Garm gave her a look. “I don’t expect you would have.”
Obviously annoyed, the epidemiologist shook her head. “So, it’s asleep?”
“More like hibernating, doctor,” Cunningham cut in. “Many aquatic reptiles go into brumation as winter approaches. No movement. No feeding. They wake up occasionally to drink, but that’s about it.”
On the viewer, a school of several hundred foot-long fish boldly swarmed around the immobile pliosaur, exploring its vast bulk and picking away at the hunks of flesh embedded in its teeth.
“I’ve never heard of marine reptiles brumating.”
“Many Archelon fossils are believed to be the result of extended dormancy, courtesy of the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs,” Cunningham said. “The impact winter forced them into premature brumation with insufficient fat stores and they starved. We think--” The gabby CSO paused as he noticed Garm’s annoyed look. “Sorry, sir. They, uh . . . had a Cheers marathon on last night.”
Garm snorted. “More likely the turtles drowned when they woke and found ten feet of pack ice over their heads.” He turned to Bane. “Reptiles can’t spontaneously grow gills, doc.”
Bane’s expression turned contemplative. “I never knew pliosaurs hiber-- I mean, brumated. Could that be useful in reducing their numbers?”
“It was,” Garm stated. “We used to find them all winter, just lying on the seabed. Killed hundreds that way. But no more.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I suspect there are several subspecies; some brumate and some don’t. On the brighter side, we don’t find them in higher latitudes anymore during--”
Garm’s attention diverted to their viewer as Antrodemus closed on her downed foe. There was a loud clang, followed by a low metallic groan. Directly underneath the bow, a section of the sub’s hull began to split apart.
“What’s happening?” Bane asked.
“She’s extending her labium,” Garm replied matter-of-factly.
“Her what?”
Garm’s face betrayed nothing. “ORION class subs are equipped with an extending labium – a forty-foot robotic arm with pincers on the end, much like the feeding apparatus of a dragonfly nymph.”
Bane studied him through hooded eyes. “I see.”
As they watched, the three-pronged claw tipping Antrodemus’s robotic arm extended toward the sleeping Kronosaurus. The mechanical pincers opened a full twenty feet, before carefully locking onto the titan’s girthy midsection. In the background, jet pulses plumed as the sub’s hull-mounted maneuvering thrusters fired short bursts, keeping her in position while her engineer manipulated the pliosaur’s inert form. The creature was completely dormant, oblivious to what was happening.
Bane checked her watch. “Don’t you have to feed it oxygen?”
“No.”
“But won’t it drown?”
Garm leaned over Ramirez’s shoulder, checking his screens. He gave the sonar tech an approving pat on the shoulder. “No.” He turned and made his way to his captain’s chair, dropping into it and tapping a few buttons on one armrest. “Pliosaurs are like sea snakes. Their skin absorbs almost 30% of the oxygen they need from the water.”
“That’s why they never surface during brumation,” Cunningham ventured. “It also contributes to why they can stay submerged for so long and are such powerful swimmers. The faster they go, the more oxygen they take in.”
“Okay, Cliff. Enough.” Garm shook his head. “Doc, I suggest you grab that free chair and strap in. It’s almost showtime.”
Dr. Bane hurried to the empty station, her pensive eyes locked on the bridge viewer. As he gauged her expression, Garm ascertained she was looking forward to the safety and security of her pending desk job. He couldn’t blame her.
“Alright, people. We’re expecting some very unpleasant company,” he announced. “Helm, up five. Make our depth six hundred. Set course one-one-zero, right standard rudder. At coordinates, hold position, maneuvering thrusters only.”
Cho was already working the controls. “Aye, sir.”
“What’s the plan, captain?” Cunningham asked.
Garm indicated the glittering, black and gold POSEIDON 3D fathometer screen suspended between sonar and navigation. “The Continental Shelf is flat here – easy to pick up incoming transients, with few places to hide.” He pointed at a particularly craggy seafloor section on the sonar display. “Here, where it drops into the Blake Plateau, is where we have to watch. It’s a maze of seaweed filled ravines and rock outcroppings. With all the marine snow, even the fathometer can’t read it well.”
“At position, sir,” Cho announced.
