by Steve Alten
“All I’m asking is that you think this through. You bring this monster up from the depths, pal, and you own it.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m talking about liabilities, Paul.”
“First we tag it, then we figure out the next step. Fair enough?”
“Fine. You have until six tonight to play tag, then we’re heading south.”
“Make it eight.”
“Paul, ever see the movie, The Perfect Storm?”
“Okay, okay, six o’clock. Just have both Sea Bats rigged and ready to launch within the hour.”
5
Mariana Trench
THE MARIANA TRENCH REPRESENTS the subduction zone where the massive Pacific Plate descends under the leading edge of the Eurasian Plate. For billions of years, hydrothermal vent fields have been delivering super-heated 700-degree Fahrenheit water into this 1,550-mile-long, forty-mile-wide gorge. Laden with minerals, the volcanic discharge from these “black smokers” has coalesced about a mile off the bottom, forming a ceiling of soot which effectively insulates and seals off the frigid waters of the abyss. More than sixty feet thick, this hydrothermal plume is further stabilized by the steep walls of a submarine canyon, creating a temperate zone in an unexplored realm located at the bottom of the western Pacific Ocean.
Prior to 1977, scientists were convinced life could not exist in the depths without sunlight. Once they actually investigated their claims aboard the Alvin submersible, they were shocked to find a vast food chain, all originating from tube worms—eight-to-ten-foot-long invertebrates that seemed to be feeding off the hydrothermal vents. In fact, the Riftia pachyptila actually existed on the bacteria living inside their own bright red nutritional organs. In a symbiotic relationship, the tube worms’ bacteria were feeding off the toxic chemicals spewed into the sea by the hydrothermal vents—a process that became known as chemosynthesis.
In the depths of the Mariana Trench, giant albino crabs and shrimp fed off the tube worms; small fish fed off the crabs and shrimp, and larger fish fed off the smaller fish. Feeding off the larger fish were an exotic array of sea creatures, both modern and prehistoric, that had existed in this isolated temperate zone for hundreds of millions of years. While there were no whales or sea elephants in the Mariana Trench, there were still plenty of prey, all stemming from this ecosystem that flourished in the absence of light.
At the top of this food chain was Carcharodon megalodon.
For nearly 30 million years, these monstrous sharks had dominated every ocean, feeding on the high-fat, high-energy yielding content of whales. Everything had changed two million years ago with the arrival of the last Ice Age. Within the span of a hundred thousand years, all but a few of Mother Nature’s apex predators had succumbed to extinction. Some of the creatures inhabited the deeper mid-water regions—an adaptation to being hunted by surface-dwelling Orca. Intelligent mammals, killer whales hunted in packs, targeting lone adults and Megalodon nurseries. Megalodons that survived beyond the Ice Age did so in an isolated temperate zone located in the deepest canyon on the planet.
· · ·
The albino shark moved slowly through the pitch-dark canyon. At forty-eight feet and twenty-seven tons, the juvenile Megalodon was already equal to her adult male counterparts—all of whom continued to avoid a confrontation with the female, at least until her first fertility cycle.
Warm water streamed into her slack-jawed mouth, held open in a cruel, jagged smile. Just visible above the lower gum line were the twenty-two razor-sharp teeth she used for gripping prey. The upper jaw held twenty-four—far larger, wider weapons designed by nature to puncture bone, sinew and blubber. Behind these front rows of teeth were four or five additional rows, folded back into the gum line like a conveyor belt. Composed of calcified cartilage, these serrated teeth—three to six inches long—were set within a ten-foot jaw that, instead of being fused to the skull, hung loosely beneath the brain case. This adaptation enabled the upper jaw to actually push forward and hyperextend in a gargantuan bite, wide enough to engulf a mini-van from the back end all the way up to the front windshield.
The female glided effortlessly through the tropical void, her massive torpedo-shaped body undulating in slow snake-like movements. As her flank muscles contracted, the Megalodon’s caudal fin and aft portion pulled in a powerful rhythmic motion, propelling the shark forward. The immense half-moon shaped tail provided maximum thrust with minimal drag, while the fin’s caudal notch, located in the upper lobe, further streamlined the water flow.
