Vengeance from the Deep - Book One: Pliosaur

by Russ Elliott

  “Yeah, she did, but I’m not so sure about this guy.” John glanced at Brad through the window. “He’s worse than the last one. I don’t know where the professor finds these people. I’m starting to wonder if she has some sort of deal worked out with the local prison.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, old buddy, but like I said, I’m booked. If you could wait a couple of weeks, I could do it, but not now.”

  “No, if I don’t go now, she’ll get someone else.”

  “Sorry, but I just can’t cancel my regular clients like that. Besides, if I were you, I’d be more worried about those natives out there. Your skin might be a few shades too light for their liking.”

  “Why? Do you know something about these people?” asked John, suddenly anxious.

  “Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m sure they like white people just fine . . . if seasoned properly.”

  “Thanks a lot. You always know how to ease my nerves.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Charley’s deep chuckle reverberated through the phone. “Relax. You always get a little jumpy before a long flight.”

  Through the window, John saw Brad frantically waving for him then pointing at his watch.

  “I’ve got to go. We’re already four hours behind schedule because of a malfunction with the aquarium’s thermostat. I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Bring back an extra one of those fish, and I’ll put some of my special sauce on it. We’ll have us some gooood eatin’!” replied Charley with a laugh.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but I’ve heard the taste of these fish might be a little not-so-good, even with your special sauce.”

  ~~~

  John gazed through the side window, watching the passing waters of the Indian Ocean. The sound of the helicopter blades had long since faded into a muffled hum in the back of his mind. He glanced at Brad, who continued to tap his thumb on the joystick. He had barely spoken a word since they lifted off nearly four hours ago.

  Moments after flying clear of the coast, Brad traded his communication headset for a MP3 player and had been bobbing his head to a heavy-metal beat ever since.

  Brad’s demeanor was almost unnerving with his fatigue pants and sleeveless shirt that emphasized the size of his arms. He appeared more like a crazed commando psyching himself up for battle rather than someone escorting an archeologist on a peaceful expedition. John turned his attention to the drawing in his lap. For the hundredth time, his eyes wandered over the fish’s three-pronged tail. He could only imagine how it would feel to bring one back alive.

  Yes, the professor was right. Bringing back one of these would certainly impress his colleagues—all those moderately renowned archeologists who stared down their noses at him at fundraisers. News of this magnitude would also reach his family, raising an eyebrow or two from his stuffy older brothers. Heck, such a discovery would have the entire world talking.

  It had always been John’s dream to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a surgeon, a career path both of his brothers had taken. But for the youngest of the Paxtons, it seemed fate had other plans. John studied diligently, made better grades than either of his siblings. But to be a surgeon, it took something else—something John learned early on that he didn’t have.

  And how his brothers had scoffed at him . . . the laughs the day he announced his chosen profession. “Archeology is a career not worthy of a sound mind. Little more than menial labor,” they’d said. In the early going, those very words fueled John’s passion on every expedition. Redemption was always one great find away.

  Now, after two decades of unearthing bones and fragments of creatures already discovered a hundred times over, his enthusiasm had stalled. In the back of John’s mind, he wondered if maybe his brothers were right; he certainly had little to show for his efforts.

  He ran his finger along the illustration, tracing the three-pronged tail. He felt a thrill that rumbled in his bones. Everything is about to change.

  John’s thoughts were disrupted by a thunderous belch from Brad, so loud that it drowned out the sound of the chopping blades.

  “Ooww, mate! I’ve needed to do that ever since we flew over Skoen!” Brad finally clicked off the MP3 player and looked away from the windshield. He glanced at the drawing in John’s hand. “I can’t wait to get one of those in my cooler,” he shouted. “Just imagine, by this time tomorrow we could both be famous, ay?”

  John smiled and asked, “How far are we now?”

  “About fifteen minutes away. If you check straight ahead, you can see the island.”

  John looked at the approaching small green patch amid the endless blue sea, and said, “Remember what the professor said about flying over the southeastern side.”

  “Oh yeah, their sacred ground. It’s a little late in the day to be dodging spears. I’ll find a clearing about a mile from the village so we can land without spookin’ ‘em.”

  “I hope we have better luck than the professor did,” John said absentmindedly as he looked at the lush tropical coastline. He then felt a tingling sensation deep in his stomach—a biological warning signal that, over the years, had never been wrong!

