by Steve Alten
The two prehistoric Great Whites now swam belly-to-belly, the male on top.
Mounting its mate, the male slid one of its two rigid claspers into the female’s cloaca as it reestablished a biting grip upon her inverted pectoral fin. For several minutes the two predators remained locked together in insemination, the male biting deeper in a futile attempt to control the vicious female.
Copulation complete, the exhausted male slid its clasper free, momentarily releasing its grip on the female’s pectoral fin.
Still inverted, Angel lunged forward and snapped her open jaws over her mate’s dangling caudal fin, severing the entire lower lobe of the half-crescent-moon appendage before the male could react.
Writhing in agony, the male fluttered the remains of its tail in a futile effort to escape.
Angel rolled over, continuing her attack upon her mate’s mutilated tail. Propelling herself forward, she hyperextended her nine-foot maw clear over the anal fin, her razor-sharp lower teeth shredding both claspers, ravaging the male’s reproductive organs.
The helpless male shook in convulsions, its lower torso writhing in spasms within the female’s jaws. Angel bit down harder and hung on, content to wait until its mate died, the male’s warm blood streaming into her open gullet.
Finally, with a brutal thrashing of her head, Angel severed her mate’s lower torso.
Trailing a river of crimson, the mangled body of the lifeless male fell from the female’s mouth, the head and remains of the upper torso caroming off a black smoker before dropping slowly to the seafloor. Within minutes, swarms of albino crustaceans arrived to devour the remains, the sinister circle of life complete.
Having disposed of the threat to her future brood, the queen hunter continued south along the canyon wall, exploring her new kingdom.
Devil’s Purgatory
Mariana Trench
Captain Prokovich paused at the double doors, where the heavy bass notes of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana resounded into the corridor. He rubbed the sweat from his palms and ran his fingers through the spikes of his red crew cut. Without bothering to knock, he entered Benedict’s stateroom.
Benedict was lying back in a black suede couch, eyes closed, enveloped by the brooding music. Sensing another presence, he opened his eyes and, using the remote, turned down the sound.
“Your men have finished?”
“Da.”
Benedict noticed the sullen expression on his captain’s face. “You’re troubled by our losses.”
“It was preventable. We took risks—”
“There is risk in all things great.”
“Perhaps we should slow down and better prepare ourselves for these creatures.”
“Vladislav, slowing down is a luxury we cannot afford. If we hesitate to complete our mission, ITER will complete it for us. Misfortune puts men to the test. Would you prefer the deaths of our comrades to have been in vain?”
“No.”
“Then let us finish the task at hand.”
Prokovich led him to the docking bay, which had been hastily drained and cleansed. Benedict smelled traces of ammonia.
Professor Kwan was inspecting several dozen buckets filled with manganese nodules.
He turned to Benedict, smiling. “Our test results were positive. You have found the gift of Prometheus himself.”
“How much is here?”
“Enough to supply power to every industrial nation for the next several years.”
Benedict shook his head. “It’s not enough. We need to acquire the rest before the Americans discover our secret and seal off the area.”
“How?” Prokovich asked, pulling nervously at his eye patch. “The creatures are still circling. They won’t leave the area with so much of our crew’s blood in the water.”
Benedict gave him a reassuring look. “As we speak, an array of high-powered lights are being mounted along the hull of the Prometheus, lights that will keep the pliosaurs at bay. As an additional precautionary measure, the Benthos will ascend to a position fifty meters above the hydrothermal layer where the creatures dare not venture. From now on, we’ll escort the Prometheus on her way to the seafloor, then back again to the cold layer as she transports the manganese nodules to the Goliath.”
“Aye, sir. And the girl?”
Benedict smiled. “Now that we’ve located the nodules, she’s no longer needed. She’ll be dead before the day is out.”
