MEG: Nightstalkers

by Steve Alten

  The moment Paul saw the six-foot shark he knew it was Bela’s offspring.

  * * *

  By the time the Tallman-II cruised into Friday Harbor, the docks by the yacht’s assigned berth were swarming with news crews and locals. Thrashing in a net along the starboard side of the sixty-foot boat was a shark, its weight estimated by the fishermen in attendance at three hundred pounds.

  Paul Agricola waited in the bridge while his crew secured the Tallman-II within its berth, mentally rehearsing the speech that would begin his long-overdue fifteen minutes of fame.

  Upwards of a thousand people were standing on the wharf in front of the bow of the docked yacht, Terry and Jonas among them. They couldn’t see beyond the wall of reporters and film crews, nor could they identify the game fish splashing about inside the net.

  They were about to leave when the yacht’s captain climbed down from his bridge, armed with a bullhorn. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Paul Agricola and I’m the captain and owner of this yacht. Last night, while returning from a fishing trip outside the quarantined zone, we hooked a species of fish that has no business being in our waters … a predator whose presence proves that we’ve been lied to by the authorities and the man responsible for the two monsters that killed Captain Lebowitz and those two young women … God rest their souls.”

  Jonas pulled down the brim of his hat, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.

  “Before I became a fisherman, I was a marine biologist and a damn good one at that. I know why Bela and Lizzy came to these waters … they came here to give birth!”

  The blood rushed from Jonas’s face. He could feel Terry staring at him, her words lost in the din of the shouting crowd.

  Paul Agricola raised his hand for quiet. When none came, he blasted the crowd with the shrill sound of his megaphone. “Shut your yaps and I’ll show you. Behold … one of Bela’s pups!”

  Two deckhands leaned out over the starboard rail to steady the net now rising out of the water. A winch secured to a rope separated the catch from the net, revealing a six-foot shark with an albino head, dangling over the deck by its tail.

  The crowd’s reaction was eventually quelled by the S.O.S. leader, whose retort was amplified by his followers. “It’s a great white … let it go!”

  Paul Agricola responded with a megaphone screech that quieted the crowd. “It is not a great white! I checked its teeth. Meg teeth have a raised chevron on the back.”

  A CNN reporter called out, “How could Bela have had babies? There were no male Megs at the Tanaka Institute. Was this an immaculate conception, captain?”

  Paul waited until the laughter and catcalls subsided. “For your information, more than five hundred different animal species reproduce without sex. Female greenflies birth exact replicas of themselves; same with the whiptail lizard. Hammerhead sharks have given birth in captivity to genetic clones of the mother. I have a friend … a fellow colleague who told me that he performed genetic tests on Angel’s offspring six months ago; the results showed the three runts were Angel’s genetic clones, indicating her eggs had been self-fertilized in her womb. Bring in an expert and have him perform a DNA test on this shark and if this female isn’t a genetic match of Bela, I’ll sell my yacht and give the money to Captain Lebowitz’s family.”

  The crowd reacted, field reporters shouting over one another to be heard.

  The shark arched its back, its upper band of pink gums exposed as it began suffocating. Paul signaled for his men to lower it back into the water.

  “Jonas!” Terry grabbed his face between her palms to get her husband’s attention. “Is this true?”

  He nodded, his eyes focused on the baby Meg as it was lowered back into the bay.

  The bay …

  Sweet Jesus.

  He grabbed Terry by the elbow and dragged her through the crowd, clearing a path with his cast.

  “Jonas—stop!”

  People were looking at him now; they had heard his name. A hand reached out and plucked the hat from his head. A pair of fishermen, both bearded and beer-bellied pushed through the throng and grabbed him.

  “Here he is, the sum bitch that caused all the problems!”

  The mob pressed in, the scent of body odor and alcohol filling Jonas’s lungs as he was physically separated from Terry behind a tidal surge of prodding flesh and sweaty T-shirts, the locals driving him back toward the news crews.

  Microphones were shoved in his face; artificial lights blinded his eyes. The shouts were deafening, the chaos igniting his primordial instinct to survive. He swung his cast and connected with a few heads, but he was a lost soul fighting an army … and suddenly he was underwater.

