Vengeance from the Deep - Book One: Pliosaur

by Russ Elliott

  Still he kept his running, losing steam but ever determined to keep moving. Why couldn’t he hear the natives? Were their cries muted by the sound of his own body crashing through the leaves, the roar of thoughts in his head? Or were they gone? They could be right on his tail and he not realize it. He imagined them running behind him, matching his pace with little effort. They could probably run at this pace all day.

  They’re probably just playing with me, waiting for me to give out.

  He was tempted to stop just long enough to see if he could hear them. A second to rest. No way. I can’t risk it. Even if he had run past the clearing, he knew he had to keep moving.

  His body involuntarily started to slow the pace as he questioned the accuracy of his course. Maybe that’s why I can’t hear them. They know I passed the clearing. They know I’m running in the wrong direction, so they went back to the helicopter.

  Again he resisted the temptation to backtrack, certain that if he had indeed missed the clearing, by the time he came back to it, the natives would already be there waiting for him.

  He continued to argue with himself—one possibility versus another. “I know I didn’t pass it!” he muttered. “It’s around here somewhere.” He did his best to force the self-doubt from his mind.

  Another sixty yards and he could hear his heart pounding louder than the crashing leaves beneath his feet. The front of his t-shirt was torn to ribbons. His chest stung as sweat entered the cuts. He felt the tooth in his right hand and instinctively pulled it closer to his side as if to keep it from being stripped away. For a moment, the surreal scene reminded him of his college football days. The rushing adrenaline, his burning quadriceps, the large waving leaves that silently cheered him on from the sidelines. What I wouldn’t give for the endurance I had back then!

  He remembered how he could feel Jenny’s eyes on him every time he touched the ball. His mind drifted to when they first met outside the College Fitness Center one day after practice. He recalled her warm embrace and their first kiss. The image of the Christmas he spent with her passed before his eyes.

  I can’t believe my mind is drifting at a time like this. He shouted at himself, “Oh no you don’t! That better not be my life starting to flash before my eyes. I know I didn’t pass that chopper!”

  As quickly as he began to motivate himself, he felt his heart sink—if he hadn’t passed the chopper, then either he hadn’t gotten to it yet . . . or it was at the bottom of the lagoon. All at once, his legs turned to lead. John slowed to barely a walk, trying to catch his breath. Just for a few seconds, and then I’ll pick it back up. But when he tried to get back up to speed, the muscles in his legs screamed in protest. They were completely cramped up with nothing left. He then realized his mistake. The brief pause had allowed lactic acid to set in.

  Out of the corner of his watering eye, he saw a reflection. He adjusted his course and jogged west, his heavy boots barely leaving the jungle floor. Another flicker of light. Pressing through a thick cluster of leaves, John saw the sun shining from the tail rotor of the helicopter. He stepped into the clearing, not believing that amidst the panic and madness, his calculations had been correct after all. A glance upward gave him a renewed jolt of adrenaline when he saw the four long blades of the main rotor perched above the cockpit.

  John jogged toward the helicopter. He reached the landing gear and realized it was quiet. Too quiet, not a rustling leaf. Then, on the opposite side of the helicopter, he saw several dark figures creep into the clearing without a sound. Realizing they’d been discovered, the tribesmen sprang to life.

  John threw open the door to the chopper. A pinging noise echoed overhead from a spear hitting the main rotor. Another crashed through the windshield.

  John leaped into the cockpit and saw the key in the ignition. He’d never been so grateful for Brad’s carelessness. He threw the tooth onto the passenger seat and reached under the pilot’s seat. He grabbed Brad’s machine gun while twisting the key in the ignition.

  “Come on, come on!”

  Another spear crashed through the windshield and jabbed into the passenger seat. Through the broken windshield, John saw dozens of natives pouring into the clearing. He knew he’d never make it off the ground!

  In one desperate sweep, he grabbed the strap of the machine gun and fell backward from the pilot’s side door. Landing hard on his side beneath the helicopter, John took aim at the dozens of legs that quickly came into view. The screams from his attack were muted by the sound of the kicking weapon as John slowly moved it from side to side, firing in short, controlled bursts.

