Generations

by Steve Alten

  Mac pulled the six-inch blade from the sheath attached to his belt and handed it to David. Laying the fish on the rail’s two-foot-wide ledge, he proceeded to slice through the salmon’s thick caudal peduncle two inches below its tail.

  Blood rolled down the fish’s pelvic fins, the droplets pooling along the surface of the tank.

  “Not very sporting.”

  “No, but it should do the trick.” David looked up at the Megalodon—

  —only it was gone. He searched the tank but was unable to see below the surface, which was refracting the full moon’s lunar light.

  “Mac, where’d she—”

  In one motion Mac lunged at David, dragging him away from the rail’s ledge as the Megalodon’s triangular head burst clear of the water, its open jaws gnawing at the top of the barrier where David had been standing before it managed to clamp down on the wriggling salmon, swallowing it whole.

  For a frozen moment in time, the shark seemed to stare at David with its soulless gray eye. Then it slipped back beneath the surface and was gone.

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland

  Strait of Georgia, Salish Sea

  The thundering chorus of helicopter rotors beating the airspace above the ship woke David from a deep sleep. Reaching for his iPhone, he checked the time.

  Seven thirty-eight? Damn helicopters … what the hell do they want?

  Oh, yeah …

  The captured Megalodon was the lead story. David tracked several news updates on his iPhone until he located a video clip taken by one of the news choppers flying overhead. For the next ten minutes he sat on the toilet and watched the bird’s-eye view of the McFarland’s hopper. Then he showered, brushed his teeth, dressed, and left his cabin—

  —only to be intercepted by Trish. By the look on her face, he knew the news was bad.

  “Jackie?”

  “She’s fine. Mac’s on the way back with her.”

  “The Meg—”

  “David, it’s your mother. She’s in the hospital. They don’t think she’ll make it through the night.”

  Trish’s words struck him like a blow to the gut. He felt his knees buckle as the blood rushed from his face. “I don’t understand? Dani said there was a protocol … that Mom was less than two weeks away.”

  “Pack a few belongings. Mac will fly you to Vancouver. You’ll catch a connecting flight in San Francisco. Dani’s already en route; she’ll pick you up at the Fort Lauderdale airport tonight outside the baggage claim.”

  He staggered back to his cabin, the excitement about having captured Lizzy’s offspring gone.

  Over the past eight weeks he had received text updates every few days from his sister. He knew his mother’s health was spiraling from not eating; he also knew that he had been so consumed with locating the Megalodon pups that he had ignored the possibility that she could actually die.

  She might not make it through the night.…

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, he broke down and cried.

  * * *

  Jackie was waiting for him by the helipad. She hugged him tightly, then spoke loud enough in his ear to be heard over the din of rotors. “Be with your family; I’ll handle things here.”

  David nodded, then walked to the chopper and climbed in the copilot’s seat next to Mac. He secured his seat belt and placed the headphones over his ears as the helicopter lifted away from the deck.

  Mac headed east, scattering the three news choppers—

  —the airship passing over the superyacht Hot & Spicy, which was following in the McFarland’s wake.

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge Marieke

  Southeast Farallon Island

  27 Nautical Miles Due West of San Francisco’s

  Golden Gate Bridge

  Paul Agricola circled the hopper deck, iPhone in hand as he searched for a signal. It had been several weeks since the Marieke had been close enough to land to use his cell phone, and while the ship-to-shore line worked, when it came to accessing his bank account he didn’t trust the system or his new employer.

  Three months at sea with this lunatic. If the deposits aren’t there, I’ll leave him on the most desolate hunk of rock I can find, and he can swim back to Dubai.…

  The signal flirted with his phone as he headed forward to the bow. In the distance he could make out the three pyramid-shaped summits of the South Farallon Islands, one of the four groups designated as a National Wildlife Refuge.

  Their arrival at bin Rashidi’s unscheduled stop sent a twinge of tightness down Paul’s left arm.

