“You want us to salvage the cable, sir?”
“No, gentlemen.” Haruto shook his head at the confused looks on their faces. “I want to see if there’s anything left on the other end of it.”
A few minutes later, the crimped connection between the two hoists was successfully rigged. Satisfied the splice would hold, Haruto surveyed the nearly clear decks. The wounded had been evacuated and much of the debris around the ruined hoist removed. Nearby, a small group of men gathered once word spread of what the captain was planning. Normally a rowdy lot, all of those present were remarkably subdued.
Only Sagato was quieter.
“All right, men. Let’s bring her in,” Haruto said.
At his order, the sweating crew of the nearby hoist turned their motor on at a reduced power setting. Their diesel engine shuddered to life and soon was pulling in yard after yard, storing it in neat rows atop its own withdrawn cable. Like pallbearers at a funeral, Haruto and all the men present lined the railings, watching and waiting with baited breath to see what, if anything, remained at the cable’s end.
“Doesn’t seem to be much there, Captain. Almost no weight at all, sir,” the winch commander said, as he looked up from his dials.
Haruto nodded. Several of the crew could be heard placing wages under their breath, betting amongst themselves whether the cable had snapped, the hook straightened out, or simply broke off. Two minutes later, their fish came bobbing to the surface. Or rather, what remained of it.
“Hold it!” Haruto exclaimed, raising one hand to signal the winch crew to stop.
“What the hell is that?” a crewman blurted out from one side. “That’s no shark!”
Haruto ignored him. “Okay, bring it up.”
Both captain and crew stepped back as the nearby hoist arm maneuvered its load up over the railing, then swung it around and deposited it on the deck with a thud. Moving closer, Haruto dropped down on one knee to examine what remained on the end of their industrial-size circle hook. As he did so, Iso Hayama appeared at his side.
“Good lord, captain,” Iso asked. “What in the world is that? And where’s the rest of it?”
His eyes wide, Haruto grimly studied the enormous silver and white mass of teeth and gills, highlighted by an amber-colored eye the size of a cantaloupe. He took in a deep breath and held it before letting it out. Then, holding his injured side tightly, he rose to his feet.
As he looked at the anticipating faces of his crew, Haruto shook his head in what he knew was an uncharacteristic display of wonder and disbelief. He paused to straighten what remained of his bedraggled uniform and waved off a barrage of questions. Iso dutifully followed him as he walked away. He stopped when he was certain their conversation could no longer be heard.
Iso could contain himself no longer. “Haruto-san, forgive me, but I must know. What was that thing?”
Haruto started to speak, but then said nothing. He turned away and walked over to the big ship’s railing, where he stopped and stared out at the endless blackness lurking just beyond the range of their searchlights. A shiver ran down his spine and he stepped hurriedly back from the rail.
“I’m ready to hear your casualty report, commander,” he said, loudly clearing his throat.
“Yes, captain. We um . . . have six wounded, two of whom are in critical condition, and one dead, sir.” He paused, shuffling papers. “You should know that, according to the ship’s physician, only one of the injured will be fit for duty before we make port, sir.”
Haruto continued to stare out at the surrounding seas. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper, handing it to Iso. “I want you to call this number. Tell the dispatcher who we are, give them our coordinates, and have them get a helicopter out here on the double. Tell them it’s a delicate matter. They will understand.”
“A helicopter? Is it for the wounded, sir?”
“No, commander,” Haruto said. “Let me make this clear: Nobody leaves the ship. We treat our wounded here.”
“Then, it’s for Mr. Sagato?”
“No. Have Mr. Sagato’s body and the remains of that thing on the deck prepped and placed in our forward freezer at once. Get a detail of men to assist you.”
“We’re putting him in the freezer with the fins, sir?”
Haruto turned and looked him in the eye. “That’s correct, commander. Do you have a problem with that? Or better yet, would you prefer that we sail into Key West and deliver his body to the U.S. Coast Guard personally, and the Oshima right along with it?”
