by Steve Alten
Inside was a triangular gray tooth that was as large as his hand.
“This is a fossilized tooth of Carcharodon megalodon. Scuba divers and beachcombers have turned up fossilized teeth like this by the thousands. Some are tens of millions of years old. This particular specimen is special because it’s not very old. It was recovered in 1873 by the world’s first true oceanic exploration vessel, the British HMS Challenger. Can you see these manganese nodules?” Jonas pointed to the black encrustations on the tooth. “Recent analysis of these manganese layers indicate the tooth’s owner had been alive during the late Pleistocene or early Holocene period. In other words, this tooth is a mere ten thousand years old, and it was dredged from the deepest point on our planet, the Mariana Trench’s Challenger Deep.”
The teen pumped his fist. “Ha, told you, Mom! You owe me twenty bucks.”
Jonas held up his hand, attempting to quiet a dozen side conversations as his eyes shifted to a beautiful blonde making her way carefully down the center aisle in stiletto heels. Tan and in her early thirties, she was wearing a topaz evening gown which hugged her flawless figure. Her male escort, also in his thirties, trailed behind, his long dark hair slicked back into a tight ponytail which contrasted with his conservative tuxedo.
Jonas waited for his wife and friend to be seated in the second row.
“Please, if you’ll give me a minute I’ll explain my theory, which is detailed in my new book, then I have to wrap things up.”
Silence took the room.
“Following the last Ice Age two million years ago, Megalodon pups inhabiting the shallow water nurseries along the Mariana archipelago could have gone deep in order to escape pods of Killer Whales. Descending to the Mariana Trench, these juvenile sharks would have discovered warm bottom waters insulated by hydrothermal plumes. Given these variables, members of this Megalodon nursery might have chosen to remain in the deep, surviving to breed a new generation of deep-water monsters. Scientists may or may not agree with my theory, however any answer rendered without a scientific investigation behind it—meaning an actual expedition into the Mariana Trench is simply worthless conjecture.”
“What nonsense!” Mike “the Turk” Turzman, a popular local radio talk show host specializing in cryptozoology stood from his tenth row seat, shouting to be heard. “There are no hydrothermal vents in the Mariana Trench. None!”
Jonas shook his head. He had heard excerpts of the Turk’s recent interview with Richard Ellis, a painter and self-proclaimed expert on all things nautical who had lambasted Taylor’s research.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Turzman. The Ocean Exploration Ring of Fire Expedition recently used satellite aperture radar to survey the Mariana Trench. They discovered more than fifty underwater volcanoes, ten of which possessed active hydrothermal systems. These hydrothermal systems were quite different from those found along the mid-Atlantic Ocean ridges, potentially harboring all sorts of exotic life forms. So maybe the next time one of your guests decides to publicly critique my research over the airwaves, you’ll do some fact checking of your own.”
A smattering of applause escorted “the Turk” back to his seat.
“Professor Taylor, an important question—”
He looked up, searching the auditorium for the woman calling out his name.
It was an Asian-American beauty in her late twenties. Her long jet-black hair was pulled into a tight bun, her white blouse tied around her midriff, revealing a taut stomach, her jeans—torn at the knees—ending in Gucci heels.
I know her from somewhere…
“Yes, go on please.”
“Before you began studying these Megalodons, your career was focused entirely on piloting deep-sea submersibles. I’d like to know why, at the peak of your career, you suddenly quit.”
Jonas was taken aback by the directness of her question. “First, I didn’t quit, I retired. Second, my reasons are my own. Next question?” He searched the audience for another raised hand.
“Pretty young to retire, weren’t you?” Heads turned as the Asian beauty approached from one of the side aisles. “Or maybe it was something else? You haven’t been in a submersible for what? Seven years? Did you lose your nerve, professor? Inquiring minds want to know.”
The audience chuckled. No one was leaving—this was getting good.
