MEG: Nightstalkers

by Steve Alten

  Alexi’s going to be pissed. No doubt Donna will blame it on me.

  Looking up, he saw the boat’s hull pass overhead—and realized, to his horror, it was one of the Megalodons. The monster’s belly and pectoral fins resembled a small passenger jet, its tail methodically pushing it into an easy glide which ended with a ballet-like vertical ascent as Lizzy’s head broke the surface.

  Helpless and terrified, Lucas could only hang on and wait while his crate continued to rise alongside the Megalodon’s gently swaying caudal fin, the half-moon-shaped appendage channeling a rush of water that pushed him beneath the boat.

  Twelve feet from the keel all hell broke loose.

  Blood splattered across the surface—which erupted in a maelstrom as the forty-six-foot albino beast shook its head to and fro beneath the frothing shallows, unleashing a tornado of kelp.

  Seconds later the twin engines spun a dervish of bubbles and suddenly the crate—and Lucas—were bouncing along the surface.

  * * *

  The MH-65C Coast Guard helicopter chased its shadow over the emerald-green waterway, approaching Obstruction Island from the west. The co-pilot’s eyes shifted from the white speck on the horizon to the airship’s fuel gauge. “Captain, we’re on fumes. One flyover, then we need to refuel at Shaw Island.”

  Captain Royston glanced at Mac. “Don’t look so worried, grandpa. There’s always a little reserve left in the tank.”

  “Really, douche bag? Because my wife says the same thing … just before she runs out of gas.”

  Jonas had moved nearer to the open cargo door, the shifting cabin making it difficult to keep his binoculars trained on the fishing boat up ahead. For a brief second he thought he saw Lizzy’s head poised above the water … until the frame spun away as the craft beneath his feet started losing altitude.

  * * *

  He needed to head north for the safety of East Sound, only the Lebofilm’s bow was pointing south. As Steven Lebowitz accelerated and then pulled his boat into a tight portside turn, the former movie producer realized he had made a costly error.

  The anchor was dragged thirty feet through the kelp forest roots, digging in tighter and deeper until it had become firmly entrenched between two rocks. The more Lebowitz gunned the engines, the higher his bow rose and the less his boat moved.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Tethered to the bottom, they were sitting ducks.

  * * *

  The Coast Guard chopper hovered sixty feet above the rotor-blown surface, its crew mesmerized by the spectacle taking place below.

  The fishing boat’s twin engines were running at full throttle, yet the charter seemed frozen in place. Twenty feet to port was the Meg. Like the ship, the albino monster seemed stuck in place, its enormous head—easily the size of the ship’s bow—whipping the sea as if the shark had gone insane.

  “Captain, I’ve got the target sighted!”

  “Hold your fire until that boat clears the area.”

  “Why isn’t it moving?”

  “Its anchor’s hung.”

  Jonas focused his binoculars on Lizzy. “Mac, she’s wounded.”

  “Good. Where’s Bela?”

  Jonas’s flesh tingled. Where was Bela? “Captain, watch our altitude!”

  The reflection of the late afternoon sun and the propeller-whipped whitecaps had camouflaged Lizzy’s dark-backed sibling. Charging the surface, the twenty-one-ton Megalodon rose out of the sea, her snout coming within five feet of the chopper’s struts before gravity compelled its return.

  Twisting sideways, Bela struck the surface with a thunderous clap, the impact spraying water across the helicopter’s windshield.

  That was enough for the two pilots. “Captain, if we don’t leave now—”

  “Sir, there’s a man in the water!”

  * * *

  Suspended three feet below the surface, Lucas Heitman knew two things—that the Lebofilm’s anchor was caught along the bottom and that he was out of air. Now he had to choose—drown or attempt to board the boat before the captain cut the line and left him to be eaten.

  Releasing his grip on the crate’s lid, he pushed himself out of the wooden container … and sunk.

  Stripping off his weight belt returned him to neutral buoyancy. Slipping out of his gear forced him to kick his way to the surface for a desperate breath of air.

