Sharkman

by Steve Alten

  Humboldt squid.

  A cannibalistic carnivore, the Humboldt squid possesses eight lightning-quick tentacles, two longer sucker-equipped feeder arms, and a razor-sharp parrot-like beak that can slash and devour its prey like a buzz saw. It can jettison itself through the water at speeds up to twenty-five knots and stop or change direction on a dime. Ferocious fighters, Humboldts have been known to attack every species in the sea . . . including man.

  And then my senses alerted me to the presence of another predator.

  The goblin shark circled the chaos a hundred feet below me, biding its time. Eleven feet long from its surfboard-shaped snout to its rounded tail, the creature resembled a sand tiger shark, only with blue fins and a pink belly—the latter color caused by an abundance of blood vessels located beneath its semitransparent skin. I couldn’t see its dagger-sharp teeth or its stomach, but I could hear the hunger gnawing at its insides . . . feel the electrical impulses running along its back as its muscles coiled to attack.

  As I watched, the goblin shark made a sudden descent, targeting a wounded Humboldt bleeding from the remains of three missing tentacles.

  In a blink, dozens of agitated squid rose tentacles-first to engage the outnumbered challenger.

  The goblin shark spun away in retreat . . . too late.

  Tentacles bloomed like exploding fireworks, distracting the shark even as pairs of feeder arms grabbed the overmatched predator and drew it into the snapping beaks of the voracious killers.

  My heart pounded irregularly in my pressure-impaled chest. Within seconds the squid had eaten all but a few bloody morsels of the goblin shark. Still in the throes of their feeding frenzy, they battered one another, probing for weakness among their peers.

  And then they stopped.

  My heart pounded, my life hanging in the balance—as the creatures rose as one to feed upon me! With a burst of speed I descended, heading for the submarine wreckage, seeking cover within the twisted caverns of steel. Racing parallel to the seafloor, I soared past sixty feet of hull before locating a gap large enough for me to squeeze through.

  It was large enough for the Humboldts, but they didn’t pursue me, their senses perceiving the submarine as a larger predator.

  Safe for the moment, I took in my new surroundings.

  The submarine was resting on its portside, tilting every apparatus that remained bolted down. I inspected a rack of torpedoes stacked sideways, moving carefully past a maze of crushed computer stations and an open watertight door.

  Thankfully, there were no human remains to be seen.

  There was, however, a Geiger counter, its glass cracked, its metal box flattened—and now I realized why the Humboldt squid were congregating along the bottom.

  It’s the uranium. They’re attracted to the heat.

  The flooded chamber started spinning. I gasped mouthfuls of seawater, struggling to compensate for the flow needed to keep me conscious. My body convulsed—if I couldn’t swim, I couldn’t breathe . . . I couldn’t create enough heat to keep my internal organs functioning.

  If I didn’t leave the sub, I’d die.

  If I left the sub, I’d be devoured.

  Do Not Resuscitate. My father had been right after all. Suffocation . . . it was more humane.

  Facing death . . . it’s a scary thing. But I was done, my mind was baked. Every breath burned, every labored beat of my heart threatened to be the last. I was freezing and alone, surrounded by a darkness that was closing in rapidly. Buried beneath five miles of ocean, there was no hope, no escape . . . now it was just a matter of seeking my final resting place.

  I made my way slowly through the open hatch of the torpedo room, somehow comforted by my human surroundings. The corridor led to a rush of ocean where the bow had split open upon impact with the seafloor, depositing its payload of Tomahawk missiles across the trench floor.

  I scanned the debris field—a graveyard of technology, flattened by five tons per square inch of water pressure. The only recognizable remnants of the attack sub were sections of the titanium vertical missile silos.

  The ampullae of Lorenzini became a five-alarm fire in my brain. I looked up and saw hundreds of Humboldt squid racing for me—red and white darts of death.

  Desperate, I squeezed inside a five-foot length of titanium pipe lying along the seafloor. The fractured missile silo was open on one end; the other end was covered by a hatch that was intact but suspended open. Crawling toward the spring-loaded opening, I reached out and grabbed the round metal door by its interior wheel and slammed it shut—severing two intruding tentacles in the process.

