Kronos Rising: Kraken (vol.1): The battle for Earth's oceans has just begun.

by Max Hawthorne

  “Very well,” Dirk said, pursing his lips. “We don’t have a ton of data, but I’ll answer any questions I can. What would you like to know, admiral?”

  Callahan rubbed his thick hands together in anticipation. “Well, first off, where is he now? How soon can you get your subs into the area and how long will it take to capture him? Last, but not least, how big is he really and why is he so big? Will he fit in the Tube? Is he another mutie, like Tiamat? And do you think they’ll mate?”

  When Callahan finally stopped and came up for air, Dirk exhaled and touched a tab on his center tablet. The conference room lights dimmed and there was a low hum. A section of ceiling in the center of the room, directly above the table, opened up, and what looked like a white tile, about two feet square and six inches thick, became visible. It began to glow and pulsate.

  “What’s that?” Callahan asked.

  “Those were a lot of questions, admiral,” Dirk observed. “And this is a civilian version of the holograph projector used in our POSEIDON 3-D fathometer screens.” He grinned. “It’s a step up from the old ‘PowerPoint’ presentation days, wouldn’t you say?”

  Dirk waved his hand over one tablet, causing the projector to spring to life. Shimmering dots of black and gold descended from it and swirled around, like fairy dust, writhing in the wind. The sparkles began to coalesce directly above the conference table, eventually forming a five-foot translucent sphere. A moment later, the sphere shimmered and vanished. In its place was the computer generated image of a gnarly-looking pliosaur, its fanged jaws frozen in a pixeled grimace.

  “This is a graphics reconstruction of Typhon, based on the combat footage recorded during his confrontation with our submarines,” Dirk began. He noticed both sub captains and their seconds intently studying the hologram. “Even with our satellites, we have not been able to pinpoint his exact whereabouts, which means timetables are meaningless. I can, however, enlighten you as to what we’ve ascertained so far. As you can see, he’s a bit on the battle-scarred side.”

  “What’s with that big hump on his back?” Callahan asked. “Is this guy like Quasimodo or something?”

  “Based on what the system interprets as a mound of bone and scar tissue, I’d lean toward the disfigurement being caused by trauma, versus pathology,” Dirk replied. He moved his finger around, causing the three-dimensional image of the bull pliosaur to slowly spin. “I’ll move on to current mass estimates, but please keep in mind these reconstructions and the accompanying data are all approximations. First, we’ll switch over to a graphic of your typical bull pliosaur.”

  As he spoke, Typhon’s image vanished in a burst of light and was replaced by a 3-D reconstruction of a sleeker, less robust Kronosaurus imperator.

  “This animal represents a sexually mature male, and at sixty-two feet in length and approximately seventy tons submerged displacement, he is considered large for the genus,” Dirk said. He touched his keypad and a second pliosaur image appeared next to the first. The new animal was significantly bigger. “This is an atypical cow pliosaur. I say atypical because it is what is traditionally considered to be the species’ maximum size.” He glanced down at his notes, then at Callahan. “In fact, admiral, this particular reconstruction is based on our computer scans of your new acquisition, Goliath.”

  “Nice. She is a big beast, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, admiral,” Dirk replied. “Now let’s bring Typhon back, put to scale with the other two.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Callahan whistled aloud as he saw the three pliosaurs lined up in size order.

  “Typhon dwarfs the average male,” Dirk stated. “He’s fifty percent longer and three times the weight. In fact, with the exception of the queen, he is both longer and heavier than the largest cows of his kind. If Tiamat is going to accept a mate, he’s by far your best bet.” He held up a finger for emphasis. “That’s assuming, of course, that she finds him both viable and genetically desirable.”

  Dirk heard Garm mumble something along the lines of, “Poor bastard’s gonna need a serious makeover,” but he ignored it.

  Dragunova cleared her throat. “How much larger ees thees animal than the one we captured?”

  Dirk experienced a brief flashback of her size comments after she’d seen him naked, but he shrugged it off. “Uh . . . computer estimates put him at thirteen feet longer than Goliath. Around ninety-five feet.”

