by Steve Alten
Now the long hours of boredom, sun, and the occasional nausea associated with seasickness had finally gotten to the crew. And yet even these conditions would have been tolerable had it not been for the overwhelming smell that hung thick in the chilly Northern California air…a stench different than the islands’ accumulation of poop.
Trailing the yacht on a thirty-foot steel cable was the buoyant carcass of a dead humpback whale. The pungent smell seemed to hover over the Magnate as if to mark the heinous deed, for killing a whale in the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary was indeed a criminal act. No matter: with his influence and deep pockets Bud Harris had managed to arrange for two local fishermen to deliver a whale carcass to their location, no questions asked.
Now, after thirty-eight hours of the wicked stench, the Magnate’s crew were ready to mutiny.
“Maggs, listen to reason,” begged Perry Meth. “Twelve hours of shore leave, that’s all I’m asking. It could be weeks, months before this Megalodon even ventures into these waters. All of us need a break, even a fresh shower would be heaven. Just get us off this smelly barge.”
She pulled her director aside. “Stop whining, Perry! This is the story of the decade, and I’m not about to blow it because you and your cronies feel the need to get drunk in some sleazy hotel bar.”
“That’s not fair—”
“No, what’s not fair is that it’s my ass on the line. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to organize all this? The cameras? That huge shark tube? Not to mention that hunk of whale blubber floating behind us?”
“Speaking of that, whatever happened to your campaign to protect the whales? I would have sworn that was you I saw onstage accepting a Golden Eagle on behalf of the Save the Whales Foundation.”
“Grow up, Perry, I didn’t kill the damn thing, I’m just using it as bait. I mean, cut me some slack. There are ten thousand of them migrating along the coast.” She tossed her blonde hair, causing strands of it to stick to her oiled bare shoulders.
Perry lowered his voice. “The crew’s not happy, Maggie. They’re cold and tired and they feel you’re grasping at straws. Honestly, what are the chances of that Megalodon actually showing up in the Farallons? No one’s reported seeing the shark since the attack in Hawaii. And those beachings down in Baja mean nothing.”
“The Meg will show, believe me, and we’ll be the ones to get the footage.”
“In what … that hunk of plastic?” He pointed to the ten-foot-high Lexan shark tube which stood upright on the main deck, rigged to a winch. “Christ, Maggie, you’d have to be suicidal—”
“That hunk of plastic is two-inch-thick bullet-proof Plexiglas. Its diameter is too wide for the Meg to get its mouth around.” Maggie laughed. “I’ll probably be safer in there than you guys will be on the Magnate.”
“There’s a comforting thought.”
Maggie ran her fingers across her director’s sweaty chest. She knew Bud was still in bed, sleeping off another hangover. “Perry, you and I have worked very hard together on these projects. Hell, look how much good our whale documentary did for those beasts.”
He smirked. “Tell that to your dead humpback.”
“Forget that already. Think big. I thought you wanted to direct movies?”
“I do.”
“Then see this project for what it is, a door-opener into Hollywood, the story that puts us both on top. How does executive producer sound to you?”
Perry thought for a moment, then smiled. “It’s a start.”
“It’s yours. Now, can we forget about the dead whale for a moment?”
“Fine. But as your executive producer I highly recommend we do something to create a little diversion; idle time is making things worse.”
“I agree, and I’ve got an idea. I’ve been wanting to do a test run on the shark tube. What do you say we get it into the water and I’ll shoot some footage.”
“That’s not a bad idea. It will give me a chance to position the underwater lights.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll be able to get some nice footage of a Great White. That alone might be worth a few minutes on the weekend wrap-up.”
She shook her head. “See, that’s your problem—you think way too small.”
Bending over to pick up her wet suit, Maggie’s sweatshirt rolled up, rewarding Perry with a glimpse of her tan, thonged behind. “One last thing. Do me a favor and don’t mention anything to Bud about being my executive producer.” She smiled sweetly. “He gets jealous.”
