Fathomless

by Greig Beck

  An appropriate chariot for the saviors of the planet, he thought. And if some knuckle-dragging types objected or got in their way, well, no matter what action they took, he was confident history would be on their side.

  Olander composed himself and straightened, knowing image was everything to his impressionable, young crew. He turned, a smile spreading against his round cheeks. “Well then, if a band of pirates comes onto our turf, then I say we meet with cutlass, cannon, and hearts of lions. Who’s with me?”

  The cheer was near deafening in the bridge room, and Olander leant down towards Annabel. “Alert our friends in the media. This is going to look great on the news.” He straightened. “Plot an intercept course and full speed ahead. We’ve got a date with destiny.”

  Olander tapped a knuckle against his chin as his mind worked. Annabel still hovered close by, absolute adoration in her wide-eyed gaze. “Annie, get Jupiter and Milo to take ‘Tweety’ up. Let’s have a little look at these guys up close.”

  She scampered away and Olander took control of the wheel. The Slava was only a day away if they powered towards each other at full speed. He had plenty of time. Tweety would give him an idea of how he could craft a physical response that would maximize his media grab, and cause her the most benign damage. He only cursed the good weather. Idyllic calm, blue seas didn’t ramp up the tension like the cold iron-gray swells of the Antarctic.

  Olander leaned forward to look at his sunbathers. Still, the warm weather had its advantages. He could only pray the ships would meet each other closer to dusk – darkness and dark water was perfect new’s optics.

  He saw the small yellow chopper’s blades begin to turn. Tweety was a bubble-cockpit Hughes 500. It was a small, but maneuverable helicopter. But its key strengths were it could travel a long way on little gas, and was as fast as a hornet.

  “Go get em, Tweet,” he whispered.

  * * *

  The Russian Mi-8T helicopter pulling the Slava had been released and had headed off into the sky. Its work was done, fuel low, and the ship was now benefiting from entering the strong Californian current.

  They were still around five hundred miles out from Seattle, but the powerful currents formed a huge tornado shape circulating the ocean from the bottom of the Bering Sea, to all the way down along the Californian coastline.

  They were making good time, and though Vincent looked pained, he agreed with Drago that now was the time to hang the whale carcass out. It would take a few hours to fully thaw in the warmer waters, but the scent trail laid down in the Pacific current would be ten miles wide, and a huge fast-moving funnel out in front and below them – exactly what they needed to bring the huge predator to the surface.

  “How long?” Cate asked, her arms wrapped around herself.

  Vincent looked from the controls, to his wristwatch. “We’ll be at the start of our run in about eight hours.”

  Cate exhaled through compressed lips. “Don’t know whether I want it to be sooner or later.”

  “Sooner it’s over the better,” Jack said. He checked the signal tracker. “The Megalodon is deep, and still heading our way. But it’s coming up out of the trench.” He frowned. “That’s strange. It’s too soon for it to have picked up the scent trail.”

  Cate turned to him, and then Vincent. “Vince, I thought most of the attacks occurred at night, or at least at dusk or dawn.”

  Vincent nodded. “That’s right. Our predator doesn’t seem to like strong light. We’ll arrive right smack bang at the center of the Californian coast just in time for it to surface and hunt… hopefully.”

  “Then why is it coming up out of the abyss now?” Regina asked.

  Jack shrugged, frowning down at the tracker. “No idea; maybe something’s got its attention.” He looked up. “But Vince is right; far too soon for it to be us.”

  * * *

  Tweety sped overhead, reaching the Slava quickly and circling them several times. Milo took multiple aerial shots, and sent them straight back to the Gaia Warrior via sat-link to their onboard server.

  He nudged Jupiter, eliciting a curse. “Hey man, you’re not going to believe this. But those fuckers are dragging a full grown minke behind them.”

  Jupiter snorted. “I’d believe it. Those Russian cocksuckers are invading Europe, and running down people in tanks all over. So what’s a little extra whale torture?” He gritted his teeth. “I feel like fucking crashing us into those commie bastards.”