  ~~~

  Finding the professor’s office empty, Kate crept in and took a seat behind the desk. She studied the desk calendar. Again, she ran her finger along every date. “I knew it!” she gasped.

  Just then, Professor Atkins appeared in the doorway, surprised to see her daughter rummaging around on her desk.

  “I know you mark everything on your calendar,” said Kate, not hiding the anger in her voice. “For the next two weeks, there’s nothing marked in for me. So where is this important booking that kept me from flying John Paxton to the island? This is huge. You knew how much I wanted to be a part of it.”

  “It was canceled!” The professor’s tone was as firm as her expression.

  “Who canceled, Mom? Who?”

  The professor didn’t say a word. Kate recognized the look on her mother’s face and knew not to ask again.

  Chapter 3

  THE CRIMSON POOL

  John Paxton stared through the side window as the helicopter slowly descended into a small clearing. He saw nothing but branchless trunks and darkness. The tall trunks continued to rise above them until there was an explosion of vibrant, green foliage. The surrounding leaves danced violently from the wind generated by the powerful blades as the helicopter softly touched down. The engine shut off with a high-pitched whine, and the blades began to slow. He popped open the passenger-side door.

  Placing his well-worn brown hat on his head, he grabbed his canteen, a small black sack which he put in his hip pocket, and stepped down onto the soft jungle floor. The air was moist, a welcome relief from the stale cockpit. An occasional birdcall echoed through the trees.

  Slowly, he looked around the perimeter of the clearing but saw only a thick, green wall of plant life, some of the largest leaves he’d ever seen. Above the dense vegetation, long vines draped between tall trees, like a green spider web laced through the jungle.

  Crack! A stick snapped somewhere behind him. He turned around and saw the top of a spear gliding above a fast-moving trail of rustling leaves. The spear tip headed further north until it vanished into the thick. So much for surprises. It looks like they’ll be expecting us, thought John.

  Crouching slightly, he walked beneath the slow-moving blades and made his way to the opposite side of the helicopter. Brad was unloading two large cases from the cargo bay. John said, “Well, looks like someone knows we’re here. I just caught a glimpse of one of the locals heading toward the village.”

  “If I’d known they were gonna see us anyway, I would have parked closer,” grumbled Brad, reaching into the helicopter. “Considering how thick this jungle is, we’ve got quite a trek ahead of us.”

  As the big man pulled out another cooler, John looked at him curiously. “Do you think we really need all of that? They’re gonna think we’re moving in.”

  Brad threw the three-and-a-h
alf-foot plastic chest to the ground, looking frustrated. “I need the cooler to carry the fish back to the aquarium. Unless you’d rather strap it across your back?”

  “Yeah, I know we need that, but what about those cases? Do you have to take them both?”

  Brad wiped the sweat from his brow then pointed to the first case. “What’s your pluck, mate? That one has the diving equipment and your backpack. The other case has the underwater lighting rig. So, you tell me, which one should we chuck?”

  “Okay, okay,” said John as he looked at the two cases, trying to determine which one would be the lightest to carry.

  Brad pulled out an automatic machine gun from under the pilot’s seat and threw the strap over his shoulder.

  “You’re not taking that,” insisted John, staring at Brad. Every inch of this guy reeked of violence, from his wide, chiseled deltoids protruding from his sleeveless shirt, to the camouflage fatigue pants, to the AK-47 dangling at his waist.