  His head emerged into a wind storm, the helicopter’s rotors whipping his face with salt water drenched with carbon monoxide fumes. The boat’s transom loomed ten feet away, only it was swaying to and fro so violently that Lucas hesitated to get near it lest he be sucked into the twin propellers.

  Something blotted out the sun, causing him to look up seconds before the bright orange harness struck him in the head.

  * * *

  “He’s in, Captain, we’re reeling him up.”

  Jonas peered over the hoist operator’s shoulder, watching the pace of the rising survivor, the pilot maintaining a static hoist evolution. “Captain, you can’t keep us stationary like this, you’re serving him up to Bela as lunch.”

  Royston knew Taylor was right. “Pilot, switch rescue procedure to a dynamic hoist and get us to Shaw Island.”

  “Not enough fuel, Captain. We’ll have to set her down on—”

  The pilot’s eyes widened as the sea erupted beneath the fishing boat, flipping it out of the water. Twisting on the anchor line, it landed keel up, its twin propellers slicing air.

  * * *

  One minute Steven Lebowitz was shouting at the girl to grab the ax—the next he was leaving his feet, the helm controls spinning in his vision, the top of his head smashing painfully against the deck which was somehow above him.

  And then he was underwater.

  Disoriented, Lebowitz kicked away from an entanglement of aluminum ladder rungs and curtains of charts, his reeling mind recognizing that the boat he had called home for the last eight years was sinking on top of him and he desperately needed to move.

  Swim to daylight …

  Steven Lebowitz swam to what his eyes perceived to be the surface—his primordial fears igniting as the white surroundings suddenly rushed at him, inhaling him into a moment of excruciating darkness.

  Lizzy did not swallow her prey as much as she chomped down upon its flesh until its blood and innards squished warm between her teeth.

  Donna Johnston remained trapped in the submerged inverted galley, her mind freaking out as Bela gnawed her way through the cherrywood cabin to reach her. Refusing to be eaten alive, the Scot asked God for mercy, said goodbye to her family, and then inhaled the sea deep into her lungs.

  * * *

  Lucas Heitman was dragged inside the aft bay just as one of the Coast Guard helicopter’s twin turbine engines coughed … and died.

  Jonas and Mac looked at each another. A breath later the five ton aircraft pitched sideways as it lost altitude, its pilots fighting to reach Obstruction Island with their remaining engine.

  “Hold on, we’re going down!”

  Jonas gripped the mounted hoist’s boom with one hand, the door frame with the other as the emerald surface whipped past the open bay at a sloping thirty-degree angle, the chopper rapidly running out of altitude.

  For extended seconds the pilots held gravity at bay—the depths marbling into azure shallows. And then the second engine seized silent and the airship fell forty feet, collapsing onto the beach.

  6

  Aboard the Supertanker Mogamigawa

  77 Nautical Miles South of Japan

  The converted Japanese supertanker, Mogamigawa moved through the dark waters of the Western Pacific, displacing 300,000 tons. She was as large as they came—a Malacca-max VLCC (very large crude carrier) designed with a draft shallow enough to navigate the Straits of Malacca, the preferred route between the Persian Gulf and Asia. A floating steel island, the Mogamigawa and her sister ship, the Tonga were 1,100 feet in length and 196 feet wide, with a superstructure rising out of the stern that towered twelve stor
ies. But it was the converted crude holds that made these goliaths unique—six large seawater pens, each rubber-lined saltwater tank equipped with saline and temperature controls, along with jet stream breathers designed to tranquilize, subdue, and safely transport extreme aquatic life forms that were larger than whales and bore the ferocity of a tiger.

  Accompanying the Mogamigawa was the Dubai Land-II, a 196-foot, 280-ton fishing trawler which held two Manta submersibles designed by Jonas and David Taylor. The pilots aboard the DB-II had been trained to use their subs to entice a targeted sea monster up from the depths of the Panthalassa Sea—a prehistoric purgatory isolated beneath the Philippine Sea Plate. That mission had shifted dramatically (to the sub pilots’ relief) when several species had escaped into the Western Pacific.

  The Boeing CH-47 Chinook twin engine heavy lift helicopter hovered above the Mogamigawa’s helipad. Fifteen restless passengers were seated in the cargo bay, exhausted from their ten hour flight into Tokyo. Upon landing, they had been ushered through customs and taken by bus to a commuter airport for the two hour helicopter ride south.

