Diving Deep

by P D Singer

  His companions argued over nearly every scene. “They released the decoy debris before the depth charge went off,” or “They’re opening the vents, not closing them,” made for constant commentary.

  Lee finished off his coffee. Another cup would go down well. Another would go down very well. He’d have to buy this hazelnut creamer in bigger containers. Great stuff.

  “Ready for another?” Wes asked.

  Weird way to offer coffee, but okay, Lee wouldn’t have to get up. He handed over the mug, his eyes on the screen. “That officer’s watch looks really modern.” Wes brought the mug back, and Lee took another deep draft. “Thanks.”

  He listened to his companions calling out the errors in the film. When the Germans shot a dead spy out the torpedo tube, the arguing turned back to the sub 140 feet below them.

  “I can get through the torpedo tube, see?” Darrell sounded smug.

  “Not with a double tank. Probably not with a single either,” Chuck shot back. “That tube’s lined with spiky shit just waiting to snag you or cut you. Barnacle shells are sharp, remember?”

  “I can leave a tank outside and push a single through ahead of me. My rebreather hose is long enough,” Darrell mused.

  “Your plan has enough dumbfuckery to impress even Bobby,” Lee said, surprising them all. “The barnacles and shit reduce the diameter of the tube to the width of your shoulders. So you’re not doing it off my boat, ’cause I’m not going to explain to your wife and kids how your body got permanently inserted in a torpedo tube. Use your damn selfie stick and find another way in.”

  My God, even Bobby wouldn’t go through with a stunt like that. Be like shoving a ten-inch dildo wrapped in sandpaper up your ass—might get it in a ways on the initial push, but after that, not going in or out without some damage.

  The whole idea gave him the screaming willies, or it would if he could feel it a little more. Maybe just saying no to the plan was enough?

  Never had been enough before. Not without some serious exercise for Alford’s pouring arm.

  The soundtrack squeezed down to a faraway noise, not nearly as interesting as his drink. He sipped again, and again. Half the mug disappeared. Slouching down in his chair felt great. Might close his eyes a moment. The coffee warmed him, the heat spreading from his middle out. Great coffee; have to get that specialty roast again.

  Except maybe they’d bought decaf by accident? Shouldn’t he be getting more alert, not less? Or maybe he was just so tired he’d need the whole pot to stay awake. He’d been up since before dawn. He felt pretty good, considering.

  More coffee.

  He headed to the galley, adjusting his stride to the motion of the boat without thinking, just as he had for years, except the boat went slightly sideways. He was tired, that was all, and with the prospect of being up for several hours yet.

  Lee poured and tasted his concoction. Might have to add some more creamer. “How much did you add, Wes?” he called, because a second shot of creamer still didn’t fix the flavor.

  “Oh, here.” Wes joined him in the galley, and extracted a small, square bottle from the fridge. He poured a goodly splash into Lee’s cup. “I Irished it up. Pretty good, huh?”

  “You what?” Oh fuck, the heat, the fatigue—they’d come from the bottle.

  “Figured a guy who drank us all under the table on my last trip might like Irish coffee. No whipped cream, but hey, the important stuff’s already in the cup.” Wes tipped the open bottle toward his own mug.

  Shit, shit, shit. He should pour this out. Right now. Just dump it down the drain. It was an accident, he didn’t mean to… he…. Lee rocked with the boat and the knowledge.

  No fucking wonder the coffee tasted so good. Made him feel good. The familiar feeling, all loose and pliable. He was well and truly fucked. Lost his tolerance for the booze—two shouldn’t mess with his sea legs. Two the way Wes poured might be three. Or four.

  Fuck, but he was fucked.

  He should pour this out. Now. Come on, now. Now.

  What good would it do? You’re already schnockered. Bobby’s never going to believe this. Everyone already thinks you’re such a boozer, they don’t even ask before they pour. Weeks of sobriety, just—pfft. Like they didn’t matter, like they never existed. All gone, except—a little goes a long way now. How economical—a six-drink buzz for the price of two.

  And it felt so familiar, you didn’t even think. Just drank. Fell right back into the trap. Might as well drink this. You’ve already got the buzz going. Can’t deny it. Can’t hide it. If you drink this one too, you might not remember how bad you’re fucked.

