Brad Harmer-Barnes - North Sea Hunters

“You were partially conscious when the men here brought you aboard. You then slept for… nearly forty eight hours now. It sounds like you had a hell of a day.”

“I guess so. It’s coming back slowly.”

“The boat is Norwegian. My countrymen here picked me up purely by chance, floating in the water. They were just turning back for home when we heard the explosion. I managed to convince them to turn back, and take a look in case there were any survivors. I knew it had to be the U-616.”

“You were heading for home? Didn’t you think to help us out? You knew we were still being attacked by that thing!”

Dahlen sighed. “I did not tell the men here about the shark. I just told them I had fallen overboard and my ship had not found me. I did not want to get them involved. Truth be told, August, I had had enough. I saw my chance to get away from the shark, and get home. The fact the shark was distracted by the U-616 was an opportunity that I exploited.”

“You left us!”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Fine actions from the man who told us that I was wrong for – what was it? For leaving those sailors as a distraction! As bait! As chum !”

“I understand your decision now.”

“You accused us of being so ‘divorced from your humanity’ and then you treat us exactly the same! The crew of the U-616 were men, not some terrain to be taken advantage of!”

“Please, August. Please. I apologised for my words some time ago. I understand now why you did what you did. I have learned that I am no hero.”

Krauser slumped back onto the bed, massaging his eyes with the balls of his hands. “None of us are heroes, Arild.”

Dahlen offered Krauser a cigarette, which he accepted gratefully. Eventually the captain asked; “Were there any other survivors?”

Dahlen shook his head, sadly. “None. We found some pieces; but no, you were the only one alive.”

“And the shark?”

“It was one hell of an explosion.”

Krauser nodded. “I guess they finally found a torpedo that wasn’t a dud.”

Dahlen smiled, ruefully. “We’re on our way back to Norway.”

“Where I’m to remain a prisoner of war, I suppose?”

“No, actually. The fishermen and I will arrange for you to ‘fall’ into German hands. We both know that you have a rather pressing engagement you need to make it home for. It is the least I can do for you – and, of course, Mrs Krauser.”

Krauser smiled. “Thank you. What will you do?”

Dahlen shrugged. “I will hang around the docks. Beer. Women. Another ship will come in, and I will sign on. There is always a need for crew, and there will be all the time that your Kriegsmarine are sinking ships.”

The men fell silent for several minutes, each thinking over the excitement, terror and – yes – even the good fortune of the past few days. Eventually, it was Dahlen that broke the silence. “Do you think it is dead?”

“Yes.”

“You are so sure?”

Krauser stubbed his cigarette out and exhaled a lungful of smoke. “If it were still alive, it would have hunted me. It would still be hunting me now. It would have attacked this ship. No, my friend, it is dead. It lies at the bottom of the ocean with the other dark, dead things. With the other ghosts.”

Dahlen shivered and lit another cigarette. “What if it is following this ship?”

Krauser sat up sharply, propping himself on his elbows. “Why? What have you seen?”

“I have seen nothing; I have heard nothing. It is just… I do not know.”

“Arild… when this war is over, I want you to come find me in Berlin. I’d like us to remain friends. I want you to meet my wife – and my son or daughter, when they are born.”

“I would like that very much, August. And, if there is not a Berlin, you can find me in Oslo.”

They smiled, and then were silent. Krauser was just drifting off to sleep again, when Dahlen’s deadpan voice interrupted him. “What do you think it was?”

“It was hungry. Is that not all that was important?”

Dahlen chuckled. “Not a sea monster? Not a dinosaur? Not the devil himself?”

Krauser yawned, and lay down. “It was a shark. A big one, mind, but still just a shark. Anything else would… raise too many questions.”

“Just a shark?”

“Just a shark.”

The friends fell asleep, as the ship carried them towards Norway, and whatever awaited them next.

Cheap lamps flickered at either end of a dim drinking establishment. A few patrons slumped against the bar, all of them wearing flannels and ball caps. A lone television flickered above the far end of the bar, reflected in the array of whiskey bottles and glasses. A patron named Paul Woody looked up at the TV and grimaced.

“You see that?” Paul asked the man sitting next to him.

“See what?” the man next to him said.

“Eh, another dumb shark movie,” Paul said.

On the TV, a series of boats floated around an oil rig as divers submerged despite the danger of a freakish shark.

“Your point?” the other man asked.

Paul gestured lazily at the TV. “Why don’t they just steer the damn boats away from the shark?” Paul asked.

The other man shrugged. “I suppose. The motor might have puttered out on ‘em, though.”

“Yeah, it’s been done a million times. Motors don’t just go like that, and there are backup systems. It’s not an either-or situation,” Paul said. “Why do all these dumbasses stick around when these monster sharks are out and about? Just motor the damn boat away,” Paul said. “I don’t care if yer’ doing research, or have to fix a damn oil rig, or whatever the reason may be. Just motor away.”

The other man laughed. “I suppose.”

Paul gulped his shot of tequila. “I mean, problem solved, right? Leave the area and you’ll never see the fucking shark again.”

The other man nodded. “Nothin’s really keeping them there. They can just motor away.”

“Exactly,” Paul said. “Just fucking leave, eh? I mean yeah, a giant shark would make you curious, but then you’d get the hell out of there. It just doesn’t make any sense. Something would have to keep you with the shark, almost force you to be there. The ocean is just too damn big.”

The other man took a swig of his beer. “Well, for the first time, Paul, you make sense,” he said. “Congratulations.”

Paul raised his hand as if he was going to backslap the other man, and laughed. Then Paul looked back up at the TV and waved his hand. “Just motor away,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothing keeping you there.”

“Great,” the stranded fisherman said. He clung to the last evidence of his boat, a jagged piece of hull keeping him from the floor of the Pacific. Thirty-foot swells surrounded him, nuzzling him in their watery bosom. The Pacific was cold, too cold, but luckily, he had worn his emergency gear, a waterproof thermal shell similar to a snowmobile suit.

Lightning had struck the mast of his ship The Morgan , frying the alternator and all onboard electronics. That was when the fire started, igniting the fuel tanks. He’d been sent flying into the mess of rain and swells, lucky to keep consciousness.

Or maybe not.

As lightning spidered the horizon, the brief light illuminated a shape in the water, one he’d definitely seen before while fishing for halibut near the Falcon Islands. The Falcons were a tiny island chain fifty miles off Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, and well known for an overpopulation of sea lions and their ultimate predator, the great white shark. And wasn’t it his luck to blow up his boat in shark-infested waters.