by Steve Alten
Flash. The first raft reached the Kiku. Fifteen men scrambled up a cargo net draped along her starboard side. A swell slammed against the ship, lifting the research vessel before dropping it thirty feet.
Flash. The force of the wave tossed some of Danielson’s crew back into the sea. Like insects they scrambled to reach the net, climbing once again.
Jonas aimed the spotlight into the swell, locating a seaman.
It was Dennis Heller.
Frank saw his younger brother struggling to stay afloat less than fifteen feet from the Kiku’s cargo net. He tossed a ring buoy as the second raft closed in from behind.
Dennis grabbed at the life preserver and held on as his brother pulled him toward the Kiku. The survivors in the second raft were already scaling the cargo net, the last group now within ten feet of the ship.
Dennis reached the net and began climbing. He was halfway up when his shipmates from the third raft joined him.
Frank Heller held on to the starboard rail, one hand holding the metal pipe, the other extending toward his brother, now only two body-lengths away. “Denny, give me your hand!” They touched momentarily—just as another swell washed over the starboard rail, battering the ship.
Heller panicked; Denny was gone. He searched the dark sea, littered with flailing seamen.
Flash—
The albino creature’s head rose out of the swell, grasping Dennis Heller in its jaws.
“No, no!” Frank screeched at the monster, its massive throat wobbling as it chomped down upon his brother’s gushing remains.
Another swell rolled over the albino devil, and it was gone.
Having witnessed the scene, Danielson and the other men still holding onto the net climbed with reckless abandon.
The Meg reappeared, the bloody remains of Dennis Heller still shredded within its front row of teeth as it rose with the next thirty foot swell which washed over the cargo net, delivering the shark to the bounty of human morsels floundering along the side of the Kiku.
The wave lifted Danielson away from the net. He kicked and strained to reach the starboard rail—screaming as he turned to see the Megalodon’s open mouth right behind him—
The searchlight ignited over his head, Mac directing the intense beam of light at the shark’s left eye, scorching the organ’s sensitive ocular tissue like a laser.
The monster reeled sideways into the sea, its assault on Richard Danielson and the Nautilus’s survivors terminated.
The captain and his men climbed over the rail and collapsed onto the teetering deck where they were met by the Kiku’s crew and led inside the ship’s infrastructure.
Frank Heller remained on his knees by the starboard rail, his eyes tightly clenched, his frail body trembling.
Jonas reached for him, only to have the physician push him away.
Dragging himself off the deck, the physician cried out into the night, his words deadened by the wind. “You’re dead, monster, you hear me? You … are … dead!”
Lost & Found
THE MEG DISAPPEARED. No telltale whale carcasses, no sightings by chopper … nothing. Many speculated the creature had gone deep … never to return.
Nine members of the Nautilus’s crew were missing, along with fourteen sailors from the Japanese whaler. A ceremony honoring the dead had taken place at Pearl Harbor. Two days later, Captain Richard Danielson re-retired from the navy.
Commander Bryce McGovern was in the hot seat. Who had authorized the United States Navy to hunt the Megalodon? Why had McGovern selected the Nautilus to complete the mission, knowing the decommissioned submarine was far from battle-ready? The families of the deceased were outraged, an internal investigation ordered. Many believed Commander McGovern would be the next naval officer to be “retired.”
Frank Heller was a raging bull; his hatred for the Megalodon all-consuming. He informed Masao he was through, stating that he had his own plans for the “white devil.” After the ceremony in Oahu, he flew home to San Francisco, and no one had heard from him since.
Days turned into a week; the weeks into a month. Leaving Hawaiian waters, the Kiku continued its trek east toward California, not so much because Jonas believed the Megalodon would be enticed by the thousands of whales migrating along the coast—he simply wanted to end the voyage and go home.
Maggie rode the wave of high ratings for about a week. But as the empty days mounted and the futility of their mission became apparent her producers back in San Diego cut back her broadcasts from once a day to once a week before they finally terminated the project.