* * *
Terry sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the cabin door, now bolted from the outside, preventing her escape. Every few minutes a wave of panic would rush over her, forcing her to pace back and forth frantically until the nervous energy dissipated and she’d again collapse onto the mattress, waiting for her jailer to take her to her execution.
Benedict locked me in for a reason. His mind games are over. He’s ready to kill me.
Desperate, she grabbed the desk chair and smashed it repeatedly against the locked door until the furniture broke apart in her hands. She tried the door again and saw the knob had loosened. Encouraged, she searched the cabin for something to pry open the lock.
Terry grabbed the wood desk and flung it over, hoping to break off one of its legs. That’s when she noticed the ventilation grill.
* * *
Captain Prokovich and his crew stared nervously at the row of closed-circuit monitors whose gray-and-white images revealed the undercarriage of the Benthos.
Running the length of the monolith’s flat undercarriage was a myriad of pressurized tanks resembling rows of giant pontoons. Half of these containers controlled the ship’s ballast by drawing in seawater, allowing the positively buoyant Benthos to sink. The other half held gasoline, which, being lighter than water, helped maintain neutral buoyancy.
The three Kronosaurs continued to circle the undercarriage of the Benthos, apparently excited by the taste of blood. The sound of the ship’s powerful hydraulic rams forcing seawater from numerous catches along the lower levels had caught the creatures’ attention. The predators’ attention was now focused on the giant pontoons. To their nocturnal eyes, the containers resembled the size and shape of the Epimetheus, a life-form that had proven a bountiful source of food. As the Benthos rose away from the seafloor, the predators began biting into the titanium containers.
Benedict entered the bridge. “Report, Captain.”
“We’ve got a new problem.” Prokovich pointed to the monitors. “The creatures have begun attacking the ballast tanks.”
“The containers are too thick, even for these monsters.”
“Agreed, sir, however it is possible for them to cause an indentation along the surface of the cylinder. If this should happen, the extreme pressures could gain a foothold, increasing compressive stresses.”
“And the tank would rupture.”
“Aye, sir. We’ve suffered no damages as of yet, but the creatures appear to be getting bolder.”
“Twelve hundred feet to hydrothermal ceiling,” a crewman called out.
Benedict watched in fascination as an enormous flat head appeared in one of the monitors. With an incredible burst of speed, the animal slammed into one of the gasoline tanks, attempting to tear it from the flat cowling undercarriage of the ship.
The sound of metal being forcefully bent could be heard by crewmen working on G deck.
Within seconds the enormous pressure of the Trench exposed the cylinder’s flaw. The damaged tank ruptured and imploded, setting off a rapid chain reaction that jolted the Benthos sideways. Lights flickered off, and the ship was immersed in darkness.
Moments later, red emergency lights blazed on as the monolith’s backup system powered on.
Prokovich picked himself up from the floor. The Benthos had stopped rising and was now listing ten degrees to port. “Damage report—”
“Sir, ballast tanks B-four through B-eight are gone. We’re also losing gasoline from tanks G-five, G-eight, and G-nine.”
Another explosion and concussion rocked the Benthos
. For a long moment the crew stared wide-eyed at Benedict, uncertain of what would happen next.
Then, as if Mother Nature herself had commanded its return, the great ship began falling back to the seafloor.
Western Pacific
The helicopter soared over the deep-blue Pacific, Mac searching the ocean for the decommissioned Soviet warship. “There she is,” he said, pointing to a gray shape on the horizon. Jonas eyed the Goliath through his binoculars before passing them back to Harry Moon. “You sure Celeste’s on board?”
“We’re sure,” Harry said. “Once she found out the location of the Devil’s Purgatory, she hightailed it off the William Beebe. She never had any interest in recapturing your shark, she only wanted your information.”
“And how will you know when Benedict’s actually located these nodules?” Mac asked.
“We’ll know the moment he begins shuttling his two submersibles between the Trench and the Goliath. Our objective is to get Terry and our agent off the ship without arousing suspicion. Once Benedict’s completed the mining job, the Navy will move in.”
