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

by Max Hawthorne

  The reply transmission came through as garbled noise, completely indecipherable.

  “Fuck!”

  “Hey Karl, I think I got it!” Barnes cried out triumphantly. He held up an open case containing four polymer cylinders with shiny metal end caps.

  “That’s it!” Von Freiling said, splashing through ice-cold water. “Quick, hand them to me one by one, once I open the panel.”

  Leaning against the nearest bulkhead, the bronze-eyed adventurer worked feverishly to remove the safety locks covering the submersible’s insulated circuit panel. Throwing caution to the wind, he grabbed the three burnt fuses in his bare hands, wrenching the foot-long devices loose with soaked fingers and tossing them into the rising water. With Barnes holding onto his seat with one hand, and handing him the replacement fuses with the other, he fought to restore power to their dying vessel.

  Suddenly, the floor beneath them groaned and began to shift. The increasing pressure continued to squeeze the rapidly descending Eurypterid and shin-deep water started creeping toward the open circuit box.

  “What’s happening?” Barnes stared apprehensively at their depth reading, then at the rising water.

  “The sub’s shifting with the current,” Von Freiling said. He removed his helmet. His face and mustache were soaked with perspiration. “Hurry and give me that last one. I’ve got to seal this panel before the water gets into it. Otherwise, we’re dead!”

  Deftly handing him the last, precious fuse, Barnes breathed a sigh of relief as his boss clicked it into place and slammed the panel’s lid closed, sealing it just before the shifting pool of seawater reached it.

  “That should do it,” Von Freiling said. He fought down a shiver and waded toward his still-inverted station. “I’m gonna turn on the power and hit the exterior lights. Once we’re back online, I need you to activate the emergency pumps and adjust our ballast so we can get this water out. Once we’re dry and right side up we’ll surface and decide on our next course of action.”

  “Yeah? Well, I hope it involves getting the fuck out of here and coming back with an Apache helicopter,” Barnes remarked. He moved to Eurypterid I’s observation bubble, staring out into the blackness that surrounded them. “I’d feel much safer blowing that thing to bits with a Hellfire missile from a thousand feet up.”

  “C’mon, Barnes,” Von Freiling snickered as he flipped the mini-sub’s circuit breaker, causing the little craft’s electric systems to light up like Times Square. “It’s been how many years together, you and I? And how many adventures? Have I gotten you killed yet?”

  Barnes grinned. As he opened his mouth to reply, Eurypterid I’s twin searchlights ignited, lancing out into the gloom and lighting up the darkness for fifty yards. His eye widened in terror, and he barely had time to gasp before the pliosaur’s tooth-lined maw plowed into their submersible, crunching down with enough force to crush the entire prow, its observation window included.

  Barnes’ last thought as his world imploded into darkness was a single word.

  Yes.

  TWENTY-SIX

  After nearly thirty years of surviving combat on the killing fields of four continents, retired Marine Corps Master Sergeant Stubbs Broder was re-learning the meaning of the word terror.

  It was right behind him, its mouth gaping wide enough to inhale an ox. With its bass roar disrupting the surrounding water like a bomb blast, the pliosaur lunged ferociously forward, striving to bury its teeth in the occupants of the cigar-shaped sled that remained only a few, tantalizing yards ahead of its nose.

  Stubbs glanced back and screamed into his scuba mask. This was not turning out to be one of his brightest ideas. As the creature lunged for them once more, he slammed the sled’s controls ninety degrees sideways, sending them lurching hard to port. His extensive hours of training on the simulator once again saved both their lives; the pliosaur sailed past, its monstrous body dwarfing their craft. It was a close call, with the creature’s jaws slamming shut like a giant bear trap less than three feet from Stubbs’ exposed head.

  Frantically gunning the sled’s impeller engine back to flank, he torqued his motorized mount a hundred and eighty degrees and hurtled toward the Harbinger. She was five hundred yards away and obscured by a widening cloud of fuel and oil, but the sun silhouetting her battered hull against the surface made the listing ship easy to spot.

  Stubbs glanced down at his dials, praying the sled would get them safely home. The fourteen-foot, toboggan-like vessel he manned was little more than a hastily modified prototype – a 500 horsepower undersea rocket Von Freiling’s researchers concocted to use as one half of each Eurypterid’s drive trains.

