The Ocean King: A Deep Sea Thriller

by Russ Watts

  Amanda hugged Don again. “Take care and call me if you need anything.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Don watched Amanda leave as he put his jacket on. She got into a cab and waved goodbye through the bar’s window. Don took a swig of beer and looked around the bar. The couples had all gone home, and the only people left were two old men at one end of the bar and the hot waitress, Meghan, serving them. The radio was still playing soft rock ballads and he saw the football game had finished. The news was on and the banner at the bottom of the screen was something about a missing ocean liner in The Pacific with hundreds feared dead. No doubt that was the result of Al Qaeda too, along with crop circles and global warming. Don wandered over to the bar and held out his wallet.

  “Are you doing okay, honey?” asked the waitress, as she rang up the final bill.

  Don slumped into a bar stool. “Long day.” He looked longingly at the beer pumps lined up in front of him. He had drunk just enough to get a buzz on, but not quite enough to know when to say no.

  “Your friend was nice. She just a work friend?” asked Meghan.

  Don looked at Meghan. She had soft, brown eyes, and hair to match. “Yep. Just a friend.” He looked at Meghan and her hands held out the cheque to him. As he reached for it, she took it back. Her face was kind and her skin was golden and tanned, much like Amanda’s.

  “Don, right? Meghan McCabe, at your service. If you’re not in any rush, you want another drink?”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” asked Don as he sized her up.

  Meghan shook her head. “Canada originally. Came down a couple of months back. Bit warmer down here,” she said winking. “I could use some friends myself.”

  Don eased off his jacket and decided which one of the tap beers to try next. “Maybe just one more drink then.”

  CHAPTER 4

  OCTOBER WEDNESDAY 16TH 09:44

  “O’Reilly, get over there, now. We’re moving on this. You’ve got a green light.”

  Don clambered up the side of the bank and the gritty sand stuck to his body. As he nestled low into the dirty shoreline, he tried to ignore the stench that pervaded the air. There was a strong fishy smell mingling with what he could only assume was human excrement. It was familiar to him, as though he had been here already. He looked through his goggles and checked that Pozden was on his left flank, Carter to his right. They signalled back that they had heard the directive. Although it was dawn, Don felt the warmth on his back of the strong East African sun.

  With a quick flick of his hand, Don motioned for the others to follow him, and he crept up the sandbank, still hidden from view by the town just ahead. Tufts of coarse Psamma scratched at his legs and arms as he climbed. The men behind him were depending on him. Their lives depended on him; the hostage’s lives depended on him. Don saw the target and was struck again, by how familiar it was. That dome on top of the mosque, that faded green door - he recognised them as easily as his own face. He had seen grainy satellite images of the target only ninety minutes ago, but the smell, the heat, was all too real. He had a strong sense of déjà vu.

  He knew what he was going to see when he advanced over the sandbank. He could see it already. There would be a stray cat between two parked cars. There would be a trailer full of dead rotting sharks to the west, and a boatyard just off to the east. He knew what was coming, but was utterly powerless to stop it.

  Do it, do it now.

  Don gave the signal. Robert and Wilson went over the top silently, creeping through the tall sand reeds as they had done a thousand times before. As expected, he saw two slumped figures on the ground by the main doors. The reeds rustled as Pozden went past, crouching low as he approached the main entrance to the target building. This wasn’t right. A voice in his head screamed at him: STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!

  Don reached for his Heckler and Koch MP5K. Shouting voices. Urgent screams. A woman crying. Children wailing. A dog barked in the distance. Dust rose from the ground and hung suspended in the air. Don felt himself raise his weapon, his hands acting of their own accord. His knees bent and then he found himself crouching. It was as if he was not in control of his body anymore. This time, everything happened fast. Three men ran toward him brandishing AKM’s, firing their weapons. Wilson sprayed the advancing men with a hail of bullets. Don watched calmly, knowing they were dead before they hit the ground.

  Suddenly, the mayhem spread, and the doors to the mosque burst outwards. Hostages began pouring out, running in all directions. Don saw the man on the roof of the mosque, instantly recognising the yellow polo shirt and red bandana. Don knew he had to be quick. He fired and the stone walls began to rip and splinter, shards of brittle stone raining down on the hostages. The top of the building was lost in a mist of exploding masonry. The man in the yellow polo shirt crumpled, but Don was too late. The rocket had already been fired.

