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

by Max Hawthorne

  Harcourt paced the near darkness of the Harbinger’s observation room, his fingers interlaced across the top of his stomach. He wore a demonic look, an appearance exacerbated by the vessel’s warning lights bathing his features in red as they continued their increasingly frantic warning

  “I guess you didn’t feel the need to tell us about this?” He pointed at the wall unit, then looked Amara and Willie disdainfully up and down. “Or, perhaps, after you muted the alarm and disabled its beacons, you thought I wouldn’t have the brains to figure out that this ship’s onboard computer system has been informing us for the last twenty minutes that her pumps can’t handle the damage she’s sustained?”

  Amara cast a nervous glance at Markov and Stitches.

  “That’s alright.” Harcourt said. He wore a humorless smile. “It doesn’t matter, we’re leaving anyway.”

  Amara gasped. “We are?”

  “Yes. We’re leaving, my dear doctor.” He chuckled, reaching inside his bloodstained suit for one of his cigars. He lit it and puffed fiercely, pointing one end at Markov, Stitches and himself. “We’re taking your Zodiac . . . or should I say, my Zodiac, and we’re leaving what’s left of this ship.”

  “And what about us, mon?” Willie said with surprising boldness. “What ya gonna do? Ya gonna just leave us here?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I am.” Harcourt held the Cuban close to his face, examining its smoldering tip. “As you may have ascertained, the last thing I need back home is any sensationalist storytelling on your part. But, just to show you there are no hard feelings, Doctor Takagi, I’m giving you back your beloved research vessel. Free of charge.”

  “Why, ya crazy muddah fuckah!” Willie exploded, lunging for Harcourt’s throat with a viciousness that surprised them all. He slammed into the astonished politician with impressive force, wrapping his hands around the senator’s thick neck.

  Caught off guard by the unexpectedness of the assault, Markov and Stitches glanced at each other in astonishment. They cursed and sprang into action, hauling Willie off of Harcourt, with Markov restraining him with a half-nelson that made it impossible to move.

  “You miserable, island-hopping lowlife!” Harcourt snarled. He clambered back to his feet, his eyes wild as he attempted to adjust his ruined suit.

  “It’s okay, Senator Harcourt,” Markov said, tightening his hold on the senator’s assailant. “I’ve got him.”

  “Let him go, you bastard!” Amara screamed, as fear for her longtime friend overwhelmed her shock at the sudden melee.

  “I’m fine, Amara,” Willie panted. He relaxed his shoulders, ceasing his useless struggles against Markov’s powerful grip, then twisted hard against the immobilizing hold, shifting his body just enough to look Harcourt in the eye. “Ya know what ya problem is, rich mon? Ya fucking crazy! Ya one sick son of a bitch. Ya gotta lotta people killed today, and for what? Because ya tink ya da servant of God? No way, mon! Ya da devil. And I tell ya some ting. If ya leave us be, we’ll die. But, ya gonna die too, mon. Sooner or later. And when ya gets ta hell, I’m gonna be dere waitin for ya. Just remember dat!”

  “That’s quite a speech, Mr. Daniels.” Harcourt smirked, straightening what remained of his tie, then turned away. “Unfortunately, I have no more time to relish your virtuosity.” He snapped his fingers. “Let him go. We’re leaving.”

  Markov glanced over at Stitches, then released his grip on Willie. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he whispered in the big Jamaican’s ear.

  Her pale eyes wide, Amara rushed to her battered companion.

  “I’m fine,” Willie insisted, rubbing his shoulder.

  Ignoring them, Harcourt instructed his remaining men. “Grab whatever you think we’ll need. Weapons, water, fuel. We’ve got about twenty miles to cover.” He paused beside a nearby table, noticing the partially used box of dynamite Jake brought onboard several days prior. He put his hand in his pants pocket and his eyes lit up. “Make sure you bring this.”

  Markov shook his head disapprovingly. “We don’t need that stuff. We’ve got grenades.”

  “Just do as I say.” Harcourt moved past him and headed toward the stairwell.

  His fists and teeth clenched, Willie took a step in the heavyset politician’s direction. “Ya know some ting? I tink it was better dat da beast got ya son, Mistah Harcourt.”

