Generations

by Steve Alten

  “No good deed goes unpunished, eh, cousin.”

  Whomp!

  The jolt felt as if the Tonga had run aground, only Fiesal knew that was impossible, as the tanker was poised over the depths of the Monterey Bay Submarine Canyon. A quick glance at his watch confirmed it was only 12:52 p.m.

  I told Buchwald 2 p.m.… I was very clear—

  His walkie-talkie buzzed and he grabbed it off its charger.

  “Bridge to Mr. bin Rashidi.”

  “I’m here. Go ahead, Mr. Slatford.”

  “Sir, did you feel that jolt? The captain’s concerned the whale may be attempting to break out of the hold. I tried to raise Ms. Buchwald, but she hasn’t responded. The skipper wants me to send an armed detail below—”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll check on Brutus; you can send one of the crew to my quarters to load my belongings on board the chopper.”

  Walkie-talkie in hand, Fiesal left his suite and headed down a corridor to the stairwell. He descended three flights, exiting to a small corridor which led to a watertight door set inside the bulkhead.

  STARBOARD WALKWAY

  Keep Door Closed at All Times

  Fiesal selected one of the fur-lined parkas hanging from hooks along the wall and slipped the coat on. He grabbed a flashlight from a footlocker and tested it to make sure the batteries were good. Then he pressed down on the steel handle of the watertight door, wrenched it open, and entered the hold, pulling it closed behind him.

  Stepping out onto the walkway, he was greeted by a howl of chilled air. The narrow steel path ran from the stern to the bow, hugging the starboard bulkhead.

  Fiesal aimed the beam of his flashlight at the water, surprised to see an enormous wake rolling away from him toward the bow. Why is there a wake in the hold? We’re not moving; there should be no—

  “Hello?”

  The voice was female and faint, coming from somewhere up ahead. He proceeded down the walkway, guided by the strand of Christmas lights until he reached the catwalk’s bridge … or what remained of it.

  “Down here!”

  Fiesal aimed the beam of his flashlight below, where Jacqueline Buchwald was holding on to the guardrail.

  “Get a rope!”

  Before he could reply, an immense silver-gray mass raced beneath the collapsed catwalk—

  —followed by a massive swell that swallowed the bridge, and the female biologist with it, the wave cresting three feet over the starboard catwalk, soaking Fiesal’s lower torso as it rolled in the direction of the stern.

  Whomp—boom!

  The enraged whale struck the keel’s steel plates with the force of a train hitting a brick building—

  —while the swell climbed the far end of the tank to blast the underside of the deck five stories overhead, the displacement of ballast actually raising the Tonga’s prow three feet out of the sea.

  Fiesal ran toward the impact as the swell receded beneath his perch in the opposite direction, the retreating depths revealing the creature’s midsection as Brutus squeezed through the gap it had created in the hull, its wriggling torso pushing the opening wider—

  —until the leviathan’s fluke disappeared into open ocean.

  The Pacific rushed into the tanker, the water level rising quickly. Yanking open the watertight door, bin Rashidi stepped out into the corridor and resealed it behind him. He tossed the coat on the floor and hurried up six flights of stairs, his mind racing.

  Get to the chopper; don’t create a scene. As long as the watertight doors remain sealed, the ship will stay afloat.

  He emerged on the main deck, realizing his pants and shoes were dripping wet. He slowed his pace to a natural walk, watching the producer of Dubai-Land’s reality show stalking him in his peripheral vision.

  “Mr. bin Rashidi!”

  He struggled to recall the man’s name. Barry … Tucker? Barry Walker? He spotted the Star of David hanging around his neck. “Yes, Mr. Zuckerman?”

  “What just happened? It felt like we ran aground.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “It was Brutus. Our marine biologist had to add seawater to his pen to bring him out of his stupor. He’s getting a bit agitated; she may have to release him earlier than we planned.”

  “Why wasn’t I told? There’s a ton of shots we still need to get on video.” He retrieved a walkie-talkie from his Windbreaker pocket. “Ponyboy, it’s Barry. Get your second unit down to the hold—the whale is conscious. Is that British MMA actor on board yet?”