  Though he was bereft of sonar, and in the unenviable position of sitting in the open on what his comrades called a torpedo for two, there was no doubt in Stubbs’ mind their illustrious leader was dead. He’d gaped from 150 yards out as the battle between the enraged reptile and his employer reached its climax. He watched the submersible sink from sight, spiraling down into the ocean’s extreme depths. Like a hound at hunt, the pliosaur unerringly followed it. The subsequent flash and teeth-vibrating thump said it all. Despite Eurypterid I’s hi-tech armament, the creature had breached its reinforced hull, imploding it and killing everyone on board. It was over for Von Freiling and Barnes.

  “Barker, I’m gonna make another run for the ship!” Stubbs yelled into his transmitter. He glanced back though an obscuring cloud of air bubbles at his terrified comrade.

  “Well hurry the fuck up!” Barker wailed, his eyes the size of teacups as he waited for the monster to reappear. “Why do you keep changing direction? Why don’t you just surface and go straight in?”

  “Because the thing’s too damn fast, that’s why! He’ll catch us in a straight line run before we get there.”

  “So, what the fuck are we gonna do?”

  “Hope Karl’s widow was right about that whale tranquilizer of hers. Get that overgrown spear gun she gave us ready and hold on tight. If that son of a bitch comes at us again you shoot him right in the eye!”

  As if hearing their conversation, the pliosaur materialized directly beneath them. Jaws snapping, it tried to seize the weaving sled. Stubbs accelerated to full speed, darting frantically from left to right, keeping them from death by inches.

  “Shoot it, Barker!” he bellowed. He lost his voice for a moment as the sled’s bottom was grazed by the creature’s scarred snout. “I can’t keep him off us much longer!”

  Barker braced his legs, releasing his handhold on the bucking craft, and pulled the pneumatic firearm from its sheath. His position on the rear of the sled was awkward, and he twisted around in an attempt to get a clear shot. He craned his neck, looking behind them, then off to either side. He cursed and shook his head.

  “Shit, Stubbs, where the hell is it?” he yelled over his shoulder, the heavy speargun held tight in his thick-gloved hands. “It was just here! Now, I don’t see it any–”

  The sled was hit hard from below, its twelve hundred pounds pushed thirty feet through a gurgling cloud of oil and bubbles.

  “Holy shit!” Stubbs’ powerful arms strained as he twisted the vehicle’s handlebars, fighting to regain control. “Man that was close! I thought he had us! Did you get him?” He looked back and gasped. He was alone. “Barker!” He clutched his com-set as he changed course.

  “Here!” his comrade’s frightened voice radioed back. “I got knocked off, but I’m in one piece. I’m at your seven!”

  Stubbs breathed a sigh of relief. He scanned the area for Barker, simultaneously keeping watch for their oversized adversary. A hundred yards ahead, he spotted him kicking gamely toward the surface. Deprived of fins and weighed down by gear and tanks, the encumbered merc was a sitting duck.

  As he watched, the pliosaur circled back like a pale-bellied B-52. Jaws open, it closed on Barker.

  Oh God . . . “Barker, he’s coming right at you!” Stubbs screamed into his radio. “I can’t get to you in time. You gotta shoot him!�
�� The big merc knew what happened next would haunt him for the rest of his life. Despite Barker’s screams of terror – audible even without a radio – he courageously twisted to face his attacker. From less than twenty feet away, he aimed his spear gun into the beast’s wide-open mouth and pulled the trigger.

  To his credit, his aim was dead on. To his misfortune, the sizzling projectile deflected off the pliosaur’s arsenal of dentition, ricocheting away like it was made of rubber. Spiraling end over end, the barbed missile sank harmlessly into the depths. A half-second later, Barker was engulfed headfirst to mid-thigh in the creature’s mouth. His agonized cries were silenced by a sickening sound as it severed his body right below the hip. Stubbs watched in helpless horror as his friend’s amputated legs performed a grotesque Irish jig, kicking hard for the surface. A second later, he was shaken back to reality.

  It was finished with Barker. Now it was coming for him.

