Adams Sound of Karma

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5439-5545-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 402 Seiten

THE SOUND OF KARMA is vibration of string, consequence of action, and music of revolution.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Adams, Dave

Leseproben

4

CATCH AND RELEASE

A wide net had been cast from the relative safety of the shore. It dropped down on him as he swam free. It was woven by his own mind and thrown by his own hands. Struggle was inevitable but futile. Mobius Loop could blame no one for his poor choices on this drift through the great unknown. So he would own them. He would wear them like a pair of fins. Mobius would kick forward and glide through the bubbles of disappointment in himself.

On his first morning of servitude he was instantly and rudely aware that he had made an extreme error in judgment. An error he would be stuck with for the next four years. The awakening was delivered shockingly by two metal trash cans thrown violently down a long isle of bunk beds at oh-three-hundred.

Navy boot camp would be a typhoon of stress with constant incoming waves of attempted brainwashing. The question, “What have I done?” was sure to do numerous laps around the perimeter of his skull.

The bark of a drill instructor imbedded itself on his gray matter as it tried to make Mobius Loop a man, a man like him. “Loop, drop and give me twenty! Loop, hurry the hell up!” Loop, you wanna be a weak, useless lump of shit your whole life?”

Get the picture? What have I done?

Mobius Loop was weak and too thin, but he was not a useless lump of shit by anyone’s standards, least of all his own. He had an inner strength that drove him onward against any current. He considered this a gentle rip tide. He would not drown.

????

Following two months of basic, which added muscle, and six more at trade school, which added knowledge, Mobius found himself aboard a 1940s era floating piece of crap. Most of its time passed glued to a pier far up the waterways connected to San Francisco Bay. Boredom and routine oozed down its bulkheads and puddled up on its decks. Many of Seaman Loop’s hours were spent with a paint brush or a mop in his hands.

Eventually, however, haze gray got underway.

Now Mobius sat focused on an old radar scope awash in the blue lights of a tiny room. Now he was the radar rider and the reality of his current situation was not nearly as cool as Heavy Metal. His workspace was called the Combat Information Center or CIC. It sat directly behind the bridge on the fourth level above the main deck on this massive monstrosity.

Seaman Loop’s title was Operations Specialist. His responsibilities were prodigious in comparison to his physical self. As part of a team, he made sure the ship didn’t run aground or into another surface contact. He did this by interpreting blips on a circular screen for twelve to eighteen hours every day while at sea. The free spirit inside Mobius wanted to run screaming from the room and not look back, but he was in the middle of the Indian Ocean with no land in sight. What have I done?

“Hey Loop, your shift is almost up. Go ahead and run the trash out, then hit your rack.” said Petty Officer Hill. “Your relief is on his way up.”

“Gladly.”

Mobius always welcomed the opportunity to escape the confining walls of CIC. Despite the fact he loathed tossing garbage overboard into a pristine sea, these experiences came with relish. On his many trips to the aft end of the ship, Mobius witnessed some amazing things. When steaming alongside other vessels, dolphins could be seen riding their bow wake. On one occasion he peered over the side to find a fourteen-foot shark following course. His favorite vision to behold was an expansive school of flying fish. Their silver skin shimmered in the sun as the entire gill-clad group rose a couple of feet above the surface of the water as one surreal entity.

Tonight there was no moon, and the dome of stars rocked as rough seas had their way with the solitary ship. A treacherous mood took over as soon as Mobius stepped through the hatch and dogged down its lever. Three flights of mist-dampened steps awaited his downward motion. One hand for the trash bag. One hand for the rail. At oh-two-hundred the decks were empty except for a single lookout posted on the fantail, and he dozed. The sea was black except for the phosphorescent microorganisms that were churned up in the ship’s wake by its powerful screws. It was a dramatic and beautiful scene that was about to pull an inexperienced seaman into the froth of it.

