The Deep Enders: A Novel (For Young Adults)

By Dave Reardon

Teen and Young Adult Novel Based on Actual World War II Events

#1 New Release in Teen & Young Adult Boys & Men Fiction, Teen & Young Adult Military Historical Fiction, Action & Adventure, and Australia

“An action-packed adventure filled with wonderful characters, life, and color. The Deep Enders is a wild ride for readers!” ––Leah James, film producer

In the throes of the Pacific War, a troubled young man, Murph Turner, seeks solace in the Western Australia pearling town of Broome after his home was destroyed, but instead he finds true friendship, romance, adventure, and wartime treachery.

A teen and young adult novel filled with adventure, danger, and more! His home destroyed in The Pacific War, a troubled young man, Murph Turner, stumbles into the exotic pearling town of Broome hoping for safe harbor. Instead, he discovers a lawless place brimming with espionage, treachery, and murder. An outsider in a bewildering land of red dust and paranoia, Murph is quickly taken under wing by Banjo––a cheeky Aboriginal scamp with a passion for pyrotechnics––and Micki, a beautiful teenager on the run from authorities. But even as the Japanese armada closes in on the northern coastline, the trio is suddenly thrust into a murderous adventure––all set against the backdrop of a true wartime tragedy. Follow Murph as he navigates a war-torn world, and comes of age through, friendship, romance, and resilience. 

Enter the turmoil of war-torn Australia during WWII. The Deep Enders is based on actual events linked to Pearl Harbor, so shocking that the matter was immediately covered up by Allied governments and has remained largely unknown for 75 years.

If you liked Dark Fury by Evan Graver, The Coordinate by Marc Jacobs, or Seeking Safety by T.L Payne, your next read should be The Deep Enders by Dave Reardon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mango
• Release date: Nov 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781642506457

Dave Reardon

Dave Reardon is a YA author, journalist and YouTuber. After covering crime, politics and crocodile attacks for 10 years, Dave leapt into the digital world where he now works with his wife Ann Reardon from HowToCookThat (one of the world's favourite cooking shows with 2.5 million subscribers and over 20 million viewers every month). Dave has ghost-written numerous biographies and leadership books over the years but always had the desire to write novels that could bring to life exciting, entertaining and important stories. His first novel is The Deep Enders.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Dave Reardon.

Published by Bonhomie Press, a division of Mango Publishing Group, Inc.

Cover Art: Casandra Ng

Layout & Design: Carmen Fortunato

Originally published by Reardon Media 2016

Map © James & Ann Reardon

Editors Kate King & Ann Reardon

Mango is an active supporter of authors’ rights to free speech and artistic expression in their books. The purpose of copyright is to encourage authors to produce exceptional works that enrich our culture and our open society.

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The Deep Enders: A Novel

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: 2021942640

ISBN: (print) 978-1-64250-643-3, (ebook) 978-1-64250-645-7

BISAC category code YAF024100, YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Historical /

Military & Wars

Printed in the United States of America

A Novel

Dave Reardon

Coral Gables

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Historical Content

About the Author

Glossary of Australian Slang

Fan Art

Chapter

1

Micki stepped onto the murky street, skirting the opium dens and tin-roof gambling shanties that pockmarked the desperate side of town. A sliver of moonlight broke through the clouds, backlighting a squadron of angry mosquitoes in the alley ahead. Micki swatted them away, walking fast with her head low in the midnight air. Her chest ached, and eyes burned, but she couldn’t stop now, not here. An argument drifted on the breeze, and in the distance, a miserable dog howled. Keep moving, don’t draw attention.

And then she saw them.

Two soldiers slouched under a fly-spotted porch light, smoking as they swapped tall tales. Micki balked, but they hadn’t seen her yet. She couldn’t turn back now anyway. Hugging the shadows, she slipped into a side street and immediately picked up the pace. Micki checked over her shoulder then weaved into another narrow alley—a heartbeat later, crashing into a candle-lit card table with three gamblers hunched over it.

Sorry, sorry. Micki stepped bac k, her hands raised in apology as the men scrambled to steady the table.

One of them, young with scraggly blond hair, glared up at her. But then his eyes widened greedily as he took in the pretty teenager with dark hair and olive skin.