  The Chinook touched down with a double thud. The bay door opened, venting the hold with a blast of cold air.

  Amanda Silvernail, the executive producer, stood watch over Nichole Middelkamp, her petite green-eyed assistant, who passed out manila envelopes to each of the ten female contestants. “You’ll find cabin assignments and a map of the ship inside. The local time is nine-fifteen p.m. Breakfast is in the galley at eight, followed by video bios. Get some sleep, ladies, tomorrow is a big day. If you need anything contact Nichole.”

  The women grabbed their suitcases and makeup bags and formed an exit line. As they passed Monty, two Egyptians and a Syrian model ceremoniously slapped the Iraqi War vet across his face—all to the delight of James Gelet, who was filming everything (the cameraman having sent a text moments ago that the man they had seduced aboard the 747 was not in fact David Taylor, but an imposter assigned to the tanker as a short order cook).

  David winced as another dark-haired beauty smacked Monty atop his head, cursing at him in Arabic.

  “Was it worth it?”

  Monty rubbed his skull, his cheeks—swollen and red. “Well, that hellcat wasn’t, but the other three … hell, yes. Did you know ancient Roman priestesses called vestal virgins were required to keep their hymens intact as proof of virginity until they were thirty years old, or they’d be buried alive. That’d be my dream job—hymen inspector.” He nodded to Jackie Buchwald, who was seated four rows back. “What’s with the strawberry-blonde? You’ve been giving her the evil eye for the last hour.”

  “Her? Nothing.”

  “Studious type, but definitely cute. One of the reality show producers?”

  “She’s with the aquarium … a marine biologist who thinks she knows it all.”

  “Uh oh. You either like this chick or she makes you Bushusuru.”

  “What?”

  “Bushusuru. It’s a new Japanese word for vomiting in public. It was created after George Bush Sr. vomited on the Japanese Prime Minister.”

  “She was playing head games with me, Monty.”

  “Big head or little head?”

  “I gotta get some air.” David grabbed his duffle bag and headed outside. “Amanda, do you have an envelope there for me?”

  “Jason Montgomery … let’s see—”

  “His name is David Taylor.” Jackie Buchwald pushed him aside, grabbing her envelope from the confused producer. “Wouldn’t want you to get caught up in any head games, David.”

  Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Jackie jogged across the helipad and entered the tanker’s looming superstructure.

  * * *

  He was struggling to keep his head above water, each incoming swell a five-foot mountain concealing Kaylie. She was up ahead, her long, lean body slicing across a surface slick with oil and blood.

  Obliterating the sunset was the Tonga, the ship’s starboard flank towering overhead. Suspended from the tanker’s reinforced steel net was Angel, the Megalodon’s eviscerated lower torso gone, her innards a crimson waterfall which splattered into the Philippine Sea.

  He was swimming in it; the oil pouring from Angel’s ruptured liver … her hot blood coagulating in the cold Pacific. It was getting in his mouth—he fought the gag reflex, fearful of losing the girl.

  He paused to get his bearings, relieved to find her holding on to the buoyant escape pod.

  “David, hang on to the other side.”

  Barely able to lift his arms, David paddled over to his father’s submersible and held on, pressing his face to the glass.

  His father was sitting up in his cockpit, shaking his head.

  “Dad?”

  “I told you not to join the expedition, son. But you never listen. You’re just like I was—impetuous. Balls-to-the-wall … always thinking you can cheat death. There’s a price to pay, David. Always a price.”

  He glanced at Kaylie, who waved at him from the other side of the escape pod. “Good-bye, David. I enjoyed our brief time together.”

  “Please don’t go.”

  “Baby, don’t be sad. We both knew this was never meant to be. I have my destiny; you have yours.”

  As he watched, the Liopleurodon rose from the depths, its gargantuan crocodilian jaws widening around Kaylie.

  “Kaylie, wait! Will I ever see you again?”

  Reaching out, she held onto a curved dagger-like tooth to keep from slipping down the monstrous gullet. “Every night … until you release me.”

