by Steve Alten
“Come on, Cyel! A little faster!”
“The winch has two speeds: slow and slower. You want something faster—give me the money and I’ll buy it.”
David punched the radio, switching channels. “Mac, give me an update. What’s the Meg doing? Is she moving? Are her gills fluttering?”
“She’s still lying on the bottom of the hopper; she’s too entangled in the net to move. I can’t see her gills, but her mouth is opening and closing like she’s gasping.”
David laid his head back against the bucket seat in frustration. She’s dying.… I gotta get up there.
The lift splashed down ahead of them. David accelerated, sending the Manta lurching forward onto the triangular object, the sub’s belly fitting snugly into the platform’s six-foot-diameter doughnut hole, its prow pressing snugly against the forward netting.
David switched channels. “We’re in. Cyel, get us topside—and fast.” Not waiting for a reply, he switched back to Mac—suddenly finding himself lunging for the control panel as the docking station lifted out of the water and began to sway.
Monty covered his mouth.
“Dude, don’t you dare puke until I pop open the hatch. Mac, you still there?”
“Go ahead.”
“I need you to attach a hose to one of the dredges so I can pump seawater into the Meg’s mouth. I’ll also need diving gear, and something that can slice through that netting.”
“Christ, you’re as reckless as your father.”
“Mac—”
“All right, all right.”
It took ninety seconds for the winch to hoist the docking platform up to the main deck. David had already popped the cockpit open; the moment Cyel dragged the sub through the gap in the rail he was off and running.
Mac was standing by the hopper’s starboard dredge, attaching a length of hose to the suction device. Next to him was a tank of compressed air and a snorkel and mask. A pair of rusted bolt cutters was lying on the deck.
David climbed to the hopper’s rail and looked down.
Underwater lights mounted sporadically along the inside of the Olympic-size tank revealed the captured Megalodon. The fifteen-foot, two-ton shark was lying on its side along the bottom of the flooded enclosure in forty-five feet of water, its pectoral fins hopelessly entangled in thick yellow cords of plastic netting. The creature’s gills were clamped shut, its lower jaw open but barely moving. Its cataract-gray eye appeared vacant.
David jumped down from his perch. He quickly secured the air tank’s harness to his back, tested the regulator by hitting the purge button, and then grabbed the mask, tossing the snorkel aside.
“You need to listen to me, kid. The only reason I’m going along with this insanity is because that mini-monster is trapped and most likely dead. But if you do manage to resuscitate it—”
“I’ll be topside before she recovers.” David kicked off his shoes. Grabbing the end of the hose from Mac in one hand, he picked up the bolt cutters in the other and climbed back up to the rail, swinging his legs over the steel barrier. “Don’t wait for me; get the dredge into the water.”
Without waiting for a reply, he spit into his mask, adjusted it over his eyes, and then jumped feet-first into the hopper—the frigid water robbing him of breath. Holding the bolt cutters away from his body, he used them as a dive weight as he kicked for the immense albino shark lying on the bottom, the hose trailing behind him.
Moving to the dredge controls, Mac lowered the suction arm over the side of the ship and into the sea.
David felt the pressure squeezing his ear canals. Pausing his descent at thirty-nine feet, he shifted the nozzle of the hose to the hand holding the bolt cutters, freeing his right hand to pinch his nose while he blew air into his cheeks in order to equalize the pressure in his sinus cavity.
Without warning the hose jumped to life, tearing loose from his grip as it whipped around in wild figure eights behind sixty pounds per square inch of pressure.
Precious moments passed before he was able to reel it back in. Aiming the stream of water at the surface, he rode it down to the Meg’s head, slipping his bare feet into the nearest loop of net in order to keep the buoyant air tank from floating him topside.
The sheer bulk of the juvenile surprised him, its girth twice that of a female great white of comparable length.
By all appearances, it was dead.
