by John J. Rust
Ensign Frank Gale clenched his teeth, trying to push the rising bile back into his stomach. Sheets of rain pounded the stubby 47-foot motor lifeboat. The vessel pitched up and down. He kept checking through his binoculars for any sign of the Point Pleasant Monster.
It could be ten feet off the bow and I wouldn’t see it. Visibility was shit in this squall.
Still Gale kept scanning the roiling ocean, if for no other reason than to keep his mind off the nausea burning his stomach.
It did no good.
He clenched his teeth. He couldn’t puke on his own bridge, not with Chief Boatswain’s Mate Morehead at the helm. The man was an 18-year USCG veteran. Gale was just two months removed from the Coast Guard Academy in New London. What kind of officer threw up at sea? Not one the enlisted personnel and chiefs would respect.
He held it in, then straightened out the blue GORE-TEX foul weather parka that covered his thin frame. He looked out the windows of the small, curved bridge at Seaman Peterson, who stood on the bow staring through binoculars. Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Krantz did the same on the stern.
After five minutes of seeing nothing but rain and swells, Gale turned to the thickly built Morehead. “Let’s head closer to shore. Maybe we’ll have better luck there.” He tried to sound confident.
Morehead just nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The chief turned the wheel. The boat pushed through the waves. Huge sprays of water cascaded over the bow, soaking Peterson, who fought to stay on his feet.
Gale, meanwhile, fought to keep from throwing up.
Just think of finding the monster. Think of what it’ll mean for your career.
He imagined commendations and a promotion to lieutenant, junior grade. Maybe a sweet assignment in Florida, where it never snowed and he could make a name for himself chasing down drug dealers.
He just had to play it smart. He’d already radioed in three sightings of the monster, all of which turned out to be false alarms. The CO of the motor lifeboat squadron back at Barnegat Light had already ripped him a new one for it. Next time, he’d make damn sure what he saw was the Point Pleasant Monster before calling it in. He also had Krantz carry a waterproof camcorder to document it.
The MLB pitched up and down as it plowed west. A couple of times, Gale grabbed the console to keep from falling. The pain in his stomach grew sharper. He started to doubt he could get through this storm without barfing.
Gale raised his binoculars. He saw rain and rough seas. Same as every other time he –
A dark hump appeared off the port side.
Gale stepped closer to the window. He kept the binoculars trained on that spot.
He thought he saw the hump again. It was hard to tell through all the rain.
Dammit, c’mon. Gale waited for the hump to reappear. Roughly a minute passed without seeing it.
He couldn’t call Barnegat Light with this. His CO would make him scrape barnacles off every MLB for the next month.
“Chief. Left standard rudder, twenty degrees.”
“Left standard rudder, twenty degrees, aye.”
Gale unslung his Remington 870 shotgun and headed for the exit hatch.
“Trouble, sir?” asked Morehead.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Morehead responded with a slight nod. Gale figured the chief thought he was overreacting again.
He opened the hatch. Rain pelted him. Wind lashed his body. He squinted and made his way toward the port railing.
“Krantz!” he shouted to the short, stocky woman. “Stand by with that camera!”
“Aye, sir.”
Gripping the shotgun behind the pump handle with one hand, Gale held up the binoculars with the other. The MLB’s bow was pointed right at the area where he’d seen the hump. His heart beat faster as he scanned the ocean.
Still no sign of it.
Gale lowered his binoculars. Maybe it was a seal or a shark. Maybe he mistook a wave for a monster’s hump.
He lowered his head. Once again, he looked like an overzealous idiot.
Gale headed back to the bridge, determined not to make eye contact with Chief Morehead.
A dull thud went through the boat.
“What the hell?” Gale looked around. A groaning noise came from rear. The engine sputtered and fell silent. The MLB bobbed among the waves.
Gale threw open the hatch to the bridge. “Chief. What’s going on?”
“We hit something.” Morehead tried to restart the engine. There was a sick, mechanical cough, then nothing. “Dammit. Whatever it was took out our propeller.”
