The Ocean King: A Deep Sea Thriller Read online

  THE OCEAN KING

  Russ Watts

  For Elle and Ophelia.

  This is for after you find Nemo, long after.

  ‘Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.’

  Luke 10:19

  CHAPTER 1

  OCTOBER TUESDAY 15TH 08:39

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

  Don O’Reilly clambered up the side of the bank as 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. 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. The strong East African sun could cause severe heat stroke in less than an hour. If all went well, they would be in and out in even less than that.

  Do it, do it now.

  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, but he focused on the mission. Over the crest of the sandbank, the target was most likely holed up inside. They had received intelligence that there were four guards posted at each corner of the building, armed with AK47s and a blind faith in what they were doing. A sapphire blue sky and a warm beach suggested this might be a tropical paradise, but Don knew otherwise. He did not have time to relax now, he was lead on this. The men behind him were depending on him. Their lives depended on him and the hostage’s lives depended on him. The objective was a mosque, most likely used by the targets because they thought they were untouchable there. The Americans would never dare to touch a mosque, would they?

  They reached the top of the sandbank and Don looked back at the ocean they had come from. The CRRC lay in the reeds, obscured from view, and only visible to those who knew it was there. Don counted himself lucky that he was going in with men he trusted completely. He had worked with Pozden and Carter before. They had been in the same team for five years, and Wilson had joined them early in 1990, just after Panama. Robert had been alongside Don for as long as he could remember.

  Don gave the signal and Robert and Wilson went over the top silently, creeping through the tall sand reeds. There was no need to speak, as everyone knew their role. Don watched the seconds tick by, and waited a full minute, giving Robert and Wilson enough time to get in position. Once the front two guards were incapacitated, Pozden and Carter would join Wilson inside the mosque and begin retrieval of the hostages. Whilst Don organised the Evac’ Chopper, Robert would lay the explosives around the mosque, and in twelve minutes, they would be out of there. It was a plan they had gone over religiously, and Don knew it by heart. He knew down to the last second how things would pan out.

  He motioned for Pozden and Carter to move, and then scrambled over the top of the bank. The stone walls of the mosque were dark against the blue sky, and the large squat building cast a shadow over the path between it and the shoreline. There was a peacefulness that surprised Don. Behind the mosque were small buildings, grungy houses covered with washing lines and empty streets. There were no streetlights and no moving traffic. The air was hot and foul, and Don felt himself begin to get irritated. He couldn’t explain why, but it was almost too quiet. A light dust blew over the road as the sun heated it up, and a thin stray cat ran from between two parked cars, squinting at Don as it ran. Around thirty feet to his left was a trailer, full of the carcasses of sharks, their fins had been removed and their bodies left to rot. To his right, the path stretched onwards for miles, the grey town simmering in the morning sun running along it, until a boatyard blocked Don from seeing any further. The town of Hobyo was close by, and the Mudug region of Somalia had been a haven for thugs and terrorists for too long. Don never asked why he was sent anywhere, only when he could go. The hostages were so close now, he could almost hear them breathing.

  God, please let them still be breathing.

  Don shrugged off the irritation he felt, and saw the two slumped figures on the ground by the main doors. The first of the armed militants were down, which meant Robert was already laying down the explosives. The reeds rustled as Pozden went past, crouching low as he approached the main entrance to the target building. The doors were painted a deep green, and over the years, had faded to a cool mint colour. The paint had cracked as the door weathered and weeds grew around it. Why did that door look so familiar?

  Do it, do it now.

  As Don reached for his Heckler and Koch MP5K, time slowed. His sand-encrusted hand felt like it was encased in concrete, and Don tried to reach the gun, but he couldn’t move. It was falling now, out of reach, and as it hit the sand, it sank beneath the surface. Don looked up in surprise at the shouting voices. He recognised them as Somali, but was unable to understand what was being said. Confused, he turned his head towards the mosque. The bulbous dome atop it temporarily blinded him, as the first shards of morning sunlight bounced off it. There was more shouting, panicked voices, urgent screams in an unintelligible language, and then silence. Don blinked away the tears in his eyes as he saw the three men run toward him brandishing AKM’s, firing their weapons randomly, their faces contorted by rage. Everything was happening in slow motion, and he reached for his gun again, only to find it wasn’t there. A burst of gunfire erupted from the reeds six feet in front of him, and Wilson sprayed the advancing men with a hail of bullets. In turn, the men fell, one by one, their chests exploding in a mist of blood and smoke.

  Don was frozen to the spot, as the doors to the mosque burst outwards and the hostages began pouring out. Terrified men and women charged out, running in all directions, some toward the beach, but others down the shadowy roads, not knowing where to find safety. Don looked up again at the mosque’s dome and saw a lone figure standing on the roof in front of it. The man wore sunglasses and a yellow polo shirt. A red bandana covered his mouth, and he held an RPG-7 over his shoulder. It was pointed down at the beach, directly at Wilson who was still shooting, as more terrorists came from the two sides of the building.

