Vengeance from the Deep - Book One: Pliosaur

by Russ Elliott

  John raised his voice above the road noise. “I said eighty! Not eighteen, eighty! This creature is at least eighty feet long! The Motanza attack yesterday . . . that wasn’t a whale; it was this same creature. Also, the beaching . . . the whales running aground in Jeffrey’s Bay and Mossel Bay . . . it all proves the creature is headed southwest. That’s why you have to close down the shark tours at Dyer Island immediately. Then we need to get some eyes in the air to find—”

  Laughter erupted from the cell phone. “Waaait just a minute! I’ve got three of our choppers over Mazeppa Bay looking for survivors from the Motanza, and you want me to pull them to look for some eighty-foot reptile?” He assured John there was nothing to fear by adding, “Relax. I received a similar call several months ago. I’m sure you only saw a line of basking sharks feeding. They can look quite odd from the air, like one continuous creature.”

  John lowered the cell phone, baffled. He had not expected to be laughed at outright. He looked at Kate. “He’s laughing. Says I probably saw a few basking sharks feeding in a line.”

  Kate motioned to John to hand over the phone. Clearly, he was getting nowhere fast, so he happily obliged. She raised her voice into the phone. “A basking shark doesn’t have a mouth full of nineteen-inch, razor-sharp teeth! This is Kate Atkinson, and I have such a tooth in my possession. It has fresh gum tissue attached to the root, and it doesn’t take a genius to know what that means. We’ll show it to you.”

  Keeping one eye on the road, she continued, “If you don’t close the shark tours this minute, you’ll have a slaughter that’ll make the Motanza attack look like a fish fry. And if this happens, I swear I’ll take this tooth straight to the media––tell them how a certain Lieutenant Vic Greeman wouldn’t cooperate. Don’t worry . . . I’ll make sure they spell your name right, Lieutenant!” She listened for a long moment. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Be there in an hour.”

  Kate clicked the cell phone off with a “that’s how you do it” smile.

  John shrugged. “Guess some things just need a woman’s touch.”

  Kate swerved to avoid a pothole. “The lieutenant saw the Motanza footage, agrees that something’s not quite right about it. Also, one of the tour operators is an old friend of his. Said he’ll get them to take the day off, but he wants to see the tooth ASAP. Still, I don’t think he completely believed me. He said we’re wrong about the creature’s length.”

  “We probably are,” muttered John. “It’s probably closer to a hundred.” Kate wheeled around a corner, and they entered the airport parking lot.

  ~~~

  After hanging up the telephone, Lieutenant Vic Greeman swung around in his chair and faced a Rolodex. He extracted a section of cards and placed them beside the phone. He plucked the first one from the stack. Above a shark’s gaping jaws, it read “Shark Tours: Dive with Live Sharks.” He reluctantly dialed the number. “The boys aren’t gonna be happy about this.”

  After three rings, a deep, gravelly voice answered, “Shark Tours, wildest show in South Africa!”

  “Drew, this is Vic Greeman.”

  “Vic, how you doing? Ready to drop down in a cage yet? Had a couple sixteen-footers yesterday you’d have liked. Hey, remember when you called earlier, asking if I’ve noticed any fluctuation in shark activity?”

  “Yeah, why? Have you noticed an increase?” asked Vic.

  “No,” replied Drew. “Just the opposite. Earlier today, I went out to my usual spot and chummed for nearly three hours. Didn’t see nothin’. Usually it doesn’t take no more than twenty minutes before the first white shows up. Had to bring everyone back in and give ’em a refund. First time that’s happened in over five years. It was like there wasn’t a shark around for miles, like they’d all up and left the channel.”

  “But this isn’t your prime season,” Vic said. “Around this time of year, during the warmer months, don’t the sharks usually disperse and start hunting for fish?”

  “Yeah, but not like this.”

  Vic stared at the business card between his fingers. “Well, considering that the sharks seem to be on vacation, you might not mind my request so much.”

  ~~~

  Drew Hensen hesitated in the doorway of his small, shack-like office at the edge of the Dyer Channel. Deep lines crisscrossing his sun-weathered face made him look older than a man of sixty-two. His purple tank top exposed lots of loose, leathery skin. He peered across the anxious tourists gathered on the dock. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t want to come out at first. He didn’t want to say them, but he knew he had to.