  For the first time since their voyage had begun, the former marine biologist had been making progress, having located a series of sea elephant kills along the northwest coast of Oregon that he was convinced belonged to the Liopleurodon. A few more attacks and he’d be able to narrow down the creature’s feeding schedule—the most important variable he needed to track down the elusive beast and capture it.

  And then, out of the blue, bin Rashidi had ordered the Marieke’s captain to chart a course for the South Farallones, wasting months of Paul’s hard work.

  “Why are you doing this? The Lio’s close—we actually have a legitimate shot at capturing it!”

  “Something important has come up … a necessary task that requires my immediate attention. I will explain everything when we arrive.”

  The iPhone’s signal indicator jumped from no bars to three. Paul immediately pressed the preprogrammed number.

  “You have reached Bank of America’s small business services. Please enter the number of the account you wish to—”

  He typed in the memorized info, followed by the last four digits of his social security number, and waited to hear the balance.

  “Your available balance is 426,712 dollars.”

  He disconnected the call and exhaled a toxic breath. Bin Rashidi had wired his fourth monthly payment as promised, buying him another thirty days of Paul’s services.

  Still, this ridiculous detour to the Farallones better make sense, or I’ll insist on being dropped off in San Francisco.…

  He was about to power off the iPhone when his eyes caught the news blip:

  Remaining Albino Meg

  Pup Captured!

  Shark En Route to Tanaka Institute

  Paul gritted his teeth, once again registering the stress running down his left arm. David’s resilient, I’ll give him that. Unfortunately for him, he’s playing in the adult league now, where we keep aces up our sleeves.…

  * * *

  Southeast Farallon is the largest island in the chain and the only one accessible by boat. In addition to a lighthouse perched atop its three hundred-twenty-eight-foot summit, there are several structures on its flatland, including a storage facility and two houses, all of which have been maintained over the years, though they remain vacant.

  Per Fiesal’s orders, Captain Robert Gibbons had entered Fisherman Bay to the north before circling to the eastern side of the seven-hundred-acre island.

  * * *

  Paul joined his employer by the starboard rail. Peering through his binoculars, he gazed at an inaccessible shoreline. Then, as they rounded a rock face harboring two sea caves, he saw something else—

  Brutus …

  The eighty-foot-long, hundred-eighty-seven-thousand-pound Livyatan melvillei had beached itself in the shallows and died.

  Paul stared at the prehistoric sperm whale for a long moment before turning to Fiesal. “How did you know it was here? How long has it been dead?”

  Fiesal lowered his binoculars to consult the GPS locator programmed in his iPhone. “I instructed Jacqueline Buchwald to tag it before she was scheduled to release it. According to its bio scan, the beast died two days ago.”

  “How did it die?”

  “Perhaps you could determine the cause of death after we retrieve the tracking device. It was my team’s latest design … very high-tech. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it, especially my cousin.”

  Paul scanned the eastern c
oastline. “There’s no access from here. We’ll have to make land along the south side of the island and walk around.”

  * * *

  The sun was a brilliant golden hue by the time the motorized raft was lowered along the starboard side of the ship. Cold gusts greeted its three passengers, along with a six-foot swell that rolled beneath the craft as it settled in the water, nearly sending Fiesal bin Rashidi headfirst into the sea. Paul grabbed hold of the back of his life jacket and thrust him into his seat as Robert Gibbons started the outboard, the Marieke’s captain heading for the shoreline half a mile to the north.

  Boarding an inflated raft to negotiate great white shark–infested waters was not something Paul would normally have suggested, but there was an advantage in using the lightweight Zodiac—it could be dragged out of the water with them, as opposed to a lifeboat, which would have had to be tied off and left exposed to the jagged shoreline and the sea’s unmerciful pounding.

