Roland smiled, his tobacco-stained teeth flashing. “Roger that, Cap’n. Cell signal is good enough out here for me to stream some porn. Should keep me occupied.” He shot a leering glance at Sam, who’d stripped down to her bikini and was pulling on a wetsuit. “Just to kill some time.”

She ignored him and shimmied halfway into a black five-millimeter suit. Tusker watched her from the corner of his eye while he pulled on his own wetsuit. Her shoulders were deep brown and tight with muscle and as she reached up to tie her hair back, he saw her flat stomach. Her navel had a silver ring through it.

He turned to Roland, who winked. Tusker frowned back at him. “Just don’t fall asleep and let the anchor come unhooked. And if you can, hang some O2 bottles over the side for our last deco stop.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n.” He blew out a stream of smoke and leaned back against the gunwale.

Tusker took off his Mount Gay Rum cap and tossed it in the bottom of the skiff. “Don’t lose my cap, Roland.”

The Dutchman nodded back. “I’ll keep it safe.”

He and Sam busied themselves kitting up, a heavy process made all the more difficult by the cramped quarters of the tiny skiff. The dozen tanks were piled on top of each other, and they had to awkwardly walk over them to reach their gear. Roland made no effort to help.

Finally, Sam and Tusker were ready: twin tanks on their backs, a smaller bottle clipped under each arm, coils of hose for their two regulators across their chests like bandoliers. Tusker had strapped on a waterproof writing slate next to his dive computer on his right wrist. Sam wore a two-millimeter neoprene hood and checked the seal of her mask one last time before giving Tusker an OK sign. He wished he’d opted for a thicker suit. His two-millimeter suit was threadbare and used up. It would be little thermal protection against the chill at 350 feet and the hours of motionless hanging on the way back up.

He cursed his poor planning, then shook it out of his head and signaled back to Sam. They heaved themselves and the two hundred extra pounds of weight they carried onto the edge of the gunwale and tipped back clumsily into the sea.

“See you when I see you,” Roland grinned over the side as they bobbed up, mercifully unweighted. Tusker had already put his regulator in his mouth and simply gave Roland a small nod before deflating his buoyancy wing and disappearing under the surface.

Dark Descent

Bay of Bengal, eight nautical miles east of Batticaloa, Sri Lanka. The same day.