Depth Charge

by Jason Heaton

  “What did he say?” Tusker scowled, feigning hurt at being left out of the joke.

  “Oh, something to the effect of what a capable and confident man you are for helping me,” she winked. “Now give me the keys. Let’s get going.”

  Sam put the Land Rover in neutral and started the motor, then pushed a red lever forward to engage low range four-wheel drive. Now, instead of the rear wheels driving the truck, the front wheels would pull them back to town. She eased them back onto the highway, where traffic had swelled in the hour it took to make the repair, and steered the Land Rover back towards town.

  It was a slow journey. Sam nursed the Land Rover the few miles into town in fourth gear, barely topping 15 miles per hour. Tuk-tuks, cars and even bicycles passed them. Tusker kept a wary eye out for Rausing’s black Land Cruiser as they entered Pasikudah but it was nowhere to be seen. The truck lurched through one roundabout after another until Sam finally coasted down a narrow side street lined with shop stalls, pedestrians, and parked vehicles.

  “There it is,” she said and pointed out a stall with a sign above it in Arabic and English. “Majeed Motor Repairs Pvt.,” it read. A faded Union Jack was painted next to the name. An articulated metal overhead door was partially open and inside was another Land Rover, its wheels removed, perched atop jack stands. Stacks of tires lined the inside, along with various vehicle parts, including an intact engine on a wooden pallet. The bright flash of a welding torch emanated from the darkness at the back of the shop. “Another week and we’d be out of luck. Ramadan.”

  Sam parked in front of the garage, honked the horn and shut off the engine. A man emerged from within, squinting in the bright daylight. He was a slight man with a wiry grey beard. He wore the white skull cap of practicing Muslims, but instead of a traditional long tunic, he had on a mechanic’s jumpsuit. It was filthy. When he caught sight of Sam, he broke into a smile.

  “Ahmed!” Sam called out as she climbed from behind the wheel. Tusker got out and stretched. The man Tusker assumed was Ahmed Majeed approached Sam with his arms wide, then stopped short.

  “I’m dirty,” he said, “I don’t want to get you covered in grease.”

  “Ah, come on, so am I,” Sam said, and embraced him. The two of them chatted excitedly while Tusker stood awkwardly by. “Oh, sorry, this is Tusk, or, Julian Tusk, a friend who’s staying with us at the Deep Blue for a while.” Sam stepped back and Tusker extended his hand. Majeed grasped it with both of his and shook warmly.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Majeed,” Tusker said. “Everyone calls me Tusker.”

  “How do you do, Tusker? But I’m not Majeed.” he replied. “My name is Ahmed Raheem.”

  “Ah, I just assumed from the sign,” Tusker gestured up. Ahmed nodded.

  “I sort of inherited the shop from Majeed.” He hesitated. “The family moved to Dubai after Mrs. Majeed died during the troubles.”

  Tusker looked from Ahmed to Sam and back. There was an extended silence. Just before he could say anything, Ahmed gestured.

  “I was about to put the kettle on,” he said, “Let’s have some tea and you can tell me what brought you.” The broad smile was back.

  An hour later, after a cup of tea and some sweet biscuits that Ahmed’s wife had produced, they walked back out to the shop. It was approaching midday. Despite the heat, the street was packed with people going about their business.

  “It should take me about two hours to swap the differential,” Ahmed said. “And when was the last time you changed the fluids in this old thing?” he looked at Sam. She sheepishly looked down. “I’ll throw that in too. Make it three hours. Meanwhile, take Mr. Tusker up the road to get some crab curry. You know that shop at the top of the road does a good one.”

  Sam and Tusker set off on foot, leaving Ahmed to fix the Land Rover. The two of them were quite the curious pair in this largely Muslim town and they drew stares as they walked.

  “I didn’t want to ask Ahmed, but what happened to the previous owners of his shop?” Tusker finally asked.

  Sam stopped walking and looked at him. “After the Easter bombings a couple years ago, there was a backlash of violence against Muslims, especially here in the east. Shops torched, people beaten, mosques vandalized… the government did little to help.”