Jonas learned she was leaving when he found her waiting by the helipad with her cameraman, her suitcase packed.
“So, this is it, huh?”
She nodded. “We live and die with each new news cycle.”
“I meant our marriage.”
“I already filed for divorce; Bud’s attorneys are handling it. You can have the house, we’re upside-down on the mortgage. Bud already moved my stuff out.”
“He’s an efficient guy.”
“Don’t be bitter, Jonas. We had a nice run. Thankfully, there are no rug-rats to complicate our lives.”
“That’s because you never wanted any.” He looked to the east as the chopper approached. “What about Bud? Does he want kids?”
“Bud wants me.” She noticed Terry watching from the bridge. “She likes you.”
“Who? Terry?”
“Don’t act so innocent. I saw the two of you playing darts the other day. You were smiling. That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in seven years.”
The thunder of the approaching chopper grew louder.
Maggie stood. Reaching up to Jonas, she kissed him hard on the lips, leaving behind a trace of Vaseline. “Bye.”
He watched her board the helicopter with the cameraman and then she was gone.
When he turned, Terry was by his side. “Will you miss her?”
“We’ve both moved on.” He looked around, realizing the Kiku’s chopper wasn’t there. “Where’s Mac?”
“He flew my father to the institute to meet with JAMSTEC. The opening ceremony is in two days and there’s still a lot to be done.”
“He left you behind?”
“I told him we were involved in a serious dart tournament.” She slipped her hand in his. “I think it’s time we upped the stakes.”
*
Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California
The crowd was sparse, numbering less than a hundred—no doubt reflecting the long odds of the public ever seeing the Megalodon captured. Having committed another seven million dollars of JAMSTEC money to finish the lagoon, Dr. Tsukamoto and Dr. Simidu now feared that they had made a mistake that would probably cost them their jobs.
Both men kept smiles on their faces as the ceremony began.
Masao Tanaka stood by a podium set up in the southern end of the arena. “Dear friends, thank you for coming. You see before you the culmination of a dream. Whether the D.J. Tanaka lagoon one day harbors a prehistoric shark or Gray whales seeking a habitat to birth their young, this facility honors my son, D.J. Tanaka, who dedicated his life to the advancement of the marine sciences.”
Masao removed a small gold hammer hanging from a ribbon around his neck and struck a ceremonial gong standing on the podium.
With a thunderous clap, the towering eighty-foot-high steel doors located at the end of the canal were opened, venting the lagoon to the Pacific Ocean.
Within minutes the empty tank had become a glorious blue lake. For several minutes the host and his guests simply stared at the ebbing and flowing waters, and then the press turned on Masao, engaging in a media version of a feeding frenzy.
“Mr. Tanaka, it’s been a month since the Megalodon was last seen. Many experts believe the creature has returned to deep water. What are the Institute’s plans?”
“As long as we’re funded, we’ll continue the search.”
“A lot of people have died, including your own son.
If you could turn back time, what would you have done differently?”
“You cannot control karma, it is either good or bad. Our mission in the trench was honorable, our karma bad. Perhaps it will change, I don’t know.”
As the barrage of questions continued, one news reporter turned to face his cameraman. “And so the Tanaka Lagoon opens. The real question now—where is its 60,000-pound guest of honor? In Monterey, Joel Van Egbert, CNN Headline News.”
*
Turtle Bay, Bahia Tortugas
Baja, California
The coastal outpost of Bahia Tortugas and the cove known as Turtle Bay lie just south of Punta Eugenia, the elbow in the middle of Baja, below California’s west coast. More accessible by sea than land, Bahia Tortugas is one of the few places for hundreds of miles where diesel fuel and gasoline can be purchased, rendering this protective out-of-the-way cove a common rest stop for boaters traveling up and down the Baja coast.
