Megalodon: Feeding Frenzy

by JE Gurley

“This is Alaska, Will. You’ll get caribou and like it.”

  “As long as it’s spicy.”

  A loud whumph, followed quickly by a shudder that rattled the bulkheads, accompanied the boat’s rapid deceleration. The helmsman struggled with the joystick in an attempt to keep the boat from veering to port. Will lunged forward, catching himself with his hand against the console. His coffee slid off the console and spilled onto the deck.

  “What the hell was that?” he yelled. “Did we hit something?”

  “Starboard engine is down,” the coxswain replied. “Felt like we sucked something into a water intake.”

  “Great! We’re almost within sight of port, and we’re dead in the water. Reverse the thrusters and see if we can blow it out.”

  The whine of the starboard thruster rose to a crescendo. Will watched the temperature gauge needle climb into the red.

  “No good. Shut it down before we burn it out.”

  Hall sighed. “Looks like someone will have to go over the side and clear it by hand. I’ll go.”

  Will could think of no other option. He did not want to call for assistance and have the Sunfish towed into port. It was too undignified. He would never live it down.

  “Very well. Try not to scratch the paint.”

  He remained on the bridge while Hall suited up. Even in the heavily insulated wetsuit, Hall would have to work quickly in the freezing water before hypothermia set in or his regulator iced up. He ordered the portable underwater lights lowered over the side to provide illumination in the murky water. He almost suggested Hall carry a shark stick with him, but decided it might be overkill. Hall would have his hands full just clearing the intake port. However, he did order the .50 calibers manned and ready. The 25mm chain guns, operated remotely from a console inside the cabin, covered the bow and stern.

  Hall communicated with Will on the bridge through the headset inside his mask. “Going in now,” he said.

  Will leaned out the open cabin door and gave Hall a thumbs up. He hated leaving Hall exposed with no one else suited up to help if he got into trouble, but that was the problem of a small crew—everyone had a job to do. He watched Hall drop over the side from the starboard step-down cut out near the stern. One of the crewmen fed Hall his white nylon safety line from a spool attached to the hull, as Hall’s head disappeared below the surface.

  “It’s a damn mess down here,” Hall announced two minutes later. The wheezing of the regulator punctuated his short, clipped sentences. “Lots of gunk. Clogging the intakes of both thrusters. It’s a wonder the other engine is running.”

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like seaweed, but it’s the color of … moldy cottage cheese.” After a long pause, he said, “I think I can clear it.”

  “Good. Be quick about it and get back up here ASAP. I don’t like sitting here like a duck on a pond.”

  He listened to Hall’s ragged breathing, punctuated by softly muttered curses, until Hall announced, “Got it. Start the starboard engine on low power to test it.”

  Will saw both needles on both tachometers move into the green and sighed with relief. “All good here, Rich. Come on up.”

  “Just a little more cleaning around the edges of the screens and I’m through,” Hall replied. “Might as well do it right. I don’t want to do this again later after dark. It’s spooky enough down here as it is, Will, er, Skipper.”

  “I’m picking up something on the sonar, sir,” Electronics Technician Zeke McGee announced.

  Will went cold inside. “What is it?”

  “Several objects moving relative to each other at a speed of twenty knots.”

  With a sinking feeling, he asked, “Where away?”

  The tech looked up. “Off the port beam headed this way.”

  “Anything on radar?”

  “Negative.”

  “What’s the ETA?”

  “Four minutes.”

  Barely time for Rich to get out of the water. “How big?”

  “The largest is twenty meters.”

  “Sixty-five feet. Maybe it’s a whale.”

  McGee shook his head. “They don’t sound like whales, sir. Listen.”

  He switched his headphones to the cabin speaker. Instead of the low-frequency rumblings of whale song, Will heard a series of high-pitched clicks and groans. He swore they sounded like crickets on a summer’s eve.

  “Are they communicating?” he asked, incredulous at what he was hearing.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Rich, get out of the water. Now! We’ve got company.”

  To his credit, Hall did not argue or ask questions. “Right. Almost finished. One more minute.”

