by Steve Alten
“Maren is ready to harpoon—”
“Listen to me. Goddamn it! The bay’s too shallow, there’s no room for Dief to maneuver. Retract those nets before he’s killed.
“Okay—okay.”
* * *
Maren looked up from the harpoon gun to see one of the fishing trawlers begin hauling in the southern end of the gill net.
“Celeste—no!”
“Take your shot, Michael. Just do it quickly.”
* * *
Dief rolled the sub 360 degrees as the Megalodon bit into his port-side midwing, shearing off the Kevlar appendage like husk from corn. Knowing he could no longer elude the faster shark, Dief circled back to seek refuge behind the Lady Washington.
The radio crackled.
“Dief?”
“Be quick, Celeste—”
“The southern end of the gill net’s open.”
“Thank God.” Dief turned south, veering away from the Lady Washington, accelerating toward open ocean.
A shadow passed overhead. He looked up—and screamed—as the hideous upper jaw clamped shut on the clear nose cone of his sub.
With a tremendous pop, the LEXAN bubble imploded, sending a river of water slamming into Dief’s face, driving the breath from his chest. A roar—then a sickening crunch—as the Kevlar and LEXAN sub was pulverized around him, a shard from the crushed nose cone slicing deep into his upper arm.
The Megalodon released its bite and began circling its prey, waiting for it to die.
Dief thrashed in his harness, unable to free himself from the crushing embrace of his upside-down coffin. Reaching to his right, he managed to grab hold of the pony bottle, shoving the regulator into his mouth and opening the valve to the emergency supply of air. After gagging into the mouthpiece, he calmed himself and sucked a life-giving breath.
The glow appeared to his left. Looming through swirls of mud, he saw an ivory head drift closer. The snout pushed against the wreckage, pressing against Dief’s chest. With both hands, the submersible pilot futilely attempted to push the sixty-two-thousand-pound behemoth away. A surprisingly strong current caught his left hand, sucking it into a giant nostril.
In surreal motion, the mouth stretched open before him, the nine-foot maw blotting out the sunlight.
Richard Diefendorf said a quick prayer. Then he spat out the regulator and inhaled the sea as the Angel of Death came for him.
* * *
Michael Maren swore aloud as the alabaster form streaked past the William Beebe, racing for the southern end of the inlet.
After circling twice, the creature finally sensed the obstruction was no longer there. Seconds later, the Megalodon was gone.
Risky Business
Mariana Trench
Terry wiped the sweat from her brow, then continued twisting an iron crossbar. Another fifteen minutes passed before she was able to wrench one end of the bed frame free. Aided by the additional leverage, the other end followed quickly.
She stood, slapping the two-foot hollow bar in her hand, feeling its weight against her open palm. It wasn’t nearly as good as the Russian’s hunting knife, but at least she wouldn’t be unarmed.
Terry checked her watch: 2:10 A.M. She eased open her cabin door and listened. Hearing only the sounds of the Benthos’s generators, she crept barefoot into the hall, iron bar held tightly within her right fist, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
Access tube or companionway? The Russian prefers the tube . . .
She tiptoed to the companionway, listening. She could hear the voices of the crew talking in the galley, discussing the immense prehistoric fossil the Prometheus had unearthed hours earlier. Entering the sealed stairwell, Terry lifted the watertight hatch at the base of the staircase and descended quietly, closing the seal behind her.
Level F. Ship’s stores, equipment rooms, and the nuclear reactor. Keep going . . .
Terry opened the next companionway hatch, listening carefully before heading down the last flight of stairs which led to G deck, the only level considered off-limits to all but Benedict’s personal staff. She held her breath, again hearing only the hum from the ship’s generators. Creeping barefoot across the tile floor, she darted down the empty corridor to the entrance of the submarine docking station.
Terry pressed her ear to the watertight door. Realizing the futility of the gesture, she held her breath and pushed open the door, entering the vault. The empty circular room yawned back at her. Heart fluttering, she ran to the conning tower of the Prometheus protruding out from the center of the docking-station floor. Pulling open the sub’s outer hatch, she climbed down the ladder and into the vessel.
The sub was dark, save for the fluorescent glow coming from dozens of control consoles. She crept forward, listening, terrified at being alone in a docked sub surrounded by sixteen thousand pounds per square inch of water.
Locating the computer console, she sat down, then booted the system. All day Benedict Singer had infuriated her, playing with her emotions, manipulating her like a puppet.
This time, it was her turn.
The Geo-Tech menu appeared on the screen, just as it had hours earlier. Using the mouse, she highlighted TOKAMAK. She was about to press ENTER when she heard a noise in the docking chamber above.
Footsteps!
Her heart pounding out of control, Terry searched desperately for a place to hide. She hurried to the rear of the sub, smashing her shin painfully against another console before ducking into the bathroom.
She heard the seal open. Whoever was out there was descending into the Prometheus!
Terry was convinced it was the Russian. Wiping the sweat from her palms, she gripped the iron bar tightly in both hands and raised it over her head.
She could feel the vibrations of the man’s footsteps. She heard him pause at the computer station, then continue moving aft, approaching the bathroom.
