Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  Complications notwithstanding . . .

  “By the way, I saw your appearance on Pliosaur Wars,” he mentioned. “You looked good. I like the dye job. And that you stuck to your guns.”

  “Thanks,” Stacy said, leaning back. Her amber-colored Asian eyes flashed merrily against a background of soft caramel-colored skin, all framed by a veritable lion’s mane of curly blonde hair.

  As Stacy straightened up, she intertwined her hands over her head, uttering a moan-like grunt as she stretched, before switching to gyrating at the waist. As her movements “accidentally” showed off her full breasts and the curvature of her toned backside, Dirk swallowed and looked up, focusing on watching the LED elevator floor numbers as they counted down.

  Stacy studied him. “So, you must be excited about her arrival, yes?”

  Dirk’s confused expression turned contemplative. “Oh, you mean the specimen. Absolutely.” He turned to her. “You know she’s gravid, right?”

  “Yes, I saw the preliminary,” she said. Her resultant scoff was tailgated by a frown. “I assume that means we’re aborting the entire clutch.”

  “Probably, but there’s bigger news.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Her mate managed to put a hit on the Antrodemus,” Dirk said. “No casualties, thank God, but Garm’s guys got some good intel before he got away. He’s huge, a giant. We think--”

  Stacy’s eyes lit up. “It’s Typhon?”

  “The prenatal should confirm it.” Beneath his lips, Dirk’s tongue ran over his teeth. “If it does, you can bet the farm Grayson’s going to mount an immediate expedition to hunt him down. It’ll be priority one.”

  Dirk felt the elevator come to a stop and readied himself.

  “Tell me something,” Stacy said, standing in his way. “Out of curiosity, did your mother approve of me?”

  His jaw hung like a broken marionette’s. “What kind of question is that? After your father was killed she took care of you, your housing, clothes, education, even gave you a piece of her company. She looked after like you were her own. You know that.”

  Stacy’s eyes softened but her jaw remained taut. “Yes. But I didn’t ask you that. I want to know if she liked me.”

  “She loved you. With all her heart.”

  Stacy swallowed and her eyes closed tight, their lids cracking only after she heard the elevator door hiss open behind her. “Well, at least one of you did,” she muttered, turning on her heel and leaving him standing there.

  “Stace . . .”

  * * *

  Still shaking his head, Dirk caught up to Stacy – a surprisingly hard thing to do, considering his legs were longer. He speed-walked beside her, pretending the uncomfortable silence was intentional. As they wound their way past the men and machines decorating the receiving dock, he wondered for the umpteenth time if he’d made a mistake ending their relationship. He certainly missed the sex; six months of abstinence was a mighty long time. And it was obvious she was far from over things.

  As he spotted Garm towering over a uniformed CDF officer and a second, unfamiliar, woman, he ordered his recriminations into a holding pattern and walked briskly toward them.

  “Dr. Derek Braddock,” he said to the middle-aged brunette, extending his hand. A quick glance confirmed no name tag on her lab coat.

  “Dr. Kimberly Bane,” she replied, giving him a surprisingly firm handshake. “I’m your new epidemiologist. And you’re Amara’s other boy,” she added before he could respond. Her face turned grave. “I was very sorry to hear of your loss.”

  “Turns out she knew mom.” Garm’s handsome face inclined toward Bane and he grinned amiably. “Good to see you, little brother,”

  Dirk’s expression flip-flopped as his eyes went back and forth. He finally settled on nodding. “Thank you, Dr. Bane. Oh, uh . . . this is Dr. Stacy Daniels, our chief neural surgeon and behavioral specialist. She’ll be assisting with the new specimen.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Stacy said, smiling warmly as she stepped forward and shook hands. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “Thanks, same here,” Bane replied

  Stacy looked up at Garm and smiled. “Glad you made it back safe and sound, big guy.”

  Garm smiled back. “One does what one can.”

  Satisfied that the pleasantries were out of the way, Stacy turned businesslike. “Lieutenant McEwan, is everything prepped?”

  McEwan stood at attention. “Yes, doctor. We are at 100%. It should be smooth sailing.”

  Dirk turned to Bane. “How was your trip, doctor?”

