The boat now headed directly toward the island. The tall fin came toward him from a corner angle off his bow. He refused to look. The sand on Ship Island glistened in the moonlight.
The fin kept coming, still toward the bow, closing the distance.
The bow went past the line where it would intersect with the fin. Leonard looked toward Ship Island a few hundred yards away and closing rapidly. He had the advantage. He stared as the fin turned sharply, throwing a tall spray out to the side like a slalom skier, and moved in a line toward the boat again.
Leonard looked at the island.
The fin straightened now, the showers out to each of its sides beginning to mount.
Two hundred yards to the island.
The gap between his boat and the island narrowed.
The gap between the fin and the boat narrowed.
He looked at the island. He looked back at the fin. The showers to each side of the fin were so high now they resembled sprays coming from firehoses—and so close.
And closer.
His eyes locked on the thick, dark protrusion, he watched it angle out toward the left of the boat. Tears started running down his cheeks. He watched the fin as it drew even with the boat. He watched it as it began to draw slightly ahead of the boat, the spray from the fin falling across the motor. Into the rear of the boat. Across him. “Get away. Get away!
“Get away!”
The fin suddenly angled, leaned slightly to the side. The head angled under the front of the boat.
It happened almost exactly the way he had feared, him screaming, the motor roaring, the creature’s head nudging under the bow, and then rising hard, lifting the boat, where, aided by the thrust of its own propeller, it climbed into the air, starting to revolve, went higher, turned almost completely upside down, and then crashed back into the water like a submarine on an emergency dive.
Leonard, thrown clear, was running in the air, his arms flailing, his feet hitting the water and seeming to start to walk across it, and then he splashed hard against the surface, flipped, skidded across the water, and disappeared under it.
* * *
Ensign Douglas Williams looked from the rear seat of the F-16 Fighting Falcon as it neared touchdown. He could see the orange-striped Coast Guard helicopter that was to be his next ride, setting off to the side, its rotor blades spinning. The night sky was already growing darker with clouds rolling across the face of the moon. He shook his head and looked in the direction of the water off the Everglades.
CHAPTER 13
Taking advantage of a high tide, the charter fishing boat, returning from an all-night fishing trip at the oil rigs south of the Chandeleur chain, headed toward the short cut through Camille Cut rather than the longer route around the western tip of Ship Island into the Sound. The captain, a barrel-chested, bearded man in his early forties looked from the flying bridge toward the faint glow of light in the eastern sky. In the rear of the boat, three middle-aged couples from Chicago carried on a conversation too low for him to hear over the hum of the boat’s twin diesel engines.
“Kevin,” his wife called from the bottom of the ladder leading up to the bridge. She held a plate of sandwiches in her hands and lifted it in a gesture asking if he wanted one. He shook his head and she turned toward their passengers. Kevin looked past the dark shape of Fort Massachusetts toward the lights of the freighter making its way past the end of the island along the deep-water ship channel leading toward Gulfport. The Russian national flag whipped at the vessel’s stern. The freighter rode high in the water, meaning it had delivered its original cargo elsewhere and was now making the passage into Gulfport to load cargo for its return trip. Most likely frozen Mississippi chickens. Vessels from the old Soviet Union and its client states often arrived there for that cargo.
* * *
Aboard the freighter, the stocky captain standing at the bridge yawned. His mouth froze open when he glanced at the depth sounder.
“Vladimir! Glubina!”
The first mate stared at the depth sounder. Four meters under the keel. Three meters. Two. Holding at two.
Still holding. Three. Four. Five—and the depth under the vessel dropped back to a normal reading.
The captain released the bulkhead he had grabbed to brace himself for the grounding that hadn’t come.
“Myelkie vody ili zdyes’ shto-to zatonulo. Soobshchite amerikanskoi pribrezhnoi okhrane.”
The first mate lifted the mike from the Single-Side-Band radio and spoke in perfect English.
“U.S. Coast Guard. This is the Russian freighter Sholokbov.”