Jonas felt trickles of sweat drip from his armpits. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Tanaka. Terry Tanaka. I believe you know my father, Masao, CEO of the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute.”
“Tanaka, of course. In fact, I think you and I met several years ago on a lecture circuit.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Terry Tanaka, since your inquiring mind insists on violating my privacy, let’s just say, after almost ten years with the navy, I felt it was time to stop risking my life piloting deep-sea submersibles. And so I went back to school to pursue my doctorate degree in order to research prehistoric species like the Megalodon.”
Jonas collected his notes. “Now, if there are no other questions …”
“Dr. Taylor, please.” A balding man in his fifties wearing bi-focals and a UCLA hooded sweatshirt stood in the third row off to his left. “You mentioned the Mariana Trench as a potential habitat for any surviving Megalodon. Has the trench ever been explored?”
“Unfortunately, no. There were two manned expeditions back in 1960, but in both cases the bathyscapes merely went to the bottom and resurfaced. It’s important to understand just how big this gorge is and how dangerous it is to access. We’re essentially talking about a fifteen hundred mile long canyon that is over forty miles wide, located seven miles below the surface. The water pressure alone is sixteen thousand pounds per square inch. We actually know more about distant galaxies than the bottom of our own oceans.”
“Well stated. But professor, aren’t you forgetting about a few more recent descents into the Mariana Trench, specifically the Challenger Deep?”
Jonas stared at the man, red warning flags fluttering in his head. “I’m sorry?”
“Come now, professor, you made several dives there yourself. Seven years ago, to be exact, before your so-called-retirement from the navy.”
Jonas felt the blood drain from his face as a buzz of excitement took the sparse crowd.
From the front row, Maggie motioned impatiently at her watch, her eyes tossing daggers his way.
“I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but I have another engagement and—”
“I’m getting my information from the same source that told me you were dishonorably discharged from the navy following a three month stint in a mental ward. Something about post-traumatic stress brought on by the death of two civilians aboard a deep-sea navy submersible … a submersible you were piloting in the Mariana Trench.”
“You son of a bitch—that information’s classified!”
Chaos broke out as the audience yelled out questions and three photographers rushed forward to snap photos, blinding Jonas with their purple flashes as he searched for his wife, who was already making her escape back up the center aisle with his friend.
Climbing down from the stage, he attempted to chase after them, only to be cut off by students calling out questions and Mike Turzman demanding answers. He was forced to sign three books as he apologized for having to run, then managed to squeeze his way up the aisle before the Asian beauty intercepted him at the auditorium doors.
“We need to talk.”
“Call my literary agent, Ken Atchity. He’s in the book.”
Pushing past her, he exited through the lobby to the street, banging his knee as he jumped in the back seat of an awaiting limousine.
Maggie
THE LIMOUSINE RACED along the Coronado peninsula.
Jonas sat across the aisle from his wife, his back to the driver. Maggie was seated next to Bud Harris, who was concluding a business transaction on his cell phone. He watched as his former roommate at Penn State University absentmindedly fi
ngered his ponytail like a schoolgirl before glancing at Maggie.
Maggie Taylor looked very much at home on the wide leather seat, one tan slender leg slipping out from the side slit in her dress, a glass of champagne balanced in her fingertips.
Jonas allowed his mind to wander, imagining her in a bikini, tanning herself on his millionaire friend’s yacht. “You used to be afraid of the sun.”
“What?”
“Your tan. You used to say you were afraid of skin cancer.”
She stared at him. “I never said that. Besides, it looks good on camera.”
“What about your sister’s melanoma—”
“Don’t start with me, Jonas. I’m not in the mood. This is probably the biggest night of my career, and I had to practically drag you out of that lecture hall. You’ve known about this dinner for a month, and look at you—why the hell are you wearing that piece-of-shit suit? I should have tossed that in the Goodwill bin years ago.”