  “I never leave home without it, mate.” Brad smirked. “Besides, the jungle can be a dangerous place. It might come in handy.” He patted the ammunition clip. “Or it could be a good bargaining tool, eh.”

  John took the black sack from his hip pocket and slid out several thick gold chains. “This is what we came here to bargain with. Remember the professor said they spook easily, and if anything’s going to spook them, it’s going to be you showing up looking like Rambo.”

  Brad frowned. “Okay, have it your way. But I feel kinda naked.”

  John picked up the cases and walked to the edge of the jungle. Waiting at the perimeter of the clearing, he wondered what was taking Brad so long. He looked back and saw Brad carefully pulling down the back of his shirt as he jogged to catch up.

  Why is he so worried about his appearance? We’re in the middle of nowhere, thought John as Brad reached the edge of the clearing. After stepping in front of John with a confident smile, Brad unsheathed his machete and began to slice into the thick jungle. On the third swipe of the blade, John noticed something drop from under Brad’s shirt. John set down the cases, reached between several leaves, and felt the warm metal handle of a German Luger pistol.

  “Oh thanks, mate. You found my good luck charm.” Brad plucked the pistol from John’s hand and slipped it into the back of his pants. He looked back. “What? You can’t expect me to go trekking through the jungle completely naked.”

  “All right. But make sure you keep it covered.”

  Brad proceeded to slice through the vines as John picked up the cases, almost afraid to imagine what Brad may have packed inside them.

  ~~~

  From a towering perch of a takamaka tree, a slender, black figure stared at the strangers below. The larger one in front carved his way through the dense jungle, while the other man struggled to carry two awkward objects. He continued to watch as the two men stopped for a moment, as if questioning the accuracy of their course, then headed in the same direction.

  The native looked off to his right and motioned toward the village. A final glance at the two strangers, and he shimmied down the tree, picked up his spear, and vanished into the jungle.

  ~~~

  “Ah, we must be getting close. I can feel the breeze coming from the ocean,” John said, struggling with the cases. As they neared the edge of the jungle, the leaves and palm fronds came to life in the wind.

  Soon they’d be at the village. John felt a growing sense of unease about what Brad might do. By now, he thought that he would’ve gotten to know him better, but even after the long flight, he still couldn’t quite figure him out. Looking ahead to the muscular man swiping the machete, John tried to think of topics to spark up a conversation.

  “So, Brad, did the professor mention anything more to you about the villagers? Like anything that might be helpful in our negotiations?”

  “Yeah,” Brad grunted with another sweep of the blade. “Did she tell you about the mate they call Kota . . . how he can kill you with his eyes?”

  “Kill with his eyes!” John said. “No, the professor did not share that with me.”

  “The villagers believe that if he stares into your eyes for more than six seconds, you’ll die,” explained Brad, hacking through the thick. “The legend started one day when Kota got a little stroppy with one of the elders. He stared at the old man with such hatred that he gave him a heart attack. Later that night the man died. Since then, other than the chief, no one in the tribe will look Kota in the eye.”

  Brad turned around and smiled. “I can’t wait until we get there. In front of the entire village, I’m gonna give that Kota character a stare that’ll loosen his bowels.” He squeezed the machete handle, making a fist. “One wrong look from that monger, and it’ll be lights out for sure, ay.”

  Not feeling comfortable with the direction of the conversation, John decided to change the subject. “So, do you have any hobbies? Play football, anything like that. You look like you stay in shape.”

  “Naaah, mate. Been taking it easy. Haven’t done much more than pump iron and watch telly for the last few months.”

  He’s starting to open up, John thought. Let’s try to keep it rolling. “So, what happened? Did you have a little time between expeditions, take some time off to work out and relax?”

  “Guess ya could say that. I was three months into a one-year stint in a Durban jail when the professor bailed me out for this expedition. Relax, mate. I wasn’t in for nothing serious. Just opened up some military skeef at a local dive . . . he lived.” Brad winked. “But no doubt he thinks of me every time he checks his belly, ay.”