Then he repeated what the captain had ordered him to say:
“The channel is shoal or something is sunk here.”
* * *
A hundred yards behind the freighter’s churning wake, and moving with the tip of its thick dorsal fin barely beneath the surface, the long, dark shape passed Ship Island into the Gulf. From out of the deep blackness a quarter mile off to its side came faint vibrations of another large creature passing under the water, moving in the opposite direction. But the vibrations were familiar and comfortable, and the long creature didn’t vary from its course or change its speed, already fast, though its great crescent-shaped tail undulated and swept sideways only once every minute or so.
* * *
The bow of the charter boat bumped with a loud thump. Something scraped along its bottom as Kevin grabbed for the throttles, jerked them back, and pulled the engines out of gear. His wife braced her feet at the sudden slowing and looked up at him. She hurried up the ladder to the flying bridge.
“What was it?”
Kevin shook his head. He looked back past the stern. Then he cut the wheel toward the left, engaged the gears, and edged the throttles forward, turning the boat in a slow circle.
He peered forward off the port side of the vessel, and eased the throttles back a little. His wife stepped across the bridge and stared off the starboard bow. The couples in the fishing cockpit stood at its sides now, looking at the water.
The oldest man among them said, “I see it. It’s … I lost it. Something black and about five or six feet across. It was right under the water.” He leaned his thin frame way out over the rail and stared back toward the rear of the boat.
Kevin pulled the throttles the rest of the way back and took the engines out of gear. He pulled a flashlight from the control panel and shined it over the side of the craft into the water close to the stern. His wife shook her head. “I didn’t see anything,” she said. “There!”
He centered where she pointed with his light. The upside-down stern of a speedboat missing its motor and bobbing only inches under the surface slowly passed behind his craft. His light had penetrated far enough through the water to read the name across the stern. He reached to the VHF radio, turned it to channel sixteen, and lifted its mike.
“Coast Guard,” he said, and gave his vessel’s name, then said, “there’s a small boat sunk just north of Camille Cut, nearest the eastern section of Ship Island—maybe a hundred feet from shore.”
He waited a moment. “Coast Guard, do you read me? This is the charter fishing—”
“This is Coast Guard station Gulfport. Go ahead, Captain.”
“I’ve come upon a speedboat sunk north of Camille Cut. The stern is buoyant right under the surface. I scraped it with my keel. It’s too dark to see much. It’s name is Scent. I know it. It’s berthed at the Broadwater. Guy that owns it has a Bertram, too, called Bigger Scent—an oilman from New Orleans. A short, nice little guy.”
* * *
There were sections in the Pentagon that never closed down. Admiral Vandiver’s office was not among them, but he was at his desk despite the early morning hour and the fact that he had not gone home until well after midnight the night before. He blew a cloud of gray cigar smoke across his desk and glanced at his watch. He had met the courier with the package from south Florida over an hour before. It should almost be at the laboratory now—a laboratory w
here he could rely on an old acquaintance to give him the facts the way they were and not the way somebody with a preset opinion might think they should be.
But then there were so many variables in the testing—in dating anything. He thought of the example currently making the rounds in the nation’s newspapers. The Shroud of Turin, an ancient fourteen-foot three-inch burial linen somehow imprinted with the image of a man who had been crucified, who wore a crown of thorns and who greatly resembled the earliest artists’ depiction of Jesus, had been thought when first discovered to possibly be the shroud in which Jesus’ body had been wrapped. Then carbon dating indicated the cloth had been woven after the year 1200. Now, a team of scientists from the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio had, upon subsequent testing, concluded that a layer of bacteria and fungi had contaminated the earlier test. The Shroud could indeed be what many thought it to be from the beginning. Both groups of scientists stuck to their results.
Then there was also the story of the ancient map containing the outline of continents generally thought to have been unknown to Europeans at the time the map was said to have been drafted. Dating of the ink used on the map showed the map couldn’t possibly be as old as claimed. Subsequent dating by other scientists indicated it could be. Again, both sides stuck to the results they had obtained.