  “You don’t have a minute. Now!” Will turned to the watch officer, Petty Officer Cal Grayson. “Sound battle stations.”

  The klaxon sounded throughout the boat. All hands were already at battle stations, but he wanted them alert. Hall would hear the klaxon reverberating in the water from the hull and get a move on.

  “They increased speed, sir,” McGee informed him. “They’re now moving at thirty-two knots.”

  They’re attracted to sound, Will noted. He leaned out the bridge hatch and yelled to the crewman standing on the cut out. “Get the exec out of the water on the double. Drag his ass out with his safety line if you have to. Portside gunners, stand ready to fire at my command.”

  He had to wait for Hall, but as soon as his second’s head cleared the surface, he would open up with all guns on the objects fast approaching his boat. Then, he would push the Sunfish for every knot he could coax from her engines. He had no doubt the sonar objects were sharks, megalodon. His boat displaced 72 metric tons, but multiple objects ramming her at thirty-two knots could do some serious damage to her aluminum hull. He hoped he could outrun them.

  “New object coming straight up from the bottom!” McGee yelled. He looked up at Will with terror in his eyes.

  “Ready the depth charge racks. Set distance at fifty meters, depth at twenty.” Exploding depth charges that near the boat was risky, but he did not have time for a depth charge run. He would have to fire them from a standstill.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Hall?” he yelled.

  “Just coming up, sir,” he heard from the stern boat launch deck. A few seconds later, “He’s on deck.”

  “Hang on, sir!” the sonar tech called out.

  He barely had time to grab a ceiling support. The ship rang like a Chinese gong, and the bow lifted five feet from the water. The force of the impact broke his grip on the support and slammed him to the deck. The boat resettled hard, groaning as she rocked back and forth. The Christmas tree, the presents, coffee cups, and assorted charts and paperwork scattered across the deck. He picked himself up and grabbed the microphone. “Get the exec. We’re getting underway.”

  “He’s gone, sir,” the crewman announced.

  “What?” he asked stunned, as he stared at the microphone in his hand.

  “He was lying on the rear deck removing his mask when the bow lifted. He rolled back into the water. I don’t see him.”

  “Pull him out.”

  “I can’t, sir. The rope broke.”

  Will swore. He spoke into his headset mic. “Rich, are you okay?” No answer. “What’s your condition, Rich?” Still no reply. He could not roll depth charges with Hall still in the water. The aft MK-38 25mm opened up, firing 3,000 rounds per minute. Then two of the .50 calibers began chattering.

  “They’re circling us, sir.”

  The engineer, Chico Rodriguez, reported in from below decks. “Water’s coming in from a sprung bow plate, Skipper. It should hold for now, but we can’t take much more of that … that whatever the hell it was.”

  “Rich,” he called again, knowing he would get no answer. His second officer was gone, and he could not risk his ship any longer. One more collision like the last, and the Sunfish would split open like a rusty soup can, and they would be on the bottom.

  A flash of pale gra
y flesh drew his attention as it sailed airborne by the port window. Seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream reached him from number four .50 caliber machinegun position. With the sound of shearing metal, the .50 caliber went silent.

  “Mason’s gone, sir!” one of the crew shouted over his mic. “He’s just gone.”

  Mason was the young gunner from Georgia. Now, he had two men dead. He had to think of his boat.

  “Full throttle ahead, helmsman.” He felt sick at giving the order to abandon his friend, but he had seven other men and his mission to consider. “Drop a full spread of depth charges in our wake.”

  He knew if Hall was still alive, he had just ordered his death. He felt the Sunfish’s bow lift as the boat picked up speed; then, felt her shudder, as two depth charges detonated just behind them, followed closely by twin geysers of water. Two more depth charges followed the first two. The chain guns and the remaining .50 caliber machineguns peppered the water, but he paid them no attention, as he watched the sonar screen. One of the smaller objects had disappeared from the screen, destroyed by a lucky depth charge hit. As he had hoped, the sharks were capable of rapid bursts of speed, but could not match the patrol boat’s endurance. He watched them fall behind the boat’s wake.

