Its snout pushed through the crimson stained ocean in pursuit. It quickly came over something large resting on the bottom of the ocean. The Destroyer was stationary and didn’t seem to provide a threat. The megalodon moved on.
There was blood in the water drifting inland. Squid blood. The beast was injured. Perhaps other predators had found it and were now eating their fill. The shark increased its speed, following the trail of blood.
*
The kraken floated near the surface of the ocean. It suffered severely from the stings hurled from the strange object floating on the water. The attack had caught it totally unaware. The creatures crawling on the surface were easy pickings. Powerless against the hold of its tentacles, and easily cut in two by its beak.
But then the object made loud noises and shards of pain tore into various parts of its body. At first it tried to weather the storm and fight back, hoping to quickly end the attack and resume its feast. Then pain tore through its eye, taking some of the fight out of it.
The object continued making noise, and the pain only increased. With its vision impaired, its instincts took over, and the squid headed out to sea to heal.
The kraken knew it was weak and smelled its blood leaching into the green ocean. There was nothing to do but wait.
Vibrations in the ocean warned it something approached. It positioned its eye in the coming direction, but the injury had it at a disadvantage. Still, the unknown sea creature came.
A quick blast of ink erupted, and the squid mustered the energy to use its arms to propel away. It noticed weakness in its flight. That wasn’t good. The predator continued in fast pursuit.
With no place to take refuge, the kraken dove for the bottom of the ocean. Darkness would offer some cover, and it would use the advantage of millions of years of evolution to blend in with the surroundings. It didn’t take any energy to rest in one place, and it hoped to go unnoticed.
*
The megalodon followed the blood scent, and then felt the ocean move as the kraken shot out its ink and sped away. The hunt was on, and the shark increased its speed.
The squid was nearby, and the blood trail now led toward the bottom.
Deeper and deeper the megalodon went. Light was almost nonexistent, but its eyes functioned well enough that nothing would go unseen.
There it was, the giant squid. Injured, but whole. The shark didn’t know what happened and didn’t care. There was a great feast to be had, and no other predators had arrived yet to share in the spoils.
The megalodon circled above the kraken, just out of reach of the feeding tentacles.
The squid sensed it had been discovered, and went from being as stationary as rock, to unfolding with its head up and raised arms, swelling its body to maximum size.
The shark continued to circle, and the kraken turned its body to keep its eye on it, an ancient dance where only one would survive.
In an instant, the megalodon made the first move and dove with uncanny speed toward the kraken.
The kraken reached one feeding tentacle from the side and tried to wrap it around the shark. Then, it shot out more ink and jutted from the bottom.
The megalodon felt searing pain as the tentacles’ suction cups embedded into its skin. It quickly turned its head and tried to bite it, but snapped just inches away. The other feeding tentacle came unexpectedly from the other side around its back. While it still had the advantage of speed and mobility, the shark whipped its tail from side to side, breaking free of the kraken’s grip.
Wasting no time, the shark maneuvered behind the kraken. As a feeding tentacle sped through the water in defense, the shark opened wide and bit down on it. Blood gushed, sending billowing blackish-red clouds. It chomped down one mouthful, then another, and then the appendage severed in two.
The remaining feeding tentacle latched on to the megalodon’s tail and pulled it down. The kraken reached up with its other eight arms. Three found purchase and pulled the shark into its clutches. The beak opened wide, and a chunk off the megalodon’s side went missing.
The shark thrashed erratically about until finally breaking free. A blast of black again darkened the water. The squid might be injured, but it still had a lot of fight left in it.
It was time to make a difference. The megalodon swam away a short distance and waited for a clear shot at the kraken. When its eye faced the other direction while looking for the predator, the shark swam in and bit down on its mantle. Its jaws went into action, chowing down on as much of the rubbery flesh and as fast as it could. Arms and tentacles reached up to pull it away, but the megalodon shook them off until satisfied it had done significant damage before speeding away.
The shark watched as the kraken’s flaying arms slowly lost life. In desperation, the giant squid opted to leave the depths and head to the surface.
The kraken drifted upward, and the megalodon struck again, this time tearing into the last feeding tentacle, and ate without resistance. It had won!
Tons of fresh meat was there for its taking. More than it could eat at one time. More than it could eat in five different times.
Mouthful after mouthful filled its belly.
Something wrapped around the megalodon’s back and all the way under its belly. Before it could turn, the tentacles tightened with such force, the chunk of kraken in its mouth jettisoned out.
Another kraken had arrived, perhaps its mate. This squid had no injuries to weaken it for battle. The other eight arms took hold, and soon, the megalodon was completely at its mercy.
The megalodon was trapped, unable to move anything other than its snout and bite at empty water.
The kraken waited for oxygen-rich water to enter the megalodon’s lungs, and when it expelled from the gill slits, it tightened its grip.
The shark redoubled its efforts to escape, but it was just as useless as before. It struggled to fill its lungs, and when it exhaled, the grip tightened again.
Unable to breathe, held in a death grip by a massive cephalopod, the megalodon went limp, never to swim the savage oceans of Earth again.
