Meg

by Steve Alten

  “Yo, dude.” David removed his soaked T-shirt, accepting a clean towel from Jackie. “Dad, how’s mom?”

  “She had a rough night. We’re flying out to Philly on Wednesday; Thursday morning we’re scheduled to meet with an oncology team at the University of Pennsylvania’s Abramson Center.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. Dani’s going. Besides, we have something else in mind for you.” Jonas took out his iPhone and scrolled through his email. “The diver that survived the attack of Bela and Lizzy in British Columbia back in October recently did an interview. He claimed he was swarmed upon by six Meg pups; three pure albinos and three sharks with white heads and dark backs.”

  “Last Tuesday, I received this video from Nick Van Sicklen, the director of the Adopt-an-Orca program in British Columbia. Mac and I had met him after the sisters decimated one of the Salish Sea’s residential orca pods.”

  Mac nodded. “The guy was Ahab-angry. He demanded the Coast Guard hunt down and kill Bela and Lizzy.”

  Jonas handed the iPhone to David, who pressed PLAY.

  The video had been filmed in the Salish Sea, a pre-dawn pink sky backlighting the snow-capped Olympic Mountains. The photographer was standing by the starboard rail of a boat that was keeping pace with a pod of orca, the taller black dorsal fins of the males out in front.

  “Jonas Taylor, it’s your old pal Nick Van Sicklen. Hey buddy, take a look at what our returning orca are using as a volleyball.”

  The image zoomed as a white object went airborne in a froth of blood; the carcass of one of Lizzy’s albino pups flipping head-over-tail, only the Megalodon’s tail was missing, the caudal fin having been bitten off below the pelvic fin.

  “Ha! Did you see that, Jonas? My whales have returned to vanquish your monsters’ offspring!”

  David watched, his hand shaking as a thirty-foot bull caught the dead pup in its mouth and took it underwater.

  “Nah nah nah nah … hey hey hey, goodbye―”

  David turned it off, handing the phone back to his father. “Van Sicklen … good name. Guy’s a sick fuck.”

  “Agreed. The pup in the video was obviously Lizzy’s. We know it was one of Bela’s offspring that drowned in Paul Agricola’s net. If the diver was correct, at most, there’s two pups left from each litter. With the resident orca returning to the Salish Sea, the transient pods won’t be far behind. Time is of the essence; if you’re going to do this, you have to leave now.”

  David felt the blood rush from his face. “Dad are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Jonas nodded. “Your mother, Mac, and I held a board meeting yesterday without you. Your mom doesn’t want us to declare bankruptcy … at least not yet. She asked us to give you three months to rescue as many of the sisters’ pups as you can and bring them back to the institute.

  “You’ll take the McFarland; the hopper is large enough to transport four Meg pups. Cyel Reed is installing tow nets beneath the prow of Manta-7 that will allow you to capture the sharks … assuming any more managed to survive and you can locate them before any more orca can get to them.”

  “Dad … thank you.”

  “Thank your mother … and Mac. He and Trish will be going with you.”

  Mac winked. “The wife’s always bitching that I never take her anywhere.”

  “You’ll need a marine biologist on board to care for the pups,” Jonas said, turning to Jackie. “My wife said you were planning on returning to Brown to complete your senior year. If you can stick around until then―”

  “I wish I could. The dance studio where I used to work offered me my old job back. I have to start teaching next week in order to have enough money put away by the end of August to cover fall tuition.”

  “Your tuition’s already been paid,” Jonas said. “Terry contacted the university’s bursar’s office. That’s a gift from us; there are no strings attached. You’ll still be paid for your work aboard the McFarland.”

  Jackie’s lower lip trembled, her eyes tearing up. “Honestly, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say yes,” David answered.

  “Yes. Thank you … only―”

  “She needs clothes, Dad. She’s been wearing Dani’s stuff all week.”

  “Use the company credit card; get her what she needs.”

  Monty sat up. “What about me, Doc? I could use a job.”

  “You could use a shower,” David said, flicking his sweaty shirt at his friend.

  “I already have you down as first mate,” Mac replied. “You’ll take shifts in the wheelhouse along with me and Captain Mallouh.”

