Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  Callahan was busy squinting and shielding his own optics, trying hard to see into the lightless interior of the distant chamber. His nose crinkled as a pungent odor escaped its confines and wafted towards them. There was a sudden, boisterous grunt, like a bull’s lowing mixed with a snort from a primeval pig, and a bulbous, whiskered snout emerged from the darkness.

  The admiral gaped. “What is that . . . a hippo?”

  Grayson nodded. “A Hippopotamus amphibius, to be precise. Over six thousand pounds of him.” He leaned closer and intoned, “For some reason, she prefers warm, mammalian meat.”

  Callahan watched, transfixed, as the fourteen-foot bull hippopotamus gazed pensively down at the saltwater lake that opened up ten feet below his columnar legs. He beady eyes blinked and his impressive nostrils flared as he scented the air. Suddenly, the big water horse bared his tusks and uttered a braying bellow of alarm, before retreating back inside the confines of the thirty-foot compartment.

  He found no refuge there. Inside, the chamber’s far wall began to slide forward on well-lubricated tracks, pushing the hapless herbivore inch by inch toward the edge and the horror that waited below like some monstrous spider in its web.

  There was a plaintive wail, punctuated by a tremendous splash, as the three-ton bull tumbled sideways over the concrete wall and crashed into the seawater below. On impact, the hippopotamus went completely under, his blubbery body suspended like a plump sausage, floating in a soup pot. His eyes widened as he spotted the giant pliosaur not thirty feet away, grinning at him. Surfacing with a gurgled bellow, the terrified creature swam for his life.

  Tiamat wasted no time. Moving smoothly forward, her twenty-five foot jaws flew apart. Like a bass inhaling a sunfish, she sucked one hundred tons of water into her enormous gullet, along with the writhing hippopotamus.

  Rather than swallowing her victim whole, however, as she was quite capable of doing, the giant predator deliberately closed her jaws, catching the unfortunate ungulate in mid-torso. Callahan’s jaw descended as he saw the hysterical mammal’s tusked head and forequarters protruding from between black-scaled lips. The bull’s burbled shriek of agony echoed across the amphitheater, as the Kronosaurus imperator queen’s sword-like teeth plunged into his body like forks penetrating meat loaf. There was a wet crunch and the front half of the dying hippo twirled away from the pliosaur’s mouth like a carrot top, spewing blood and intestines as it spun end over end.

  “She did that on purpose,” Grayson informed him, watching as the mammoth predator’s wedge-shaped snout turned sideways and she casually snapped up the hippo’s other half. “She seems to enjoy biting into her prey, as opposed to simply engulfing it.”

  “Impressive,” Callahan replied. He watched with undisguised fascination as Tiamat looked around, then spun on her tail and retreated back into the shadows to digest her meal. “So how does her bite force compare to the rest?”

  “We haven’t been able to accurately rate it,” Grayson said. “She destroyed our previous Fenris system, but the preliminary readings were off the charts. All I can tell you is, substantially higher.”

  Callahan shook his head in wonderment as billowing clouds of hippo blood dispersed into the surrounding water. “I gotta tell you, Eric; your pliosaurs are impressive. I used to think they were just giant crocodiles with flippers, but that jaw power? It blows a shark bite out of the water. How do they do it?”

  “Well, for starters, the mandibular symphysis--”

  “Fuck. English, please . . .”

  Grayson chafed inwardly. “Dumbing things down” for military types was tedious work. “Very well, Ward . . . sharks actually generate relatively weak bite forces. We’ve tested seven-foot tiger sharks and, on the average, they packed only about thirty pounds of actual pressure.”

  “Wow, that’s kinda wimpy.”

  “It’s the jawbones. They’re made of soft cartilage. Sharks have a dangerous bite because of their needle-sharp teeth,” Grayson said with a shrug. “Think about it. If I embedded a bunch of razor blades in a foot-long hunk of two-by-four and dropped it on your thigh with a thirty-pound weight on top, what would happen?”

  “I’d be cut?”

