They were also staple prey items for the region’s surviving pliosaurs.
For the last seven years running, the Florida Keys had hosted an annual Bulldog Fish roundup. It drew thousands of boats, all targeting the toothy predators as they stalked the region’s migrating schools of tarpon. With half a million dollars in prize money going to the crew that landed the largest fish, competition between anglers was fierce. Unlike billfish tournaments, however, the roundup was a no-release competition, with the chrome-colored predators hung up and weighed on the docks, before being cut up with chain saws and sold to nearby restaurants. In the beginning, animal rights groups had tried boycotting the roundup. But with adult Xiphactinus being proven maneaters responsible for hundreds of deaths each year, the activists’ cries fell on deaf ears.
There’s certainly no shortage of the greedy bastards, Garm snorted. He absentmindedly rubbed at his hip before moving to their transparent prow. A pod of a half-dozen Bulldog fish shot past, their fanged jaws agape as they harried a school of nearly one hundred tarpon. Above, he could make out the hull of a fifty-foot canyon runner, backing down on what looked to be a very large Xiphactinus.
Garm shook his head. Even behind the relative safety of the pliosaur net, manning a boat that size with a fiberglass hull, the charter boat’s captain had to be either certifiable or packing some serious firepower. He was betting on the latter. You never knew when the tournament’s action might attract the attention of something very large and unpleasant.
“As soon as we’re past them, extend the mast,” Garm ordered. “Sonar, how’s it looking?”
“I’ve got twelve boats within a thousand yards, plus a helicopter scanning the area.” Ramirez gnawed his lip. “It’s too big to be a news chopper. Based on rotor noise and intermittent emissions, it’s got to be military.” He tapped a few keys and affirmed. “ID confirmed, sir. Designate: Bearcat.”
Probably keeping the network choppers at bay, Garm thought. As popular as the tournament is, the last thing they need is a major incident showing up on the evening news. He nodded. “Good call. Their rotor noise should help keep the more cautious lizards at bay.”
Rush cleared her throat. “We’re past the fishing boat. Photonics and satellites coming online, sir.”
Garm rested his arms on his chest and watched as their window to the sea was replaced by a modern submarine’s view of the surface. Unlike bulky, old-fashioned periscopes, with their limited fields of view, Gryphon’s photonics assembly, with its powerful optronics, provided a full 120 degrees of the surface and could swivel 360. On the viewer, an assortment of boats cruised in the distance. Several were anchored up, and a few were backing down as they slugged it out with their monstrous quarry. Above the melee, and maintaining an altitude of 1,000 feet, the heavily armed GDT Bearcat hovered like some enormous black raptor, hungry for a kill.
Garm held up an index finger, moving it in tiny circles. “Rotate view. Let’s see what that boat’s got on.”
The screen’s picture swiveled smoothly to port and pinpointed the sleek charter boat, now holding position 150 yards to their stern. As the viewer zoomed in, Garm could make out the name Prodigal Sun, emblazoned across its transom. Another jump-cut and the straining angler’s bearded face came into view. He looked like a lumberjack seated in the boat’s fighting chair, his thick arm muscles bulging as he heaved slowly back on his unlimited-class tuna rod, before leaning forward and cranking for all he was worth.
Ramirez sniggered as he clocked Ho staring wide-eyed. “Hey Short-stack, I didn’t know you were into the Grizzly Adams look!”
The annoyed helmswoman flipped him the bird without looking.
Behind the sweat-soaked fisherman, a mate gripped the back of their heavy-duty fighting chair, swiveling it to match the surging Bulldog fish’s movements. At the rear of the cockpit, another crewmember stood waiting, cradling in his arms the biggest flying gaff Garm had ever seen. The Gryphon’s captain smiled as he spotted what he’d been expecting – an additional crewman, situated in the crow’s nest with the captain, and armed. He couldn’t make out the model of the firearm he was gripping, but whatever it was, it was big.
“Sonar, split screen,” Garm said. “Show me what they’ve got.”