The gambler flashed a broken smile as Micki edged away from the trio.

Hey, lovely girl, he beckoned her closer, waving his beer bottle. Come ‘ave a drink.

No thanks, she said firmly, easing past, almost clear.

The man lunged for her and latched onto the hem of her cotton shirt. Micki pulled away, but he was too strong, reeling her in until she could smell the stink on his breath. She tried to wrench his hand off and, in a moment of morbid fascination, her eyes fell on a gnarled stump where his little finger should have been.

Micki wanted to cry out, but the soldiers were so close, just around the corner. If they heard anything…

Let go! she rasped.

Let go, he mimicked sadistically, and the others roared with laughter.

Micki balled her fist and struck with all her might on his shoulder. It wasn’t hard as far as punches go, just enough to throw him off balance. But as he swayed backward, his rickety stool creaked and toppled over. His feet shot straight into the air and upended the table, spraying cards and beer bottles across the night sky. The other two men leaped up indignantly, cursing as their beer rained down. And for one stunned moment, Micki was transfixed by the chaos she had caused.

You awright, Toothy? one of the strangers said, stretching out a hand to his nine-fingered friend sprawled in the dirt.

The other man, an older fellow with a beer gut and a wispy mustache, eyed the girl with growing suspicion.

And slowly, a sly smile crept across his sunburnt mug.

"She’s one of them!" He thrust a finger at her face.

Busted! Micki didn’t protest. She turned and sprinted down the alley as the three men clambered over the table and gave chase, yelping like hunting dogs after a rabbit.

Stupid, stupid! It was madness for her to have come back. To be here in this place, alone at night, could only ever have ended badly—but she was scared and starving, and all she wanted to do was go home. Even if home was empty. Even if the soldiers had already taken everyone. It was the only place she knew.

She ran harder. Deeper into the labyrinth. Micki had been a good athlete at school, but the hunters were grown men, and, despite their intoxicated state, they were gaining on her.

Toothy, in particular, was quick…and motivated. He’d recovered from his humiliating tumble in a flash and joined the chase, racing past the other two men like they were jogging on a beach.

He closed in on his prey, his footsteps pounding in Micki’s ears as she blurred past a Chinese laundromat with buckets and mops hanging on an awning to dry.

Faster, he’s right behind, her mind screamed.

Ahead the street widened to an expanse of flat ground, and beyond that, the waters of Dampier Creek, smooth and glinting in the moonlight. Micki desperately wanted to keep running, but with the blond one right on her tail, she realized the open space was her worst enemy. He’d be run down in a matter of seconds.

Instead, Micki did the last thing he expected. Digging a heel in the dirt, she turned and sprinted back toward Toothy. Then, at the last moment, she double-stepped around his grasping fingers and headed for the laundromat. It was close now, but so too were the shadowy figures of the other two coming her way—she was trapped. If only she could reach it…almost there…she leaped for a bamboo mop hanging from the awning. The beam overhead groaned, then the head of the mop broke away, and she swung down, landing neatly in the dirt with the wooden handle in her hands.

Toothy snarled, almost upon her, as Micki wheeled around. At that moment, she was grateful for her father’s playful lessons as a child—mock kendo in the backyard with homemade face masks and bamboo swords. She planted her feet, gripped the stick with both hands, and swung viciously. The bamboo flashed in the night and struck Toothy, his wild hair flying as he staggered into a corrugated fence. A clang reverberated down the alley.

The hunter bled but didn’t fall.

And even in the dim light, she saw the glint in his eyes shift to something darker. Micki tucked the mop handle under her arm and bolted, turning down a side street, then another. And she might have escaped…except her ankle clipped a cargo box and she tumbled to the ground in anguish, the bamboo skittering across the dirt as she fell. The girl scrambled to her feet, but before she could reach the stick, a strong hand suddenly clapped tight over her mouth. Eyes wide with terror, she tried to scream, to fight him off, but it was no use. Feet scrabbling in the dirt, Micki clawed and bit and thrashed as she was hauled mercilessly into the darkest corner of the alleyway. Then, nothing. One hand firm over her mouth while his other arm squeezed around her torso, locking Micki’s wrists to her side.

