The Tank

by Rick Chesler

  THE TANK

  Rick Chesler

  Copyright 2016 by Rick Chesler

  www.severedpress.com

  Prologue

  Half Moon Bay, California

  Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

  Kane Brooks wasn’t sure where he first heard that expression, but right now, staring out through his diving helmet at the glow of the underwater cutting torch, it spoke volumes. Even more than when he’d considered it on the day he was sentenced to prison. Six years at Chino California Institution for Men. He’d been bussed through the gates thinking, Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

  Now, after four grueling years, he’d been shown a light of sorts, in the form of that underwater welding torch. By sheer luck and good behavior, Kane had entered himself into a unique training and work release program. Over the last two years, he’d gladly participated in the training course that upon successful completion would see him as a certified commercial diver. He’d had an edge over many of his fellow convict participants in that he was already comfortable in the water, surfing the nearby big waves spots like Mavericks as a kid, and scuba diving for the tasty shellfish known as abalone. He breezed through the physical and swim tests and had taken naturally to the technical dive training. The instructor told him he’d been the only scuba certified individual they’d ever had to work with—everyone else had come from zero diving background, and some of them had made it.

  Indeed, two years later, Kane had turned out to be one of the program’s shining stars. He’d supplemented his classroom and pool time by reading diving books and manuals in his cell during free time, of which he had a fair amount. It had led not only to his becoming certified early, but to working occasional supervised jobs for paying clients at the local oil rigs. A day out here, even cutting a piece of metal at 310 feet under the Pacific Ocean, sure beat another turn in the cell.

  The thought that he would have a very marketable skill once he got out was a big plus, too. And yet for Kane, even that hadn’t been enough to keep him going. Even with his newfound vocation, prison life was pulling him deeper into depression. And that scared him. Because this was the pinnacle of perks that he could expect to find in the institution. This was absolutely as good as things could ever get while incarcerated. And yet the thought of two more years of this existence was enough to make him want to turn his welding torch on his air hose and sever it.

  He should be able to grin and bear it. His friends and family who still visited him now and then told him as much. And he knew it was true. But none of that changed the fact that he couldn’t do it. No way. Not when he could do something to shorten his stay. Besides, he was realistic when it came to his future employment prospects, marketable skill or not. Who wanted to hire a convicted violent felon? Pretty much no one, that’s who. What’s more, this kind of work, while it beat staying in a cage by a long mile, was still work—demanding and laborious.

  A far cry from his glory days as a professional surfer on the world tour circuit, where sponsors had paid for him to travel the globe to ride waves. South Africa, Europe, the South Pacific, Hawaii, California… For four years, it had been one big blur of non-stop traveling and partying. But like most pro athletes, his tenure in the highest echelons of competition had been relatively short-lived. When his world rankings started to slip, so did his sponsorships. With no more contest purses and lucrative corporate deals to back him, Kane had been forced to quit the tour, not that he had a decent chance of winning or even placing, anyway, but it would have been nice to go for the ride one more year.

  But that hadn’t happened, and when Kane found himself suddenly off the tour and out of work with nothing to fall back on at the almost tender age of twenty-five, he’d had to come to grips with the fact that he needed a job. He’d gotten one at a local surf shop in Morro Bay, but it was tough to go from his near-celebrity, globetrotting lifestyle to working retail almost literally overnight.

  The events of a single night would haunt him for his years in prison. A terrible mistake he would take back if he could, but of course, he could not. So he was here, cutting metal deep underwater on an oil rig, and when he was done, he’d make the boat ride back to shore. Only instead of going home like the other guys, to wives or girlfriends or even just their friends, he’d get into a prison van to be taken back to his cell.

  Kane paused his work while these thoughts paralyzed him into inaction. Then he shook it off and fired up the torch again.