  Back in the Harbinger’s observation room, Amara and the surviving members of the ship’s complement remained ignorant of Stubbs’ dilemma. They sat in stunned silence, the hull camera and sonar sound images of Karl Von Freiling’s unexpected demise burned into their collective consciousness.

  “Stubbs to Harbinger!” The panicked voice blared out of several radios, jolting everyone back to reality. “Do you read me?”

  Markov cursed and snatched the Motorola from his belt clip. “This is Markov. I hear you!”

  “No time for small talk. Karl and Barnes are dead, and the thing just got Barker! It’s right on my ass! I need cover!”

  “That’s a copy,” Markov said, already moving toward the exit door. “Head for the Zodiac’s loading platform. We’ll be waiting.”

  “On my . . . oh shit!” There was a split second pause before Stubbs radioed back. “Damn, that was fucking close! On my way!”

  Markov sprang up the nearest stairwell and pressed his talk button once more. “Stitches, this is Markov. I hope you copied that transmission. Meet me at the railing overlooking the Sycophant, and bring the heaviest hardware we’ve got!”

  “I’m already on it.”

  Amara watched as Markov vanished topside, then turned her bruised face toward Willie. “C’mon,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s see what’s happening.” Willie nodded and stood up.

  Amara turned to Dean Harcourt. “Senator?” she prodded. “Are you coming?”

  The politician continued to watch, immobile and unblinking as the drama continued to unfold on the monitors. If it wasn’t for the rise and fall of his chest, or the occasional tightening of his lips, Amara would have thought he was an abandoned department store mannequin. She turned to Willie, shrugging her slim shoulders, then pounded up the nearest stairs.

  Markov loped over to the section of railing overlooking the Sycophant. He focused hard on the grated stairs that led to the Zodiac’s embarking platform. The wind was picking up, with whitecaps lashing the steps. It would make dismounting from the sled more difficult than normal, assuming Stubbs was lucky enough to make it that far.

  “Here!”

  He turned to see Stitches running toward him. The little redhead tossed him an M-16 rifle identical to the one he carried. Markov snatched the weapon out of the air and checked it. “Shit, man. This is all we’ve got?”

  Stitches’ lips compressed. “That’s it.” He checked his own magazine and pulled the black weapon’s charger back. “And only two clips each. They’re steel-cored rounds though, so let’s make em’ count.”

  Markov stared down at the churning seas, willing Stubbs to appear. Something impacted against his boot heel. Annoyed, he shifted his foot out of the object’s way, allowing the can of spray lubricant to continue rolling toward the bow until it deflected off a nearby pipe. He studied the sloping deck and exchanged glances with Stitches before turning to the situation at hand.

  “There he is!” Markov pointed at a spot 75 yards out, as Stubbs and the battered sled surfaced in a watery explosion.

  “And there it is!” Stitches cut in fiercely. He gestured with his rifle muzzle toward the mountainous form breaking the surface right behind Stubbs.

  The big merc waved frantically at his two comrades. He was up on his heels, riding his craft like an oversized jet ski. He glanced back, then hunkered down and made straight for the platform, tossing his face mask over his shoulder as he went.

  Markov could see the creature plainly. Its wedge-shaped skull broke the surface as it closed the distance between itself and the juicy tidbit bouncing before it. “Let him have it!” he snarled. He took aim and began firing full-automatic bursts.

  With impressive accuracy, the two mercs emptied their forty-round clips directly into the pliosaur’s exposed face. The creature roared like a hundred lions and reeled back, its sixteen-foot pectoral fins breaching the surface of the water as the high-speed rounds tore into it. It inhaled sharply, slamming its jaws down into the water, and submerged from sight.

  Markov and Stitches ejected their spent mags and inserted new ones. Jaws set, they leaned over the railing, scanning the surface with their smoking rifles pointed at the spot where their gargantuan enemy had disappeared. Twenty feet below, Stubbs pulled alongside the wave-swept platform and struggled to disembark.

  “Great work, guys!” he yelled up, giving them a thumbs-up sign. “You saved my ass for sure!”

  Markov turned as Amara arrived with her Jamaican first mate. The two walked to the railing and stood there as Stubbs and his engine continued fighting the current. He sneered, giving them a contemptuous look. “What the fuck do you two want?”

