by Weston Ochse
Then came a fish that was chasing them, a smooth hammerhead shark, eager to continue its mobile buffet. But when it saw Triple Six, its eyes on the end of the hammers grew wide, and it spun around, disappearing first from sight, then the sonar screen. The hammerhead was about four feet, hardly a danger to the team. If it had been in a hunting party with a dozen or so, they might have become aggressive enough to attack.
The water suddenly cooled. Laws checked the depth and saw that they’d found a drop-off of more than thirty meters. Half a minute later a single orange and red dot began to move toward them from west and down. Laws communicated this to the others, noting that it was now solidly red. He stopped the TUV, pointing it toward the oncoming sea creature. About the time he noticed that there were no other fish around, not even small ones on the screen, it began to come into focus.
Swimming as if it owned the ocean, an oarfish appeared whose body seemed to flap like a riffle of fabric. It saw them, acknowledged them, then swam around them. It became obvious that this fish, easily ten meters long, couldn’t grab a person. Even though it was as long as two Cadillacs end-to-end, its mouth was barely large enough for a human hand. Doing mental math, Laws suspected one would have to be five times the size of this one for it to have a mouth and jaw long enough to grab a person. And he doubted one that size existed.
Although …
The fish turned and went back the way it came.
Laws moved the TUV after it, if only to see if it might lead them to more oarfish, perhaps even larger ones.
They’d traveled about two minutes when a red blob invaded the right edge of the sonar. It moved quickly toward them. Laws had to stop and turn to face it. When he did, the spotlight captured a giant bullet-shaped head, easily the size of a Fiat 500, hurtling through the water toward the smaller oarfish. Long tentacles trailed behind the giant Humboldt squid, as did two clublike appendages.
It was clear the oarfish couldn’t match it with speed, and it had no way to defend itself; even so, it turned toward the squid. For a moment, the oarfish was straight as an arrow and it appeared that the squid would impale itself on the creature. But at the last second, the squid’s bullet-shaped body rose, exposing the two clublike appendages, which shot out and grabbed the oarfish, drawing it to the nest of tentacles. The squid’s giant parrot-like beak descended from the body and began to rip free great pieces of meat from the length of its prey.
The water was suddenly filled with blood and pieces of floating fish meat. Remembering the shark, Laws reversed the engine of the TUV and backed away. He was perhaps ten meters back when the first of many orange dots crept on to the screen and began moving toward the red blob that was the feasting squid. The only thing worse than being in the middle of a pack of hyena feasting on the Serengeti Plain would be to be in the middle of an ocean with blood in the water and a hundred sharks eager to feed.
“Chief—we’ve got to go!” he shouted into his mask.
He punched the power on the TUV to full, and swung around. Soon they were moving at max speed, still pathetically slow compared with how fast a shark could move. Walker, Yank, and Holmes were kicking madly with their fins, giving the TUV an extra couple of knots. Still, the inevitable happened as a cluster of sharks spotted them and gave chase.
Laws elbowed Walker and pointed behind them. Walker kept kicking, but turned, brought his spear gun to bear, and fired.
Laws spared a glance. The shot had missed.
While Walker reloaded, Yank turned and fired.
This one got the lead shark through the head.
Holmes fired and skewered another shark.
Soon, there was more blood in the water and no matter how intent the sharks had been to chase down Triple Six, they couldn’t fight a million years of evolution screaming at them to eat the weak.
As Triple Six disappeared into the dark water of the Sea of Cortez, the hammerheads fed on their own.
9
ABOARD HMS RESOLUTION II. NIGHT.
A fifty-four-foot fishing yacht waited for them when they bobbed to the surface. They boarded, dragged the TUV with them, then began removing their scuba gear. The stern deck was lit by a pair of lights from the cockpit, which could be reached by ladder over a bunkroom with two long benches and a bar at the back. Meanwhile, a tall African American with a close-cropped, dyed-yellow Afro brought out a six-pack of Corona. He wore UDT shorts, flip-flops, and a shirt that said I’d Rather Be Fishing. He had a soul patch beneath his lower lip in the shape of a diamond.