*
Monterey Submarine Canyon
The Meg ascended cautiously, wary of any lingering traces of sunlight. When the surface vibrations grew stronger and the sea remained dark, the female grew excited.
It was time to feed.
The ghost-like hunter circled three hundred feet below the Blue whale and her calf, mother and offspring feeding on krill.
Detecting the danger, the eighty-three-foot-long adult nudged her young, ending the feast. Remaining in a tight formation, the two cetaceans propelled their bodies just below the surface, the moving mass of the one-hundred-and-eighty-ton Blue whale creating a current which towed its newborn faster than it could possibly swim.
But not nearly fast enough.
Closing to within two body lengths of her prey, the Megalodon targeted the adult Blue whale’s smallish pectoral fins, each feint designed to lure the cow away from its offspring.
Gnawing at the mother’s belly finally caused the whale to charge, the sudden descent spinning the calf out from the displacement current.
The Meg circled back quickly, its jaws opening to engulf the calf—
—when suddenly the albino was seized by internal cramps that sent her back and pectoral fins arching in an uncontrollable spasm.
Forced to abandon her prey, the Meg descended rapidly to the canyon floor. Her muscles quivered with contortions, forcing her to swim in tight circles. Finally, with a mighty shudder that shook her entire girth she expelled a cloud of blood from her cloaca—along with the head of a Megalodon pup.
It was a female, pure white and seven feet long, weighing nearly five hundred pounds. The pup’s teeth were sharper than its mother’s, its senses fully developed, enabling it to hunt and survive on its own. Wiggling like a tadpole, it freed itself from its mother’s oviduct, its soulless blue-gray eyes focused on the adult, instinct warning the pup of imminent danger.
With a burst of speed, it glided south along the canyon floor.
Still circling in convulsions, the female shuddered again, expelling a second pup—another female—from its womb. Slightly smaller than its sibling, the pup shot past its mother, barely avoiding a mortal, reflexive bite from the jaws of its cold, uncaring parent.
Minutes passed. With one last convulsion, the Meg birthed her third and last pup in a cloud of blood and embryonic fluid. The runt of the litter, a five-and-a-half-foot male, twisted out of its mother’s orifice and twirled toward the bottom, righted itself, then shook its head to clear its vision.
With a flick of her powerful caudal fin, the Meg pounced upon the runt from behind, snapped her jaws shut around its lower torso, severing its caudal fin and genitalia in one vicious bite.
Convulsing wildly, the dying pup writhed to the bottom, trailing a stream of blood.
Giving chase, the female inhaled the runt down its gullet, swallowing its remains.
For several minutes the Megalodon hovered near the bottom, exhausted from the efforts of labor. Opening her mouth, she allowed the canyon’s current to circulate through her gill slits, which fluttered as she breathed.
Water passed in and out of her nostril passages, feeding information to her brain. It moved along the underside of her snout, plugging her in to the faint electrical fields generated by the swimming muscles and beating hearts of her offspring and her escaping Blue whale quarry. It ran along her lateral line, stimulating her neuromast cells, allowing her to “feel” the ocean’s currents and the presence of all biologics within her domain.
&nbs
p; The female heard every sound, registered every movement, tasted every trail, and saw every sight, for Carcharodon megalodon did not just move through the sea, the sea moved through the Megalodon.
Her half-moon shaped caudal fin swung back and forth as she glided slowly over the canyon floor, her massive head rotating from side to side, her nostrils flaring as they channeled water.
The predator quickened her pace, detecting an intoxicating scent.
Needing to feed, she turned to the north—passing within thirty feet of the steel doors guarding the canal entrance that connected the Tanaka Lagoon with the Pacific Ocean.
*
Farallon Islands
They came without warning; their presence energizing the disgruntled crew. Bradley Watson, the Magnate’s captain spotted the first lead-gray dorsal fin twenty feet off the yacht’s starboard bow. Within minutes, two more fins appeared, cutting back and forth through the blood slick seeping out of the towed Humpback whale carcass.