David wedged the nozzle of the hose inside the Meg’s lifeless maw, anchoring it in the gap between the two immense three-inch serrated teeth located dead center in its upper jaw as he directed a steady stream of seawater into its gullet.
After thirty seconds the gills opened, channeling the flow of water.
Only the Meg wasn’t breathing. A full minute passed … then another … and still there was no response.
Growing more desperate, David reached out to the underside of the Meg’s snout and began vigorous downward strokes along the peppered pores, hoping to stimulate the sensory cells known as the ampullae of Lorenzini.
Twenty seconds passed when the shark’s massive head shuddered, as if the Meg was trying to revive itself.
That’s when David realized the creature wasn’t actually positioned on its side; it was angled more on its back. If it had been rolled over before it had ceased breathing, then there was a chance it wasn’t dead … that it was in a zombie-like state of sleep known as tonic immobility.
Leaving the hose in the Megalodon’s mouth, David swam with the bolt cutters to the albino predator’s right pectoral fin and started snapping through the entanglement of netting. He quickly worked his way across its belly to the other fin, then down its caudal keel.
As he pulled the severed sections of net free from the dormant creature’s tail, the Meg rolled onto its side, its jaws snapping shut over the end of the hose as it shook its massive head and righted itself.
David froze, his heart racing as the four-thousand-pound animal slowly regained its faculties, its tail swooshing past his face as it propelled itself forward—
—its snout colliding with the inside of the hopper. Disoriented, the Meg spun around, its ampullae of Lorenzini homing in on the electrical impulses of David’s pounding pulse.
Stay calm … it’s curious but it’s not in attack mode.
With a flick of its half-moon-shaped caudal fin, the ghostly creature halved the distance between them and kept coming.
Oh, shit.
David reached out with both arms as the fifteen-foot juvenile was upon him, his hands gripping the Meg’s snout as the albino monster drove him backward in the water.
He heard the distant splash seconds after the Meg detected new vibrations in the water. Whipping its head around, it swam off to investigate the disturbance, David having to backstroke rigorously to avoid being swatted by the shark’s flicking tail. Releasing the bolt cutters, he rose quickly as the Meg homed in on the bleeding hunk of salmon being dragged along the surface in the far end of the hopper.
Snatching the morsel of food, the albino went deep, nearly pulling Monty over the hopper rail before the rope snapped.
David was hoisted out of the tank seconds later, greeted by his godfather, who looked as angry as the skies overhead.
West Boca Medical Center
Boca Raton, Florida
By 8 a.m. Terry had been moved to a private room in the Intensive Care Unit and was breathing normally with the aid of a small device fastened over her nose. Too exhausted to speak, she wrote a note instructing Jonas to return to their apartment to get some rest.
“Sorry, boss, but I’m not going anywhere without you. Our next order of business is to get you a nutrient bag, which will make you strong enough to start Maharaj’s protocol on Monday.”
Staking out the nurses’ desk, he waited for the ICU administrator to make an appearance.
* * *
It took Debby Calvert several seconds to match the last name on the patient’s chart with the onetime B-list celebrity. “Professor Taylor, in order to
feed your wife intravenously we need a specialist to install a tube called a PIC line into her arm.”
“How long will that take?”
“First, we want an oncologist to look at her.”
“We have our own oncologist. Haven’t you spoken to Dr. Maharaj?”
“I left him a message. But Dr. Maharaj is not affiliated with this hospital and your wife is very sick.”
“Yes, I know. She also hasn’t eaten anything in two days and her creatinine levels were already at two-point-two when I brought her in.”
Dr. Calvert turned to Terry’s nurse. “What’s her level now?”
The nurse checked her chart. “She’s elevated to two-point-nine.”
“Then we’re going to need a renal specialist to approve the PIC line.”
Jonas could feel his blood boiling as another hurdle was placed in front of Terry’s survival. “Why do we need a renal specialist?”
“Your wife could go into renal failure.”
