“Wise decision, Mr. Tusk. Use the spare helmet attached to the Diver 3 umbilical. Secure it to the hoist and then return to the bell. Then we’ll see you on board. And don’t try anything stupid. We can see everything you do.” The radio clicked off.

Tusker pulled the yellow helmet over his head and switched on the valve marked “Diver 3”. With a hiss, breathing gas gushed into the helmet. He took a last look at the camera and stepped back into the dark sea.

The Depth Charge

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

When Sam opened her eyes, she couldn’t see anything. Her scalp felt tender and damp. Even turning her head resulted in such pain, she almost passed out.

Swimming back to the skiff where Thathi was waiting in the dark, she’d been intercepted by a rubber boat with a powerful outboard motor. Two men silently hauled her aboard and threw her dive gear over the side. Before she could even scream, one of the men hit her and pulled a sack over her head. She felt the fast boat swing crisply around and moaned helplessly as it bounced on the swells back to the Depth Charge. Then, still blinded by the sack, she was pushed up a metal staircase, two decks above the water line. She heard shouts and more footsteps approaching, and could feel the sway of the ship on the swells and the sound of ocean spray.

One of the men who’d captured her roughly pulled the sack off her head. She stood, squinting and dripping in her wetsuit, on the dive deck. Then she saw a familiar face: Roland’s.

“I suppose yer wantin’ a cup of tea now, eh?” He stood across from her, wearing Tusker’s red Mount Gay Rum cap, his feet planted wide and his arms at his sides. He wore a large knife in a sheath at his hip, prominently displayed for her to see. “But first,” he grinned and eyed her hungrily, “we should get you out of those wet clothes.” He warily walked towards her, one hand on the knife’s handle.

Sam remembered her own dive knife, in a leg sheath strapped over her wetsuit. It was a small, razor-sharp Spyderco she’d bought in Australia and always carried for cutting fishing nets. Her captors hadn’t noticed it in the darkness. She tried to appear weak as Roland approached.

“I always wanted to see what you look like under that wetsuit, but had to play nice around yer daddy.” He stepped closer and whispered, “Rausing can’t expect us to not have a little fun now and then.” The two men who’d brought her aboard stood a few feet behind Roland, and looked at each other uncomfortably.