  “Sorry folks! I’m not gonna be able to take you out today!”

  “Whaddya talking ’bout? I brought the kid out here to see a shaaaaak!” complained a man in his forties with a thick New York accent.

  Beside him, a boy wearing a red t-shirt sporting a shark’s gaping jaws whined, “Yeah, we came all the way from New York!”

  The rest of the tourists chimed in, muttering their two cents of disappointment.

  “People, it’s not my decision.” Drew raised his hands. “The Navy’s closing me down for the rest of the day!”

  The New Yorker quickly spoke for the crowd. “That’s okay. There’s plenty of ottah shark tours ‘round here willing to take our money.”

  “Not today, they ain’t!” replied Drew. “They’re closing down everyone for the rest of the day. Not just me.”

  A man with long, sandy-blond hair spoke in a Swedish accent, “They can’t do that. We have to leave tomorrow. Here . . . what if I give you an extra fifty?”

  Drew shook his head and started refunding their money. “Sorry, I’d like to take you all out, but there’s nothing I can do. The Navy’s out there doing some kind of research and don’t want anyone chummin’ up the water. But it’s only for today.” Drew yanked back the money, and his eyes lit up. “Folks, tell ya what! If you buy your tickets right now for tomorrow’s show, I’ll give you a twenty-rand discount per ticket. How does that sound?”

  The New Yorker grabbed his refund. “What do we look like, a bunch of suckaaahs? Come on, little Joey. We’re outta heah!”

  “We are too!” added the Swede, snatching his refund. The rest of the group followed suit, murmuring their disappointment all the way to the parking lot. Drew just stood on the dock, looking at each person’s back while trying to get a handle on all the money that had just slipped through his greedy fingers. When the tally reached two thousand rand, he moaned. “Vic, you’d better have a really good reason for this.”

  After the dock emptied, Drew shouted back to his boat where a young man was mixing chum in a large barrel. “Charley, wrap it up best ya can. We won’t be goin’ out for the rest of the day. And you can go ahead and take off when you’re finished.”

  Charley just waved a hand without questioning the order.

  Drew turned to a loud screech in the parking lot. Behind the fleeing crowd, a sleek red Porsche skidded to a stop. On the car’s side door, a magnetic sign read, “Dive with Live Sharks.” A stocky man wearing shorts and a tight, red t-shirt shot out of the car and slammed the door in anger. He shouted to Drew, “Did they close you down too?”

  “Better believe they did, Al! Just watched two thousand rand walk off the dock.”

  Al Whittal, an angler in his mid-fifties with receding gray hair, charged up the dock like a bull. “What’s all of this nonsense about research that keeps us from going out and making a living? Vic sounded a little weird to me, like he was hiding something. All right, fess up old man. Did he tell you anything? Come on now . . . I know you and Vic go way back.”

  Drew paused. “Well . . .”

  “Come on,” Al said. “I know he told you something. I can see it in your beady eyes.”

  “Mentioned something about a creature.”

  “What kind of creature?”

  Al pursued Drew as he walked farther out on the dock to his boat. Drew scratched his head, not sure he should say anything. But this guy ain’t gonna leave . . . “H
e just said it was big and dangerous. Like the sharks we deal with every day aren’t.”

  “Did he say how big?”

  “No . . . just talked like our cages might not be able to protect us. I sensed there was more. But when I tried to get it out of him, he acted like he’d told me too much already.” Drew stopped beside his boat.

  “I’m not buying this research bit,” said Al. “What do you think the real story is?”

  Drew perched his foot on a piling beside his boat. “You tell me. All I know is the rest of the day is shot, and I’ve just lost two thousand rand!”

  “Maybe not,” Al said with a wicked grin. “Must be a great white . . . why else would he keep tight-lipped? A shark too big for our cages . . . you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Drew squinted back at him. “Could be a record-setter. Certainly make up for a day’s lost wages. Imagine what the publicity would do for business.” He turned to his boat. “Well, I’m already loaded.”

  Al slapped him on the back and laughed. “Don’t have to tell me that—it’s past noon, and I can smell it on ya!”

