by Steve Alten
Dr. Ford marked something on Jonas’s chart. “You have a grade-2 concussion. I’m discharging you, but take it easy for a few days. If you were intending to fly home, I’d wait at least until Monday. That should give you plenty of time to game plan.”
“Game plan?”
“Your two sharks have killed three people in the last week while shutting down the tourist trade. What are you two schmucks intending to do about it?”
Jonas looked to Mac, who shrugged. “I dunno, doc. The induced coma sounds nice. What do you think, J.T.?”
Before he could respond, Terry entered the room.
Mac took one look at her expression and rose from his chair to leave. “Terry, so good to see you. Dr. Ford, wait up—I have an ingrown toenail I’d like you to look at.”
“Mac—sit.” She turned to the physician. “Can you arrange transportation to our hotel without those reporters following us?”
“I suppose we can smuggle the three of you out in an ambulance. Just give the nurse about thirty minutes to process your husband’s discharge papers.”
“Thank you.” Terry waited until he left. “Mac, you have a wife and a newborn son at home. Haven’t you had enough of this cowboy stuff? And you”—she turned to her husband—“where is our son?”
“Last I heard, he and Monty were en route to the Sea of Japan to rendezvous with one of the Crown Prince’s supertankers—not the one that’s after the Lio. Kenney Sills is in charge of the submersible crews; he promised to keep David under control.”
“Kenney Sills? Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He was one of our original Manta test pilots. You remember … the Navy SEAL?”
“I remember a former Navy SEAL who used to get shitfaced drunk every Friday night with Mac. Would that be the responsible adult you’ve entrusted with my son’s life?”
“Maybe I should wait outside.” Mac headed for the door.
Terry took the vacated chair. “You’re a good man, Jonas … a good father. I’ve tried to be a supportive wife; but I can’t take this anymore. The stress plays havoc with my Parkinson’s, and I have no interest in giving your eulogy. My terms are simple; either you come home and let the Coast Guard handle Bela and Lizzy or I’m leaving you.”
Taiji, Japan
The town of Taiji is located on Honshu, Japan’s largest and most populated island. Thirty-five hundred residents occupy this small coastal village, where fishermen trace their ancestral roots back to the whaling trade.
Enter Taiji today and one would get the impression that the locals have evolved into cetacean lovers. A life-size statue of a humpback whale and her calf greets visitors against the backdrop of Kumana-nadu Sea. There is a whaling museum that chronicles the town’s history and an aquarium where live dolphins perform. Images of smiling cetaceans are everywhere; from the dolphin-shaped tour boats that circle Taiji Bay to the myriad of cartoons posted in local businesses and restaurants. To the casual observer it would appear that the people of Taiji truly love their dolphins—only for different reasons than one might think.
Each September through March, thousands of dolphins return to Japan’s southeastern Pacific coast as part of their primordial migratory pattern. Every day, a dozen Taiji fishing crews head out to sea in “banger boats” to meet them. Hammering away at metal poles attached to the sides of their vessels, the fishermen create a noise barrier which panics the mammals and herds them toward shore where they are netted in one of Taiji’s shallow lagoons. Thus begins a brutal two-step protocol long kept secret from the rest of Japan and the international community.
Phase one was slavery. Female bottlenose dolphins were selected from the group by dealers who sold them to marine amusement parks for upwards of $150,000 a piece. Divers in wet suits wade through the frenzy of frightened mammals, tying ropes around the tails of coveted specimens, which are hauled into boats in front of approving locals and protesting visitors.
Phase two of the enterprise was far more brutal, performed away from any eyewitnesses.
* * *
The two-man submersible was dark brown on top with a white belly, its nine-foot wingspan similar to that of Manta birostris, the aquatic species that had inspired its design. Its skin was composed of a seamless layered acrylic, its interior cockpit sealed within a spherical escape pod that could withstand 19,000 pounds per square inch of water pressure. As an added escape feature, two hydrogen tanks were mounted on its back, capable of temporarily transforming the sub into a rocket.