Stabilizing the Megalodon’s forward thrust were her broad pectoral fins, which provided lift and balance like the wings of a passenger airliner. Her dorsal fin rose atop her back like a six-foot sail, acting as a rudder. A smaller pair of pelvic fins, a second dorsal, and a tiny anal fin rounded out the complement, everything synchronized and perfected over 400 million years of evolution.
The female inhaled her environment through two grapefruit-size directional nostrils, her brain processing an elixir of chemicals and excretions as traceable as smoke in a kitchen.
Ahead, moving through the canyon as one, were thousands of giant cuttlefish. The female had been tracking the school for weeks.
There had been no urgency to feed. Feeding required hunting, and hunting expended energy.
This morning, however, the female had been forced to expend energy, chasing after the annoying creature whose presence had driven her senses haywire.
Now she had to feed.
· · ·
Although there was no visible light in the trench, the Meg could still see, thanks to eyes equipped with a reflective layer behind the retina that offered wisps of nocturnal vision. Normally black, the Megalodon of the Mariana Trench had developed blue-gray eyes, a common trait found among albinos. The loss of the species’ lead-gray dorsal pigment had occurred over eons—an adaptation to an existence quarantined in perpetual darkness.
The juvenile female continued on her southwesterly course, navigating around skyscraper-tall black smokers on a swiftly moving current that allowed her to expend little effort. Hunger was a fuel gauge that increased with any energy expenditure. With her core temperature approximating that of her environment, the huntress could go weeks without feeding—provided she remained in the balmy depths in a non-predatory state.
The Sea Bat’s sonic acoustics had disrupted the female’s sensory organs, forcing her to attack. A dozen successive rushes had sent the shark up through the hydrothermal ceiling, the sudden shock of 33-degree water chasing her back before she could kill the source of the disturbance.
Now the Meg followed a scent trail—excretions from a biologic, casting a signature equaling that of three Blue whales.
With a flick of her massive caudal fin, the hungry female accelerated through the darkness, closing fast on her quarry.
· · ·
In the ocean’s pecking order it is size that matters. The cuttlefish of the Mariana Trench had adapted to their environment by growing large—eighteen to twenty feet from their finned heads to the tips of their eight sucker-covered arms and two feeding tentacles. Three hearts were required to pump their blue-green blood to these ten extremities while fueling a camouflage technique that allowed the squid to alter its skin color. Brilliant neon lights could lure prey or stun an enemy.
Intelligent creatures, the cuttlefish had learned to travel in schools, their perceived size scaring off potential enemies. Upwards of ten thousand cephalopods move as one through the canyon, the school undulating like a quarter-mile-long sea serpent.
The cuttlefish tactic is clever, but it cannot fool the Megalodon’s senses. Located along the top and underside of the female’s snout are sensitive receptor cells collectively known as the ampullae of Lorenzini. These deep jelly-filled pores connect to the shark’s brain by a vast tributary of cranial nerves, allowing it to detect the faint voltage gradients and bio-electric fields produced by the cuttlefish as their skin moves through the water. So sensitive are the a
mpullae of Lorenzini that the Megalodon can distinguish each cuttlefish from the moving pack of thousands by each individual’s trio of beating hearts.
· · ·
The female stalked its quarry, moving parallel to the swarm.
Sensing the predator, the cuttlefish increased their speed while simultaneously illuminating their hides in phosphorescent greens and blues. The color pattern was a method of communication among the school as well as a warning to stay away.
The Megalodon’s spine arched, forcing her pectoral fins to curl downward. Flushed in full attack mode, the juvenile killer was about to swoop in upon the moving mass of squid when she detected another presence lurking close by—a challenger.
