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

by Max Hawthorne

  Impressed with her temper, Jake moved a discrete distance away, back to the Harbinger’s railing. Whistling softly to himself, he focused on the region’s assorted cloud formations.

  “Actually, dat recordin was marked already,” Willie replied. He shook his head and cast a surreptitious glance toward the swaying mini-subs. “Anyone would’ve known what it was. I knew dey was goin to look over all our stuff anyway, so I pretended to be helpin, so I could keep dem from finding some ting else.”

  “What something?” Jake interjected.

  The big Jamaican glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming, then reached inside his undershirt and pulled out a disc.

  “Dis!” he replied with a grin that showed off his strong, white teeth. “It’s my recordin of da beast’s audio profile and sonar signature. Wit out it, I doubt dey can distinguish it from any whale around here.”

  Amara’s mouth opened, but only a tiny gasp came out. She stared dazedly at Willie. “Uh . . . Good thinking.” Head lowered, she hugged him apologetically. “I’m so sorry I doubted you.” She took the CD in her hand and stared at it, nibbling on her lower lip. “We should probably toss this overboard.”

  “I was goin to,” Willie said. “But den, I figured if dis bunch of yahoos fail, den maybe we can get da boat back and use it to find dat ting ourselves.”

  “Okay, Willie,” Amara agreed. She hesitated as she handed the disc back. “Just make sure they don’t catch you with it. Karl will go berserk if he finds out.”

  Jake studied Amara through a cop’s eyes. He cleared his throat and held out a hand. “Actually, it’s probably safest if I hold onto that. I’m the last person our host would think to search.” He stashed the disc within an inside shirt pocket, before gazing contemplatively at the blue and white waves that shifted the anchored vessel beneath their feet. He turned to Amara. “Speaking of our host, what’s the story with you two? Karl doesn’t exactly strike me as your type, if you’ll forgive my prying.”

  Amara paused thoughtfully, her brow’s smooth skin creasing up. “I was a young girl who was vulnerable and easily impressed.” She shrugged her well-toned shoulders. “Karl can be quite impressive, and in case you haven’t figured it out yet, he’s definitely the adventurous type.”

  Jake nodded. “But you’re no longer with him because . . .”

  “Because he’s a thief, a gambler, and a womanizer,” Amara said. She cast a cautious glance at the battle-scarred adventurer, busy clambering over the chassis of his submersible. “And there’s also the fact that the bastard tends to win arguments with his hands.”

  “Humph. Very nice.” Another Ben Stillman, Jake thought. He waited until Amara’s eyes turned back before asking the inevitable question. “So, if he’s such an asshole, why don’t you just divorce him? Sure sounds like you’ve got grounds.”

  “Because he refuses to sign the papers, that’s why. And I don’t have the time or the inkling to see him in court.” Amara turned toward the horizon, her forearms resting on the cool metal railing as she stared wistfully at the beckoning sea. Her head drooped and she gave a long sigh. “I guess he finds it useful to be able to say he’s married to an award-winning naturalist or something.”

  “Especially one with eyes like yours.”

  Amara’s lips turned pouty and her cheeks reddened. “Very funny, Jake Braddock. You picking on me?”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve never seen that color before. Forgive me if this sounds ignorant, but how does a Japanese girl end up with eyes that look like they were carved from a glacier?”

  “Oh, it’s not so hard,” Amara smirked. “All you have to do is have a shipload of Norwegian fishermen get drunk celebrating the end of World War Two, and have them run aground on the shores of Okinawa. Next thing you know, they become infatuated with the local girls and decide to stay.” She winked at Jake, indicating herself with both hands. “A few generations later . . .”

  Jake grinned, picturing the scene in his head “So, you’re part Norwegian?”

  Amara nodded. “On both sides.”

  “That also explains the height. You’re pretty tall, for a Japanese girl.”

  Amara beamed at him. “Yeah? Well, you’ve got some nice height on you too, big guy. A cute smile too, when you use it.”

  Jake’s grin vanished as he caught sight of some of Von Freiling’s men struggling to push a large crate onto the windy aft deck. It was Stubbs and several of the others. Markov lurked in the background. An idea came to him, and he moved mechanically in their direction, leaving Amara and Willie where they were.

