Meg_A Novel of Deep Terror

by Steve Alten

  “Don’t forget, I relieve you at sunrise.” She squeezed his hand, then leaned in and whispered in his ear. “Jonas, what I said before about you bringing bad karma to the mission… you know I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yeah, you did. But karma can change. I think it usually takes about twenty minutes.”

  She smiled, watching him crawl inside the aft end of the glider.

  DeMarco was standing by at the winch. He waited until Jonas sealed the hatch and gave a thumbs-up before reversing the cable, lifting the mini-sub off the tilted deck by its saddle.

  Jonas held on as the A-frame swung him out over the Kiku’s stern. For a long moment he swayed, DeMarco allowing gravity to rectify the awkward angle of the A-frame before lowering the glider into the dark waters of the Pacific.

  Jonas activated the exterior light. He waited until the saddle sunk clear of his propeller, then powered up the engine and descended below the Kiku’s keel for a quick inspection.

  With the ship sitting lower in the water and listing hard to port, the damage looked far worse than Terry had described twelve hours ago. He circled below the slowly churning propeller, the wobbling blades caused by the bent shaft.

  Descending to three hundred feet, he approached the Megalodon, the adrenaline causing his heart to race.

  The creature’s white hide reflected the mini-sub’s exterior light, casting the gargantuan shark in a ghostly glow. Banking in a tight circle, Jonas maneuvered the AG-I along the right side of the unconscious monster’s head, maintaining a twenty foot distance.

  The lower jaw was agape, water passing through uninhibited. The Meg’s lidless eye was involuntarily rolled backward in the shark’s head, concealing the pupil. It was a natural response, the Meg’s brain automatically repositioning the now-useless organ for its own protection.

  “Jonas!”

  His heart jumped from his chest, his harness pulling hard against his shoulders. “Dammit, Terry, you scared the hell out of me.”

  He could hear her laughing through the radio. “Sorry. Hey, we’re still steady at fifty-three beats per minute, though yours shot up to one-twenty. How’s the Meg?”

  “Sleeping like a baby. How close are we to the lagoon?”

  “Six-point-three miles away. Leon predicts we’ll be entering the canal right around seven-twenty.”

  Jonas smiled. “Sounds like the beginning of a great day.”

  Monterey Bay

  They had been waiting all night, anchored close to shore—a pilgrimage gathered as if summoned by the creature itself. Some were marine biologists, others reporters, but most were simply curious tourists and thrill seekers, apprehensive yet prepared to face the risks in order to be a part of history. Their transports varied in size, from small outboards to larger fishing trawlers. Every whale-watching company within a fifty-mile radius was represented, their rates sufficiently inflated for the event.

  And while they waited they partied. Music blared and beer flowed from kegs. Police boats patrolled the area, every once in a while issuing warnings. For a few minutes the sound decibel would drop, picking up again the moment the cops were out of range.

  · · ·

  Andre Dupont had to lease the forty-eight-foot fishing trawler for the week, even though the Cousteau Society only needed the boat for the day. Leaning against the bow rail, the French marine biologist watched the northeastern sky through his binoculars as the gray haze grew lighter. Turning west, he followed the line of the horizon to the Kiku, the crippled research ship still a good three miles from the canal entrance.

  He reentered the bridge, nodded to the captain, then pulled his American liaison, Kariane Philips aside, whispering to her in French. “Kariane, the Kiku is close now… just over six kilometers away. How close to the Megalodon will our captain bring us?”

  Kariane shook her head. “The captain refuses to leave the shallows until the Megalodon is secured in its pen. He won’t risk the boat.”

  “I do not blame the man.” Dupont gazed out the bridge windows, the predawn light revealing several hundred water craft. The Frenchman shook his head. “I fear that our other friends will probably not be as cautious.”

  · · ·

  Frank Heller sat in the Magnate’s bridge, watching the Kiku crawl through a pair of high-powered night binoculars as the damaged vessel pushed ahead at its agonizingly slow pace. He shared none of Andre Dupont’s exhilaration, only rage. In his shirt pocket was a photo of his brother, Dennis and his family. The side of his neck felt tight, throbbing with his rising anger. He imagined himself sitting down with his two nephews one day in the near-future, describing how he had killed the monster that took their father. The thought strengthened his resolve.