  She glanced back and then continued, “The Majeeds had been here for decades. My father used to take this same Land Rover to him for repairs back in the ‘90s. Then during the violence here, someone threw a petrol bomb into the shop and with all the flammable fluids stored in there, it burned pretty quickly. Majeed tried to get his wife out but…” Her voice trailed off. “Anyway, after that, he moved to Dubai to live with his daughter and her family. Ahmed worked for Majeed for years and took over the shop.”

  They continued on up the street to where it intersected with the main road. Pasikudah is an old town and shows battle scars from many years of strife. It was a stronghold of the Tamil Tigers during the civil war and was pounded by the country’s military before peace finally arrived in 2009. By then, decades of neglect had left its infrastructure in tatters. The country’s Muslim population found some solace here, far from the populous west coast, Colombo and the Buddhist Hill Country around Kandy. But then came the more recent violence. Some storefronts were blackened from fire or simply abandoned or boarded up. Still, the streets were lively, with men in long tunics and caps and women, most in hijab but some in full burqa.

  Over steaming bowls of crab curry, Sam filled Tusker in on the complicated background of the Buddhist-Muslim tensions in Sri Lanka.

  “So the government tolerates this militant Buddhist group?” Tusker asked, his lips on fire from the curry.

  “Some say the government is even behind them, covertly, of course.” Sam said, deftly cracking a claw open. She sucked the meat out and discarded the shell on a side plate.

  “People wanted blood revenge against the Muslims after the Easter bombings, and the new government was elected on that veiled promise. The Buddhist Power Army has been terrorizing Muslims here for years on a small scale, but lately have gotten emboldened. The government is happy to look the other way. The Muslims here live in fear.”

  Tusker looked around. Pasikudah seemed like a peaceful enough town and he still had a hard time imagining Buddhist monks throwing Molotov cocktails. The curry was delicious but hard work. His fingers burned from cracking the chillie-infused shells and he was sweating profusely. Sam paid no notice. Other customers stared at Tusker though. When he made eye contact, they would smile and nod.

  They exited the cafe and started back towards Ahmed’s shop. Tusker paused to peer into shops at the odds and ends for sale: a plastic jar full of broken wristwatches, rubber slippers, hair oil, wedding dresses, hijabs. As if to put a point on Sam’s lunch explanation, he heard a voice coming through a speaker. They both turned to see a Toyota pickup truck with its windscreen ringed with white flowers drive slowly up the main road followed by two lines of Buddhist monks in robes. Behind them, a small crowd of men followed them, some carrying signs written in Sinhala. A man standing in the bed of the pickup was saying something into a megaphone and people on the sides of the road stopped and watched. Although Tusker couldn’t understand what was being said, he sensed a tension in the air.

  “Speak of the Devil,” Sam said to him quietly. One of the signs being carried had a photograph of a monk with a large smooth head and no eyebrows. “That’s Dhammasara, the current head of the BBH movement. He’s based in Kandy and is almost never seen, but his followers hold these rallies all over the country. It’s a sort of warning to the Muslims that they’re everywhere.”

  Tusker nodded, “Charming.”

  The procession turned left at the roundabout and gradually moved out of sight. Tusker and Sam walked down the lane towards Majeed Motor Repairs. The sun had started to slide down in the west. They had a long drive ahead of them to Trincomalee. In front of the shop, Ahmed was wiping his hands with a rag. He grinned benevolently and handed the keys
to Sam.

  “Good timing. All finished.” He thumbed towards the Land Rover. “The diff was full of twisted metal. Got a new one in there now. Well, new to you. It came out of this old one I’m rebuilding but should be good for another few years, as long as you keep fresh oil in it.” He wagged his finger at Sam. “Also, fresh fluids all around, but I didn’t have time to check your swivels. Keep an eye on those and bring it back soon.”

