Leviathan

by Jared Sandman

  Kelly’s eyes slowly swept across the sky as she probed for any sign of the aircraft. Several minutes passed before she glimpsed the helicopter flying low above the water. Between the lifejacket’s reflective tape and the small flashlight pinned on her shoulder, she hoped to signal the chopper. She twisted the cap on the strobe until it activated and blinked a blinding beam every five seconds.

  The helicopter approached, its blades growing louder as it neared. In the vest’s left breastpocket was a whistle for emergencies. She placed it between her lips but did not blow. Her limbs shivered continuously from hypothermia. If her body temperature dipped much further, she could suffer severe, irreversible health complications. At least she was still shaking, a positive sign. If her body stopped trembling, she’d be in major trouble because that meant her internal organs were being affected. And soon after that, delirium would kick in. Either way, she needed to get out of the water. Now.

  The chopper’s bright searchlight scanned a swath of the ocean, as though looking for something. For someone. For her. Kelly gestured her arms wildly, bobbing high in the water, doing anything to be noticed.

  The craft hovered thirty feet above the growing swells. She discerned the conspicuous white and orange pattern and the words UNITED STATES COAST GUARD printed on the side. Fingers plugged in her ears, she blew hard on the whistle. A shrill trill blasted out, vibrating through her teeth to resonate in her head.

  However loud the whistle was, the chopper was louder.

  The high pitch was lost in the roar of the rotorblades. The craft passed almost directly overhead. Kelly clearly spotted the pilot inside, desperately motioned at her strobe as if the action would somehow strengthen the beam.

  It didn’t, and she remained unseen. The helicopter flew into the distance, taking the marine biologist’s newfound hope with it. She cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed a litany of profanities into the darkness, to the point her vocal cords were raw and hurt every time she swallowed.

  The whir of the blades faded until eventually she couldn’t even hear their rhythmic beats on the wind. Kelly half-expected the chopper to reverse direction. Perhaps the pilot had seen her after all and radioed for a nearby cutter to pick her up. That’s what she prayed, the only scenario that didn’t end with her corpse being pulled from the water.

  Kelly switched off the strobe. For all the good it did her, she couldn’t bring herself to waste the batteries. She’d use it again if the opportunity arose.

  The scientist was completely drained. Emotionally, psychologically, physically, there was nothing left. She wondered whether there was anything worth saving. Those destructive thoughts dominated her mind no matter how hard she pushed them away. After a time she turned to thinking about her father as a diversion. She recalled him reiterating a story similar to her current dilemma.

  It had transpired when he was a young divemaster. Jacques Cousteau had invented the aqualung two decades before, a steel contraption that was burdensome and uncomfortable to wear. The Frenchman had named it a SCUBA tank, an acronym for Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus. Recreational diving hadn’t started as a niche industry, and divers were restricted to marine professionals who used expensive, heavy equipment for underwater missions. Doctor Paul Andrews was one of those experts.

  The elder Andrews and a colleague had been assigned to retrieve coral samples for study. When the pair resurfaced at a dive site off Cayman Brac, they found their boat had drifted away. The rusty anchor had separated and allowed the twenty-five-foot schooner to float freely. The strong current had carried the boat to the leeward side of the island, stranding the two of them. Without a marine radio, there was no way to contact help so the men relied on one another for moral support.

  Doctor Andrews had been in the Coast Guard and heeded the motto of semper paratus in all aspects of his life. He was always prepared for the worst and knew the importance of leaving contact information with someone on land in case of emergency. When the pair failed to return to the marina that afternoon, the harbormaster alerted local authorities who organized a search party. Around sunset Doctor Andrews and his friend were discovered, arms locked together and singing sea chanties. They were dehydrated and sunburned but otherwise in good spirits.

  Kelly had heard her father’s countless work stories over the years. Those accounts in part had spurred her into marine biology. That particular tale went untold until one night in college when her father and a group of grad students gathered to trade sea yarns. Driving home that evening, she pressed him about why he hadn’t shared that incident with her before.

