Generations

by Steve Alten

  The sound of chimes snapped him awake. He reached for the intercom. “Yes, Eva?”

  “Dr. Jernigan has cleared security and is on her way up.”

  “Thank you. Please bring me another coffee and whatever our guest wants.”

  There were very few business associates in Dr. Hon’s life who would cause him to leave a movie premiere early, but Sara Jernigan was certainly one of them. One of the most respected molecular biologists in the world, Dr. Jernigan’s research focused on finding natural cures to diseases. The two had met as graduate students at Cambridge; four years later Global Group funded Jernigan’s three-month expedition into the Amazon rainforest to collect samples from the flora and fauna along the shoreline of the Rio Negro. The trip had yielded twelve hundred samples and four drugs that were now involved in human clinical trials.

  Dr. Hon stood to embrace the fit fifty-nine-year-old scientist.

  “Sara, it is so good to see you! You’ve hardly aged. I never realized eating bugs and climbing trees could be so healthy.”

  “Eh. My bug-eating, tree-climbing days are over. Brazil has permanently shut down all foreign expeditions into the rainforest, and with it, thousands of potential cures for cancer and other diseases.”

  Johnny motioned his friend into one of the two chairs in front of his desk before occupying the other. “You must be disappointed.”

  “‘Disappointed’ is not the word, Johnny. What the Brazilian government is doing is a crime against humanity. You’ve never been to the rainforest, have you?”

  “No. But I have seen photos.”

  “A photograph cannot do it justice. The jungle is so dense, it obliterates the sun. In a single acre of rainforest there might be four hundred different specimens of trees and tens of thousands of species. There are eighty thousand flower-bearing plants and a thousand microbes in a single teaspoon of soil … all waiting to be analyzed.”

  “You’ve discovered something new … that’s why you are here?”

  Grinning, Sara reached out and slapped her friend on the thigh. “I can’t take credit for it. It’s a different kind of jungle, unexplored by man … an oasis of evolution populated by species that have adapted in startling ways in order to survive for tens of millions of years.”

  “Tens of millions of years?”

  “Some species even longer.”

  “This isn’t a jungle, Sara. You’re talking about the Panthalassa Sea … Michael Maren’s discovery.”

  “Correct. Johnny, the sea is an incubator of potential cures.”

  “More like a purgatory for sea monsters.”

  “True. But just imagine these creatures’ immune systems … the regenerative power of their stem cells and white cells when unleashed upon a cluster of cancerous tumors.”

  Dr. Hon shook his head as he retrieved his iPhone from the breast pocket of his suit. “Search for ‘Panthalassa Sea.’”

  A computerized male voice responded. “Searching for ‘Panthalassa Sea’ …

  “The Panthalassa was an ancient ocean so vast it once covered everything on Earth except for the supercontinent of Pangaea. The Panthalassa Sea is a geological anomaly that formed a hundred eighty million years ago when Pangaea broke apart, separating into Laurasia—which eventually became North America, Europe, Asia, and Greenland—and Gondwanaland, which in turn became Australia, Antarctica, India, and South America. The Panthalassa Sea is located four hundred thirteen meters beneath the seafloor of the Mariana Trench, replacing it as the deepest location on the planet. The Panthalassa Sea was cut off from the Philippine Sea as a result of superhot liquid magma being released along the subduction zones that surround the Philippine Sea Plate. As the magma and mineralized water rose to meet the near-freezing waters three hundred fifty meters off the bottom, the hydrothermal plume solidified into a basalt shelf hundreds of kilometers long. Nutrient-filled currents ensured a perpetual food chain, while the warmth provided by the subduction zone’s hydrothermal vents attracted a wide variety of prehistoric life to an abyssal sea that spanned more than eight thousand square kilometers. Over the next thirty million years, the magma spewing from this volcanic subduction zone gradually sealed up the shelf, isolating the Panthalassa Sea from the rest of the Western Pacific Ocean.