  * * *

  The ghost-white dorsal fin cut across the brilliant blue shallows of Friday Harbor, blending in with the sailboats docked like sardines around the perimeter of the Yacht Club. Moving in formation beneath Lizzy’s pectoral fins was her darker sister, Bela, the two creatures swimming in a symbiotic defensive posture forged from having spent four years living in a tank where they perpetually sensed the presence of Angel, their overbearing mother.

  The Megalodon siblings had homed in on the vibrations of Bela’s distressed offspring when the yacht had traveled southwest past Shaw Island. Entering the bay, the sisters’ sensory array had lost the female pup’s distress signals when it had been hauled onto the boat.

  When Paul Agricola had returned the juvenile Meg back into the water, he had forgotten that the shark needed to swim to breathe. This had been achieved en route to San Juan Island by the yacht’s forward motion. With the boat docked, the shark quickly became entangled in the net and was unable to force water into its mouth to engage its gills.

  The suffocating newborn thrashed along the side of the boat, its rapid heartbeats and desperate flailing actions immediately detected by sensory cells embedded in the lateral lines located along the sisters’ flanks.

  Bela shot past her sibling, homing in on the yacht and her dying offspring. With her belly pressed against the muddy bottom, she approached the net cautiously, her forty-six-foot girth barely squeezing between the starboard side of the yacht and the maze of pilings supporting the wooden pier.

  The Meg nudged its dead pup with her snout, her left pectoral fin slipping beneath the Tallman-II’s keel, the right coming to rest between two pilings.

  Sharks do not have a reverse gear. Wedged in too tightly to turn around, Bela was stuck.

  With their attention focused on Jonas Taylor, the members of the media and the riled up locals never noticed the dark sickle-shaped caudal fin slapping at the back of the yacht. It wasn’t until the Tallman-II began rolling to port that Paul Agricola and his crew suddenly realized they had an uninvited guest.

  The water frothed as the twenty-one-ton Megalodon panicked like an angry bull stuck in its paddock. Repeatedly bashing her ivory-colored head from side to side, Bela dislodged a row of pilings, collapsing a city block-size section of Friday’s Wharf.

  One moment Jonas was being jostled by the crowd, the next he was sliding on his back amid an entanglement of bodies and camera equipment. A shock of cold whitewater blasted him in the face, then his feet struck something solid and he was driven underwater through a maelstrom of human shrapnel and splintered boardwalk until his body was pinned against the muddy bottom.

  Bela twisted so that her tail now occupied the real estate vacated by the fallen pilings. Squeezing her head beneath the Tallman-II’s keel, she whipped her caudal fin into a frenzy as she lifted the yacht’s bow onto her back.

  Freed from beneath the Megalodon’s right pectoral fin, Jonas fought his way to the surface. He wheezed several precious breaths of air, then kicked and paddled until he found himself straddling a dark island of flesh that felt like sandpaper and sliced through his jeans like barbed wire.

  Gripping Bela’s dorsal fin like a windsurfer, Jonas stood upon the deranged creature’s back as the Meg plowed the Tallman-II sideways into the next dock over. He
leaped off as the shark finally muscled its way free, swimming out to join its albino sibling.

  Jonas grabbed on to a floating plank and held on. After a moment’s rest he looked up, a strange sensation coming over him.

  Lizzy was spy-hopping in the middle of the bay … staring at him.

  Oh God … no.

  Slipping beneath the surface, the ghostly shark disappeared—

  Jonas’s heart pounded wildly in his chest as the albino monster’s massive head rose before him, her gray-blue left eye gazing at him less than a body length away.

  Sheer terror subsided to a sense of awe as the creature seemed to size him up.

  You recognize me, don’t you? You should know me; I’m the one who cared for you since the day you were born.

  The weight of the moment intensified as the survivors ceased splashing and the sound of three hundred emboldened onlookers edged their way onto the decimated wharf in muted curiosity like Roman spectators, divided over whether to root for the Christian or the lion.

