by Steve Alten
His voice broke as he blurted, “It’s attacking! Eight hundred feet and rising real fast.”
David glanced at his sonar monitor, saw the mosasaur’s speed and knew this time the cat meant business. “Monty, stay with the trawl net, let it take you to the surface.”
Pressing down on both foot pedals, David whipped the Manta into a tight twenty-knot circle around the ascending ichthyosaur and its frightened offspring.
Gripping the steel net, Monty held on, his pounding heart adding to the chorus of dinner bells. Looking below, his eyes fixated on the monster’s pale belly.
“Two hundred feet!”
Aboard the tanker, the crane operator’s heart skipped a beat as he registered the giant winch buckle beneath him.
“One hundred feet … David, get us out of here!”
David waited until the top of the trawl net broke the surface before he accelerated toward the tanker’s keel.
Ignoring the fleeing sub, the mosasaur launched straight out of the sea, its outstretched jaws clamping down upon the trawl net, its teeth sinking into the female shonisaur’s front flipper—missing Monty by the length of its twelve-foot mouth.
The ichthyosaur jerked in wild spasms. Suspended out of the water by all but the tip of its slashing tail, the mosasaur refused to let go. Shaking its head like a dog in a tug-o-war, the predator’s teeth sawed through sinew and bone, sending blood from the gaping wound pouring into its clenched mouth.
Twenty stories above the melee, the operator’s cab trembled behind a wave of combative forces as the crane’s counterweights and deck rigging attempted to equalize the combined masses of three sea creatures, three humans, and a submersible.
It was a losing battle.
First to go was the winch, which sparked in protest as it ground to a halt. That was followed by the front end of the cab lifting and bouncing on deck, joined by the gut-wrenching sound of bending steel latticework. The crane held, but its floating harness snapped, initiating a chorus of wrenching metal that sent the operator fleeing from his cab.
David surfaced the Manta, its two pilots incredulous. Thirty yards away the mosasaur was suspended vertically out of the water, its crocodilian jaws clenching the gushing limb of the trapped Shonisaurus. The writhing movements of the trapped female ichthyosaur were snapping the steel strands of the trawl net while threatening to drag the supertanker’s hoist crane into the sea.
Monty hung on to the net by his gloved hands, his back to the gyrating creature. His swim fins dangled just above the mosasaur’s snout and within six feet of the suspended Manta sub.
David’s headset quickly became a cacophony of chaos as the sub’s trapped crew and the panicked diver yelled at one another, drowning out the commands of Kenney Sills, who finally muted both parties.
“David, we’ve got about thirty seconds until the hoist line’s steel cables start snapping. If you’ve got any ideas now would be the time to share them.”
“The tanker has auxiliary nets rigged to secondary winches. Have the crew drop one into the water and I’ll try to set it in position beneath the mosasaur.”
“Roger that. What about the Manta?”
“Monty can’t reach the latch. Tell them to eject the life support pod from the chassis before the cable snaps and the shonisaur sinks to the sea floor, taking them with it.”
“Negative,” Matt Evans yelled, unmuting his radio. “Taylor, you’ll need us to position the net beneath the mosasaur. Have your boy try the latch again!”
Kenney Sills muted David’s protest. “Mr. Montgomery, you wanted to be a reality show star—”
“Hell.” Kicking off his swim fins, Monty freed his right hand so that he was now dangling by his left. Rolling onto his belly, he worked his way along the steel netting by his toes, the bucking actions of the wounded ichthyosaur rendering the task near-impossible.
The right eye of the mosasaur looked up and caught movement. With its murderous gaze now focused on Monty it wriggled harder, its teeth cutting through the yielding flesh of the shonisaur.
Reaching the sub’s port wing, Monty again attempted to reach the latch, only this time he was even farther from the center of the craft. Toes bleeding, his hands numb, he unbuckled his buoyancy control vest, allowing the harness and his air tank to fall into the sea. Wedging his right shoulder beneath the wing, he inched his way toward the manual release, the sub’s belly crushing his spine.