· · ·
At thirty-three feet in length, the pliosaur is nearly as long as the Megalodon; at thirty-six thousand pounds it is nowhere near the shark’s girth. The creature’s head, nearly a third its length, sports a crocodilian jaw overloaded with ten-inch dagger sharp teeth. Its skull sits atop a thick neck and stocky trunk, tapering back to a short tail. Snakelike movements are powered by four oversized flippers that propel its streamlined body through the water.
A survivor of the Middle Cretaceous, Kronosaurus began its existence as a reptile. For more than 50 million years its ancestors dominated the seas—until 65 million years ago when an asteroid struck the Earth. The celestial impact filled the planet’s atmosphere with debris which blocked out the sun, causing an Ice Age.
Reptiles are cold blooded animals, their body temperatures dependent on the warmth generated by their environment. As the oceans rapidly cooled, the plesiosaur order quickly died off, unable to generate enough body heat to survive. Inhabiting the seas off Australia, Kronosaurus were the only species of plesiosaur in proximity to one of the few warm spots on the planet that remained unaffected by the glaciation period.
Much as an alligator spends its days basking in the sun, members of the Kronosaurus species took to diving down to the hydrothermally heated depths of the Mariana Trench in order to survive. Over thousands of generations, this particular pliosaur group adapted to these extended dives by developing gills—an evolutionary feature that allowed them to permanently inhabit the warm abyss. Their presence in the submarine canyon was the bait that would ultimately lure Megalodon to share their temperate oasis.
· · ·
The male Kronosaurus glided silently through a vent field that spewed pockets of clear near-boiling water, the brackish sulfuric backwash causing acres of tube worms to dance. If Megalodon were the lions of this deepwater Serengeti then the Kronosaurus was its leopard. Though wary of the presence of a superior hunter, it too had to feed.
Pumping its powerful fore-fins, the pliosaur banked sharply around a black smoker, placing it on a direct intercept course with the river of cephalopods racing through the canyon like a six-story-high train more than three football fields long.
Detecting the charging Kronosaurus, the cuttlefish engaged their photochromic skin, igniting green and blue neon sparks of light in both directions in a flashing fast-changing pattern that appeared like the denticles of a massive sea snake.
The intimidated Kronosaurus veered away, its survival instincts momentarily overriding the need to feed.
And then, without warning, the formation suddenly burst—ten thousand phosphorescent bodies flushing red as they dispersed in a cascading explosion of brilliant blinding color—
—the stampede ignited by 54,000 pounds of rampaging shark. The Megalodon bulldozed its way through the center of the herd, the female’s hyperextended jaws clamping down upon a mouthful of squirming cephalopod, its serrated teeth shredding tentacles into ribbons as its senses searched the chaos for the Kronosaurus.
The startled challenger darted away, twisting and turning, scorching its belly in the super-heated outflow of a vent as it was swept away in a frenzy of fleeing squid.
The Megalodon swallowed a succulent thousand-pound bite of cuttlefish even as the squid circled back, their skin flashing in rapid sequences as they twisted and looped and converged as one. The reforming mass of glowing bodies raced north through the submarine canyon like a slithering green-blue serpent.
The Meg circled the scraps twice, its senses searching the area for its challenger. The female detected the Kronosaurus several hundred yards away, darting along the sea floor, following the reorganizing school of cuttlefish.
Her appetite stimulated, the shark altered its course, homing in on its fleeing prey.
6
Challenger Deep
JONAS’S EYES DARTED from the depth gauge to the viewport, the last five hours of fatigue disappearing in the adrenaline rush accompanying the extreme depths.
31,500 feet…
31,775 feet…
Debris rattled across the Sea Cliff’s outer hull like hail on a tin roof. He eased up on the foot pedals, adjusting the submersible’s rate of descent.
31,850 feet.
An object bloomed into view in the small reinforced porthole by his stockinged feet, the DSV’s lights illuminating a swirling river of brown water. Jonas hovered the submersible fifty feet above the hydrothermal plume, fighting to adjust the trim against the rippling surge of the raging current.
“Wake up, gentlemen, we’ve arrived at the gates of hell.”