  Jonas nodded, adding, “So that the three of you know, we’re running this expedition with a skeleton crew―people we trust. If word gets out that the institute is after the sisters’ surviving pups, every fisherman in the Salish Sea with a boat bigger than a dingy will be after them.”

  “Or a dingy bigger than a boat,” Monty said, rising off the couch. “Speaking of which―”

  Shuffling into the hall bathroom, he shut the door and released a loud, steady stream of urine.

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge, Marieke

  12.5 Nautical Miles Due West of Monterey Bay

  Paul Agricola stood on a starboard perch situated next to the three-story superstructure which held the pilothouse. The steel behemoth, known around British Columbia as the “Jolly Green Giant” because of its bright Kelly-green paint job, was three-hundred-and-twenty feet long from her bulbous bow to her stern and displaced over 5,000 tons. Classified as a Trailing Suction Hopper-Dredger, the Marieke was designed to keep deep-water channels clear of sand brought in by the tide. When in use, its two drag arms would be lowered over the side and directed to the channel floor in order to suction up slurry. The mixture of sand and water would then be stowed in the ship’s hopper, a two-hundred-foot-long, fifty-foot-deep bin which ran the length of the deck behind the pilothouse like an above-ground swimming pool. Upon reaching the designated dump site, the hopper’s giant horizontal steel doors would open outward, releasing the slurry to the sea.

  A month earlier, Paul Agricola had converted the Marieke’s hopper into a “Megalodon trap.” Using an underwater drone he had nicknamed Sea Bat, the marine biologist managed to lure Lizzy up from the depths. When the forty-six-foot shark passed beneath the empty hopper, he had opened the keel doors, causing the sea to rush in―the albino killer inhaled with it.

  Agricola felt confident he could recapture the juvenile Liopleurodon the same way; what he wasn’t so sure of was whether he could find it.

  * * *

  Paul Agricola hadn’t been looking to trap ancient sea creatures when he had first crossed paths with a Megalodon thirty-five years earlier. The marine biologist, and only son of Canadian venture capitalist Peter Agricola, had been on assignment in the Philippine Sea aboard his father’s 275-foot research vessel, the Tallman, to gather data on NW Rota-1, a deep submarine volcano that towered twelve stories off the bottom of the Mariana Trench seafloor.

  To explore the deepest location on the planet had required special equipment. Fastened to the Tallman’s keel like a twelve-foot remora was a gondola-shaped device which housed a Multi Beam Echo Sounder (MBES), its dual frequency deep-water sonar pings designed for mapping the abyss.

  Paul’s team had quickly discovered the presence of a hydrothermal plume hovering like a ceiling of soot a mile off the bottom. Perpetually fed by tens of thousands of deep-sea vents spewing 700-degree Fahrenheit mineralized water, this dense swirling layer served as a boundary of insulation which separated the freezing cold deep water above from a tropical warm-water layer below, seeding an entire chemosynthetic food chain.

  Unfortunately for Paul and his crew, the plume had also interfered with their drone’s sonar and clogged its sensor’s intake valves.

  Paul’s solution had been to deploy the Sea Bat. Tethered to the MBES, the winged, remotely-operated drone could pass through the plume, its onboard sonar gathering data whi
ch it relayed to the Tallman.

  For three months the Sea Bat had gathered data about the thriving chemosynthetic ecosystem feeding off the submarine volcano. And then one day the drone’s electronics had attracted a visitor.

  It had been a biologic and it was big, estimated to be over fifty feet long. It had also been aggressive, chasing the Sea Bat above the hydro-thermal plume before giving up the chase.

  What species could it be?

  The extreme depth eliminated any possibility of the animal being a sperm whale while the creature’s weight, approximated at twenty-five tons, had ruled out a giant squid. The consensus among the three oceanographers on board was that it was most likely a very large whale shark.