  “You were always the clever one, Lizzy. You know I’m not fattening enough to qualify as a snack, let alone food. What are you thinking? Am I a threat to your young? Is that what your instincts tell you?”

  Another twenty seconds passed between man and beast before the Megalodon’s mammoth head slid back into the sea.

  Jonas squeezed his eyes shut and waited to die.

  The force of the blow shocked the survivors in the water out of their lethargy; the onlookers to let out a collective yell as Lizzy struck the Tallman-II’s starboard bow with the force of freight train hitting an eighteen wheeler. The yacht rolled hard to port and kept rolling, its flying bridge crushing the small dock separating it from the next berth over before coming to a ninety-degree resting place, its starboard rail high out of the water.

  Paul Agricola fell feetfirst through the collapsing dock into the bay, the former marine biologist managing to swim between pilings to reach the next berth over. He surfaced in time to watch the Tallman-II sink another twenty feet before she rolled belly-up, the net holding the dead Meg pup surfacing beside her.

  9

  Taiji, Japan

  Hiking up Takababe Hill beneath a predawn sky, activists and foreign news crews trained their cameras on the secret dolphin killing cove where a beached submersible remained entwined in a fishing net. The protestors had organized within hours after links featuring the Manta’s live video feed had gone viral on Youtube.

  Kenney Sills knew the Manta and its pilots would be held captive indefinitely by Taiji authorities, so he convinced the Crown Prince to release the footage as a way to prevent their detention, under the guise of promoting the upcoming Dubai Aquarium reality show. Though the story had broken in 2009 via the Oscar-nominated documentary The Cove, very few people were aware of the film or the annual Taiji slaughter responsible for brutally killing 20,000 dolphins each year.

  Taken from a dolphin’s perspective, the Manta’s footage shocked the world, forcing Japan’s Chief Cabinet Secretary Yoshihide Suga to issue a hastily prepared statement via Twitter.

  “Taiji fishermen are conducting a legal activity. Dolphin meat is part of Japan’s diet and economy.”

  Activists responded immediately, stating that the justification of butchering these intelligent mammals as food was as dangerous to the Japanese public as it was cruel to the creatures themselves. Dolphin meat, often falsely packaged as whale meat, was neither an Asian delicacy nor was it nutritious; furthermore it contained toxic levels of mercury—a result of the species’ diet. Consuming mercury damages the human brain and nervous system, affects eyesight, hearing, and motor skills. Mercury also harms fetuses, leading to birth defects.

  The cabinet secretary was instructed to stop tweeting and address the public at a ten a.m. news conference, attempting damage control in what was becoming a public relations disaster.

  Meanwhile, the confrontation between local police and the Manta’s two pilots remained at a standstill. Each time authorities attempted to hook a tow line to the sub’s exterior, David Taylor countered with an electrical discharge through the outer hull, effectively tasering any unlucky fisherman or policeman within two feet of the sub.

  By nine-thirty a deal was struck; the reality show producers agreed not to air footage of the dolphin slaughter during the season, in return for the release of their submersible and its crew.

  David Taylor was furious when informed about the arrangement by text. He and Nick Porter watched and waited while the netting was cut and the sub pushed backwards into the water by six angry fishermen and a police officer, all of whom were cursing at him and spitting on his cockpit glass.

  David gave them a farewell zap that had them screaming in agony. Executing a tight 180-degree turn, the pilot raced the Manta out of the bloodstained waters of the cove to cheers from activists poised on the hillsides.

  Any good feelings were quickly quashed by the radio transmission.

  “Mr. Taylor, I am sending you the DB-II’s coordinates. You will plot a course, engage the autopilot, and return to the trawler immediately.”

  “Kenney—”

  “Those are your orders, Mr. Taylor. Commander Sills out.”

  Damn, he’s pissed. David turned to his co-pilot, who was listening intently on sonar. “What is it?”

  “Banger boats. They’re driving another dolphin pod inland.”

  “Sonuva bitch! Give me the bastards’ heading.”

  “No way.”

