Mega: A Deep Sea Thriller

by Jake Bible

  “Gang’s all here,” Shane said, “but why’s the fish doctor tagging along? Thought this was a Team Grendel reunion only.”

  “I’m not part of the Team?” Gunnar smiled. “Why you gotta be so mean?”

  “To compensate for my handicap,” Shane grinned, “I’m bitter.”

  “You’re stoned,” Kinsey said as she walked up, gave him a hug, then took the joint from his mouth and tossed it to the ground.

  “Hey!” he complained. “That’s medicinal! I have a prescription now, ya know?”

  “So that means Ditcher is coming too?” Max said.

  In answer, a pickup truck came speeding out of the tall fir trees that lined the property around the cabin. Dust trailed behind it and then clouded around everyone as it came to a stop.

  “Way to make an entrance, dude,” Max coughed.

  “Sorry,” Darren said, “I thought I was going to be late.” After hugs, handshakes, and all the greetings, he looked about. “Where’s Ballantine?”

  “Been waiting here the whole time,” Mr. Ballantine said as the cabin door opened. Darby stood directly behind him, her throat covered in a wide bandage. “Could have taken all of you with ease. Makes me wonder if I’m talking to the right people.”

  Everyone turned and looked at Shane and Max.

  “You didn’t go inside?” Kinsey asked.

  “Not our cabin,” Max shrugged, “would have been rude.”

  “And neither of you thought to knock?” Thorne said. “How are you related to me?”

  “No vehicle,” Shane said, “and I didn’t really care. So there’s that.”

  “We were dropped off by associates,” Mr. Ballantine smiled, “which is why I brought you here.”

  “You’re supposed to ask us if we were wondering why you brought us here,” Max said, “don’t you know anything about dramatic affect?”

  “I’m going to go for the direct approach,” Mr. Ballantine said. “I’ve cleared it with the company and I want to hire you again. Come in so we can discuss it.”

  “Nope,” Max said.

  “Don’t think so,” Shane responded.

  “Not interested,” added Lucy.

  “Before everyone declines,” Mr. Ballantine said, “hear me out. Please?”

  “We’ll hear you out, Ballantine,” Thorne said, “but we have quite a few dead reasons to decline, so do not get your hopes up.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” Mr. Ballantine said as he gestured for them to come inside.

  ***

  The sunset filled the sky with deep reds and glowing oranges. The air was chilly compared to San Diego, and Kinsey wrapped her arms about herself as she stood on the edge of the cliff, watching the waves far below crash against the coarse sand of the beach.

  “Hey, ‘Sey,” Darren said as he walked up to her, “am I interrupting a private moment?”

  “Nope,” Kinsey said, “I can share the sunset with you, ‘Ren.”

  They stood there silently until the sun was almost lost to the horizon.

  “Thoughts?” Darren finally asked.

  “On Ballantine’s offer?” Kinsey replied.

  “No, on the 49ers’ chances at the Super Bowl,” Darren said.

  “Lame joke.”

  “Yeah, it was. But…?”

  “He makes a good point,” Kinsey said. “There’s more danger out there and we have the experience needed to deal with it. Throw another Team into the fray and they could end up as broken as us.”

  “Are we broken?” Darren asked. “The way everyone was glad to see each other, I’d say we’re pretty well put together.”

  “Could be,” Kinsey said, “what about your crew? Are they onboard with it?”

  “They will be,” Darren answered, “I’ve been feeling them out the last week. I knew this would be coming from Ballantine.”

  “How are they?”

  “Good. Popeye is being fitted with a prosthetic leg. They just couldn’t save it, too much blood loss. Lake is always ready to get out on the water and Cougher is stoked that he’ll be First Engineer. Beau could go either way.”

  “I thought they’d turn you down flat after losing Bach,” Kinsey frowned, “and Jennings.”

  “I know you and Jennings had a connection, so to say,” Darren smiled, “I’m sorry.”

  “It was casual,” Kinsey said, “a way to let off steam. But he was a good guy.”

  “He was,” Darren agreed, “and that wraps that up. The dead are remembered and the living mentioned. What are you going to say to Ballantine?”