Jonas felt a knot in his stomach. “What makes you so sure they’ll release Terry?”
“She knows nothing about their operation,” Harry said, “and Benedict will want to keep it that way. The William Beebe’s right behind us. The last thing Benedict wants is a bunch of civilians hanging around the Goliath while billions of dollars’ worth of manganese nodules are being loaded on board. When Celeste realizes that we’re not leaving without Terry, she’ll have her brought topside before the William Beebe arrives.”
“And what if my wife has already figured out what’s really going on in the Trench?”
Harry shook his head. “Let’s just pray she hasn’t.”
* * *
Mac set the chopper down on the foredeck next to another helicopter. One of the Goliath’s crew waited until the overhead rotors slowed before greeting the unwelcome guests.
“Please come with me,” said a crewman in a somber tone.
As they followed him aft, Jonas could see men working on an enormous white, cigar-shaped submersible situated on a hydraulic platform in the stern. Two arrays of underwater lights were being mounted along either side of the sub’s hull.
Jonas noticed the ship’s name painted in red across the keel. Prometheus. He recalled the name from a course on Greek mythology taken long ago as an undergraduate at Penn State. Prometheus was the Titan god who had stolen the sun’s power, giving it to humans to survive.
Benedict’s ego’s showing . . .
Jonas recognized the frail figure standing by the starboard rail.
“Masao—”
He felt his heart tighten as his father-in-law turned to him, teary-eyed.
“I’m sorry—”
“Masao—what happened? Tell me!”
“Terry’s dead,” he rasped, his almond eyes swollen from crying.
Jonas felt his legs weaken as a shock ran through his gut. Mac and Harry grabbed him.
“What happened?” Mac whispered.
“One of the submersibles imploded,” Masao said, choking on the words. “Terry was on board. All hands died.”
Jonas felt himself losing control. “Masao, who told you this?”
“I saw it, Jonas. I saw it with my own eyes.” Masao placed a trembling hand on his son-in-law’s arm, leading him into the Goliath. A reception area had been set up in one of the rec rooms. A television and VCR sat on one of the tables.
Jonas watched black-and-white taped footage taken from a camera mounted in the control room of the Benthos’s docking chamber. He saw the conning tower of the Epimetheus rise through the floor of the flooded chamber. Moments later, the water receded, the sub’s crew emerging.
“There’s Terry,” Masao pointed.
Jonas felt his heart pounding in his ears at the sight of his wife running across the room and off the screen, reappearing in view a moment later. A momentous explosion—the camera shaking violently—as the chamber flooded, killing everyone instantly.
Through tears Jonas stared at the swirl of bodies dancing on the monitor. “Where’s Terry? I don’t see her.”
“She’s there,” Celeste said, entering from the corridor. “Jonas—I’m so sorry.”
Jonas turned to face her, his muscles trembling in rage. “What caused this? How did it happen?”
“The Benthos was attacked by a pack of monsters.”
“Megalodons? You’re lying. Megs don’t hunt in packs.”
“Not Megs. Benedict called them Kronosaurs.”
“Kronosaurs?” He slumped into a chair, the blood draining from his face. “My God . . .”
“The Benthos is stranded on the bottom. We’re rigging powerful underwater lights to the hull of the Prometheus to keep the creatures away while we rescue the remaining crew.”
“I’m going with you,” Jonas said.
“Regrettably impossible. There’s absolutely no room. We have to pick up Benedict and a dozen of his crew.”
“I’m going down,” he repeated, pocketing the videotape from the VCR. “I need to see her.”
Celeste grabbed his wrist, leading him back out on deck to the keel of the Prometheus. “See those scratches and indentations in the hull? Those are teeth marks, Jonas, teeth marks made by the Kronosaurs. One of them tore apart the screw and nearly destroyed this vessel. Do you think I’m lying?”
“I need to see her body for myself!”