“Good. Point us right at the drop-off with our backs to Antrodemus, but maintain depth. Sonar, bring ANCILE online,” Garm ordered. “Activate intruder alarm and acoustic intercept and feed all readings to fire control. Unless I’m mistaken, our visitor will be coming in fast and hot.”
Cunningham’s mouth started to open then snapped shut.
“Shall I maintain cloak?” Ramirez asked.
“Negative. Deactivate iridophores,” Garm replied. “Once we move, he’s going to know we’re here. I’d rather have him focused on us instead of Antrodemus. Bring SVALINN online. Suppress any incoming pings. Make him rely on visuals.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Communications, send a text to Captain Dragunova. Tell her we’re going to run interference.”
Rush nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Bane cleared her throat. “Captain--”
“Fire control,” Garm swiveled in his seat. “Activate Ladon Gun System and load tubes two and three. Ultraviolet and infrared homing seekers only. Beyond that . . . you may indulge yourself, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Aye, sir!” his CSO said with a smile. As Cunningham’s fingers tattooed his screen, he started whistling, “Home on the Range.” A moment later, he began belting out an adulterated version of the song.
Oh give me a home where no buffalo roam,
And I don’t have to watch where I sit.
‘Cause nothing is worse or will cause me to curse,
Than to step in some buffalo--”
“LC, I said you could indulge yourself,” Garm said, shaking his head. “Not damage our eardrums or frighten off our quarry.”
“Sorry sir,” Cunningham said with a sheepish grin. “Too many re-runs of ‘The Voice.’” He tapped one, final button, then checked his screens. “The fish are in place and programmed . . . tubes two and three are flooded . . . all outer doors open. LADON Gun System up and running . . . auto-engage activated.”
“Good. You carry that tune much better,” Garm said. He put his hands behind his head and relaxed back in his seat, confident in Kyle’s preparations. And that LADON would get the job done.
Named after the one hundred-headed dragon from Greek mythology, Grayson Defense Technology’s LADON Gun System was the ORION-Class’s 8-barrelled, 30 mm Gatling cannon. Protruding from a dorsal mounted, SODOME-topped turret, and spitting out 3,000 supercavitating, AP, high-density, depleted uranium penetrator rounds, LADON was lethality epitomized. Although underwater use limited its effectiveness to 200 yards, with its high speed tracking and auto-engage capabilities, at 100 yards or less, it spat enough death to chew through a battleship.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Bane wore a beyond-fed-up look. “Captain Braddock, I demand to know what is going on.”
Garm’s eyes crinkled with amusement at the outburst, but otherwise remained locked on their viewer. After a bit of finagling, the Kronosaurus imperator female had been successfully situated atop Antrodemus’s labium. With a hum, the robotic arm retracted, until the slumbering giant was pulled securely against the sub’s bow. One LOKI Decoy continued to hover nearby, shining a powerful spotlight on the prisoner, while the other did silent spirals around both the robotic arm and its captive, tightly securing the saurian in place with a shiny steel cable.
“You were right about there being no blood, doc,” Gar
m admitted. “Actually, once I saw her disruptive camouflage, I should have suspected she was gravid.”
“I don’t--”
“Pliosaurs feed when they make a kill,” Garm said. His tone was instructive and devoid of emotion. “They don’t wait. There should have been blood. Something else killed that whale shark and brought it here.” He gestured at the screen. “And gave it to her.”
“What kind of something?”
“Her mate.”
“Mate?” Dr. Bane’s eyes scrunched up in confusion. “But . . . I thought pliosaurs were solitary.”
“For the most part,” Garm said. “But after mating, dominant bulls tend to hang around to ensure no other male gets in on the action. Protecting their genes, if you will.”
“But the female, does she tolerate the male’s presence?”
“Not exactly. Cows are twenty five percent longer than a bull and double their weight, so they’re not something to mess with,” Garm advised. His eyes flipped from Ramirez’s station to his CSO’s. “But the male is faster.” He pointed at the tightly bound predator. “She might top out at fifty miles an hour. I know – I chase them. But a healthy bull, with his big flippers, can do closer to sixty. So he’ll shadow her, maybe from a few miles out, and take off if she comes after him. On rare occasions, some bulls will actually make an effort to placate their mates. Or maybe they just want to ensure healthy offspring. They’ll make a kill and bring it to the female.”
