by Steve Alten
The Russian spat blood at her. Then he reached up and closed the hangar door. As it sealed, the red light turned green.
“Now empty the chamber.”
The Russian pulled himself off the floor. Leaning over the console, he closed off the open vent, activating another series of controls. Pumps within the floor began draining water from the hangar bay, sending it on its way to dozens of holding areas throughout the ship.
Terry’s and Sergei’s eyes remained locked through the entire process.
It seemed to take forever for the chamber to drain.
Terry moved forward, a knife clasped firmly in each hand. “The next time you get near me, I’ll reopen that wound along your throat. You understand?”
His bloodshot eyes burned hatred into her soul. He whispered a death threat in Russian.
Terry felt her resolve buckling. She activated the control room door and backed out, then pulled open the door leading into the outer corridor. Hustling to the companionway, she ran up the two flights of stairs leading to E deck and quickly located her cabin. She locked herself in, then sat on her cot, her body trembling in fear and frustration.
A rancid taste filled her mouth—the slightest hint of vodka, mixed with blood from the Russian’s tongue.
Terry ran to the toilet and retched.
* * *
An abrupt knocking woke her. She sat up in bed, with a dull ache over her left temple. Checking her watch, she was surprised to find she had only slept for an hour. She heard the knock again on her door.
The Russian?
The thought sent her heart racing. She reached into her boot and retrieved Sergei’s hunting knife.
“Who is it?”
“A friend.”
Terry cracked open the door and saw a well-built black man in his early forties. He was looking up and down the corridor, appearing nervous.
“I don’t know who you are—”
“Heath Williams. Jonas and I taught together at Scripps. Let me in before someone sees me talking to you.”
She stepped back, allowing him to enter.
“I was in the galley when I overheard the Russian talking about what happened between the two of you. Are you all right?”
“I’ll be better when I get off this ship.”
“Your life is in danger. I came to warn you that Sergei is talking about killing you.”
Terry went pale. “Where’s the captain? I have to tell him what happened—”
Heath shook his head. “Won’t do any good. I’ve only been on board a few weeks, but from what I’ve seen, I can tell you that on the Benthos, the only laws observed are Benedict’s. You and I may think we’re guests, but as far as Benedict and his crew are concerned, we’re outsiders who don’t belong here.”
“I kind of figured that out.”
“It’s worse than you think. There’s a hierarchy among the men. Sergei is one of Benedict’s personal staff, one of his piranhas. They have access to all parts of the ship, especially the secured holds on G deck.”
“So it’s all right if that asshole Sergei rapes me?”
“Rape, murder, anything goes down here. And don’t expect Benedict to take sides with you against Sergei. In fact if I were you, I wouldn’t even confront him about the incident. Don’t give him any cause to believe you might go to the authorities once you return topside. Benedict considers himself above the law. To avoid a mess, he may kill you himself.”
Terry felt nauseous. “My father knows I’m down here, so does JAMSTEC. If they don’t receive my report within the next two weeks, they’ll shut down this entire project. Benedict can’t just . . . he can’t just kill me.”
“He can and will if he considers you a threat.”
Terry took a long breath, trying to calm herself. A thought occurred to her. “Heath, have you ever heard the term ‘Tokamak’?”
“No,” he said, giving her a strange look. “What’s Tokamak?”
“Never mind, I’m just scared. I think maybe you’re right. What should I do?”
“Try to stay calm. You’re scheduled to return topside in six days. It’ll be difficult, but you have to avoid Sergei.”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that?”
“He’ll try to find you when you’re alone outside of your quarters. There are certain areas he won’t attack you. Most of the technicians in the command center are decent guys, so you’ll be safe while you’re collecting your data. Try to avoid the galley, you may find yourself eating among a small group and then everyone abruptly gets up and leaves.”
“What am I supposed to do for food?”
“My lab is on the same level as the galley. I’ll bring food up to you after the piranhas have eaten. Oh, and whatever you do, stay away from the lower two levels.”