  For a while.

  Tip cut through the lounge on his way to the bunkroom below. “Night, Captain. Nothing on the radar, weather’s clear. Moon’s up. Lots of stars.”

  Right. He was on watch. Responsible for the boat. His passengers. Bobby. Had to be responsible, alert. He should pour this out. His coffee, which would keep the booze from winning. Everybody drank coffee to sober up. Or stay awake. Tip saw him drinking coffee and handed over the watch. Yeah, right.

  He should pour this out. Fuck Wes’s feelings. Waste the liquor. Bobby might forgive him if he didn’t drain this mug.

  The Bushmills sang in Gaelic from his cup. Promising ease. Comfort. Oblivion if he had more; enough to forget the coming storm for a while. Nancy Whiskey sang a tune Lee remembered far too well—he knew all the notes of “Drink me and you’ll feel better. Nothing will matter.”

  But it did.

  “Have to save this for later.” Lee fumbled a pop-top on his mug—he could nurse at the sippy-tit later. It would wait. Right there in the fridge, next to the damned hazelnut creamer, traitor shit that let the booze sneak up on him.

  Alone in the wheelhouse with his thoughts wasn’t a good place to be. Up high where the waves rocked him side to side farther than on the deck below, up where the half-moon glowed bright enough to light the charts to readability. If his vision wasn’t blurry from the booze.

  Should have had less, should have had more. Should have had none—he was planning on coffee. Universe must be laughing its ass off for that one.

  The moon traveled across the sky, staring at him with disgust.

  Harley stuck his head in the wheelhouse. “I’m here—whew! Jayzuz, Lee. Thought you were off the sauce.”

  “So did I.” Tried, convicted. Lee managed not to stumble down the stairs. He made it as far as the lounge, now lit only by the LED clocks on the electronics and the boat’s exterior lights shining through the windows. Not enough to keep them from getting plowed over by some freighter who didn’t see them on instruments. Had he left the AIS on?

  Lee might as well have been hit by a freighter, his disaster was complete. If Harley noticed, so would Bobby.

  Bobby wouldn’t forgive him crawling into bed reeking of the forbidden.

  Bobby probably wouldn’t forgive him at all.

  What a fuckup he was.

  Wes poured whiskey, and Lee sucked it down. Why’d the asshole have to wreck his sobriety? Just because he didn’t recognize it. Sure, his sobriety didn’t exist last time Wes came out on the Bottom Hunter, but still, he didn’t have to pour.

  Lee didn’t have to drink. Except—he was so fucked now, why stop?

  He fished the coffee and liquor drink from the fridge and sucked it down cold. Not enough; the shame still burned.

  The Bushmills bottle still had a couple inches in the bottom. Lee took it to a table, and turned it into an empty.

  BOBBY WOKE alone. Not surprising, Lee tended to be an early riser these days, up and busy. Probably doing something quieter than messing with the plumbing, especially since his PVC pipe had another task this weekend.

  A rhythmic thud came from above. The noise coincided with the rocking of the boat. What on earth had come loose? Lee would probably deal with it, unless he already was, or did he have his hands full with something else? Bobby pulled on his jeans and shirt. Fucking annoying noise—hope it wasn’t structu
ral.

  Boats existed to torture their owners. Someone would probably spend some time with a screwdriver this morning.

  Bobby followed his ears into the lounge. Two steps in, he stopped cold.

  Lee slumped over one of the dining tables, his head on his crossed arms. He snored, the same growly rasp Bobby remembered only too well and hadn’t missed at all. A square bottle slid between Lee’s foot and the table leg, scritch-thump, scritch-thump.

  Why the fuck couldn’t the boat have a hole in the hull instead of this?

  Silencing the noise by trashing the bottle—empty, damn it—instead of cracking it against the back of Lee’s skull, Bobby choked back tears. Why? What the fuck could have brought this on? Lee was doing so good. They were happy. They were together again because he’d been doing so good. Why?

  He shook Lee’s arm harder than he needed to just wake him. “Get up, shithead. You don’t want the charter people seeing you like this.”