  “Exactly,” Grayson chuckled. “Back in the day, crocodiles were rated as having the world’s most powerful bite – and they are impressive. If you take a great white shark, for example, and match it against a saltwater crocodile of similar mass, the saltie packs four times the punch. Literally.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “A pliosaur’s jaw structure is similar to a croc’s,” Grayson continued. “Except the enlarged temporal . . . the jaw muscles . . . are even bigger and the teeth in those jaws aren’t intended for gripping and holding, as they are in crocodilians. They’re designed for cutting.”

  “Like a sword,” Callahan offered.

  “More like a giant pair of shears,” Grayson said. “The teeth interlock and have sharp edges that rub against one another as they close. On top of that, the . . . ends of the jaw bones are solid, fused masses, as thick and as strong as steel girders. Instead of gripping prey, with the intention of doing a death roll and tearing a chunk out, when a Kronosaurus slams its jaws shut it--”

  “Chops the victim in half?”

  “Pretty much. And, as you witnessed, if the prey item struggles it makes the pliosaur’s job even easier. Flailing actually helps those armor-piercing fangs to cut deeper.”

  Callahan studied the vast aquarium’s gloomy depths, focusing on the section where the giant predator had vanished. His lips and eyes formed tight lines as he blew out a breath. Then he turned back and blurted out, “I want her.”

  Grayson cocked an eyebrow at the borderline lustful tone. “Excuse me?”

  “Her majesty, the queen bitch, Tiamat . . . whatever the fuck you want to call her. I want her.”

  “For what? To be one of your task force’s guard dogs? I don’t think so.”

  “That thing, running point for the fleet?” Callahan snorted derisively. “Fuck no. That would be a waste of talent. Oh, no, my friend. She’s going to be my personal submarine destroyer. She’ll stave in boomer pressure hulls like they’re made of tin foil!” He clapped his hands together loudly. “Man, the Russians are going to shit bricks!” Ignoring the dubious look Grayson was giving him, he rambled aloud. “Come to think of it, they’ve lost quite a few subs over the years to so-called ‘accidents.’ I wonder if--”

  “Tiamat is not for sale, admiral,” Grayson announced.

  “Ha! Everything’s for sale.”

  “Not this thing.” The CEO shook his head. “I’m sorry. But she’s one of a kind and I can’t afford to lose her.”

  “I see.” Callahan flushed and his face scrunched up like he’d just chewed a lemon. “Well, can you make more of her? You know, like some sort of in-house breeding program?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Grayson clasped his hands behind him and began to descend, with Callahan hustling after him. “Kronosaurus cows are like any other female; they accept their mates based on worthiness and genetic desirability, and we don’t have a bull anywhere near the size and strength it would take to tickle that little lady’s ‘fancy.’”

  Callahan hit the ground floor and paused to catch his breath, resting one hand against the tank’s impenetrable PBI wall and wiping his brow with the back of the other. “Have you tried?”

  Grayson sighed. “Actually, we have. Last year, we captured a Gen-1 bull, assumedly one of Tiamat’s brood mates. He was a powerful brute, built like a tank and every bit as huge as Polyphemus. We assigned him the code name Hyperion.”

  “And you tried mating them?”

  “Not at first. Initially, we presented Hyperion to two of our other captive cows and they were both receptive,” Grayson said. “He was quite the ‘stud,’ as they say. After some deliberation, we decided to take a chance and gave him a shot at his sister.”

  “His sister?” Callahan made a face. “Oh, yeah . . . so, what happened?”

&
nbsp; Grayson hesitated as Tiamat suddenly reemerged. Her flippers spanned a full eighty feet from tip to tip as she cruised straight toward the two men, stopping just a hundred feet away. Then, with eerie silence, she curved sinuously sideways and continued on past. Her jaws were slightly parted, revealing ragged hunks of hippo blubber clinging to her teeth, and her eyes blazed like sunlit amber.

  “Let’s just say we didn’t have to bother feeding her for the next few days.”

  Callahan nearly choked. “Holy shit, she ate his ass! Are you serious?”

  “Incredibly. The resultant mess clogged the impellers on all three of her enclosure’s filtration units. It was a very expensive lesson.”

  “Well, what about artificial insemination? Would that work?”

  “No.” Grayson suddenly felt very tired. “We haven’t been able to isolate the how or why, but without the adrenal stimulation the female receives from bonding with a prospective mate, cellular mitosis doesn’t take place. The cells of the fertilized egg don’t begin to multiply and, for whatever reason, we haven’t been able to induce it. It’s like she has to want to get pregnant.”

