KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back.

by Max Hawthorne

  The whale, wearying of the stalemate, began to tear away at the squid with undisguised fury. Shaking the smaller predator from side to side as a terrier would a rat, the bull flung his cottage-sized head back and forth, trying to free himself of the clinging arms. The squid’s toothy tentacles began to tear loose one by one, leaving trails of blood in their wake. The whale could sense his victory.

  Out of nowhere, he felt a pressure wave. Disbelief flooded his immense brain. There was another predator down there with him, as huge and formidable as he. Focused on his food, the bull had neglected to scan the surrounding depths before attacking. Whatever else was down there in the darkness was closing in on him at incredible speed. And it wasn’t another whale.

  The sperm whale heaved back and forth, desperately struggling to free himself from the remaining tentacles that prevented him from defending himself. At the last possible moment, the cetacean’s titanic strength came through and he flung the injured mollusk away into the darkness. Twisting in the pitch-black depths, the whale turned in the direction of his attacker, jaws open and ready to fight.

  It was too late. The intruder slammed into the whale’s flank with the speed and power of a locomotive. Toothy jaws sliced through thick layers of blubber and tore deep into the rock-hard muscles underneath. So powerful was the impact, the ninety-ton bull was pushed sideways a hundred feet from the force of the blow. His roar of pain echoed through the water, accompanied by most of his air supply.

  Furiously snapping his jaws, the bull circled warily back, scanning his mysterious opponent with a barrage of sonar clicks. The intruder was something the whale had never encountered before – a monstrous crocodile with flippers instead of feet.

  Short of oxygen, the wounded cachalot pointed his nose up and raced for the surface. His flukes flailing, he vanished into the darkness, streaming blood. Behind him, the whale heard the unmistakable sounds of feeding, as his attacker devoured the injured squid.

  EIGHT

  Cruising along at twenty knots, the thirty-six foot Bertram Sayonara made its way steadily offshore.

  As he manned the wheel, Captain Phil Starling couldn’t help but smile. Despite all the hardships he endured, he was having the time of his life. It was a very good day for him, and he’d learned to appreciate the good days now more than ever. The weather was beautiful, the seas were calm, and the nausea and discomfort he experienced after receiving his chemo was unusually mild. On top of that, he was out at sea and in command of his own ship, on a quest to land a fish the size of a minivan.

  Phil tossed a quick glance at his enthusiastic first mate and smiled again. Young Stevie was a godsend, perpetually by his side, always attentive, and eager to help. The kid never ran out of energy or vigor, and never, ever complained. Even now, he was busy scanning the radar and horizon, alert for floating debris that might pose a danger to the old boat’s hull.

  “So, Stevie boy,” Phil said, clapping the well-tanned teenager on the back. “Are you fired up to take a shot at a grander tuna?”

  “You know it, Uncle Phil.” His exuberant mate smiled back at him from behind his sunglasses. “But, we’ve caught bluefin before.”

  “True, but not like this,” Phil shouted over the sounds of the engines. He changed course slightly as he followed his GPS. “These are mature adults, my boy. The big dogs! Not the hundred pound juveniles we were pulling in a month ago. No, sir!” Phil chuckled as he turned toward his nephew. “The smallest fish we’ll hook today, Stevie – if we’re lucky – will weigh six hundred pounds. And they get over twice that size!”

  “Sounds good to me. I know we can handle whatever comes our way.”

  “You’re a good kid,” the old man affirmed. “And I hope you’re right about that. I’m not as young and fit as I used to be.”

  “That’s why you brought me along.” Steve took a half-step back and gritted his teeth, clenching his fists and flexing his muscles as he attempted to strike a “most muscular” bodybuilding pose. “And any tuna that messes with you is going to have to answer to me first!”

  Phil laughed amusedly. He turned back just in time to spot a vessel about to collide with them.

  “Son of a . . .” Cursing, he threw it into neutral in a desperate attempt to slow their forward momentum. The sudden inertia tossed them both into the nearest bulkhead with bone-jarring force.