Classic examples of different groups of highly educated professionals, both using the latest technology available, coming to diametrically opposed conclusions—and the Shroud and the ancient map weren’t the only examples of this. Far from it. Contamination, advanced aging caused by association with certain elements, the retardation of aging caused by other elements, what had originally lain in association with the object to be tested, even how long it had or had not been exposed to the simple rays of the sun—all of these circumstances and a multitude more could throw off various tests used to determine an object’s age.
But one thing the testing could do, Vandiver thought. It would be able to determine if the tooth was only a mere few years old, or less. He glanced at his watch again, then rose and walked toward his computer terminal. He pulled back a chair and turned the terminal on.
It instantly posed the request for a password. He typed it in and began stroking a series of keys.
Seconds later, a shark’s tooth appeared in the center of the screen.
The voice that emanated from the terminal’s speakers was that of a woman, her articulation of each word done precisely and in a pleasant tone as she spelled out the details pertinent to the tooth:
“… from Carcharodon megalodon. Probability: ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent certainty.
Slant-height, eight point one eight seven inches, with a corresponding width as seen by the ruler superimposed next to the tooth.” The ruler flashed twice.
“Dimensions confirmed. If tooth is presupposed to be one of the larger teeth as are commonly found in front of jaw of modern sharks, then megalodon from which it came is estimated to be from fifty to sixty feet in length, with a possible error of twenty percent either plus or minus. If tooth is presupposed to be one of the smaller teeth as are commonly found in rear of jaw of modern sharks, then megalodon from which it came is estimated to be from seventy-five to ninety feet in length, with a possible error of twenty percent either plus or minus. Key feature: color beige. Confirmed. Conclusion…”
The tooth shrank and became enclosed in a square, which moved to the top left corner of the screen, and flashed. The center of the screen now displayed a depiction of a bulky, thick-bodied shark with much the same mouth and fin structure of a great white shark, but with a blunter, less pointed head.
“… Carcharodon megalodon. Prevalent in all oceans during Triassic through early Pleistocene Epoch. Probability: ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent certainty.”
The shark shrank and became enclosed in a square, which moved to the top-right corner of the screen and flashed. The center of the screen now displayed a map of the South Pacific Ocean. A small circle appeared in the center of the ocean, and enlarged, bringing that particular section of the South Pacific to the full size of the screen. The picture changed to a topographical layout of the bottom of the area, complete with ridges and peaks depicting a mountain range, and a deep valley running to a side of the range.
“Tooth was raised by robot dredge sampling area of Marianas Trench at twenty-six thousand feet on June fifteen, nineteen hundred eighty-two. Depth confirmed.
“Overall conclusion: Carcharodon megalodon tooth: reconfirmed. Probability: ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent certainty.
“Extinct for one and a half million to five million years.
“Variable conditions: Tooth’s dating inconclusive.
“Tests conducted by qualified European laboratories and Russian research institution indicated lack of evidence of carbonization, amino-acid racemization, or other obvious fossilization.
“Overall conclusion: Unknown action, possibly chemical in nature, in close association with deposit where tooth was found, retarded fossilization, or original apparent and real age tests were faulty.
“Probability; seventy-five percent.”
Vandiver sat for a moment in thought, then reached for the telephone next to the terminal and lifted the receiver.
The number he called didn’t answer, though Dr. Tegtmier had said he would be at the laboratory waiting for the tooth.
Vandiver frowned, replaced the receiver, looked back at the screen, and started thinking again.
* * *
A Coast Guard forty-one from the Gulfport Station sat close to the Scent, its stern barely visible under the surface in the light of the rising sun.
Bos’n Mate Third Class Beverly Cowart, her hands on the hips of her dark-blue trousers and her blond hair cut short above the collar of a crisply pressed short-sleeve shirt, stared down at the vessel. “We’ll mark it with a buoy,” she said, “and then see about getting somebody out here to move it out of the way of the pass.”