  “It’s time, Mr. Harris,” he said, not looking away from the horizon.

  Bud engaged the throttle. The Magnate’s twin engines jumped to life, pushing the yacht toward their destiny.

  · · ·

  The pre-dawn light filtered curtains of gray down through the depths.

  Jonas watched as the creature’s entire torso became visible, a lethal dirigible being led toward its new hangar. He brought the glider’s Lexan nose cone within five feet of the female’s right eye, the pupil still rolled back in its head, the light exposing a bloodshot white-yellow membrane.

  “Jonas?” Terry’s voice crackled over the radio. “Something’s happening with the Meg. Her respiration rate is up and her pulse has been climbing steadily over the last few minutes. As we speak, it’s at sixty-six. I think she’s rousing herself, trying to come out of it.”

  “Jonas, DeMarco here. If the creature’s heart rate reaches seventy-five, I want you back in the glider’s saddle. As soon as you’re back onboard, I’m hitting your monster with another harpoon full of drugs.”

  Jonas thought about arguing, but changed his mind.

  DeMarco was right. If the Meg regained consciousness before the Kiku could get her safely in the lagoon, the ship and its entire crew would be in danger.

  He stared at the creature’s open jaws. Coursing through its DNA was four hundred million years of instinct. The predator would not think or choose; she would only react, each cell attuned to her environment, every response preconditioned. Nature itself had decided that the species would dominate the oceans, commanding it to perpetuate itself in the Mariana Trench, away from man.

  Jonas whispered, “We should have left you alone.”

  Terry’s voice pierced his thoughts. “Jonas, didn’t you hear me?”

  “Sorry, I—”

  “Your friend’s yacht is bearing down on us.”

  “You mean the Magnate? Is Bud on-board? What’s he doing?”

  “I don’t know, but they’re within five hundred yards of the Meg and closing fast.”

  · · ·

  DeMarco focused his binoculars on the yacht, his line of sight drifting back to activity in the stern. Two men were balancing a large steel drum on the transom.

  Four hundred yards…

  DeMarco recognized a face… “Frank?” He refocused on the steel drum and realized what he was witnessing.

  “Mac, they’ve got a depth charge—get airborne! Jonas, they’re trying to kill the Meg—get deep!”

  · · ·

  Adrenaline pumping, Jonas rolled the sub beneath the Megalodon’s massive pectoral fin and descended.

  · · ·

  Mac pulled back on the joystick as he adjusted his foot pedals, sending the helicopter leaping off the Kiku’s listing deck. Wary of the news choppers overhead, he stayed within twenty feet of the surface, racing to intercept the yacht.

  “Morning, Bud. Hope you’re in the mood for a… Mac attack!”

  · · ·

  Bud looked up as a helicopter appeared out of nowhere, bearing down on his bridge on a collision course. The millionaire yanked the wheel hard to port seconds before the platform supporting the chopper’s thermal imager smashed into the Magnate’s radar antenna, ripping it off of its aluminum base, the air raining sh
rapnel.

  Reacting as if a grenade had just gone off above their heads, Danielson and Heller dove for cover, abandoning the depth charge.

  As the yacht veered hard to port, the steel drum rolled over the transom and plunged into the ocean. Seawater rushed into the canister’s six holes, filling the pistol chamber, sinking the bomb.

  Cursing, Heller sat up, looking back in time to see the helicopter bank sharply, the pilot circling back.

  “Lunatic… ”

  “Frank, the charge—get down!”

  · · ·

  Mac pushed down on the joystick, a smile fixed on his face as he began a second run at the yacht.

  Wa-BOOM!!

  The underwater blast sent a geyser of sea rocketing skyward into the path of the helicopter, the rotor fighting to regain draft.

  Mac fought his controls as the tail of his chopper swung out from behind him, smashing into the upper deck of the Magnate, shearing off the blades.

  Before he could react, the copter slammed sideways into the ocean.