  Masses of natives and spears fell to the ground. John jumped back into the cockpit. He turned the ignition key as he threw his body across both seats in an attempt to stay below the windshield.

  The spears were back. Pinging sounds echoed around him from spears hitting the fuselage. Another spear came through the windshield and plunged into the passenger seat six inches above his ear.

  “Wooooh! Too Close!”

  The engine whined and finally fired up. The sound of the engine gave way to the thumping rotor as John felt the downdraft blowing through the holes in the windshield. Glass scattered across his face. Yet another spear pierced the windshield. Sitting up, he pulled one spear out of the seat and backed it through the glass, then slid the smoking machine gun barrel into the entry hole. Squeezing the trigger, fire erupted from the windshield. Spent shells spewed through the cockpit, bouncing from the passenger seat and onto the floor.

  He tossed the machine gun into the passenger seat. A cloud of smoke rose and curled from the hot barrel. He grabbed the throttle, twisting it all the way open to reach operational RPM. He pulled up on the collective. Simultaneously, his feet found the pedals, depressing the left pedal until he felt the aircraft lighten on its skids. All this John did almost out of instinct, not having piloted in years.

  Slowly, the helicopter lifted off the ground. The pinging noises of the spears subsided like a rainstorm transforming into a drizzle. Through the pilot’s side window, he saw the dark figures in the clearing growing smaller and smaller, while the helicopter’s shadow swept across the tops of the coconut palms. He turned the helicopter north and headed away from the village. His heart rate slowly returned to normal.

  Okay, it’s been a few years. Just hold her steady. You’re doing just fine.

  Chapter 8

  WILLIE’S SOUVENIR

  John gazed below at the passing coconut palms, knowing that they would soon disappear, and he would be over the water. He eased back in his seat and prepared for the long flight ahead. Spear holes in the fuselage let in a constant smell of fuel and exhaust. But that was of little concern. All that mattered was that he had enough fuel, and the craft was still functional.

  He glanced around the cockpit. Everything seemed to be in working order. He looked at a spear protruding from the passenger’s side window. His eyes followed the long, wooden shaft to the stone head imbedded in the radio on the console. “Well, almost everything!” he said.

  He realized he wouldn’t be able to call ahead to the South Africa Coast Guard and warn them about the pliosaur. He pulled up a little more on the collective pitch control and laughed. Like they’d believe me anyway!

  An explosion of white light appeared in front of the helicopter. John looked up at a blinding streak of lightning as the roaring thunder shook the small craft.

  A curtain of rain fell from a darkening sky.

  Whoa, that was close. John looked at the instrument panel, thankful that the lightning hadn’t hit the chopper. “I’ve got to get out from under this!” he muttered, looking up. But the sky was black for as far as he could see. It wasn’t long until rain started pouring into the cockpit through numerous spear holes in the windshield.

  The engine sputtered. John looked at the fuel gauge, fearing that a spear had severed the fuel line, but the fuel level read half full. He glanced behind the seat. Streams of water were flowing down the inside walls from spear hol
es near the engine. He quickly realized that water must be leaking onto some of the wiring.

  The engine sputtered again and the helicopter dipped. John looked below to the treetops, thankful that he was still over the island. He saw the trees start to thin out as he neared the northern shoreline and decided to bring it down while he still had a choice. He safely touched down on the beach about fifty yards from the waterline.

  While the engine whined down, John peered back into the jungle. The tall trees were barely visible through the driving sheets of rain. Only one question haunted him now. Have the natives given up the chase and assumed I’ve already left the island? Estimating that there were at least eight or ten miles separating him from the tribesmen, he felt confident that he had time to wait out the storm.

  After positioning himself away from the water pouring through the holes in the windshield, he tried to make himself comfortable. The rain thickened until he couldn’t see the shoreline ahead. Kaboom! The beach lit up as thunder shook his seat. He knew he was going to be there for a while.