“Yes … which is why you need to hydrate her immediately and feed her nutrients. Doc, please—”
Dr. Calvert nodded to Terry’s nurse. “Page Dr. Urso. Tell him I need him in ICU right away.”
“Thank you.”
Dr. Calvert scrolled through her iPhone photos. “My husband and I were out to your facility a few years ago; we had to wait sixteen months just to get tickets. But it was worth it just to see Angel.” She held up a video taken of the seventy-four-foot albino Megalodon as it leaped out of the water to snatch a raw side of beef to the crowd’s oohs and aahs. “Scary, huh?”
He pinched away tears. “Not as scary as watching my wife suffering like this.”
“You have my word—we’ll do everything we can.”
Feeling himself losing his composure, Jonas nodded his thanks and returned to Terry’s room. She was lying back at a forty-five-degree angle, her eyes partially open in a vacant stare, her breathing labored behind the mask. She was weak and malnourished, clearly in a downward spiral as the cancer gained new footholds on her depleting immune system.
The PIC specialist arrived a short time later, a caring woman determined to do her job as quickly and as efficiently as possible. She had already ordered the nutrient bag, which had to be specially prepared off-site. She promised it would arrive between eight and nine o’clock that night, but she could not install the feed line into Terry’s emaciated arm until the renal doctor signed off.
Forty minutes passed before the renal specialist arrived. Dr. Anthony Urso reviewed Terry’s chart before engaging in yet another exchange that made Jonas feel like he was Lou Costello arguing with Bud Abbott in a nightmarish medical version of “Who’s on First?”
“Mr. Taylor, your wife’s kidneys are failing.”
“Yes, we know. She needs nutrients right away.” (Who’s on first?)
“We can’t do that without a PIC line.” (Yes.)
“Yes, we know. That’s why we called you.” (I mean the fellow’s name.)
“Before I sign off on a PIC line, she needs a CT scan.” (Who.)
“Why does she need a CT scan?” (The guy on first.)
“Her creatinine levels are very high; she could go into renal failure.” (Who.)
“That’s why we need the PIC line!” (The guy playing first base!)
“Fine. But I’ll need to consult with an oncologist.” (Who is on first base.)
“Why do you need to consult with an oncologist?” (I’m asking you who’s on first.)
“To read the CT scan.” (That’s the man’s name.)
“We don’t want a CT scan; we want a nutrient bag.” (Who?)
“We can’t do that without a PIC line.” (Yes.)
Dr. Calvert finally intervened, proposing that Dr. Strong sign off on the PIC line if Jonas agreed to allow the ICU to take a CT scan of Terry’s lungs.
Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland
Strait of Georgia, Salish Sea
The midnight cloudburst had released a deluge that forced everyone inside.
Mac led David and Monty up three flights of stairs to the bridge, chastising his godson in between grunts of pain from his arthritic knees. “I should have never allowed you uhhh into the hopper. If Monty hadn’t uhhh tossed that fish in, you would have uhhh been dinner.”
“She wasn’t in attack mode, Mac. She was … curious.”
“Curious? Well, I’ve eaten plenty of uhhh things just because I was curious and paid the price. What are you snickering about, Monty? From the stench coming out of that sub, I’m guessing you didn’t exactly follow my dietary instructions, did you?”
“No, sir.”
They entered the bridge. Rain was punishing the windows, the wipers on high speed, battling to provide visibility to Mohammad Mallouh, who was standing at the wheel, squinting to see through the storm.
“Report, Mr. Mallouh.”
The pilot stole a quick glance over his shoulder at Mac. “The yacht’s staying with us; she’s right in our wake. As for the other Meg, it’s still hanging out beneath our keel.”
“No shit?” Dripping wet, David slogged his way over to the fish finder. Sure enough, Bela’s last surviving pup was darting back and forth beneath the sealed steel door of the McFarland’s hopper.
“Mac, we have to find a way to get it on board.”