  I was trapped and far from impregnable—my feet exposed at the other open end of the tube. Relentless killers, the Humboldts reached in and tried to drag me out of my makeshift titanium shell by my ankles. I kicked at them, attempting to defend the thirty-inch-in-diameter opening.

  Hold on . . . few more minutes . . . before you . . . suffocate.

  Their sucker pads had barbs, forcing me to squirm closer to the sealed hatch.

  In my delirium, I popped open the silo door just enough to reach my arms out. Allowing the metal disc to rest on the back of my head, I pushed against the sandy seafloor with every ounce of strength left in my body until the fractured missile silo levitated horizontally away from the bottom.

  I changed my flutter kicks to the now-familiar east–west hip swivel and the titanium casing lurched forward, the curvature of the silo actually channeling the current more efficiently, like the hooded propeller used on the latest nuclear submarines. Using my back, I managed to keep the nose of my armored hull level as I crawled straight into the maelstrom of squid.

  To the enraged Humboldts, I was simply a crustacean moving along the bottom in a protective shell. They battered it, attempted to pry it loose, but in the end the predators were forced to yield to it.

  The overexertion heated up my muscles, thawing my dermal denticles. Breathing became easier, the casing around me lighter—until I realized it wasn’t just me—the water was noticeably warmer.

  With renewed vigor, I kicked and propelled and pulled my way into the whirling dervish of invertebrates until the seafloor beneath me became the crushed remains of a wooden crate and then—eureka!—a plastic object the size of a basketball, encasing the enriched hunk of uranium.

  Reaching down, I grabbed the precious object, which warmed my hands like a roaring fireplace on a cold winter’s day. I slammed the hatch and locked it, then peeled the lead-lined backpack off my shoulders and shoved the radiating sphere inside, zippering the lead-lined casing shut.

  And then something unexpected happened . . . the missile silo went vertical, rising away from the bottom!

  It was the uranium. By heating the water inside the sealed tube, it was causing the missile silo to become buoyant.

  To aid the process, I positioned the backpack between the hatch and my head. I held on as the titanium shell plowed through the dispersing school of Humboldt squid—the nasty creatures never realizing I had just made off with their magic orb.

  The water inside the tube went from warm to hot in minutes, increasing the silo’s rate of ascension. Looking down, I watched the dark canyon disappear from view—the open end of the silo spinning wildly in my head . . . need to breathe!

  Reaching up, I secured the backpack’s straps to the inside wheel of the hatch, then slid feetfirst out of the back end of the rising silo until my head was free. Maintaining a grip along the inside of the titanium tube, I shoved my face into the current of water and opened my mouth to the rushing sea.

  I had lived seventeen years, but that moment right there—that was the best. To have escaped death so many times, to be surfacing with my life and a gift for my father—I wanted to scream to the heavens.

  Ascending fast . . . the water pressure easing, the pain in my skull gone, my chest expanding. Rising higher, the waters wer
e growing dense again with life. Viperfish and gulper eels, fangtooths and dragonfish—no longer ugly, no longer gruesome—beautiful creatures, miracles of creation and adaptation—mutations, like me . . . all of us just trying to survive.

  The sea remained in nocturnal-olive, yet I could feel the warmth of the shallows and the lapping waves, and suddenly I was rocketing free of the water, falling sideways onto the titanium shell, which started to sink. Ducking back inside, I untied the backpack, popped open the hatch, and squirmed back outside.

  Relieved of its buoyancy, the empty shell fell away, beginning its return descent into the abyss. Glancing up at the starry night sky, I thanked my mother’s soul for guiding me to it.

  I searched the horizon, locating the Malchut half a mile to the east. Her crew must have been tracking my ascension on sonar because she was heading my way.

  Slinging the backpack over my shoulders, I expelled water from my esophagus and inhaled a chest-inflating breath, forcing air into my collapsed lungs. My skin softened to flesh—the flesh burning with frostbite. My eyeballs ached as my sinus cavity squeezed open. My ear canals popped, causing my head to ring with tinnitus. My leg muscles spasmed. My stomach contorted, my heart raced.