  “Nick, all I’m going to do is chase the dolphins back out to sea using our active sonar. A couple dozen pings should do the trick.”

  “David, we’re already in enough trouble.”

  “We’re not in trouble; we’re history. What are they gonna do? Fire us twice? Now give me the damn heading.”

  “One-three-seven, just about six miles out.”

  Diving the sub, David adjusted his course, accelerating to thirty knots. He was feverishly exhausted, desperate for sleep, but there’d be plenty of time for that on the ride home. Cargo plane, no doubt. Or they could just drop us off in Tokyo and force us to pay for our own return tickets. I think Mom has an aunt living in Kyoto … maybe Monty and I can—

  “David, didn’t you hear me? You’re heading straight into the dolphins’ path! Two hundred yards and closing fast.”

  David switched the sonar from PASSIVE to ACTIVE, instructing Nick to continuously hit the switch. A series of piercing pings reverberated from the Manta, creating a wall of sound.

  They heard the squeals first and then out of the deep blue appeared dozens of frightened dolphins, the mammals zigging and zagging, their internal compasses gone haywire. Chased from one echolocation-maddening sound into the next, the pod broke away from the sub, scattering in multiple directions.

  Sixty feet overhead, the fleet of approaching fishing boats slowed, their captains unsure of what had just happened.

  David cheered, pumping his fists.

  Nick Porter signaled for quiet. “There’s something else coming at us … something really big. You need to get us out of here—change course!”

  David veered hard to starboard as the adult male shonisaur suddenly appeared off their port wing, the seventy-five-foot ichthyosaur’s dolphin-like mouth snapping at the sub’s tail.

  His heart pumping with adrenaline, David shot to the surface, the sub launching out of the water between two banger boats.

  The ichthyosaur attempted to follow, its immense girth—wider than that of a sperm whale—striking one of the boat’s keels as the creature leapt from the sea like an oversized humpback whale.

  The Manta’s wings caught a thirty knot headwind and the craft went airborne, gliding over the water like a flying fish before skidding upon its belly.

  David executed a quick surface dive, keeping his head on a swivel as he attempted to relocate the big male ichthyosaur—nearly running head-on into its mate and her young.

  “DB-II to Manta-Two: Mr. Taylor, you were ordered to rendezvous w
ith the trawler.”

  “Kenney, we’re being chased by the shonisaurs!”

  “Okay kid, we’re on the way. Can you lead them toward us?”

  The two pilots gasped as the big male’s open mouth suddenly bloomed in front of them, forcing David to pull into a one gee reverse loop and dive—the female’s jaws snapping at him from above.

  Swooping up and away from the sea floor, he raced the Manta past the fishing boats into open water.

  Nick continued pinging the active sonar with his prosthetic left hand. “They’re following us, only you’re going the wrong way! The tanker’s to the east; course zero-eight-zero … six kilometers!”

  “Stop using the metric system!” Stealing a peek at the sonar monitor, David executed a long, sweeping turn, fearful he was offering one of the adults an angle to eat him.

  Sure enough, the male shonisaur made a bull rush at the portside wing. For twelve frightful seconds it was a dead heat, the twenty-one-year-old pilot pushing the Manta beyond its limitations as it veered away from the beast in a wide counterclockwise turn, the ichthyosaur keeping pace, its open jaws so close that David could see mangled bits of dolphin flesh caught between its eight-inch conical teeth.

  “One-four-zero…” Nick yelled out, wedging his prosthetic arms beneath his seat, bracing himself against the torque of the wide 180-degree maneuver. “One-two-zero … one-zero-zero. Almost there … Zero-eight-zero—go!”

  David pulled out of the turn, the sub jumping out in front of the ichthyosaur—as the rumble of the trawler’s engines grew louder overhead.

  “DB-II to Manta-Two: Trawl net float depths are set at two hundred and two hundred fifty feet. Ascend to one hundred seventy feet; maintain course and speed. Two hundred yards … one-fifty … Passing over you now.”

  The trawler’s twin blades spewed two lines of whitewater beneath the surface as the keel roared past them.

  “Eighty yards … fifty—brace for impact!”