Aim for his head, one good shot, then don’t stop till he’s dead. . . .
The door began opening—
Terry swung the iron bar toward the head of the silhouetted figure.
The man sideswiped the bar, then grabbed her arm and twisted it expertly behind her back. Terry started to scream, but her assailant was too quick, clamping his hand over her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath.
“Terry, it’s Heath!”
The viselike grip released her. She bent over, gasping for air.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, still out of breath.
Heath inspected the iron rod. “Yeah, this would have hurt.” He handed it back to her. “Better save it for Sergei.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you leave your room and figured this might be where you were heading. A very dangerous move. Come here, I want to show you something.”
He led her by the arm to the computer station. “The GTI file you were about to access requires a security code. Failing to enter the correct code within sixty seconds would have resulted in all sorts of security devices going off.”
Terry stared at the monitor, sweat dripping down both sides of her face. “Why did you follow me? Are you trying to protect me from the Russian?”
Heath grinned. “Sergei won’t be bothering you tonight. I slipped him a little something in his tea at dinner. Right now, he should be sleeping like a Russian wolfhound. Tell me why you were accessing the Tokamak file.”
She sat down next to the computer. “Benedict’s been toying with me ever since we arrived on board the Benthos, and I’m tired of it. This afternoon was the worst. I don’t know if he’s intending to let me live or die, but I decided it was my turn to screw with him for a change.”
“What do you know about Tokamak?”
“Nothing.”
“Terry, I can’t help you if you lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. Who are you? Do you really know Jonas?”
Heath rubbed the sweat from his brow. “I don’t know him personally, but we both worked tog
ether on a deep-sea project for the Navy about eleven years ago.”
“Eleven years . . .” The realization dawned on her. “The Mariana Trench dives?”
Heath nodded. “It was a top-secret mission. To this day, Jonas still has no idea what it was really about. Shaffer and Prestis—the two men who died when Jonas panicked in the abyss—they were my colleagues.”
“So you’re with the Navy?”
“Not anymore.”
“But you’re not a paleo-biologist—”
“Tell me what you know about Tokamak.”
“CIA?”
“Terry, I can’t help you if you won’t cooperate.”
“You are CIA, aren’t you?”
“Terry, enough. Right now, you’re endangering both of our lives.”
“Look, I told you, I really don’t know anything about Tokamak. When I was aboard the Goliath, I . . .” She smiled, embarrassed. “I guess you could say I did a little covert operating myself. I stumbled across some kind of high-tech lab hidden within the bowels of the Goliath and—”
“Within the Goliath? Where?” Heath seemed excited. “How were you able to access it? What was inside?”
She told him about the stairwell hidden within the ship’s old missile silo, then described the lab.
“This large machine,” Heath asked, “did it look like a giant toroidal—a giant doughnut?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Jesus. . . .” Heath rubbed his face again. “How familiar are you with fusion?”
“As in atom bombs?”
“No, no, that’s fission. Fusion is the process that powers the sun and stars. It occurs when two atoms of hydrogen, usually an isotope of deuterium and one of tritium, are heated at super hot temperatures until they fuse together, releasing an incredible amount of energy. When this happens, matter enters a new state—plasma.”
Heath turned off the computer. “We’re probably still a good twenty-five years away from placing a fusion reactor on-line, but the potential benefits are enormous. Imagine an energy source that’s virtually inexhaustible, environmentally friendly, and produces no combustion products, greenhouse gases, or even by-products that can be made into weapons.”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“Some bureaucrats might agree. We’re still in the experimental phases and it’s very costly, but things are progressing. To make fusion happen, the atoms of deuterium and tritium must be heated to temperatures exceeding one hundred million degrees, then be held together long enough for fusion to occur. The sun accomplishes this using gravity. On Earth, we have to use a magnetic field to confine the gases.”
“So what’s a tokamak?”
“Tokamak means toroidal chamber in Russian. Coils wrapped around the outside of the toroidal or doughnut create a magnetic field inside the chamber, which, in turn, stabilizes the fusion plasma—”
“Now you’re way over my head. Just tell me how Benedict is involved.”
“Hear me out. The main challenge of fusion is to be able to contain the hot plasma for a sufficient amount of time. This relates to problems with the fuel itself, specifically tritium, which is radioactive. Several years ago Israeli Intelligence learned of a secret meeting between Benedict Singer and Osama bin Laden, exiled Saudi millionaire and financier of the National Islamic Front, a terrorist organization linked to the attack on the World Trade Center, as well as several other bombings, including the ones on the Kenya and Nairobi embassies. At this meeting Benedict demonstrated a prototype fuel that created a fusion reaction said to have been off the scale of any energy reaction previously accomplished. Bin Laden and his Arab associates were so impressed that they agreed to finance GTI’s work in exchange for partial control of the technology. With their backing and influence, Benedict has been able to recruit some of the brightest minds in Russia and the Middle East to help him construct what may turn out to be the world’s first true tokamak fusion reactor.”
“What happens if Benedict succeeds?”