  “Because I didn’t want you to hate the ocean,” he told her. That was something he’d instilled in her, despite their differences at times. And he had been right: the seas were too beautiful to be ruined by a single bad experience. She thought a lot about her parents as the hours dragged on.

  Ultimately her attention turned back to death. Mortality in general, hers in particular. She concluded that drowning was relatively painless. She’d read coroner reports about individuals who had suffocated after ingesting a single teaspoon of water. If liquid entered the lungs, excess pleural fluid was secreted to flush it out, which itself sometimes led to fatal asphyxiation.

  There were five stages to drowning. After surprise and involuntary breath holds, the body went unconscious and started hypoxic convulsions, soon followed by death. The irony was dying of hypothermia in warm, tropical waters.

  Her mind clouded. It was harder to keep a clear line of thinking. Every muscle ached in her body, and it was difficult to keep her eyes open. Her eyelids were so heavy, all she wanted to do was fall asleep. A quick nap wouldn’t hurt, in fact might be beneficial. It would allow her to stay alert during daylight hours when rescue seemed more likely.

  The marine biologist closed her eyes, the waves lulling her to a state of rest.

  In her dreams there was yelling and panic. A voice said, “Give me your hand.”

  She lifted her arms — they were like barbells attached to her shoulders — and a moment later she had the sense of ascending into the heavens, being reclaimed by God.

  “I got her,” another voice said. “Step back, give us some space.”

  Kelly awakened to commotion, her vision blurry. She felt warmth and dryness as she was stripped of the lifejacket and covered in blankets. She shook the grogginess from her mind. No, this wasn’t a hallucination.

  “You’re lucky Rafe’s got eagle eyes,” Evan told her. “I didn’t believe him ‘til he pointed you out.” The ranger wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. “Let’s get you inside,” he said. “Somebody brew a pot of coffee.” When he scooped her up in his arms, she touched his cheek to make sure he was real.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf. You’ll have to be stripped out of these wet clothes.”

  “Buy a girl dinner first,” she said with a weak smile. “Where are we?”

  “Oscar Wright’s yacht.”

  Hearing the billionaire’s name caused a visceral reaction like a stomach punch. She shook her head and repeated, “No-no-no.”

  Evan carried her off deck and said, “It’s okay, he’s not here.”

  “We-we must get to the Aurora,” she said. Her tone was adamant. “We have to save the Leviathan.”

  * * * * *

  The mercury lights on the research vessel were located on either side of the wheelhouse. They were clear and rendered nighttime bright as day on the weather deck.

  They activated automatically as the old man crouched from the stirring SuperCroc. The Leviathan was instantly bathed in illumination. Its eyes gleamed like silver dollars focused on the billionaire. The chain wrapped around its snout was the only thing tethering the creature to the ship.

  Oscar Wright shouted for Thorpe. “Get your ass down here.”

  The sound emanating from the creature reminded him of a riding lawnmower.

  The hunter appeared in the doorway with a tranquilizer gun. “Over here,” he told the old man an
d took aim.

  Wright limped toward the corridor as Thorpe fired darts at the beast. The barbs easily bounced off the creature’s armor plates. The hunter targeted the fleshy area of its flank, but even that seemed protected.

  The old man made it halfway across deck before the animal swung its tail at Wright and sent him running for cover back where he started.

  The hunter had seen this type of behavior from the most confident, successful predators. The SuperCroc was playing with the old man, like a cat toying with its prey. That trait wasn’t consistent with other gators he’d trapped, which meant this creature had a personality all its own.

  “Come get me,” Wright yelled to the hunter.

  Thorpe shook his head. “I’m not moving from this spot.”

  “You will if you ever wanna see another penny from me.”