  “So grateful, Ahmed,” Sam said, giving him a discreet peck on the cheek. The man smiled and looked at his feet. “How much can I pay you?” She pulled out a battered wallet and started thumbing rupees.

  “Let’s settle up another time, Samanthi,” he said. “I needed the practice anyway and the parts were used.”

  Sam pressed a wad into his greasy hand and clutched it there. He smiled and muttered a thanks.

  “Oh, did you check the air conditioning in this thing?” Tusker broke in. “It hasn’t been working too well lately.”

  Sam and Ahmed laughed in unison. “Just tell her to drive a little faster,” Ahmed said, “That’s your A/C.”

  They climbed into the truck and Sam pulled the choke and turned the key. It rumbled to life. “Take good care, my friend,” Sam called as she made a U-turn in the road. Ahmed just raised his hand in a wave and smiled. To Tusker, it looked like a sad smile.

  Trinco

  Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. That evening.

  The naval base in Trincomalee overlooks the crescent of water once called “the finest natural harbor in the world” by Winston Churchill. The blocks of administrative buildings and rows of barracks date back to the days of British rule in Sri Lanka, when Trinco was a strategic outpost for the Royal Navy. During World War II, the water here would have been thick with battle cruisers, destroyers, and minesweepers. It was also the last port of call for HMAS Vampire.

  Today, Trincomalee harbor sees a small fleet of Sri Lankan Navy vessels, almost hidden at their moorings behind the bristling mass of fishing boats, passenger ferries and freighters from all corners of the globe. Sam navigated the Land Rover through the crowded, ancient roads around the perimeter of the harbor and finally turned up a steep drive and through an imposing gate that bore garish gold lettering in Sinhala, Tamil, and English. The latter read, “Sri Lankan Navy, Trincomalee Base.”

  They emerged from the tree-lined road onto the crest of the hill. Beyond the cream-colored colonial-era buildings was an impressive view of the Indian Ocean; in the other direction, the harbor lay below. Sam parked the Land Rover at what looked like the headquarters.

  “Samanthi! Mr. Tusk!” Sebastian’s shouts stirred them from their thoughts. Sebastian was jogging across the gravel drive towards the Land Rover, a huge smile on his face. Behind him was an older man in uniform, also smiling. It was Captain Fonseka, Sebastian’s old friend and commander of the base. Sam and Tusker climbed down from the truck just in time to be hugged awkwardly by Sebastian.

  “I was so worried… We searched…” He could barely contain himself, trying to get the words out. Sam reassuringly took his arm, trying to calm him.

  “And to think, after being lost at sea, it was your old Landy that almost killed us in the end,” she said with a laugh. “The important thing is, we’re home and dry. But I’m dying for a cuppa. Any chance, Uncle?” Her eyes twinkled at the navy man.

  “Of course, Samanthi.” He grinned and spun on his heel to head back towards the office. “And you must be the archaeologist Sebastian was telling me about.” He glanced sideways at Tusker as they walked. Tusker nodded and shook his hand. “I don’t know whether you’re brave or stupid to dive the Vampire on scuba.” Though he frowned, his eyes were kind and his manner avuncular. Tusker liked him already.

  Captain Fonseka’s office was not air conditioned, but a ceiling fan kept the air moving. The place seemed unchanged since British times, with heavy, dark wood furniture, yellowed photos on the wall, and dark green metal filing cabinets that were rusting at the corners from the humidity. A young woman in a smart skirted uniform entered the office with a tray of tea and Marie biscuits and set it on the desk, then quickly and silently left.

  “So you say the anchor line was cut?” Sebastian scowled incredulously.

  “Well, it sure looked that way,” Tusker replied. “Naturally, I assumed it was an accident and the line had rubbed through on the gunwale or something, but now I don’t know.”

  “I make sure to replace anchor lines regularly, and Roland would know to run it through a cleat,” Sebastian said. He himself was a former navy man and ran a tight ship at the Deep Blue. He shook his head.

