Leviathan

by Jared Sandman

  Kelly was surprised by her lack of anger. There was a stinging in the bottom of her heart she couldn’t identify — disappointment? Pity? She wasn’t irate with him because she truly believed there had been no malice on his part.

  Rafe’s background was sketchy. What she’d pieced together over the years was a patchwork of shattered dreams and bad luck. An extended family waited for him on his island home: parents, siblings and grandparents living together in a single cramped hacienda. Rafe kept part of his paycheck to spend on luxuries like food; the rest went to his loved ones. And an additional hundred dollars a week was a windfall for any cash-strapped household.

  Kelly wasn’t livid because the Jamaican had betrayed her out of desperation. It was the type of stupid, misguided mistake everyone was entitled to make on occasion. And it was clear he deeply regretted his actions.

  “I’m very sorry, Miz Andrews.”

  “I know you are,” she said. As the waning sunlight hit his ebony face, she saw a few wiry whiskers on his chin. It was at that moment she realized Rafe couldn’t grow a beard. The engineer wasn’t fully yet a man . . . not more than a boy, really. A boy who was frightened of losing his job because it would jeopardize the family who depended on him financially.

  “I’ll refund Wright’s money if you want, every last penny.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said. His insolence couldn’t go unreported. Hamilton had a right to know about any spies in his employ. “What did he have you do?”

  “I supplied information. Not all the time, just whenever something interesting came along. Abnormal stuff. After that ting ate your camera — ”

  “I’m sure that’s exactly what he was after. Do you know if anyone else at the Institute works for him?”

  “Not that I’m aware. Why would he need more than one person?” Rafe dried his eyes and composed himself.

  “Look, I’ll cut you a deal,” Kelly said. “I have to tell Hamilton about this — ”

  “But Miz Andrews — ”

  “And your outcome depends on how I spin the story. The Board of Trustees already wants my ass.” Her hand swept to the abused submersible. “And this doesn’t help my case. The only way we’ll get out of this with our reputations intact is if we bring them something so grand they’ll be forced to forgive us.” She pointed to the ocean. “That something is out there as we speak. I have to catch it. And the only way that’s possible — ”

  “Is with the Simon.”

  She patted him on the shoulder. “That’s why it’s gotta be up and running ASAP. You help me now and I’ll help you later.”

  The engineer realized he’d been given a second chance, an opportunity to redeem himself. “Yes ma’am, thankyou-thankyou-thankyou.” The dismay on his face was replaced with great relief.

  “You’re welcome to join us for cake,” she said.

  “I don’t deserve it.” Rafe saw the submersible as his salvation, wanted to get back to work and start the long journey toward regaining Miz Andrew’s trust.

  * * * * *

  Oscar Wright arrived promptly at eight that evening with Ian Thorpe in tow. The two were greeted by Captain Bart and led to the galley in the orlop. The smells wafting from the kitchen were divine. The chef — an amusing, lanky gentleman named Russell — had baked a chocolate cake slathered with a liberal dose of vanilla icing made from scratch.

  “This is for you,” Wright said and placed a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka on the table.

  Kelly said, “You shouldn’t have.”

  “We’re supposed to be treating you,” Evan added.

  The old man took a seat at the table, waited as Kelly cut the cake into moist squares and handed out the pieces.

  Evan took a bite and said, “My compliments to the cook.” He was used to boat food over the years, and any sailor knew a crew’s morale was tied directly to the chef’s culinary skills. The better the food, the higher their spirits.

  The four of them ate in uncomfortable silence. No one dared breach the topic that had brought them together.

  Finally the old man said, “Have you had a chance to develop those photos yet?”

  The marine biologist had spent time in the computer lab while Rafe and Evan were busy with the Simon. She’d processed the digital photographs, burned them onto a CD and stored them in the safety of her berth. The best shots she kept for herself; the rest she had printed for Oscar Wright.