  He tried to shout, tried to warn Wilson, but Don’s mouth refused to obey his brain, and his throat was constricted, as if tied in a noose. Don’s eyes widened when he saw Robert standing in the doorway of the mosque, ushering the hostages out. As the last one left, a single shot rang out loud and clear, and Robert’s left knee came apart. Blood spurted from his leg and he crumpled to the ground. Don tried to shout again, but his lips were tightly shut.

  Robert, get out of there!

  Wilson raised his weapon and shot the man on the roof, just as the RPG was fired. Like a freeze-frame shot, Don could see the rocket headed toward them, hanging in mid-air, a wisp of smoke trailing behind it. Wilson’s face was pure adrenalin as he continued returning fire. The hostages had run wild and many had been caught in the crossfire. Bodies littered the street. Carter was running toward him, and Robert was being dragged inside the mosque by two of the terrorists. The rocket inched closer and Don’s heart hammered in his chest.

  All around him was gunfire and shouting. He could see the deadly bullets in the air, their paths unclear. The man on the roof was falling, and his lifeless body appeared suspended above the closing doorway. All Don could see of Robert was his boots, as he was dragged into the darkness. He couldn’t see Carter anywhere. It was chaos. The rocket was closer now and Don felt himself falling. He was sinking into the sand, ju
st as his gun had done. His body refused to listen to his brain, and Don felt powerless to stop himself from sinking, sinking down into the sand. The scene of carnage and death burned itself into his retina, as he sank further past his waist, past his arms, past his neck. The sand reached his chin, and Don tried to scream, but no sound came out. Finally, his mouth opened, but before he could cry for help, the warm African sand flooded in, choking him, stifling his cries, and filling his lungs. The sand burned in his throat, scratched his oesophagus, and Don couldn’t breathe anymore. He couldn’t see, or feel anything; couldn’t find the sun, the sky, his team. His arms tried to grab the last of the harsh sand reeds as he sunk, but they slipped from his grasp, cutting and slicing through his palms. Choking on the burning sand, Don closed his eyes and the world went a hellish, fiery black.

  Coughing and gasping for air, Don jerked awake and released the pillowcase from his fists. He turned over and drew in a long breath, letting the fresh air fill his lungs. The dream had been all too real, and his throat was sore, as if it was still filled with sand. He knew he sometimes called out in his sleep, and wondered if he had been doing it again. Sometimes, the sound of his own cries woke him in the night. This time, the dream had kept going, and he tried to erase it from his mind. The memory was real enough; he didn’t need to dream about it too. Unfortunately, the nightmare was one that resurfaced often, and no amount of therapy was going to rid him of it.

  Reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table, he noticed the time. It was just before nine. Don swung his bare legs out of the warm bed, and planted his feet on the soft, but thin carpet. He gulped down the water and yawned. His naked body was cooling off quickly as the sweat dried. The sheets felt damp too, and he knew it wasn’t just the nightmare that had made him sweat. As he walked over to the en suite shower, he kicked over an empty bottle of Bud, and it rolled under the bed, clinking as it joined the others.

  One day, I’ll get around to cleaning up, he thought as he got inside the shower. The instant hot water woke him up further, and he washed all over, before standing under the cascading water, letting it wash away last night. Too many times lately, he had been having that same dream. It felt good to be in the shower. It was only small, but it cleared his mind as well as his body. He could feel the sand draining away, the images of the rocket coming toward him fading, and he began to relax. So often now, when he woke up, he was more tired than went he went to bed. The Doctor had told him that alcohol was a stimulant, and that he should cut down. Don had agreed, made all the right noises, and then made his way to the nearest bar. How else was he supposed to fall asleep without a drink?

  Don rubbed his chin and felt the rough stubble there with his fingers. He had just had three days off, and he was going to have to shave before heading into work today. Still, he could afford a few more minutes in the shower. He let his fingers run past his chin, up over his head, and through his short, clipped, greying hair. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself. His index finger found the groove that ran from his left temple, over his ear, and to the back of his head. It was shallow and smooth, and proof that not everything was a dream.

  Reluctantly, he left the shower, towelled off, and padded back into his room. The bed was a mess and he could see more beer bottles lining the desk, deposited between photographs and books. His laptop was buried beneath a pile of paperwork, and he thought momentarily about checking his emails. As usual, he thought better about it, and decided if anyone needed him, they knew how to reach him. It was his boss, Zola Bertoni, who had made him get one so he could take his work home with him during the busy summer season. He never used it to work at home. If he needed to do anything, he preferred to stay late at work. Keep the office for working, and home for drinking.

  He pulled open a drawer on the bedside table and pushed aside the half-empty whisky bottle, until he found his underwear. Then he opened the closet and grabbed what he needed: jeans, a black polo, and a pair of dark Merrell sneakers. He was on his feet much of the day at the park, and comfortable footwear was essential. The days when he could spend twenty fours on guard in bare feet, or crouched in a wet trench, unable to leave even to take a piss, were long gone. As he pulled the polo shirt over his head, he remembered he hadn’t shaved. He crossed the room and looked in the mirror, as he pulled on his jeans. Did it really matter? Wasn’t stubble fashionable these days? Besides, he didn’t look that bad considering he was pushing fifty. He still went for a run occasionally, when he wasn’t hung over, and he was in reasonably good shape. His arms still kept the muscle he had gained in his twenties, and he could easily pass for forty. No, the stubble stayed. He would shave tomorrow.