  “Sixty-five million years ago, an asteroid estimated at eleven kilometers in diameter struck Earth in an area that is now the Gulf of Mexico. Atmospheric dust from this impact led to a planet-wide Ice Age, killing off the dinosaurs and most of the ocean’s carnivores. With ocean temperatures plummeting, prehistoric sea life inhabiting the Western Pacific were drawn to hydrothermal vent fields along the seafloor of the Mariana Trench. Pliosaurs and other apex predators survived the Ice Age by entering the Panthalassa Sea from one of many volcanic tube access points along the seafloor; other species, including Kronosaurs, and later Carcharodon megalodon, preferred to remain in the hydrothermally warmed vent waters of the Mariana Trench. The volcanic tubes eventually sealed, trapping the Panthalassa inhabitants beneath the seafloor.

  “The Panthalassa Sea was discovered eight years ago by marine biologist Michael Maren while he was tracking a male Carcharodon megalodon inhabiting the Mariana Trench. Dubai-Land Expeditions, LLC is attempting to capture a variety of species from the Panthalassa Sea to stock their aquarium—”

  Dr. Hon ended the verbal stream of information. “Fascinating stuff. And what is it you have in mind? Surely you don’t intend to explore this hellhole.”

  “Actually, I was hoping Prince Walid would handle that chore for us. Eight months ago, I met with the crown prince to see if we could collect a small sample of tissues from the specimens his team had already captured. A kilogram of liver enzymes would be enough to determine if a cancer-fighting effect was present. He flatly refused, citing the dangers of anesthetizing these beasts, fearing an invasive procedure could lead to infection. So I asked him if we might have access to the specimens that had died after being captured. Again, he refused.”

  “The crown prince is a businessman,” Dr. Hon said. “If you were to discover a prehistoric specimen that could deliver a cure for cancer or some other disease, he could lose his monopolization of the Panthalassa.”

  “His nets are set up at one access point, Johnny. There must be others.”

  “Then your intention is to enter the Panthalassa Sea?”

  “It is not necessary to risk human lives as the prince’s expeditions have done; a remotely operated drone—properly baited—can be used to lure a targeted species up and out of an access hole into our nets. We could then draw blood and tissue samples and return the creature to the Panthalassa or sell it to the Dubai aquarium.”

  “Have you prepared a business proposal?”

  “We are working on it, but I wanted to speak with you first. Hypothetically, what would it take for Global Group to fund an expedition into the Panthalassa Sea?”

  “For starters, proof that the fang-filled flora and fauna in this hellhole actually hold the potential for cures.… You are smiling again. What have you found?”

  Sara removed her iPhone and held it up to Dr. Hon, scrolling through a series of black-and-white photographs. “These were taken about six months ago inside the hull of the Tonga, the tanker that sank a few days ago. The images originated from a security camera, which explains the poor quality. Wait … here’s a good one where you can see how big this creature is.”

  An immense ray-finned fish was lying on its side along a steel grating. Its grouper-like head, as large as a cement truck, was followed by flipper-like pectoral fins. The belly below its long, sleek body was being sliced open by two men using knives attached to reach poles.

  “Incredible. What is this creature? How large was it?”

  “This adult female measured twenty-eight meters. The species is a filter feeder that inhabited the oceans a hundred fifty million years ago. The scientific name is Leedsichthys, more commonly known as a Leeds’ fish. It was named after Alfred Leeds, who discovered its fossils back in the nine
teenth century.”

  “These two men … they are performing a necropsy?”

  “Correct. The marine biologist who was in charge was a Filipino named Richard Hibpshman. I met him four years earlier while I was speaking at the University of Washington, and it was my recommendation that got him the job aboard the Tonga. To repay my kindness, Richard agreed to secretly send me lab reports on tissue samples taken during the Panthalassa expedition.

  “One of the major breakthroughs in cancer research occurred in 1989, when it was discovered that the p53 gene functions as a tumor suppressor in human cells. Tumor suppressor genes are like the brakes on a car—they prevent tumor growth. When the p53 gene is absent, mutant oncogenes take over the cell, acting like accelerators that are stuck to the floor of the car.

  “It turns out the liver enzymes of these giant Leeds’ fish stimulate the release of the p53 gene; when Richard introduced them to cancerous tumors they not only attacked the tumor, they actually changed the DNA of the cell.”