  Sitting up and blinking the sleep away, Lee looked like he’d spent the night boozing. Red eyes, creases across his face, breath that could remove paint. Eww, Bobby’d kissed that mouth.

  “Get below and get yourself cleaned up.” Lee didn’t move fast enough for Bobby—he grabbed an arm and all but frog-marched the skid-row reject below. “Don’t even talk to me. I don’t want to hear it.”

  No, he’d heard it all before. The excuses, the apologies, the promises. Heard every word, and wanted to believe it, and got the evidence laid out that it was all so much talk, not worth the paper it wasn’t printed on, every single time. It was supposed to be different now—even if Lee had been tempted before, he hadn’t…. Why now? Why, when they were on the verge of success? Why? When Bobby had straddled him and lain under him or over him and wakened him with a busy mouth? When he’d come back to Lee, who swore Bobby was worth the fight to stay sober?

  Guess now that he was a sure thing, Lee didn’t care. But damn, Bobby had been so sure Lee would keep his good intentions.

  That’s what the road to hell was paved with, all right. Good intentions. Sharper than barnacles and twice as unyielding. Bobby had marched straight down that road, barefoot. Believing Lee. Look where that got them, Bobby shoving Lee into the shower before any of the charter clients got a look. Just like old times.

  “And brush your teeth for fuck’s sake.”

  He left Lee in the captain’s head, with his head hanging down and his shoulders slumped, pulling off his jeans. Asshole should be ashamed. He didn’t just fall off the wagon; he lay down under the wheels.

  Stopping short of the door, Bobby paused. Might as well have plunged one of his dive knives through his heart. This cabin had been home. Then he left. And he came back. This cabin couldn’t be home anymore, not when the man he shared it with drank himself stupid. Maybe Bobby should grab everything he didn’t intend to leave behind.

  And put it where? The bunkroom? No, if he cared enough to keep Lee from showing his drink-addled, morning-after mess of a self to the others, he wouldn’t humiliate him with a public display of rejection. Time enough to pack on the way back to port.

  Besides, he needed to clean up the lounge. Lee might take this group out diving again some time.

  But not Bobby.

  Chapter 19

  DAMN IT, this wasn’t his fault! Lee hadn’t poured that first drink, or the second. The rest—he didn’t want to think about the rest. Because everything he’d been afraid of was coming true. The hugeness of the catastrophe thundered in his head, with a small evil voice that whispered the death of hope.

  Bobby shoved him into the bathroom like he was a foul thing to be cleansed.

  (Maybe he was.)

  Like he had to be scrubbed and purified to be acceptable again.

  (Maybe he did.)

  Like—like everything that went wrong was his fault.

  (Maybe it was.)

  Lee stood under the spray long enough to run the boat’s microscopic water heater dry. The cold water sucked the heat out of him—he shivered. Fuck, but he was a wreck.

  He’d never wanted to see the disappointment in Bobby’s face the way he saw it this morning: worse than ever before. Bobby was going to leave him. Again. No hope of changing his mind. Lee could offer him the Edmund Fitzgerald, the Santa Maria, the Titanic, and three more U-boats, and it wouldn’t be enough to lure him into staying another night. Or maybe even a twenty-minute conversation.

  Lee was so fucked.

  The captain had to get his ass up and deal with the divers and his crew. Facing them—oh shit. Tip and Harley knew he was trying to stay sober—both of them got a good look at one end or the other of his binge. The divers? Maybe he hadn’t said anything unbelievably stupid, but he couldn’t recall.

  Listerine, Visine, a handful of Tums, and maybe he’d look, if not feel, like some normal, nonalcoholic, functioning dive captain.

  Which wouldn’t fool Bobby for a minute. Lee went above.

  The smell of frying potatoes and sausages hit his nose and nearly turned his stomach. Something to sop up the toxins wouldn’t go amiss, but…. Bobby flipped eggs in a skillet while his crew and divers sipped orange juice and coffee. Bobby registered Lee’s presence with a glance and bent his head to the stove. No “good morning” or even a spatula salute.