  Garm’s hunter’s eyes narrowed. “Shit. How much does he weigh?”

  Dirk licked his lips. “Our best guess is big blue whale range: between 210-220 tons.”

  Everyone jumped as Callahan slammed his palm loudly on the table. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted. He turned to Grayson and pointed at the shimmering holograms. “You said it right, oh pal-o-mine. That boy is exactly what we need!”

  “Calm down, Ward,” Grayson said quietly. “Derek, please continue.”

  ‘Yes, sir.” Dirk rechecked his notes before resuming. “In terms of why Typhon is so huge, admiral, there are myriad possibilities. As you stated, he could be just like Tiamat, a--”

  “Mutie?”

  Dirk sighed. “The term is mutation. And, yes, it is possible. We theorize that an anomaly like Tiamat hatches once every hundred years or so – probably in response to environmental pressure such as availability of prey or competition from another predator. Conversely, we know that, during the Pleistocene Epoch, a steady increase in cetacean size contributed to the decline of the shark Carcharodon megalodon – an example of prey items outgunning their predator.”

  Callahan wore a confused look. “Wait a minute. So, if these things have been trapped in that caldera for all those millions of years, how come we haven’t seen more mutants? The one that trashed Paradise Cove was regular, right? If they’re so big and tough, how come the only ones left in there weren’t mutants?”

  “Because the survival rate for any creature in an enclosed, predator-rich environment like Diablo Caldera would be dismally low,” Dirk advised. “Although we haven’t had a team in there yet to confirm it, we can logically deduce that Diablo’s huge saltwater lake is teeming with the same giant squid and fish that were released during its fracturing. Plus, adult pliosaurs are notoriously cannibalistic. I would estimate only one in two hundred hatchlings survived their first year. And less than one in five hundred made it to adulthood.”

  “Well then, thank God we killed off most of our sharks and whales before the eggs hatched from that last one, right?” Callahan snorted. “Otherwise we might not have all these big, scaly beauties swimming around!”

  “Yes, ‘thank God’ . . .” Stacy remarked without looking up from her notes.

  “So, tell me, doc,” Callahan said. “Is Typhon one of these ‘mutations’ or not?”

  Dirk felt a headache coming on and started rubbing his temples. “Dr. Daniels, would you mind? This is more your area.” Like his twin, he had limited patience when it came to Callahan, and what he did have was exhausted.

  Stacy’s tight blonde curls jiggled as she threw him a compassionate nod and stood up. In the center of the room, the hologram containing the three pliosaur images continued to slowly rotate.

  “We’ve run genealogy profiles based on the DNA from a variety of Kronosaurus specimens, including the original Paradise Cove female,” Stacy began. She reached down, took a sip of water, and then set her glass back down. “We’ve also done profiles of Typhon’s DNA by isolating it from that of two of the pliosaurs he’s fathered. From the look of things, his chromosomes were removed from the caldera gene pool centuries ago.”

  Garm inhaled sharply. “Did you say centuries?”

  Amid a litany of surprised murmurs, Dirk saw Grayson’s approving nod. Beside him, Admiral Callahan grew agitated. He shook his head and waved his hands to draw attention to himself.

  “So, what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means, admiral, that the pliosaur we’re about to hunt is a superannuated individual,” Stacy advised. She stared a
t him, masking her amusement as she waited for the inevitable question.

  “And that means . . .”

  “He’s very old, hence his great size.”

  Callahan blinked. “Wait, you said centuries.” He pointed at the black and gold hologram. “You’re telling me this thing’s a couple hundred years old?”

  “Apparently.”

  “That’s impossible . . . isn’t it?”

  Stacy shook her head. “Reptiles are like fish, they’re indeterminate growers. Given enough space, as long as they keep eating they keep growing.”

  Callahan’s head bobbed up and down. “I know that. It’s the immortality part I’m not buying.”

  She frowned. “Why not? Bowhead whales live over 250 years, and they’re mammals. Many reptiles have notoriously long lifespans.”

  “Okay, fine. I get what you’re saying, little lady,” Callahan said. “But this guy is ginormous. Wouldn’t someone have spotted him if he’s been swimming around for the last two hundred years?”