  · · ·

  At three hundred and twelve feet, the depth charge’s spring had released, thrusting the percussion detonator against the primer. The crude weapon had imploded, then exploded with a flash and subsonic boom. Although the lethal radius of the bomb measured only twenty-five feet, the resulting shock wave was devastating.

  The invisible force of current caught the Abyss Glider broadside, rolling the craft wing over wing. Jonas pitched hard against the Lexan cone, cracking his head against the curved windshield, nearly knocking himself out.

  · · ·

  Masao Tanaka had just exited the Kiku’s bridge and started down the exterior stairwell when the blast had shaken the listing ship. Losing his balance, he tumbled head-first down the steel steps.

  “Dad!” Terry ran to her father, DeMarco right behind her. Carefully, she rolled him over on his back, praying he hadn’t broken his neck.

  His head was badly bruised, his brow swollen and bleeding. He looked up at Terry with a far-away gaze that scared her more than his physical wounds.

  “Al, we need to get a Medi-vac helicopter out here right away.”

  · · ·

  The frigid water snapped Mac awake. Opening his eyes, he was startled to find himself submerged upside down and underwater, the cockpit filling fast. Forcing himself to remain calm, he located the shoulder harness release and ducked out of the open side door, kicking toward the surface.

  · · ·

  The power was out, the back-up batteries supplying just enough juice to keep the life-support system running.

  Jonas swore to himself, then began rolling hard against the interior, gradually gaining enough momentum to rotate the sub right-side up. As he completed the maneuver, he could feel the natural buoyancy of the glider taking over as it gradually began to rise, tail-first, the heavier nose cone dropping.

  “Terry, come in. Kiku, this is Taylor, can you read me?” The radio, like everything else on the sub, was down.

  A glow loomed on his right, lighting up the interior. Jonas turned to find himself hovering within three feet of the female’s basketball-size pupil.

  The blue eye, now a foggy cataract gray, was open. Though blind, it was staring directly at Jonas.

  The Megalodon was awake.

  CHAOS

  BUD HARRIS DRAGGED HIMSELF off the bridge’s polished marble floor, unsure of what had just taken place. The Magnate was drifting, her twin engines down. He glanced out the tinted glass in time to see the helicopter’s blades slip beneath the waves.

  “Hope you die whoever you were,” he muttered, then pressed the ON switch, attempting to restart the engines.

  Nothing happened.

  “Danielson, Heller? Where the hell are you two morons?” Bud headed out on deck, locating the two men standing by the transom.

  “Well? Is the monster dead?”

  Heller looked at Danielson. “Of course it’s dead… I mean, it has to be.”

  “You don’t seem so certain.”

  “It’s dead,” said Danielson. “We had to release the charge a little earlier than we intended when that chopper showed up, but the blast was more than enough to kill it.”

  “We really should get out of here.”

  “Well, boys, that’s gonna be a bit of a problem,” Bud said, spitting over the side. “The engines are dead. Your damn explosive apparently loosened something, and I’m not exactly a licensed mechanic.”

  “Christ, we’re stuck out here with that monster?” Heller shook his head, his jaws locked tight.

  “Frank, it’s dead. Trust me,” said Danielson. “We’ll be watching it float belly-up any second now.”

  Heller looked at his former commanding officer. “Dick, it’s a shark. It’s not going to float. If it’s really dead, it’ll sink to the bottom.”

  They turned in unison, a splashing sound to their left.

  A hand appeared at the ladder, followed by Mac, who dragged himself on-board the yacht, collapsing on a deck chair.

  “Beautiful morning, isn’t it, assholes?”

  · · ·

  Jonas lay on his stomach, his head down, his claustrophobia causing shortness of breath. The lifeless Abyss Glider’s left mid-wing had caught on the cargo net, keeping the sub eye level with the Megalodon. Jonas watched in fascination and horror as the female’s cataract-gray eye continued focusing involuntarily on the tiny submersible.

  She’s blind, but she still knows I’m here. Don’t move. Don’t even breathe.

  The caudal fin animated, swishing in labored, side-to-side movements, propelling the predator slowly ahead. The monstrous gill slits came into view, fluttering with labored breaths.