  The monster’s jaws closed, the beast returning to the depths.

  * * *

  “Ahhh! Ahhhh!”

  David shot up in bed, his body trembling, his T-shirt drenched in a cold sweat. He was in the belly of the beast—a swaying, groaning darkness with no perceivable dimensions, and he needed to get out!

  Hyperventilating, he fell out of bed onto a cold steel floor and crawled blindly until his forehead smashed into a ledge, the collision blasting stars in his vision.

  A passage opened on his right, a figure looming in the gray shadows.

  “David?”

  “Yes!” He tried to stand and smashed his head even harder.

  “Where’s your light switch?”

  A dull white florescent bulb flickered on high overhead, illuminating the eight by ten foot cabin. Steel bulkhead, no portal, bed frame bolted to the floor, small dorm-style refrigerator, metal toilet and matching sink.

  Embarrassed, he crawled out from beneath the bowl of the sink, rubbing his head.

  Jacqueline Buchwald helped him up. David’s eyes lingered over her bare feet and smooth tan legs, the loose-fitting gray sleeping shirt offering tantalizing hints of her naked breasts pressing beneath the thin cotton fabric.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My cabin’s next door; you were screaming.”

  “Bad dream.” He sat on the edge of the bed, shivering.

  She searched through a pile of clothing, pulling out a clean shirt. “Put this on.”

  He pulled off the wet T-shirt, revealing an athlete’s muscular upper torso … and the thick three-inch red scars embedded along the palm-side of each wrist.

  He redressed quickly, covering the evidence of his attempted suicide with the wet T-shirt.

  “David, there’s no need to be embarrassed. It’s just a scar.”

  “It’s a little more than a scar, don’t you think?”

  “Only if you continue to dwell upon it. Give yourself a break.”

  “You sound like my shrink.”

  “Been there, done that. Antidepressants … alcohol therapy. You’d be amazed how normal you are compared to the rest of us. Back at Brown, all I cared about was filling out my resume—scared to death I wouldn’t be able to find a job after graduating. I spent three years as a professional dancer while I was an undergrad, just in case the whole marine biology deal fell through. I think the Crown Prince chose me more for my legs than my grade po
int average.” She stood on her toes, her leg muscles flexing as she assumed a ballet pose, her raised arms causing her shirt to ride up her hips, revealing a flash of her shaved vagina.

  David’s heart pounded in his chest, the blood rushing to his groin.

  “So, what was it about?”

  “What was what about?”

  “The nightmare. Do you get them often?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know a cure; guaranteed to get you seven hours of sleep a night.”

  “I don’t like sleeping pills, they make me feel weird.”

  “Who said anything about a pill? I was talking about sex.” In one motion, she pulled the gray shirt over her head, revealing her naked body.

  “We work in a stress-filled environment, David, filled with very real scary monsters. At the end of a long day I need to let loose. I’m not interested in love; this is purely about preventing nightmares.”

  “By having sex?”

  “No. By fucking each other’s brains out before we go to sleep. Think you can handle that? Or would you rather take an Ambien?”

  “Screw that.” David stood, stripping out of his T-shirt and boxers—Jackie’s hands groping his body as she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

  * * *

  The supertanker’s galley had been upgraded by the Crown Prince to accommodate the reality show cast and crew. Cafeteria-style seating and buffet lines replaced the vessel’s third world “slop-stop” décor; while the usual breakfast selections of oatmeal and powdered eggs were upgraded with fresh produce and an omelet station manned by Monty.

  David entered the galley with a spring in his step. He and Jackie had gone at it until two in the morning. Finally spent, the two of them had curled up like spoons and fallen asleep.

  For the rest of the night there were no more bad dreams. When he awoke seven hours later, she was gone.

  David headed over to the omelet station where Rana, an Iranian actress, was yammering in Farsi at Monty. She ended the exchange by grinding a tomato wedge into his friend’s face.

  “Hey!” David grabbed her arm. “Don’t do that; he’s my friend.”

  She turned to slap him, only to realize it was the real David Taylor. “Mister David, I am so sorry. What can I get for your breakfast, please?”