A moment later, the enraged Toothy thundered past, blood streaming from the gash on his head. The others followed and disappeared around the corner as well.

Micki waited then bucked again, trying to swivel to face her assailant, but those arms held tight. Enough! She lifted her heel and slammed it onto her captor’s toes. With a cry, the vicelike grip faltered, and she scurried free, scooping up the bamboo stick in one hand. She clattered against the fence, then spun to face him head-on, teeth clenched and weapon raised.

Oi, a pained voice hissed from the shadows. Take it easy, dumb-bum.

And Micki’s breath was gone.

It can’t be!

She stared into the darkness, desperate to peel away the veil of night and see his face. To know for sure.

You can’t ever go home, Micki, he stepped into the moonlight. We’re on our own.

Chapter

2

Murph Turner stirred on the hot vinyl seat of the bus, eyelids twitching as great funnels of smoke and fire clawed at his dreams. A swarm of silver and red filled the sky above his island paradise, then descended on the harbor—his whole life burning to cinders before his eyes. Mom was always in this nightmare, her mouth open as if to scream, but there’s no sound—only flames and blood and a deep longing for somet hing lost.

Murph snapped awake, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead, blinking at the sunlight through the window. He was a world away from home now. A refugee! The word kept running through his mind. It stung like a slap.

He was one of the thousands of civilians evacuated from Hawaii after the December 7, 1941, attack on Pearl Harbor. Most fled to the mainland, but some, like Murph, were shipped off to stay with family in Allied countries. Forced to leave his home, his friends, and his mom, Murph had been herded onto a British ship, the Aquitania, with 250 other refugees bound for Australia.

The teenager clenched his fists as he stared out the grimy bus window. He didn’t want refuge here, or anywhere else…he wanted his old life back.

Murph rubbed his eyes then gulped on a flask of tepid water, hoping to arrest the headache that had gnawed at him all day. Outside, the desert was mellowing as the bus rumbled closer to the coast. The shrubs lining the road were several shades greener and the climate noticeably cooler, almost passable for human habitation. But the terrain—all that impossibly red sand as far as the eye could see—was still like something from another planet.

On the long boat trip, he’d heard breathless stories of the Australian bush, from its fierce colors and wild Aboriginals to the host of venomous creatures. At sixteen, Murph was old enough to take most fantastic tales with a grain of salt. And yet, as he marveled at the pindan sands and iridescent blue sky, he wondered what other mysteries this land held.

Almost there, folks. Next stop Broome, the bus driver called, and a grateful murmur rippled through the cabin.

Passengers shook off the heat-induced stupor to gather their belongings, stuffing flasks and books into their bags. Murph gazed outside, hoping for something—anything—to remind him of Honolulu. There wasn’t much. Even the coconut palms looked different, tougher, squat, like they’d had to dig in and hold on tight just to survive this arid climate. They passed a sprawl of shacks near a mangrove swamp on the outskirts of town. Once home to hundreds of Aborigines, it was empty now.

I’m afraid that Broome’s seen better days, the driver hollered over his shoulder. In the heyday of pearling, the population hit 8,000, but it’s down to 2,000 now. Everyone’s afraid of the Japs invading.

Murph shuddered. The same fear was everywhere. It had paralyzed his hometown, and now, it stretched around the globe. He watched a peninsula of red earth taking shape—surrounded on three sides by the Indian Ocean, with a tin-roof town on the eastern shore.

Broome Airport on your right, folks. The driver thumbed at the window. Almost as busy as Sydney or London these days, thanks to all the refugees from the islands up north.

Murph pressed his face against the glass and watched the runway rush on past. He counted a dozen military and commercial aircraft while farther along, a team of Aboriginal men, armed with wheelbarrows and shovels, worked to upgrade the airstrip. Dominating the scene was a four-engine B-24 Liberator—mottled green with its distinctive glass-nose gun turret and crisp white star of the American Air Force on its fuselage. The name Arabian Knight was emblazoned on the side, above the stars and stripes. The massive bomber looked as out of place in this ramshackle dust town as Murph felt.

The bus creaked to a stop at the northern end of Broome and was immediately enveloped in a milky cloud of pink grit. A minute later, Murph stepped onto the main street with a duffel bag of clothes over one shoulder and a busted typewriter under his arm. He stretched his aching back and scanned the faces of people at the bus stop, but his dad wasn’t there.