  Paul grabbed the bowline as they approached the island’s outlying rocks. Climbing out, he held the raft steady for Fiesal and Captain Gibbons. The three men then lifted the craft out of the water and onto a four-foot-high cliff face, allowing the outboard motor to hang over the side.

  Spread out before them was a lime-green, moss-covered flatland that rose majestically into a mountain summit. The latter was made accessible by several long flights of steps that zigged and zagged their way up to a lighthouse perched atop the deserted island.

  Captain Gibbons looked around. “I thought these islands had large elephant seal populations?”

  “They do,” Paul replied, “only you won’t find them on this kind of geology. They prefer sandy beaches with rocky shallows, which help protect their pups from predators. The adults use the sand as sunscreen. I’m sure we’ll find them where we’re headed.”

  Fiesal activated his iPhone’s tracking system. “This way.”

  They followed a footpath past a pair of identical two-story homes, the windows shuttered. Up ahead was a prefabricated warehouse with several roll-up garage doors. A side entrance was unlocked, allowing Paul to take a quick peek inside. Tools hung from pegs along one wall, dust covered two workbenches, and a plastic drop cloth protected an old gasoline-powered generator. By the heavy musk scent and cobwebs, he guessed it had been years since a scientific team had visited.

  They continued until they came to the east side of the island—three acres of rock squeezed between the mountain to their backs and the Pacific, hidden from view by the Livyatan melvillei, its girth running almost the entire shoreline. The front of Brutus’s massive squared-off head was wedged against a twenty-foot-tall escarpment, the towering rocks blocking their access to the sea. The carnivore’s orca-like lower jaw towered two stories above them and remained open enough for them to see the points of its fourteen-inch teeth.

  Paul zipped up his jacket, the temperature in the shade at least ten degrees cooler. “All right, Fiesal, find this tracking device of yours and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Fiesal held up his iPhone, tracing the GPS signal to the predator’s skull, the dorsal portion of which was underwater. “Where is it? Do you see it?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “A four-foot-long harpoon.”

  The three men searched, finding nothing.

  “Must be on the other side of its head.” Captain Gibbons attempted to climb over the wall of blubber, only to slide down off the slick rounded surface.

  “Forget it, Fiesal,” Paul said. “There’s no way to get to it, and you’d need a crane to move this carcass. Write off the loss and let’s get back to hunting the Lio.”

  Fiesal turned to the two men. “Twenty thousand dollars … that is the reward money I am offering to recover the device. Find it together and split the money or one of you do it on your own. Either way, I am not leaving this island until the device is in my possession.”

  Captain Gibbons looked at Paul. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Robert. Only you can put a price on your own life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever seen a great white attack a whale carcass? It’s not a sight for the faint at heart. These are the Farallones; there could be twenty sharks on the other side of this creature tearing fifty-pound chunks of blubber from its flank as we speak.”

  “Ridiculous,” Fiesal rebutted. “The whale is lying in the shoals—it is not that deep.”

  “You don’t know how deep it is.”

  The captain inspected the rock formation blocking their way. “For twenty grand, it’s worth taking a look.” Gibbons attempted to establish a handhold to climb the rock, only to slice his right palm on the sharp surface.

  Removing his denim shirt, he used the rocky edge to cut off the sleeves. He wrapped his hands in the lengths of the thick cloth, then started to climb, quickly reaching the twenty-foot-high summit.

  Looking below, he saw the surf washing up against the dead whale’s upper torso, the water dark and ominous.

  “Well?”

  “Paul’s right … it’s definitely deep enough for great whites to feed. I don’t see any dorsal fins.”

  “What about the tracking device?”

  “I’m too high up—stand by.” Turning around, he lowered himself feetfirst, struggling to find a secure toehold on the algae-covered rockface.

  “It’s too slippery—I can’t climb back up!”

  “Don’t climb back up. Jump in, grab the tracker, and we’ll toss you a rope.”

  Paul shot Fiesal an angry look. “We don’t have a rope.”

  “There must be one in that maintenance shack.”