  “I suspect he’s been seen many times,” Stacy replied, tactfully ignoring the sexism. “Most of the time, I imagine he’s mistaken for a whale. But we have documented sea monster sightings going back to the 18th century, many of which could be attributed to Typhon or a creature like him.”

  Callahan shook his head. “But in more modern times, with radar, sonar, and satellites . . . he’s never been spotted or tracked?”

  “As his battle with our subs demonstrated, Typhon is both experienced and crafty,” Stacy said. “We are not dealing with a stupid animal, admiral. He’s learned over the centuries. He knows what sonar is, knows how to run silent, and knows how to use structure to conceal himself. He’s quite the tactician.”

  Callahan was obviously unconvinced. But as he opened his mouth to say so, Stacy ran right over him. “Just to give you an example . . .” she said, holding up her tablet and reading from it. “On November 11th, 1972, warships from the Norwegian navy detected a ‘fast moving, submarine-like object’ in Sonja Fjord, off the west coast of Norway. They tracked it with sonar for two weeks, using a fleet of surface ships and sub-hunter helicopters. On November 20th, 1972, the object was seen for the first time. It was described as being a ‘massive and silent, cigar-shaped object.’ Guns and torpedoes were fired at it, whereupon it sounded. It avoided their weapons, even evaded depth charges. After two more weeks of hunting it, the Navy tried using a blockade to trap it in the fjord. They failed. Fifteen days later, it disappeared.”

  Stacy sat her tablet down. “So, you see, the odds are he’s been spotted many times. Tracking and stopping him, however, are two entirely different matters.”

  Callahan contemplated her words. Then he craned his thick neck back and guffawed. “I love it. From the sound of it, he should have my job!”

  Dirk rested his chin on one palm heel and grinned. His grin evaporated when he saw the looks on Garm’s and Dragunova’s faces as they absorbed this information. Still in his seat, he interjected, “There is something else we should point out, admiral. Something that may be useful to our valiant sub commanders, who will be faced with the daunting task of capturing this creature.”

  “What is it?” Garm asked.

  “We’ve recorded Typhon’s sonar signature, as well as an audio-profile of his echolocation clicks. His ultra-low frequency emissions match one of the so-called ‘bloop’ underwater noise phenomena recorded by NOAA, starting back in 1997.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one designated ‘train.’” Dirk said. “It’s in the file.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stacy chimed in. “We’ve also included updated coordinates and pertinent info from the most recent sightings. That includes the schooner that was sunk and the 911 call from that foreign yacht, which, by the way, you’re going to be investigating.”

  Dragunova frowned. “And what ees our plan of attack?”

  Stacy looked at Dirk, who gave her a nod.

  “We’re looking to launch tomorrow during high tide. Antrodemus’s repairs should be completed by then. Our recommendation is you separate to triangulate Typhon’s position. Once one of you gets a lock on him, do not engage. Not individually. Instead, use a Loki to hit him with a locator.” She folded her toned arms across her chest. “Once you’ve got him tagged, it will be easier to join forces and corner him.”

  “Piece of cake,” Garm scoffed. “I’m sure he’ll come willingly.”

  “And what ees prize for breenging back alive?” Dragunova asked, her stony gaze now falling on Grayson. “Thees animal ees dangerous.”

  Grayson contemplated her through hooded eyes before nodding his acquiescence. “Normally, I would say this falls under the terms of your contract, captain. But that’s arguable.” He closed his eyes for a moment, his brow tightening. “Let’s make things interesting. Let’s do it by the pound.”

  Dragunova looked confused. “What does that mean?”

  “Actually, by the ton,” Grayson revised, his fingers tapping on the table edge like it was an old fashioned cash register. “If you bring him back alive and relatively unscathed, I’ll pay each captain ten grand per ton of pliosaur. That means a minimum of two million dollars each.”

  As Garm and Dragunova exchanged stunned looks, Grayson added, “Oh, and I’ll throw in matched amounts, to be divided up among each sub’s crew . . . just to keep everyone happy.”

  Dragunova nodded at him. “You got yourself a deal, doctor.”