“Why?”
“Sergei spends most of his time there, working in the high-security areas on G deck.”
“Okay. What about you? What brings you aboard the Benthos?”
“I’m a paleo-biologist, just like your husband, except my area of specialty involves ancient marine reptiles. Benedict contacted me at Scripps about a week before the Proteus went down.”
“Why?”
“The seafloor of the Trench dates back hundreds of millions of years. I guess Benedict decided he needed a paleo-biologist on board to examine fossils his subs will be dredging up during the UNIS burial process.”
He checked his watch. “I’d better go.”
“Heath, what should I do once my report to JAMSTEC has been completed?”
“Talk to Benedict. Maybe he’ll allow you to come with him aboard the Prometheus. At least you’d be away from Sergei. Right now, I suggest you clean yourself up and get back to your workstation on the bridge. Try to act as if nothing happened.”
Heath opened the door, checking the corridor. “Terry, do you have a weapon of some kind?”
“Sergei’s knife.”
“Good. Keep it on you at all times. If you should find yourself alone with the Russian, don’t hesitate to use it.”
Terry felt the knot of fear return to her stomach. “Heath, what do you think—I mean, how far will the Russian really take this?
Heath gave her a dead-serious look. “If you have to, kill the motherfucker, because after he rapes you, that’s what he’ll do to you.”
* * *
The bridge, control room, and ship’s computers were all located on level B. Lining the circular walls of the enormous oval room were high-tech navigational computers and electronics. Forward, a dozen manned stations formed a small arc around the captain’s plotting area, the central feature of which was a floor-to-ceiling computerized bathymetry map highlighting the topography of the underwater canyon. Closed-circuit television monitors lining one wall revealed high-resolution images taken from cameras mounted along the Benthos’s hull. Next to these monitors was the helm, a navigational station that looked like the driver’s side of a stripped-down automobile. A large steering wheel rose out of the console along with several pedals which controlled the ship’s single screw and rudder. Next to the helm were the ballast control panels and communication system, linking the Benthos to the Goliath via fiber-optic cable. Both systems were monitored around the clock by the chief of the watch.
To the right of the ballast controls were four sonar stations, the ship’s eyes. Terry sat at one of the stations. Popping in a floppy disk to a computer that had been jury-rigged to the station, she listened through headphones as she formatted yet another set of sonar recordings displayed on the console before her. In addition to the acoustics coming over her headphones, the B2Q5 echo sonar system’s monitor presented her with a graphic visual of any object that had been detected within the Benthos’s sonar convergent zone.
Terry closed her eyes. As much as she tried to relax, she couldn’t stop her hands from trembling. Her mind was overwhelmed with one consuming thought: She was trapped within an escape-proof prison with an insane guard who wanted to rape and murder her.
And
the warden had encouraged it.
Each breath brought an acrid taste of stress.
She opened her eyes as the sound of an approaching object echoed in her headphones. A light vertical line representing the unidentified object materialized on the solid green monitor. Numerical coordinates indicated the object’s range to the Benthos.
Twenty thousand yards. She heard a rapid series of strange sounds . . . and then the acoustics simply disappeared.
What the hell . . .
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping the shoulder of the sonar operator seated closest to her. “Can you help me?”
The technician removed his headphones and rolled his chair toward her.
“What’s the problem?”
She rewound the sonogram. “Do you recognize this?”
The technician listened for a brief moment, then removed the headphones. “Forty-two hertz. It’s the Proteus.”
“That’s what I thought. But why does its signature suddenly disappear?”
“According to the catalog date of this sonogram, this recording was made just prior to the sub imploding. Keep listening and you’ll hear it.”
Terry watched the digital chronometer on the blank screen. The sonarman watched for a moment, then wheeled himself back to his station.
Seven minutes and forty-seven seconds elapsed in utter silence, and then a sickening detonation reverberated in her ears.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why all the dead space before the implosion?”