The primary viewer switched to a pared-down version of the surface, combined with the sub’s standard underwater view from below. Through her reflection in their bow window, Garm watched Dr. Bane move from her seat and head to the prow. She took up position at his side.
“Wow, that’s some fish,” she muttered. On the viewer, the embattled Xiphactinus passed directly above them, angrily shaking its head as it tried to break free of the tether that was steadily sapping its strength.
“What do you think, Ramirez? Twenty-one . . . twenty-two feet?” Garm asked over his shoulder.
“Twenty-five, sir,” his grinning sonar tech replied, incorporating his best “Quint” accent. “Two tons of him!”
“Valuable fish . . . if they land it,” Cunningham pointed out.
A school of tarpon rushed past, causing Dr. Bane to jump as one panicked and bounced loudly off the sub’s transparent nose. Behind them, three hungry bulldog fish in the twenty-foot range flared their gills and gave way as an even larger hammerhead shark bullied past, its yard-wide jaws snapping in warning.
“Holy shit, it’s Bismarck!” Cunningham chortled. “Check him out!”
As the five thousand pound Great Hammerhead pushed aside its ancient rivals and closed on the fleeing tarpon, Garm gave the old fish a nod of respect. Crisscrossed with scars, “Bismarck” had managed to survive not only decades of shark-finning and competition from hordes of X-fish, but the invading pliosaurs as well. He was a rarity. Possibly the last of a dying breed.
Ho’s alarmed voice yanked Garm back from his musings.
“Captain, Prodigal Sun’s fish is approaching our sail,” she advised. “Risk to the photonics assembly is--”
Garm cut her off. “Communications, retract mast. Switch to sub-surface viewing only. Show me Antrodemus.”
“Aye, sir,” Rush said. “Switching to aft viewers.”
Gryphon’s forward-facing underwater images dissolved and their sister sub’s intimidating form took over. Antrodemus followed soundlessly in their wake, matching their speed and depth, with 100+ tons of sleeping monster lashed to her nose. With the comatose pliosaur’s positioning giving the ORION class sub an undeniably hammer-like appearance, Garm couldn’t help but notice the parallel to old Bismarck.
Last of a dying breed . . .
As Antrodemus passed directly under Prodigal Sun, Garm stifled a snicker. If those poor bastards knew what was right beneath their feet . . .
It was true; some things are better left unseen.
“Captain, I think I detected some movement from the package,” Ramirez announced.
Garm wheeled on him. “Are you sure?”
“It was subtle. But I’m pretty sure.”
Garm’s eyes zeroed Cunningham. He was relieved to see his CSO had already locked LADON onto the Antrodemus’s bow.
“Incoming call from Captain Dragunova,” Rush said. “She’s patched a relay through their Remora.”
“On speaker. Ramirez, zoom in on the package,” Garm said. He started toward sonar, then froze. A quick glance at their viewer confirmed things.
Although its eyes remained closed, the pliosaur was definitely moving. Its wedge-shaped head had twisted to one side and one of its fore-flippers was straining against the silvery cable that held it in place.
“Ahoy, Gryphon,” Captain Dragunova’s voice, complete with her too-heavy-to-ignore Russian accent, blared out of their speakers.
“Ahoy, Antrodemus. How’s the patient?” Garm did his best to sound casual.
“Dee patient ees fine,” Dragunova said. “She is just having – how you say – bad dreams?”
Garm glanced at Cunningham, who gave him one of his ‘I don’t have a clue’ looks and shrugged.
“Recommen
d Antrodemus takes point. We’re less than a mile from--”
“Nyet. With sonar damaged, ees better we follow you. You can tell base, in case we are, as you say, ‘coming in hot.’”
“Can you dose it again, just to be sure?”
“We deployed Lokis already, but dosage eendicators and organic monitors say ees not necessary.”
Garm shook his head. “And if they’re wrong and she comes to?”
“We have Reaper on standby.”
“That’s insane. You’ll blow your actuators off and cripple your vessel.”
Dragunova’s voice turned stony. “I will not allow dees beetch to escape right off the beach. And damage? Day can fucking bill me!”
Garm sighed. “Understood. We’ll lead you in. Gryphon out.”
