The Trench

by Steve Alten

  * * *

  Two hundred yards to the south, seven predators, ranging from fourteen to twenty-two feet in length, reduced their speed almost as one. Aroused by the intense scent of their primordial cousin, the male great whites had continued to follow the gigantic female as she made her way north, feeding off the remains of her kills, yet always remaining a safe distance behind.

  * * *

  Moving at a velocity just above stall speed, the Megalodon entered a state of rest as close to sleep as nature would allow. The rogue hunter knew the males were shadowing her, having registered their presence ever since she had escaped the lagoon. With prey readily available, the female tolerated the sharks—provided they moved no closer.

  As the Megalodon coasted along the bottom, distant vibrations coursing along the seafloor began stimulating nerve fibers along the creature’s flank. Rapid signals transmitted to its brain, activating a primeval alarm. Aroused from its stupor, the Megal-adon’s posture changed. Rapid movements of its head and snout engaged its olfactory sense.

  Breathing the sea, the monster shark isolated the direction of the whale calf’s scent.

  Like a guided missile, the planet’s fiercest predator raced across the ocean floor, stirring great gusts of sediment in its wake.

  * * *

  Pete Soderblom followed his acoustics specialist across a long boardwalk owned by the Westport Marina, home to one of the largest commercial fishing fleets in the area. The vantage offered him a panoramic view of the entire harbor. Directly ahead loomed the Grays Harbor lighthouse, rising 107 feet in the air. Just to its left was the Pacific Ocean, connected to the bay by way of a three-mile inlet. From here, Grays Harbor opened to a vast expanse of shallow water, stretching to the north and east as far as the eye could see. Nine cities dotted its banks, along with four modern marine terminals equipped to handle even the largest cargo ships in the world.

  A police escort assisted them in getting through the crowd. Officers instructed fishermen to reel in their lines as thousands of onlookers jostled for positions along the pedestrian esplanade. Hundreds more stood on viewing platforms, a lucky few even managing to reserve vantages from the Marina’s three-story observation tower. Brown pelicans balanced on pilings, sandpipers and blue herons strutted along the water’s edge. Heavy bass from a calypso beat mixed with the cawing of seabirds and the aroma of fast food, all adding to the carnival atmosphere.

  The police officer led Pete and his technician down a long fishing pier, where hundreds of empty boats floated in their berths. The bright silver surface of the sea sparkled up at them, forcing them to squint. Normally a hive of activity, the bay was now off-limits to all but the harbor patrol and two fishing trawlers, which, at that moment, were moving into position at the center of the inlet.

  Pete noticed another fishing trawler tied at the end of the pier. Over ninety feet in length, the trawler’s deck was an open expanse used for hauling in nets filled with massive quantities of fish. With the exception of the pilothouse, the only other prominent features of the trawler were three steel archlike buttresses rising twenty feet above the deck. These overhead structures supported two steel cables that ran from the fishing nets across the top of the arches, then into two hydraulic winches situated behind the pilothouse. Once the nets were full, the cables would be hauled in, dragging the trawl up the angled stern deck directly from the sea to the ship’s hold.

  Pete climbed aboard and spotted Andrew Furman speaking with a deeply tanned, very tall man in his late thirties.

  “Pete, this is Greg Dechiaro, the ship’s captain. He says Tootie’s been seen feeding about a mile out.”

  “Great. How soon till we’re under way?”

  “My crew should be finished rigging the trawl net within the next ten minutes. How much this whale of yours weigh?”

  “I’d estimate nineteen thousand pounds,” Pete said. “Can your rig handle that?”

  “Long as she don’t thrash about too much. What I told your assistant here, is we’ll use the otter trawl. The net itself is weighted so it’ll spread open like a giant parachute when we tow it. We’ll scoop your whale up, then drag her to shore.”

  Andrew pointed to the shoreline, where a thirty-foot harness dangled from an immense crane. “That’s where we need to be. The cargo container’s already in place and partially filled with seawater.”

  Pete glanced up at the growing crowd. “I have a feeling these people didn’t just come out here to watch a whale being rescued.” He checked his watch nervously. “I think we’d better go get our calf.”