  “Commie bastards?” Milo guffawed. “You sound like my old Uncle Frank. Anyway, easy bro, we’re in a Hughes 500, not a Jap Zero. All we’d do is crumple on their deck, and leave a skid mark.”

  Jupiter grinned. “Hey, I want that on my headstone – he was nothing but a skid mark on a Russian asshole.”

  Milo snorted and put down his camera. “Let’s head back to the Gaia. These guys just declared war on decency, and worst luck for them, us.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Annabel already had the pictures up when Jupiter walked back into the Bridge room. They made a space for the pilot.

  “Definitely a Russian whaler, old, but moving fast. Strange, it looks like it’s riding very high in the water; only be a twenty-foot draft at best. Maybe it hasn’t commenced its whale-take yet.” She enlarged a section of the bow. “Oh… that’s a Kongsberg Våpenfabrikk harpoon cannon – a big one.”

  Olander stroked his beard again, knowing this made him look contemplative, and fatherly. “Russians have learned to use propeller guards, and sharpen their bow.” He nodded slowly. “So, we’ll need to weight the cables, and use the new elastic fibers – won’t cut, and we can still wrap around the screws – stop ‘em dead. Might even come along myself this time.”

  He lifted his chin. “In two hours, they’ll be in range of the dinghies. Prepare stink bombs for the deck, get the white paint, rollers and brushes, and also throw the new elastic cable in Flying Bird-1. I want to stop the Slava in its tracks.” He checked his wristwatch. “If we hurry, we should all make good viewing on tonight’s news.”

  “Let’s do some good.” Jupiter raised a fist.

  Olander almost laughed out loud. Was I as naïve and dumb when I was his age? “Well said.” He leaned towards Annabel. “I’ll be in Flying Bird-2.”

  Her eyes were almost luminous. “Me too.”

  * * *

  Cate and Jack stood out on Slava’s deck, the air warm and sultry now. She had a pair of field glasses to her eyes.

  “Did you see who they were?” Jack squinted into the distance before going back to his tracker.

  “No, had some sort of sign on the chopper’s side, but couldn’t make it out. Vince thought he recognized it, but said they refused to be hailed.” She lowered the glasses, nodding to the tracker. “Anything on our big friend?”

  “Fifty miles to the south; still staying deep for now. But we’re definitely heading towards each other.” He lifted his head in time to see Alexi blow thick blue smoke following a long pull on his stubby cigarette. The short Russian waved with two fingers, and then went back to chatting with Valery Mironov who sat beside him in a deck chair, legs crossed.

  “Those two look relaxed.”

  Cate followed his gaze. “Wish I could. My stomach is doing cartwheels.” She looked past the pair. “Harpoon looks ready.”

  The harpoon cannon was a squat and powerful-looking device, and the tip of the dart that extended from the muzzle was two feet long, bullet-pointed, and with four wings just behind its nose. Cate had been told those weren’t just for improving aerodynamics, but also created the arrowhead effect of once being embedded in the whale’s flesh, they made it impossible for the leviathan to pull back out.

  Even though Alexi had said he would hit the shark first attempt, beside him on the deck three more harpoons waited to be loaded. She hoped they wouldn’t be needed, as the one he had ready was red-tipped, meaning it was an explosive charge. Once the thing impacted with hard flesh, a split second later it would explode forward, detonating ins
ide the animal. It was meant for a quick death and a more humane way to kill. A bit like getting shot in the head by a hollow-point slug – it went in, blew up, and turned the brain into scrambled eggs.

  Good, she thought, grimly.

  Regina jogged out onto the bridge deck. “Cate, Jack, better come see this.” She then yelled to Mironov, waving him in.

  Jack quickly checked his tracker – the Megalodon was still miles away. “What now?” He grabbed Cate’s arm and they headed up to the bridge.

  Once inside, there came the smell of coffee, but the Californian warmth was causing all manner of new fish and oil odors to be released to compete with it.

  Sonya paced, her arms folded. Mironov entered, and she addressed him first in Russian. The billionaire half smiled and nodded.

  “English, please,” Cate said sharply.