  “Morning, guys. You’re the first to hear the new policy on board the Bottom Hunter.” Lee didn’t even try to catch Bobby’s eye for this. He’d know it was a last-ditch effort—would he scorn to listen? “Haven’t even updated the website yet, but first thing when I get back to Internet. From now on, the bring-your-own-bottle policy covers liquor for personal use only, max of two drinks per night out. You bring it, you drink it, you don’t share it. Not an issue for today, just announcing.”

  “Wait, what?” Every head snapped around to him. “That’s not much.”

  “That’s more than you need when you’re diving the next morning. Anyone here had more than two last night?” Lee should raise his own hand. No one else admitted to it. Lucky them. Either they were good liars or they had a limited relationship with Jim or Jack. “Then see? Not a problem.”

  “Nobody got drunk or disorderly,” Kent said into a buzz of muttering.

  “The captain did. The captain does not need help getting drunk and disorderly.” Lee gritted his teeth and made the confession. “The captain does need some help in not getting drunk and disorderly. Also, Wes, I owe you a bottle of whiskey, which you will do me the very great favor of taking far, far away from my boat.”

  “Gotcha, Captain.” Wes nodded.

  Okay, he’d made the announcement, and the divers hadn’t crapped their pants. He could get through the rest of today. He could. He could. Even though it was five o’clock somewhere, and his binge had wakened the need. The need was a honey badger, the honey was deep inside, and he couldn’t scream out how bad the damn thing was digging into his vitals.

  Coffee turned traitor on him last night. Lee wouldn’t test his gut with what amounted to battery acid this morning, not to mention his hand wasn’t steady enough for pouring hot liquids while the boat rocked at anchor. Cans of tomato juice lurked at the back of the fridge for a reason. He popped the top and took a swig, standing near enough to speak to Bobby without the entire group hearing.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  Bobby’s lips got thin, and he glanced over, more eye contact than he’d had yet this morning. He flipped the hash browns and tested the edge of a sunny-side-up egg without saying a word.

  Oh man. Lee was really in the shitter—not even an acknowledgment of the apology.

  Not like he hadn’t heard it before, but coupled with Lee’s new policy, couldn’t he at least say something? This was a mistake, a onetime thing, it would never happen again. Why couldn’t Bobby listen between the words the whole charter didn’t need to hear—hadn’t they heard enough with his confession?

  “How do you want your eggs?” Bobby said at last.

  Oh thank God. He was talking again. He
’d calm down some more, and they could talk, and Lee would grovel, and Bobby would relent. He always had, and he was back. He would get over it. He always did. Now that Lee had humiliated himself in front of the whole charter, with words he meant. He really did. Nobody could bring enough booze to share, especially with Lee.

  This tomato juice was a little light on the alcohol to be a good hangover cure. Should always stock a good hangover cure. You never knew when a hangover might happen.

  He could hit the package store once he got back to land.

  BEYOND CARING what the others thought of what might be brewing between Lee and himself, Bobby didn’t thaw much beyond cooking breakfast. He entered times and depths into his dive computer, triple checking rather than having Lee verify the numbers. He’d probably see them double anyway.

  Don’t think about anything except the dive. Lee had to be left completely behind while Bobby dove. Absolutely couldn’t let Lee ride along in his head—not as a lover, not as an ex, not as a problem he couldn’t solve. All he needed from Lee was to keep the boat right where it was until he was back on board. Even a damned drunk should be able to stay at anchor.

  Kitted up, his tanks tested and his rebreather clear, Bobby toppled into the cold Atlantic. Down, down, he’d go to the gefallen U-boat whose name he needed to find. Kent and Chuck flanked him; they’d done the work yesterday of cranking the hole in the hull wide enough to enter, so they’d have the honor of following him into the cramped space. They’d also bear the news back to the Bottom Hunter if he never emerged.

  Long before he reached the wreck, the slivers of exposed skin on his face had gone numb. The frostbite zone, Lee called it—those spots never did tan right. No mesh gloves today; he needed the dexterity, such as it was, of the neoprene alone. A dark slash along the fuzzy surface beckoned to him. All his time spent memorizing floor plans and imagining them toppled sideways would pay off in another twenty feet of descent.