“No sir . . . I didn’t mean that, I–”
“This ship is my responsibility, commander,” Haruto said. He paused to bend down, peeling the bloodstained picture of his first mate’s family off the deck at his feet. He glanced at it, then straightened and put it in his breast pocket. “As is the responsibility to write to Sagato’s widow, and tell her of his unfortunate passing.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” Iso bowed apologetically.
“So am I, commander.” Haruto turned back to the water one last time. He frowned and reached for his wallet, removed a business card, and handed it to Iso. “Here. I want you to punch in this ship’s transponder code and find her for me. Her name’s on the back. I want to know her exact location, and before that chopper gets here.”
“Yes, sir,” Iso said, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could.
Haruto started to walk away. “I will be in my quarters filing my report. Call me when the bird arrives.”
“Yes, sir. Um. . . sir?”
“Yes, commander?”
“What do you think caused all of this?”
Haruto turned and looked back at him, his face cast in concrete. “I have absolutely no idea, commander. But whatever it was, I feel a great amount of pity for anyone that finds themselves in its way.”
“Yes, sir.”
As his injured captain made his way below deck, Watch Commander Iso Hayama turned toward the throng of crewmen, still crowding around the bizarre mass of flesh that lay sprawled upon their deck. He drew closer and glanced down at it, then took in a deep breath and shook his head. He signaled for the nearest crewman to come close, whispering instructions in his ear. The deckhand nodded and took off running.
Iso paused for a moment, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the thick layer of perspiration from his neck and brow. Then he reached for the business card his captain had given him. He held it up to the nearest light and read aloud the name of the ship written on it.
The Harbinger,
Jake Braddock could see the ship’s name clearly as she sliced her way through the early morning swells, a half-mile from shore. From the look of things, she was headed toward Paradise Cove.
He studied her. Compared to their resident charter boats she was big, at least seventy yards long, probably seven or eight hundred tons. He lowered his binoculars, his eyes squinting as he took a second look. A frown creased his tanned features.
Jake glanced at his watch, then turned back to check the dirt road that led to the parking lot. The expensive optics hung loosely around his neck, the nylon strap irritating the skin of his nape as it seesawed back and forth. He shook his head as he started to reach for his cell phone, then changed his mind. With no other view available, he turned back to the unpleasant distraction to his left.
It was a six hundred yard wide swath of virgin sand. Shielded from hikers and joggers by warning signs and fences, the tiny beach basked in the glow of the Floridian sun. It was a government-sanctioned paradise of gently lapping waves and tall palm trees: pretty much the only completely secluded parcel of land remaining within thirty miles. It was also, undoubtedly, the reason why the mother leatherbacks flocked to it, year after year.
Jake studied up on them when he first moved back. Over eight feet in length and weighing up to a ton, the endangered sea turtles were the largest living chelonians in the world, the adults having few natural enemies. Like others of their ilk, the big rept
iles came ashore to lay their eggs. Unlike the adults, as soon as they hatched, the baby turtles faced a deadly gauntlet of adversaries. Once they managed to dig themselves out of their sandy nurseries, they faced an interminable crawl down to the sheltering surf. Along the way, they were vulnerable to an assortment of predators, all eager to pounce on defenseless turtle hatchlings.
Hovering overhead like a malevolent cloud, the high-pitched screeching of gorging birds could be heard for a quarter-mile. Jake stuck his fingers in his ears, his eyes unblinking as he watched. With deadly precision, the foul creatures repeatedly dive-bombed the helpless hatchlings. Careening down, they smashed beak-first into their targets at lethal speeds. The little leatherbacks were being butchered. Out of the one hundred or more eggs laid in each nursery, three or four might make it to sea.
Grimacing, Jake turned his head away from the slaughter, resisting the urge to grab his shotgun and take in some feathery target practice. The same thing happened every year during this time. Someone needed to inform Fish and Game that their efforts to protect the turtles’ nesting sites weren’t being particularly effective. Either that or they needed to start telling the baby leatherbacks to limit their seaward sprints until after dark.
