, or maybe a mosquito in his ear. Might as well have a piss. He quietly got up and padded across the concrete floor to the bathroom. Without turning on the light, he found his way over to the toilet, raised the seat and let go, enjoying the sweet relief. They’d celebrated their finding with a little too much beer in the Deep Blue’s dining area.
Through the open window of the bathroom he heard a motor in the distance, as if carrying across water. An outboard? The Taprobane was anchored offshore and though theft from boats wasn’t common here, he was glad they brought the ROV and sonar equipment ashore every night.
His mind turned to the Depth Charge and the meeting he’d be having in a few hours up in Trincomalee with the navy lieutenant. He’d been vague on the phone when he scheduled the meeting. He wanted to make one more visit to the Vampire with the ROV before he presented his evidence, just to be certain.
The sound of the motor stopped, replaced by the buzzing and clicking of a million nocturnal insects outside. He flushed the toilet and crept back to his bed. He was asleep within two minutes.
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By watching the luminous minute hand of his diving watch, Scholz knew how far he’d swum. He slowed and looked up, 15 feet to the surface. Despite the lack of moonlight, he could see the waves and the large silhouette of a boat. Slowly rising, he broke the surface near the stern. The waves slapped lazily against the hull and the automatic bilge pump piddled out a stream of water and then shut off.
He slipped off his black fins and set them on the boat’s transom, then silently climbed out of the water, setting his tank and harness down in one motion. He paused to assess the open rear deck of the boat: no one aboard and the engine hatch right where he had been told it would be. He knelt and opened it, then unsealed the drybag he’d brought, pulling out what looked like a small, badly wrapped birthday gift. Except there was a tangle of wires protruding from one end, plugged into a cheap Casio digital watch.
Scholz unclipped a small torch from his harness and aimed its beam at the watch’s dial. He glanced at his own wristwatch and then fiddled with the Casio’s buttons. Rausing had told him to set the alarm for 7:00. They’d be on board by then. He reached down below the Mercury Marine engine and carefully wedged the package under its sump, then closed the hatch with a silent click.
Scholz gave one last look around, rolled up the empty drybag, shouldered his tank, and slipped into the black water at the back of the boat. Then he rotated the bezel of his compass 180 degrees, descended, and swam back the way he came.
Circle of Life
Rampart Inn, Galle Fort, Sri Lanka. The next day.
Tusker was underwater with Upali, working a dig site. He reached down to probe the sea bed, then saw his arm was bare. No wetsuit. No scuba gear at all. He was holding his breath. He waved his arms to get Upali’s attention—I need your regulator!— but Upali didn’t seem to notice. His friend swam just out of reach. Tusker kicked up, up, up toward the surface, felt his lungs about to burst.
He awoke, gasping, bathed in sweat.
Tusker rubbed his eyes. He’d had the dream before. What did it mean? He was never much for psychoanalysis or dream interpretation, but maybe the universe was trying to tell him something. The fan was buzzing on its stand in the corner. What had woken him?
There was a loud knock on his door. It was Sidath, the guesthouse owner, holding a tray with tea. Back home, Tusker was a coffee dr
inker, but since coming to Sri Lanka, he preferred what they did best here.
“Your friend, Mr. Walsh, is waiting for you downstairs, sir,” Sidath said quietly.
“Thanks, Sidath,” he said blearily, clutching his poorly tied sarong in one hand and reaching for the mug with the other. Sidath tipped his head side to side, in the typical South Asian expression that could mean a dozen things, this time, “You're welcome," then turned and padded quietly down the hallway.
Tusker shut the door and took a long draw on the tea. It was strong and sweet with milk, the color of wet clay and utterly delicious. Odd for Ian to come so early, thought Tusker, glancing at his watch. With Upali gone for the week, they’d agreed on a later start today. Maybe Ian forgot. In any case, Tusker thought, I’ve still got time for a shower and my tea. Ian can wait a bit.
He set the mug down on the small desk, dropped to the floor and hammered out five quick sets of 20 pushups. Though slinging diving gear all day was a workout by itself, Tusker had kept up this routine since college. He hated the gym, and his only steady exercise was pushups and the occasional open-water swim when he had the chance. By the time he was done with the fifth set, his lean, muscled torso glistened with sweat.
He walked over to the window and finished the tea in a few gulps. The fort was waking up. A man pedaled by on a heavy bicycle with an impossibly large load of fish on the back, no doubt the previous night’s catch. Tusker’s eyes caught those of an older woman in the upstairs apartment across the road, who was hanging wet towels to dry. He smiled at her but she averted her gaze and went back inside. Tusker was still shirtless, and suddenly felt very white and exposed.
When Tusker arrived in Sri Lanka six months ago, Upali had arranged lodging for him in a small guesthouse, the Rampart Inn, on Pedlar Street inside the Galle Fort. The inn was a small two-story building wedged between a trendy cafe and a Buddhist monastery. Just across the road were the sloping grassy ramparts, topped with stone battlements that dropped off to the sea 50 feet below. These ancient fort walls were what saved the residents of the fort from the wall of water that rolled in on Boxing Day, 2004, while most of the rest of Galle town was obliterated. Sidath had owned the Rampart Inn since the 1980s, and it had become a favorite of aid workers and NGOs during the aftermath of the tsunami.
Tusker knew Ian was waiting, but he badly needed a shower, having skipped one last night. The previous day, he’d borrowed a bicycle and ridden down to the resort town of Unawatuna. There he spent the day playing cricket with the local kids, and pounding back Lion lagers at a beach bar until midnight. As he flicked on the anemic fluorescent bulb in the bathroom, he caught movement up near the ceiling. A gecko clung to the wall, its tail flicking. In its mouth was a half-consumed black cockroach, rear legs still twitching. “Circle of life,” Tusker said aloud.