  “Lee Shone? He’s posing by the Lio tank.”

  “Bring him below and get his shots.” He looked at bin Rashidi. “How much time do we have?”

  “Not much. “Turning on his heel, bin Rashidi headed for his cousin’s helicopter, his soaked shoes and socks leaving a trail of wet marks.

  * * *

  The swell had hit the catwalk like a thirty-foot-high tsunami, the current stripping the sneakers and socks from Jackie’s feet as she held on to the guardrail for dear life—until the entire span of twisted metal was swept away, dragging her with it.

  She released the anchor of steel and fought her way to the surface, only the wave refused to let her go, carrying her a hundred feet before lifting her straight up the stern bulkhead to the ceiling. Flailing blindly, she managed to grab hold of a ceiling strut and hold on as the swell suddenly fell back into the tank, leaving her dangling from a new perch—seventy feet above the retreating waters.

  Grunting and shaking from the cold, she raised her right leg up to the ceiling’s steel framework, her bare foot snaking its way atop a support beam until she was able to pull herself into a seated position.

  Jackie looked down. As she watched, the water level rose above the starboard walkway’s rail, causing the Christmas lights to spark and short.

  Brutus must have punched through the hull.…

  “Oh, Jesus, I’m going to drown.”

  She searched her pockets for her iPhone, blessing the instinct that had led her to seal it in a plastic ziplock bag. With trembling hands, she scrolled for a number.…

  * * *

  David Taylor shifted uncomfortably on his assigned bar stool, fighting the urge to look at the camera looming directly in front of him. He despised interviews, but the Hollywood Xtra segment producer, James Gelet, had been an ally during his sea monster safari, and so he had reluctantly agreed.

  At least the location of the shoot was convenient—the two bar stools set up at the north end of the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute’s arena along the span of concrete separating the man-made lagoon from the Meg Pen. Still, he saw no purpose to the exercise. Both habitats remained vacant, the facility technically closed until he and its new owner, Paul Agricola, could capture one of Bela’s or Lizzy’s newborns—assuming any of the pups had survived the orca populations inhabiting the Salish Sea without the protection of their ferocious mothers.

  Then there was the reporter.

  Melissa Bell was a blue-eyed, raven-haired beauty hired to read from a teleprompter—or so he had assumed. It quickly became evident that she had come prepared and that David would need his “A” game to keep pace. It didn’t help that his best friend, Jason “Monty” Montgomery—a former Army medic with an explosion-induced bipolar brain—was lurking off-camera like a hungry shark on lithium.

  “Melissa Bell here. Today I’m visiting the world-famous Tanaka Oceanographic Institute with David Taylor, the son of Jonas Taylor, who, I think it’s safe to say, is the foremost authority on Carcharodon megalodon. Did I say that right?”

  “Yeah, that was perfect.”

  “Eight nights ago, you played ringmaster to an unexpected showdown between two adult Megs—Bela and Lizzy—and an absolute freak of nature, a one-hundred-twenty-foot female Liopleurodon. Is it safe to say that what happened in the Tanaka Lagoon was the scariest moment of your life?”

  “Not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong … that was scary, but when everything is h
appening so fast like it did, there’s no time to be scared. You just react. To be honest, if I had to pick the absolute scariest moment of my life, I’d say it was when I was fourteen years old and Angel returned to California waters after being gone for seventeen years.”

  “Angel, of course, was the surviving offspring of the pregnant female that your grandfather Masao Tanaka had lured to the surface from the depths of the Mariana Trench.”

  “He didn’t lure the Meg to the surface, it was an accident.” David glanced over her shoulder at Monty, who was pretending to hang himself with his shirt collar.

  “Tell us about that scary moment.”

  He pointed in the direction of the canal, which was blocked by the Canadian-registered hopper-dredge, Marieke, which belonged to his soon-to-be partner, Paul Agricola. “I was scuba diving just outside the entrance to the lagoon.… There’s an underwater junction box that controls the canal doors and I was trying to fix it.”

