Depth Charge Jason Heaton (books to read in your 30s txt) 📖

wristwatches, rubber slippers, hair oil, wedding dresses, hijabs. As if to put a point on Sam’s lunch explanation, he heard a voice coming through a speaker. They both turned to see a Toyota pickup truck with its windscreen ringed with white flowers drive slowly up the main road followed by two lines of Buddhist monks in robes. Behind them, a small crowd of men followed them, some carrying signs written in Sinhala. A man standing in the bed of the pickup was saying something into a megaphone and people on the sides of the road stopped and watched. Although Tusker couldn’t understand what was being said, he sensed a tension in the air.

“Speak of the Devil,” Sam said to him quietly. One of the signs being carried had a photograph of a monk with a large smooth head and no eyebrows. “That’s Dhammasara, the current head of the BBH movement. He’s based in Kandy and is almost never seen, but his followers hold these rallies all over the country. It’s a sort of warning to the Muslims that they’re everywhere.”

Tusker nodded, “Charming.”

The procession turned left at the roundabout and gradually moved out of sight. Tusker and Sam walked down the lane towards Majeed Motor Repairs. The sun had started to slide down in the west. They had a long drive ahead of them to Trincomalee. In front of the shop, Ahmed was wiping his hands with a rag. He grinned benevolently and handed the keys to Sam.

“Good timing. All finished.” He thumbed towards the Land Rover. “The diff was full of twisted metal. Got a new one in there now. Well, new to you. It came out of this old one I’m rebuilding but should be good for another few years, as long as you keep fresh oil in it.” He wagged his finger at Sam. “Also, fresh fluids all around, but I didn’t have time to check your swivels. Keep an eye on those and bring it back soon.”

“So grateful, Ahmed,” Sam said, giving him a discreet peck on the cheek. The man smiled and looked at his feet. “How much can I pay you?” She pulled out a battered wallet and started thumbing rupees.

“Let’s settle up another time, Samanthi,” he said. “I needed the practice anyway and the parts were used.”

Sam pressed a wad into his greasy hand and clutched it there. He smiled and muttered a thanks.

“Oh, did you check the air conditioning in this thing?” Tusker broke in. “It hasn’t been working too well lately.”

Sam and Ahmed laughed in unison. “Just tell her to drive a little faster,” Ahmed said, “That’s your A/C.”

They climbed into the truck and Sam pulled the choke and turned the key. It rumbled to life. “Take good care, my friend,” Sam called as she made a U-turn in the road. Ahmed just raised his hand in a wave and smiled. To Tusker, it looked like a sad smile.

Trinco

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka. That evening.

The naval base in Trincomalee overlooks the crescent of water once called “the finest natural harbor in the world” by Winston Churchill. The blocks of administrative buildings and rows of barracks date back to the days of British rule in Sri Lanka, when Trinco was a strategic outpost for the Royal Navy. During World War II, the water here would have been thick with battle cruisers, destroyers, and minesweepers. It was also the last port of call for HMAS Vampire.

Today, Trincomalee harbor sees a small fleet of Sri Lankan Navy vessels, almost hidden at their moorings behind the bristling mass of fishing boats, passenger ferries and freighters from all corners of the globe. Sam navigated the Land Rover through the crowded, ancient roads around the perimeter of the harbor and finally turned up a steep drive and through an imposing gate that bore garish gold lettering in Sinhala, Tamil, and English. The latter read, “Sri Lankan Navy, Trincomalee Base.”

They emerged from the tree-lined road onto the crest of the hill. Beyond the cream-colored colonial-era buildings was an impressive view of the Indian Ocean; in the other direction, the harbor lay below. Sam parked the Land Rover at what looked like the headquarters.

“Samanthi! Mr. Tusk!” Sebastian’s shouts stirred them from their thoughts. Sebastian was jogging across the gravel drive towards the Land Rover, a huge smile on his face. Behind him was an older man in uniform, also smiling. It was Captain Fonseka, Sebastian’s old friend and commander of the base. Sam and Tusker climbed down from the truck just in time to be hugged awkwardly by Sebastian.

“I was so worried… We searched…” He could barely contain himself, trying to get the words out. Sam reassuringly took his arm, trying to calm him.

“And to think, after being lost at sea, it was your old Landy that almost killed us in the end,” she said with a laugh. “The important thing is, we’re home and dry. But I’m dying for a cuppa. Any chance, Uncle?” Her eyes twinkled at the navy man.

“Of course, Samanthi.” He grinned and spun on his heel to head back towards the office. “And you must be the archaeologist Sebastian was telling me about.” He glanced sideways at Tusker as they walked. Tusker nodded and shook his hand. “I don’t know whether you’re brave or stupid to dive the Vampire on scuba.” Though he frowned, his eyes were kind and his manner avuncular. Tusker liked him already.

Captain Fonseka’s office was not air conditioned, but a ceiling fan kept the air moving. The place seemed unchanged since British times, with heavy, dark wood furniture, yellowed photos on the wall, and dark green metal filing cabinets that were rusting at the corners from the humidity. A young woman in a smart skirted uniform entered the office with a tray of tea and Marie biscuits and set it on the desk, then quickly and silently left.

“So you say the anchor line was cut?” Sebastian scowled incredulously.

“Well, it sure looked that way,” Tusker replied. “Naturally, I assumed it was an accident and