  Going against his better judgment, Thorpe went on deck. The old man was his charge, and it was his duty to keep the billionaire alive. He reloaded the rifle, fired another round of shots as he dashed across from portside. Thorpe dived for safety and came up beside Wright.

  The Leviathan lashed at its chains, trying to pull free of the shackles.

  The old man rolled up one leg of his shorts to show Thorpe a bruise. His upper thigh was mottled from where the animal had hit him. The hunter inspected the injury. “You’ll be fine, tough it out. If we can get inside the forecastle, we’ll be safe.”

  “How are we on ammo?”

  “Out.” The hunter wasn’t convinced all the ammunition in a fully stocked armory could stop the rampaging creature. His gaze settled on an acetylene blowtorch leaning against the sidewall. Evan Hale had forgotten to replace the tool after mending the Simon’s hull, and now the hunter saw it as an opportunity.

  It took several tries before the gas ignited in a thin stream of blue fire from his lighter. This was the closest available weapon, and Thorpe was willing to use it.

  “Think that’s gonna work?” Wright asked.

  “We’ll see.”

  The two men inched from behind the barrels, brandishing the torch like a flaming saber. Step by step they crossed the deck, keeping watch on the creature.

  The Aurora suddenly pitched to starboard, a ten-degree list that threw both of them off balance. The gas canister dropped, its flame extinguished.

  Wright and Thorpe scrambled toward the superstructure, but the SuperCroc was quicker and its tail slammed shut the door. The creature was crafty, somehow understood the men were trapped so long as it guarded the only entrance to the forecastle. A tail that size could effortlessly send either man over the railing or kill him outright.

  This time they took refuge behind the Simon. “What the hell was that?” Wright asked. “Did we hit a reef?”

  “Not this far out.”

  Wright peered over the gunwale, expecting to see a gash alongside the hull. Instead there was nothing . . . a conspicuous lack of anything, which concerned him. What could’ve caused a vessel of the Aurora’s magnitude to list so forcefully?

  Then he spied the answer. Swimming off the prow, a huge mass beneath the waves nearly indistinguishable against the dark backdrop. Seconds later the ship rocked again from another violent pounding.

  The Leviathan became more aggravated, utilized its claws to tear at the chain. The creature didn’t have a neck, its skull fused directly to the torso for added strength.

  They heard the sound of straining metal as the overhead T-bar buckled under immense pressure. It finally snapped, releasing one end from the beast’s snout. Now freed of its cumbersome restraints, the Leviathan shook its head and whipped the chain with enough power to clear most of the deck. It knocked over a couple fifty-five-gallon drums and battered the superstructure. At last the manacle fell from its mouth and the creature opened its jaws to release a furious hiss at its captors.

  Wright and Thorpe stayed out of sight, waiting for the moment it moved so they could scamper inside. The sound of the SuperCroc was familiar to Ian Thorpe, one he’d heard many times before. The sea monster was distressed and wanted left alone.

  From port came a second hissing that joined the first. Wright didn’t want to imagine what sort of creature waited in the water. The two noises were different in tone yet shared one common attribute: they both sounded angry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  KELLY DRESSED QUICKLY and waited for the others in the Naglfar’s dining room. She wore a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt cribbed from Wright’s wardrobe closet. She’d spent twenty minutes in a lukewarm shower until feeling returned to her fingers and toes. After toweling off — she couldn’t describe how good it was to be dry again — she called Evan and told him to assemble a select few for a meeting in the galley.

  She sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee. It was strong and black, the way she liked it. The caffeine hit her system hard, energizing her body with every swallow. Its strength recharged her fatigued muscles, and she appreciated the newfound vigor. It would serve her well for the next time she saw Oscar Wright.

  Evan entered the room with Rafe and Edgar. The three men greeted her separately, each expressing how glad he was that she’d been recovered safely.

  “First off, where’s Bart?” Kelly asked. “I want to know how he’s doing. Or did the Coast Guard take him already?” It was at that moment she connected the two events: the chopper that had flown overhead may not have been searching for her after all, but was responding to airlift the wounded Aurora captain.