  “Say, Stubbs, watcha got there?” he called out good-naturedly as he walked over to the straining group. “Looks like you guys could use a hand.”

  Stubbs grunted at his colleagues to hold on and rose to his full height. At six-foot-five, with arms like tree trunks, the out-of-breath mercenary was built like a 300-pound gorilla. He hesitated, giving Jake an appraising stare as the heavily muscled lawman approached.

  “Sure thing, sheriff,” he said, his previous hostility replaced with a sweat-soaked half-smile.

  Jake gave a friendly nod and took up a position between Stubbs and Markov. He grabbed hold of the eight-foot wooden crate and heaved.

  “Wow, this thing weighs a ton,” he said, as the five of them wrestled the weighty burden toward a nearby railing. “What the hell do you guys have in here?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” Markov muttered, his demeanor as unpleasant as ever. A moment later, with the crate against the portside railing, the squat merc disappeared, returning a moment later with a pry bar. The crate’s lid was quickly removed, and after a few creaky pries and some well placed smacks, the wooden box fell apart, displaying its contents.

  Jake caught a glimpse of organs and intestines spewing blood and bodily fluids and fought down the urge to gag.

  “Ugh, what the heck is that?” He gaped at the huge carcass lying on the deck.

  “It’s fresh beef, sheriff,” Stubbs said, grinning at Jake’s discomfiture. “C’mon man, surely you’ve gone fishing before? You know how it is – the bigger the bait, the bigger the fish!”

  Jake stared down at the beheaded remains of what had to be a 1,500 pound steer. He was stunned. Von Freiling certainly came prepared. “And how do you intend to–”

  “With this,” Markov interrupted. He held up a heavy grappling hook affixed with a heavy locking pin assembly to one of the Harbinger’s four-inch-thick nylon docking ropes. As the other three mercenaries disassembled the remainder of the crate and tossed the pieces overboard, Markov hauled back and slammed the razor-sharp grapnel ferociously against the carcass’s chest cavity. Grunting loudly, he heaved back on it with all the strength of his powerful forearms, ripping away until he got two of the three curved points embedded between its ribs and was satisfied they’d stay there.

  “Maybe you’re right, Stubbs.” Jake glanced at Markov and then nodded at Von Freiling’s second-in-command. “Size does matter . . .”

  Stubbs followed his gaze and grinned. “Exactly. Alright, Diaz, you and Markov give a quick grab over here. Barker, you and our candy striper can take hold of that end.”

  “Whenever you guys are ready,” Jake remarked. He dropped down into a sumo-style crouch and dug his calloused fingers deep into the slaughtered steer’s blood-flecked flanks.

  “Okay, you fatherless sons of whores . . . on three,” Stubbs said. “Up straight, then right over the side. One, two, and heave!”

  Working as one, the five grappled the three-quarter-ton carcass up onto its bloodstained haunches and then, with a uniform roar of triumph, leveraged it up and over the Harbinger’s sturdy metal railing. Disappearing over the side of the vessel, the double side of beef spiraled down some twenty feet before crashing into the swirling sea.

  Jake peered over the gunnels, shielding his eyes and studying the carcass as it sank to a depth of thirty feet. It came to an abrupt halt there, suspended at the end of its tether in the thermocline, swayi
ng enticingly back and forth. Experienced big game fisherman that he was, the young lawman had to admit the butchered bull’s spurting remains certainly looked inviting enough.

  “Nice work, gentlemen,” Stubbs said, looking with satisfaction at the heavily breathing lot. He extended his hand to Jake. “Thanks for your help, sheriff.”

  “Anytime,” Jake replied casually, shaking his hand and wiping his blood and grime-caked palms on his trousers. “I needed the exercise.”

  “You may get some more before this trip’s over, cop.” Markov mumbled, giving Jake an evil smirk before sauntering off.

  Jake watched him go, then turned to Von Freiling’s second-in-command. “Yo, Stubbs . . .” he moved closer to the big merc, his voice and eyebrows lowered. “Am I just imagining it, or does your man Markov have some sort of problem with me?”