  However, the larger shark was another matter. He had no doubt it could it could catch them, but it seemed more intent on eating the smaller ones, ignoring the Sunfish in its feeding frenzy.

  He turned to Grayson, his communications officer. “Call in a report to Barrow. Advise them we encountered megalodon and suffered minor damage. Give them the GPS coordinates.”

  “What about Ensign Hall and Seaman Mason?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ll report their deaths in person.”

  He had read the Navy reports and had even seen a grainy photograph purporting to be a megalodon over ninety-feet long, but he had dismissed them as incredulous. Now, he knew the truth, and it sickened him. They were in a war with giant prehistoric killing machines for the privilege of sailing the oceans of the world, and they might very well lose.

  He glanced back at their wake in the fading light and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Rich. Hell of a present I gave you.” A sob escaped his throat. He looked to see if any if the crew noticed his brief emotional outburst. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  6

  December 25, 2018, 5:30 a.m. Drillship Vanguard, Beaufort Sea, Arctic Ocean –

  Asa wasn’t sure how he felt. He now had an ally, someone who believed him, but what could two men alone do? Like Simon, he was certain the giant sharks would follow the prevailing current and eventually reach the Beaufort Sea. That was why he had chosen the Vanguard. He just hadn’t considered much beyond that. Perhaps he simply wanted to see a megalodon again to prove to himself that he wasn’t crazy. Completely crazy, he added as a postscript.

  He didn’t know whether to thank or to curse fate, kismet, or whatever that the one man with whom he had allied himself was the brother of the woman he could not save. His troubled heart had almost climbed his gullet when he saw the name on Simon Thorin’s chef diploma. Until that moment, he had not made the connection. Simon’s chef jackets simply read Chef Simon.

  After that, he had held his breath waiting for the one question he did not want to answer—how had Ilsa died? For some reason, Simon had refrained from asking it. Perhaps he doesn’t really want the gory details. What could he tell Simon? That he had saved her from going over the side, only to lose her when the ship floundered. He didn’t know if she drowned, if the ship landed on her and crushed her, or if she wound up in the belly of a king-sized shark. Simon might not hold him responsible for his sister’s death, but he still did. He had taken on the responsibility of saving her, and he had failed.

  He rubbed his right shoulder, soothing the imaginary ache from the long-healed dislocation. Like his mental wounds, it still haunted him. He glared at the face in the mirror as he dressed for work. His sunken, bloodshot eyes and the lines around his eyes made him look older than his thirty-four years. The months of heavy drinking after his rescue hadn’t helped matters. The booze eased the nightmares, but it was just a slow form of suicide. If he were going to kill himself, a gun would be quicker.

  He ran a comb through his unkempt brown hair. “Merry. Fucking. Christmas. Asa,” he told his reflection, jabbing the mirror with his finger to punctuated each word.

  He didn’t mind working Christmas Day. The double-time pay was nice, and he had nowhere else to be, no family, and no friends that had survived his bout with the bottle. It was just another dreary day in what had become a long line of days extending into a tedious, uncertain future. In an emergency or during a tragedy, some people put their lives on hold to cope, to deal with the circumstances. He had put his in reverse, as if he were eager to crawl back into the womb before his miserable existence began.

  He didn’t see Simon in the cafeteria as he ate a breakfast of toast and jelly with six pieces of bacon slipped between slices of toasted bread, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to renew their earlier conversation just yet. He finished his first cigarette of the morning and jabbed the butt in a glob of jelly on his plate. He filled his thermos with coffee for the job, hoping not to come back to the cafeteria and risk running into Simon.

  Settlemires, his new apprentice, was waiting in the mechanic’s shack, his toolkit in hand, a smile on his face, and carrying his own thermos of coffee. Asa suppressed a grin at his eagerness. The kid showed promise. If Brock had to saddle with an apprentice, he could have done worse.

  “Good morning, Mr. Iverson,” Settlemires said with far more enthusiasm than Asa had for the new day. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Mornin’,” he returned gruffly, grabbed his toolbox, and left with Settlemires tagging along like a puppy.