David watched helplessly as his friend disappeared behind the sub’s wing.
“Tank-II to Manta-One: Auxiliary net’s in the water. The winch should be able to handle the mosasaur—”
A metallic swish rent the air as a steel strand separated from the hoist line, whipping across a backdrop of crimson sky.
“Kenney, unmute me or I swear to God…”
The radio MUTE icon flashed off.
“Monty, it’s David. The hoist line’s going, get out of—”
“Got it!”
As David and Nick watched, the Manta fell away, plunging thirty-seven feet into the sea—followed by the mosasaur.
“Oh, shit.” David submerged, catching the telltale bubbles of the creature’s splashdown but not the mosasaur itself.
“Nick, find that monster. Monty, just hold on!”
“David, I can’t.”
“Manta-Two, watch your six!”
David whipped his head around, saw a mouthful of teeth, and jammed both feet to the floor while executing a hard starboard turn.
The mosasaur flew past his port wing and disappeared into the lead-gray sea.
Dangling forty feet above the surface, Monty closed his eyes and let go, falling through the chilly night air. He was accompanied seconds later by the juvenile ichthyosaur, the loosened nylon net falling away from its body.
Commander Sills’s voice cut through the static. “Diver in the water!”
David saw Monty’s telltale splash.
The mosasaur felt it.
Igniting his sub’s lights, David raced at his friend from the north, the monster from the west, its mouth widening to engulf its prey in one massive bite—
—its jaws slamming shut on empty sea.
Monty flipped wildly in the bright yellow net, towed feetfirst behind the Manta’s pump-jet propulsion engines which nearly blew the mask from his face. Seconds later he was bouncing along the surface before skidding painfully up the trawler’s stern ramp ten feet behind the docked sub.
Unseen hands pulled him free of the nylon net. Dragging him to his feet, they tugged the dive mask free of his face to allow him to breathe.
Monty inhaled a deep breath, bent over in pain—and puked across the ribbed decking.
A wild cheer surrounded him. His entire body trembled as he looked up, his eyes following the trawler’s searchlight cutting through the night.
Rising along the tanker’s port flank, writhing like an alligator inside a steel mesh trap, was the mosasaur. Having just missed devouring Monty, the creature had torpedoed snout-first into the open mouth of the trawl net, towed in place by Manta-One.
David wrapped his arm around Monty’s waist, handing him a bottle of water. “You okay? You look exhausted.”
The Iraqi war vet took a swig, pouring the rest over his bare feet. “Did you know that every year about two hundred and twenty-five Canadian men fall overboard and drown attempting to urinate while standing in a boat.”
“You just peed in your wet suit, didn’t you?”
Monty smiled. “You know me well, amigo.”
Kenney Sills approached, handing each of them a six-pack of beer. “Helluva job, gentlemen. Grab some food and a shower; you’ll bunk aboard the trawler tonight. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us. Your girlfriend wants the shonisaur runt recaptured before dawn.”
“What about its mother?” David asked.
The former Navy SEAL shook his head. “Wounded specimens don’t travel well. We’ll kill it, load the carcass on board the tanker, and feed the meat to the mosasaur.”
Friday Harbor, San Juan Island
By seven p.m. every parking spot located within a mile radius of Friday Harbor High School had been taken. More than two dozen news vans were situated on the school grounds, most having arrived by ferry from the mainland.
The bleachers in Turnbull Gym were crammed, the crowd flowing over onto the basketball hardwood. Standing at a podium located over the wolverine emblem at center court was Christopher Mull, San Juan County’s elected manager, a position that equated to the island chain’s mayor. Seated behind him were the council board members.
Occupying the two chairs to the right of the podium were Captain Michael Royston, the U.S. Coast Guard sector commander and Nick Van Sicklen, head of the Whale Museum in Friday Harbor. Seated to the left of the podium were Jonas and Terry Taylor.