  He tried to shout, tried to warn Wilson, but his voice was lost in the cacophony of screams and gunfire. Don took a step back and felt his legs giving way as he stumbled down the sandbank. In the doorway of the mosque, Robert’s left knee came apart. Don yelled at him to get out, but Robert was already being dragged inside the mosque by two of the terrorists.

  It was the same, but different. He had seen this before. He tried changing it, tried to intervene, but whatever he did, it kept happening. The explosion from the rocket launched Don into the air, but he was protected from the blast by the sandbank. A rush of wind enveloped him, and then the very air seemed to be on fire. As he twisted and turned, he squeezed his eyes shut, the image of Robert being shot in the leg fresh in his mind. His body smashed into the beach and he rolled over. The sound of the battle was dull, a mere distant refrain to the thrumming in his ears. He reached up to his head and felt fresh blood. The hair there had been singed and his left arm hung limply, broken in three places. Don lifted himself to his feet and saw the mosque through a thick billowing smoke. There was a hole in the ground where Wilson had been standing. Burning, charred bodies littered the ground, and then a figure came through the sizzling black haze.

  Carter fell at Don’s feet. “Blow it, Don, blow it now.” Carter was covered in blood and Don had no idea whose it was.

  Don crouched down as more bullets sailed over his head. He pulled the detonator from his pocket, thankfully intact. He held it in his hand and looked at Carter. “The hostages. What about the fucking hostages?”

  Carter lay still, his blood seeping into the sand, and looked at Don with dark eyes. He swallowed and then whispered. “All gone. Do it, do it now, and take those bastards down. They’re all inside.” Carter coughed and spat bloody phlegm into his hand. “I saw them. They think it’s a full-blown war. When the rocket went up, they ran inside the mosque.”

  Don looked at the detonator and then back at Carter. “Wilson?”

  Carter shook his head and his eyes glazed over.

  Don knelt down and gripped Carter’s hand. “Robert? Where’s Robert?”

  Carter didn’t respond and Don felt the man’s hand slip from his. A final breath whistled through Carter’s teeth, and then he was dead. Don felt nothing. Carter had died next to him so many times now, it was like watching a play he had seen a thousand times before. Don looked back up at the mosque. Two men stood on the roof firing blindly. The smoke had cleared a little, but they could not see Don.

  The CRRC was still there, a few feet away. He could still make it, back to the USNS Arctic. He had to. The Evac’ Chopper could not come in, would not come in while the shit was still falling. How had it gone so wrong? There had been so many of them, far more than should have been there. He looked at the detonator in his hand again. Press it. Fuck, Robert, where are you? Do it now. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! Carter’s words rang around his aching head.

  Do it, do it now.

  Don squeezed his eyes shut. Bullets ripped into the beach, spraying him with dirt and sending mushroom clouds of gritty sand into him. Carter’s body twitched as more rounds tore through him, and Don was spra
yed with warm blood.

  Do it, do it now.

  Don felt the burning anger and shame rip through his soul. He was seething, shaking, his head spinning. Blood trickled down his cheek from his head wound, and he wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but here. A dog barked again, closer, its frantic barking louder than the gunfire that surrounded him. The sun was scorching now, a fireball pressing down on him, lighting up the oxygen he was painfully trying to suck into his lungs.

  Press the button. Blow the bastards to kingdom come. Robert, where are you? I’ve lost the others, you’re all I have left.

  Don saw Robert’s prostrate body being dragged inside the mosque. He saw the stray cat stare at him as it crossed the road. He saw a man with a yellow polo shirt smiling at him. He looked up and saw the sun, a golden orb burning into his eyes, tearing at his soul. He saw the detonator in his hand. He knew what he had to do. Don closed his eyes and the world went black.

  Do it, do it now.

  An insistent, repetitive banging on the front door interrupted his nightmare, and Don awoke sharply. His head throbbed and he threw back the covers, exposing his sweaty body to the frigid air. His forehead was coated with a sheen of perspiration, and he groaned. Shouting, urgent voices, dog’s barking, and more banging on his front door all colluded to heighten his burgeoning headache.