With a final glance at his watch, Jake straightened up, stretched to relieve stiffened muscles, and walked back to his truck. He opened the dusty Tahoe’s driver’s side door, flipped the seat forward, then reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag and gun. Quickly checking the Beretta’s magazine and safety, he holstered the nine millimeter and slammed the door closed.
Jake stood there for a moment, staring tiredly out past the nearby dock. He checked his badge and spare magazines and tucked the back of his uniform shirt in before feeling for his wallet. A painful groan escaped his lips. His driver’s license might have said he was only twenty-eight, but the way his joints ached he felt eighty-eight. The wind started to kick up, and Jake took a moment to enjoy the feel of the cool sea breeze as it forced its way through his chestnut-colored hair. His face began to heat up and he shielded his eyes with his free hand, glaring back at the rising sun, bearing down against its fierce early-morning brilliance.
To a stranger passing by, the muscular, six-foot-two lawman would have appeared strong enough to have been hewn from solid rock. But he also had a worn-out look about him, as if he carried some interminable burden draped across his broad shoulders.
Exhaling heavily, Jake turned and was just shouldering his gear bag when he heard another car approaching. He frowned, recognizing the automobile through the cloud of road dust and grit that accompanied it. He turned, activating his car alarm just as his deputy pulled up.
“Hey, boss,” Chris Meyers blurted out as he nearly fell from his dilapidated Dodge. Popping the vehicle’s rusty trunk, he rushed to the rear of the car and rummaged through its litter-strewn contents. When he emerged he was wearing a salt-stained backpack and toting a beat-up cooler and a brown paper bag. His scraggly, sand-colored locks were tucked under an old baseball cap, and his unkempt uniform seemed to hang off his five-foot-ten, one hundred and fifty-pound frame.
Jake sighed. At least he remembered his sidearm this time . . .
“Wow, what’s all that racket?” Chris said, looking over at the distant cloud of screaming seabirds.
“Never mind that.” Jake gestured at the still-smoking car. “I thought you were going to get that tune-up and oil change done.”
“Sorry Jake. I meant to, I just didn’t have the time.”
“You ‘didn’t have the time’? Listen, kid, I didn’t give you that old car so you could run her into the ground. If you don’t keep up on the maintenance, she’s going to give out on you. And I don’t have another one lying around.”
“Sorry, boss. I’ll try and find the time to do it today.”
“Really?” Jake asked. He felt himself getting annoyed. “Gee, Chris. I’d have thought you had the time to get it done this morning. You know, during the forty five minutes you kept me waiting.”
“Um . . . actually, I stopped to get you coffee.” Chris grinned sheepishly. “And a ham, egg and cheese croissant.” He held out the paper bag as if it were a peace offering.
“Oh, did you now . . .” Jake smirked. Unlike the majority of their resident seagulls, he hadn’t had breakfast yet. “Ham, egg and cheese, you said?”
“Yeah, I know it’s your favorite, boss,” the youngster said, nervously holding the bag out again.
There was a moment of silence before Jake reached over and took it. He opened it and inspected the contents. He popped the lid off the coffee, took a sip and fought down a smirk. “French vanilla, eh? Not exactly my usual. But, I gotta give you credit, kid. When you kiss up, you really go all out.”
“I try.”
“All right, enough of this. Let’s get going.” Contentedly drinking his coffee, Jake started marching toward the dock, his deputy following behind. Without warning, he stopped. He turned back, handing Chris the weighty shoulder bag he was carrying. “Here. I’ll be better able to enjoy my breakfast if you carry this.”
“No problem, boss,” the teenager said with a smile. “Are there any other penances you have in mind for me before we get started?”
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Jake said, taking a bite out of what was admittedly a very tasty breakfast sandwich. The kid did make it hard to stay mad. “Just don’t get too comfortable with this whole tardiness thing, Chris,” he added through a mouthful of food. “Taking advantage of my addiction for good coffee is only going to get you so far.”