Chapter 9
Artur Phelps held a bosun position on U-616. His training made him a master of all things vital to keep a sea vessel in proper working order. It was he who planned the daily work assignments and supervised their operation. With so few men on a submarine to pull duty, he worked as hard as the others when it came to executing tasks. Twenty years a member of the Kriegsmarine had practically replaced the blood pumping through his heart with the ocean’s brinish water. Right now, leading four men on a recon mission in a jungle so thick at times they couldn’t see beyond one meter in front of them, he felt like the proverbial fish out of water.
Seniority aspires many unwanted privileges, he thought. Which didn’t surprise him, as the go-to man often dealt with the unforeseen. But that involved things of the sea and ship operation. Four men followed in his footsteps, each depending on him for their safety.
“I have not seen anything this thick since I spread the thighs of a dirndl girlnamed Heidi, after retiring from a long night of drinking at a Bierpalast,” Wilhelm Lange said, parting broad foliage with the barrel of his Sturmgewehr 44. The man supported more girth than a typical crewman aboard a U-boat. Dense whiskers covered his round face, hiding his upper lip.
“I am surprised you can see anything at all through those eyebrows,” Roland Gwerder said, the next man behind him. “Perhaps you should use your bayonet to shave. On second thought, do not. You might dull the edge.”
“How about I dull the tip of my bayonet by poking you in the ass?” Lange said. He paused and scratched his chin. “On second thought, maybe not. I hear you like things poked in your ass.”
Gwerder rolled his eyes. “With you, it’s always about sex. With the men, with the women, with animals, with inanimate objects—why is everything with you about sex?”
“Eh? I’m a torpedo man. Every day I have to service one torpedo to make sure it is in proper working order. With my hands, I
must carefully wench the long, hard torpedo over to the service bench where I check the batteries and hand wipe the outside skin clean. My job reminds me so much of handling my massive schwanz,” Lange said.
“Really, Lange. Gwerder is right. Everyone thinks you are a sexual deviant. It is time you grow up. We are tired of hearing about sex in every conversation,” Ernst Ziegler said. His eyes squinted behind glasses. A sharp nose and two large front teeth that lips didn’t fully cover gave him a rodent-like appearance.
“Ernst, you too? We have been friends for many years,” Lange said, hurt in his tone. “The fact is that I am so lonely for my wife. All I can do is think of her—day and night. You know my wife, Ernst. You have been to my house, planted your feet under the dining table. You know my wife has big tits. I can’t stop thinking of her big tits. You have noticed her big tits, right?”
Ernst raised a hand. “I do not want to talk about Anna.”
“We are not talking about Anna. We are talking about her tits. She has a nice rack. You would agree?”
“Lange—” Ernst started.
“Wide across her chest. Nice, big breasts,” Lange continued, he reached out a hand and massaged empty air. “You had to notice her tits.”
“Okay, if it will shut you up. Yes, your wife has big tits,” Ernst said.
“Hey! Why in the hell were you looking at my wife’s breasts!” Lange said, his eyes narrowed.
“I—”
Before Ernst Zeigler defended himself, Fritz Witt said, “Knock it off, you two. You are distracting from the mission.” Witt was an engine room mechanic. He was below average height, and his small-in-size hands gave him advantage working in tight spots. The man wasn’t known for his sense of humor, of which he had never appeared to have.
Phelps knew he had let the banter go on too long, but his heart just wasn’t in leading the men into the vast unknown. His compass worked, and he did know how to use it. But the thought of mapping an area until nightfall and returning the next day seemed too dangerous. At least if they stayed with the rest of the U-boat crew, there would be safety in numbers. But the commander had sent two groups of five, the other led by Jakob Norz, about on their own. What if they came upon one of those flying reptiles they saw on the beach? They were well-armed, and he hoped the rifle rounds would be powerful enough to take one down if needed. Still, a pterodactyl in 1945? What other surprises might lie in wait?
“Hey, look. Over there,” Gwerder said.
All gazes turned to where his rifle barrel pointed.
A few meters away in an unusually clear space, a small creature curiously observed them as it sheltered behind a large leaf.
“Ah, it’s nothing but a lizard,” Lange said.
“But its neck,” Ernst said. “It is too long.”
“Okay, then it is a long-neck lizard that lives on this island. If it scares you, I’ll be happy to shoot it in the head,” Lange said.
“No one is shooting anything,” Phelps said. “We are only two hours into our mission, and we cannot afford to give away our position. The commander believes Americans from the Destroyer may have made it to land, too.”
“I bet it is those things we keep hearing scurrying about,” Witt said.
Something rustled behind the compsognathus, scaring it to leave its cover, and dash off to safety.
All five men watched the escape, and then turned mindful expressions toward one another.
“Did you see that?” Ernst said.
“I believe we all saw it,” Gwerder said.
“A lizard that walks on two legs,” Lange said. “It lost its arms and learned how to walk without them. I saw a dog once who did not have front legs. She got around well when she had to.”
“That lizard ran like it did not need front legs. I doubt it ever had them. And the tail, did you see the tail?” Phelps said. “It was a third the size of its body—like it balanced the front end. This is not some ordinary lizard.”