David Taylor was feeling restless. For the last four hours the two Manta subs had led the trawler and supertanker on a slow journey of boredom through the deep waters off the southeastern coastline of Japan. The cockpit-cam had captured him relieving himself and picking his nose; the outer camera faring slightly better when they had joined up with a pod of dolphins. There was no sign of the fifty-ton ichthyosaur trio, nor was there much promise in the narrow swath of sea Kenney Sills had outlined twenty miles south of the mainland.
David continued testing the commander’s orders, gradually distancing his submersible from the Manta piloted by Colton Wright and Paul Rudd.
Nick Porter knew what he was doing, but said nothing. Situated in the co-pilot’s seat on his right, the nineteen year old was just happy to be included in the mission and openly reveled at David’s piloting skills and the olive-green night-vision panoramic underwater view provided by the cockpit glass’s nocturnal setting.
“This is amazing … you are an amazing pilot!”
“Dude, chill out, we’re cruising on auto-pilot.”
“DB-II to Manta-Two, you’re drifting off course again. Mr. Taylor, I want you within six kilometers of Manta-One.”
David winked at Nick. “Sir, I’m not up on the whole metric thing. How many miles is that?”
“Slightly more than three miles; you’ve pushed it to five. Adjust your heading to two-five-zero.”
“Two-five-zero pushes us headfirst into an easterly current, Commander. I wouldn’t want to risk losing the exterior camera; I’m not sure the housing could handle it.”
“Very well. Maintain course and speed, Mr. Taylor, we’ll come to you.”
Damn. David watched his sonar screen as Manta-One altered its course.
He turned to Nick, who was doubled over, his prosthetic hand pressing the headset to his ears. “What is it? The shonisaurs?”
He shook his head. “I hear … screaming.”
David switched his headphones from radio to sonar.
The sound was very faint, the source still a distance away. That Nick had heard it at all was impressive as it wasn’t a reflection of their active sonar, but a haunting chorus of high-pitched squeals.
“Nick, get me a heading.”
“Course zero-one-zero, range nine point seven kilometers—sorry, that’s about six miles—due north.”
David switched back to the radio setting. “Manta-Two to DB-II; Nick’s detected an unusual disturbance on sonar—we’re changing course to investigate.” Without waiting for a reply, he pushed the joystick to the right and pressed his left foot pedal to the floor, sending the Manta banking hard to starboard.
Rising to within sixty feet of the surface, David accelerated to forty knots—the submersible’s top speed. Nick braced himself as best he could with his four metal appendages, grinning from ear to ear.
Commander Sills did not share the young sonar operator’s enthusiasm. “Mr. Taylor, return to course two-five-zero immediately; that is a direct order.”
David turned to Nick. “Switch sonar to the external speakers so the rest of the world can hear what we’re hearing.”
“Belay that request, Mr. Porter! David, remember what we talked about—”
The sound of a hundred tortured squeals filled the cockpit, cutting off the enraged commander.
Nick shouted into his mouthpiece, “Range—two miles. I’ve got a fix on the target. It’s a small town on the southeastern coast of Honshu Island called Taiji. The sounds ar
e coming from a shallow waterway that cuts through a place listed on the GPS as Tsunami Park.”
A text message appeared on the communication screen:
DAVID, DO NOT ENTER TSUNAMI PARK UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES OR YOU AND YOUR CO-PILOT WILL BE DISCHARGED FROM THE MISSION AND SENT BACK TO THE STATES.
David glanced at Nick, the cries of distress cutting through both their souls. “Are you ready to lose your job over this?”
“Screw the job; I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
David surfaced the Manta, the dark horizon of the Japanese mainland looming half a mile ahead. Nick guided him around a rocky coastline until they arrived at a narrow channel.
The waterway was only fifty feet wide, bordered on either side by steep cliffs. David reduced his speed to five knots and switched the cockpit glass from night-vision to normal—and suddenly they were awash in blood.
“My God … what is this place?” Nick whispered.
David felt queasy. “It’s a dolphin slaughterhouse.”