  Amara eyes widened and she threw herself in Willie’s way, trying to hold him back.

  “What the hell did you say?” Harcourt moved menacingly toward Willie.

  “Are you crazy?” Amara whispered. “Stop it!”

  Willie ignored her warnings, as well as the look on Harcourt’s face. “I said dat I’m glad ya son got eaten by da pliosaur.” He folded his arms defiantly across his chest. “Udder wise, he’d have ended up anudda spoiled, crazy mon, just like his fadduh!”

  His face a latticework of unfettered fury, Harcourt uttered a bull-like bellow and rushed Willie, only to be restrained in mid-charge by Markov and Stitches.

  “Cool down, senator,” Stitches said. He stepped back, palms out, watching as Markov kept himself positioned between the senator and the focus of his fury. “It’s not worth the effort. We’re leaving, and they’re staying. That’s enough, don’t you think?”

  His breath coming in gasps, Harcourt stopped struggling and backed off. He looked around, then paused contemplatively. A serene look made its way across his rotund face.

  “Perhaps you’re right, Stitches,” he said with a forced smile, looking genially at him and Markov. “After all, we’ve certainly got bigger fish to fry.”

  Harcourt turned to leave, then whirled unexpectedly back around, his hands clawing wildly at Markov’s waist. Before the astonished mercenary realized what was happening, the politician yanked his forty-caliber Glock from its holster.

  Amara’s cry of alarm became a yelp as Willie spotted the gun and flung her bodily out of the way. She hit the deck shoulder first, stunned into immobility as Harcourt fired from less than ten feet away.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Markov roared. Ignoring Amara’s high-pitched shriek, he forced the senator’s arm into the air and yanked the smoking gun from his grasp. “You stupid son of a bitch! You could have shot us both!”

  Willie staggered backward and uttered a pain-filled gasp. He clutched at his stomach, staring confusedly at the layer of crimson that coated his hands, then dropped to his knees. A second later, he toppled over onto his side.

  Amara sprang to her feet. “Omigod, you shot him, you fucking asshole!” she screamed. She rushed to Willie’s side and grabbed at him, struggling to hoist him up into a seated position. “You’re out of your mind!”

  Harcourt snorted and turned around, raising one eyebrow as he gave his men an interrogative look. “Do we have a problem, gentlemen?”

  “Not at all,” Markov replied. An amused look crept across his face. “Aren’t you going to shoot the woman, too? I’ll be happy to do it if you’d like.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.” Harcourt glanced at Amara sobbing as she cradled Willie’s head in her lap. “We’ve got the Lord’s work now.”

  “What about Braddock?” Markov asked pointedly.

  “What about him?”

  “Well, should we–”

  Harcourt cut the conversation short with a wave of his hand. He made his way up onto the Harbinger’s main deck with Markov and Stitches in tow. Behind him, the two mercs started gathering supplies and gear.

  A moment later, a one hundred-ton torpedo slammed into the Harbinger’s bow.

  Jake was growing desperate. He realized if he was going to free himself and help Amara and Willie, he was going to have to do it on his own. He glanced up at the aged whaling harpoon, suspended far beyond his reach, and chuckled insanely at the gravity of his situation.

  Suddenly, the sound of a high-powered pistol round echoed through the ship’s helm. Alarmed by the proximity of the gunshot, Jake struggled against his bonds. His muscles bulged as he heaved against the
nylon rope with all his might, pulling until he drew blood. His breathing became ragged from all the adrenaline and his mind raced with frightful possibilities.

  Amara was in jeopardy. He could sense it. With Von Freiling in the water, she and Willie were alone with Harcourt and Markov.

  Markov . . .

  Stubbs was right. The scar-faced merc was a sadistic sociopath. Jake scrunched his eyes closed, trying to shut away the awful images running rampant through his mind. Markov was sick enough to rape a woman in front of her kids. And Jake was tied up when it mattered . . .