“The Proteus went down in an area heavy in black smokers. The mineral stacks often interfere with our sonar’s reflective waves, limiting the convergence zone. The pilot probably hit a black smoker head-on and lost integrity of the hull.”
“Still, the Proteus was close enough to the Benthos to have left some kind of signature. This sonar recording sounds blank.”
The man shrugged, returning his headphones to his ears.
Terry looked up in time to catch stares from the other men.
She rewound the tape to the series of strange sounds occurring just before the recording had gone blank. Then she programmed the computer to break the signature down into smaller segments so she could analyze what few clues were on the tape. Instead of completing her request, the screen flashed a warning:
“THIS PROGRAM HAS PERFORMED
AN ILLEGAL FUNCTION
AND WILL BE TERMINATED.”
She rolled her chair next to the technician. “Sorry to bother you again, but my terminal just shut down and—”
“Miss, are you aware that the Benthos is presently following the Prometheus through the Trench and it’s my job to keep us from smashing into the canyon wall? Or would you actually prefer to end up like the Proteus’s crew?”
“I’m sorry. Just tell me, is my computer capable of breaking down these sonargrams into smaller bites?”
“No. Only this terminal or the one aboard the Prometheus can perform that function. Now, please—”
“Okay, okay.” She returned to her station.
Terry removed a blank disk and recorded the sounds that appeared on the sonargram just before the mysterious gap. When she was finished, she nonchalantly slipped the recording into her boot, then left the bridge and returned to her quarters.
Awkward Moments
The William Beebe
Alone at the bow, Jonas watched the last rays of daylight darken to crimson and violet. The wind sprayed mist across his face, howling its high-pitched metallic ring as it whipped across the forward deck.
The fiberglass bow crashed through four-foot seas as the vessel pushed north along the Oregon coastline. Jonas inhaled the salty air, wiping the moisture from his brow. He stared at the ocean, mesmerized by its unrelenting swells.
Why must I fear the very thing that brings me such joy . . . ?
He was startled to see Celeste standing by his side.
The wind whipped her platinum-blond hair and pressed the gray windbreaker to her figure. She remained quiet, respecting his solitude.
Several minutes passed. They watched the horizon turn charcoal-gray.
Celeste moved closer, nuzzling against his chest. “I’m cold.”
Jonas started to put his arm around her, then thought better of it and pulled away. “Maybe you should go inside.”
“Are you afraid of me, Jonas?”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Maybe you don’t trust yourself.” She stood before him, her back to the sea. “It’s a terrible thing to live in fear, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
She moved closer. “I’m just trying to speak honestly with you, Jonas. I know you think I’m a conniving bitch, but there’s another side to me, and the truth is, I could use a friend.”
Jonas searched the vixen’s eyes. She inched closer. He noticed goose bumps on her exposed upper thighs.
“I want to tell you something very personal, something I’ve never mentioned to anyone before.”
“Why share it with me?”
“Because I think you can relate to what I have to say. How do I explain this? Jonas, have you ever felt trapped by your own destiny?”
Jonas felt cold beads of sweat trickle down his armpits. “Why? I mean—do you feel trapped?”
She broke eye contact. “Never mind. This is stupid. Forget I mentioned it.”
She walked away, wiping her eyes.
“Celeste, hold it, wait a second—”
She waved him off, then jogged across the deck and disappeared into the ship.
* * *
Jonas entered the galley fifteen minutes later. He grabbed a tray and silverware and stood in line behind a half-dozen men waiting to be served.
The cook slapped a roasted half chicken and a side of mashed potatoes onto his plate as Jonas moved through the line. He grabbed a can of soda and an apple, then joined Mac and Richard Diefendorf at their table.
“Where have you been?” Mac mumbled, his mouth full of food.
“Just enjoying the night air. Have you seen Celeste?”
Mac finished swallowing. “No, I didn’t know it was my turn to watch her. Hey, get this, Dief here worked for Singer.”