“You’re upset. Come inside and—”
“Don’t fucking touch me. Masao, I didn’t see her—”
Masao made eye contact with his son-in-law. “Jonas, come with us, please—”
He allowed Mac and Harry to lead him back to the helicopter.
“Jonas, listen to me, darling,” Celeste called back. “There are no bodies. The abyss swallowed the remains.”
* * *
Terry wedged another coin into the groove of the third bolt. Gritting her teeth, she strained to turn the screw, ignoring the pain coming from her swollen fingertips.
After several tries, the bolt loosened.
Not bothering with the last screw, Terry bent open the hanging ventilation cover and peered inside.
The aluminum shaft appeared to run parallel to the corridor, connecting each cabin with the deck’s ventilation system. The duct itself was only eighteen inches square. She saw a reflection of light coming from the next cabin down, the grid a good fifteen feet to her left.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed her arms and head through first, then exhaled, forcing her shoulders into the cramped space.
Within seconds she became pinned, her shoulders wedged in too tightly against the shaft’s narrow walls. Rolling painfully onto her back, she placed her arms across her chest and rounded her shoulders, freeing up enough space to pull her legs inside.
Arching her lower back, Terry used her feet to push her body through the shaft, waddling through headfirst until she reached the next ventilation cover. She looked in through the grid, finding the cabin empty, but could not gain enough leverage with her arms to free the bolted cover. Squirming farther down the shaft, she rolled onto her side, lined up her feet and began kicking.
It took several minutes of perspiring labor before the cover gave way. She pushed her feet through the opening, then inched her way in backward, contorting her upper body as she pulled herself into the deserted cabin.
Terry had felt the explosions and the impact of the Benthos as it had landed hard on the seafloor. She suspected the ship was stranded. That meant their only chance for rescue was the Prometheus.
She remembered the closed-circuit surveillance cameras positioned around the ship. Escaping from her cabin was one thing, making her way to the docking station without being spotted by cameras or crew was something else entirely.
Terry noticed a white lab coat and hard hat hanging in the closet. A wild idea came to her. She ran into the bathroom and scrubbed the makeup from her face with soap and water. Using th
e male occupant’s shaving razor, she cut off a lock of her hair, then searched the sink for something sticky.
Toothpaste!
With her finger she smeared a light coating of toothpaste on her face, outlining sideburns and a mustache. Slicing the lock of hair into smaller pieces, she fashioned her disguise, praying the toothpaste would hold.
It did.
Terry undressed, changing quickly into the man’s shirt, pants and a pair of rubber work boots. Tying her hair in a tight bun, she positioned the hard hat, then put on the lab coat.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, touching up the facial hair. Up close, the disguise was useless. But from a surveillance camera . . . it just might work, or at least buy her some time.
Heart pounding, she opened the cabin door and stepped into the empty corridor, trying her best not to walk like a woman.
* * *
The William Beebe arrived several hours after the Prometheus had begun its descent into Devil’s Purgatory. Back on board the research vessel, Jonas remained alone in his cabin, replaying the video of the implosion over and over, pausing each time where the camera jumped.
Mac entered with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“Where’s Masao?” Jonas asked.
“The doctor gave him a sedative.” Mac shook his head as his friend rewound the tape. “Stop torturing yourself.”
Jonas pushed PLAY, then reduced the speed. “Watch carefully.”
Humoring his friend, Mac watched the monitor. He saw Terry move out of camera range, then reappear.
Jonas pointed. “There. See how the tape jumps!”
Mac moved closer, kneeling before the screen. “Rewind that again.”
They watched the scene once more, the image jumping just before the implosion.
“Motherfuckers,” Mac said, “they edited the tape.”
“Terry’s alive.”
Mac looked into Jonas’s eyes. “I’ll rig the AG-2 to dive.”
* * *
Descending to a position fifty meters above the ceiling of the hydrothermal layer, the captain of the Prometheus activated his sub’s new array of underwater lights.