  Screaming in fear and frustration, he heaved like a madman against his ropes once more, straining to loosen their constrictor’s grip by alternately ripping his fists and feet back and forth against each other. He felt his skin tear, layer by layer, and the nylon loops around his wrists and ankles sliding back and forth from the lubrication of his blood. Salty sweat inundating the reddened patches of raw flesh, causing painful stinging sensations. His lungs became an over-stoked furnace but he ignored them, resolutely flailing away. Perspiration transformed his hair into a sopping wet sponge; merging with his sunblock, it streamed down his brow, burning his eyes and blurring his vision. He tried to blink it away, closing his eyelids tight as the fear and pain reached unbearable levels. He might lose Amara, just like . . .

  When he willed himself to reopen his eyes he did a double-take. He was twenty-one again. It was the day of his mother’s funeral – chilled, damp and blustery. Everyone was already gone, leaving him forlorn in the cemetery, his head lowered and the rain pressing his dark-colored suit tight against his athletic frame. The passing shower became a downpour, soaking him to the skin and obscuring his eyesight. He could smell the thickset odor of torn-up grass and soil, piled high around the freshly excavated grave, and heard the squishing noise of the tan-colored mud as it oozed up and over the top of his shoes.

  He extracted the medal he’d won at the state fencing championships from his jacket pocket. Raindrops streamed across its shiny gold surface, a fitting substitute for the tears he could never bring himself to shed.

  Suddenly, powerful fingers dug into his shoulder. Jake whirled around, wanton surprise stepping aside for cold anger as John Braddock materialized beside him. His father was dirty and unshaven but surprisingly sober. He’d kept a low profile for the last few days, avoiding public scrutiny by failing to attend his own wife’s funeral.

  John fumbled for words. “Listen, son,” he began. “I, uh . . . know I probably wasn’t always the best father . . .” He blanched as if the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “And, well, maybe my drinking was a little hard on you . . . but it was your mother’s doing! She drove me to it! Even the accident . . . if she hadn’t kept nagging me about my driving that day . . . I don’t know.”

  A disgusted look appeared on Jake’s face and he extended his palm outward in warning. His father persisted, waving his hands wildly and moving closer to him.

  “Look . . . I can see it in your eyes. I know you blame yourself for your mom’s death, probably Samantha’s too . . .”

  Jake gaped at him.

  John’s voice became louder and more authoritarian as he gained confidence. “Your mom’s weakness was no more your fault than your wife’s was. You have to stop beating yourself up about their deaths and be a man – like I am!” He slammed a hammer fist into his palm for emphasis. “You’ve got to be strong . . . especially now. It’s you and me against the world. We’re family and we’ve got to stick together . . . you know what I mean?”

  The sheer ridiculousness of the words left Jake flabbergasted. He hadn’t seen his father for months. Not a phone conversation with him in years, except to inquire about his mother. The man was a stranger, and now, a murderer. He wished his mother walked away from the accident instead of his father. The bile in his throat choked what would have been a chuckle of irony. He turned to leave, failing to mask his complete and utter loathing.

  John ignored the obvious and persisted. His aging countenance was a montage of pent-up frustration and resentment, both at himself and the world. He latched onto Jake’s shoulder once more, trying hard to spin him around, trying to use the remainder of his formidable strength to bully and intimidate his adult son.

  Jake felt the familiar grip. His head snapped back as bad memories machine-gunned their way through his paper-thin patience. A relentless barrage of ill-submerged fear and anguish forced its way free. He saw his father’s face, his expression warped, as always, by rage. For the first time he felt his own anger surge to the surface, a towering tsunami of bona fide hatred.

  The punch was harder than he intended: a pile-driving right cross with all his weight and power behind it. His rock-hard fist connected with John Braddock’s jaw, splintering teeth and bone and sending him sprawling across a nearby hillock of fieldstones and mud. He lay there, eyes closed and unmoving.

  Jake stared contemptuously down at him, his heart pounding, his breathing harsh and ragged. He glanced around and straightened up, regaining his composure as he slowly opened his bloodied fist. He stared at the gold medal still within his grasp, its hard edges imprinted deeply into his palm. The rain intensified, washing it clean. He turned to the mouth of his mother’s grave, stepping to the very edge. He took a deep breath. Then he tossed the medal inside and watched it fall, waiting for it to strike the bronze-colored casket.

  Ka-boom!