  Well, at least I’ve got him talking, thought John, although getting to know Brad better didn’t bring him much comfort. As Brad continued his assault on the thick leaves, John tried another question. “So, what do you think set them off that night when the professor asked them about the fish?”

  “Not sure,” Brad said. “Could have something to do with their slavery background.”

  “Slavery background?”

  Brad glanced back. “You mean the old lady didn’t mention that either?”

  “Mention what?”

  “Some of the tribe’s ancestors were slaves. It was when the first American ships started coming to Africa searching for slaves. Good ole Yanks, ay.” Brad laughed and continued to clear the thick. “After leaving South Africa, one of the ships wasn’t satisfied with the size of its cargo and stopped at this island to capture additional slaves, bump up the inventory. But when the mates reached the island, they weren’t prepared for the deadly welcome they received. Every one of those mates were butchered. Then the natives returned to the ship wearing the slave traders’ clothes while pretending to be escorting slaves. Once they boarded the ship, that was it, mate. The ship was torched. Every white man was slaughtered, and the remaining slaves swam ashore and inhabited the island. They even placed the charred remains of the ship’s main mast in the center of the village where it still stands today as a type of monument. So, considering that the last whites that came to this island tried to capture them, I’d say that might have had something to do with their lack of cooperation, ay.”

  “No. She didn’t tell me that,” John said. “She just told me about the part where they escorted her back to the helicopter.”

  “Escort!” Brad laughed aloud. “Some escort. They chased her all the way to the chopper. At the banquet that night, when the professor first saw the fish, she realized how agitated the natives were. The old larnie was smart. She told them she and her pilot needed to go water the lily—you know, take a wee—but instead, they legged it back to the chopper. If she hadn’t got that jump on them, she said they would have never made it back. Should have seen her chopper, had at least a dozen spear holes in the fuselage.” He laughed again. “Why do ya think she needed me? Her pilot at the time said she couldn’t pay him enough to come back here.”

  “You . . . you’re serious?” asked John in a stammer.

  After a long moment, Brad winked, “Nah.
I’m just foolin’, mate.” He turned and continued his assault on the draping vines.

  “What about that eye thing with Kota?”

  “That’s weird!” said Brad.

  “You mean that part is true? John asked. “The part where he looked at—”

  Brad cut him off. “No . . . that over there.” He lifted his machete blade in the direction of a tidal pool near the edge of the jungle.

  They walked over to examine the small body of water. In the distance, the jungle wall began to thin out, and bits of the sandy coastline slowly appeared through the tall takamaka trees. Brad squinted. He stooped down at the edge of the tidal pool. “It must have been the way the setting sun was reflecting off the surface, because when I first saw it, the water looked like blood. I can still see some spots of red in it. Must be the sunlight.”

  “What’s that?” John set down the cases and approached a small, dark object lying beside the tidal pool. “Look, it’s some type of hoof or at least part of one.” John picked it up and examined the clean, smooth edge where it had been severed. He glanced around the bank to see if there were any hoof prints in the moist sand. “It looks like it came from a horse or some other large mammal, but I can’t imagine what animal native to this island would have a hoof this size.”

  “Got me.” Brad couldn’t have cared less.

  Dropping the hoof into a hip pocket, John picked up the cases and walked past the tidal pool. Brad stepped ahead of John and continued to lead the way, hacking through the brush.

  After a few minutes, John’s shoulders began to ache. Hope we’re getting close, he thought. These cases aren’t getting any lighter. Brad sliced through a thick cluster of vines, and they entered a vast clearing. In it were forty or so evenly spaced stones, each capped with a large conch shell. East of the clearing, the jungle seemed to spill over the rocks, offering a spectacular view of the Indian Ocean.

  Breathtaking, thought John, marveling at how the multicolored shells stood out against the turquoise waters.