  She handed him a manila envelope, let the two men browse through the photos. The old man rifled through them like a boy reading his first comic book. “So what the hell happened down there?” he said.

  “Your Leviathan almost killed us,” said Evan.

  “You’re calling it the Leviathan too?”

  “Until we can attach a proper name to it.”

  “Any idea what name that might be?”

  The reptile specialist had some thoughts but wasn’t willing to share them with the old man. He and Kelly had agreed to parcel out what little information they’d gathered, restricting it to nonessential facts. They’d have to share something with him, in hopes of placating the billionaire.

  “We’re looking into that,” Evan said. “There’s a lot we have to go over, and I don’t really have the best resources for that here on the ship. Once we get back to the lab, we’ll be able to properly analyze what we collected.”

  “These photos are shit,” Wright said abruptly. “You better not be holding out on us. A blind man could’ve snapped better pictures than these.” Most of them were blurry or out of focus, shots of the Leviathan hovering just beyond the line of visibility: a mass of shadows, a stray leg or piece of tail. The old man handed each one to Thorpe, who scrutinized them himself.

  “We went down to survey its natural environment. It became agitated and attacked us. You saw the damage it inflicted on the sub.”

  Wright nodded, lost in contemplation. “Well now, lookit this.”

  Kelly had slipped in one of the better photographs as a token of thanks. It showed the Leviathan up close, its jaws wide and coming at the camera.

  “It’s definitely a reptile,” Wright said. He looked at the scientists. “Is it a dragon? That’s what the Bible described.”

  “Dragonish,” Evan said. Although no one was an authority on the Leviathan itself, Evan Hale’s herpetological experience made him the closest to an expert they had. “I actually think it’s a new kind of crocodile.”

  “That’s gotta be the biggest goddamn gator in the world.”

  “At least twice as large as anything on record,” Evan conceded. “And it’s not an alligator. There’s a difference between the two.”

  “Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

  “Not really. The main distinction is the shape of the snout. A gator’s is broad and flat, whereas a crocodile’s comes more to a point.”

  “Then what the hell’s this thing?” Wright asked. He stared at the Leviathan’s prominent, bulbous proboscis.

  “Still a croc,” Evan said. “There are twenty-three documented species of crocodile — well, I guess twenty-four now. Of those, two belong to a subspecies called the gharial. Their snouts are more defined and orbicular. The Leviathan is reminiscent of a gharial.”

  Thorpe finished looking at the photos, returned them to the envelope.

  “But gators and crocs are passive predators,” Kelly said. “This is far more active.”

  “Its level of aggression concerns me, and not for obvious reasons. No one has encountered this creature before, so we can’t make presumptions about its behavior. This may be normal for it,” Evan said. “However I think it’s fair to guess it would generally act like other members of the crocodilian family.”

  “A passive predator?” the old man said. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Kelly said. “There are passive carnivores — animals that let their food come to them — and there are active, animals that stalk their prey. Turtles are passive, for example. They float in the wa
ter with open mouths, waiting for something to swim by which they’ll snap up. On the other hand, tigers take a more traditional role in hunting.”

  “Tell me you put a tracking device on it before it swam away,” Thorpe said. The look on Kelly’s face told him that wasn’t the case.

  Evan said, “Anything shot at it would likely bounce off. A crocodile’s scales are like armor plating. Unless we shot the tracker in its mouth, there’s very little we could do. And I’m not willing to get that close to its teeth. The only other way a tracker will work is if it’s implanted, slipped beneath the creature’s skin. Once it’s inside, there’s no chance of coming out. A quick bit of surgery is all it takes.”

  “Easier said than done,” Wright said.

  “I never said it’d be easy.”

  The hunter handed the photos back to Kelly. “My father was stationed in Egypt when I was a boy, and I remember being warned about those vicious crocs. They basked on the banks of the Nile, sunning themselves and lurking under the water. All you could see were their eyes peering just above the waterline.