“I think you are right,” Witt said. “This is a strange land we are on. The pterodactyl at the beach should have prepared us for more unusual creatures. If you think about it, that animal most resembled a dinosaur than it did a lizard.”
“A dinosaur?” Lange said. “It is too small to be a dinosaur. Dinosaurs are big.” He spread out his two arms, holding the rifle in one hand. “Some are the size of tanks. Some are as large as a house.”
“And some are as small as a chicken, like the one who was watching us,” Witt said.
Well, this was certainly a situation Phelps considered but had hoped to avoid. Dinosaurs. His mind called up images of large theropods terrorizing the land, mighty ornithopods grazing—some armored like any modern day mechanized vehicles, and giant sauropods lumbering through the landscape.
He looked at the four others with him and at their puny weapons. Facing animals from the prehistoric past was an encounter he didn’t want.
“Perhaps we should head back to camp. Inform the commander of our find,” Ernst said.
“We tell the commander a two-foot lizard scared us back to camp?” Gwerder said.
“It is not a lizard. It is a dinosaur,” Ernst said. “We must warn them to expect the worst.”
“We are not abandoning the mission with such little reason,” Phelps said, although if he wasn’t in charge and held accountable, he might have made the same suggestion.
“Dinosaurs lay eggs, right?” Lange said. “Roosters don’t have penises, but ducks do. Have you ever seen a duck schwanz?” He had directed the question to Gwerder.
“No, I cannot say I have ever had the pleasure,” Gwerder sarcastically said.
“It is like a corkscrew. I would hate to be on the receiving end of that,” Lange said as he twirled his index finger upward. “What about a tyrannosaurus’ penis? How big do you think they get?”
“I bet it is at least large enough to fill your mouth and shut you up,” Gwerder said.
Before Lange had a chance to rebuff Gwerder, Phelps said, “This foolishness stops now. Everyone check your weapons and be ready for the unexpected. If you see something, do not shoot unless threatened. If there are dinosaurs, I am not even sure our rifles are enough to stop them.”
“The Americans. What should we do if we come across the Americans?” Witt asked.
“If we see them before they see us, we do nothing. We will map their position and return immediately to camp. The commander believes the Americans may outnumber us three to one,” Phelps said.
“Scheiss-Amis,” Lange said with disgust. “If the odds were five to one, we are strong enough to win the fight.”
“The odds have always been against us. But even our superior intellect and technology can only accomplish so much. We are in a strange land, and our resources are limited. We have to be careful and not over extend ourselves…not like the Führer,” Witt said.
“Do not speak ill of the Führer,” Lange threatened.
Witt held an icy gaze on Lange. “The Führer is dead because he did not realize Germany’s limits. All that he gained is now lost. We have escaped with little more than our lives. I will always be a proud German, but I do not intend on extending the dreams of the Third Reich.”
Lange looked like he wanted to say something. The man was obviously conflicted. Hitler’s defeat, Germany’s loss, all children of the Fatherland carried the bitter taste in their mouths. It was difficult to admit defeat while air still filled the lungs.
“We cannot change what happened in the past, and the future depends on what we do now,” Phelps said. This was no time to mourn what might have been. “Let’s move.”
*
Phelps cautiously led the four crewmen through tall grasses and around mighty trees with odd-shaped leaves. Plants with tall, woody trunks dotted the landscape. Their crowns consisted of what looked like long, stiff leaves. On closer examination, the long leaves were constructed of smaller leaflets to the main stem. One thing for sure, Phelps learned not to brush against the leaves. A close encounter
with his left arm drew blood and still itched.
They had come across more of the small dinosaurs, though the two-legged lizards kept their distance. Strange reptile-looking birds would take to the air when they approached, sometimes startling he and his men. Pterosaurs, much smaller than the ones on the beach, nested in trees high above. The flying reptiles made a noise that sounded like a cross between a hoarse crow and a throaty monkey. None of the indigenous life presented a threat thus far.
The men had stayed relatively quiet, each sorting out the hand fate had dealt.
Phelps often thought of fate, the mysterious chance of the when and where a person was born. He had been lucky to be born of Aryan descent and considered it a privilege. But what if he had been born as French or even English? Certainly, he would be proud of his roots, but it would be in ignorance. All other races were inferior, some more than others. What if he had been born a Jew? Or in Africa? He couldn’t imagine looking in the mirror and seeing a black face staring back at him.
Despite everything he believed and held dearly to, the fact remained that Germany had all but lost the war at this point. The rest of the world would lord over them—perhaps even more so than after the Great War. What if the concentration camps were kept open and the German people were herded like animals waiting for the slaughter? The notion seemed inhuman. Yet, Phelps realized that the inferior would think the same thing of their people.
Something died inside him at that moment, but a seed from deep within sprouted. Perhaps we are not all that different from one another after all. Phelps suddenly felt small, insignificant. Almost that his whole life had been a total waste and it was pointless for him to continue on.
He looked back at the faces of his men. Surely they harbored similar feelings on some level. But men were forced to play the pride game. Don’t show emotion. Don’t share feelings. Keep that stone-like façade and carry on as if nothing else mattered than the mission.
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