“Hey, lighten up. This was my biggest book signing event, and you came prancing down the aisle like Madonna—”
“Whoa, guys, time-out.” Bud powered off his cell phone. “Everybody take a deep breath and let’s all just calm down. Maggie, this was a big night for Jonas too, maybe we should have just waited in the limo.”
“A big night? Are you serious? Bud, you know how long I’ve waited for this opportunity, how hard I had to work while I watched my husband flush his career down the toilet? Do you know how many times we’ve had to refinance the house, live off credit cards, all because Professor Taylor here insisted on studying dead sharks for a living? Now it’s my turn, and if he doesn’t want to be here, that’s fine by me. Let him wait in the limo. You can be my escort tonight—at least you’re dressed for it.”
“Oh, no, keep me out of this,” Bud said, reaching for his drink.
Maggie frowned and looked out the window, the tension hanging in the air.
After a few long minutes, Bud broke the silence. “Hey, uh, I spoke with Henderson. He thinks you’re a shoo-in for the award. This really could be the turning point in your career, Maggie, assuming you win.”
Maggie turned to face him, managing to avoid looking at her husband. “I’ll win,” she said defiantly. “I know I’ll win. Now pour me another drink.”
Bud obediently filled Maggie’s glass, then offered the bottle to Jonas.
Jonas shook his head and sat back in his seat, staring absently out the window at the passing scenery, wondering who the blonde stranger was seated across from him.
*
Jonas Taylor had met Maggie Cobbs eleven years earlier in Massachusetts during his deep-sea pilot training at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. Maggie had been in her senior year at Boston University, majoring in journalism. The petite blonde had at one time vigorously pursued a modeling career, but lacked the required height. Upon entering college, she had reset her sights on making it as a broadcast journalist.
Maggie had read about Jonas Taylor and his adventures aboard the Alvin submersible. She knew the former college football star was a celebrity in his own right and found him physically attractive. Under the guise of doing an article for the university press, she approached the naval commander for an exclusive interview.
Jonas Taylor was amazed that anyone like Maggie Cobbs would be interested in deep-sea diving. His naval career had left him little time for a social life, and when the beautiful blonde showed signs of flirting, Jonas asked her out on a date. The following week he invited Maggie to the Galapagos Islands during her last spring break. She accompanied him on one of his dives in the Alvin submersible, after which things got hot and heavy.
Maggie was impressed by the influence Jonas wielded among his navy peers, and loved the excitement and adventure associated with ocean exploration. Ten months later they married. The couple moved to San Diego, where Jonas began training for a top-secret naval mission in the western Pacific.
For the small-town girl from New Jersey, California proved to be the land of opportunity. With Jonas’s help, Maggie was hired as a correspondent at an ABC flagship station. Within three years she branched out into investigative journalism.
And then disaster struck.
Jonas had been training to pilot one of the navy’s deep-sea submersibles into the Mariana Trench. On his fourth dive in thirty-five thousand feet of water, the veteran pilot had panicked, surfacing the sub too quickly. Pipes had burst, causing pressurization problems that led to the deaths of the two scientists on-board. Jonas had survived—barely—only to learn his commanding officer blamed him for the incident. The official report called it “aberrations of the deep,” and the incident ended Jonas’s career in the navy. Worse, it permanently scarred his psyche.
Three months in a mental hospital were followed by a dishonorable discharge and a severe bout of depression. A year of private psychiatric sessions eventually helped refocus the goal-oriented former naval officer, who decided to pursue advanced degrees in paleobiology. Jonas would earn his doctorate degree, eventually writing a book on the subject of extinction among deep-water species.
Without Jonas’s naval income, Maggie’s lifestyle quickly changed. The San Diego position turned out to be a dead-end job, and her life was suddenly thrust into that of the mundane.
Then, by chance, Jonas ran into Bud Harris, his former roommate at Penn State University. Harris had recently inherited his father’s shipping business in San Diego. He and Jonas took in a few football games, but the paleobiologist was constantly doing research, leaving Maggie to entertain her husband’s new best friend.