  Paul Agricola had vehemently disagreed. The aggressive nature of the species had clearly defined it as a predator. Having given it careful thought, the marine biologist had been convinced the creature had to be Carcharodon megalodon, a sixty-foot prehistoric cousin to the modern-day great white shark, whose extinction two million years ago had remained an unresolved mystery in the paleo-world. Excited about the impact of his discovery, the scientist had intended to prove his theory by using the Sea Bat’s electronic signals to lure the beast to the surface.

  For three days the crew of the Tallman had tried, but the predator, while interested, had refused to abandon its abyssal warm-water habitat.

  And then another object had appeared on sonar―this one a submersible.

  Paul would later learn that the Navy vessel was the USS Sea Cliff, piloted by Jonas Taylor, and that the Sea Bat had led the Megalodon right to it.

  Only Jonas Taylor had survived the dive, telling a tale that earned him a short stay in a mental ward and a dishonorable discharge.

  Seven years later, the former submersible pilot would prove to the world he was right. As for the man who had actually made the discovery, Paul Agricola had been forced to take a vow of silence by his father, who feared Agricola Industries would be sued by the Navy and the surviving families of the two dead scientists if they found out that the Sea Bat had actually led the Megalodon directly into the path of the Sea Cliff.

  While Jonas Taylor had turned misfortune into millions of dollars and lived the life of a celebrity, the Canadian scientist had stewed in obscurity, eventually hanging up his lab coat to relocate to San Juan Island in British Columbia to live off his father’s hush money.

  Six months ago, everything had changed. Angel’s two hellish spawns, Bela and Lizzy, had escaped from the Tanaka Institute. Following the whale migrations north along the Pacific Northwest, they had entered the Salish Sea where both females would birth their young. As fate would have it, one of their offspring would end up being netted by Paul Agricola. The pup had died, but its presence in the Salish Sea had turned the locals against Jonas.

  Paul had stepped in, negotiating a deal with his rival; if he was able to recapture the sisters, Jonas would sell him the Tanaka Institute at an agreed-upon price. Two months later the former scientist had discovered the location of the Megalodon nursery, and the pups’ aggressive parents with it. Luring Lizzy up from the depths with the Sea Bat, he had trapped the albino Meg inside the Marieke’s hopper. As predicted, Bela had shadowed the vessel down the Pacific coastline, following them through the canal leading inside the Tanaka Lagoon.

  And then the adult Liopleurodon had shown up and a bloodbath had ensued. In the aftermath, it had been decided that Dubai-Land would get the Lio offspring and Paul would take over the Tanaka Institute―gambling that he and David Taylor could capture at least a few of the sisters’ orphaned pups.

  But as the days of negotiations turned into weeks, Paul’s board of directors had soured on the deal. At forty-six feet and twenty tons, Bela and Lizzy were star attractions. An eight-to-ten-foot Megalodon pup, on the other hand, was years of growth from becoming a major draw―assuming it survived in captivity. When Paul had learned that the orca pods had returned to the Salish Sea, he knew the Meg pups’ chances of survival were slim at best. Realizing he could be stuck making payments for an empty, antiquated aquarium he decided to pull out of the deal.

  The Tonga sank less than twenty-four hours later.

  As Paul had watched the live news report from his hotel room in San Francisco, he had received an unexpected phone call from Fiesal bin Rashidi, requesting they meet immediately. “Before you leave the hotel, I need you to go to the front desk and see the manager. He will give you a key to my room … Suite 1007. Pack my belongings in a suitcase and pick me up as soon as you can.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I am in the north parking lot of the Tanaka Institute with the rest of the survivors from the Tonga. Tell no one we spoke … I promise you will be very interested in what I have to say.”

  * * *

  An hour later the Dubai engineer had climbed inside Paul’s rental car, soaked from head to toe and wrapped in a blanket.

  “Geez … what the hell happened to you?”

  “My cousin and former partner, the crown prince, forced me to sell my shares in Dubai-Land for pennies on the dollar; then he left me on board the tanker to die. I promise you, it was a mistake he will live to regret.”

  “And how does this affect me?”

  “Prince Walid had no intentions of selling the Tanaka Institute to you. He and Governor Skinner have been in secret negotiations to rezone twenty-six square miles of prime real estate in Monterey and Carmel in order to build Dubai-Land West. Similar negotiations are taking place with the Chinese to build a theme park in Chengdu.”