Perry Meth found Maggie pulling on her fluorescent yellow wetsuit.
“Okay, Maggie, you wanted some action. How about a test dive with three Great White sharks?”
Maggie felt her heart race. “Sounds like fun. Is everyone ready?”
“Reach-pole cameras and their operators are in position, underwater lights are on, and the plastic tube’s all set. Your handheld camera is charged and ready to go.”
“Where’s Bud?”
“Still asleep.”
“Good. He’s been on the rag this whole trip. Now remember, when you start filming, I want it to look like I’m all alone in the water with the sharks. How much cable’s attached to my tube?”
“Two hundred feet. We’ll keep you within seventy to maintain the light.”
She pulled the wetsuit’s hood in place and zipped up. “Let’s do it. I want to be in and out of the water before Bud wakes up.”
She followed him to the main deck.
The crew had already lowered the Lexan shark cylinder over the side. The porous, clear container had been custom-made for Maggie from a design originally developed in Australia. Unlike a steel-mesh shark cage, the shark tube could not be bitten or bent, save for its buoyancy tanks, which were anchored to its top hatch. It would maintain positive buoyancy forty feet below the surface, affording its diver an unobstructed view of the underwater domain. A steel cable served as a leash, running from the top of the cylinder to a winch on-board the Magnate.
Secured to reach poles were two underwater cameras linked to monitors on deck. While Maggie was in the tube filming, the crew would be filming Maggie. If the lighting worked properly, the shark tube would remain invisible in the water, giving the terrifying appearance of seeing the diver exposed and alone in the water among the circling sharks.
Two crewmen helped her down the ladder. The Magnate had eight feet of freeboard and she climbed down carefully, balancing on the bobbing cylinder’s buoyancy tanks. Perry handed her a flipper, then the other, then climbed halfway down the ladder to hand her the thirty-seven pound underwater camera. He waited while she fixed her dive mask to her face. It was a bulky contraption that wrapped around her chin, allowing her to breathe through her nose and mouth while communicating with the ship via a speaker and headphone embedded in the mask.
“You ready?”
She nodded and took a quick glance around to confirm the location of her subjects. Satisfied she was not about to be attacked, Maggie squatted on the edge of the hatch and then lowered herself into the flooded tube.
Reaching up, she sealed the clear door.
She sank into the center of the plastic tube, adjusting her buoyancy vest so she didn’t have to tread water. Maggie had been diving for ten years, though rarely at night. The practice would do her good.
The current was moving away from the yacht. Perry instructed his team to release steel cable, the underwater cameras focusing on the tube as it sank beneath the keel and drifted away from the Magnate.
“Stu, how are your remotes functioning?”
Stuart Schwartz looked up from his dual monitors. “Both cameras are working well. We’ll keep Remote A in the stern and locked on to the bait. Remote B’s perfect to starboard. I can zoom right up on that tube. Too bad Maggie didn’t wear her thong.”
The sound woman, Stuart’s wife, Abby, slapped the Phillies baseball cap off her husband’s head. “Focus on your job, Spielberg.”
*
Maggie shivered from the potent combination of adrenaline and fifty-eight-degree water. Her world was now shades of grays and blacks, visibility poor. She could see the Magnate’s keel in the distance and wondered how she looked.
“Hello? Can you guys hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” reported Abby, her voice filtered.
Maggie looked around. Moments later, the first predator entered her arena.
It was a male, fourteen feet from snout to tail, weighing a full ton. Its head and dorsal surface were lead gray, blending perfectly with the water. It circled the plastic tube warily, and Maggie rotated to compensate.
Her eyes detected movement from below as a much larger nineteen foot female rose out of the shadows, catching the newswoman totally off guard. Forgetting she was in a protective tube, Maggie panicked, frantically kicking her fins in an effort to get away. The shark’s snout banged into the bottom of the tube just as Maggie’s head collided with the sealed hatch above. She smiled in relief and embarrassment at her own stupidity.