  Sonya then turned to them. Her teeth were grit. “Seems we are about to have a welcoming committee. They’ll be here within the hour.”

  “What? Who?” Jack looked to Vince who was grimacing.

  “One guess – who else harasses whaling ships on the seas?” Sonya asked.

  Jack put a hand to his forehead. “You gotta be shitting me.”

  “Who is it?” Cate grabbed at Jack’s arm.

  Jack leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “They think we’re actually whaling… and probably Russian.” He looked at her. “Earthpeace.”

  Cate’s mouth dropped open. “Earthpeace.” She put a hand over her mouth, her eyes crinkling. “You’re joking?”

  Jack nodded. “Great damn timing.”

  “Well, we need to make contact.” Cate folded her arms. “Vincent.”

  He shook his head. “Not taking my calls.” He shrugged. “But think about it. We tell a boatload of penguin-huggers we’re about to put a harpoon into a giant prehistoric shark – the only one in the world – yeah, that’ll get them onside.”

  Jack nodded. “He’s right. I’ve had to deal with these guys before. Uncompromising ignorance is a badge they wear with pride.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Regina threw up her hands. “They start to buzz us, and they’ll make it impossible to take a shot.”

  “That cannot be allowed to happen.” Mironov straightened. “Shoot their boats.”

  Cate scowled. “The hell we will.”

  “Just to scare them off.” Mironov waved her away.

  “Oh shit.” Jack’s face looked agonized. “They’re going to arrive about the same time as the Megalodon.”

  Sonya turned slowly to Mironov, a cruel smile twisting her lips. “Maybe we didn’t need the whale after all. Maybe there will be something else in the water to attract our fish.” She checked her watch. “I suggest we make sure the boarding nets are in place so those fools can’t set foot on deck and sabotage the cannon.”

  Regina stood beside Vincent. “They’ll try and snag us – I hope that prop shield does what it’s supposed to.”

  Drago took his jacket off. He wore a green shirt, plastered to him with perspiration. Cate noticed that as well as having bulging muscles, in the small of his back the guy had a holstered gun on his belt. She saw that Vincent noticed it as well.

  “Hey, big guy, I hope you don’t expect to use that?” Vincent was a half a head smaller, but lowered his brow at the huge Russian.

  Drago put a hand on the weapon, as though he had forgotten it was there. Mironov stepped forward, putting a hand on Drago’s forearm.

  “Not on people.” Mironov smiled. “Self defense only, I assure you.”

  Sonya folded her arms. “Don’t worry, there will be no laws broken today. But...” Her eyes became steely hard. “…these fanatics better not interrupt what we are doing here. It is for their benefit as well.” She nodded to Cate. “Ms Granger, you are the nice one. Hail their ship one more time, and try and talk them down, or at least get them to stay clear.”

  “Too late,” Regina said, looking down at the Slava’s active sonar. “We’ve got two rapid bogies in the water.” She grimaced. “I’m betting dinghies, coming at us hard and fast.”

  Sonya’s teeth showed, and Cate could have sworn she heard the woman growl. “Then it is game on.” She and Mironov headed for the deck.

  Cate then noticed there was also a gun tucked into the back of the tall woman’s waistband.

  CHAPTER 38

  Olander stood in the bow of Flying Bird-2, holding tight to a rope tied to its nose. Behind him, a cameraman kept him in frame, while the late afternoon sun made his silver hair and beard seem to glow. He pointed, his arm outstretched. They knew which way to go, but he guessed it would look fabulously heroic, almost like Leutze’s depiction of George Washington crossing the Delaware.

  The ocean was glass smooth, with any vestige of a breeze dying away hours back. Olander inhaled deeply – he loved this – the smell of brine, humid salty water, and fresh clean air. They were well out over the continental shelf, and too far out for sea birds, but he bet if he dived over the side he’d see all manner of sea life, from dolphins, tuna, and maybe even a small mako shark or two.