  Paul nodded. “It’s a smart move … not just from a business stand-point but in regard to sustaining these species. There’s no telling how long these creatures can survive in captivity. Multiple locations minimize the risk of losing a major attraction to a modern virus or some other waterborne disease.”

  Bin Rashidi snapped, “It is my survival I am worried about! There would be no Dubai-Land without me. I did not dedicate years of my life to allow my cousin to squeeze me out of a trillion-dollar venture so that he can take all of the credit.”

  “No disrespect, but why should I care?”

  “I thought you wanted to own the Tanaka facility?”

  “Sure … if it had an attraction. Your damn monster killed my two budding stars.”

  “Forget the sisters and their pups. I spoke with Dubai-Land’s head of marine biology last week. He confirms our Megalodon, Zahra has asexually fertilized her own eggs and is pregnant. If she births three offspring like her siblings, we’ll be able to bring at least one of the sharks to Monterey.”

  “We? As in me and you?”

  “Correct.”

  “And how are we going to convince your cousin to sell us a Meg pup? Even if he agreed, where would we get the money to pay for it? My Board of Directors has cut me off, and you don’t exactly come off as a guy who has the kind of money the crown prince is looking for from a potential partner.”

  “We don’t need money, Mr. Agricola. What we need is Dubai-Land’s most irreplaceable asset … the Liopleurodon pup.”

  “You’re a day late and $50 million short. The Taylors already sold Junior to your cousin. Even if we managed to recapture it, all we’d be entitled to is a nice reward.”

  “Not necessarily. The papers were signed yesterday so that the Lio could be moved to the Tonga in order to acclimate to its new tank before today’s ceremonies. But the $50 million was never wired; the banks were closed for Leilat al-Meiraj, a national Islamic holiday. Let me assure you―with the Lio gone, my cousin will pay Taylor nothing, despite any legal documents that were signed.”

  Paul’s face broke into a wide smile. “Holy pliosaur turds―Jonas just got screwed out of a $50 million payday.”

  “And if we were to recapture the Lio?”

  “There’s an old adage, Fiesal―possession is nine-tenths of the law. If your cousin had actually paid Jonas for the Lio, then I suppose the prince could file a claim against us if we captured it, in which case we’d probably g
o to arbitration to settle on a fair reward for our services. But if what you say is true, he has no rights to the Lio, and I can’t see Jonas being able to claim ownership of a wild animal he no longer possesses.”

  “You hunted down and captured Lizzy; could you do the same for Junior?”

  “I don’t know … maybe. It would take a sizeable investment. I’d need to hire a crew, stock the hopper-dredge with supplies … fuel … food … bait. Plus another dozen things I can’t think of right now.”

  “How much money are we talking about, Mr. Agricola?”

  “Including my time? I couldn’t do it for less than a hundred thousand dollars a month, paid thirty days in advance … plus ten percent of whatever future action you work out with your cuz after we capture the Lio.”

  Fiesal reached his hand out from the blanket to shake on the deal. “Have your attorney prepare a deal memo; include your bank information and wiring instructions. How soon can we get started?”

  “I don’t know … maybe a week.”

  “Where will you begin your search?”

  “The Lio needs to eat; we’ll search where there’s plenty of food.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge, McFarland

  Salish Sea, British Columbia, Canada

  THE SALISH SEA is an intricate inland waterway located between the northwestern tip of the United States and the southwestern tip of the Canadian province of British Columbia. The Pacific Ocean entrance is through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a deep-water channel which empties into Haro Strait and Puget Sound to the south, the Strait of Georgia and hundreds of islands and islets to the north.

  There were multiple challenges to overcome if the crew of the McFarland were to have any chance at locating and capturing a Megalodon pup, not the least of which was the sheer size of the Salish Sea, which spanned 68,350 square miles. With only eighty days allocated for the mission, the hopper-dredge would have to cover an impossible 850 square miles daily. That, of course, assumed the shark (or sharks) cooperated by remaining in their chosen territory long enough for the ship’s fish finder to pick them up on sonar.