  He glanced over at the passenger seat. A flash of lightening illuminated the wet enamel of the giant tooth. At least when I do make it back, I’ll have proof, he thought. Otherwise, who knows how many lives would be lost before they’d start taking my story seriously? He reached over and picked it up. In all of the madness, it was the first time he’d had a chance to look at it up close.

  The sheer size of the tooth was unbelievable, longer than his forearm. Holding its blunt end even with his elbow, the pointed crown extended well beyond his fingertips. He lifted it up and down trying to guess its weight. Now the big question, he thought. Who do I show this to first, once I get back? He recalled an old friend from college and smiled. “What would Willie make of this?”

  In his mind’s eye, John went back two decades to a quiet afternoon in the UCLA college library. He was sitting at a table, engrossed in his studies when a thick book plopped down in front of him. It was open to a page titled: “Largest Predators of the Sea.”

  John looked up at the curly-haired student. “What have you got now, Willie?”

  “This is the prehistoric marine reptile I was telling you about—pliosaur!” replied the lanky young man, barely able to contain himself.

  “Pliosaur?”

  “Yeah, they were short-necked plesiosaurs with huge heads and massive jaws. And their teeth were enormous; some of them were about the size of a machete!”

  John had looked at the drawings and pointed to a tiny silhouette one quarter the size of the pliosaur. “What’s that small one?”

  Willie grinned, “That’s a twenty-one-foot great white—looks like a sardine compared to pliosaur, huh!”

  John looked at the silhouette of a whale at the top of the page. “It’s the size of an adult sperm whale!”

  “Could sure kick the crap out of Jaws, huh?” Willie laughed.

  “No doubt,” muttered John. “How long since it’s been around?”

  “Most paleontologists agree that it died out in the late Jurassic.”

  “Guess that’s why old T-rex was afraid of the water,” replied John.

  “Yeah, who wouldn’t be? They say it was longer than a greyhound bus and had jaws big and powerful enough to pick up a truck and tear it in half. It was the largest carnivore of all time . . . on land or sea!”

  Another clap of thunder snatched John from his daydream. Staring at the giant tooth, he noticed what appeared to be gum tissue on the root. “Late Jurassic,” he snickered. “Well, Willie old buddy, we’ll see what the experts make of this.”

  ~~~

  Beneath the dark churning sky, the Indian Ocean grew violent. Slowly, amid the rolling swells, the tip of the jagged frill began to rise—growing longer as more of it broke the surface. The waterline appeared before widely spaced eyes. The roaring thunder and crackling lightning overhead were of no concern.

  The giant maw remained slightly agape, forcing the flow of water up into a pair of orifices in the roof of the creature’s mouth. The left fore paddle fin tilted, keeping the long, slit-like nostrils on track with the scent just ahead. Armor-plated skin slid silently through the water. Then all four paddle fins pumped in unison––thrusting the colossal beast forward with blinding speed. Every sensory device locked in. A sudden explosion caused the ocean to rumble. The impact drove shock waves through the water as the pliosaur’s field of view turned red. The juvenile sperm whale never saw it coming.

  Chapter 9

  THE STORM

  Two hundred miles off the coast of Durban, a small commercial fishing boat struggled to navigate the hostile sea. Standing alone at the helm, a sturdy man in his mid-fifties gripped the wheel firmly. A familiar bottle of Johnny Walker Black was harnessed to the instrument cluster, well within reach.

  For thirty-eight years, Captain Sam Buitendach had seen the worst storms these waters could dish out and felt little concern; however, tonight’s thirty-foot swells were an exception. With every passing minute, the mountains of water seemed to grow higher.

  He glanced at the clock above the instrument cluster. “Ten forty-five. Are we ever gonna find the end of this blasted thing?” he snorted. He peered through the windshield, barely able to see the face of each wave through the wind-driven rain. Again, the bow rose, lifting his view nearly straight up into the black sky­, the wheel feeling weightless in his hands. Then the bow dropped over the giant swell, and the windshield washed white with foam as the boat slammed the sea.

  Rolling toward another swell, one of his patrons emerged from the lower level. The young man hugging a life jacket grabbed the captain’s shoulder. “What’s going on, bro? This weather ain’t getting any better! You . . . you sure you’re going in the right direction to get us out o’ this?” He noticed the bottle of whisky on the instrument cluster. “Hey! With weather like this, you think it’s a good time to be drinking?”

  The captain nodded toward the windshield. “Looking into the face of a thirty-foot swell is as good a time as any . . . boy!”

  The young man followed the captain’s gaze to the windshield. “I . . . I gotta go back below . . . I can’t look at this!” With that, he disappeared into the stairwell.

  “Left your sea legs at home, did ya?” bellowed the captain. “That’s okay, honey. You just go back to bed, and I’ll rock ya to sleep!”

  He took another swig and laughed.

  For several minutes Buitendach continued to stare at the windshield, unable to see the approaching swells until they were practically on him. The bow repeatedly tilted, looking into the black sky, until the vessel rolled forward and filled the windshield with white foam. The captain lifted the bottle from the harness for another sip. But the bottle stopped short of his lips.

  His eyes widened.

  The water pounding the windshield was suddenly blood red! The rain washed the substance from the windshield, flowing back across the side windows in disturbing pink streaks. He looked closer at the windshield.

  Something white, twice the length of his boat appeared in the face of the approaching wave. At first, it looked like the hull of an overturned boat. Then, crash! More bloody seawater smashed against the windshield, obscuring his view. Climbing the next swell, it was clear that what looked like the hull of a boat was actually the white flesh of a whale.

  The bow continued to rise straight toward the enormous underbelly, when suddenly the mountain of flesh rolled, revealing a gaping wound in its side. Its giant fluke burst from the sea, rising high into the night. The bottle of Johnny Walker dropped to the deck. Captain Buitendach ducked as the colossal tail swept over the wheelhouse, spewing water against the windshield as the creature was pulled beneath the waves by an unseen force.

  The captain fought the wheel, turning against the undertow from the descending whale. He rolled up another swell. A glance back showed an enormous upwelling of white froth in the creature’s absence until another swell blocked his view.

  A primal roar rose from the waves, echoing
across the sea.

  He slowly turned back to the windshield. Gripping the wheel with both hands, he stared straight ahead into the torrential rain. His position never changed until they were clear of the storm.