  “Is Gunnar in?” Kinsey asked.

  “He is,” Darren said, “as is your dad.”

  “The boys are still deciding,” Kinsey said, “I think they’ll make Ballantine sweat before they answer.”

  “Lucy’s in,” Darren said, “she didn’t want Bobby’s death to be for nothing.”

  “Is that why you’re doing it?” Kinsey asked.

  “No, not at all,” Darren replied, “well, sort of. It’s a factor. But the main reason is I still have a quest to finish.”

  “Your whale,” Kinsey stated.

  “My whale,” Darren nodded, “it’s out there, ‘Sey. I know it is. The one we found wasn’t big enough.”

  “And we lost the hard evidence that it even existed,” Kinsey said, “I’m sure Gunnar pointed that out.”

  “He did,” Darren said, “he also pointed out the dangers of what is loose in the ocean. He knows there are more sharks. Big ones, like what we dealt with.”

  “That’s what Ballantine said,” Kinsey said.

  “He also hinted that there may be more anomalies,” Darren said.

  Kinsey finally turned from the picturesque sky and looked Darren full in the face.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “The company, the one Ballantine works for, solves problems,” Darren said. “I guess there are a lot more problems than even Ballantine knew about. Despite what we all may think, the company considers what we accomplished a success. They need us.”

  “The company, the company,” Kinsey laughed, “what the fuck is this company? They solve problems? Whoopty shit. We all have problems. They should learn to solve theirs on their own like the rest of us.”

  “Do we really?” Darren asked. “Do we solve them on our own? I think you’ve had some help with yours. And I know I haven’t gotten through mine without backup.”

  Kinsey was quiet for a while.

  “I don’t know yet,” she finally said, “I’m going to need some time to think about it.”

  “Good,” Darren said, “that’s better than a flat no.”

  “Hey!” Max yelled from the cabin. “Come on, you two! We have several bottles of whiskey and a deck of cards! OW! Hey! Why’d you hit me?”

  “We also have non-alcoholic drinks, Kinsey,” Lucy yelled.

  “And we’re going to play some strip poker!” Max added. “Darby said she’d totally play! OW! OWOWOW! Okay, okay, Darby is not playing! Jeez.” The cabin door shut, but they could still hear Max complaining.

  “You coming in?” Darren asked. “Ballantine said the cabin is owned by the company and we can stay all weekend.”

  “I’m going to hang out here for a bit,” Kinsey said, “go ahead. I’ll be in soon.”

  “Okay,” Darren said, and squeezed Kinsey on the shoulder. She patted his hand and gave him a smile. “Don’t stay out too long. It gets cold fast up here.”

  “You bet, dad,” Kinsey laughed.

  “I’m the dad,” Thorne said from behind them, “not him.”

  “Jesus,” Darren said, “damn you’re quiet.”

  “Occupational hazard,” Thorne said.

  “I’ll leave you two,” Darren said, “play nice.”

  They waited until Darren had walked into the cabin before speaking.

  “Play nice?” Thorne said. “I think we know how to do that.”

  “We do,” Kinsey said, “just don’t ask if I’m in or not. I don’t kno
w.”

  “I don’t want you to be in,” Thorne said. “I know we haven’t talked a lot since we got back, but Gunnar has assured me you are making progress. I don’t want that to get screwed up.”

  “You mean you don’t want your daughter to end up relapsing and turning back into a junkie whore?” Kinsey laughed.

  “Something like that,” Thorne replied. The smile on his face surprised Kinsey.

  “Not the reaction I expected,” Kinsey said.

  “You thought you’d shock me?” Thorne asked. “After surviving a 100 foot mega shark, I think I’m all surprised out.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Kinsey said. When her father gave her a puzzled look she just shook her head. “Never mind. It’s all good.”

  “Okay,” Thorne said, “but if you’re going to tell me you’re pregnant, at least wait until I’ve had a few shots first.” His shoulders slumped. “Dammit. Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Kinsey said, “I may join you.” She held up her hands. “Kidding! Don’t go ballistic on me.”

  “Funny,” he nodded, “I do want to say that if you decide you want in, then you have my support. I’d rather you didn’t, but it is your life. And, well, I liked being around you again. I missed that.”