  The epidemiologist’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t use the term ‘smooth sailing,’ that’s for sure,” she said. “Your brother and his crew are a unique bunch, let me tell you.”

  Dirk grinned. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Actually, if I’m being brutally honest, he saved all our lives,” Bane acknowledged. “And mine, one last time, right over there.” She pointed across at the row of pliosaur tanks then exhaled heavily. “Frankly, I’ve had enough near-death experiences in the last forty-eight hours to last me the rest of my life.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Dirk offered. “They did toss you into the deep end.”

  “The ‘deep end’?” Bane ran her fingers through her hair and scoffed. “Let me tell you something, I was not this gray when the trip started.”

  “We’ll get you settled in as quickly as possible,” Dirk said. “And please accept my apologies.”

  “Actually, it’s not your apology that I want, Derek,” Bane announced. “I’d like to speak to our mutual employer, your boss.”

  Garm’s eyes shifted and his face split into a huge grin. “Speak of the devil,” he said, clicking his tongue at one of the facility’s rugged ATVs as it barreled toward them. “Here comes your chance, doc.”

  As the transport came to a stop twenty-five yards away, and its passengers disembarked, Dirk espied Dr. Grayson, accompanied by a high-ranking naval-type. From his file photo, he recognized him as Rear Admiral Callahan. The driver was a heavily armed marine and a second one, practically his twin, hovered around the admiral like his shadow.

  Dirk’s smile flatlined when he saw Tartarus Security Chief Dwyer and Jamal White, Dwyer’s second in command, flanking Dr. Grayson. He’d researched White just the other day. He was a disgraced former NYPD officer who’d transformed himself into an in-house drug czar. Once his superiors made the mistake of putting him in charge of the evidence locker, he started “redistributing” a good portion of the heroin and crack that came in. He was “giving back to the community,” as he said during his trial. White was dangerous – a one-time Golden Gloves light-heavyweight contender – and smart too. But not smart enough to not get caught.

  Dwyer was the one who made Dirk nervous. At six-foot-five and weighing at least 280, he was a mean-tempered bastard. But it wasn’t his size that gave the young scientist pause. Nor was it his flat, simian-like face or his perpetually bloodshot eyes – eyes that, when he thought Dirk wasn’t looking, tossed unfriendly glances his way. It wasn’t even the crescent-shaped scar on his lower lip. It was the fact that there was nothing about him in their files. Not even the encrypted ones reserved for Officers of the Company like himself. It was like Dwyer sprang up out of a bottle or something

  Dirk put his misgivings about the man on hold as Grayson and the admiral headed his way. As they drew closer, he fought down a smirk. Despite the old man’s age and frailty, the assorted handlers and technicians milling about the receiving dock parted like the Red Sea as he and his entourage approached.

  Geez, you’d think he was dangerous or something . . .

  Ten yards out, both the admiral’s and Grayson’s security personnel hung back and assumed at-ease poses. Dirk played politician and signaled Dr. Bane to be patient, while Stacy headed straight for their employer. A moment later, he and Garm followed in her footsteps.

  “We’re all set, Dr. Grayson,” Stacy said. She pulled her
hair to one side and adjusted an ear-mike she was wearing. “Antrodemus is right outside the Vault, waiting on us.”

  “Excellent,” Grayson said. He extended his arms out to the sides in an effort to relieve stiffness and glanced around approvingly. “It’s an exciting day.” He smiled as he spotted Dirk and Garm. “Hello boys, it’s--” he hesitated, then touched his temple as if realizing he’d forgotten something. “Good God, where are my manners? This is--”

  “Rear Admiral Ward Callahan,” the naval officer replied, stepping quickly forward. He was heavyset with intense eyes and a pronounced salt-and-pepper mustache. “I’m Admiral Warminster’s replacement and head of the Navy’s bio-weapons division.” He extended a paw-like hand to Stacy first. “Dr. Daniels, I’ve seen your file. Your credentials are most impressive. And Dr. Braddock,” he nodded at Dirk, “It’s a privilege to finally make your acquaintance. As you both know, the Navy needs two top-notch replacements. I’m looking forward to seeing your inventory.”