  ~~~

  Lightning reflected from a small tribesman’s back as he raced through the jungle hurdling leaves and branches. It was the middle of the night, and the rain continued to pour. His mind raced, thinking about the great discovery he’d made, the white man’s machine sitting in front of the coastline. He couldn’t believe his hunch had paid off after trekking through the rain all night to the opposite side of the island. He imagined being treated like a hero once he returned. Kota would be proud. He leaped from the thick and stepped onto the wet sand. Finally, Onue could see the torchlight from the village.

  ~~~

  Inside a large hut in the center of the village, Kota wiped the white triangle from his face. Around him dozens of tribesmen drew sharp shells across their chests, mourning the chief’s death—a painful tradition to be endured throughout the night with no food or rest. Kota sloshed a rag in a wooden bowl and brought it to his face, and then he heard shouting outside the hut. The sound drew nearer.

  The men gathered protectively around Kota and turned their attention toward the entryway.

  “White man can’t fly in rain! He’s here! He’s here!” shouted Onue in their native tongue. He ran up to Kota, pointing to the rain outside. “White man still here! He can’t fly in rain! I see him! I show you! I show you!”

  Kota looked outside the window. Every flash of lightning revealed rain falling at a sharp angle in front of the waving coconut palms. He had the evil one now; Kota knew destiny had delivered the white man into his hands to pay for what he’d done. Kota smiled at Onue. He grabbed the small man’s left hand and thrust it into the air for all to see. Onue stood on his tiptoes to increase his height. It was the proudest moment of his life!

  The surrounding tribesmen screamed in assumed victory, and Kota pointed to the tiny tribesman with the ear-to-ear smile. “Follow him to the white man!” he commanded in their native tongue. “Do not let the murderer leave the island.” Kota reached down to his hip and unsheathed a knife. Multicolored stones sparkled in its handle as he thrust it overhead. “This is for the one who returns with the white man’s head!”