“If he succeeds, he’ll change the balance of power for decades to come. Up to now, fusion has been a shared technology among the world’s nations, a united effort to pool our resources for the common good. Fusion would legitimize bin Laden’s influence on our entire global economy. It would be the equivalent of Hitler developing the atomic bomb before the United States. It’s vital that we determine what Benedict’s mysterious fusion fuel source is, and whether it’s stable. CIA’s been following him for years, attempting to infiltrate his organization. We got our first break when Benedict contacted Scripps in search of a paleo-biologist.”
“Obviously, you’re not a paleo-biologist. Aren’t you afraid Benedict will see through the charade?”
“I have a working knowledge in the field, enough to get by. So far, things have gone okay, although the first real challenge to my cover just came up.”
“That fossil?”
“Yes. The object is an incredible specimen of a prehistoric reptile I’ve never seen before. Benedict’s demanding that I come up with answers to its origin, and fast.”
“Could it have been related to the species that chased after us today?”
“Too early to say. I’m probably in way too deep. But I need to provide Benedict with information soon, before he suspects something.”
“What can I do to help?”
“For one thing, stay the hell away from these computers,” Heath advised. “The CIA believes that Benedict’s fusion fuel may be aboard the Benthos. There’s some kind of storehouse located on G deck that’s off-limits to everyone except Benedict and his piranhas. If I could just get a look inside, I’d know what he’s up to.”
“Wish I could help, but right now I’m just struggling to keep from being killed.” Terry gave him a nervous smile. “Maybe you could kill Sergei for me, you know, in the line of duty.”
“I’ll run as much interference for you as I can without jeopardizing my cover, but I can’t help you unless you stay in your cabin. Tonight was very foolish. I suggest you speak with Benedict about joining him on board the Prometheus again. You know, appeal to his ego, speak some Latin to him or something. With any luck, you’ll be topside in a few days. So no more chances, okay?”
“Okay.”
They exited the sub, Heath escorting her back to her quarters. The CIA agent said good night, then returned to his own cabin, unaware that the microlens hidden in the ceiling had recorded their every move.
Mixed Emotions
The morning sun glared off the aft deck, forcing the passengers and crew of the William Beebe to squint.
Jonas felt an ache in his chest and a harsh lump in his throat as Captain Morgan closed the prayer book, concluding the ceremony honoring their fallen shipmate.
Mac grabbed Jonas’s arm and pulled him aside, tears of anger welling in his eyes. “GTI made arrangements for me to pick up another chopper, but first I have to file a report with the FAA over yesterday’s accident. Figure I’ll be gone all day. When I get back, I want you to tell me how we’re going to exterminate that fucking shark of yours.”
Jonas nodded and watched him go.
Jonas could sense Celeste approach from the aroma of jasmine lotion on her deeply tanned skin. A beige one-piece romper hung from her bared shoulders, the cut of her loose-fitting top revealing the inviting cleavage. She stood barefoot, a pair of sandals dangling from her fingers.
Jonas caught himself staring. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“We’re meeting in ten minutes in the galley. Since it looks like we’re stuck in port for at least the next fifteen hours, I thought you could help me pick up a few supplies in town.”
“I don’t think I’d be much company.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes glistening. “I’m upset, too. That’s why I need to get off this boat for a few hours.”
“Let me think about it,” he said, following her to the galley.
* * *<
br />
Jonas nodded to the captain and Harry Moon, then set his breakfast tray on the table, taking an empty seat across from Dr. Maren. Celeste set her tray down next to him.
“I’m having a GTI representative meet with Dief’s family,” Celeste said. “They’ll take care of funeral arrangements and other financial needs.”
“Celeste, the Tanaka Institute called,” Captain Morgan said. “They said your package should arrive on board sometime this evening.”
“What package?”
“I’ve arranged for another of the Institute’s Abyss Gliders to be delivered. I know Dief’s death is still on everyone’s mind, but we’ll need the sub to position the net beneath the Megalodon once she’s captured.”
“And who do you expect to pilot the sub?” Jonas asked.
“I’ll be piloting it,” Maren said.
“It’s not like piloting the Alvin,” Jonas said. “Once the Meg’s unconscious, you may have to descend three or four hundred feet just to get the net beneath her.”
“I know what has to be done, Taylor. Celeste, can we dispense with the small talk and get this meeting started? Unlike some of you, I’ve got tons of work to do.”
Celeste nodded. “Start by bringing Jonas up to date.”
Maren rubbed his eyes. He looked hung over. “Short and sweet, we lost SOSUS.”
“What’s that mean?” Jonas asked.
“Lost, as in the signal no longer exists. The transmitter must have been torn away from the Megalodon’s hide when she was struggling to break free from the trawl net. No matter, we’ll find her.”
“Yeah, and how will we do that?” Jonas asked.
“We’ll follow the coastline around Vancouver and Alaska until we track her down in the Bering Sea.”
“You think the Bering Sea’s a fucking pond? How do you expect—”
Celeste stopped him. “Jonas, if I have to, I’ll arrange a fleet of choppers to track her—”
“Might as well call out the Air Force, while you’re at it. Christ, Celeste, this voyage could go on for months.”
“No thanks to you,” Maren said, a bit too loudly.