The Coast Guardsman next to her nodded.
The diver down near the bow of the sunken boat had been there for only seconds, but he was suddenly coming up.
His head broke the surface of the water with a splash.
“Sir … Ma’am, there’s a foot down there.”
* * *
There were eight boys in all. They had on bright orange life preservers and were standing next to a pair of eighteen-foot aluminum boats pulled up alongside the bank. Carolyn parked the Ranger and reached into its backseat for Paul’s tightly rolled sleeping bag as he hopped outside with his backpack and hurried toward the craft.
She pushed open the door and stepped to the ground as her father came toward Paul.
“Boy,” he said, “do men let women carry their equipment for them?”
Paul came to a sudden halt and dashed back toward the Ranger. He stopped in front of Carolyn and reached for the sleeping bag.
“Daddy,” she said, as Paul tugged the bag from her, “it doesn’t weigh anything.”
Paul, balancing his backpack on his shoulders where you couldn’t see his head, held the sleeping bag in his other hand as he ran back toward the boats.
Mr. Herald placed his hands on his hips and stared toward the children. “Look at them work without me saying a word,” he said.
San-hi and Armon were carefully checking each of the boys’ life preservers to make certain they were fastened properly, and then letting the boys step into the boats one at a time, each of them immediately going to the craft’s middle seats and sitting down, their backpacks held in their laps. San-hi handed Paul a preserver, watched him put it on, then pointed to the lead boat. Paul stepped into the craft and sat down next to the shortest boy on the team, a dark-skinned muscular boy with his hair cropped so close he appeared nearly bald. San-hi moved to the other boat and settled at the stern seat in front of the small outboard motor. Armon moved to the bow and looked back toward Mr. Herald.
“See,” her father said. He leaned
forward and pecked her on the cheek. “See you tomorrow afternoon … late.”
“Daddy, if you knew how much this worried me.…”
“I’m not taking any liability on myself. You’re the one who decided you wanted him to go.”
“Daddy, this is your daughter you’re speaking to—I know you planned this whole thing.”
He kissed her cheek again. “The team’s away,” he said. Then in a softer voice, “Carolyn, what you should do is come with us, have a good time yourself. I’d like that.”
“A girl with the men?” she said in a deep voice. “Heaven forbid, Captain.” Then, her voice lower, she said, “Do keep an eye on him.”
Her father winked and nodded. Then he walked toward the boys patiently waiting in the boats.
“Ready, men?” he said as he stopped at the edge of the bank.
“Yes, sir,” the boys came back as one.
“Yes, sir,” Paul said.
“Good.” Mr. Herald stepped into the lead boat and settled into its stern seat. In a moment, the outboard motor roared to life and he used its steering arm to guide the boat away from the bank. San-hi started the other boat’s motor and guided the craft out toward the center of the channel.
Moving slowly, the water behind the boats barely churning with the slow speed of their props, they headed toward the long Interstate 10 bridge, shimmering and blurred in the humidity-created haze in the distance.
Her father looked back over his shoulder and waved.
Paul’s face came around for a moment. Then he looked back up the river, as the other boys were doing.
* * *
Ensign Douglas Williams stared over the forty-one’s rail at the bright water zipping past the craft. He was thinking about sharks. Not the kind his uncle thought about, but real live sharks. Specifically, deep-ocean sharks. The species that stayed in deep water, or in shallow waters not far from the deeper ones—like shallow water around islands formed by seamounts, volcanic projections that over time had risen from miles below and now formed such places as Hawaii and the many other islands in the mostly deep Pacific. Sharks like the oceanic white-tip and the mako, the kinds of sharks that, along with the far-ranging tiger sharks, were responsible for far more deaths than the more publicized but less numerous white sharks, the kinds of sharks that yanked thousands of sailors from floating debris during World War I and II—although this almost always occurred in deep water.
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