  “Well, there’s only one person who can tell us what happened, and that’s Roland,” said Sam. “We saw him on our way up here, in Pasikudah. He was with another man, a suddha, sorry, a white man—tall, silver haired—in a swank Land Cruiser. Rausing is his name. Tusker has met him.”

  “I managed to take a photo,” Tusker said. He set down his cup and fished his phone from his cargo shorts. “Here it is. Sorry, it’s a bit blurry. We were in a hurry to get out of there.”

  He handed the phone across the desk to Captain Fonseka, who pinched the screen to zoom in and studied it for a moment, then handed it back across.

  “Yes, that’s Rausing all right, the chap who’s managing the harbor diving project in Batticaloa,” he said matter of factly. “Nice enough gent, if a little odd.” He took a bite of his biscuit, then wiped crumbs from his uniform. “Doesn’t say much. I’ve only met him a few times, at the planning meetings for the project. We’re providing security at the harbor.”

  “He owns the dive support vessel Depth Charge” Fonseka continued. “His company was contracted to handle the diving end of the harbor dig. Laying cable and such.”

  It was all making sense now, thought Tusker. The dead diver inside the Vampire, the sinking of the Taprobane, Roland disappearing.

  “You think Rausing is somehow behind your diving accident?” the captain looked over the rim of his cup as he took a pull on his tea.

  Tusker hesitated. Could Fonseka be trusted? He guessed he could, and proceeded to fill him in on the story so far—their dive to the Vampire, the bomb, the rescue by the fisherman, the hole in the Taprobane’s hull, the helmet, the ROV footage and the stolen laptop.

  Fonseka shook his head in disbelief and sat in silence for a full minute before he spoke. “I can’t offer divers for a bomb disposal, I’m afraid,” the commander said quietly. “We don’t do much of any mixed-gas diving here.”

  Tusker nodded. “I understand completely, sir. A hundred meters is the outside edge of what’s safe for anyone on scuba.”

  “What I can offer is surface support, and a boarding party for the Depth Charge,” Fonseka continued. “They are in our territorial waters, conducting a known act of terrorism on a war grave. Our commando team is in Colombo at the moment, but I can have them here the day after tomorrow.”

  “Two days’ time will be too late. And what if Rausing has connections inside the government?” Tusker fondled the handle of his empty tea cup. He cleared his throat and looked around the desk at Fonseka, Sebastian, and finally, Sam.

  “What I propose is that I do the dive myself. And I have one favor to ask of you, Captain. It may require a visit to your armory.”

  Looking for a Ship

  Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa. The next night.

  As soon as the faint glow coming from the otherwise dark Depth Charge was visible, Sebastian eased back on the throttle. They were counting on the dive vessel’s crew not seeing their small dinghy riding amidst the dark swells a hundred yards astern.

  “Take a bearing on that ship and then swim towards it at around ten feet deep before descending to the wreck. Sam will swim with your two deco cylinders and hand them off to you.” Sebastian was whispering, taking no chances.

  They’d hatched this plan back at the naval base with Commander Fonseka, after Tusker announced his intentions to do the dive alone. Now, in the black n
ight, with a looming adversary and a long swim, Tusker was second-guessing it.

  “Right. Let’s get on with it then,” he said coldly, pulling on his fins.

  Sam had pleaded with him to let her come along but Tusker insisted it would be easier to do this by himself. He knew that if she was along and anything went wrong, the distraction of worrying about her would keep him from doing the job. But that’s not what he’d told her. “One can dive stealthier than two…”

  He wore a six-millimeter hooded wetsuit that Sebastian had pulled out of the back of his workshop. The suit was badly worn and frayed at the cuffs, but would keep him warmer at depth. He shivered, remembering his last freezing decompression. The thicker suit meant more buoyancy, which required more weight to descend. Tusker leaned forward, bracing his feet wide in the tossing skiff, and cinched a belt of lead weights around his waist. Sebastian and Sam helped him don the double tanks and a small “travel” bottle of air from which he could breathe for the swim and the descent. He strained under the additional 150 pounds of weight.