“Better contact Barnegat Light.” Gale frowned. Wonderful. Here he was, a Coast Guard officer, having to call the Coast Guard to be rescued. He’d be a laughing stock back at base.
Gale went back outside. The boat swayed from side-to-side. He took careful steps toward the stern, where Krantz leaned over the railing.
“You see what hit us, Krantz?”
She turned to face him. “Negative, sir. You’d think there’d be a—”
A huge, reptilian form burst from the water. Gale watched wide-eyed as crocodilian jaws snapped down on Krantz’s head and shoulders and yanked her overboard.
***
Rastun braced himself against the bulkhead. The Vigorous lurched to the right, then straightened out.
But only for a second. Then it was back to up and down and side to side. It felt like riding a bull in slow motion.
This storm’s getting worse.
He continued through the passageway, grateful his stomach wasn’t rebelling against all the rocking and swaying. He’d heard Montebello puking in one of the heads ten minutes ago. Doctor Ehrenberg didn’t look so good the last time he saw him. Even a handful of Coasties appeared ready to lose their lunch.
Too bad Captain Keller isn’t here to see this. He recalled the wager they’d made on whether or not Rastun would get sick at the first sign of rough seas.
But instead of giving him his twenty, Keller was smeared over what remained of Bold Fortune’s bridge. What’s worse, his death could have been prevented if Geek’s shotgun hadn’t been loaded with blanks.
Of course, Keller might have been a victim of his own sabotage. Being dead did not eliminate him as a candidate for the mole. One of six candidates.
A one in six chance Karen could be the mole.
I can’t believe that.
No, you don’t want to believe it.
A voice blared from the speakers of Vigorous’s 1MC system.
“This is the captain. All FUBI personnel report to the bridge immediately.”
Rastun picked up his pace. He just reached the ladder leading to the bridge when Karen hurried out of the passageway to his left.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“We’ll find out soon.”
Rastun clambered up the steps, Karen right behind him. He entered the bridge to find Ehrenberg and Pilka already there.
“Dammit, Ensign! Calm down!” a pear-shaped man with glasses shouted into the radio. It was Captain DiPino, Vigorous’s CO. “State your position again.”
The panicked voice at the other end rattled off a string of numbers and letters. DiPino turned to the helmsman. “Helm. Did you get that?”
“Coordinates entered into NAVPLOT. They’re about thirty-five miles northeast of us.”
“Plot a course to that position, full speed.”
The helmsman acknowledged the order and spun the wheel left.
DiPino turned back to the radio. “MLB Forty-Two, this is Vigorous. We are headed to your position now.”
“Roger, Vigorous,” the ensign replied as Malakov and Geek entered the bridge. “It just happened so fast. I was just talking to her and…”
The pause lasted five seconds, ten seconds.
“Oh my God!” A few people jerked in surprise at the ensign’s scream. “It’s back! It’s back!”
Crackles came over the radio. Not from static. From gunfire.
Rastun looked
to Ehrenberg. “Point Pleasant Monster?”
The cryptozoologist nodded. “It attacked one of the Coast Guard’s boats a few minutes ago. It’s already killed one person and the boat’s engine was damaged.”
Rastun turned back to the radio. He heard more gunfire. Frustration and helplessness grew within him. More than anything he wanted to be out there helping those Coasties.
“Peterson!” the ensign hollered. “It got Peterson. Our guns aren’t even hurting it.”
“Hang on, Ensign,” said DiPino. “We’re coming for you.”
“Captain.” A lean, dark-haired man stepped toward DiPino. It was Lieutenant Olivas, the Dolphin’s pilot. “The chopper will get to them a lot sooner.”
“In this storm?” Ehrenberg stared out the bridge windows. Rain pounded the thick glass.
Olivas didn’t show a trace of concern. “I’ve flown in worse conditions than this.”
He looked back to Captain DiPino, who nodded. “Go.”
“Permission to join Lieutenant Olivas, Captain,” said Rastun.
“Me too,” Karen chimed in.
Rastun turned to her, then glanced out the windows. Did she know what she was getting into?