  “I don’t mean me, you skeeve. I’m talkin’ about the boat,” Drew grumbled. “Charley just finished making up a new batch of chum. Got plenty of bait fish too.”

  Al stepped onto the gunwale. “Then we’re all set!”

  Drew grabbed his shoulder. “Wait a minute. This is illegal, you know. Blue pointers are protected species. They could come down on us pretty hard if we get caught.”

  Al stepped aboard and laughed. “If I come back with a world-record catch, I’ll be happy to pay a lousy fine. Just get your wrinkly butt in the boat.”

  ~~~

  John could feel his pulse pounding against the cool enamel of the giant tooth while he held it tightly in his lap. He looked down through the side window of the helicopter. His anticipation swelled as a series of tall mountains rose and dropped beneath them.

  His mind raced, thinking about the lieutenant—how someone had finally listened and taken action. He glanced over at Kate. “So tell me about these shark tours. Do a lot of people participate?”

  Kate nodded emphatically. “Oh yes! Every day tourists line up on the docks ready to go out. It’s a big attraction. They’re willing to wait for hours on a crowded deck just to get a glimpse of a great white . . . or as the locals call them, blue pointers.”

  Kate pulled up slightly on the cyclic control. “After the fishing industry dried up around the Dyer Channel, it didn’t take the local fishermen long to realize they could make a lot more money as shark tour operators than they ever could as fishermen. I heard one tour operator claim that in six months he took out a thousand tourists on his boat alone—and that’s not bad money at a hundred fifty dollars a head. Now, they say if you drive through the little town of Gans Bay, you’ll find a handmade shark’s cage in almost every yard. So if the lieutenant didn’t stop them, you can bet there are at least a dozen boats full of tourists out there chumming the waters right now.”

  John gazed across the instrument cluster. Eventually, his eyes wandered back to Kate—across her khaki shorts, pausing on her long, toned legs as they worked the pedals. He realized this was becoming a habit with him, gazing at Kate. Just as she felt his eyes on her, he quickly looked back up to the instrument cluster. “How . . . how we looking on fuel? After stopping at the Navy, think we could make it to Gans Bay before dark? Have a look around before heading back?”

  “Read my mind . . . oh, that’s scary,” Kate said with a gasp. “Now I’m starting to think like you!”

  John looked through the window. “Could be hope for you yet.”

  Kate smiled, amused by his comeback. She glanced at the fuel gauge. “No problem on fuel. But visibility might be an issue. Aside from the darkness, the Western Cape can be quite foggy this time of year.” She winked. “But you never know, we could get lucky.”

  John kept his eyes on the passing coastline.

  ~~~

  As the main rotor slowed, John and Kate slid from the helicopter and stepped onto the Knysna Naval Base helipad. John grabbed the tooth, adrenaline pumping, eyes fixed on the naval base. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

  Closing the pilot’s door, Kate stopped cold. “Oh crap! That’s not good.” She kneeled beside the skid, eyeing a large, black puddle. “That’s oil. Could be a line. I’d better check it out.”

  John knew there was no time for this. He said hastily while walking away, “I’ll take the tooth to the lieutenant while you fix the chopper.”

  With a nod, Kate slid between the skids while John headed for the base. She paused while watching John walk away, tension written all over his posture. “Hey!” she shouted.