  * * *

  Jonas watched Dr. Maren replot the latest SOSUS coordinates for the fourth time in five minutes.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  Maren looked up at Jonas, ashen-faced. “I—I think you were right.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Where is she?”

  “According to these coordinates, she just entered the bay.”

  “Goddamn it.” Jonas grabbed the radio. “Andy, come in—”

  A voice bathed in static said, “Go ahead, Jonas.”

  “Andy, the Megalodon just entered the bay. Have you netted Tootie yet?”

  “Jonas, repeat, please. It sounded as if you said the creature’s already in the bay.”

  “Affirmative. Have you netted your whale?”

  “No . . . not yet, but we’ve closed to within two hundred yards. Stand by.”

  * * *

  Pete stood in the pilothouse scanning the bay through a pair of high-power binoculars. His acoustics man was to his right, listening to the dual transmitters fastened along Tootie’s upper torso. “She should be just ahead of us,” the man said. “Both signals still coming in, loud and clear.”

  Pete saw a lead-gray head break the water, the snout covered in kelp. “There she is, directly ahead!”

  The captain signaled for the otter trawl to be released. Seconds later, the net began feeding out behind the ship.

  * * *

  Bobbing along the surface, Tootie scooped kelp into her mouth, using her baleen to strain the myriad of tiny sea creatures attached to the long leaves. Swallowing the morsels, the gray calf took another breath and submerged.

  Descending gracefully through the murk, the newborn suddenly registered another presence closing quickly. The calf stopped swimming.

  A luminescent blur streaked toward her along the seafloor. Sensing danger, the calf turned, retreating to the surface.

  * * *

  Pete watched his radio technician frantically adjust the acoustics receiver.

  “Damn it, I just lost one of the transmitters,” the technician said. “The other’s functioning, but the strength of the signal just dropped in half. Tootie’s moving away from the bottom, about one hundred yards off the starboard bow.”

  “Pete, Jonas says the Megalodon has entered the bay,” Andy reported. “We gotta get Tootie out of the water, now!”

  “Give me the whale’s exact location,” the captain ordered.

  “One click to starboard,” the technician said. “That’s good, we’re right on line. She’s still deep, we’ll pass over her—now!”

  The captain made a slight course adjustment, then cut his speed in half.

  “Got her,” yelled the technician, slapping Pete’s high five.

  Seconds later, the entire ship shuddered as the otter trawl scooped up an immense life-form.

  “Take in the slack, boys,” the captain ordered his crew.

  The two hydraulic winches strained to haul in the submerged load.

  The William Beebe slipped into Grays Harbor as the last one hundred yards of gill net was dropped into position across the inlet.

  Jonas ducked beneath the whirling rotors of the helicopter and climbed in. “Did you ready the weapon?”

  “All set,” Mac said. “Hold on—”

  The chopper lifted away from the deck, soaring out ahead of the ship.

  Jonas found the Olin-RAAM rifle grenade hidden beneath
a pile of blankets. Verifying a grenade was already loaded into the barrel, he returned to his seat with the weapon.

  Mac handed him the radio. “Sea World.”

  “Andy?”

  “Jonas, we just bagged our whale. We’re towing her in now, but she’s really struggling, the Meg must be circling close by.”

  Jonas could hear men yelling in the background. “Stand by, Andy—”

  The chopper flew over the trawler, hovering at two hundred feet. Jonas saw the submerged net, as well as an ivory shape at the midst of what appeared to be a battle raging below the surface.

  “Andy, the Meg’s right behind you. Haul in the calf!”

  * * *

  Pete stood next to the trawler’s captain and a dozen of his crew, watching as the fishing net was slowly hauled up from the bay along the steep incline at the stern.

  The ship shuddered, the incline actually dipping deeper into the water.

  “Goddamn it,” the captain swore, “the girders are bending. No way this calf only weighs nine tons.”

  Andy ran over to them, out of breath. “Jonas says the Meg’s right behind us—we’ve got to haul Tootie on board—”

  The captain grabbed him by the arms and pointed above their heads. “See that? We pull any harder and those arches will collapse.”