Bane paled. “Her mate is close by.”
“Most likely.”
“And when he discovers what you’re doing . . .”
Garm chided. “What we’re doing. You’re part of the team, doc, if only for another few hours.”
“But if he’s miles away, how will he--”
Graaaaaaaar.
Time and hearts froze as they watched the female’s jaws part. Her plaintive moan reverberated like a foghorn through the bridge, before pealing across the surrounding water at four-and-a-half times the speed of sound.
“Damn bitch talks in her sleep!” Ho muttered.
Garm did the Captain Kirk thing as he leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping his armrests. “Communications, forget Antrodemus for now. Switch our live feed to the viewer and prepare photonics to zoom in on incoming signal.”
“Aye, sir.” Rush replied.
There was a low crackle as the image of Antrodemus and her giant prisoner vanished and was replaced by pitch-black seas.
“Searchlights, sir?” Ho asked.
Garm’s face betrayed a hint of annoyance. “No. Rush, switch to infra-red.”
With a touch, the on-screen display on the bridge monitor shimmered then took on an eerie glow. Five hundred yards away, the ragged peaks that jutted up like a forest of stone from the seafloor were highlighted in brilliant shades of green and blue. In and around the rocky outcroppings, a starfield of tiny gold specks marking fish and squid cruised in the darkness.
Garm glanced at Ramirez. “Anything?”
The mustached sonar tech shook his head. “No, sir. Maybe it’s--” A sudden ping caused Ramirez’s head to spring up. “We’ve got incoming, sir! Confirmed biologic – distance 700 yards and closing!”
A claxon sounded, coupled with a loud series of pings as ANCILE went live and began targeting the reading.
Garm hawked their viewer. “Helm, prepare to blow ballast. Sonar, talk to me!”
“OMNI ADCAP tracking . . . bearing is two-six-eight,” Ramirez replied. He started taking quick, Lamaze-style breaths, as he was wont to do during combat. “No sonar emissions – target is running silent – but organic profiles confirm; it’s definitely a pliosaur, sir. Speed is forty-five knots and accelerating.”
“Fire control, do you have a lock yet?” Garm asked. The claxon increased in volume and warning lights began to flash.
“Negative!” Cunningham shouted. “I need OMNI’s targeting. ANCILE readings are too intermittent.” The CSO glanced up from his station at the viewer. “He’s using the ravines and outcroppings for cover!”
“Smart son of a bitch,” Garm muttered. The claxon began to annoy him and he snapped his fingers. “Kill that,” he ordered. Out of the corner of one eye, he could see Bane gripping her armrests so hard her knuckles were white. “Sonar, distance to target?”
“Six hundred yards and closing!” Ramirez said. “Target is zigzagging . . . still no transmission on the bearing. Changing course to zero-one-zero.” His eyes widened. “He’s targeting Antrodemus, sir!”
“Helm, emergency rise!” Garm barked. His stomach sank into his balls as Ho initiated a full-power ascent. “Hard left rudder! Keep us between them!”
“On it, sir!” Ho replied. Her eyes turned to blackened slits, her teeth bared as she worked the yoke.
Garm growled. The pinging from ANCILE’s acoustic intercept had become so fast and loud his head felt like it was going to explode. There was something different about this animal. He could feel it in his bones. It was experienced, almost tactical in its movements. His eyes rounded. Has it fought a submarine before?
“Target is preparing to break cover, sir!” Ramirez shouted. “Sonar lock is imminent. Whoa . . . this can’t be a male!”
“Why not?”
“It’s too big!” Ramirez replied, wiping his brow with the back of one hand as he eyed three screens at once. “It must be another Gen-1 female invading this one’s turf. Madre de Dios, it’s even bigger than the last one!”
Gryphon’s sonar pings sounded like machine gun fire filling the bridge. On the screen, the pliosaur’s image popped up on the infra-red, exploding out of the blue-green virtual forest it was hiding behind. Its body glowed a bright reddish-orange as it emerged into open water.
“Target is in the clear! Systems locking on!” Ramirez yelled.