Christopher Mull ran a palm across his shaved head before turning on his microphone, the sound system greeting the attendees with an ear-clenching squawk of feedback. “Sorry. We’re going to get started now, so if everyone can take a seat. We’re here tonight to decide the best course of action in regard to the Megalodon … am I saying that right, Professor Taylor? Yes? The Megalodon situation. We’ll hear from our panel, then we’ll open it up to questions from the audience. Upon concluding the meeting the members of the advisory council will vote.
We’ll begin with Nick Van Sicklen. Nick, I know the museum uses webcams and hydrophones to keep tabs on the islands’ orca pods, any chance you could use them to locate these Megalodon sharks?”
The University of Florida graduate addressed the crowd using a handheld microphone. “Unfortunately, no. Sharks are silent predators. They are also one of Mother Nature’s most adaptable creations. As Captain Agricola rightly stated, some species like the hammerhead and blacktip reef shark can breed using internal fertilization, essentially eradicating the male component from the reproduction process. What you’re left with are genetic replicas of the mother. Having examined the remains of the shark netted by Captain Agricola, I concur the juvenile’s teeth possess the telltale chevron which distinguishes Carcharodon megalodon from Carcharodon carcharias—the modern-day great white. I now believe the sisters have turned the shallow waters off the San Juan Islands into a Megalodon nursery.”
A loud murmur broke out, forcing Christopher Mull to shush the crowd. “Nick, are you saying these two monsters are breeding more monsters in our waters?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. In time, Bela and Lizzy’s pups will produce offspring of their own, and these waters will be off-limits to any craft smaller than a ferry.”
Calls of “kill them” egged the crowd on.
The county manager motioned for quiet. “Nick, what do you recommend we do to prevent that situation from happening?”
“First, let’s remember that Megalodon ruled the Miocene seas for most of the last thirty million years. What ended their reign was the last ice age and the rise of the orca, which are half their size but hunt in pods. Megalodon were solitary predators. Four to six bull orca can take down a Meg even the size of Angel. Bela and Lizzy instinctually knew killer whales were their enemy—which explains why they’ve been targeting the pods. The problem is that the sisters hunt together in a symbiotic pattern that has kept the orca at bay. And therein lies both the problem and the solution. All we have to do is to kill one of the Megs and the orca will take care of the surviving sister as well as their pups.”
The Coast Guard commander smirked. “You make it sound easy; how do we do that? There’s a lot of sea to patrol and these sharks are unpredictable.”
“Actually, commander, they’re very predictable. Threaten their nursery and they’ll show up.”
“And where’s their nursery, kid?”
Nick pointed to Jonas. “Ask him, he knows. The guy’s been their keeper since birth. He understands how the sisters think and react. The only reason we haven’t stopped them yet is that he’s been withholding information in order to protect them.”
A hundred side conversations broke out, forcing Christopher Mull to use his palm as a gavel. “Let’s everybody calm down. Professor Taylor, I think the people of San Juan County would like your response.”
Jonas took the offered microphone from the high school sound man. “First off, there’s no conspiracy on my part to protect the sisters; I want Bela and Lizzy removed from these waters as much as anyone.”
The island official attempted to silence the catcalls by holding up his hand. “When you say ‘removed’ you do mean dead, don’t you? Because that’s what the rest of us want. We want these monsters and their young terminated.”
The crowd applauded.
“Mr. Mull, I came to the San Juan Islands to resolve a problem—a problem created when the sisters were released from captivity by a former employee of mine who was working for a radical animal rights group. Despite everything that has happened, man is not on these sharks’ diet. Furthermore, these creatures have demonstrated instinctive intelligence and surprising social skills in both their symbiotic relationship and their obvious desire to protect their young. Am I advocating a resurgence of the species? Absolutely not. I happen to agree with Nick—when it comes to the Megalodon pups, I believe the orca pods will police the Salish Sea; that’s Mother Nature at work. But I will not help you needlessly slaughter Bela and Lizzy when other more humane options exist.”