  Just then, a roaring black and yellow Jet-Ski with a single rider leapt across their path. At forty miles an hour, it narrowly missed a deadly collision with the Sayonara’s pearl-white bow.

  “Goddamn stupid son of a bitch!” Phil raged. Staggering to his feet, he leapt toward the port side and reached for his binoculars. “Just wait until I find out who the hell . . .”

  Phil peered through his electronic range finders, focusing on the Jet Ski and its rider. His eyes narrowed into slits behind the device’s rubbery eyecups as he recognized the culprit.

  “Who is it, Uncle Phil?” his nephew growled through clenched teeth. He wiped away a trickle of blood that ran from his nose.

  “Brad Harcourt,” Phil said. He lowered his binoculars, a disgusted look on his face.

  “The little prick who’s dad owns the marina? We should call this in!” Steve grabbed at the vessel’s radio.

  “No point, it won’t do any good.” Phil said solemnly. He watched as the Jet Ski loitered nearby. He reached down and pushed the throttle lever back to the forward position. “C’mon, let’s get back on course.”

  Picking up speed, the big Bertram climbed back on plane, motoring toward the fishing grounds. As Phil looked back, his face darkened. It looked like Brad Harcourt was preparing to follow them.

  Sure enough, the high speed craft began cruising up behind them, just off the starboard side. With his hair pressed down and a smile on his face, Brad ran parallel to them, matching their speed. Then, he pulled a ninety degree turn to port, running directly at the churning wall of water created by their passing.

  Accelerating to full speed, Brad bounced his craft off and over the oncoming wake, rising ten feet into the air before crashing back down with a splash. With the Jet Ski spitting water, he sped noisily away from the Sayonara, only to return from the opposite direction. He aimed his prow once again at the larger vessel’s wake, his speed increasing rapidly.

  “He’s wake-jumping us, that little bastard!” Phil shouted over the engines. Behind them, Brad repeated his previous maneuver, flying into the air only fifty feet back this time. “He’s gonna get himself killed, damn him!”

  Phil threw the Sayonara into neutral once more. Shaking his head, he went below. Behind him, his nephew stood like a statue, his lean arms folded across his chest as he glared at the black and yellow watercraft’s owner.

  From below decks, Phil peered through a salt-stained porthole. A hundred feet away, Brad sat quietly on his craft, waiting for the Sayonara to get under way again so he could continue the game. The seconds ticked by. Apparently irritated with the delay, the teenager revved his engine several times in an effort to communicate his growing impatience. Phil grabbed what he needed and headed back above. He heard Stevie start to say something.

  “Uncle Phil, what should we–”

  Stevie stopped talking. He glanced apprehensively down at his uncle’s left hand.

  Phil adjusted his grip on the shotgun. “I’ll tell you what we should do,” he said. He kept the formidable weapon held low and hidden from view. “What we should do is chase that cocky little son of a bitch down and blow his little water toy out from under him with ol’ Charlotte, here.” He patted the gun affectionately. “Then, we should haul his waterlogged ass back into port to turn him over to Jake Braddock.”

  “We should?” his nephew said. There was astonishment on his face.

  “Yeah, we should.” Phil smirked. “But then his daddy would undoubtedly end up owning this old girl here.” He tapped the boat’s teak flooring with his foot. “And you and I would probably end up in jail, instead of that little bastard out there.”
He gestured at the distant Jet Ski, which was starting to creep closer.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Steve said. He stared nervously at the gun.

  “I’ll show you.” Phil answered with a grin. “Hey, Harcourt!” He shouted loudly, his voice traveling across the water. “I think we’re going to anchor up and start fishing right here, so you might as well go seek your entertainment elsewhere!”

  “That’s bullshit!” Brad’s response echoed back at them. “I know for a fact that none of you charter yahoos do any of your fishing around here, so you might as well get back on course.” Smiling ear to ear, their nemesis waited a moment before adding, “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to end up in your props!”

  “If only he would . . .” Phil said to himself. “Hey Brad, maybe you’re right! I hear it is pretty hard to draw fish around here.” He hefted his weapon into view as he continued. “Maybe I should try a technique we used around Montauk in the old days, to draw prowling sharks in. They’re attracted to the noise, you know.”