  “At age eight I witnessed a full-grown man snatched as he bathed in the river. My parents had taught me to slap the water with my sandals before wading in. The crocs were sneaky, sometimes working in pairs. That’s what happened to the sorry bastard. He had his eyes trained on one of them in the distance, completely oblivious to the second one that had slipped silently beside him. Only when he finished washing himself did the animal attack. It was a thirteen-footer, moved with the grace of a creature much smaller. It bounded out of the water and seized him as he got dressed on shore.”

  The others in the room were captivated by Thorpe’s tale. “It happened so quickly, my brain hardly registered the assault. The croc came out and dragged him into the river. He didn’t even yell, didn’t have the chance. It grabbed him here.” The hunter gestured at his legs from thighs to pelvis. “I remember praying for the man to drown, scream until his lungs filled with muddy water. That would’ve been more merciful than being torn to shreds.”

  “That had to be traumatic for you,” Kelly said, “especially at so young an age.”

  Thorpe nodded. “What I remember most were the remains. The creature took everything but his legs, both of which were snapped off at the knees. This happened not twenty feet away from me. Those legs . . . they stood straight up like a pair of stiff boots, seemed to stay that way for the longest time before falling over.

  “I ran over to help, but he and the crocodile were already gone. There were footprints where he’d been, and a large furrow in the soil where the thing had come on land. There was blood on the banks too, bright crimson spots against the white sand. Just a few droplets, an unnatural amount for such a violent attack.”

  “Did the authorities catch it?” Evan asked.

  “My mother called the police. They dredged the river ‘til catching what they thought was the guilty party. They shot the croc dead, pulled it from the water and performed a necropsy on shore. They found the man inside, what was left of him. Bones and hair and a waterproof wristwatch that still kept time.” Thorpe lifted his arm to show off an old, beaten timepiece. “The police were able to identify the victim, discovered he hadn’t any family. They must’ve thought I was in a bad way after seeing what I had, felt so sorry they gave me his watch. That was the day I decided to become a game hunter.”

  Unbeknownst to the others, Thorpe had never imparted that personal anecdote before. Not to anyone.

  “Nile crocs are the worst,” Evan said. “There are three types known to kill humans: the Nile, the black caiman, and the Yacaré.”

  “Add the Leviathan to that list,” the old man said. “Where did that creature come from? The Bible said it’s been around since the dawn of creation. It had to be hiding somewhere.”

  “Crocodiles may not have been around since the beginning of time, but they certainly appeared in the early morning hours, geologically speaking. They’ve existed for a couple hundred million years and have remained remarkably untouched by evolution.”

  “Like God created the perfect killing machine on the first try,” the billionaire said. Neither of the scientists agreed with that judgment. “But crocs don’t live in the water. All the time, I mean — don’t they stay on land for the most part?”

  “That’s true,” Kelly said.

  “So where’s its homeland?”

  Even if the researchers knew that location, neither of them would divulge the information to him. The marine biologist said, “We’re not sure.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” the billionaire said. “We’re pulling out.”

  “Pulling out?” Evan asked.

  “I’ve got a gambler’s instinct. I know when to cash in my chips.”

  “You’re returning to shore?” Kelly said. She tried hard to keep the hope from her voice.

  Oscar Wright nodded. “Tonight. We’ll make port in the Keys, and by this time tomorrow I’ll be back in Manhattan.”

  “Well, thanks again for helping us this afternoon, Mister Wright.” Evan extended his hand, and the old man shook it. He had a firm grip too, much stronger than Evan expected from a septuagenarian.

  “Don’t mention it. Seriously. If rumor got out that I wasn’t the surly bastard people thought, I’d get eaten alive in the boardroom. I saw the damage that beast caused. I faced it and came away with my life. I bested Him.”

  “The Leviathan?”

  The billionaire smiled weakly. “After hearing Thorpe’s story, I don’t need any more convincing. I’m out of my element here. I realize that now.”