  “Spasiba.” Without another word, Grayson leaned forward and pressed his hands against the end of the table. Grimacing, he struggled to his feet. Behind him, Oleg Smirnov realized his employer needed assistance and rushed forward, only to arrive too late and stand there impotently.

  “This has been an excellent meeting,” Grayson announced, waving off the guard and leaning on the table.

  Dirk stood up. “You’re leaving, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we haven’t touched on current projections, status of negotiations for the caldera, or the serum distributions for--”

  Callahan shook his head. “I’m sorry, son. But, as it turns out, that last incident with the guards had dire consequences for my ‘Last Chancers’ program.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been summoned to Washington to appear before a DOC review board. They’re reevaluating the program,” Grayson said. He glanced at Smirnov and sighed.

  “How soon are you leaving?”

  “Right now. And I’ll be gone for a few days.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dirk saw Garm’s face and wondered if this was how his twin felt when he ran into an unexpected punch. “Uh, okay. Sure thing, sir.”

  Grayson walked over and rested a confidence-inspiring hand on Dirk’s shoulder. “You’re in charge until my return.” He indicated the nearby guard. “Acting Security Chief Smirnov will be answering directly to you and all the guards to him. If there are any problems whatsoever, I want you to call my satellite phone, immediately.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  Grayson leaned close and spoke in low tones. “I’m counting on you to bring me Typhon. He is the future. Do you understand?”

  Dirk stood upright and nodded. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I know you won’t.” Grayson walked over to Admiral Callahan. “Ward, shall we go?”

  Callahan got up, gave Dirk a grin and a thumbs-up, then glanced at Garm and winked. “Time to write a few checks, fellas. Keep up the great work,” he said, before turning and following Grayson and Smirnov outside.

  Dirk felt a twinge of guilt as he watched his mentor leave. His fingers sought and found the portable drive in his lab coat pocket and he hesitated, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Around him, the ORION sub captains and their first officers conversed among themselves. He glanced down at Stacy. She seemed distracted as she sipped her water and stared up at the still-rotating hologram.

  Suddenly, a tiny ping interrupted Dirk’s broo
ding and drew his attention down to his personal tablet. He had an incoming email on his secure server, marked urgent. As he sat down and read it, the page’s reflection grew in his eyes.

  “Holy shit!” Dirk looked around at everyone. “Uh, sorry about that . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” Stacy asked.

  From across the table, Dirk noticed Dragunova eyeing him and smirking.

  He stood back up and cleared his throat loudly. “The meeting is adjourned. If you’re on shift, please resume your regular duty schedules. Thank you for coming.”

  As the sub commanders and officers rose to their feet, Dirk added, “Captains Braddock and Dragunova, please stay. I need to speak with you.”

  Gonzalez and Morgan exchanged glances, but then shrugged and said their goodbyes. Stacy got up and moved quietly to Dirk’s side.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked. “Do you need me to stick around?”

  Dirk ground his teeth. It was better for Stacy if she wasn’t a part of this. He put on his most relaxed face, trying to appear nonchalant. “No, it’s just a minor personal matter. I’ll be fine.”

  A second later, he cringed as Stacy’s amber eyes zeroed Dragunova and a “Why-am-I-leaving-and-that-bitch-is-staying?” look came over her.

  Definitely the wrong choice of words.

  “I’ll explain later,” he said quietly.

  As he watched Stacy cast daggers at an amused Dragunova and then stalk out of the room, Dirk got the unmistakable impression he’d be better off sleeping with Gretchen tonight.

  * * *

  “Kat, put your clothes back on. Do it, fast!”

  As he listened to his voice bounce around the confines of Insolent Endeavor’s tech-crammed bridge, a still-shirtless Judas Cambridge realized those were the last words he expected to hear coming from his mouth. He shook his head, less at the irony, than the sense of regret he experienced as he watched Katerina Feaster bend to retrieve the thong and sweatpants she’d slithered out of, moments earlier. With her eyes locked on their viewing screens, the feisty scientist inserted her toes and pulled upward, wriggling her hips from side to side as she navigated her way back into her shape-hugging bottom-wear.