  Raising the heavy Mossberg to his shoulder, Phil pumped a shell into its chamber and fired a thunderous round high into the air.

  Visibly recoiling in his seat, Brad Harcourt screamed back. “Are you out of your fucking mind, old man? You scared the shit out of me!”

  Ignoring Brad, Phil moved around the Sayonara’s white fighting chair to the rear of the boat, the smoking weapon resting on his shoulder. “Gee, it looks like that didn’t do it,” he said, shielding his eyes with his free hand and making a deliberate show of scanning the surface of the water. “I guess the fish in these parts need to actually feel the sound waves in order for them to get the point.”

  “What the hell are you–”

  Brad didn’t get to finish his sentence before Phil chambered another round and swung the scattergun smoothly to his shoulder. He fired it again, this time directly into the water less than twenty feet from where Brad was sitting. Like a cherry bomb, the heavy deer slug sent a miniature geyser of water splashing eight feet high and foam spraying in every direction.

  “Jesus Christ, you crazy old bastard!” Brad shrieked at the top of his lungs. “You could have killed me! My dad’s gonna have your head!”

  Chambering yet another round, Phil moved forward until his thighs were pressed tightly against the Sayonara’s transom. “Hmm, maybe my aim was off,” he mused, his gray eyes narrowing portals of granite. “Third time’s a charm?” Raising the shotgun to his shoulder one more time, Phil swung it around in the Jet-Ski’s direction.

  Brad Harcourt shrieked, ducked his head and threw his craft into high gear. Turning around, he cursed, flipped them the bird, and took off.

  “Holy shit,” Steve said as the watercraft and its rider faded into the distance. “For a second there, I actually thought you were going to shoot him.”

  “Nah.” Phil grinned. “I was bluffing from the beginning. I only had two shells on board.” He winked and laughed aloud at the surprised expression on Stevie’s face. “C’mon kiddo, let’s get moving. We’ve got a tide to catch, and hopefully, a bluefin or two. By the way, how are those butterfish holding up?”

  The teenager moved over to the big boat’s rear bait box, raising its fiberglass lid as he peered inside. The school of ten-inch long silvery baitfish swirled around nervously. “They’re all looking good,” Steve said, standing beside his captain.

  The old man brought the twin diesels back to life. “You know Stevie-boy, if you ask me; best bait in the world for giant tuna is live butterfish. They love em.” He turned and gave his nephew a smirk as they quickly picked up speed. “One thing I’ve learned, when you’re fishing for big meat-eaters kiddo, you’ve got to give ‘em something they like to sink their teeth into!”

  Accelerating to top speed to make up for the unwanted interruption, the Sayonara’s captain guided them on their way.

  Twenty miles to the south, and a half mile from the underwater chasm known as Ophion’s Deep, the Harbinger lowered her anchors. Under Amara’s command, the twenty-four person crew of the seven hundred and forty ton vessel operated as a well-oiled machine.

  Standing within the ship’s museum-like bridge, Amara spoke smoothly into a handheld microphone. “Come in, Joe.” She paused as she felt the vintage steel vessel shudder slightly under her. “How’re the anchors holding?”

  There was a static-laden delay before Joe Calabrese responded. “They’re in there good, boss. No problems here. You can prep the mini-sub for launch whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.” Amara turned to the two crewmembers standing behind her. Red-haired Lane Brodsky and his balding colleague Mike Helm were both on loan from the University of Miami’s Marine Biology Department, and were trading their time and labor for room and board, as well as some invaluable thesis material. The two of them were already shaping up to be topnotch assistants, and Amara knew that either of them could pilot the Harbinger’s sixteen-foot scout craft as well as she could. “Lane, I want you and Mike to get the Sycophant launched ASAP. I want you guys out circling the area. Give me a perimeter of a thousand yards to start, and I want sighting reports every five minutes.”

  “You got it, boss,” Lane said.

  As they turned to go, Amara added, “Oh, and bring the video equipment, guys. Just in case there’s any action going on. Surface footage may not be as exciting as the William’s underwater cameras, but it will still get you guys into the pages of National Geographic.”