  “Were you diving alone?”

  “Yeah. Kinda stupid, I know. I was in about eighty feet of water when I felt this … presence. There’s a section of the Monterey Submarine Canyon that is only about fifty yards from the canal doors. When I looked in that direction, I thought I saw Angel’s tail moving off, heading into the depths.”

  “You’re right, that’s pretty scary.”

  “No … that wasn’t the scary part. The scary part happened about a week later. To prove to my uncle Mac that Angel had returned, I powered up the lagoon’s underwater loudspeakers and played the deep sounds the Meg associated with feeding time. I was alone in the observation post, which is this underwater viewing chamber set along the southern seawall, when Angel entered the lagoon. Keep in mind that up until then, I had never seen her except in videos. Well, she was an absolute monster … easily seventy-five feet long and fifty tons. She was as white as a ghost, her head was as big as a two-story house, and her jaws were opening and closing like she was talking. I could see water entering her mouth and slipping out her gill slits and I realized she was just breathing.

  “We were as close as you and I are now, separated by seven inches of glass, and she was looking at me, and her snout was casually pressing up against the viewing chamber glass, and I could see that her sheer mass was causing the Lexan to bend inside the frame.”

  “What did you do?”

  “There was an emergency button set along the chamber wall that dropped a steel plate in place to protect the glass. I hit it about two seconds before she charged—otherwise she would have flooded the viewing area and eaten me. Angel was a scary fish.”

  “But no match for the Liopleurodon.”

  “Not true. Me and another submersible pilot were trapped in a deep-water habitat in the Panthalassa Sea when they fought. From the viewing portal I saw that Angel had her jaws around that bitch’s neck and was crushing its throat. It would have ended there, only the Tonga netted Angel and hauled her out of the water, and that’s when the Lio…”

  His words trailed off as the memory interceded.

  He was treading water, Kaylie on one side of his father’s submersible, David on the other, the bloodstained sea washing over the acrylic pod … the creature’s fang-laced crocodilian jaws rising along either side of the girl, plucking her from below—

  He jumped as his iPhone vibrated along his right butt cheek.

  Reaching into his back pocket, he powered off the device.

  “Let’s talk about Bela and Lizzy. You seemed to have really cared about those two monsters.”

  “I raised them from birth. And the sisters weren’t monsters.”

  “Come on, David—they killed at least three people.”

  “One was a fisherman who shot Lizzy from point-blank range in her eye. Another was some old lady who tried swimming with them in open water. Pretty stupid, if you ask me.”

  “People in the Salish Sea say they were afraid because the sisters hunted in tandem.”

  “Yeah, well, they learned to do that out of fear. From the moment they were birthed they were afraid of their mother. My father was actually in the lagoon, circling Angel in one of the old Abyss Gliders in an attempt to distract her. As each pup shot out of her birth canal, my uncle Mac would net them and haul them out of the lagoon and into the Meg Pen before she could kill them.”

  “Which is exactly why the public considers these sharks to be such a menace. I mean, come on—what species eats its own young?”

  “Megs don’t eat their young, Melissa. With Angel, it was a decision based on the limited capacity of her habitat. The same strategy applied to the sisters. The lagoon and Meg Pen are actually connected by an underwater tunnel. We kept it closed, of course, but the pups could still detect the presence of their mother. She was the Alpha-Meg and Bela and Lizzy were afraid of her, so they swam in tandem. Eventually they became co-Alphas in their own tank, which is why they were always bullying the three runts.”

  “Bullying? Angelica was eaten.”

  “Technically, she was eviscerated. Again, it was a territorial thing. As you can see, the Meg Pen is too small to support five adult females, so the sisters went after the three runts while they still had the size advantage. The triplets may have been born smaller, but they were genetic clones of Angel. The surviving runt in Dubai-Land will eventually be as big and as nasty as her mama. Make no mistake about it: The three runts would have eventually killed the sisters. Bela and Lizzy simply made a preemptive strike.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, he saw Monty sitting up, motioning to his iPhone.