  On their first job of the day, he smoked a cigarette and watched on as Settlemires dismantled a hydraulic pump to replace a worn diaphragm, noting the young mechanic was careful to wipe it down before resealing it. He had deft hands with long, dexterous fingers he moved surely, reminding Asa how sloppy he had become lately. He vowed to do better. He did not want to teach his young apprentice any shortcuts until he had the fundamentals down. Settlemires carried a notebook in his pocket to jot down notes. Asa liked that. It showed a willingness to learn. Maybe he would not become as brash as Asa had before the Global Kulik.

  “Nice job, son, but next time keep the screws in your pocket or wrapped in a rag. It wouldn’t do to have one roll away if the rig shifts. It’s a long walk back to the shack for a replacement.”

  Settlemires nodded. “Got it.” He stared at Asa. “You look worried about something.”

  Asa exhaled a cloud of smoke and shook his head. “It’s my normal look, kid. Don’t let it bother you.”

  They worked amid relative silence. The drilling crew had taken the holiday off, leaving only two mechanics doing essential maintenance work and a crew of roustabouts whose hammers pounded rust from the deck, while others followed scraping, priming, and painting, one of the perpetual, mindless tasks aboard a ship at sea. That left only the constant hum of the generators and the rhythmic squeaking of metal against metal as the rig bobbed on the waves. The silence was a welcome relief, but it made conversation easier, and Asa wasn’t sure he liked that. Settlemires seemed intent on talking a steady stream.

  “Most of the guys warned me to stay away from you,” he said with no obvious rancor, just stating an observation.

  Asa smiled. He had expected the others to give Settlemires the scoop on him. “I take it you like living on the edge.”

  “Mr. Brock says you’re good. I want to learn from the best. Too many others I’ve worked with take shortcuts or want to keep their little secrets.”

  “No secrets here, kid. If you can remember righty-tighty and lefty-loosey and don’t fall for the ‘fetch me a skyhook’ line, you’ll do fine.”

  “Why do you call me, kid?”

  Asa took a last drag from his Pall Mall and tossed it over the side. “Because s
ome days I feel like I’m a hundred years old, like today. No offense meant. I’m lousy with names. Give me a few weeks.”

  After the hydraulic pump, they replaced two waterline valves on a saltwater tank for the mud mixer, repaired a leak in a hydraulic line in the Number Four column, and tightened the loose bolts on a section of ladder. On each job, Settlemires took the lead, while Asa watched on, offering advice on technique or safety. His apprentice performed well, but the incessant chatter began to play on Asa’s nerves. He didn’t want to slap the kid down. He needed to ask questions, but he preferred they remain job-related. After his tenth or eleventh question about the Kulik, Asa chided him as gently as he could.

  “Look, kid. Did it occur to you that I don’t want to talk about the Kulik? A lot of men and women died. I didn’t. End of story.”

  “But …”

  “Enough,” Asa snapped. Lack of sleep had pushed him near the brink, and his emotions were raw. “Look, I don’t know what the others told you. I can guess, but here’s how it is. I was in the lab when the drill broke through into a cavern and released a large volume of air beneath the ship. I barely made it onto deck before the ship flipped onto its side and went under. I floated on a tool chest until a chopper picked me up. Anything else you’ve heard is either a lie or speculation. I don’t remember much, and I was there. End of story.”

  Settlemires did not look convinced, but he kept future questions pertaining to work matters.

  Asa skipped lunch. He didn’t want to chance running into Simon. Ilsa’s brother. That had been a shocker, like seeing a ghost. He had let Simon talk him into an alliance, and he didn’t know if he could carry through on his promise. He had agreed because he felt he owed Simon, for Ilsa’s sake, but he wasn’t sure if their goals meshed. Simon said he wanted answers, but Asa suspected he wanted revenge. Asa wasn’t sure what he wanted. Answers for certain, but beyond that he hadn’t decided. That could wait until he saw for himself that the sharks were real. Simon was convinced. It sounded as if the Navy were convinced as well. They wouldn’t send a task force so near Russian territory otherwise.