When he passed the beers out, Holmes said, “Thanks, J.J.”
“No problem at all. Glad you had the time to come down and do some fishing.”
“Except it’s not your kind of fishing,” Walker said, standing with his wetsuit peeled down to his waist. He drank deeply from his bottle.
“You don’t know what kind of fishing I do down here,” J.J. said. “I could be doing anything.”
“Knowing you, I bet you spend most of your time fishing for mermaids,” Laws said good-naturedly.
“I do spend a considerable time in search of Mrs. Jones number five. I keep doing interviews, but still not hiring.”
“Interviews.” Laws snorted. “Good one. Here, let me introduce someone to you. Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker and Petty Officer Second Class Shonn Yankowski, meet Lieutenant Commander Jingo Jones, BUD/S Class 231.”
“Retired,” J.J. added. “You can call me J.J., just don’t call me Jingo.”
“J-I-N-G-O and Jingo was his name-o,” Laws said, as if on cue.
“Need I say more?” J.J. looked pained as he took a sip of his own beer.
Walker stuck out his hand. “Call me Jack.”
“You can call me Yank, then,” the newest SEAL added.
Triple Six finished unsuiting, then climbed into shorts and T-shirts from their dry bags, which J.J. had retrieved for them. When the scuba gear was stored and Holmes had reported in to Billings, they sat around relieving the stress from the mission.
“So, what brings your spooky selves down here?” J.J. asked.
Walker and Yank glanced at each other.
Laws stared at Holmes, deferring to him.
Holmes leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the beer bottle. “How much do you know about my team?”
Not our team and not the team, but my team. Walker liked the sound and feel of it. It gave him a strong sense of belonging.
“Other than the rumors, not much. I know you guys had a serious op in Southeast Asia. I know you did something in West Africa last year. I know that right about the time I was getting ready to retire there were rumors of you guys somewhere north of Point Barrow, Alaska, doing something in the snow.” J.J. looked at the others. “SEALs don’t do snow.”
“We do if there’s an abominable snowman taking out scientists studying the ever-expanding hole in the ozone,” Holmes said matter-of-factly.
Everyone was quiet for a moment as J.J. stared at him, wide-eyed. Then he said, “Just like that. You’re going to tell me just like that.”
“This isn’t an interrogation. You wanted to know, now you know.”
“Is this a read-on?”
Holmes nodded.
J.J. stood and hammered the air with his fist. He glared at Holmes, shaking his head. “Fuck. Why’d you do that?”
“We need your help.”
“I would have helped, Sam. You didn’t have to lure me in.”
“What just happened?” Yank asked.
Laws grinned conspiratorially. “See, J.J. wanted to remain aloof and too cool for school. As long as he wasn’t read on to our mission, he had zero responsibility toward us, other than past friendship. But the commander headed him off at the pass and gave him classified information. Now either our boss is off reservation and illegally divulging classified information, or he spoke with Billings, who gave permission, knowing that once J.J. knew the mission, he’d be forced to assist us.”
J.J. nodded. “What he said.”
“You le
ft off one thing,” Holmes said.
“And what’s that?” Laws asked, and then he grinned from ear to ear. “Don’t tell me she authorized that.”
Holmes nodded. “She did.” He turned to J.J. and stood. “Lieutenant Commander Jingo Jones,” he began. “You—”
“Oh, hell no,” J.J. said, as if he knew what was coming.
“—are hereby RTD—returned to duty for a period not to exceed one week, during which time you incur all the benefits of an active duty Navy seaman, and must adhere to the regulations thereof.”
“Fuck me.” J.J. took a deep swig of his beer. When he was done, he added, “Don’t expect me to cut my hair.”
“You can keep the hair.” He placed a hand on J.J.’s shoulder. “Listen man, this was the only way I could do this. We seriously need your help and time is of the essence.”
J.J. shook his head, then went and brought back six more beers. He was about to pass them out when Holmes shook his head. “No more. We’re on mission.”