  Kelly said, “You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear you say that.” She was next to shake the old man’s hand. “We only ask you not tell anyone about our expedition. The Leviathan — ”

  “Will stay between us, I assure you.” Wright took some effort to stand. The muscles in his body ached as much as his joints creaked. “When you’re ready to reveal the Leviathan to the world, you’ll have the full support of Wright Enterprises.”

  Evan said, “That means a lot, sir.”

  Wright picked up the envelope of photographs. “I fear this will be the closest I’ll ever get to the creature.” He looked at the marine biologist with a softness in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. “Do you mind if I held onto these? For my private archives, of course.”

  Kelly was inclined to tell him no but reversed herself after a moment’s pause. The old man had been sworn to secrecy, and she held him at his word. “Consider them a keepsake.”

  Thorpe got to his feet and nodded at the others, his way of saying goodbye without having to speak or touch anyone.

  “I wish you two the best of luck,” the old man said.

  “Thank you,” Kelly replied.

  It occurred to the marine biologist how insane their plan must sound to an outsider. After nearly being massacred by the beast, they were about to re-enter the water to detain it. The audacity that required, the hubris. They needed more than luck to capture the Leviathan. They needed a miracle.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AFTER OSCAR WRIGHT and Ian Thorpe left the Aurora, Kelly watched the Naglfar cruise into the distance. She didn’t believe the old man was serious about leaving until the gigayacht at last disappeared over the horizon.

  Improvements to the Simon were remarkable, given its dire condition. Rafe worked through the night with Evan’s help. Early the next morning Kelly pulled Evan aside for a serious conversation.

  They spent two hours outlining a comprehensive plan to capture the Leviathan. The scientists relied on crocodilian behavior to better understand how the creature might react and also probe any potential vulnerability. When both of them were clear about what needed to happen (including contingencies, in case of emergency), they went their separate ways.

  Kelly and a couple interns readied the necessary materials at dawn while Evan resumed work on the mini-sub. The outside hull was in better shape now. Not great shape, but good enough to last one more trip.r />
  Later that morning the marine biologist climbed the Simon’s conning tower and called inside to Rafe. “Anybody home?”

  His voice replied, “I’m finishing up.”

  “How much longer?” It was already eleven o’clock, and she wanted to get on the water sometime soon. That timeline was tenuous and depended on Rafe’s schedule.

  The Jamaican’s head appeared below. “Gimme another hour, ninety minutes mebbe. Is that okay?”

  “I can live with that.” The high-hanging sun threw her shadow on the mechanic. “Remember what we spoke about . . . Help me help you.”

  “I’m working as fast as possible. Sometimes I wish I had another set of arms.” His bright smile faltered a bit. “You ain’t gonna tell anyone but Hamilton, right? About Mistah Wright, I mean.”

  “My lips are sealed.” It would be in poor taste to notify anyone else about the Jamaican’s extracurricular activities. Other than her and Hamilton, no one needed to know.

  “Sealed ‘bout what?” Evan asked. He stood next to the submersible, acetylene torch in hand.

  “Nuthin’ in particular,” she said. The marine biologist jumped off the sub, landed hard on her heels. “Keep up the great job you two. Rafe told me it’ll be another hour or so. Then you and I are up to bat.”

  Evan nodded. “Have you see Bart this morning?”

  “No, why?”

  “He wants to see you in the pilothouse.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll go there now.”

  When she visited the bridge, the captain wasn’t in his usual jovial mood. “What the hell’s going on?” Bart asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “My peepers may be old, but I still see a lot from my perch here. Since yesterday I’ve watched those guys repair that pissant sub nonstop. Then this morning I heard a rumor you expect to get back in the water today. Please tell me you’re smarter than that.”

  “I’m afraid not. Rafe and Evan are finishing work on it now.”

  “That’s insanity.”

  “You don’t think I know that? Better judgment dictates to stay on board or go back to shore altogether. That’s the smart choice, the safe one. But safe won’t catch the Leviathan.”