  Black smoke billowed across the deck.

  “Now what?” the captain yelled. “Smells like the goddamn bearings are burning up.”

  The trawler continued shuddering, the engines unable to push the ship forward. A high-pitched metallic screech rent the air.

  “Kill the engines,” the captain ordered.

  Incredibly, the stern began dipping into the sea, the water level rising to within four feet of the transom.

  Pete braced himself, staring down the steep incline, praying for Tootie to emerge from the sea. The calf was putting up a terrific struggle.

  The stern suddenly righted, the strain on the cables momentarily easing. The trawl net began rising.

  “Here she comes,” Pete announced, making his way down the ramp as if to greet his whale.

  Angel’s ghostly white face rose vertically out of the bay, her mouth stretched open as if the creature were screaming. Tootie’s scarlet blood outlined the jaws like smudged lipstick. Shards of whale blubber dangled from murderous rows of teeth. Angel’s upper torso, entangled in fishing net, remained suspended clear out of the water up to her winglike pectoral fins.

  Pete’s eyes bugged out, horrified, yet mesmerized by the size of the beast. Pinned against the transom, too heavy to be hauled aboard, the monster remained upright in the water, one of its gray eyes locked on the trawler.

  Then, with unfathomable power, the Megalodon began twisting her ensnared upper torso from side to side in violent spasms. Each jolt caused the fishing trawler to lurch, tightening the stranglehold of netting across the creature’s body. Enraged, the beast fought harder, each sweeping movement of her colossal head exaggerated in great arcing movements, back and forth along the surface, her fury rolling towering swells of ocean in every direction.

  Pete could only hold on as tons of churning water and shards of fishing net splattered on his head. He heard a sickening groan of steel—followed by men yelling—as the forward support arches collapsed onto the deck.

  * * *

  Jonas and Mac stared at the surreal scene below.

  “God, what a monster,” Mac whispered.

  “She’s tearing the vessel apart.” Jonas positioned the grenade rifle onto his shoulder. “Mac, get us closer. It’s time to end this nightmare.”

  The chopper dropped, hovering forty feet above the trawler.

  Jonas aimed.

  “Damn it—she’s thrashing too much to get off a clean shot.”

  At that moment, one of the two steel cables supporting the trawl net tore loose from its hydraulic winch, the free end sent lashing through the air. Striking the back of the helicopter, it shredded the whirling rotors from the tail assembly.

  “What the fuck was that?” Mac yelled. “Shit, I’m losing control.”

  The chopper began twirling in dizzying circles.

  The remaining cable tore loose, splaying across the deck. It struck one of the crewmen across his elbow, severing his arm in two, then caught itself around the remaining steel support in the stern.

  Spinning out of control, Mac lost altitude and plummeted toward the deck of the trawler. Jonas held his breath as the landing struts collapsed onto the remains of one of the ravaged steel supports, the airship nearly toppling overboard before coming to rest on the pile of mangled metal.

  With a final sweep of its head, the Megalodon’s sharp denticles shredded the remains of the bonds along its upper torso, allowing the shark to fall back beneath the surf.

  Pete scrambled up the slick incline in time to see the helicopter crash on deck.

  Andy reached down and grabbed his hand. “Where’s Tootie?”

  Pete struggled to catch his breath. “That monster must have eaten her, transmitter and all.”

  “Oh, fuck—”

  “Look at my ship!” the captain yelled. “Who the hell’s gonna pay for this—”

  The trawler lurched backward, knocking everyone off their feet.

  “Jesus Christ, now what?” Andrew yelled.

  Pete stared at the stern. Waves sloshed against the incline as the trawler was pulled back through the sea.

  “I don’t believe this,” Pete said. “The thing’s towing us.”

  The captain spotted the end of the remaining cable wound around the stern support. He ran to the pilothouse and grabbed an axe. As he braced himself to sever the cable, the line suddenly snapped, the enraged animal tearing itself free from the last of its bonds.