  Exhausted, hungry, writhing in pain, I was Kwan Wilson . . . human.

  36

  Waiting for the boat, I nearly drowned from the exhaustion of treading water.

  The crew mercifully lowered a rescue ring and hauled me onto the deck. My father barked orders while Professor Gibbons tore the backpack from my shoulders and looked inside.

  “Sonuva gun . . . it’s here. He actually did it.”

  “Of course he did! He’s my kid, isn’t he?”

  My father may have hugged me—I can’t be sure. Relieved of my burden, I passed out.

  Daylight burned red behind closed eyelids. I opened them, moaning in pain.

  I was in my stateroom, propped up in bed. A doctor was peering into my left eye with an annoying light. A nurse was applying an ointment to my raw, bare feet.

  The physician spoke in a Hispanic accent. “You’re my first frostbite patient. How long were you locked in the galley freezer?”

  “Whaa?”

  “Seventeen hours,” I heard my father say.

  “He’s lucky to be alive. We’ll start him on an IV for the pain, but he really should fly back with us to San Juan.”

  “He’ll be fine, Doc. We appreciate you coming. Can you stand next to him for a moment? I want to get a quick photo of my son receiving medical care . . . you know, just in case we need to sue that freezer manufacturer.”

  Through heavy lids I saw my father aim his iPhone at me. Then he handed the doctor a wad of cash and I passed out.

  Key Largo, Florida

  The patient was propped up in bed. Her complexion was sickly pale, her forearms bruised from multiple intravenous needles and injections. An IV bag dripped steadily into a vein in her right hand, the toxic liquid having vanquished the woman’s jet-black curls days ago. Long strands of hair littered her bedsheets.

  Dr. Kamrowski leaned over Sabeen, inhaling her noxious breath as she removed the thermometer from beneath the teenager’s tongue.

  The Syrian rebel gazed up at her through feverish dark pools. “How bad?”

  “A hundred and one point five, same as yesterday. Open wide; I want to check your throat again.” Aided by a wooden tongue depressor, Dr. Kamrowski shined her light into Sabeen’s mouth, noting the creamy-white lesions. “The thrush has gotten worse. We need to boost your immune system.”

  “I thought the shark stem cells were supposed to be doing this?”

  Ignoring her, Dr. Kamrowski moved to the end of the bed and lifted the blanket and sheet to examine Sabeen’s feet. What had been petite size 7s had mutated into knotted size 13s that curved sharply from toe to heel.

  “They have grown larger?”

  “Sabeen, every subject reacts differently to a new drug.”

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes, but it’s okay. Your internal organs are changing, too, preparing you for an amphibious existence, which is what we wanted. The problem is that the HGH isn’t stabilizing your human DNA the way it did with Kwan. It may be that the tiger shark stem cells are more aggressive, or it might be the difference in the male and female testosterone levels. Whatever the reason, I feel our best course of action is to get you stronger . . . allow your immune system to stabilize before we inject you with any more human growth hormone.”

  “Stabilize me how?”

  “By getting you into the water sooner than we planned. We’ll allow the mutation to run its course at an accelerated rate, which is what it seems to want to do. If it works, you should feel much better.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Let’s not go there.” Dr. Kamrowski removed a walkie-talkie from her belt. “Joe, are you ready for Sabeen?”

  “On my way.”

  The early afternoon was thick with humidity, the South Florida sun veiled behind gray islands of stratocumulus clouds.

  Sabeen Tayfour squinted through feverish eyes at the emerald-green horizon of ocean spread out before her. Shallows littered with pockets of coral reefs led to darker patches of deep water.

  Her teeth rattled as the Australian man pushed her wheelchair across a stretch of boardwalk, then down a ramp that ended ten feet of rock and sand short of the waterline.