  “Missed almost dying on the high seas? I think you may need to be the one that walks away from this.”

  “Probably,” Thorne agreed, “but you can’t teach an old frogman new tricks. And being a frogman is all I know, really.”

  “I know that,” Kinsey said, “okay. Enough sappy crappy. How about we play some cards and just enjoy life for the night?”

  “Good idea,” Thorne said as he reached out and took her hand. He was glad she didn’t pull away.

  “Who’d have thought we would end up here,” Kinsey said.

  “In Northern California? Not me. Too many damn hippies.”

  “No, smart ass. I meant where we are in life.”

  “You mean talking to each other?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Honestly? I didn’t.”

  “Me neither,” Kinsey said, “but I like it.”

  “Good,” Thorne said as they reached the cabin door, “me too.”

  “I’m still going to kick your ass at Hold ‘Em,” Kinsey said.

  “Only if I let you,” Thorne said.

  A cheer went up as they walked into the cabin and then shut the door behind them. Laughter echoed out into the evening air. It was the type of overly honest laughter reserved for warriors and survivors.

  And the cabin was filled with both.

  The End

  Mega 2 is due for release spring 2014. Read on for a free sample of “From The Deep”

  1

  Oct. 25, 1962, Caribbean Sea –

  Captain Ilya Voshok searched the sky for the pair of American Navy Skyhawk jets with his battered Komz binoculars, but the fog, as gray as his beard and as heavy as his belly, hid them from his view. Their distinctive Pratt and Whitney J52-P8A turbojet engines rumbled briefly to the north, and then to the east. He couldn’t help wincing in dread, as they turned and passed over his ship. He thanked providence for the fog. Without seeing them, he knew that their armament consisted of 2x20 mm Mk12 cannons, four AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, and two AGM65 Maverick air-to-surface missiles. The report from the submarine Velikovsky had been very thorough. He even knew what time the jets had taken off from the carrier U.S. Enterprise thirty kilometers to his east.

  His ship, the a thirty-year-old rust bucket freighter A.V. Pokhomov, renamed for a 1948 Samolyot rocket plane pilot, had been playing a game of cat and mouse with the blockading U.S. fleet for two days. His cargo, four 30-kiloton nuclear warheads, had to reach Cuba without delay. He was not happy with his orders, but he would obey them to the best of his ability. The freighter Bucharest had safely slipped through the blockade, but the Marcula had been boarded and its cargo searched before being released. The Russian freighters Gagarin and Komiles had turned back. He could not. His orders were to scuttle his ship before allowing the Americans to board her. The idea of scuttling his ship was preposterous, especially in light of her cargo.

  The jets did not return. His ship was safe for now. He replaced his binoculars in their worn case and hung them on the railing beside him. They had been with him since his first command, a converted fishing trawler ferrying troops across the Volga during the siege of Stalingrad. He had survived that battle, but the odds of surviving this conflict did not look so good. The American President, Kennedy, and the Kremlin leader, Khrushchev, were seeing who had the bigger balls, daring one another to knock the nuclear chip from their shoulders, and neither man was willing to back down. At stake was the fate of the world. President Kennedy’s failed coup at the Bay of Pigs in Cuba had made him look like a fool in the eyes of the free world, as did his apparent apathy at the construction of the Berlin Wall. He could not afford to lose face once again in this matter. Fidel Castro was the pawn that the two were using in their private game of chess, and Cuba was the playing board.

  For his part, Voshok cared little about Castro, Cuba, or the glorious revolution. He had endured his revolution as a twelve-year-old boy from then Finnish Vyborg forced to fight in a Red Army brigade. He had survived that slaughter, and hoped to survive this test of wills. His only true love was the sea. His ship was home, family, and country, and his only allegiance was to his ship and his crew. He turned to his second-in-command, Stanos Kommakov, a tall, thin man from the White Sea port city of Belomorsk.

  “We will attempt a run to Cuba after dark. Please have all the area charts on hand. I do not wish to run aground on some cursed sand bar and wait for the Americans to destroy my ship.”