  “All right, I’m coming!” he called out picking up a shirt from the floor. Putting it on, he recognised the faint odour of smoke and beer coming from it. He quickly pulled on his creased jeans and staggered from the room. As he passed into the lounge, he paused and put his hands on the doorframe. His legs wanted to give way, and his head was spinning. Ignoring the dizzy spell that threatened to take him down, he staggered over to the kitchen sink and stuck his head under the tap, letting the cool water fill his mouth. He gulped it down, desperate to take away the taste of blood. His tongue was dry, and at some point in the night, he must’ve bitten his lip. He turned the tap off and stayed there a moment. Goddamn, why couldn’t he sleep? The dreams had been getting worse lately, much worse. The banging started up again on his door.

  “All right, Jesus, I’m coming.” Don looked at his apartment. It was a mess. He hadn’t cleared up the empties from the weekend, and he really needed to open a window. He wasn’t used to guests. Well, they would just have to take it as they found it. He opened the door to find Amanda standing there.

  “Don, you look like shit,” she said pushing past him into the dingy apartment. “Man, it stinks in here.” She leant over the sink and pulled up the blinds, then cracked the window open an inch.

  “Pleased to see you too,” said Don shutting the front door before collapsing on the sofa.

  “I tried calling, but you didn’t answer,” said Amanda looking at him with her hands on her hips.

  Don felt in his jeans and pulled his phone out of a pocket. “Sorry, it was off.” He turned it on and rubbed his chin.

  “I thought you said you were going home last night when I left?” Amanda began picking up empty bottles from the coffee table and taking them over to the trash bin. She found a black garbage bag and began to fill it.

  “I was. I did. I mean I was going to, but then Meghan asked me for another drink and…”

  What had happened next? They had talked. He had drunk a couple more as she’d closed up and then? He poked around in his mind, trying to find the missing piece of information. Meghan had locked up. He had walked home alone. Thank God, he hadn’t done anything stupid. He had opened a bottle of something though, something with a bit more kick to it than beer. Don looked at the coffee table and saw the empty bottle of Captain Morgan in the middle. Amanda hadn’t gotten to it yet.

  “Okay, I confess, I had another couple of drinks with Meghan, and maybe a few more beers when I got home. You know what it’s like, one always leads to another.” Don got up and swiftly picked up the rum when Amanda had her back turned. He rolled it under the sofa. “I know, I know, but…shit, what time is it? I thought you were supposed to be having a breakfast meeting with Zola today?”

  “I did. That was nearly two hours ago, Don.” Amanda put the black bag down and walked over to him. Her brusque attitude had softened. “I thought I would come by and check that you were okay. Today’s important for you and I didn’t want you to be on your own this morning.”

  Don stiffened up. “I don’t need a nanny. I’ll be in to work later.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  Don’s headache was about to blossom into a mushroom cloud of pain, and he couldn’t deal with Amanda right now. “No. This is me, saying thank you, but no. Don’t push it, Amanda. I appreciate you coming round to check on me.” He heard his phone beep indicating he had missed calls. It beeped four times in his pocket. “That all you?”

  “I was worried.”

  Don looked at his phone. It was nearly ten. If he was going to make it to the office by noon, he was going to have to get moving. It would be difficult now. He put an arm around Amanda and ushered her to the front door. “Do me a favour? Cover for me if I’m late. Tell Zola I’m held up in traffic or something.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to help you clean up?” asked Amanda.

  “I’m good. Want to go for a bite to eat after work?” He knew he shouldn’t take up too much of Amanda’s free time, but he knew he would want the company later. It was the one day of the year he was pretty much guaranteed to get Amanda to come out with him.

  “Don, I can’t tonight. Hamish is back later today. Maybe just a quick drink?”

  Don felt like he’d been punched in the side of the head. This thing with Hamish really must be serious. “I thought Hamish wasn’t due back until the weekend?”

  “He wasn’t. I got a text this morning saying he was on his way back and had a surprise for me.”

  “A surprise?”

  “He said it was big, real big, and I would never guess what it was.”