  He inhaled deeply again, this time leaving his chest out, and chin pointed. There was nothing more satisfying than giving a voice, and a strong arm, to creatures of the sea who could not defend themselves. Doing right, never felt so good. From the corner of his eye Olander saw the camera lift, following his every move. And doing right never looked so good. He fixed his expression. Annabel’s head also came up this time.

  “Sir, we’re only a few miles out from the Slava.”

  Olander nodded. “Signal Flying Bird-1, and we’ll commence our tandem approach.”

  He looked down at the coils of the wrist-thick elasticized polymer rope. Whalers today had developed sharpened and armored propellers and bows to cut standard cables. But not this one. This one would bend and slide under the prow, and then find the props, wind around them and hang on, getting ever tighter.

  He reached a hand out behind him. “Glasses.”

  An expensive pair of polarized field glasses was handed to him, and he lifted them to his face. A warm smile spread there as he caught sight of his quarry – there she was, coming right at them out of the sinking sun – the Slava, a big, fat Russian whaler.

  He turned, handing the glasses back. “Get ready people.” He put two fingers to his lips and whistled, loud and sharp. Flying Bird-1 veered in towards them, and one of his four crew handed across one end of the elasticized rope.

  “Stay tight – on my word.” Olander’s mouth set in a firm line. In each of his dinghies, he had a crew of six: two would hold the rope, one would steer, one would film, and the others would be ready with stink bombs, paint and grappling hooks.

  Olander grinned; today would be a good day. They were now within three hundred feet of the bow of the Slava.

  “Now!”

  The two craft split apart, and the rope stretched out between them. It was a colossal tripwire designed to hamstring ocean-going vessels. Flying Bird 1 and 2 dragged it, allowing more of the rope to feed out so it moved just below the water line. More bodies were called on to help, as the weight became a monstrous burden.

  “Hold it, hold iiit!” Everything counted now on precision timing. They needed to maintain their grip and tension just long enough to ensure it went under the bow evenly, but not hold on long enough that one of their people could get dragged out.

  Both dinghies passed each side of the whaler, losing sight of each other behind the huge steel hull. Olander had one arm raised in the air, and Annabel waited, walkie-talkie pressed to her lips and eyes round with excitement. He suddenly waved it down.

  “Drop, drop!” Annabel yelled.

  The rope was released, and Olander hoped his opposite boat did the same. At the end of the rope there was a round, red buoy, just large enough to keep the end above water, ensuring a nice belly for the prop to run across. He spun, watching it, his teeth gritted in anticipation, until he saw the rope begin to get sucked down like a giant strand of spaghetti. />
  Just as they began to pass by the rear of the Slava, Olander heard the satisfying fluttering thump of fouled machinery, and knew they’d succeeded.

  “Victory!” He fist pumped, turning to beam down at Annabel. The girl clasped her hands to her breast.

  As the dinghy peeled away, he looked up to see figures leaning over the gunwale, gesticulating and yelling down at him. Strangely, it didn’t sound like Russian, and some words could have been in English – out of the water, they seemed to yell, and then something that sounded like megalomaniac, or dark something. He gave them the finger.

  Olander looked to the burnt orange glow on the horizon. The sun was fast going down, and they had perhaps thirty more minutes to accomplish their work, get it all on film, and then package and send it to the media.

  He picked up his front rope again, and placed one leg on the bow, in his favorite Delaware pose. They sped out in front of the slowing boat to meet with their partner dinghy. Together they skidded in the water to face the crippled whaler.

  Olander waved the exuberant whoops down for a moment, and once silence was returned, they could hear the Slava's crew still yelling – abuse now, no doubt. He blanked it out until gunshots sounded.

  He cringed. “Fuck! Those Russian assholes are firing at us. Get down!” He flattened to the rubber floor and turned crablike. “Keep filming, keep filming.”

  His cameraman, also lying flat, lifted the lens above the inflated gunwale.

  There were more gunshots – three in fast succession, and he saw Flying Bird-1 speed out to the left of them, heading momentarily into the setting sun. They obviously hoped to make it difficult for them to be seen, or move out of range. He should do the same.

  Annabel was down low, but had field glasses to her eyes, and had the twin lenses perched gunwale.