  John stopped cold and looked back. He saw Kate smile from beneath the helicopter. “Relax!” she shouted. “It’s all gonna be okay. I promise!” John stared at her warmly for a long moment. He appreciated her reassurance. A grateful nod, and he was on his way.

  ~~~

  Lieutenant Vic Greeman’s office was sterile, even by military standards. No jackets draped over chairs, no magazines, books, or papers in plain view. Nothing looked out of place with the exception of the giant, white monstrosity of a tooth sitting on his desk. Fluorescent light glistened off the enamel as Vic slowly picked it up.

  “Yes, those rough moist areas along the root are where fresh gum tissue is still attached,” assured John. “If you like, I can call Steven Jensen at the South African World Museum. He has seen the tooth and can verify it.”

  When the lieutenant finally looked up, his eyes told John that wouldn’t be necessary.

  “The shark tours . . . are they closed?”

  Vic was still staring at the tooth in his hand, trying to come to terms with what it all meant. “Most of them.”

  Most?

  The lieutenant seemed embarrassed, defensive. “There were some I . . . I couldn’t reach. They didn’t pick up. You have no idea how many—”

  John couldn’t believe his ears. “You mean someone could still be out there? Now?”

  The lieutenant’s eyes said yes.

  John felt a rush of panic. “What are we sitting around here for?”

  Chapter 23

  ONE FOR THE RECORD BOOKS

  Less than a mile outside the Dyer Island Channel, a small fishing boat was anchored beneath the evening sky. Trailing from the stern, a forty-yard streak of blood widened as it drifted toward the open ocean. Al took a break from slinging chum with a soup ladle and stood up to stretch his back. After peering in every direction, he said, “Well, it looks like everyone followed orders. Not a soul in sight.”

  “Yeah, everyone but us!” replied Drew while he struggled to work an enormous bait hook through a seven-pound section of tuna.

  After hanging his soup ladle on the side of the drum, Al paused, looking at the water. “No. I take it back, looks like there’s someone in the distance.”

  Drew nervously said, “Hope it’s not the Navy. Can you tell what kind of boat it is? Can you see a cage?”

  Al squinted. “Not yet, I can’t tell.”

  Starting to panic, Drew dropped the bait hook to the deck. “Maybe we should hide everything. I could toss all of this overboard!”

  Squinting at the small boat on the horizon, Al muttered, “I don’t know, but the forty-yard streak of blood pointing to our stern might still look a little suspicious. Wait a minute, looks like a fishing boat. Think we’re okay.”

  The small vessel drew nearer. Al wiped his chum-stained hands on the side of his pants and walked to the edge of the stern. He saw two figures standing at the bow of the approaching boat, a heavyset man with dark hair and a young boy. As the boat passed, the man rubbed his fingers from the bottom of his chin and outward in a rude gesture. A loud voice echoed from the boat in a thick New York accent, “Hey, you ka-ka-roach! I thought you was stayin’ in today?”

  Al looked back at Drew. “Another satisfied customer, huh?”

  “Yeah, part of the two thousand ra
nd that I lost today,” replied Drew. “Figures Willie Strickland would be the one to take ’em out. That sucker’s always undercutting me.”

  The small boat passed while the heavyset man held his hands on his hips, watching them until the boat went out of sight. “Aaah, don’t mind them,” said Al, walking back to the chum barrel. “Looks like they’re just out cruising around. Come back over here, and let’s see how far you can hurl this bait hook.”

  Drew reached down and picked up the bait, making sure the tuna was well into the hook. After checking to see that the hook was secured to the leader wire, Drew hoisted the bait overhead and swirled it around with all his strength. Gaining enough momentum for a good toss, he let it go with a loud moan. Forty-five feet out, the bait splashed into the bloodstained waters.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” growled Al.

  “That wasn’t a bad toss!”

  “Yeah, for an old woman with a severe case of arthritis maybe,” replied Al with a laugh.

  “Suppose you could do better?”

  Al sat on the side of the boat and stared across the chum slick. “I can remember back at South Pier in the early ‘60s when even on a bad day I could easily clear a hundred twenty, hundred fifty feet, no problem.”

  “Well, this ain’t the early ‘60s, and you’re not a teenager anymore,” grumbled Drew.

  Al glanced at Drew and then looked back at the water. “Don’t you mind that. I can still get it out there a good ways.”

  “Okay, Hercules. After I reel it back in, you can make the next toss.” Drew sat back in his chair and started to harness himself in by buckling the straps.

  Al looked over. “Gettin’ ready a little early, ain’t ya? Don’t even have a hit yet.”

  “Hey, just want to make sure I’m ready.”

  “Well, the Durban Angler’s Club would be ashamed of all that, those gismos!” He waved dramatically at the straps and the chair and Drew.

  “Ashamed of what?” asked Drew as he buckled the last strap.

  “All of this . . . being strapped into chairs and fishing from the boat, letting the boat maneuver back and forth, playing the shark for you. All of this technology takes the sport out of it. This boat fishing is for wimps.”