  None of that would happen today. All he had to do was go through with the plan. The plan he’d worked out over the course of almost the entire last year. It mostly involved a lot of phone calls to his only two friends on the outside he still had any regular contact with and who could possibly be of use to him. Guys with boats, jet skis. Divers, surfers, too. Even more importantly, guys who knew his past and would still cut him a little slack.

  Kane shut off the torch and consulted his dive watch.

  Time to stop thinking and start doing.

  But the little voice of what was left of his conscious wouldn’t go away. Just two more years! Are you crazy? Tough it out.

  Kane shook his head to himself—to his conscious—as he began to ascend the ladder fixed to the rig that would take him to the surface. He could have used the platform that could be reeled up from above, but that would require letting them know he was coming up.

  The convict dropped his welding torch into the abyss, wanting to be unencumbered with gear. The tool was expensive and losing it would not make him look good should he have to abort his plan and claim it was an accident. But strangely enough, Kane didn’t think it would come to that. Here in the ocean—not far from where he grew up—he felt comfortable, in control. Add to that the assistance he knew was on its way, and he was able to block out the severe consequences of what he was doing and simply go through the steps.

  Swiftly, he climbed the utility ladder in his bulky commercial dive suit. His air supply was not tethered to the surface but contained in two different tanks he wore on his back. The mobility this type of rig gave him was key for his mission. Some jobs called for a tethered gas supply and that would not work since he had no choice but to come to the surface where the tether—and, therefore, his oil rig support team—was. So he had waited patiently for a deeper job that he knew would require self-contained tanks.

  And this was it. No telling how long it would be before another one came along. Maybe not for another year or more. And for whatever reason—chalk it up to a lack of wisdom or the impetuousness of youth—but he felt like he should run if he could. He saw absolutely no possibility of escape in the actual prison. But out here…he had thought it through many, many times even before contacting his friends. He had done them some favors—getting them complimentary airline tickets, free surfboards, even semi-pro sponsorships for a couple who could surf well but weren’t on the pro tour. Today, it all added up to the fact that he had been able to convince two of them to meet him out here. He’d spoken to one of them from the prison payphone yesterday in semi-coded language, and it was still a go.

  Kane glanced at his depth gauge as the water lightened around him. Only fifty feet to go to the surface! Time flies when you’re having fun. The first thoughts as to whether this was going to end with his freedom or with a lengthened sentence formed in his head and he pushed them aside. Too distracting. Just go.

  At twenty feet below the surface, he reached a literal crossroads. Another ladder ran horizontally from the one he climbed, following the oil rig around its base in a square. He’d dove this same rig before and knew the layout. One of the riskiest parts of his plan was right here: this close to the surface, he ran the risk of being seen by the topside support crew. Fortunately, today the water was not so clear. He could bare
ly make out the surface. Also, a choppy sea due to strong winds made his bubbles from the tanks hard to notice.

  Still, until he made his way laterally across the rig, he could be seen at any time. His only saving grace was that they weren’t expecting him yet. He was supposed to be working at depth for another forty-five minutes or so.

  Kane made the transition from vertical ladder to horizontal catwalk. Despite the sense of urgency, he took his time. His diving suit and boots were not meant for swimming, but for standing on a platform. Should he lose his grip on the structure, he would plummet into the void, sinking into the deep blackness until the pressure cracked his facemask.

  He cracked a smile as his hands gripped the rungs of the narrow walkway and his boots landed on the edge of the metal platform. Made it! His death-defying underwater tightrope act under his belt, Kane now ducked under the rail of the catwalk so that he stood on the narrow platform. Then he was able to walk, although he moved at something closer to a run, hands pushing off the rails to boost him along.

  Northwest corner…

  When he reached the end of the catwalk, he made the right angle turn and continued on along another side of the oil rig. The closer he got to the end of this catwalk, the harder it became to drown out his inner voice, the one that slung criticisms of his plan all around his brain. What if they’re not there? I don’t hear a boat, do you? What if you’re spotted before you get to the end! How much air do you have?