* * *
Hours after the aquarium dealers had made their selections, the Taiji fishing boats returned to the lagoon. Dragging the nets holding several hundred remaining dolphins, they appeared to head out to sea—only to follow the coastline, where they entered a channel that led into a secret cove in nearby Tsunami Park. There, by bonfires’ light under cover of tarps, the Taiji fishermen invaded the shallows, armed with spears and knives …
* * *
The nose of the Manta pressed against the top of a thick brown net. On the other side of the barrier the dolphins wailed long agonizing squeals as their human oppressors, standing in the water in wet suits and pushing through the squirming masses in skiffs loaded with dead dolphins, hacked and speared and mutilated the mammals, adults and calves alike.
David gritted his teeth as he watched a Taiji fisherman coldly eviscerate a female bottlenose dolphin while its three month old infant attempted to leap over the top of the net, blood oozing from its blowhole.
A primordial rage rose from David Taylor’s gut. Gripping the joystick, he slammed both feet down on his pedals and rammed the net, driving it straight into the shallows until it collided with the skiffs, the sharp edges of the Manta’s wings undercutting the divers’ legs.
The dolphins rushed to the break in the gauntlet, the mortally wounded animals attempting to follow their fleeing brethren out to sea.
The bottom of the Manta skidded onto shore. Bright lights glared down upon the two young Americans inside the cockpit as armed policemen aimed their guns at the sub’s bulletproof Lexan glass, yelling out commands in Japanese—every action recorded on film.
8
Friday Harbor, San Juan Island
The Bird Rock Hotel was more of a large house—like one might find on the Jersey Shore—than a hotel. Using a friend’s credit card to hide their identities, Terry had reserved a suite with a king-size bed and a private balcony with a hot tub and view of the harbor. Any chance of Jonas enjoying a restful night was ruined by the pain he experienced while lying down and the agony of watching the sisters’ latest attack, which still dominated Washington’s evening news.
Heeding Terry’s advice, Mac had flown back to Monterey to be with his family. Meanwhile, the Coast Guard announced it had deployed the Active, a 210-foot-long medium endurance cutter armed with a single 25 mm gun on the forecastle and two .50-caliber machine guns. It sounded like an impressive step except when one considered the sheer size of the Salish Sea, the unpredictable nature of the two juvenile Megalodons, and the reality that bullets fired at two hundred rounds per minute were only effective when the intended target surfaced.
By morning, the fog in Jonas’s head had cleared. Donning a Seattle Mariners baseball cap and dark sunglasses, he followed Terry down their private outdoor staircase to take in Friday Harbor. After eating breakfast at the Rocky Bay Café they worked their way from one quaint shop to the next, the stress associated with the institute’s mounting lawsuits momentarily forgotten … until they arrived at the wharf.
The Save-Our-Sharks society was established to stop the senseless slaughter of sharks by fishermen supplying Asia with fins for their soup. Sharks had the right to exist and served to keep the entire ocean ecosystem in balance. Like most conservation groups, S.O.S. lacked funding and publicity. A nonviolent faction of scientists and activists, they had come to San Juan Island seeking to turn the media’s exposure of the Megalodon attacks into a rallying cry for their own movement. Marching on Friday Harbor, two dozen members of S.O.S. staged a peaceful protest before a small army of field reporters and their camera crews.
Opposing the group were the locals whose livelihoods depended on tourism and the islands’ water-based activities—fishing charters, dive boats, whale-watching tours, kayaking, and Jet Ski rentals. For twenty minutes they threatened to toss members of S.O.S. into the sun-soaked bay waters until the police arrived to separate the two groups. Film crews desperate for any new angle on the story remained on the scene—until word spread that one of the local charter boat captains and his guests had encountered a Megalodon and were en route to Friday Harbor to hold a press conference that would “shock the world.”
* * *
Paul Agricola believed in karma.
Thirty-five years ago, the only son of Canadian venture capitalist Peter Agricola was in the Philippine Sea aboard his father’s 275-foot research vessel, the Tallman. The marine biologist and his team had been commissioned to gather data on NW Rota-1, a deep submarine volcano that towered twelve stories off the bottom of the sea floor in the Mariana Trench.