J.J. pointed at Yank. “And that, my little brother, is why I quit the fucking navy. Too many rules.” He took the beer back inside, this time returning with water bottles. He passed them out, sat down, and looked expectantly at Holmes. “Okay motherfucker. Dish.”
Holmes smiled tightly. He gave J.J. the Cliffs Notes version, while Laws brought a tablet computer from his dry bag and showed the footage. When they were done, J.J. sat back and stared at the members of Triple Six. Walker couldn’t tell if he was astounded or if he couldn’t believe what he was being told. But then he did something Walker never would have anticipated. He broke out laughing. The laughter continued, while the members of Triple Six became increasingly uncomfortable.
Finally Holmes couldn’t take it anymore. J.J.’s laugh had gone from humor to ridicule. “Do you want to share?”
J.J. choked and finally stopped. “And you’re serious about all that sea monster shit?”
“Yes.”
“And about the senator’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Who told you that it was an oarfish that took her?”
“SPG. Special Projects Group. Analysts and specialists from the agency providing direct support to our ops.”
“They must be on a Jules Verne kick, because there aren’t any oarfish big enough on the planet to carry off a person like I saw there.”
Walker jumped in. “How can you be so sure?”
“I know these waters better than the honeyed thighs of the lady who does my hair, and let me tell you, I know those thighs. If there was an oarfish that size, then you’re talking an apex predator. I’d know about it before I ever saw it. Schools of fish would go missing. Sport fishing would be disrupted. A hundred different things would be affected. No, ain’t no oarfish that big.”
“What about a Humboldt squid?” Walker asked.
“Sure. They get that big, but they don’t look anything like what took this girl.”
“Then what is it?” Yank asked, looking from one team member to another. “If you’re so sure what it isn’t, then tell us what it is.”
J.J. stared at the frozen image on the tablet. “It has the length of a mature oarfish. I see that. I also see something like dorsal and pelvic fins.” He shook his head. “This is definitely not an oarfish. If I was to bet, which I won’t, but if I was, I’d say it was an axolotl. But that can’t be, because the largest one I ever saw was about this big.” He held his hands about a foot and a half apart.
“What’s an axolotl?” Holmes asked. “Maybe it’s a giant one.”
“Still hard to believe. An axolotl is actually a salamander and not technically a fish. Locals call the small versions ajolete, but it’s really old Aztec, mainly found in Lake Xochimilco beneath Mexico City.”
“Wait—there’s a lake beneath Mexico City?” Walker asked. “Do the Mexicans know this?”
“More than that. There’s a whole other city down there. The Spanish built right on top of where the Aztecs used to live. And now the ajolete are near extinction. Can’t be more than a few thousand left. What makes them interesting, which is why I actually know something about them, is that during their larval stage they don’t metamorphose, which means they retain their ability to breathe underwater as well as breathe air. In fact, they can actually walk.”
“You’re talking like an expert,” Holmes said. “Didn’t know you had a degree in marine biology.”
“Hardly.” J.J. shook his head. “During the long hours between fish strikes there’s little to talk about other than the sea. I had a foursome hire me out for a week. Archeologists, I think. Some of it must have rubbed off on me.”
“Here,” interrupted Laws. “I did a search and found some references. Look at the picture.”
Everyone crowded around Laws and his tablet, which showed a small salamander with wavy appendages around its body, similar to an oarfish’s.
“How could one get that big?” Yank asked.
“Radiation?” Laws shrugged. “Go ask Godzilla. I don’t know.”
“And you’re sure this picture isn’t doctored?” J.J. asked.
Holmes and Laws looked at each other.
J.J. persisted. “You did have someone check, right?”
Laws spoke first. “This came from a security camera on a hotel.”
“Which just happened to be pointing down at the area the senator’s daughter was taken from. Right?”
“But why would someone want—”
Laws turned to Holmes. “She might still be alive.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “Got to make a call.”
“Now we’re talking.” J.J. sat down on one of the benches and crossed his legs. “Jingo Jones to the rescue once more. What else you bad new SEALs need from this old-timer?”
10
MANHATTAN BEACH. DUSK.