  As a concession to the voice, Kane eyed his air pressure gauge. He hadn’t counted on air supply as being much of a factor since divers used more air the deeper they went, and he’d come up to shallow water soon after the dive began. Still, he’d been heavily exerting himself, so to shut up the voice he looked at the gauge: about 1/3 tank remaining. He’d used a little more air than expected, but still not a problem. He was almost there.

  Kane increased his pace as he used his hands to lift himself up on the rails and then land a few feet ahead on the catwalk. He looked up as he moved, searching for signs he was being observed by the rig crew. So far, so good.

  He reached the end of the catwalk and consulted the compass worn on his right wrist. He was in position. Now to wait, hopefully not too long. He glanced at the digital dive watch on his left wrist. Three minutes. He was ahead of schedule.

  Kane did his best to calm his breathing while he waited. Being a jittery mess wouldn’t help things. Slow your pulse. Slow your breathing… He even dared to close his eyes for nearly a minute, meditating himself into a purposeful trance, a relaxed yet determined mental state that would see him through the end of what he was about to do. Besides the sound of his own bubbles, he heard the occasional clang of metal, the knocking of various machinery, but he tuned it all into the background until it was a sort of white noise that worked in his favor.

  When he opened his eyes, a sleek, torpedo-shaped form cruised by him, on the open ocean side of the rig, not beneath it. He recognized it instantly as a shark, then immediately focused on determining what kind it was. Blue shark. An open water species, not all that common to sight diving, but then again, he was out pretty far in the ocean. It reminded him of how wild a place this was, yet at the same time, he’d take his chances with the shark any day compared to those who he lived with in prison.

  He stared longingly at the vertical ladder he would take to the surface. Hopefully, to freedom. But to ascend it now would mean to be sighted by the rig’s crew. He had to wait for—

  There!

  The hum was faint at first, but grew louder by the second.

  Kane turned and gripped the vertical ladder. It could just be a rig boat. But as he listened, he became convinced it wasn’t an employee vessel of the oil company. Not homing in on the rig at a high-speed beeline like this. He checked his watch. And not at the precise time he’d arranged.

  Go!

  He kicked off the ladder’s bottom rung and pulled himself up until his helmeted head broke the surface. Immediately, he turned toward the approaching vessel and smiled. There was Alec, at the wheel, with Luke sitting low in the inflatable boat. As asked, they’d painted it with the oil company logo to buy them a little extra time before they were questioned about being so close to the rig.

  Kane spun back around toward the platform he would be expected to return to, where the oil rig dive crew waited. He saw three men there, none of them looking overly concerned. This was his very last chance to abort the escape attempt. He could still descend the ladder and walk back around the rig, then ascend to the dive platform. He’d claim he lost his welding cutter; it would be an extreme disappointment and he’d likely not be asked back out here, but it wouldn’t be an escape attempt.

  Once he set foot on that private boat, however…

  Then Luke’s hand was waving frantically for him to jump on. Alec carved a sharp turn, slowing the boat at the last moment, but not stopping it.

  Kane leaped aboard. If he was being observed from the rig, by anyone not part of the dive crew, he doubted they would think anything of it. And the dive crew was all down on the lower deck. He had about ten minutes until they would notice something was not right.

  Luke gunned the outboard, rocketing the small boat away from the rig. Luke and Alec grinned at Kane but said nothing, as the roar of the engine was too loud. They all needed to concentrate.

  Kane undid his diving helmet. He set it inside the boat rather than dumping it overboard lest he was being observed through binoculars. But as luck would have it, the entire rig was distracted by the shift boat pulling up from the mainland. This large ferry transferred workers to and from the rig. Each crew worked at sea for several days at a time before being ferried back to shore, replaced by a fresh crew. During the personnel shift, slightly less attention would be paid to peripheral matters around the rig.