As the crowd thinned, Murph’s heart grew heavy—he’d left Hawaii six weeks ago and traveled halfway around the world, only to find himself all alone in this bizarre place.

He could still see his mother on the day he left, weeping as she drove him—past the ruined harbor, where sixteen of the mightiest vessels in the US fleet were crippled or sunk, and 2,000 men perished. Another 1,000 were injured, many of them still convalescing in his mom’s hospital. She was a matron and, with World War II suddenly on their doorstep, it was impossible for her to leave.

Murph would be safe in Australia, she had assured him.

"This is my home, Mom, he’d protested. I won’t go."

We were all meant to be joining Dad once he was set up in Australia anyway, she replied. Until…this.

Their car passed the wreckage of a Japanese Zero, its twisted fuselage black and cockpit shattered.

"But what about you?"

"I don’t have a choice, she said, her voice breaking. But it’s too dangerous for you to stay. You’re better off with Dad."

"I don’t want to leave," Murph choked up.

I don’t want you to go either, she whispered, mussing his hair like she always did whenever he was sad or worried. Only this time, it didn’t work.

Dad’s excited to show you the place where he grew up. She tried to sound bright, but her face stayed gray with grief. The Aquitania’s horn blasted.

Give Dad a hug from me. She forced a smile. I’ll be there as soon as I can. With one last kiss on the cheek, he boarded the ship, and she was gone.

Murph snapped back to Broome as something hairy and horrid licked his legs. He stepped back in surprise as a skin-and-bones dog nuzzled him, her pink tongue slobbering his knees as if they were lollipops. He shooed the mutt away, but she bounced in circles, ready to play.

The perfect welcome, Murph huffed sarcastically. He unscrewed the lid of his drink and lifted it to his mouth. The dog froze with dewy eyes on the flask. She tilted her head and yapped. Murph took a sip, but the persistent pooch whimpered, stretching out a pathetic paw.

Oh, give me a break, he groaned, and then finding an old jar lid on the road, he filled it with water. The dog lapped furiously, tail blurring, until the lid was empty. Then, with a lick of his knee, she wandered off.

Murph lifted the flask again, shook the final dregs onto his tongue, and sighed. He tossed his duffel bag to the side of the road and flopped on top with the typewriter between his feet.

This sucks, he grunted and scuffed the dirt.

Inside an abandoned grocery store across the street, a teenage girl pulled back the corner of a curtain for a better look. Micki was in a knee-length blue dress, her long black hair in a ponytail and pretty face almost hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. Brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear, she studied the American newcomer she’d already heard so much about.

Micki figured Murph was around the same age and, with that tussled brown hair and green eyes, he was certainly cute enough to generate new boy in class giggles from her school friends—if she’d still had any.

This town gets more interesting every day, she smiled and turned from the window.

In the weeks since her terrifying run-in with the three gamblers, Micki had walked a tightrope between hiding to survive…and taking risks to survive.

She adjusted the straps on her backpack and tossed it over one shoulder. It was disappointing how light the bag felt, with only a few supplies scrounged from the grocery store shelves. A tin of corned beef, a packet of Weet-Bix cereal, and some powdered milk. All of it was well past its prime, and the Weet-Bix had been attacked by moths, not that it mattered if you were hungry enough.

She took a final look around the dismal store and then picked up the bamboo mop handle she’d nabbed on that awful night. The wood felt smooth in her hands. She spun it once and headed for the side window. Micki knew she should wait until the sun had set before venturing outside. But this was a risk-taking type of day.

Chapter

3

The shadow of death lingered in the deep off the coast of Broome. Far beneath the slap of the ocean surface, it sliced through curtains of green—all bone-splitting jaws and yellowing teeth. Death as cold as it was quick…and yet it waited, sizing up its prey of canvas a nd copper.

The old pearl diver in its sights also waited. His was a white-knuckled, teeth-gritted type of waiting after he’d caught a glimpse of his nightmare in the shifting haze. Tedashi’s boots fixed to the seabed, eyes darting with primeval fear behind the faceplate. He clutched a diving knife with an eight-inch blade, and still, he wished it were longer. Heart pounding against his ribcage, a ragged burst of air pulsed from the exhaust valve on the side of Tedashi’s copper helmet. The cloud of bubbles coiled furiously to the surface high above, and for the longest time, nothing changed. And then the nightmare beyond the emerald murk slowly took shape, morphing terrifyingly into something of bone and sinew.