“I thought you were in the Navy,” Jonas said.
“Served on the South Carolina for six years,” Dief said, pointing to the knotlike protrusion at the center of his receded hairline. “Had a little mishap and received a medical discharge. After I left, I took a job designing and testing submersibles for a private outfit in Santa Cruz. Benedict Singer bought out the owners a few months later. I was on the design team that built the Benthos. I was also the pilot who completed the shallow-water test runs aboard the Proteus.”
“The sub that went down in the Mariana Trench?”
“That’s the one.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Jonas asked.
“GTI claims the implosion was caused by a piloting error, but I have my doubts. I knew the pilot. Another ex-Navy man. If anything, he was overly cautious, just the type you’d want maneuvering in thirty-five thousand feet of water. Personally, I think GTI’s covering up something.”
“Then why work for them now?” Jonas asked.
Dief grinned. “What can I say? They pay well, and I need the money.”
Harry Moon spotted them from across the galley. “Gentlemen, when you’re through, the captain would like to see you on the bridge.”
* * *
The bridge of the William Beebe, located on the uppermost deck of the ship, was divided into two compartments. A small, somewhat barren pilothouse lay forward of the command center, which housed the vessel’s high-tech computers and electronics.
Captain Morgan stood over a fluorescent tabletop in the middle of the command center, examining a map of the northwestern coastline. “Professor Taylor, gentlemen, come in. We’ve just received another transmission from your shark. Look’s like she’s continuing north along the coast.”
“How far behind are we?” Jonas asked.
The captain referred to the map. “This is our present location, two miles southwest of Newport. Your fish is approaching Cape Lookout, approximately forty-five nautical miles due north.”
Dr. Maren entered, noisily sipping a cappuccino. “Obviously, she’s following the cetaceans as they migrate to their summer feeding grounds,” he said. “If we let her, she’ll lead us right into the Bering Sea.”
Captain Morgan glanced at Jonas. “What do you think, Professor?”
“I don’t know. Four years ago I predicted this creature’s mother would follow the winter migration pattern. Instead, we wound up losing her for several weeks. Let’s not forget, tracking a rogue female that is also in estrus—”
Maren rolled his eyes.
“You have a problem?” Jonas asked, feeling his blood pressure rising again.
“No, no, do go on, this is really fascinating,” Maren said sarcastically. “Just keep in mind that while you’re lecturing us, Carcharodon megalodon is moving into populated waters.”
“What are you suggesting we do, Dr. Maren?” Captain Morgan asked.
“Cut the shark off now, before it moves farther north, or it may never survive the extended return trip to the lagoon. I’ve studied the SOSUS transmissions. The predator has been feeding once every thirty-six to forty-eight hours and almost always at night. If she sticks to her schedule, she’ll feed again tonight, which gives us the opportunity to catch up with her by morning and capture her here.” Maren pointed to the map, his index finger on the mouth of the Columbia River, which divided Oregon and Washington along the Pacific Ocean.
“That’s Cape Disappointment,” Jonas said. “You couldn’t have picked a more dangerous place to attempt a capture.”
“Jonas is right,” Mac said. “You’re looking at waves that punish the hell out of—”
“I’m sorry, and you are?” Maren asked, obviously annoyed.
“Mr. Mackreides is our chopper pilot,” the captain answered.
“Well, pilot, just so you know, I’m not into playing guessing games like Professor Taylor. My recommendations are based on our SOSUS data and painstaking calculations that take into account everything from the predator’s average day and nighttime cruising speeds, distances traveled, feeding patterns, even the average time it takes her to stalk, kill, and feed upon her prey. And unlike Taylor, here, I have no interest in attempting to handle this creature when it’s hungry. By the time Carcharodon megalodon reaches Cape Disappointment, which I’ve estimated to be between seven and nine tomorrow morning, she should be well-fed and slightly sluggish.”