He dropped his sarong to the floor and turned on the bathtub’s tap. There was no shower curtain and the leaky plastic spray wand was on a hose connected to the spigot. There was only one handle: cold. Rust-colored water gushed out. When it cleared, Tusker braced himself and stepped into the tub. Now he was awake.
He brushed his teeth and finger-combed an unruly mop of blonde hair away from his forehead. In the mirror, under the fluorescent light and against his deeply tanned face, his eyes looked even more blue. He noticed the creases seemed to be getting more pronounced, and remembered his ex-wife always telling him to wear sunscreen to stay looking young. Can’t help things now, he thought, and switched off the bathroom light.
The relative cool of dawn had quickly evaporated, replaced by the sultry heat that would build all day. Tusker hoped they could finish surveying the promising site they’d found last week. It’d be great to finish out his stay in Sri Lanka with a big discovery.
He dressed in a pair of rumpled cotton cargo shorts and one of those supposedly “insect proof” shirts he’d stocked up on before coming to Sri Lanka. He filled his water bottle from a jug in the corner of his room, tucked it in his backpack and headed downstairs. He’d grab a couple of egg hoppers, those delicious thin coconut pancakes unique to Sri Lanka, from the stall next door to take along for breakfast.
Ian was waiting for him in the lobby with a grave face.
“Bad weekend?” Tusker asked. “Did that girl at The Lighthouse shoot you down again?”
Ian ignored his joke. “Took your sweet time getting down here,” he said.“Upali’s dead.”
“Well, that’s a pretty extreme way to get out of digging in the mud here,” Tusker said, smiling. “Come on, let’s grab some hoppers and get down to the shed. We found something promising on Friday that I want to show you.”
“No, mate, I’m serious. The research boat caught on fire and they’re saying no survivors.” Ian’s eyes were dark and earnest. He held up his iPhone to show a news site’s homepage. There was an old file photo of the R/V Taprobane, MOCHA’s sonar and dive boat. Headline: “Ministry Boat Sunk, No Survivors.”
“When did this happen? It has to be a mistake. I got a text yesterday from Upali saying they’d found something.” Tusker snatched the phone from Ian’s hands and pulled it close to his face, as if looking for some clue that this was a hoax.
“It was early this morning, apparently. I got a call from Dinesh at MOCHA in Colombo an hour ago and came here straightaway,” Ian said. “I couldn’t quite gather what had happened. He said the boat just suddenly exploded or something. There was a search, fishermen helped and all, but they’ve found no survivors. Dinesh is driving over to Batti this morning to meet with the police.”
Tusker handed the phone back and stared at Ian. “What the hell? That was a pretty new boat. Upali’s always safe. I’m going to go over there. You got the van here?”
Ian nodded. “Yeah, outside. I already packed some things. I assumed you’d want to head over there.”
Tusker wasn’t listening anymore. It was only a few days earlier when he and Upali were diving in Galle harbor and clinking lagers in the shed. Now, gone. It hit him viscerally, like a blow to the back of the head.
The winter when Tusker met Upali was one of the coldest Michigan’s Upper Peninsula had faced, the kind where you leave your car running all night so it starts the next morning. Tusker remembered sitting in the archaeology department’s lab, looking out the window and seeing this Indian-looking guy repeatedly slipping and falling on the icy sidewalk. He was wearing a cheap parka that was woefully inadequate in the face of the minus-30 windchills.
Tusker loved the winter, relishing the challenge of not only surviving it, but getting out and enjoying its frigid beauty. He and Upali couldn’t have been more opposite, but ended up sharing an apartment on campus and became best friends. Upali would always crank up the thermostat when Tusker was away so that when Tusker would return, he’d find Upali studying at the dining table in shorts and a T-shirt. Tusker would turn down the heat and fling open the windows, Upali laughing gleefully. Then he’d do it again the next day.
During the next four years at school, Tusker learned to cook curry and eat spicy foods. Upali learned to ski. Tusker grew to respect Upali for tolerating not only the cold and the chilly drysuit dives in Lake Superior, but also the homogeneous culture of the upper Midwest. By the end of their third year, they were selling curry packets out of the back of Tusker’s pickup truck at the farmer’s market, a little slice of Sri Lanka in Michigan.
“We can collect our dive gear at the shed and then head out.” Ian broke into Tusker’s thoughts. “I’ve phoned ahead to this guy, Sebastian, who runs the Deep Blue, where the MOCHA team was staying. He said we can stay there.”
Newly vacant rooms, Tusker thought and grimaced. He was already turning to head back upstairs. “Give me a couple of minutes. I’m going to grab a few things in my room.”
The MOCHA van was one of those small Toyota models you see all over the developing world: short wheelbase, a sliding door, the engine under a hump mounted under the middle of the vehicle, not the most pleasant place for a six-hour drive
across Sri Lanka. The van was crammed with gear, a cooler, a single dive fin, quart oil bottles, and the repaired dredge pump in the back.
The driver, Srivathnan, was a dark-skinned Tamil man with a big smile. Tusker never could pronounce his name right and called him Nathan. When Tusker came out of the Rampart Inn with his duffel bag, Srivathnan started the engine. Tusker nodded to him and piled in the back.
At the shed, Ian, Tusker, and Raj heaved the pump out of the back of the van, sliding it in next to the bucket of seawater. Tusker saw Ian’s quizzical look.