Without warning, Mobi’s perch suddenly lurched. Young sea legs underestimated a perverse pitch and a rapid roll into a deepening swell. Seaman Loop was instantaneously ejected over the wet rail into the dark roiling abyss. Mobius screamed into the unsympathetic night as he spun wildly out of control. He fought to right himself as gravity pulled his insignificant form down and away from the ship. A few terrifying seconds later he entered liquid feet first like a torpedo. The distance of his fall must have been forty feet if not more. Mobius somehow had the presence of mind to inhale a deep breath just before he plunged under the violent surface. He held sanity tightly as the ocean sucked him down. Several tense moments passed as it seemed his downward motion would never stop. Then finally, as his lungs ached and his head felt on the verge of collapse, all was still and quiet. He stroked with his remaining strength in the direction of his bubbles, hoping it was upward. When he broke through to air he choked and coughed. He treaded water in shock and tried to calm his nerves. Incredibly he was alive and uninjured. Where, however, was his ship?

Mobius tried to reign in his fear as he spun around, only to find the ship more than three hundred yards away and quickly increasing the gap. She appeared to still be steaming ahead at full speed. Fear gripped him from the inside as he realized the aft lookout never saw him fall and never heard his screams. His breath nearly left him completely with the further knowledge that he wouldn’t be missed for six hours, when he would be due for his next shift on the scope.

Mobius Loop bobbed helplessly on the tumultuous dark sea. Only a single word escaped his panic-tightened throat.

“FUCK!!!”

Then he drew in silent breaths as the swells rolled him up and down like a lonely piece of driftwood. Mobius floated on his back and began to take stock of his predicament.

The water temperature at this latitude in the Indian Ocean was warm. Warm enough to survive suspended for many days if necessary. He was, at the moment, in a major shipping lane. He had received a moderate amount of training on this very scenario. He was an excellent swimmer in peak shape, thanks to the hellish basic training episode at the beginning of his enlistment. A somewhat frail and thin Mobius had been forced to build strength on his road to become Seaman Loop.

So much for the limited items in his favor.

The things that could go fatally wrong were numerous. The currently rough sea was a problem that would expend much of Mobi’s energy simply trying to keep his head above water. He had to lighten his load immediately. He felt around in his pockets and removed his keys and wallet and let them go. He removed his boots and socks and sent them to the depths. Next he remembered an important use for the unfashionable dungarees all sailors wore aboard ship. Seaman Loop took off his bell-bottom pants and tied the legs into tight knots at the bottom. When the next wave tossed him upward he held his dungarees out of the water. Holding them at the waist, he then brought them quickly down filling each leg with air. Under water, he cinched his belt closed, creating a rather effective floatation device. This would add to his buoyancy for a while, but he would have to repeat the process again and again.

“FUCK!”

Although he went into the water in a shipping lane, it was unlikely that he would remain there for long. Currents were strong, and ultimately he would drift at their mercy. Mobius had no control over this force of nature, so he hoped for a passing ship to spot him soon. This was false hope, as there were still several hours of darkness left and he did not possess any means of signaling said ship save for waving his arms spasmodically while yelling.

“FUCK!”

When the sun finally did crest the horizon, providing he could survive the night, it would be a curse as well as a blessing. Mobius would then be more visible to alert lookouts with binoculars, but the Indian Ocean heat of day would roast his skin and accelerate his dehydration.

“FUCK!”

If none of these horrible negatives plucked Mobius from this life before his time, there were always the ocean predators to worry about. That fourteen-foot shark he saw following his ship on a previous occasion swam to his frontal lobe. Mobi knew that a variety of sharks often gathered in the wake of large vessels to feast on the bounty of galley trash thrown overboard. This was not a comforting thought, but was another situation about which he could do nothing.

“FUCK!”

Just breathe, he told himself, just breathe.

????

Tickles of dawn eventually began to appear on the distant horizon. Mobius was exhausted but he was still afloat and alive. As the sky developed more color and light he slowly spun himself around to scan for ocean traffic. Still there was none. At some point during the night, the choppy sea had smoothed itself. To Mobi’s relief, this condition continued, allowing him to relax somewhat.

While the sun took full possession of the day, Mobius tried to rest. He had fashioned a crude turban from his outer shirt to protect his head and face from solar devastation. He periodically bailed air...