Jason Frost had gotten lost. Driving from Bakersfield, California to his best-friend’s wedding in Los Cabos, the forty-two-year-old book store employee had made the mistake of asking for directions in broken Spanglish from a gas station attendant in Guererro Negro. He had driven forty-five miles south, then a hundred and fifteen miles west off of the Baja Highway when he found himself on a narrow road at ten-thirty at night, utterly lost.
Exiting his jeep to pee, he could hear the ocean close by. Deciding it best to rest here for the night, Jason grabbed his sleeping bag, his cell phone, and the remains of a taco he had left from lunch and made his way on foot down to Turtle Bay.
*
Jason opened his eyes. The predawn sky was gray, the sun still an hour away. Waves lapped along the shoreline, teasing him to close his eyes again.
Then he heard the sound—a deep, bellicose groan that he knew could not be human. Climbing out of the sleeping bag, he stood on the dunes facing the ocean, his heart pounding with excitement.
They were laid out along the coastline of Turtle Bay like the black keys on a piano. He counted thirteen whales and stopped, then ran down to the shallows to inspect the dying mammals.
He could find no wounds nor reason the cetaceans would have beached themselves en masse—and yet he knew the reason … the question was how to get the most bang from his buck.
Searching for a signal on his cell phone, he found the phone number of the television studio in San Diego.
“Yes, this is Dr. Jason Frost, and I’m a … an amateur marine biologist. I need to speak with Maggie Taylor.”
*
San Diego
Maggie Taylor felt her blood pressure rising as she waited impatiently for Fred Henderson to get off his phone. Finally, she stood over her producer’s desk and snatched the receiver out of his hand. “He’ll have to call you back,” she said into the mouthpiece, and hung up.
“Maggie, what the hell do you think you’re doing? That was an important call—”
“Important my ass, you were talking to your bookie.”
“All right, you have my undivided attention. Speak.”
“The whale beaching in Baja was my story. Why’d you give it to David Lindahn?”
“First, because he speaks Spanish; second because he was already in Baja and this Frost fellow was putting the story out to other news agencies so we had to move fast.”
The station manager put his feet up on his desk. “I know you want to get back into the game … so wow me.”
“What if I got you underwater footage of the Meg, I mean the real McCoy, scary as hell.”
“I’m listening.”
“I spent all day going through Jonas’s office. Did you know these Megs used to proliferate along the California coast? Jonas has boxes filled with small fossilized teeth from a local spot he labeled an ancient Megalodon nursery.”
“And this is important why?”
“Because the female’s pregnant! Do you ever watch your own news features, Fred?”
“Get back to the underwater shots.”
“I think the Megalodon is working its way back to this ancient nursery to give birth. What if I was there, waiting for it ... in a shark tube.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Just listen to what I have to say.”
For the next ten minutes she briefed her station manager about her plan to film the Megalodon.
When she was through, Henderson leaned back in his leather chair. “You’ve got some set of balls, lady, I’ll say that for you. Okay, I’m sold. Tell me what you need.”
*
Bud was reading the paper in his Mercedes convertible when Maggie opened his door, climbed onto his lap and buried her tongue in his mouth.
“Bud, he loved it. We called the network and they agreed to back me on everything … the equipment, the crew—everything but the boat.”
“Which is why you need me.”
“No, Bud Harris. I need you because I love you … because you’re my present and future. You and I are going to be the biggest power couple in California. This story makes me a star … the next Katie Couric. And you’ll be there with me. Bud Harris, executive producer.”
Bud smiled, enjoying the con. “Okay, Maggs, just tell me what you want.”
The Canyon
SITUATED LESS THAN TWO HUNDRED yards from the open steel doors of the Tanaka Lagoon’s canal and fanning out over sixty miles of sea floor, the Monterey Bay Submarine Canyon runs deeper than the Grand Canyon, possessing channels that plunge 11,800 feet. An anomaly of nature, this unique underwater geology was created by the subduction of the North American plate. Originally located in the vicinity of Santa Barbara, the entire Monterey Bay region was pushed ninety miles northward over millions of years, carried along the San Andreas fault zone on a section of granite rock known as the Salinian Block. The canyon itself is a confluence of varying formations; steep and narrow in some places, as wide as a Himalayan valley in others. Sheer vertical walls can drop two miles to a sediment-buried sea floor that dates back to the Pleistocene. Closer to shore, twisting chasms, some as deep as 6,000 feet, reach out from the main artery of the crevice like fingers of a groping hand.