  Grinning at their enthusiastic smiles, Amara walked over to her waiting first mate. Still bent over his charts punching fuel figures into a nearby calculator, Willie had been fussing over the preparations for the William’s initial launch all night. Amara smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Okay, big guy. Let’s go down to the observation room and see what’s going on before we send our baby off on her maiden voyage.”

  “Straight away,” Willie said.

  Originally an enormous storage room, the rectangular forty foot-long space had been converted into a high tech tracking and surveillance station that would have made the CIA proud. A score of LCD screens lined the walls and desks of the assorted stations, some with screens five feet wide. A dozen techs were busy manning their computers, photographing specimens, monitoring sonar and radar, tracking weather, and editing video footage. Scrutinizing the scene, Amara could see the place was a beehive of scientific documentation, a floating film studio with one purpose in mind: to record nature’s most intimate wonders as they happened, and then share those finds with the world. It was what she lived for, and she loved it.

  “Willie, do me a favor, get on the sonar, please?”

  “Aye, boss.”

  Amara moved purposely to a nearby station, where Adam Spencer sat observing a monitor screen directly in front of him. “Well? Do we have anything yet?”

  “We sure do,” Adam replied, turning in his seat and peering over his thick lenses at her. “All six of our main hull cameras are active and fully functional.” There was a clacking sound as he rolled laterally in his chair, pointing to several nearby monitors with a pencil for emphasis. “Our port viewers are focused on nothing right now, since the action is toward the starboard. I’ve set them for motion sensing with alternate-frame auto-record, in case they pick up anything.”

  Amara nodded her approval.

  Adam turned toward the viewer directly in front of him. “The real action is being picked up by cameras two and three right now.” He tapped the nearest screen with his pencil’s eraser. “I’ve got a pod of fourteen female sperms with a half-dozen calves frolicking some three hundred yards to starboard. From the looks of it, I’d say the pod is one of our regulars for this time of year. Looks like L-22 and her group.”

  Studying the monitor, Amara watched the whales with fascination. Though the video feed was poor, she could still make out the streamlined shapes of the forty-foot females as they gently corralled their young. They undulated through the water, some moving slower than others as they suckled their calves
.

  “Can you do anything about the picture quality?” Amara was tempted to reach over and adjust the monitor’s settings herself. However, considering Adam’s temperament when it came to people messing with his equipment, she thought better of it.

  “Sorry, boss. At three hundred yards out, even at maximum zoom, this is the best we’re going to get. It’s a matter of water clarity. We can try and move closer if you’d like, but then we risk spooking the pod.”

  “No, you’re right,” Amara said. “This is fine. We’ll get some top-water footage from the Sycophant, once the action starts. If it looks like the females won’t mind, we’ll bring the William in right on top of them and get some never before seen shots.”

  Adam remained focused on his monitor, periodically making adjustments and glancing over at several other video screens before returning to the main one right in front of him.

  Amara looked over at Willie, busy as always, watching his desk-mounted sonar screen and listening intently into a pair of oversized headphones. She reached over and touched him gently on the elbow. “Anything?”

  Willie removed one earpiece and inclined his head in her direction. “Not a damn ting, woman,” he replied. “I’m not pickin up any sign of even one of ya pods of killer whales. Dey must be many miles from here, if da hydrophone can’t pick dem up.”

  “I kind of hope you’re right,” Amara said. She breathed in deep through her nostrils and exhaled slowly through her teeth. As much as her partners at the Worldwide Cetacean Society wanted this study on Orca/Sperm whale “interaction,” she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of having to sit there and wait for a marauding gang of transients to come in and rip one of her whales to pieces while she watched. Illuminated with a green glow on the black screen, the pod of sperms showed up as a single, convoluted sonar image, with the pod’s depth readings ranging from the surface down to two or three hundred feet.

  Willie studied her sorrowful expression. “Aye girl. For all ya know, dem killer whales ain’t even in dis part of da world right now. Maybe dey won’t even show up.”