  * * *

  The William Beebe churned slowly across the inlet, patrolling the three-mile stretch of bay now cordoned off from the ocean by the vertically hanging gill nets. Six hundred pounds of half-frozen, rotting whale blubber floated forty feet behind her, attached by steel cable to the big winch in the stern.

  Harry Moon peered over the top of the harpoon gun, staring at the trailing flesh. With one hand he nervously fingered the trigger of the weapon, with the other he held a portable headset to his ear. “Dief, what’s happening up there?”

  Standing precariously atop a slender steel grate five stories above the deck, Richard Diefendorf held onto the central mast as he focused his binoculars on the bay.

  “Looks like she’s freed herself of the trawler. I can’t see . . . wait, there’s the dorsal fin. Harry, stand ready, she’s heading this way. Captain, we need to be farther south. Another two hundred yards.”

  Listening on his own headset, Captain Morgan relayed the instructions to his helmsman.

  “Celeste, Dr. Maren, Dief says she’s coming,” Harry reported.

  Standing along the port-side rail, Celeste and Dr. Maren searched the sea, waiting for the alabaster hide of the Megalodon to show itself.

  Dief spotted her first. “Captain, she’s sixty yards off the port bow and closing fast. I can’t tell which—wait, she’s breaking toward the stern!”

  “Let’s give Mr. Moon his shot,” the captain said. “Helm, all engines stop.”

  * * *

  Angel streaked along the muddy bottom, close to exhaustion. Although the denticles along her rough hide had minimized the damage from the trawl net, veils of blood trailed from her head and abdomen, where razorlike lacerations now zigzagged across her shiny, pale skin.

  Self-preservation was now the creature’s overriding instinct. Vulnerable in the shallows, she headed for deeper water, racing toward the inlet.

  Having detected the object at the surface, the Megalodon hugged the seafloor to avoid another confrontation. From somewhere ahead in the murky water came the death throes of two of the male great whites, both having become hopelessly entangled in the gill net. Sensing the dangerous obstruction, the Meg banked sharply, whipping its head away from the barrier as it soared along t
he netting, searching for a way out.

  * * *

  “The shark’s moving south along the net, looking to escape,” Dief reported.

  “She’s ignoring the bait,” Harry said, “and she’s way too deep for me to take a shot.”

  Dief followed the blur with his binoculars until the behemoth raced out of sight. “This is impossible,” he said. “We need the chopper. What the hell’s Mac doing?”

  * * *

  Mac and Jonas covered their eyes as the harbor patrol helicopter landed on the deck of the disabled trawler. The wounded crewman was quickly loaded on board, his severed arm in a plastic garbage bag, packed in ice.

  “We’ll send another chopper for you boys as soon as we can,” the copilot shouted as the airship lifted.

  The trawler captain waited until the noise of the rotors dissipated before starting in on Jonas and Pete Soderblom again.

  “That otter trawl will cost you $100,000,” he yelled, “and there’s no telling how much damage was done to my engines—”

  “Captain, relax,” Mac said. “I’m a witness. I heard Celeste Singer agree to pay for all damages. Geo-Tech has more money than they know what to do with. If I were you, I’d sue the shit out of them.”

  Jonas ignored them, focusing on the harbor through binoculars. “Captain, what is that?” He pointed north.

  A tall wooden sailing ship was heading toward them. The captain stared at the object with his own binoculars. “That’s the Lady Washington, a replica of an eighteenth-century Tall Ship.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the boat doing in the bay? Andy, you better get the harbor master on the radio.”

  * * *

  “The Meg’s coming around, heading right for us,” Dief shouted. “Harry, I can see the tip of her caudal fin. She’s just below the surface. Captain, she’ll pass under us on our starboard side within thirty seconds. Give her some room.”

  Dr. Maren rushed over to Harry Moon. “Take the shot, it may be the only one you get.”

  Harry spun the gun around, the point of the harpoon facing the open ocean. He stared down the barrel, waiting for the shark to appear behind the ship.

  Dief held his breath, watching the pale shadow streaking just below the surface. “Damn it, she’s sounding—”