Michael Shaffer shook Dr. Prestis awake. “You need to get a new tagline, Jonas. How about, ‘Hey, Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’”
Richard Prestis rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “That’s not new, every lame movie uses that line. How about, ‘Of all the deep water trenches in the world, she swam into mine.’”
“Can you imagine looking out the viewport and seeing a mermaid?” Shaffer said, readying the ROV for deployment.
“I prefer my mermaids with a D-cup or better,” Prestis joked. “Any mermaids surviving down here would be flat-chested from all the pressure… powering up the Flying Squirrel.”
Jonas smiled. “I meant to ask you two—whose idea was it to name the ROV the Flying Squirrel?”
“Dr. Shaffer gets the credit on that one.”
“What can I say, I’m an old Rocky and Bullwinkle fan.”
Jonas struggled to control the DSV’s pitch and yaw as the Sea Cliff tossed above rolling wakes of cold water hitting warm. “Maybe we should call Danielson and Heller, Boris and Natasha.”
Prestis grabbed for a handle bar, closing his eyes against the turbulence. “Which one’s Boris and which one’s Natasha?”
Shaffer ignored him, reciting a quick prayer.
“Heller should be Natasha,” Jonas responded, “he has nicer legs. Mike, you okay?”
The submersible’s bow and tail teetered as if on a slow-moving see-saw. “Let’s just finish this damn mission and get the hell out of Dodge. Deploying Flying Squirrel.”
Roughly the size of a go-cart, the rectangular, canary-yellow ROV decoupled from the DSV’s sled, its twin propellers rapidly moving it away from the submersible, while its docking berth fed out piano wire from the motorized spool.
“Engines—check. Lights—check. Infrared—check. Night vision—check. Forward camera—check. Rear camera—check. Grappler—check. Richard, try the vacuum.”
“Vacuum’s working. Go. Send your Flying Squirrel into Jonas’s hell hole and bring back some juicy nuts.”
Shaffer mumbled, “I’ll settle for a dozen manganese nodules filled with Helium-3.” Using a joystick, the scientist maneuvered the ROV into a steep descent, aiming for a dark spot on the hydrothermal plume now appearing on his monitor. “Tears in his eyes as he lines up this last shot. A Cinderella story, outta nowhere… a former greens keeper, now about to become the Masters champion.”
Jonas and Prestis looked at one another, grinning at their colleague’s dead-on imitation of Carl Spackler from Caddyshack. Together, all three yelled out, “It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!” as the ROV punched through the warm layer of swirling soot, its reinforced chassis buffeted by the volcanic debris.
For several minutes Shaffer’s monitor remained a field of static—then, the remote sub exited the hydrothermal ceiling and entered a placid sea.
“We’re through. Switching to night vision.”
The monitor changed from black to an olive-green tint, revealing dark brown billowing clouds. Schaffer worked the joystick, veering the mini-sub away from the volcanic haze, diving the craft toward the bottom.
“Shit. Michael, pull up!”
“Jonas, I’m clear.”
“Just do it! There’s something big on sonar, heading for the ROV.”
Shaffer yanked back on the joystick, sending the tethered sub retreating back toward the hydrothermal plume.
Richard’s heart raced. “Jonas, what is it? How big?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Jonas powered off the Sea Cliff’s underwater lights, allowing them to see through the occasional swath of clear water into the swirling flotsam of minerals below.
Reverberations—like bare feet slapping on wet concrete—built to a crescendo, and then the darkness suddenly ignited into a dazzling green and blue current of phosphorescent strobe lights, the lifeforms streaking two thousand feet below the hydrothermal ceiling, racing through the trench like an offspring of St. Elmo’s Fire.
Forty seconds passed before the silent darkness returned.
Richard Prestis wiped beads of sweat from his temples. “That was unbelievable. Almost alien.”
“I think I crapped an alien.” Dr. Shaffer’s heart was pounding so hard that it affected his breathing, each deep inhalation bordering on hyperventilation. Hands quivering, he popped a Valium. “Richard, I think I need you to take over.”
“Do you need another Valium?”
“I need air.”