“I’ve got a firing solution,” Cunningham stated. “Permission to engage?”
On the screen, the pliosaur’s image grew. It was swimming in a huge arc, dropping down deep. Then suddenly it changed direction and rose up along the rocky break line, curving toward Gryphon at an astonishing speed.
“She’s trying to flank us!” Garm bellowed. “Helm, hard right rudder. CSO, you are clear to engage!”
“Tubes two and three, firing!”
There was a high-pitched whoosh as the NAEGLING ADCAP torpedoes left their tubes, followed by a rumble as their boosters engaged. A modified version of the old Russian Shkval design, the NAEGLINGs were solid-fuel, supercavitating, rocket propelled torpedoes that sliced through the water at 350 mph. Once their infrared/ultraviolet homing seekers were activated, they could travel ten miles tracking a target, and cover that distance in less than two minutes.
“Torpedoes closing!” Cunningham shouted. His eyes reflected his targeting screen as he tracked the two NAEGLINGs.
Now eyeing Gryphon’s main viewer, the rest of the bridge crew held their breath, watching the deadly missiles speed toward their target. A series of loud, ratcheting noises emanated from the internal speakers.
“Target is emitting active sonar, sir.” Ramirez announced.
Cunningham started his countdown. “Distance to target: four hundred yards, three hundred, two . . . what the hell?”
A split-second before impact, the pliosaur’s flippers flared out like wings, altering its trajectory. As it rose in the water column, the onrushing NAEGLINGs zipped harmlessly under it – one missing by a yard. Unable to course correct in time, the two torpedoes slammed into the stone escarpment 100 yards behind the giant predator, detonating in a fiery blast.
The bridge crew shielded their eyes as their infrared screen blazed white. A split-second later, Gryphon’s sturdy hull shook from the powerful shockwave.
Cunningham stared slack-jawed at his targeting screen. “I-I don’t believe it. I missed! I never miss!”
“Get over it,” Ho remarked.
“Rush, restore visual,” Garm ordered, blinking rapidly to clear the tiny motes of light that danced before his eyes.
“Already on it, captain,” she replied. A second later, the viewer was back to normal. A collective gasp escaped the bridge crew. The pliosaur was coming right at them. Its image filled the screen, its bone-crushing jaws spread wide.
“Target is at 150 yards on direct intercept, bearing zero-zero-zero!” Ramirez bellowed. “She’s coming in fast!”
Garm’s big hands balled into fists. So, she wants to play chicken, eh? “Helm, back full. Communications, lose the zoom.”
Rush swallowed hard. “Zoom is already off, sir.”
Ho asked, “Order to brace for collision?”
Garm swore under his breath. “Kyle, kill that son of a bitch.”
Cunningham’s eyes lit up. “With pleasure, sir. LADON engaging!”
Garm watched his crew involuntarily grab hold as their main viewer was about to be enveloped by the pliosaur’s ghostly orange maw. A moment before impact, the beast twisted away, swerving hard to starboard.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
The high-speed thrumming of the LADON’s Gatling cannon’s lethal bursts shook the bridge. On the viewer, tracer rounds marked the gun’s underwater swath of destruction as it targeted the fast-moving colossus.
BRRRRRRRRRRRRT!
“Shit, she’s looped under us, sir!” Cunningham yelled.
Garm’s teeth ached from clenching so hard and he cursed. LADON was a line-of-sight weapon. It was devastating on marks at their level or above. But against a target underneath them it was useless.
“Emergency blow!” he bellowed. “Brace for impact!”
“She’s bypassed us, sir!” Ramirez cried, shaking his head. “I think she’s after Antrodemus . . . or the other female!”
“Helm, swing us around!” Garm yelled. “Fire control, keep on her!”
“Target reacquired,” Cunningham announced. “Engaging!”
BRRRRRRRRRRRT!
Garm grabbed his armrests, bracing himself against the inertia as the engines and maneuvering thrusters worked hard to move Gryphon’s 435 tons through a quick one-eighty. On the viewer, LADON’s depleted uranium shells streamed like laser beams as it continued to track its target, the high-speed turret spinning and firing faster than the sub could maneuver.
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