To explore the deepest location on the planet required special equipment. Fastened to the Tallman’s keel like a twelve-foot remora was a gondola-shaped device that housed a Multi Beam Echo Sounder (MBES), its dual frequency deepwater sonar pings designed for mapping the abyss. Paul Agricola’s biggest challenge in collecting data on a geological feature located 36,000 feet below the surface was the dense hydrothermal plume which coagulated a mile above the bottom of the Mariana Trench like a swirling ceiling of soot. The mineral layer effectively sealed in the heat percolating from the seven-hundred-degree Fahrenheit waters spewing from thousands of hydrothermal vents, but it also played havoc with the Echo Sounder’s sonar signal.
Paul’s solution was to deploy the Sea Bat, a winged, remotely-operated vehicle. Tethered to the MBES, the Sea Bat worked like a charm, flying below the plume like an underwater kite, using its on-board sonar to relay signals back to the Tallman that identified every object within its acoustic perimeter.
For three months the Tallman had circled the area above the undersea volcano, gathering water samples while imaging a thriving chemosynthetic ecosystem spawned by the hydrothermal vents. Having completed its mission, Paul’s crew were set to retrieve the Sea Bat when a very large marine animal, estimated to be over fifty feet long, suddenly appeared in the sonar array’s field of vision.
There was no doubt the blip was a biologic. The question: what was it?
The extreme depth eliminated any possibility of the species being a sperm whale, while the creature’s weight—approximated at twenty-five tons—ruled out a giant squid. The consensus among the three oceanographers onboard was that it was most likely a very large whale shark.
Paul Agricola had a different theory. He believed the creature to be Carcharodon megalodon, a sixty-foot prehistoric species of great white shark whose extinction two million years ago had remained an unresolved mystery in the paleo-world. Furthermore, Paul intended to prove the creature was a Meg by using the Sea Bat’s electronic signals to bait it to the surface.
For days the crew of the Tallman tried, but the predator, while interested, refused to rise above the warmth of the hydrothermal plume. And then another object appeared on sonar—this one a submersible.
The USS Sea Cliff was completing its third and final dive in the Challenger Deep, the deepest part of the Mariana Trench. The mission was top-secret, the three man vessel co
ntaining two scientists and the United States Navy’s top submersible pilot—a thirty-year-old commander by the name of Jonas Taylor.
Exhausted from his third dive in eight days, Jonas was struggling to maintain the Sea Cliff’s position just above the hydrothermal plume when a strange glow appeared to be circling below the mineral clouds directly beneath the sub. A skipped heartbeat later a monstrous albino head rose majestically from out of the plume, its eight-foot-wide jaws hyperextending open to take a bite.
It was Paul Agricola’s actions that had led the Megalodon to the Sea Cliff, forcing Jonas Taylor to execute an emergency ascent that had killed the two scientists on board. Dishonorably discharged, his career over, Jonas would return to the Mariana Trench seven years later—this time as a marine biologist intent on clearing his name.
As for the marine biologist who had actually discovered a Megalodon alive in the abyss, Paul Agricola was forced to take a vow of silence by his father, who feared his son’s involvement with the U.S. Navy could lead to lawsuits against Agricola Industries by the dead scientists’ families. Seven years later, Jonas Taylor’s exploits in the trench would cause the disillusioned Canadian scientist to hang up his lab coat and move to San Juan Island to live off his father’s hush money.
Thirty-five years ago Paul had missed his opportunity to land “the big one.”
Late last night, the charter boat captain had caught a beauty.
Paul Agricola’s guest was a retiring executive from BP oil—a personal friend of his father. The Tallman-II had picked him up in Vancouver yesterday afternoon, along with one of his local vice presidents and two female “escorts” in their late twenties. The plan was to spend the day sport fishing in waters not affected by the quarantine—although most of the action had taken place in the yacht’s private cabins.
The fish had been hooked last night while en route to San Juan Island. Unaware his guests had been troll fishing in quarantined waters, Paul wanted to cut the line, but the oil executive had insisted on hauling in the catch so he could mount it in his game room. And so, under cover of darkness they had dropped the nets and dragged the fish on board.