  No one answered her question.

  “Tell me he’s okay,” Kelly said. She couldn’t stand any more bad news, not right now.

  “Bart died a few hours ago,” Evan said quietly.

  Kelly slumped in the chair, tears welling in her eyes. That grief was cut short, replaced by anger. Oscar Wright had murdered her friend in cold blood. She was frightened by how quickly her sorrow had transformed to fury. Kelly caught a glimpse into the shriveled heart of the billionaire, and what she found there frightened her.

  “Would you like to see the body?” Rafe asked. “He’s in the meat locker. The Coast Guard didn’t take him.”

  “Why not?”

  Evan looked sheepish. “We kinda told them it was a prank.”

  “We needed to get back to help you,” Rafe added, “so we said the story was made up.”

  “They weren’t happy,” Edgar noted.

  Kelly rubbed her face and said, “One felony at a time.” She told Rafe, “I guess that leaves the Aurora in your care.” The mechanic was unsure he heard her correctly. “You know that vessel better than anyone else, bilge to bridge. She’s yours now, Captain.”

  “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  “The Institute will need a replacement, and you’re my recommendation. There will be a lot of licensing involved and many more responsibilities, but the position’s yours if you want it.”

  “I do.” Although he was ecstatic for the opportunity, he wished it had come by better means.

  “What will you tell the Board of Trustees about what happened?” Evan asked.

  “I have no idea what to tell them.” She looked to Edgar. “Any advice, counselor?”

  “Two options: plead ignorance or reveal the truth, that Mister Wright killed him. I’m not sure whether anyone will believe you though. We can come up with a better case when we get to port. How far away is that?” he asked Evan.

  “There’s been a change of plans. We’re returning to the Aurora.”

  “That’s highly unwise,” the attorney objected. “What has occurred here will already seem suspicious to the police. And Wright . . . Jesus, he’ll eat us alive in court. No doubt he has a army of lawyers on retainer. If we tell our side of the story, he’ll probably sue for libel and take us to civil court while he’s tried in a criminal trial. My suggestion is to leave now and go home.”

  “Duly noted and overruled,” Kelly said.

  “No offense, but you’re hardly in any condition to make decisions for the rest of us. What w
ere you doing in the water anyway?”

  “Wright threw me overboard when I pulled a gun on him. I confronted him about the SuperCroc, tried to stop him from slaughtering it. That’s why it’s so important we get to the Aurora. I just hope we’re not too late.”

  “You almost shot him?” Edgar’s face flushed. “Now he can claim he acted in self-defense. Kelly, this is bad.”

  “I didn’t say it was good. Do we know where the Aurora is?”

  “We have a fair idea,” Evan said. “The co-captains were hesitant to help and needed a bit of convincing.”

  “Radar detected the vessel ten miles north of here,” Rafe said.

  She nodded and took another drink of java. Even the bitterness of the stale coffee beans reminded her she was alive. “How long was I in the drink?”

  Evan looked at his watch. “We pulled you out about four in the morning. When did you go overboard?”

  “Just before sunset,” she said.

  Evan did the math in his head. “Probably around nine hours.”

  “I thought I’d die out there,” she admitted. “I don’t know how to thank you enough. All of you.”

  “It’s good to have you back,” Rafe said. “We came looking for the Aurora. By then it was gone. But we scanned the darkness, and I happened to spot your strobe in the distance. Good ting too, or we woulda missed you entirely.”

  Kelly was puzzled. She thought she’d shut off that blinking light. Perhaps she was mistaken, or maybe she turned it on during one of her less-than-lucid moments. Whatever reason, she was glad Rafe had seen her.

  Evan sensed her discomfort, as if she were holding something back. “It’s okay to cry,” he said.

  “No, I got that outta my system. There’s something else.” She took another sip. “I’m not convinced our Leviathan is alone. I came in contact with another one.”