  Callahan ground his heels in frustration. “Shit. Have you considered--”

  “Cloning isn’t an option, either,” Grayson interrupted. “Her reproductive system is different than that of her sisters. It’s just . . . it’s complicated.”

  “Okay, I get it. So, is there any chance you can find a mate for her?”

  Grayson smiled. “We’re working on it. We--” His lips stopped moving as his eyes fell on Garm Braddock. That was interesting. Amara’s oldest was the last person he expected to see in the amphitheater. The big submariner was far away, several hundred feet downwind, but there was no mistaking that face and frame. He was standing by the tank walls. And he appeared to be sizing up Tiamat.

  Grayson turned toward the distant ATV and signaled his driver. In seconds, Dwyer had the six-wheeled MarshCat in gear and was cruising smoothly toward them with Callahan’s aide, Gibbons, sitting rigidly upright in the front passenger seat. The big marine’s face paled as he eyed the swirling water beside them.

  “Mr. Dwyer,” Grayson began. “If you’d be so kind as to keep Admiral Callahan company, I’d like to speak with one of my sub commanders.”

  “Uh, yes, sir,” Dwyer responded, throwing the MarshCat in park.

  “Oh, shit. It’s Gate.” Callahan’s eyes lit up as he espied the former heavyweight contender in the distance. “Hold up, Eric. I’ll join you.”

  Grayson held up a hand. “Actually, I need to talk to this particular employee in private. It’s a . . . corporate thing. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Callahan opened his mouth as if to protest, but caught the older man’s expression and changed his mind. “Okay, sure. I’ll be right here.”

  “Excellent.” Grayson turned and began the long march to Garm. His knees ached from being subjected to too much concrete, but he preferred to converse with Derek’s enigmatic twin alone and on equal footing.

  He’d traveled barely a third of the distance, however, when he heard heavy footfalls thudding up behind him. He sighed and drawled over one shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Dwyer?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I just got a call,” Security Chief Angus Dwyer blurted out. He took a moment to catch his breath. At six-foot-five, with his reddish-brown hair, rangy arms, and flat face, the brutish ex-convict bore more than a passing resemblance to an enormous orangutan. “It’s kinda pressing, and definitely for your ears only.”

  Grayson turned and looked up at him. “I’m listening.”

  “We got McHale, that missing guard; he never left Tartarus. He was hiding out in the lower levels all this time, by the pens.”

  Grayson’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. “What about his tracker?”

  “He took it out himself and trashed it,” Dwyer said, then added quietly. “Rather messily, I might add.”

  “I see.” The CEO ruminated on the unexpected development. “That’s rather depressing. McHale showed promise. I didn’t expect him to turn on us. Was he taking his medication?”

  “I’m not sure, but he definitely lost it when they found him, sir. Resisted the guards, injured one. They had to juice him twice to put him down.”

  Grayson’s lips tightened and he tapped his fingertips contemplatively together. “Well, we can’t have that. Alert the appropriate parties and have him shipped out immediately.” He lowered his voice. “And Mr. Dwyer . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “Not a word of this to the others. It would be bad for morale.”

  “Of course, sir,” Dwyer said. As Grayson turned to go, he reached out a catcher’s mitt of a hand to touch the elderly scientist on the shoulder, but then pulled back.

  Grayson pegged him with a look. “Is there something else?”

  Dwyer eyes shifted up and over his employer’s head, finding and focusing on Garm Braddock. “Actually, yes there is, sir. Do you think it’s wise, you . . .”

  “I what, Mr. Dwyer?”

  “You talking to him all alone? I mean, Braddock’s kinda unpredictable. And given the situation . . .”

  “Oh, rubbish,” Grayson said, laughing quietly. “I’ll be perfectly safe. Captain Braddock is a man of honor and integrity.”

  “Those are the most dangerous kind,” Dwyer said, his bloodshot eyes still targeting the distant sub commander.

  “Are you sure you’re not just jealous, Mr. Dwyer?”

  “W-what?” Dwyer’s head shake was so violent it was near-injurious. “Of course not, sir. I just think he’s bad news and is gonna cause problems. He’s a ronin, after all.”