  “Unlike chemo, which destroys everything … That’s fantastic, Sara.”

  “Unfortunately, while these Leeds’ fish thrive in the Panthalassa Sea, they perished within minutes of entering the Pacific Ocean. Once death occurs, the anaerobic bacteria originating from the fish’s digestive system rapidly decomposes, destroying the liver enzymes responsible for the p53 enhancers. After forty minutes the enzymes become toxified with sulfur dioxide.”

  Dr. Hon sat back, closing his eyes to think. “What was the average extraction time from the nets to the tanker?”

  “According to Richard, an hour and forty-five minutes. Remember, it’s seven miles from the surface to the Mariana Trench seafloor where the nets were set in place around the borehole leading down into the Panthalassa Sea.”

  “Then we need to design a deep-water lab … a place where the liver can be extracted within minutes of the fish’s death.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Perhaps your friend Dr. Hibpshman can help us in this effort.”

  “Sadly, Richard was killed two days after this necropsy occurred.”

  “I am so sorry. What happened?”

  “Richard was standing inside the slit-open belly of another dead Leeds’ fish when he was attacked by a species of prehistoric shark, called a Helicoprion. Apparently, the fish had swallowed the seven-foot shark whole. The creature’s lower jaw was composed of a spiral configuration of teeth resembling the vertical blades of a circular saw. It bit Richard in his stomach.… He died of blood loss within minutes of the attack.”

  “How gruesome … and bizarre. What happened to the Helicoprion?”

  “Believe it or not, the person assisting with the necropsy had the temerity to drag it into one of the saltwater pens as it lay on the grated deck, covered in Richard’s blood. The shark survived and is currently residing in one of the display tanks in the Dubai-Land aquarium.”

  “Perhaps we should hire this assistant? Do you know his name or how to reach him?”

  “The assistant was Jonas Taylor’s son, David. And yes, Johnny, I know exactly how to reach him.”

  Monterey, California

  The two-bedroom townhouse was located between Route 1 and the Del Monte Center and its Monterey 13 multiplex, less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Tanaka Institute. Jonas had rented the place for his son and his friend Monty back in October, six weeks after David’s attempted suicide. The boys had lived there less than three months before they left for Dubai to meet secretly with the crown prince. Haunted by memories of Kaylie Szeifert’s death, David had made it his goal to convince his former employer that he could be trusted to capture the tagged adult Liopleurodon that had escaped from the Panthalassa Sea and killed his girlfriend four months earlier. Instead, Prince Walid had sent the young submersible pilot and his friend to the Sea of Japan, where the crew of the Mogamigawa were tracking three Shonisaurus—seven-five-foot prehistoric marine reptiles resembling giant dolphins with teeth.

  Four months and eighteen thousand nautical miles later, the townhouse was once again occupied.

  * * *

  The candy-apple-red, 1959 Cadillac Series 62 convertible exited Cabrillo Highway on Soledad Drive. James “Mac” Mackreides had purchased the vehicle at an auction six years earlier and had lovingly restored the iconic high-tail finned classic with its dual bullet taillights. Mac had two simple rules about riding in the Caddie—no food or beverages, and be prepared to cruise with the top down, no matter how cold it was outside.

  On this mid-April day, it was a “balmy” 53 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Shivering in the front seat, Jonas pulled the collar up on his Windbreaker and blasted the heat. “Turn right on Pacific—it’s about a mile on the left.”

  “Are you sure they’ll be there?”

  “I spoke to Jackie this morning. David and Monty were still sleeping; she said she’d make sure they didn’t leave before I got there.”

  “How is Terry doing?”

  “Not well. She’s not eating. I’m really praying this specialist Dani spoke to at Penn can get her into a clinical trial.”

  “Trish and I are praying for her.”

  “Thanks, pal. There it is … Mar Vista Drive.”

  Mac turned into the development and followed the private road that circled to the left. He located a vacant visitor’s spot and the two men exited the car, following the path leading to Unit 114-B.

  Jackie answered the door on the first knock, dressed in jeans and a black V-necked sweater. She greeted Jonas and Mac with a quick hug and led them into the living room. “David will be back in a few minutes; he went for a run. Would either of you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Mac said.