  “Interesting.” Don had no idea what Amanda was looking so excited about, but suspected he would find out later. At this point, he needed to wash away last night’s indulgences and hit the road. “You can fill me in over that drink tonight?” he said closing the door.

  “Okay, bye.”

  Don went back to his room and flopped onto the bed. It was still warm.

  Just another five minutes. It’ll take the edge off. No, you have to get up now; you can’t put it off any longer. You don’t need any more sleep; you need something hardier than that to take the edge off.

  Don felt around under his bed and found the bottle of white rum he saved for special occasions. If today didn’t count, then nothing did. He unscrewed the cap and took a long gulp as he lay on the bed. As the burning sensation in his throat subsided, he put the bottle back on his bedside table and got up. He showered, shaved, and slowly the maelstrom in his head thinned out. When he had cleaned up, he put on a black suit with a dark grey tie over a crisp white shirt. It was the only thing in his wardrobe that didn’t need ironing, and he only wore it once a year. After he’d dressed, he grabbed his car keys and left the apartment.

  “What do you think, Don?”

  Don locked his front door to find Mrs Barkley sweeping her balcony.

  Probably been waiting all morning for me to come out, he thought.

  “I hope it’s a big diamond ring,” she cackled. “That girl deserves it, don’t you think?”

  “What’s that, Mrs Barkley?”

  “Your friend? Such a nice young lady. I was saying that maybe her boyfriend’s surprise is a ring. It wouldn’t surprise me. You know, I think number six is moving out soon if they need someplace of their own.”

  As Mrs Barkley continued her speculation, Don did the only thing he knew how, to get out of her way, and left.

  “I’ve still got some apple pie put aside for you! I think I put a little too much cinnamon in, but you can be the judge,” continued Mrs Barkley as Don headed out of the apartment block.

  He walked back past the Old Station, which was st
ill closed, and got into his car. The coolness of the morning had given way to another fine day, and his first port of call was the bank.

  “Your regular deposit, Mr O’Reilly?” asked the cashier.

  “Yes, please. Another thousand. Actually, make it fifteen hundred this month,” Don said.

  “Certainly, sir.” The young man behind the counter processed the transaction. “If I could make a suggestion, if you and Mrs O’Reilly were to open a joint account, you could make some substantial savings in your fees, and it would save you the hassle of coming in to see us every month. I can set it up for you right now?”

  “No, Mrs O’Reilly and I need separate accounts. Thank you anyway. Just put the money into her account and we’re done.”

  “That’s all done for you now. Have a nice day.”

  Don left the bank and made his second call of the day. He drove out of Mama Kitty’s Coffee Shack armed with a Danish pastry and a latte. His third call of the day was seven Collwood Lane. He parked up outside as he had done yesterday, and tucked into his breakfast. The buzz of Captain Morgan’s white rum was wearing off and Don wolfed down his pastry. As he ate, he monitored the house. The window shades were pulled open, and it looked unoccupied. The silver car was gone from the driveway too.

  Damn it, I’m too late. Now she’ll be there too.

  Don drove away, leaving the house behind, but unable to escape the memories it dredged up. Years ago, he had poured over textbooks in the upstairs front room, and cried himself to sleep after getting the belt in the back room. Not all of his memories were bad though, and there had been plenty of summer nights spent playing games in the back yard. It was a good area, and he had to be grateful for the start he’d had in life. Back then, the Old Station had been a real cop station, and Mama Kitty’s had been a discount clothing store. Right around the corner from there, was the Holy Spirit Anglican Church, where he had been dragged religiously every Sunday. That had changed too, having undergone a facelift some years back. Don might have left home, but he still kept tabs on what was going on in the area. He was pleased to know it had not degenerated like so many areas. Even the house had aged well. The letterbox had changed over the years from blue to red, and there was a new garage, but otherwise, it looked largely the same. There was the front porch where his father had taught him how to tie his laces, the two rusted spots on the side of the house where his old basketball net had been, and the bedroom where he had invested so much time reading about military history. Don’s eyes rested upon the wooden front door. That front door hadn’t changed since he had found his father dead of a heart attack when he was only nine. Trips to church had increased for a while after that, and then they’d stopped. Not a lot had changed to the house since Don had last stepped foot inside. It was the people who had changed.