  “Yes, he does. And if you don’t mind some advice, you stay away from him,” Stubbs said solemnly. “Markov didn’t take kindly to you getting ready to draw on him back at the dock. He’s the kind that can’t let something like that go. Develops a rage inside – eats away at him until he can’t take it anymore. Then he just plain explodes.”

  “No problem. I’ve dealt with psychos like him before.”

  “With all due respect to your profession, sheriff, your town drunks and bullies ain’t anything like Vladimir Markov,” Stubbs advised. “Karl personally recruited him in Cambodia a few years back. He’d made quite a name for himself there. Cocaine, prostitution, political assassinations, gun running – you name it, he was doing it. You’ve seen that big bolo he carries, right?”

  Jake nodded.

  “If you look close, you’ll see seventeen notches on the back of the blade.” Stubbs kept a close watch on the nearby stairwell. “One for every man he’s cut down in hand-to-hand combat. He keeps trophies, too: fingers, noses, that kind of stuff. Word is that the bone inlays on that thing’s handle came from the skull of his first kill.”

  Jake mulled Stubbs’ advice over. Despite everything the battle-hardened merc was telling him, it was the one thing he wasn’t saying that told him to proceed with caution. As big and fierce as he was, Stubbs was afraid of Markov.

  “Sounds like a likable sort.” Jake commented. He studied the darkened doorway with calculating eyes before giving Stubbs a predatory smile. “Thanks for the info, brother. I appreciate the heads-up, but I can take care of myself.”

  Stubbs made a guttural sound deep in his chest that could have been a growl of approval. “You know, Braddock, you’re not at all what I expected,” he said, looking the big lawman up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re no donut-guzzling speed trap cop, that’s for sure. In fact, you just might fit in with us. Something for you to think about, in case you ever want a career change.”

  “You know, I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” Jake said, chuckling. He clapped the black-clad merc on the shoulder before heading back to Amara and Willie.

  As he made his way toward them, he caught sight of Harcourt and Johnson. They were standing by the portside railing, a few yards from where the ship’s baited dock rope angled down into the sea. The two were engaged in conversation. Or rather, the senator was.

  Jake noticed Johnson seemed quite interested in what the politician was saying, yet except for a few head bobs and changes in expression, he remained as silent as ever.

  “What was that all about?” Amara demanded as Jake strode over to her and Willie.

  “Just helping the guys put bait out, doc,” Jake said. He felt a sharp spasm of pain in his side and pressed one hand against his injured ribs. He took a deep breath and cursed, realizing he’d reopened his wound. Across the deck, he watched Karl Von Freiling conferring with his pilot. Jake studied the big adventurer while slowly sucking in breaths. He took his hand away. It came away damp, but the blood was pinkish instead of red. He frowned. The wound was definitely infected, but at least the ribs underneath were intact.

  “Not that,” Amara remarked. She shot a quick glance at the rope draped over her vessel’s reinforced railing. “I saw that, and it was downright disgusting. I’m talking about you getting all chummy with that scary looking guy with the missing fingertips.”

  “Just getting to know who I can, doc. You never know when networking can come in handy.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Speaking of which, I think I’ll go bond with your estranged husband,” Jake said, leaning in close and giving her an amazingly accurate impersonation of one of Von Freiling’s trademark smirks. He laughed at the look of surprise on her face, then turned and strutted off toward their host.

  Jake’s jaw muscles tightened. It was time to find out more about Amara’s mysterious spouse, and to see if he was as dangerous and unstable as she believed.

  He walked up to the merc’s colorful leader, his voice loud enough that only Von Freiling and Barnes could hear. “So, Karl . . . Are you expecting any casualties during this mission?”

  Von Freiling looked up, shooting him an unfriendly look. “Hopefully not. What’s it to you?”