Stuart Schwartz was also smiling. The footage looked incredible, and scary as hell. Maggie appeared totally alone in the water with the three killers. The Magnate’s artificial lights were just bright enough to highlight Maggie’s fluorescent-yellow wetsuit. The effect was perfect. Viewers would not be able to detect the protective tube.
“Perry, this is great stuff,” he announced. “Our audience will be squirming in their seats. I gotta admit, Maggie really has a knack for the work.”
Perry stood behind Stuart, watching the monitor that was focused on the humpback carcass. One of the sharks had bitten onto the waterlogged remains and was tearing away a mouthful.
“Film everything, Stu. Maybe we’ll be able to convince her to quit before this Megalodon actually shows up.”
But Perry had a hard time believing that himself.
*
8 Miles North Of Santa Cruz
They had followed the coastline north past Big Sur, the helicopter passing dramatic cliffs and the crashing Pacific surf. Minutes later they were soaring over the Tanaka Lagoon and Monterey Bay, the lights of San Francisco appearing in the distance.
Jonas held the night binoculars with two hands, steadying them against the herky-jerky motion of the helicopter. A new thermal imager had been purchased to replace the damaged unit, but after four weeks without a Megalodon sighting, it was the last money JAMSTEC would be laying out for the expedition.
Every few miles a blotch of bright color would appear on the thermal imager’s monitor representing another pod of whales moving south along the coastline.
“Mac, I can’t recall ever seeing so many whales in one place,” said Jonas, attempting to make conversation.
Mac stared at Jonas with a burnt-out look. “We’re wasting our time. That fish of yours could be back in Baja, or a million miles from here.”
“The Coast Guard’s well deployed over Baja. If they sight the Meg or anything resembling a kill we’ll return.”
Jonas continued returned to scanning the ocean. He knew Mac was thinking about calling it quits, and would have weeks ago if it hadn’t been for their friendship. He couldn’t blame him. Money was tight and paychecks were being held. If the female had been feeding in these waters, there would’ve been traces of whale carcasses washing ashore. None had been reported, just the beachings in Baja.
Mac’s right, Jonas thought to himself. How many years of my life have I wasted chasing this monster? What do I have to show for it? A marriage that fell apart years ago, a struggle to make ends meet …
>
“More whales,” Mac said, pointing at the thermal imager’s monitor.
Jonas stared at the monitor. Was he seeing things, or were the whales changing course? “Mac, look at the pods; they’re leaving the coastline and veering sharply to the west. Maybe they’re changing course to avoid something?”
Mac shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws. I say we land in San Francisco, then hit Chinatown for some dim sum ... your treat.”
“Mac ...”
Mac looked down again at the thermal imager. If the Meg was heading north along the coast, it would be logical for the pods to avoid her.
“Okay, J.T., one last time.” The helicopter banked sharply, changing course.
*
Farallon Islands
Maggie checked her camera. She had plenty of film left but only another twenty minutes of air. The shark tube had drifted beneath the humpback carcass, allowing for a spectacular view. But Maggie knew footage of Great Whites feeding had become commonplace. She was after much more.
I’m wasting film, she thought. She turned to signal the Magnate to pull her in, then noticed something very troublesome.
The three Great Whites had all vanished.
*
Bud Harris kicked the silk sheets off his naked body and reached for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Empty.
“Dammit!” He sat up, his head pounding. It had been two days and still he couldn’t get rid of the nagging sinus headache. “It’s that damn whale,” he said aloud. “The smell’s killing me.”
Bud staggered to the bathroom, picked up the bottle of aspirin and struggled to get the childproof cap lined up correctly. “Screw it,” he yelled, tossing the bottle into the empty toilet. He looked at himself in the mirror. “You’re miserable, Bud Harris,” he said to his reflection. “You’re too rich to be miserable. Why do you let her talk you into these things? Well, enough’s enough!”
He slipped on a crushed velvet sweat suit and docksiders, then left his master suite and headed down the circular stairwell to the main deck.