  Still caught within the net, the Megalodon whipped its head back and forth—freeing the Abyss Glider. The powerless submersible rose tail-first as the most frightening animal on the planet became cognizant of its surroundings.

  Jonas looked down, watching the Meg. The cargo net remained ensnared around her pectoral fins, restricting her movement. Enraged, she rolled once, then twice, twisting and tangling herself tighter within the trap.

  The Abyss Glider tossed in the Meg’s wake. The vessel spun away, causing Jonas to lose sight of the creature. Then, as the sub’s nose cone drifted downward, he caught a glimpse of the shark, its upper torso completely entwined in the cargo net.

  “She’s going to drown,” he whispered to himself. “Thank God.”

  · · ·

  The passengers aboard the flotilla anchored in Monterey Bay had witnessed the super-yacht break from the group to rendezvous with the incoming guest of honor. They had seen the helicopter intercept the vessel, only to end up crashing into the sea as the depth charge had detonated.

  The onlookers grew anxious, wondering if the underwater explosion had killed the creature they had paid good money to see.

  The owner of a cigarette racing boat gunned his engines, announcing his intentions.

  Almost as one, the pleasure crafts, fishing boat owners, and tour ship captains weighed anchor, following the speedboat out to sea, everyone determined to get a close-up look at the captured Megalodon shark, be it dead or alive.

  · · ·

  Nine media helicopters were hovering above the Kiku, continually shifting positions in their attempt to gain better camera angles. The underwater explosion had created a fresh twist on the story and for the first time in the last twenty-four hours there was actually something new to report. Network executives ordered their helicopter crews to lower their altitudes in order to assess whether the monster had survived.

  David Adashek was in the back of an Action News copter, straining to see over his cameraman’s shoulder. The creature’s white hide was visible, but whether the shark was still alive was impossible to ascertain.

  The pilot tapped David’s arm, motioning him to look southeast.

  Racing toward the Megalodon were dozens of boats.

  · · ·

  From the tip of her snout
to the base of her caudal fin, the Megalodon’s skin contained fine, tooth-like prickles called dermal denticles. Sharp and sandpaper-like in texture, these “skin teeth” channeled water as the Meg swam, but when touched from back to front they could rip open leather, rendering the shark’s hide yet another weapon in the predator’s arsenal of evolutionary adaptations.

  As the female twisted insanely within the cargo net, the dermal denticles sawed through the rope, slicing it to ribbons.

  Jonas watched in horror as the Meg shook loose its bonds. His pulse pounded in his throat—compounded by the deep vibrations coming from the helicopters.

  Desperate, he tried the power switch again—still dead—as the monster ascended past him, heading toward the surface to investigate.

  · · ·

  DeMarco’s eyes widened as he saw the Megalodon surface fifty yards to starboard, the semi-conscious creature swimming on its left side, a river of sea passing into her mouth as she exposed her glistening white belly to him.

  It was too good of a target to pass up.

  DeMarco aimed the harpoon gun, then released his breath, forced to wait until a speedboat raced by, its engines growling, its pilot completely oblivious to the fact that he had just passed the Megalodon.

  DeMarco reset himself—

  The Meg was gone.

  · · ·

  The twenty-six foot Boston Whaler maneuvered past two other vessels to emerge from the pack of water craft racing out to the Kiku. Jani Harper was at the helm, her twelve-year-old son, Collin, standing beside her in the closed convertible cockpit, urging her on. Three of her friends were seated behind her on a vinyl wrap-around sofa, their husbands playing poker in the cabin below.

  The sun peeked over the eastern horizon, bathing the Pacific in its brilliant golden hue—the light reflecting off the windshields of nine news helicopters that were trailing the Kiku, their presence no doubt marking the location of the netted creature. Jani could just make out the logo of the Tanaka Institute painted in red along the port-bow of the badly listing research vessel laboring a quarter mile ahead.

  And then Jani Harper felt the blood drain from her face as the most frightening creature she had ever seen launched straight out of the sea behind the Kiku, its sixty thousand pound pure-white torso glistening in the sun, its snout nearly four stories high when it struck the landing gear of one of the low-flying news choppers.