  Jonas looked around, peeking in the open door to his son’s bedroom and the made queen-size bed. “I haven’t seen the apartment look this clean since the day the boys moved in.”

  “It took a good week to make it livable. There were things growing in the refrigerator that I don’t want to think about. I still refuse to set foot in Monty’s bedroom.”

  Mac knocked on the closed bedroom door. “It’s Uncle Mac. Get dressed and come on out. Jonas and I want to talk to you and David.”

  “Should I leave?” Jackie asked.

  “No,” Jonas said. “This involves you, too.” He turned as David entered through the open door, his cheeks flushed.

  “Hey, Dad … hey, Uncle Mac.” He pulled off his blue University of Florida sweatshirt, exposing a gray T-shirt drenched in sweat. “What involves Jackie?”

  The closed bedroom door opened, releasing a musky stench and Monty, who was wearing plaid wool pajama bottoms and a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt. “Yo, Dr. T—kinda early for visitors.”

  Jonas glanced at his watch. “It’s eleven forty-three.”

  “Not in Honolulu. I’m on Hawaii time.”

  “Since when?”

  Monty flopped on the couch. “Since your boy’s woman moved in and he’s been getting laid three times a day.”

  “Yo, dude.” David removed his soaked T-shirt, accepting a clean towel from Jackie. “Dad, how’s Mom?”

  “She had a rough night. We’re flying out to Philly on Wednesday; Thursday morning we’re scheduled to meet with an oncology team at the University of Pennsylvania’s Abramson Center.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No. Dani’s going. Besides, we have something else in mind for you. “Jonas took out his iPhone and scrolled through his email. “The diver who survived the attack of Bela and Lizzy in British Columbia back in October recently did an interview. He claimed he was swarmed upon by six Meg pups—three pure albinos and three sharks with white heads and dark backs.

  “Last Tuesday, I received this video from Nick Van Sicklen, the director of the Adopt An Orca program in British Columbia. Mac and I had met him after the sisters decimated one of the Salish Sea’s residential orca pods.”

  Mac nodded. “The guy was Ahab-angry. He demanded the Coast Guard hunt do
wn and kill Bela and Lizzy.”

  Jonas handed the iPhone to David, who pressed PLAY.

  The video had been filmed in the Salish Sea, a predawn pink sky backlighting the snowcapped Olympic Mountains. The photographer was standing by the starboard rail of a boat that was keeping pace with a pod of orca, the taller black dorsal fins of the males out in front.

  “Jonas Taylor, it’s your old pal Nick Van Sicklen. Hey, buddy, take a look at what our returning orca are using as a volleyball.”

  The image zoomed as a white object went airborne in a froth of blood; the carcass of one of Lizzy’s albino pups flipping head-over-tail, only the Megalodon’s tail was missing, the caudal fin having been bitten off below the pelvic fin.

  “Ha! Did you see that, Jonas? My whales have returned to vanquish your monsters’ offspring!”

  David watched, his hand shaking as a thirty-foot bull caught the dead pup in its mouth and took it underwater.

  “Nah nah nah nah … hey hey hey, good-bye—”

  David turned it off, handing the phone back to his father. “Van Sicklen … good name. Guy’s a sick fuck.”

  “Agreed. The pup in the video was obviously Lizzy’s. We know it was one of Bela’s offspring that drowned in Paul Agricola’s net. If the diver was correct, at most there’s two pups left from each litter. With the resident orca returning to the Salish Sea, the transient pods won’t be far behind. Time is of the essence; if you’re going to do this, you have to leave now.”

  David felt the blood rush from his face. “Dad, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Jonas nodded. “Your mother, Mac, and I held a board meeting yesterday without you. Your mom doesn’t want us to declare bankruptcy … at least not yet. She asked us to give you three months to rescue as many of the sisters’ pups as you can and bring them back to the institute.

  “You’ll take the McFarland; the hopper is large enough to transport four Meg pups. Cyel Reed is installing tow nets beneath the prow of Manta-7 that will allow you to capture the sharks … assuming any more managed to survive and you can locate them before any more orca can get to them.”