“How? Open the hopper doors and you’ll lose the albino.”
Monty nodded. “A Meg in the hopper is worth two in the strait.”
“I just don’t want those fishermen to butcher it.”
“You destroyed their trawl net—it’ll take them some time to replace it. Bela followed Lizzy all the way back to Monterey when Paul Agricola caught her; maybe her offspring will do the same. The two of you look exhausted. Get some sleep and in the morning we’ll pick up Jackie.”
* * *
“David? David. Wake up.”
He opened his eyes to find Trish standing over him. “What time is it?”
“Four a.m. Something’s wrong with the Meg. Mac said it’s struggling to breathe; he doesn’t think it will last the night.”
“Shit.” David rolled out of bed, his muscles aching from having spent most of the night piloting the Manta. He dressed quickly and then followed her out of his cabin and up a flight of stairs to the main deck.
It had stopped raining. The air was thick with humidity, the full moon low in the western sky, luminous behind a formation of white cumulus clouds.
Mac was standing on the hopper’s rise. David joined him, the captive creature nowhere in sight. “Where is she?”
“Lying on the bottom of the tank, barely moving. Take a look. I rigged a GoPro to the keel of my kid’s remotely operated toy motorboat.” Mac turned his laptop so David could see the monitor. “She’s been swimming erratically, bashing her head against the insides of the tank. There—can you see her mouth?”
Mac zoomed in on the shark’s lower jaw, which was opening and closing rapidly as if the Meg was under extreme duress.
“She’s acting as if she can’t breathe. Mac, how long has this been going on?”
“Hard to say. I had to wait until the rain stopped before I could use the motorboat—it’s been coming down in buckets. At least twenty minutes.”
“The rain … I wonder if it diluted the saline levels in the hopper to the point where her gills can’t handle the freshwater?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Climbing down from the rise, Mac lowered the starboard dredge over the side, David doing the same with the portside device. Thirty seconds later the two hoses jumped to life, shooting seawater into the tank along either side of the hopper.
Several minutes passed before the Meg rose away from the bottom, circling back and forth between the two streams.
“Good call, kid. There’s only about a foot of freeboard. Will that be enough?”
“The salt water’s denser; that’s why she’s staying deep. Let it overflow. We’ll push the freshwater right out of the…” David paused. “Mac
… look.”
The Meg had surfaced and was spy-hopping between the two streams, its massive triangular head held upright, her mouth remaining open below the waterline. The creature’s right eye appeared luminous as it caught the full moon, which had poked free of a cloud bank.
“Tell me that shark isn’t staring at the moon.”
“That’s what it looks like to me.”
“Any of the other Megs ever do that?”
David shook his head. “This one’s definitely the first.”
They walked around to the west end of the hopper to where the Meg’s head was within ten feet of the starboard rail. Cast in the lunar light, the albino’s alabaster hide appeared to glow.
“Mac, I know this sounds crazy, but I think it thinks the moon is Lizzy.”
“You’re right—that does sound crazy. Where are you going?”
“She wants her mama—maybe she’s hungry?” David crossed the deck to where he and Monty had set up a five-foot-deep, twelve-foot-diameter aboveground wading pool. To feed any captured pups, they had brought along a half-dozen sides of beef, which were hanging from hooks in the walk-in freezer. Jackie had nixed the plan, recommending live fish. Upon entering the Salish Sea, they had used the fish finder to track schools of salmon. As they fed in the shallows, the McFarland would pass over the cluster of fish, its empty hopper inhaling a dozen or more at a time. From there, they simply drained the tank and placed the captured Chinook in the pool.
David heard the fish getting agitated as he approached. Using a landing net attached to a short pole, he scooped up a forty-five-pound Chinook and carried it over to the hopper, aligning himself within the field of vision of the Meg’s right eye.
“Hey, you! Are you hungry?”
Mac scoffed. “That fish is way too fast for your shark to catch.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Can I borrow your bowie knife?”