  “One last question, David. As you know, aquariums are being pressured to release their captive orca back into the wild. Even if you can locate another Megalodon pup … my question is, should you?”

  He was about to answer her when Monty abruptly walked on camera, handing him his iPhone. “Your ex is blowing up both our phones … something about drowning.”

  David took the phone. “Jackie?”

  “Brutus escaped and I’m trapped in the hold, which is filling up with water—David, help me!”

  “Calm down. Did you say Brutus escaped?”

  “And I’m trapped in the goddamn hold!”

  “Okay … okay.” He glanced around the deck. “Monty, the Manta’s in the dry dock; I need to get there in a hurry. Can you find us a maintenance vehicle?”

  James Gelet stepped forward, his camera still rolling. “Our van is parked outside the northern gate.”

  They followed him out the closest exit to the parking lot. The segment producer tossed the keys to Monty and climbed in back to film while David hopped in front, speed-dialing a number on his iPhone—

  —hanging on for dear life as his friend accelerated, the van racing south across the arena’s parking lot at eighty miles an hour. “Come on, Uncle Mac … pick up.”

  The call went straight to voice mail: “This is Mac. Me and the kid are busy soiling our diapers and taking naps. Leave a message if you want to annoy me, otherwise go to—”

  Beep.

  “Uncle Mac, Jackie just called. She said Brutus escaped and the Tonga is sinking. Call the Coast Guard.”

  Monty exited the lot and headed west down a private access road leading to a concrete pier. The security gate was unlocked and he bashed it open with the front bumper, accelerating along the one-lane concrete path while six-foot swells crested and broke between the pilings beneath them.

  David glanced to his right. The pier ran parallel to the lagoon’s canal, which extended into the Pacific two hundred yards to the west. Farther out, the Tonga dominated the horizon, its superstructure towering above the Pacific.

  If the tanker was sinking, it certainly wasn’t obvious to the naked eye.

  David grabbed the dashboard as the van skidded to a halt in front of a single-story building at the far end of the dock. Exiting the vehicle, he hurried inside the submersible maintenance and launch area, known to the staff as the “Sub Shack,” where he found the institute’s chief engineer, Cyel Reed, seated at a large
wood table, using a mounted magnifying glass to examine the inner workings of a pocket watch.

  “Well, look who it is? Little Boss Man.”

  “Cyel, I need a Manta!”

  “Do you now? Did you clear it with the Big Boss Man?”

  “I’m a partner; I don’t have to clear anything with anybody.”

  “You’re a junior partner, Junior. That makes you a worker bee, just like me. And us worker bees don’t collect honey until we’re guaranteed the money … as in a new contract—capiche?”

  David felt the blood rush to his face as Monty entered, followed by James Gelet with a camera perched on his shoulder.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Go save your Baby Mama.”

  David hurried past Cyel to the back room. There were four launch cradles poised over four sealed hatches on the floor. Three were vacant, and the fourth held Manta-7, a two-man submersible with a nine-foot wingspan and contours similar to that of Manta birostris, the aquatic species that had inspired its design.

  The vessel’s chassis was composed of a seamless layered acrylic that supported its cockpit, a spherical, clear, Lexan escape pod that could withstand nineteen thousand pounds per square inch of water pressure.

  Powered by dual pump-jet propulsor units, the Manta was quiet, fast, and neutrally buoyant. The two hydrogen tanks mounted on its back added another gear—a forty-second burn that temporarily transformed the deep-water submersible into a rocket.

  “Cyel, where’s the remote?… Never mind.” He saw the key fob hanging from its lanyard on a hook and placed it around his neck. Powering on the device, he pressed the green button labeled OPEN.

  With a hiss of hydraulics, the dark-tinted acrylic top popped free from its assembly and yawned open, allowing him to climb down into the portside bucket seat of the two-man cockpit.

  David powered up the engine and then quickly strapped his feet onto the two foot pedals, his eyes taking a brief scan of the wraparound control panel.