  And that wasn’t Kane’s only piece of luck on this day. The boat bounced off of a choppy sea for good reason: the surf was up, and up big. As planned, the boat headed for the north end of the bay, where a famous surfing break named Mavericks waited. Renowned for its huge waves, the place attracted a crowd every time it got big. And today, it was huge.

  Kane glanced around, looking to see if they had a boat on their tail. So far, no one appeared to be in pursuit. He gripped a rope on the side of the boat as they launched over a six-foot swell. At its apex, those in the boat got their first look at the Mavericks break.

  “It’s frickin’ huge!” Luke hollered.

  “Epic!” Alec agreed.

  Kane pointed to the surf spot. “Let’s get there.”

  Luke jammed the throttle up to full. The three men hunkered low in the small boat as they rocketed through the wind-whipped swells. Kane couldn’t help but whip his head around to see if a vessel was in pursuit yet, but it was hard to see over the swells. Once they reached the breaking surf, no boat would be able to follow.

  As expected, a smattering of small craft—mostly waverunners and jet-skis—plied the waters outside the thunderous surf, towing surfers into the gigantic moving mountains. Luke did not slow the boat down until they were well inside the break zone. “Inside,” as the surfers called it—right where the waves crashed.

  The water here was cold, but all three men already wore wetsuits. Also in Kane’s favor was the fact that, unlike many surf breaks, Mavericks broke far from shore—about a half-mile out to sea. This kept the spectators on the beach to a minimum since there wasn’t anything to see without high-powered lenses.

  As Luke killed the engine, Alec took a dive knife and stabbed the rubber tubes, deflating the vessel so that it would swamp with water and hopefully sink. At least it would be less visible. A handful of surfers braved the huge surf but all were preoccupied with staying alive in the massive waves.

  No one paid any mind as the three men dove into the water and swam for the beach.

  ONE

  Two years later

  Homestead, Florida

  “Last time I saw him, he was right over there!” The elderly man po
inted excitedly. “I was afraid to get too close, but last I saw he crawled under there. Do you think you’ll be able to get him, Mr.…Johnson, was it?”

  “Yeah, just call me Lyle. I got it, don’t worry.”

  “If you say so, Lyle.” The old man didn’t appear convinced.

  His house was situated near the edge of the Everglades. He’d recently retired and moved south from New England to retire, seeking sunshine and not having to shovel snow anymore. The price was right on this parcel of land, but what he hadn’t anticipated was the wildlife. Up north, he was used to the occasional deer, maybe a fox. But here…here it had been less than three months and already he had alligators in his pool, snakes in his grass, and lizards on his porch. Most of it he could deal with, but when a seven-foot alligator decided to take up residence under your house, it was time to call in professional help.

  Kane Brooks had seen it before. For the last two years, anyway. After escaping prison in California, he’d wasted no time skipping town. Took an old junker and a few hundred bucks from two of his friends (payback for those surfing sponsorships he’d thrown their way back in the day), and driven cross-country to Florida. The entire time, he’d made sure he was never more than five miles-per-hour over the speed limit, that he obeyed all traffic signs. Paid cash for everything, generally kept a very low profile.

  He had no idea why he chose Florida to run to other than it was about as far away from California as you can get and still be in the same country. He’d thought about Mexico but decided the border crossing was too risky. They’d likely be watching for him there. That was the extent of the thought process that had guided him 2,300 miles away, here, to the edge of one of the most formidable wildernesses in the country.

  Kane knew nothing would be the same. He was a fugitive now, on the lam. He could have no contact with his former life. He never called Luke and Alec to thank them for their invaluable help. Was afraid to even search California news sites on the web to see if they’d ever been caught or even questioned about his escape. He didn’t think so, but in any case, he’d heard nothing. But his entire way of thinking was different now. The commercial diving certification he’d worked so hard to complete was now worthless. He had to work, had to earn money. Was it tempting to approach the nearest marine company and put in his resume, even a fake one? You bet. But he knew the authorities would have those bases covered. It was too obvious. He had to do something completely different, something he’d left no clues about in his past life.