  Dirk’s smile took a vacation when Callahan didn’t bother waiting for his reply and headed straight for Garm. “Now, here’s a guy that needs no introduction.” He took Garm’s hand with both of his, pumping it vigorously while grinning like a well-fed hyena. “Garm ‘The Gate’ Braddock: terror of the heavyweight division. I am a huge fan – seen every one of your fights – many of them live.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Admiral,” Garm said matter-of-factly. “But my boxing days are behind me. That was a long time ago.”

  “A long time ago?” Callahan echoed. “You know, I’ll never understand why you walked away from it. You scored some of the most exciting knockouts in the history of pugilism! I was ringside when you beat the tar out of that seven-foot Siberian guy, what the hell was his name?”

  “Ivan Volkov,” Garm said quietly.

  “Yeah, that’s him.” Callahan said, his eyes lighting up. “They called him ‘The Wolf,’ or some such nonsense.” He scoffed. “More like ‘The Elephant.’ He kept backing you up against the ropes and laying on you, trying to use his 365 pounds to wear you down while he took breaks. You remember that?”

  “Yes . . .”

  Callahan’s hands clenched and he became animated. “I saw your face in round five as he tried draping those big arms over your shoulders for the tenth time. Man, you were pissed. You timed him on the way in, then twisted to the side and dropped down. A second later . . . boom! Huge uppercut! Guy’s arm practically came out of the socket.”

  Garm glanced from face to face, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

  “It was all over after that,” Callahan said, breathing hard and holding his considerable stomach. “You chopped him down like a Christmas tree.”

  Garm grinned mirthlessly. “Like I said, a long time ago.”

  Callahan reached over and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder. “Yeah, right; look at you, still in ring-shape.” He put up his hands in an old-school boxing pose, pretending he wanted to spar. “Boy, I’d hate to mess with you!”

  Garm played along, his hands palms out in a placating gesture. But Dirk wasn’t fooled. His brother’s smile never dipped and his eyes never left Callahan’s face, but he could tell he’d already sized up his “man” like an X-ray machine. Callahan’s obesity, his clumsiness, as well as the slight limp he exhibited from a bad knee and arthritic hip, had all been recorded in an instant.

  Dirk sighed. Garm was just like their father. He’d always be a fighter. If you were his enemy; look out. But if you were his friend, he could always be counted on, a rock people clung to when disaster struck.

  That was Garm, a true guardian. And people loved him for it.

  As Callahan stopped to catch his breath, he put a hand on Garm’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “I heard about your parents. Your mom’s death was a tragedy. Your dad’s too. I met him years ago, back when I was heading up the parade for that captive Kronosaurus. You know, the one they put on display in Oceanus.” He shook his head. “He was a good man, your father.”

  “Jake Braddock was a great man,” Dr. Grayson inserted. “And he left a legacy behind, beyond that of even his amazing sons. Because of his help, our researchers were able to develop the antibodies that kept pliosaur bacteria-borne ailments from evolving into a plague of biblical proportions.”

  Dirk cleared his throat. “Speaking of which . . .” Using eye movements, he indicated Dr. Bane, who stood beside Lieutenant McEwan with her arms folded. “Our new epidemiologist would like a word. I believe she feels she was misinformed about a few things.”

  “Of course,” Grayson said, “In due time.” He turned to Garm and smiled warmly as he reached up and clapped him on one rock-hard shoulder. “I saw the attack footage, son. Your tactics were very impressive. I’m relieved you made it back safely, you and your team. I don’t know what this place would be like if we lost you.”

  Garm shrugged. “It wasn’t my time.”

  “Indeed. So, why did you pass on the Gen-1?”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Grayson, I’m not a dog catcher.”

  “Of course you’re not. But what about the prize?”

  “You of all people should know that money is not an object to me.”

  Grayson studied him. “Not that prize, son. I’m talking about the competition between you and Antrodemus. You know you don’t like to lose.”

  Garm regarded him from his great height. “Everyone loses. Sooner or later.”

  “That’s what Volkov said,” Callahan spouted with a snicker.