  He straightened out the shirt collar and looked at his face. The scar on his face was almost invisible now. He had been far more self-conscious about it ten years ago, but things had been very different then. Now, it was just a part of him, a reminder of his old life. It was not something he wanted reminding of, but he was never going to escape it. Don avoided looking directly into his eyes for fear of what he might see, and looked around for his keys. They weren’t anywhere he could see, but nothing was ever too far away in his apartment. He only had two rooms, the en suite bedroom and lounge where he was now, doubled as a kitchen and dining-room. The TV was still on mute, and he flicked it off, not interested in what the presenters had to say about the latest celebrity marriage, or how the economy was going down the shitter, again. The coffee table was a mess, testament to last night’s excesses, and he spotted his car keys in the ashtray, an island surrounded by empty bottles. He picked the keys up and then poured himself another glass of water. He looked out of the window, between the wooden slats that shielded him from the prying eyes of Mrs Barkley next door. She was sat on the balcony reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee and a small plate covered with crumbs on the opaque folding table before her.

  Coffee, that’s what I need, good strong coffee.

  Mrs Barkley was the self-appointed keeper of the apartment complex he lived in, and somehow seemed to know everything going on. She made it her business to know everyone, and Don had unfortunately picked the studio opposite hers to live in. If only he had known five years ago what he knew now, he would’ve picked a place on the other side of the complex, if not the city. Now that he was here, he really couldn’t be bothered to move.

  Don looked at his watch. Only nine thirty. He still had time to grab breakfast and do a drive-by before heading in. He thrust the glass into the sink and let it rest on the dirty plates from the weekend. They were submerged in the sink. Flotsam swirled around and Don decided he would wash up later, or else he was going to run out of dishes. The wallpaper above the drawers was peeling, the carpet was thin, worn down by years of abuse, and the light in the fridge was broken, but it was home.

  He left the apartment quietly, hoping Mrs Barkley wouldn’t hear him, and he could get down to his car. Avoiding the morning interrogation was almost becoming part of his routine now. As Don turned the key in the lock and stood outside in the open hall, relishing the fresh air and scent of palm trees, he heard what sounded like a newspaper being folded. An elderly voice followed it.

  “Mr O’Reilly, you were up a little late last night. At your age, you should show a bit more restraint.”

  “Pious, interfering, piece of…” Don whispered as he locked the door, before turning and offering his neighbour a great, big smile. “Good morning, Mrs Barkley, how are you today?”

  “I’m fine. It’s nice to see you up so early.” Mrs Barkley looked at him over her reading glasses, her beady eyes trained on his. “I saw Jose this morning, you know, from thirty-four? He said Mr Gatterman from number eight had a fall last week. Well, poor old Harry hasn’t had a visit from his daughter since the tenth. The tenth! Can you believe it, that poor man?”

  Don nodded and slowly began to edge away. “Yes, yes, terrible, I know. I’m just on my way to work now.”

  “I’ve got some fresh apple pie if you’d like a piece, baked
fresh last night. Let me get you some.” Mrs Barkley got up, put her reading glasses on the table, and took hold of her walker.

  “No, really, Mrs Barkley, I have to get going. Maybe later.” Don edged further away and was at the top of the stairwell now.

  “Nonsense, you need a good feed, look at the size of you! Don O’Reilly, you need a good woman in your life, someone to look after you. You can’t live on TV meals your whole life. It wouldn’t hurt to put a bit of meat on your bones.”

  “Okay, Mrs Barkley, see you later.” Don disappeared down the stairwell leaving Mrs Barkley talking to herself. He could hear her still chatting away, her voice fading as he descended the steps to his car.

  He was out of the lot in five minutes, pulling away from the Peterson Apartment Complex and onto Montezuma road. It was a reasonable neighbourhood, close to the State University, which meant lots of students living close by. Lots of students meant lots of coffee shops. He pulled into Mama Kitty’s Coffee Shack, grabbed a large takeaway latte and a sesame seed muffin, before continuing onto Collwood Boulevard. The traffic was light, but steady, and the nightmare from last night was forgotten. Collwood Boulevard soon became Collwood Lane, and he pulled up under a palm tree, right outside number seven. The shades by the front window were open and he turned the car’s engine off. He sat in silence for a moment, staring at the house. It was small and tidy, just as he remembered it. The lawn was a little long, but nothing out of hand. The driveway led past a red letterbox, and he could see the silver Ford Escort that was parked.

  So you’re still at home, then, Don thought. He saw a figure walk past the bay window at the front and he slid down in his seat. The figure showed no sign that they had seen Don, and walked out of sight. Don took a sip of coffee and then a bite of muffin. He stayed in his car for ten minutes eating and drinking, watching the house for more movement. The same figure he had seen earlier, appeared once at a smaller window that led through to the guest room. It was a brief appearance, but it was enough for him to know.