  Jake shuddered as an incredibly powerful blow rocked the Harbinger. The impact nearly capsized the ship, toppling a shower of antiquities from their resting places, including an ancient sextant. The heavy wood and metal tool came plummeting down, bruising his already-injured head, eliciting a plethora of curses.

  Forced back to reality, the lawman strained to ascertain what was happening. The entire ship began to shiver, and a sudden drop caused his testicles to tighten up. From the angle of the bridge and the magnitude of the waves, he deduced the Harbinger was succumbing to the pliosaur’s repeated assaults. Her armored prow began to dip sharply, inching its way toward the foam-flecked waves that lapped at her gunwales.

  Jake’s mind reeled at the sickening realization.

  She was going under. And he was going with her.

  “Hurry up, Stitches!” Markov bellowed from the Sycophant’s prow.

  Nearby, Harcourt sat atop one of the runabout’s rigid air chambers, his hands folded neatly across his stomach and his back to the waves. Above the tiny vessel, the Harbinger listed badly. Drawn down by sheer mass, her bow was almost completely submerged.

  Markov shook his head. He gave the ship another fifteen minutes before she slipped beneath the waves. His loaded M-16 in hand, the mercenary scanned the turbulent water for signs of the monster. Minutes earlier, the creature rammed the Harbinger’s damaged bow with the force of a speeding commuter train, widening the gash in her foremost hull plates, sending thousands of gallons of seawater rushing into her flooded forward compartments. There was no saving her.

  The pliosaur vanished after its last attack, a fact that gave Markov little comfort as he waited for Stitches to make his way down the creaking landing platform. “It’s about fucking time,” he muttered as his comrade placed the box of dynamite on the inflatable’s rigid floor.

  “Hey, I just follow orders.” Stitches glanced nervously up at the groaning ship and swallowed.

  “Yeah, right,” Markov snickered. “You sure you took care of everything?”

  “I staved in their lifeboats, destroyed the ship’s transmitter and antenna, and tossed all the hand radios over the side.”

  “Okay then,” Markov said. “Senator, I think we’re about ready to shove off.” He reached for the rope that bound them to the ill-fated research vessel.

  “One moment.”

  “Sir?”

  Harcourt stood up, his bloodshot eyes contemplating the thin docking line.

  Markov scanned the surrounding waters once more. “Senator?”

  “I hate to say it . . .” Harcourt folded his arms
across his barrel-like chest. “But, it would cause irreparable harm to all present if anyone else survived the Harbinger’s sinking.”

  “I see.” Markov felt a sudden surge of sadistic excitement. “And you want to prevent this by . . .?”

  “Well, I’m certainly not endorsing executing anyone, if that’s what you think.”

  “Go on . . .”

  “Let’s just say that I would sleep better if I knew the good doctor was as securely tied up as Jake Braddock. Just in case.”

  “Whatever you say, senator.” Markov nodded and turned to his comrade. “Stitches, stay here and keep an eye out for the lizard. I’ll go take care of our problem.”

  Waving off Stitches’ complaining before it started, Markov stepped off the bobbing Sycophant and bounded up the straining stairwell to the Harbinger’s main deck.

  Unseen by those waiting below, he loosened his bolo as he went.

  CRETACEOUS OCEAN

  65 MILLION YEARS AGO

  Seen from within, the caldera was a waterlogged charnel house. The onrushing wall of water had filled its bowl-shaped crater to within a thousand feet of its edges. The catastrophe had transformed the dormant volcano into a gigantic saltwater aquarium – one measuring over eight miles in width and nine thousand feet in depth.

  It was an aquarium of the dead.

  The water’s surface was covered with sections of uprooted trees and the bodies of the wave’s hapless victims. Broken pterosaurs, plesiosaurs, mosasaurs, crocodiles and turtles littered the landscape. Giant squid and ammonites bobbed alongside tens of thousands of fish of every size and shape, their bodies floating beneath ever-darkening skies.

  Time passed. Suddenly, the big bull pliosaur surfaced amidst the widespread carnage with a loud exhale. The entire left side of his body was badly lacerated and one of his pelvic fins was broken, but he was alive. A few minutes later, two more spouts announced the arrival of the old one-eyed bull and the huge female. The two surfaced a hundred yards away, amidst a huge school of dead and dying salmonids.