Bud used his father’s connections to get Maggie part-time work as a writer for the San Diego Register. In turn, Maggie convinced her editor that Bud’s shipping business would make an interesting article for the Sunday magazine. It was the excuse she needed to follow the bachelor millionaire around the harbor, with trips to his facilities in Long Beach, San Francisco, and Honolulu. She interviewed him on his yacht, sat in on-board meetings, took a ride on his hovercraft, and spent many an afternoon learning how to sail.
The article she wrote became the Register’s cover story and was syndicated across North America. Bud Harris’s charter business boomed. Not one to forget a favor, Bud helped Maggie secure a weekend anchor spot with a San Diego television station, doing two-minute fillers for the ten o’clock news. It wasn’t long before she was promoted, producing weekly features on California and the West Coast.
While Jonas Taylor floundered as an author, Maggie Taylor was becoming a local celebrity.
*
Bud climbed out of the limo, extending a hand to Maggie. “Maybe I ought to get an award. Whaddya think? Executive producer?”
“Not on your life,” she replied, handing her glass to the chauffeur. The alcohol had settled her down a bit. She smiled at Bud as they ascended the stairs of the Hotel del Coronado, Jonas lagging behind. “If they start giving you awards, there won’t be any left for me.”
They passed through the main entrance beneath a gold banner announcing “The 15th Annual San Diego MEDIA Awards.” Three enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted wooden ceiling of the Crown Ballroom. A band played softly in the corner while well-heeled guests picked at hors d’oeuvres and sipped drinks, wandering among tables draped with white-and-gold tablecloths.
Jonas suddenly felt underdressed. Maggie had told him about the gala a month ago but had never mentioned it was a black tie event.
He recognized a few television people in the crowd, provincial stars from the local news. Harold Ray, the fifty-four-year-old co-anchor of Channel 9 Action News at Ten smiled broadly as he said hello to Maggie. Ray had helped secure network funding for Maggie’s special about the effects of offshore oil drilling on whale migrations along the California coast, and now the piece was one of three competing for top honors in the “Environmental Issues Documentary” category.
“You just may take home the Eagle tonight, Maggs, Ray said, his eyes wandering over her tantalizing clea
vage.
“What makes you so sure?” she cooed back.
“For one thing, I’m married to one of the judges.” Harold winked, then turned to Bud. “And this must be Jonas. Harold Ray—”
“Bud Harris, friend of the family,” Bud replied, shaking his hand.
“Bud’s my … executive producer,” Maggie said, smiling. She glanced at Jonas. “This is Jonas.”
“Sorry, big guy, honest mistake. Say, didn’t we do a piece on you a couple years ago? Something about dinosaur bones in the Salton Sea?”
“You may have. There were a lot of news people out there. It was an unusual find—”
“Excuse me, Jonas,” Maggie interrupted, “I’m just dying for a drink. Would you mind?”
Bud pointed a finger in the air. “Gin and tonic for me, J.T.”
Jonas looked at Harold Ray.
“Nothing for me, Doc, I’m a presenter tonight. One more drink and I’ll start making the news instead of reporting it.”
Jonas forced a polite smile, then made his escape to the bar. The air was humid in the windowless ballroom, and Jonas’s wool jacket felt prickly and hot. He asked for a beer, a glass of champagne, and a gin and tonic. The bartender pulled a bottle of Carta Blanca out of the ice. Jonas cooled his forehead with it and took a long draft.
He looked back at Maggie, who was still laughing with Bud and Harold.
“Another beer, sir?”
Jonas looked at his bottle, suddenly realizing he had emptied it. “Give me one of those,” he said, pointing at the gin.
“Me too,” a voice said behind him. “With a lime.”
Jonas turned. It was the balding man from the book signing and lecture.
He looked at Jonas, peering over his wire-rimmed bifocals with the same tight grin on his face. “Funny coincidence, meeting you here.”
Jonas regarded him suspiciously. “Did you follow me?”