  Joe Botchin made it one revolution on the beach before the wheels became hopelessly buried. Gently, he leaned over and scooped the Syrian beauty up in his thick arms, carrying her down to the water’s edge. The shark wrangler’s boots sunk ankle-deep into the muddy bottom—his eyes behind the dark sunglasses darting to Sabeen’s dressing gown as it soaked up the sea, adhering the flimsy patterned cloth to her naked breasts.

  Sabeen closed her eyes to the lust-filled stare. The water was a balmy seventy-seven degrees in the shallows but still felt frigid, casting goose bumps across her feverish flesh.

  The Australian moved deeper. The water rose to her neck.

  And suddenly he was on top of her, his arms wrapped around her chest in a bear hug, his weight pinning her underwater!

  Adrenaline coursed through her body even as the rancid air hissed from her mouth. She screamed in protest, the sound muffled in her ears. She tried to reach for his eyes . . . his private parts, only her arms were pinned and he had rolled himself on top of her. Pressing her deformed feet to the muddy bottom, she managed one massive heave of her legs, only her head never cleared the surface.

  Her lungs burned. Her vision tunneled into blackness.

  Joe felt the fight leave Sabeen Tayfour’s body. He waited another moment, then released her, planting a boot to her lower back to keep the corpse underwater and out of sight. “She’s dead.”

  Dr. Kamrowski nodded from the beach. “A waste of precious time and resources.”

  “Spooky guy, the Admiral. I’d hate to get on his bad side. Why do you think—”

  “She became expendable the moment Kwan salvaged the package. The last thing Amalek’s council needs now is to expend more personnel at the compound. Believe me, having seen the way those rats suffered, this was a far more humane way to—”

  “Ahhhh!” Joe screamed, then fell backward into the shallows—a fountain of blood spurting across the surface.

  Dr. Kamrowski ran to the water’s edge and froze, unable to see beyond the Australian’s thrashing limbs and the frothing pool of blood.

  And then everything stopped.

  Nadja Kamrowski’s heart pounded in her chest as Joe Botchin’s body surfaced, his corpse floating facedown in the scarlet waters. Blood pooled around two massive bite wounds—the first coming from his savaged upper right thigh and torn femoral artery, the last from his neck, which was nearly severed from his head.

  The killer’s face rose slowly from
the sea, revealing a porous scalp and two coal-black eyes filled with hatred which remained just above the water line.

  “Sabeen, I’m sorry.”

  Blood ran past her sunken cheekbones and flattened nose into her open mouth. Her gills rippled red with the outflow, remained underwater.

  “It was the Admiral’s orders, Sabeen. I don’t question my Amalek superiors.”

  The face submerged. A moment later, a mutated pair of feet lashed the surface, splashing blood across Dr. Kamrowski’s blue lab coat.

  A long, dark form glided through the shallows toward deeper water . . . and then she was gone.

  Aboard the Malchut

  I was gliding in a cool blue sea, the surface above my head undulating in thick waves of mercury that muted all sound.

  “He can be useful to us, Jeffrey.”

  “I’m sorry, Admiral, but the council disagrees.”

  The sea grew warmer. The voices were disturbing Queen Dilaudid, the surface rippling with sound.

  “Gibbons said he was able to salvage enough U-235 to incinerate Port Everglades and the convention center. You really think Kwan’s going to remain silent with half a million people dead?”

  The sea boiled, the pain returned. Swimming to the agitated surface, my head popped free—sound returning with a whoosh.

  My eyes snapped open.

  The cabin was empty. The voices were coming . . . from my forearms?

  I looked down at my arms. The flesh was covered in dermal denticles—my brain fooled by the drug-induced dream. The sensory cells beneath my shark skin were picking up reverberations of sound coming from my steel bed frame which was bolted to the wall behind my head.

  Turning around to face the wall, I pressed my forearms to the plaster, eavesdropping on my father’s conversation in the adjoining stateroom.

  “How will you kill him?”

  “Drug overdose—we stay with the rehab story. I’ll inject it right into his IV bag; he won’t feel a thing.”

  “I’m concerned about the timing. Amalek was very clear—the three Iranians arrive tomorrow at seventeen hundred hours.”