  “A masterless samurai?” Grayson was intrigued. “I see you’ve been reading, Mr. Dwyer. That’s very good. I’m impressed.”

  Dwyer started to respond, but found himself stifled by a wagging finger. “Garm Braddock is many things, my boy. But a rogue, he is not.” He folded his arms across his chest, studying the subject of their discussion from afar. “I like to think of him as more of a . . . Messianic warrior of sorts. He has an aggressive, crusading spirit. And, as such, he has an important part to play in things to come.”

  “Say, what? Are you considering that hybrid bastard for the program?” Dwyer asked, patently affronted. He growled angrily. “You don’t need him, you’ve got me!”

  “Lower your voice and stow that, mister,” Grayson warned. Despite the security chief’s size and reputation, the older man moved threateningly close. “Be careful. I am not some child that you would play with, Angus Dwyer. In fact, there are no children in Tartarus.” His dark eyes were jacketed hollow points, primed and ready to fire. “Look around you and remember where you are, and how you came to be here.”

  The cold fire behind Dwyer’s eyes dimmed and he turned deathly pale.

  “I made you what you are.” Grayson hissed. “I pulled you from that cesspool and gave you life and purpose. Do I make myself clear?”

  Dwyer stared unsurely down at his size-sixteen boots. His nodded response was more a shudder than anything else.

  “Good,” Grayson said, calm and congenial once more. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a conversation with another one of my people. Is that okay with you?”

  Dwyer bowed his head like a scolded first-grader and turned to leave.

  “Oh, Mr. Dwyer,” Grayson said, yanking back on the leash. “On your way, please get on the radio and have the McHale situation dealt with.” He fixed him with a stern-but-appraising look. “I’m assuming I can still count on you.”

  “Of course,” Dwyer professed, standing so straight and rigid he could’ve been a member of the Queen’s Guard. “I’d give my life for you, sir. You know that.”

  Grayson gave him an indulgent smile. “Oh, well, there’s no need for that.” He turned his back and continued walking.

  At least, not yet . . .

  * * *

  You ugly . . . murderous . . . bitch . . . Garm Braddock may have appeared calm as he studied Tiamat
through the amphitheater’s reinforced walls, but his jaw ached and his molars were on the verge of cracking. His chest still stung from where Nat’s nails had punctured his skin, but the pain of her marking her territory was nothing compared to the heartache that throbbed below like an open wound. He sighed, focused on keeping it together. Then, as his peripherals scoped out Eric Grayson approaching from his three, a bubble of annoyance formed inside his head. It was a big, red cherry, topping a sundae of suppressed rage.

  “‘For that the superman may not lack his dragon, the super dragon that is worthy of him,’” the smiling CEO quoted as he drew near. He stood alongside the tall submariner, focusing his gaze on the pliosaur queen as she slipped silently past.

  Garm inhaled hard through his nostrils. The normal saltiness of the stadium’s air was tinged with an unsavory blend of hippopotamus blood and pliosaur stench. “‘How many things are now called the worst evils, which are only twelve feet wide and three months long?’” He said, then gave Grayson a look and added. “‘But some day, greater dragons will come into the world.’”

  “Ah, you know your Nietzsche, marvelous!” the older man quipped. He touched a deductive finger to his chin. “You must have aided Derek with his studies. Of course, that was years ago, yet you’ve retained a portion of it. Intriguing . . . You’re an intelligent man, Garm Braddock. And to think, many regard you as little more than a washed-up prizefighter.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear.”

  “Indeed.” Grayson regarded him with those dark, probing eyes of his. “You’re a hard man to track down, commander.”

  “It’s called a well-earned shore leave, sir,” Garm remarked. “But it seems you found me, anyway. What can I do for you?”

  Grayson’s head swiveled to the side as Tiamat swam by. The 120-foot behemoth was closer this time. So close, that one of her pectoral fins made a low, squeaking sound as it grazed the smooth Celazole, like a giant’s finger rubbing against a wet, pool-sized dinner plate.

  “Magnificent, isn’t she?”

  “Not the word I’d use,” Garm scoffed. “She’s a monstrosity, an aberration of nature. She should be destroyed, not admired or studied.”