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- Herausgeber: Eduard Meinema
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Deep waters hold deep hidden secrets. Three fishermen brave the elements to earn a living. Their nets bring up something from the deep that should have stayed below...
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Eduard Meinema
Scott
First published by www.transfiction.nl 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Eduard Meinema
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
First edition
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About the Author
Chapter 1
“Are you okay mate?” Peter Martensz cried, laughing at the younger Nick Visser. “Firm breeze, huh?”
“Breeze?” said Nick, almost puking. “I think we should send an SOS. This is not going well, man.”
High waves hit the deck of the trawler. Nick felt like the fishing vessel was going to roll over at any moment. The grey-green sea here, north of Scotland, was rugged and boisterous. And today she seemed even rougher and more boisterous than usual.
“Did you hear that Virgil?” Martensz cried to the skipper. His voice struggled to rise above the stormy winds. “I think someone here is pissing his own boots…”
Nick Visser didn’t even get a chance to be offended. He had to grab hold of the railing as soon as possible so as not to go overboard. The trawler suddenly shocked and vibrated wildly, but it wasn’t the high waves that made the ship and its crew bounce. Horrified, Martensz and Visser looked at the wheelhouse, meanwhile clinging themselves to everything they could hold on to.
The wheelhouse was empty.
The skipper gone.
“Jesus. Where’s Virgil?” Nick cried in panic. “He… he… He didn’t go overboard, did he?”
Virgil Dammers’ head slowly emerged above the instrument panel. One hand pressed against his bloodied forehead. The steering wheel spun wildly around until Virgil saw a chance to get up and managed to get the steering wheel firmly back in his hands. He waved, his face left in pain, to his two-man crew. “I’m fine. Lost my balance because of the clap.”
Although the storm continued unabated and the Dutch flag on the aft deck was torn to shreds, the trawler seemed to get into slightly calmer waters, Martensz dared to let go of the railing carefully. “What the hell was that? That clap?” he shouted. “It was like we stuck to something. The net won’t have hit a wreck or anything, will it?”
The skipper’s face not only was painful now, but also worried. “For God’s sake, I hope it’s not broken; that’s going to cost money again. And…” He decided to shut up. His crew didn’t need to know that the water was literally and figuratively almost at his neck. Not now. Not here on the open sea.
“And what?” cried Martensz.
Virgil Dammers waved away his own comments. “We’re just going to bring it in,” he concluded.
“But… That thing’s been in the water for less than ten minutes,” Nick said. He was so relieved the hard work was finally over. Was looking forward to having a cup of hot coffee in the galley and catching up with the wetness and the cold. Provided his nausea wouldn’t be a spoiler.
“Come on, you little wimp,” said Martensz sternly. “Hang in there. We need to check the net for holes. Otherwise, we’ll be sailing here for no purpose and none of us makes any money.” He kept an eye at the wheelhouse, worried. He sailed together with Virgil Dammers for more than twenty years; the two old rotters only needed half a word to understand what was going on. In recent weeks, however, the skipper had not been himself. There were things going on, he wasn’t telling. There was no point in asking though; if the time was right, he would tell, no doubt about it. But that shouldn’t take too long, Martensz decided. “Well buddy. Let’s get to it,” he told Nick.
The net was brought in with joined forces. The net wasn’t quite above water when Martensz saw the flatfish floundering. “Sole!” he shouted with a laugh at Virgil, who gave him a thumbs up in return.
Sole, Virgil thought. A coveted fish that would bring a nice price. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The last part of the net came up with difficulty. Nick looked stuffy at the crane that had to hoist the net on board. The rusted metal hazard squeaked, creaked and seemed to bend slowly; it was the only one of the two cranes on board of the beam trawler that was still working. “Peter?” he asked anxiously. “Is this okay?”
“Wait!” Peter Martensz sobbed. He walked up to the toolbox, pulled out two pick hooks, one of which he gave to Nick. “Help me lifting it,” he commanded.
The skipper didn’t need a hint. He left his wheelhouse and also grabbed a pick hook. The storm and rain made the work of the three men a challenging, almost impossible task. After more than fifteen minutes, the net was finally on board.
Exhausted, the men looked at each other asking. In the net, in the middle of the sparring fish in agony, lay an elongated, cylindrical metal object.
“Is… is that a… torpedo?” asked Nick. He knew that old explosives from the Second World War were still regularly dredged up in these waters. “Goddammit. My kind of luck,” he complained. “Getting killed by a bomb more than seventy-five years after the war.”
Peter Martensz and Virgil Dammers exchanged glances. “Nah,” Virgil said. “Torpedoes are smaller. And narrower. This looks more like a, um… a…”
“…coffin,” Peter interrupted.
Virgil nodded affirmatively. His face was now not only bloodied by the blow he had taken in the wheelhouse, but also pale with worry. Would they have hit a shipwreck after all? He had never seen anything like it in all the years he’d been fishing. What the hell had they dredged up?