“Yes, boss,” the teenager said, following behind and struggling under the weight of his added burden. “It’s not all my fault this time, just so you know.” He grunted as he stumbled on a small stone. “It’s my girlfriend, Amber. We’ve been having some problems. And if that wasn’t enough, she kept me up all night modeling the lingerie and high-heeled shoes she made me buy her.”
“Ah, scantily-clad women in stilettos . . . Such are the burdens of youth,” Jake chuckled.
Stopping at the auxiliary dock, Jake peered out across the murky water, giving his patrol craft an appraising look. She was a sleek, twenty three-foot center console with a single outboard engine. The name Infidel was emblazoned across her hull in bold letters.
“I guess you need to lay down the law with your new girlfriend, my young lad. Either that,” Jake said, fondly running rough hands over the edge of the Pro-Line Sport’s gunnels, “or you’re going to have to go out and find yourself someone who’s a little less demanding and a lot more responsible.”
“You’re right, boss,” Chris nodded. “Maybe I should sit her down and have a good long talk with her.”
“Indeed,” Jake said. He smirked inwardly as a thought popped into his head. “Or maybe you should just tell her you’ve been late five times in the last two weeks, and if it happens again you’re going to get fired.”
“Hey, that’s a great idea! Do you think she’ll believe me?”
“Oh, definitely,” Jake said, springing agilely over the side of the boat and then reaching over to take the bags from Chris. He fixed him with the stare he used on the area’s infrequent perps. “Because it’s true.”
“What? Are you serious?” Chris’s face flushed, his hazel eyes wide with alarm as he struggled to climb aboard. “You’re going to fire me, Jake?”
Jake kept his back turned and said nothing.
“Geez,” Chris continued nervously. “I really need this job. I don’t know if I can find another one. Plus, my mom’s not working much.”
It was true, Jake thought to himself. Chris’s habitual tardiness, coupled with a string of tempestuous relationships, had gotten the poor kid fired from just about every restaurant and store in town. There probably wasn’t anyone else who would give him a job.
“Relax,” he said after a moment, waving off Chris’s discomfiture, “I’m just kidding.” He grinned, sitting back in his padded captain’s chair and took a long draught of his remain
ing coffee. “After all, where else am I going to get quality caffeine like this so early in the morning?”
“That’s right,” Chris nodded. He collapsed into the copilot’s seat next to Jake, breathing an audible sigh of relief. “You know, you really scared me for a minute.”
“Don’t sweat it kid,” Jake said, inserting his key into the throttle, powering the Infidel’s sputtering two hundred horsepower Yamaha outboard to life. “Now, let’s look this girl over good before we get started.”
“Yes, boss. So, how’s she running?”
“Seems okay,” Jake answered thoughtfully, revving up the motor’s rpm’s and checking her dials. “Outboard might need some servicing though; she gave me a few problems turning over earlier. Fortunately, I had plenty of time to play with her before you got here.”
Chris fidgeted as he turned and stowed his gear. “Say, you sure you weren’t serious about firing me?”
“Positive,” Jake said. He cast off their mooring lines as he spoke and pushed the Infidel away from the dock with a shove. “As hard as it is for me to get a vacation, do you actually think I’m going to let you run off and lie on some beach somewhere while you collect unemployment for six months? No way. Remember the galley slave scene from that old Charlton Heston movie your mom had on? We keep you alive to serve this ship. So row well, and live.” Jake laughed aloud, gunning the engine again for effect.
“Very funny,” Chris smirked as he sat back.
Jake glanced off the port side. The wind was kicking up a bit. Ahead of them, the choppy waters of the sound lay waiting.
Chris’s face suddenly brightened up. “Hey, by the way boss, did you see the pictures of that squid they had on CNN last night?”
“No. What squid?”
“They caught some sort of new species of giant squid off the coast of Cuba. Attacked some swimmers or something. It was huge!”
“Really? How big?”
“As big as this boat, I think,” Chris said. “Say boss, wouldn’t it be great to run into a monster like that while we’re out on patrol?”
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 3