As Rush closed the com, Garm noticed Bane studying him. “Something on your mind, doc?”
“An interesting woman,” she said. “She certainly has a way with words.”
He chuckled. “You have no idea.” On the aft viewer, the pliosaur’s unexpected shifting ceased as quickly as it started. Its flippers went limp and its head drooped back down to its previous inert position. Tiny specks of detritus swirled around it like dust motes as a pair of LOKI AUVs materialized. They began flanking it, keeping pace and scanning it repeatedly.
Ramirez exhaled in relief. “I think Captain Dragunova’s correct, sir. The package seems to be settling back down.”
“Fine, but from now until we dock, I want you on that thing like pork on a pig. If it so much as farts, I want to know.”
“Yes, sir.” The sonar tech stroked his mustache. “Does a belch count?”
Garm gave him an appraising look. “That was almost funny. I think our CSO’s rubbing off on you.”
“God forbid, sir.”
“Cunningham, stay on point,” Garm instructed. “If Dragunova’s wrong and the package starts to come unraveled . . .”
“Pin the bow, sir?”
“You got it. Their shielding won’t withstand a sustained barrage, so keep your bursts short.” Garm headed back to the prow with Bane in tow.
Ho cleared her throat loudly, “Captain, were approaching the end of Jörmungandr. Tunnel entrance is seven hundred yards and closing.”
“Set course and reduce speed to ten knots. Once we’re inside, make sure we have plenty of clearance. With her damaged sonar, Antrodemus has one big needle to thread. Let’s leave some big breadcrumbs for her to follow.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Communications, move in tight on the package.” Garm said.
The aft viewer magnified the unconscious Kronosaurus. The sleeping colossus was completely lifeless. All around it, hordes of hand-sized fish of every hue imaginable explored it like a rainbow-colored cloud, some even entering its cavernous mouth and weaving in and around its giant fangs.
Bane gestured at the spectacle, “Why are all those reef fish crowding around that thing. Aren’t they afraid of being eaten when it wakes up?”
Garm chuckled. “Pliosaurs don’t eat fish that size. It’d be like you dabbing at grains of salt: hardly worth the effort.”
“So what do the fish get out of it? Safety?”
“And food. They’re scouring it, picking off tiny parasites and scraps of dead skin. For the lizard, it’s a free facial.”
“You have an interesting way of looking at things, captain,” Bane said.
“So I’ve been told,” Garm replied. His head swiveled toward Rush. “Kill the underwater view and take me back topside.”
“Aye, sir,” Rush replied.
A moment later, the bridge crew winced in unison. Compared to the dim depths they’d grown accustomed to, the sudden burst of sunlight filling the compartment forced everyone to shield their eyes.
Garm lowered his hand. “Sonar, stay on POSEIDON all the way in. Understand?”
“Of course, sir,” Ramirez said, flipping switches.
Garm gestured. “Rush, roll us around.”
Five hundred yards away, the mile-wide, 1000-foot tall stone mound that constituted Rock Key filled their screen. Virtually barren, with but an occasional patch of grass or shrubbery, the island looked like an immense boulder some Titan used as a plaything and then abandoned, leaving it sitting half-submerged in the water.
“No boats or watercraft in the area,” Garm remarked as he scanned the surrounding sea. “Good to see they’re taking the markers seriously.”
One of the tricks the CDF designed early on to ensure Rock Key’s privacy was the installation of warning buoys, ringing the island. The buoys were marked with a swimmer hazarded by a set of toothy jaws, and gave the illusion that the area was safety-net-free, giving pause to even the most brazen of boaters.
A hint of movement to one side caught Garm’s eye.
“Swivel viewer to starboard,” he said. A moment later, “Hold.”
On the surface, a tiny dot bounced along, heading toward nearby Islamorada.
“Enlarge object.”
The dot became a high-powered Jet Ski. Aboard, two men wearing red and white lifejackets zoomed along at a full clip. From their stern, under Old Glory, a small red flag with a white hand in its center extended from a yard-long flagpole. The flag flew straight behind the big Ski, shivering in the breeze.