  “We don’t want no ting,” Willie said. “We just . . .”

  “Omigod!” Amara pointed at the water. “Markov, tell him to forget the sled and jump for the landing!”

  The merc targeted the cetaceanist with hateful eyes.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Amara ignored him and leaned over the railing, frantically waving her arms. The green and white water below her was frothing over an area fifty feet across. “Stubbs, forget the sled and jump! It’s coming!”

  The big merc hesitated. He gripped the handlebars of his bucking craft tight, staring confusedly up at Amara. Soon, the ocean around him was churning so violently he could barely hold on. His eyes bulged in realization and he sprang to his feet, preparing to dive for the rust-covered platform. Too late.

  The pliosaur broke the surface with an explosive bellow, enveloping the entire sled within its jaws. Its bone crushing teeth met and it shook its huge head, spraying a vile mixture of gasoline, seawater and blood in every direction.

  Markov cursed as he was forced back by the ferocity of the assault. He ducked behind the ship’s railing, covering his face with his forearm as the creature spat the sled out. What was left sailed sixty feet into the air, arcing high over the ship’s gunnels. A moment later, it crashed onto the Harbinger’s decks with enough force to crack steel.

  The sled settled noisily onto its side, its macerated hull a crushed tin can. Other than the diluted bloodstains that dyed its pearl-colored hull plates a grotesque pink, Stubbs was nowhere to be found.

  “Son of a bitch!” Stitches spat. Eyes ablaze, the little merc spun from the carnage and swung his weapon toward the wind-whipped waters below. He took aim, his sweat-stained chest heaving as he howled in frustration. The creature had disappeared. Disgusted, he lowered his gun. “Damn.”

  “Well, so much for that,” Markov said. He shrugged and slung his still-hot M-16 over one shoulder. “Too bad, I liked Stubbs.”

  “Me too,” Stitches said. He looked at the frightful scene. “God, what a fucking mess! Now what do we do?”

  As they conversed, Amara and Willie tiptoed away, moving around the pulverized sled, along the wreckage-strewn deck. As noiselessly as possible, they made their way past the Harbinger’s abandoned cranes, slipping past the fallen Eurypterid II as they headed toward the bridge. They were almost there when Dean Harcourt lunged at them from the darkness of a nearby stairwell.
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br />   Suspended in the water with its fins extended like blades, the creature faced down the Harbinger. Its primitive brain pulsed as it studied its giant adversary. Enraged by the pain of its puncture wounds, it was beyond rudimentary thinking. A red haze clouded its thermal vision and its enormous heart pounded in its ears. Its wrinkled lips drew slowly back, revealing its entire arsenal of spiked teeth. It shook its huge head, trying to dislodge the indescribable fury that threatened to overwhelm it. Then it spread its cavernous jaws wide and gave forth a water-muffled roar of pure rage, flinging itself violently forward. Accelerating to full speed, it lowered its bullet-ridden skull into position like a gigantic battering ram and charged.

  Jake Braddock regained consciousness. Stirred to life by the flashes of pain shooting through his bruised skull, the young lawman ratcheted his eyes open. He groaned, struggling hard to focus. His body felt like he’d been beaten with ball peen hammers and he was unable to move. He was lying on his side, bound hand and foot like a trussed steer, his wrists and ankles tied together around the stanchion that supported the Harbinger’s oversized captain’s wheel.

  As he blinked to clear his vision, Jake fought the pulsating pain that detonated inside his head like mortar rounds. He sucked in air, struggling to remember what happened. He recalled the fight with Karl Von Freiling, and surrendering his sidearm to save Amara from Harcourt. But how the hell did he end up . . .

  Markov. He recalled the flash of movement from the scarred-faced merc. A cold rage seized him, transforming his ribcage into bands of ice, and he forcibly calmed himself to keep from hyperventilating. He focused hard, trying to ignore the throbbing that threatened to split his head in two. He gritted his teeth and twisted his wrists against each other with all his might.

  “Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!” Jake stopped and caught his breath. It was a useless effort. There wasn’t a man alive who could break the layers of expertly knotted, quarter-inch-thick nylon cords that held him. He caught his breath and lay where he was, refocusing his thoughts and looking around the bridge for any means to free himself.