“You two are civilians,” replied DiPino. “I can’t allow you to fly in this kind of weather.”
“I’ve been in hairier situations than this,” Rastun told him. “Besides, the Point Pleasant Monster is an FUBI responsibility. You need someone from our group on that chopper.”
“As expedition photographer, it’s my job to document everything having to do with the monster,” Karen added. “Besides, it’s not like I’ve led a sheltered life, either.”
DiPino’s eyes flickered between the two. He let out a slow breath. “Permission granted. Go to the storeroom and have the quartermaster draw your gear.”
“Yes, sir.” Rastun almost brought up his hand for a salute. He had to remind himself he didn’t need to do that. Like DiPino said, he was a civilian.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Karen.
Olivas strode out of the bridge. Rastun and Karen followed.
“Don’t take long.” The pilot glanced over his shoulder at Rastun and Karen. “I plan on being wheels up in five minutes.”
“We’ll be ready in four,” Rastun promised.
While Olivas headed to the flight deck, Rastun and Karen went to the storeroom. The quartermaster, a thin woman with dark hair, gave them flight helmets with radios, goggles, waterproof gloves and orange survival vests, each one with a strobe light, whistle, personal locator beacon and an MK-79 illumination signal kit.
“Either of you have experience with the MK-79?” asked the quartermaster.
“I’ve used flares before, but not that particular type,” Rastun answered.
“I know how to use a flare gun,” said Karen.
“Well, the MK-79 is a lot different than a flare gun.” The quartermaster pulled out a three-foot-long black tube and a small plastic bandolier with seven gold cartridges. “This is the launcher.” She held up the black tube, then plucked a cartridge off the bandolier. “Move the trigger screw to the bottom of the slot and to the right to cock it, then screw in one of the cartridges. Hold it arm’s length away from your body and move the trigger screw to the left to fire it. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Rastun and Karen both replied.
They quickly put on their gear and hurried to the flight deck. Rain and wind battered them. Vigorous rolled in the churning ocean. Rastun and Karen ran toward the helicopter, fighting to stay on their feet. The rotor blades spun with a deafening roar and created a mini-hurricane around the aircraft. Rastun clenched his teeth as a combination of natural and artificial wind buffeted him.
He climbed through the Dolphin’s open side door, then helped Karen aboard. Two others were in the cargo hold. Bailes, the athletic-looking rescue swimmer, and Yeager, the stocky flight mechanic. Rastun attached a gunner’s belt around his chest, a necessary piece of equipment to keep from falling out of the helicopter. Even more necessary when flying in weather like this. Once his belt was secure, he helped Karen put hers on.
Olivas did a comms check. The helmet radios worked fine. Rastun watched the deckhands remove the tie downs from the Dolphin. It lifted off the flight deck…
And slewed to the right.
Rastun tensed. Please don’t crash.
The Dolphin straightened out and rose into the stormy sky.
Rastun let out a relieved breath. He turned to Karen. Her eyes bulged and her breathing quickened.
“You good?” He put a hand on her shoulder.
She looked him in the eyes, swallowed and nodded. “I’m fine.”
The Dolphin pointed its blunt nose to the northeast and sped away from the Vigorous. Rain and wind hammered the helicopter.
Rastun turned to Karen. Her head was down, both hands clutching her camera in a death grip. It seemed like she had second thoughts about flying in this storm.
Rastun stared outside at the dark sheets of rain. He, too, wished Karen remained on the Vigorous.
He couldn’t say if it was out of concern for her safety, or because he wasn’t 100 percent sure he could trust her.
TWENTY-FOUR
Piet leaned out the opening to the bridge and threw up. After his final heave, he slammed a hand against the doorframe. Olef had puked. So had Heinrich and Doern. Piet had been determined not to follow suit.
He’d failed.
“Shit,” he grumbled. He’d done operations on boats before, but never in weather like this. What the hell possessed him to come out in weather like this?
That four million dollar bonus for the Point Pleasant Monster did. If the FUBI and the American Coast Guard captured it, he needed to be in a position to intercept them.