  Suddenly, a loud claxon pealed across the docks and a bright red strobe light lit up over the thirty-foot upper portion of the Vault’s doors still visible above the waterline. All conversation on the receiving platform abruptly ceased.

  Stacy touched her earpiece. “We’re a go,” she said. “Incoming.”

  “Okay people; it’s showtime,” Dirk said. He nodded to Stacy, who moved a few steps back and started talking into her ear-mike. A moment later, there was a low rumbling sound and the concrete under everyone’s feet began to pulse. In the distance, the water around the Vault’s doors churned like an unwatched pot. A black vertical line appeared in the center of their seamless surfaces as the armored portals slowly opened.

  “Well, then,” Dr. Grayson said, shooting Garm an indecipherable look. “Let’s get ready to see the latest addition to our family. And to congratulate our incoming victors.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  Trailing fragments of skin and blubber, the Ancient cruised lazily along at a depth of four hundred feet. Like a dark-hued barrage balloon, his immense body hugged the bluish gray twilight layer that existed between the ocean’s sunlit phototropic zone and the forever blackness of the deep.

  The great beast yawned, his cavernous jaws spreading wide enough to swallow a hippopotamus. He shifted his girder-like mandibles from side to side, easing the steely adductor muscles that ran through the six-foot temporal openings in his skull, and provided him with the world’s most powerful bite. There was an explosive burst of bubbles a hundred yards away, as the revelation of his ridged fangs sent a prowling swordfish swimming for its life. The Ancient ignored the frightened broadbill. His stomach was stretched to the point of bursting from nearly twenty tons of whale meat and blubber.

  Appropriating the still-warm blue whale carcass from a trio of smaller males had been all too easy. The rival bulls detected his presence from five hundred yards off by the powerful pressure wave that preceded him. He’d made no pretense at stealth and flew straight at them, like a nuclear submarine with teeth. It was an intimidation tactic, pure and simple. There was no need to kill others of his kind. One sonar scan on their part was all it took for the first two to relinquish their kill. The last one was a bit more tenacious, and required the addition of a thunderous grunt from his monstrous jaws before it, too, tucked tail and fled.

  Sensing the contentment only a full belly can bring, Lethargy flirted with the old Kronosaurus, running her claws in rake-like ca
resses along his scar-covered back. He uttered the pliosaur’s version of a sigh as his deep-set eyes were drawn to the light-dappled waters above. He would have enjoyed basking on the surface; the sun’s warmth would ease his aches and speed his digestion, but the waters he traversed were too dangerous to risk lying in plain sight. This far from shore, the smaller entities the bipedal warm-bloods infested were few and far between. But the larger ones were still present, as were the noisy flying things that spewed death from the clouds.

  All of a sudden, the Ancient cocked his head to one side and began to draw large quantities of seawater into his mouth, funneling it through the scoop-shaped passages in his palate. He recognized the scent in an instant. Not far from his current position, there was blood in the water.

  It was fresh, mammalian blood . . . biped blood.

  The wrinkled skin around the great bull’s eyes contracted as the sclerotic ring that enabled his kind to focus underwater compressed inward. He swept the area, but saw nothing but fish and a few drifting fragments of wood. His jaws closed tightly to reduce drag and he began to accelerate, arcing through a wide swath of water. The blood trail was diffused over a large area and he could not pinpoint the source.

  Curiosity made way for frustration and, after a moment’s deliberation, his throat muscles started to ripple. He began emitting a powerful cone of sonar that blanketed the surrounding sea. Moving his head back and forth, he spun his body clockwise with powerful flicks from his boat-sized flippers. The deep, ratcheting clicks he produced reverberated in the distance.

  A minute later, he found what he’d been searching for. Sitting on the seabed some five miles away, near the dropoff of a ten-mile long crevasse, was the blood source.

  The need to replenish his air was upon him, and with a powerstroke that would have moved a destroyer, the Ancient made for the surface. He backstroked just before breaching so he remained hidden, allowing only the top of his snout to break the surface. Like a geyser, he spouted twin columns of water vapor that blasted thirty feet into the air before inhaling, slowly and deeply. Moments later, the watertight flaps that sealed his yard-long nostrils closed tight and he sounded.