Home to kelp forests and krill, Humboldt squid, and a plethora of fish and marine mammals, the area is one of many protected sanctuaries in the area, extending as far west as the Farallon Islands.
*
The Megalodon moved through the pitch-black depths of the Monterey Bay Submarine Canyon, following the steep walls of the C-shaped crevasse. Millions of years ago, these same Pacific waters had been a favorite habitat of the creature’s ancestors—until pods of Orca had raided their nurseries and forced the adults away from both the surface and the staple of their diets … whales.
Blinded in her left eye, the pregnant female had fled the coast of Hawaii. Coming across a warm current flowing southeast along the equator, the injured Meg had ridden the river just as a Boeing 747 rides an airstream.
Crossing the Pacific, the predator’s senses detected the faint but alluring pounding of tens of thousands of beating hearts and moving muscles. Homing in on the cetacean migration, she arrived in the waters off Baja, California. Ignoring the tempting shallows where mother Grays were birthing their young, the albino monster followed the coastline to the north—her presence causing pods of Gray whales to beach.
Despite the bountiful offerings she had not fed, her internal organs undergoing changes … preparing her for labor.
Following the sea floor, she had descended into the extreme depths of the Monterey Bay Canyon.
Something seemed familiar. Perhaps it was the hydrothermal vents or the steep canyon walls, the water pressure or salinity. Territorial by nature, the sixty-foot female claimed the area as her own, an expanse of ocean awarded by her mere presence as its supreme hunter. Her senses indicated there were no other adult Megalodons in the area to challenge her rule. The territory therefore became hers to defend.
Her young grew active, demanding she feed. For three hours, the predator had been
stalking the blue whale and its calf. They were moving just below the surface, the Meg shadowing them in the darkness. The female waited to attack, refusing to venture into the daylight.
Nightfall was coming …
*
The Red Triangle
The Ana Nuevo and Farallon Islands are a series of windswept rocks situated twenty-six miles west of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge. Uninhabited by people, one marine mammal dominates its barren landscape—the northern elephant seal.
Reaching lengths of more than fifteen feet and weighing upwards of six thousand pounds, the northern elephant seal is the largest pinniped in the world and the most sexually dimorphic, with an alpha bull mating with as many as four dozen females. Winters are spent onshore at rookeries where the mammals mate, birth, and fight for dominance. Each spring and summer they return to the Farallons to laze about the rocky beaches, playing, sleeping, and molting.
The presence of these massive creatures entices another species to visit the remote island chain: Carcharodon carcharius, the Great White shark. The seals are the predator’s favorite delicacy, and the predators circle these islands en masse, their presence giving this expanse of sea the nickname The Red Triangle.
*
The super yacht, Magnate was anchored in six hundred feet of water, her freeboard reflecting golden flecks of sunlight. On her main deck, a weary crew of cameramen and technicians were forced to tolerate the God-awful stench coming from the excrement of hundreds of sea elephants and thousands of California seals and sea lions. The herds were stretched out upon the rocky landmasses, the annoying creatures incessantly barking and snorting.
Of all the documented attacks by Great Whites worldwide, more than half occurred in the Red Triangle. Jonas believed the Farallons had once been a Megalodon nursery; if true then Maggie reasoned the pregnant female might be drawn to the area, if only to feast on the succulent fat of the islands’ elephant seals.
For three days her film crew had waited patiently for the creature to show up. Underwater video cameras, audio equipment, and special underwater lights littered the ship’s deck, along with cigarette butts and candy wrappers. A community laundry line had been hung along the upper deck, dangling sweatshirts and towels.