  They both turned—Robert Gibbons yelling out as he fell into the sea.

  “Captain? Captain, are you all right?”

  Gibbons surfaced, fighting to catch his breath in the frigid water. “I’m okay. Water’s freezing … need that rope.”

  “You heard the man,” Paul said. “Get him a rope.”

  Fiesal took three strides, calling back, “Find that tracking device.”

  Paul watched bin Rashidi disappear around the base of the mountain. “Robert, can you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are there any bite marks visible on the carcass?”

  “Not above the water … oh, shit—”

  “What?”

  “I just felt something swim beneath me—ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!”

  Paul’s heart raced as the captain’s screams were suddenly muted, replaced by heavy splashing and the distinct sound of a large caudal fin slapping the surface.

  “Robert? Are you okay?”

  Gibbons surfaced in a panic. Stroking for the moss-covered rocks, he dug his fingers into any nook and crag he could locate and dragged himself out of the ocean, balancing on the toes of his left hiking boot—

  —his right foot gone, the leg bitten below his calf muscle, his severed Achilles tendon dangling from the gushing wound.

  The great white surfaced out of a swell, its nostrils snorting his blood.

  “Paul, it bit off my foot!”

  “Jesus … Okay, stay calm. Can you get out of the water?”

  “I’m on the rock, only I can’t hold on and the blood’s just pouring out of me.”

  “Are you wearing a belt?”

  “A belt? Yeah.”

  “Use it as a tourniquet.” Paul looked to his left—no sign of Fiesal. Looking to his right, he spotted a small gray shack nestled among the boulders at the base of the mountain.

  “Hang on, I’m going to find something to reach you.” Scrambling over the rocky terrain, he headed for the shack, only to find himself immersed in a thick swarm of flies.

  “Ugh … What the hell—oh, God.”

  The elephant seal had been a mature female. Its lower torso was gone, bitten in half just below its front flippers by a force so powerful it had popped out both of the pinniped’s eyes. The gaping wound had flushed the cow’s innards from its remains, pooling between the roc
ks.

  Hearing Gibbons cry out, he hurried on his way, only to discover more elephant seal carcasses, each kill as gruesome as the last. He counted a dozen half-eaten animals before he reached the shack, his mind demanding answers to questions that were delaying his completion of the task at hand.

  What land creature could have done that?

  Dumbass … it wasn’t a land predator. The remains must have washed up with the tide. It was either orca or great whites.

  Satisfied he had resolved the mystery, he yanked open the shack’s warped wooden door, only to be greeted by an outhouse and the putrid scent of human feces. He pinched his nose and looked around, searching for anything he could use to reach Gibbons.

  Hanging from a hook on the back of the door was a towel. He grabbed it and exited, following a narrow foot trail that ran along the base of the mountain. He saw Fiesal coming around the bend, the coils of a frayed length of rope slung over his left shoulder.

  “Here—let me have that!” Taking the rope, Paul made his way back down to the beached sperm whale. The dusk had receded into night, the darkening sky dusted with stars.

  “Robert, can you hear me?”

  No response.

  He tore the towel down the middle and wrapped the cloth around his hands. With the rope coiled around his neck, he started to climb, kicking toeholds in the brittle rock face as he ascended.

  Straddling the summit, he looked down, searching for the captain.

  “Well?” Fiesal asked.

  “I don’t see him—wait! There’s something in the water by the whale’s head.” Paul removed the rope from around his neck, tossing one end to Fiesal. “Tie that to one of those rocks; I’m going to work my way down and try to reach him.”

  He waited for bin Rashidi to secure the rope and then tested it. Satisfied, he wound it around his wrists and half-climbed, half-slid down the algae-covered rock face, jamming the heels of his boots to brake before he reached the water.

  He heard a splash somewhere beneath the whale carcass. Bracing his feet against the escarpment, he bent over to improve his sightline. “Robert, is that you?”