The setting sun transformed the offshore marine layer into a Jackson Pollock canvas of reds, blues, and pinks. A thin band of brown showed the demarcation between sea and sky. It was a view someone could stare at for a lifetime, which was probably why Southern California beachfront property cost more per year than most people could make in a lifetime. Too bad the sight only lasted for a few moments, tucked at the end of a bustling day and before the fullness of night descended.
But YaYa was thinking of none of this as he stared at the horizon. Instead, he was listening to voices in languages he shouldn’t be able to understand. Earlier, when he’d been in the pharmacy, he’d become vaguely aware that every now and then he could catch the reflection of something that couldn’t be there—a broken and twisted figure, legs like a grasshopper’s attached to his forearm; it had a triangular-shaped face with vaguely human features and stared back at him with glowing eyes above a drooling, misshapen mouth that was always moving. If he listened closely enough, YaYa could hear what it said. If he listened even closer, he could understand it.
After the sun set, YaYa returned to the SUV and rode slowly down Manhattan Beach. Three-story homes and a sidewalk were on his left. Parking spaces, a wide strip of beach, and the Pacific Ocean were on his right. Surfers were enjoying the last few sets and would be returning to their cars. They’d probably stop for a burger at Fatburger over on Artesia, or for a pizza at California Pizza Kitchen over on Sepulveda on their way home. They might even stay and build a bonfire. The life of a Southern California surfer was a special one, and it was something he counted on.
And there it was.
YaYa pulled the SUV into a slot beside an old 1973 Chevy Impala. Far from showroom shape, this car had been beaten and crashed so many times that the sky-blue sides appeared as if they were made of Bondo and undulated like the sea. He got out of the SUV and looked toward the Impala’s front tire. Sure enough, what he’d thought he’d seen was there. A set of keys. After all, no self-respecting car thief would steal this beater. He examined the pod of surfers out in the water waiting for waves and saw that the beach was clear. All he had to do was be fast enough.
He gr
abbed the keys and opened the trunk. Inside was a spare tire and a case of beer. He removed the tire and beer and placed these behind the SUV. Then he opened the back of the SUV and grabbed Alice, who was just now coming to. He dropped her into the trunk and checked the tightness of her cuffs. He pulled several plastic cable ties from his pocket and cinched her ankles together, then attached the cuffs to the ties on her ankles. As he was adjusting her gag, she opened her eyes. He punched her three times, quick, then slammed the trunk.
He spied several surfers angling for a wave. Another was staring right at him and shouting something. YaYa gave the man a quick salute, got into the Impala, and started it. “Paint It Black” blasted from the speakers as he backed out of the space. He had half a tank. In a boat like this, it might get him halfway to San Diego.
Part of him wondered if Alice would be okay.
Part of him didn’t care.
He drove away, careful to stay within the law. As he passed the SUV, he engaged its lock using the fob. A block later, he tossed the fob into the bushes.
“What’d you say?” he angled his head and began to listen to the voices as they told him what they wanted him to do.
11
CABO SAN LUCAS. MORNING.
They waited until morning to pull into port. Holmes had called and asked Billings if the video had been evaluated. Then at three in the morning she’d called him back. Much chastised, the SPG credited whoever made the video with superior talent. They’d done a cursory pixel check when they’d received it, but didn’t determine any pixel shift and believed it to be genuine. Additionally, the fact that it had come from a remote security camera added to their sense that the video was real. They had no protocol for deciding which videos should be evaluated or not, and had instead counted on the tasking element to ask them for evaluations. In this case, it should have come from Triple Six. Because one wasn’t asked for, one wasn’t conducted.
As it turned out, the video was a fake. Color filter array correlations in the area where Emily was supposed to have been taken by the creature were disrupted and showed significant lack of color spectrum pixellation. Bottom line was that although SPG was unable to as yet break through the concealment algorithm, no one could accurately state what had happened to Emily. But what they could say with a high degree of certainty was that she was not taken by a giant sea monster. Which left several questions. Why choose a sea monster? Why manipulate the video in the first place? And why choose as a sea monster an impossibly giant axolotl?