Tiger shark! A mature twelve-footer, gray with mottled stripes and ink-black eyes, cruised toward the terrified diver. Tedashi was less than half its size, and his mind raced as time slowed. The knife was a child’s toy against this monster. The predator veered around him and, moments later, reemerged on his left, even closer now.

Tedashi had lost many friends over the years in these warm waters and knew all too well this shark could rip him, arm from leg, for hunger—or curiosity. Trying to escape was pointless. He’d be plucked off his safety line before the crew could raise him. In the deep end of the Indian Ocean, the tiger was king. Again, it circled, so close he could see his reflection in its charcoal eye.

This is it! Tedashi hissed.

He braced, the sound of blood pounding in his ears, sweat stinging his eyes. But this time, the shark didn’t circle back; instead, with a flick of its powerful tail, it melted into the distance. Tedashi waited, clenching his jaw until his teeth ached. It was still out there, but death didn’t come this time. Senses on high alert, the fear-filled moments stretched to minutes until finally, almost reluctantly, Tedashi realized he was off the menu. But he worried how long his luck would hold out.

Even after years working the ocean floor, it took all his willpower not to yank the rope that tethered him to the wooden pearling boat ten fathoms above. Before long, he could be on board the Mermaid and out of danger, but the reprieve would be temporary anyway—he had a job to do. Toughing it out also meant he wouldn’t raise the ire of his nine-fingered crewmate who prowled the Mermaid ready to pounce on any weakness or mistake.

Not today, Toothy, Tedashi murmured in broken English.

With the knife firmly in his grip, he pushed against the current toward a rocky outcrop near the spot he first touched down thirty minutes before, clouds of sand flowering with every heavy step. A school of orange schnapper, each large enough to feed a hungry family, skirted the outcrop then scattered at the sight of the diver. The flurry of movement startled Tedashi, and he scanned again for any sign of the tiger shark. Nothing.

He knelt to clear seaweed and spotted the lip of a pearl shell poking through the sand. Tedashi tossed it into the hessian bag slung over his shoulder.

It’s not enough, he thought as his eyes roamed the seabed. Not if I want to be free.

Tedashi longed for the old days when thousands of divers worldwide sought their fortune in these waters. The pearling industry was almost dead now—ever since Pearl Harbor and Japan’s invasion of the nations to the north of Australia. It was a dark time for Tedashi and for Broome—a town that had, until recently, been home to hundreds of Japanese divers and crew. Overnight, the fear of invasion swept through like a tsunami as Tedashi’s neighbors, friends, and family were declared enemies of the state, suspected of spying and packed off to internment camps thousands of miles away.

Tedashi knew the only reason he was spared was due to his value to the local economy as an experienced diver. Back in town, World War II was on everyone’s lips, filling newspapers and radio reports, but here on the gurgling seabed, nobody whispered or pointed at Tedashi as he passed. It was the only safe place he had left.

C’mon, keep going, the old diver coaxed his rattled nerves as he weaved through a tangle of seaweed that danced on the tide. Don’t be scared. Make it so they can’t do without you.

A flash of gray snatched the breath from his lungs!

Tedashi snapped to the right, trying to see the shadow, but his lead-soled boots slipped on the rock ledge. Hands outstretched, grasping, he tumbled to the ocean floor ten feet below. The safety line pulled tight behind him as Tedashi rolled onto his back with his knife drawn. Ten seconds later, the silhouette of a small, harmless reef shark cruised nonchalantly overhead.

That’s it! Tedashi growled through gritted teeth, scolding himself for panicking over a harmless reefy. I’ve had enough.

He scrambled back onto his knees and was about to tug the safety line…when he stopped. Right in front of him, at the base of the rock ledge, was a cluster of large shells. Any thought of sharks evaporated as he let go of the rope, a smile on his permanently sunburnt face.

Maybe today will be okay after all, Tedashi thought and scooped up the first shell. It was different from the others he had