The crowd reacted—and so did Terry, who stared at her husband, aghast. “You lied to me. All this time you intended to recapture the sisters.”
“The lagoon’s empty, Terry. Think about it—we can permanently seal the canal doors and prevent this catastrophe from ever—”
The slap across his face stung, but it was not nearly as painful as having to watch his wife struggle to exit the gym.
Aboard the Mogamigawa
Jacqueline Buchwald entered the tanker’s command center at eleven-thirty a.m. still wearing her overalls and safety harness. “Captain, I was told there’s a call scheduled with the Crown Prince.”
Steven Beltzer handed her a key on a rope. “Communication Suite-B. Lock up when you’re done. You look tired.”
“You try putting in a thirty-six-hour shift and see how your mascara holds up.” Taking the key, she exited the bridge, descending one flight to the deck holding the officer’s quarters.
The three communication suites were located at the end of the corridor.
She keyed into Suite-B, her nostrils immediately assaulted by the scent of old pipe tobacco. Tossing the entire ashtray into the garbage, she situated herself at the Wi-Fi station and entered her password on Skype.
The host was already logged in.
The Crown Prince flashed a smile. “Ms. Buchwald, so good to see you. Excellent work today … excellent. When can we expect the new arrivals?”
“The captain says eight days.”
“Give me the status of the captured creatures. Are they in good condition? Will they survive the journey?”
“The juvenile ichthyosaur was in shock but made it through the night and should recover. Same for the adult male, which suffered surface lacerations from its extended time in the trowel. I placed the two shonisaurs in the bow pen, the mosasaur in the stern and drained the central pen between them to prevent the animals from detecting the other species’ presence.”
“And the mosasaur—how big is it?”
“Fifteen and a half meters; just under fifty-two feet. It’s very aggressive; it’ll definitely be one of the most popular exhibits. And yes, it’s a female, so we can freeze its eggs to breed its successors. Same with the shonisaur runt. We got lucky there.”
“I believe preparation and patience fosters luck. Isn’t that right, cousin?”
Another caller’s face appeared on the screen’s left border—a stout man with a thick black goatee and unibrow, his eyes cold and black.
Fiesal bin Rashidi grimaced at his first cousin, the Crown Prince. “I am sorry, Your Highness, I missed the comment.”
“I was just telling Ms. Buchwald that preparation and patience fosters luck.”
“And this comment you now direct at me for my failure to capture the Liopleurodon?”
“It has been six months, Fiesal.”
“And it may be six years unless you send me a pilot who has the baydati to engage the creature. Bait doesn’t work; the monster surfaces only at night and keeps its distance from the Tonga.”
“Then just use the trawler.”
“We tried. Five months ago we managed to entangle the creature’s hind quarters in one of the trawl nets. The Lio nearly dragged the trawler underwater with it. You have no idea how large and powerful this beast is. It is almost twice the size of the adult shonisaur your pilot managed to capture.”
“Fiesal, the pilot was David Taylor.”
Bin Rashidi’s dark eyes widened. “David is aboard the Mogamigawa? Why wasn’t I told?”
“I needed to know if he could be trusted, if he was enlisting on our voyage simply to seek revenge on the Lio for killing his girlfriend.”
“And your verdict?”
The Crown Prince hesitated. “Ms. Buchwald, you’ve observed David’s behavior—what do you think?”
“He knows he’s the most skilled Manta pilot around, which is why he bucks authority.”
Bin Rashidi snorted a sarcastic laugh. “He bucks authority because he is a cocky little shit like his father.”
“Easy, Fiesal. Ms. Buchwald, has he moved on from Kaylie Szeifert or not?”
Jackie saw the look in the Crown Prince’s eyes and felt queasy. “If you’re asking me if I slept with David, the answer is yes. But it was just sex—more recreational than emotional. My role on this voyage is not to be a surrogate love interest for David Taylor.”
“But you’ll continue to … recreate with our young pilot if it means capturing the Liopleurodon and taking over the aquarium as our new director?”