  Kommakov, a stolid man of few words, wiped his perspiring brow, nodded, and retreated through the door to the relative coolness of the cabin. Kommakov, by trade a fisherman in the Barents Sea, did not enjoy the muggy tropical air of the Caribbean. He preferred the chilly breezes off the Arctic ice. Voshok took pleasure in the warm breeze, but the humidity clogged his lungs. October in Vyborg, his home, was a far cry from Cuba. The northern winds that howled across the Karelian Isthmus could cut a man in half in mid-winter, but in October, the winds blew mild from the sea. The nights were cold and crisp, a time for vodka and a warm fire, but the days were clear and alive with only a hint of the winter to come. When he had left port, Voshok had watched with regret as the stark white tower of Vyborg Castle slowly vanished over the horizon, as if sinking in the sea. In his heart, he knew he would never see Vyborg again.

  His destination, the Golfo de Batabano, lay on Cuba’s southwestern coast, protected by the Isla de la Juvented and a series of small islands. Reaching a safe anchorage would be difficult, especially at night. His cargo had to reach San Cristobal. To fail would mean his removal as captain or worse. Without his ship, he would have no reason to live. He would fulfill his mission or die trying. The biggest problem, aside from the American Fleet, would be the fog. It would provide cover for his ship, but his obsolete radar would make threading the small islands and almost invisible mud flats very difficult. He would need to be eagle-eyed to see his ship safely through.

  Kommakov burst from the cabin with a hastily scrawled message in his hand. His face, normally so impassive, was one of abject terror. “This just came through from the Velikovsky.”

  Voshok took the note, his hand trembling from dread, a sinking feeling in his stomach as if worms were writhing. He knew from his mate’s expression that the message bore ill tidings. His first glance bore out his suspicions.

  ‘U.S.S. Allen M. Sumner is in pursuit. Estimated interception six hours. Continue a bearing of 84 degrees Southwest until such time Velikovsky can provide assistance.’

  Voshok was stunned. “Provide assistance? Do they propose sinking an American destroyer?”

  “The Sumner, designation DD-692, can make 34 knots. Our top speed is 21.”

  Voshok glared at Kommakov. “Yes, yes, I know, Kommakov. You
state the obvious. We cannot outrun her. She also carries six 127 mm guns, batteries of 44 mm and 20 mm antiaircraft guns, and ten torpedo tubes. We cannot fight them off with our pistols.”

  He had gone over the statistics for every American warship involved in the blockade before shipping out. He knew what he was facing. With only two submarines in the area and a few shore-based aircraft, the Russians were greatly overmatched.

  “Full speed ahead bearing 084.” He slapped the railing. “I will not lose my ship, and I will not start a war.”

  He had no choice but run. If the Americans thought he was making for South America, they might leave him alone. After all, they were concerned only with ships attempting to break their blockade. If he had to scuttle, it would be in deep water. The Cayman Trench reached a depth of 7,600 meters. Let the Americans try to recover my cargo from there. The ship shuddered as the propellers picked up speed and smiled.

  We just might survive this after all.

  * * * *

  Oct. 26, 1962, Cayman Trench, Caribbean –

  Captain Raymond S. Crabtree of the U.S.S. Allen M. Sumner stared at the tiny blip on the radarscope fade and reappear with each sweep of the dial. “Are we closing?”

  “Aye, aye sir. She’s steaming a straight course. We’ll make contact in twenty minutes.” The radar man frowned as the screen blurred for a few seconds.

  “What is it, son?”

  “I’m getting some peculiar bounces off the waves. If the seas get any rougher, she might slip by.”

  As if to emphasize his point, the ship lurched to starboard as a wave struck her amidships. Crabtree braced himself against the bulkhead. He faced a dilemma. He could order a course change and follow the waves to steady the ship, but he might lose the Russian if it suddenly changed course. Or he could continue closing on the Russian and hope his ship held together. They would just have to ride it out.

  “What is her captain thinking? We know the Pokhomov is carrying nuclear warheads. Does he think we will simply let him slip away into the night?”

  He hoped the freighter would make a fight of it. He was eager to draw blood. His father had died in Korea fighting the communists. Now, it was his turn to make them pay.