  “I think it’s something you might want to consider. Maybe have a triage station ready. I’ve seen that thing up close, and I know what it’s capable of.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Von Freiling retorted. He glanced at Jake’s injured side, then gave him a condescending look. “I saw the news footage, hero. Nice shots of you getting cozy with my wife. Tell me something. You tapping that ass?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Braddock. I see the way you look at Amara. It’s obvious you’ve got a major chubby for her.” He snickered, glancing over Jake’s shoulder in the leggy cetaceanist’s direction. “That is, if you’re not slapping cock to that tight twat of hers, already.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed. He leaned in close and smiled, though there was nothing amiable about the look in his eye. “You know, Karl, all of that talk of yours about using bait to attract our sea monster reminded me of something. I met one of your Brazilian cameramen during a film shoot a few years back. I thought it was bull at the time, but he told me you used a child from one of the local villages as bait to catch that big anaconda of yours. Any truth in that?”

  Von Freiling’s omnipresent grin vanished. His raptor’s eyes swept the deck, pinpointing Dean Harcourt’s distant form before he responded.

  “Now, now, Jake,” he said, forcing a smile and stroking his mustache. “You, of all people, should know how it is when you’re riding high. There’s always someone trying to bring you down. Yes, there was an adolescent from one of the tribal villages involved in the capture of that snake. But, he was one of our hired guides, and was checking on a dead caiman we were using for bait. When the snake struck, it grabbed him by mistake.”

  Jake studied him intently. “Hmm . . . And this local guide – what happened to him?”

  Von Freiling shrugged. “We did our best, but we were far away from doctors or hospitals, and his injuries were too severe. We couldn’t save him.”

  “I see.” Jake nodded and turned to walk away. He stopped in mid-stride, mentioning over one shoulder, “Well, I hope your friends in the mini-sub you’re using as bait today fare better than your last volunteer did.”

  “You know, Braddock, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were challenging me,” Von Freiling growled. He wiped the grease off his scarred hands with a rag and tossed it to the ground. His eyes turned to sniper scopes as he looked the lawman up and down. “Any truth in that?”

  “None whatsoever,” Jake replied. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Barnes tensing up. “But in case it’s slipped your mind, just remember I’m responsible for the safety of at least two individuals onboard this ship. That being the case, I’m very interested in finding out what you’re capable of.”

  “Time will tell.”

  As he walked away, Jake could feel Von Freiling’s metallic eyes burning into his back.

  Three miles from the Harbinger, the pliosaur h
overed in the gloom. Its four flippers extended like the air brakes of a jumbo jet as it came to an abrupt stop. Its stereoscopic nostrils began to flare, feverishly pumping seawater back and forth through their scoop-shaped sensory passages as it worked to detect the source of the blood trail.

  The creature twisted its gigantic body with quick flicks of its fins, angling its head to and fro as it combined its sound-imaging with its phenomenal sense of smell. Within seconds it detected the origin of the enticing scent. The smell was coming from high up in the water column . . . near the surface . . . from a nearby ship.

  Enticed by the smell and taste, it rose up, passing a towering underwater spire along the way and tearing a path through a dense wall of kelp as it moved in the direction of the ship. When it was within a thousand yards, another stimulus began to call to the creature. It was the sound of prey bellowing in distress.

  Echoing beneath the surface at four times the air speed of sound, the plaintive cries of sperm whale cows and their young permeated the pliosaur’s tiny ear canals. It began to blink repeatedly, casting in every direction in an effort to pinpoint the location of the besieged whales, and whatever was attacking them.

  It became perplexed. It was unable to detect a rival carnivore of any kind. In fact, there were no echoes in the vicinity that indicated the presence of any large life form. There was nothing, just loose strands of kelp and detritus, wafting in the current.

  With a watery grumble, the gigantean beast continued to move forward. The stimulus was still there, waiting. Its scarred lips wrinkled back, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Its inability to sense the location of the other carnivore mattered not. It was the dominant predator.

  And any creature that challenged it for a kill would simply become one.

  Alone in the Harbinger’s observation room, Stitches monitored the vessel’s hi-tech sonar station. From the moment he sat down, he’d been dissatisfied with the machine’s settings. He painstakingly realigned the entire system, adjusting the main screen’s gain and recalibrating the sensitivity of the hydrophone. His goal was to eliminate the sonar emissions from the region’s whales, as well as background noise caused by debris caught in the heavy Florida Current. It took him thirty minutes to finally get what he wanted; now, with his work complete, he sat back and smiled.