Garm gave the riders a small salute.
“Who are they?” Bane inquired.
“LifeGivers, our resident lifeguard superheroes.” Garm said. “When a Kronosaurus or Bulldog fish attacks and everyone else is swimming for their lives, they jump on their Jet Skis and try to save people. Assuming there’s anything left to save, that is.”
“On that tiny thing?” Bane’s eyebrows practically touched her hairline. “Lord, they must be fearless.” She eyed the retreating Jet Ski.
“One of my friends used to be one,” Garm said. “Ballsiest guy I ever knew. He said it was like being a firefighter, rushing into burning buildings. Except the ‘buildings’ try to eat them.”
“And here I thought you were the only one with a dangerous job.”
“Hardly.” Garm signaled Rush. “Kill the main.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gryphon’s bow window cleared and the oncoming sea once again became visible. Rays of golden sunlight stabbed through the turquoise water like iridescent spears, illuminating schools of tiny fish and squid that fled as they drew near. Garm inhaled out of reflex, desperately wanting to breathe fresh sea air.
“So . . .” he gestured for Bane to accompany him. “Besides what we just had on the viewer, have you seen Rock Key before?”
“No, but I’m familiar with its history.” She ran one hand across the cool surface of their clear titanium window and rubbed the condensation between her fingertips. “Due to the sturdiness of its natural stone, during WWI it was used as a military research center for developing high explosives.”
“Go on.”
Bane cleared her throat. “During WWII the Navy decided to utilize it for artillery practice – a death knell for the islet’s already-struggling resident wildlife. The entire island was shelled a hundred times over and carpet bombed too. After the war, it was deemed unfit for human habitation and has been closed ever since.”
“Anything else?” Garm probed.
“Just the usual online urban legends about clandestine nuclear experiments. A lot of people believe the island is still uninhabitable and that setting foot on it means a slow death via radiation poisoning. Personally, I think it’s all bullshit.”
“Oh, it absolutely is.” Garm winked.
Bane cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.
“My brother Derek was the one who ‘leaked’ that info.”
The epidemiologist’s eyes lit up. “Ah, another way to keep nosey people away.” She eyed him contemplatively. “You Braddock boys are a cunning lot.”
Garm leaned in close, showing off his opalescent eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please,” Bane scoffed. “Don’t even think of
batting your sky-blues at me, child,” she chuckled. “Although it’s been awhile, your mother and I are good friends. She told me all about you and the ladies.”
Garm’s attempt at feigning offense failed miserably. “You knew my mom?”
“A year after Paradise Cove, I attended a lecture she gave. We got to talking afterward and hit it off.” Bane folded her arms across her chest. “Actually, her position as head of research at Rock Key was the reason I accepted the transfer.”
Garm’s playful expression vanished and he put his hands in his pockets, watching as the water ahead of them grew shallow. Boat traffic was non-existent and the fish they passed steadily decreased in size until all the larger predators had vanished. A hundred yards away, past the end of the ragged Jörmungandr trench, the blackish opening of “The Tube” emerged into view.
Bane glanced over her shoulder at the bridge crew and lowered her voice. “Can I ask you something personal, captain?”
Garm grinned. “Are you hitting on me?”
“What? Hell, no!”
“Then, yes. And, by the way, when we’re out of earshot of the crew, you can call me Garm.”
“Actually, that’s my question.”
“Come again?”
“‘Garm’ isn’t exactly a common name. How did you come by it? Your mom would never tell.”
“Hmm. Well, I assume you know Derek and I are twins.”
“Fraternal twins. I saw pictures of you guys growing up.”
“Well, when it came time to name us, my parents disagreed. My mom wanted to name Derek ‘Dirk’ because of my dad’s fencing career. He’d just taken silver in the Olympics.”
“That sounds cute.”
Garm shook his head. “My dad felt it was too much like a character from some novel. He was adamant, and since they each got to pick a name, he won.”
“And you?”
“My mom was royally pissed. She had a foul temper to begin with, so when it was my turn she just snatched a mythology book off a nearby shelf.”
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