Piet groaned and stared out at the rain and swells. The Coast Guard presented a big problem for him and his men. In addition to small arms, USCG cutters also carried heavy caliber machine guns and automatic cannons. There was no way they could take on that sort of firepower with submachine guns and pistols.
But now they could, thanks to more of Norman Gunderson’s money and one of Piet’s arms dealing contacts in The States. His team now had an arsenal of M-14 rifles with sniper scopes, AK-74 automatic rifles, M79 grenade launchers, an M-60 machine gun, even a couple of RPG-7s. They were more than ready to deal with the Coast Guard.
Or the Point Pleasant Monster. Piet heard the news stories about its attack on the boardwalk. The FUBI’s theory was the monster had so much blubber it made it immune to small arms fire. His boat did carry tranquilizer guns, nets and catchpoles to secure the monster. If they couldn’t, Piet had peace of mind that they had enough ordnance to blow it to bits. It would mean losing the four million dollar bonus, but you can’t spend money when you’re dead.
“Hey, Piet,” Doern called out from his radio console. “I just picked up a message from the cutter Vigorous. They dispatched their helicopter to help a motor lifeboat that was attacked by the Point Pleasant Monster.”
Piet straightened up. He forgot about the hot, stale taste of vomit in his mouth. “Do you have a position on the lifeboat?”
“I do.” Doern read off the GPS coordinates.
“Do they think the beastie is still there?”
“It sounds like it.”
Piet grinned at his fellow countryman. “Then let’s go catch ourselves a sea monster.”
***
Another jolt went through the Dolphin. Rastun didn’t even flinch. He’d been through his share of bumpy helicopter and plane rides.
Karen tensed, her goggles failing to hide the fearful look in her eyes. Rastun reached out and took her hand. He mouthed, “We’ll be fine,” so the Coasties couldn’t hear.
Karen nodded, trying to rid her face of fright. She squeezed his hand back.
“Vigorous! Vigorous!” The ensign’s voice burst through the headphones in Rastun’s helmet. “It’s back again! Oh my God, it’s on board!”
The chatter of automati
c weapons fire came over the radio.
“Chief, look out! Oh my God! It’s -”
Rastun heard a rumble in his headphones. He held his breath, waiting for the ensign to say something, or to hear automatic weapons fire, or any other sound.
There was nothing but silence.
“MLB Forty-Two, this is Vigorous.” Rastun heard Captain DiPino back on the cutter. “Do you read?”
Nothing.
“MLB Forty-Two, respond. Ensign, are you there?”
Nothing.
“MLB Forty-Two, this is Dolphin Five,” Olivas said from the cockpit. “We are about two minutes from your pos.” He used the slang for position. “Do you read?”
No response.
Rastun’s shoulders sagged. He had a bad feeling they were too late.
The Dolphin plowed through the rain. Rastun took a few glimpses out the door, trying to spot the MLB. He couldn’t see shit in this storm.
A very long minute passed before he heard the co-pilot, Lieutenant, Junior Grade Jernigan. “I got a visual on the MLB. Ten degrees off starboard. One hundred-fifty yards.”
Rastun leaned out the door. Through the curtains of rain he could make out the stubby white and orange vessel.
The Dolphin slowed and descended. Rastun unslung his Aster 7. Karen brought up her camera. Bailes, the rescue swimmer, stared through his binoculars.
“Anyone see any survivors?” asked Olivas.
Everyone replied in the negative.
“All right, I’m taking us in closer.”
Rastun looked over Bailes’ shoulder, hoping to see any signs of life from the MLB. Karen knelt behind him, taking pictures.
Despair took hold as the Dolphin neared the MLB. The boat bobbed in the water, its mast and pilothouse wrecked.
Rastun raised his Aster 7. He saw no sign of the Point Pleasant Monster. Of course, with the rain and roiling ocean, it could be skirting the surface and he wouldn’t know it.
“I see someone!” Bailes hollered. “I’ve got movement next to the pilothouse.”
Rastun focused around the ruins of the pilothouse. He spotted a person on the starboard side slowly rolling on his back. Relief shot through him. At least someone had survived.