Generations

by Steve Alten

  Jackie grabbed for her walkie-talkie. “Monty, lower the flex-tube, I need to administer more drugs.”

  As she watched in horror, the agitated shark rolled over several times, each rotation causing the harness to squeeze tighter around its sharp denticle-covered skin, the razor-sharp edges cutting into the thick canvas fabric.

  The tearing sound caused everyone to back away.

  “Get to the ladder,” Alan warned as he suddenly found himself being dragged sideways into the Meg’s chaotic vortex.

  Jalen Cox extended the grip end of his reach pole to his father. Alan grabbed hold of it and held on as his son pulled him out of harm’s way while his brother Mason struck the creature above its left pectoral fin with his bang stick, the 3,000-volt charge causing it to arch its back as it reared its head out of the water.

  The Meg spun around, its tail unleashing a seven-foot swell that rolled over Alan’s head.

  Jalen managed three bounding strides toward his submerged father before he was forced to duck under the incoming wave. Opening his eyes underwater, he saw blood pooling around the monster’s gnashing jaws and realized his father was under attack.

  His head cleared the water as the wave rolled past him. “Mason, strike it again!”

  Ducking underwater, Jalen grabbed his father by his armpits and dragged him away from the Meg, which had freed itself from its harness.

  Mason moved in to attack—

  —and his reach pole was slapped free from his grip by the creature’s lashing tail.

  Jalen left his father with Jackie to help his brother. Blood was in the water, pooling around the trainer, seeping from a jagged wound. Alan’s right arm was gone, bitten off below the elbow. Pink tendons and sinew dangled from beneath a flap of skin matted in dark hair.

  Alan looked down. “Oh, God—”

  “Alan, stay calm, I’m going to make you a tourniquet.” Retrieving her dive knife from its ankle strap, Jackie used its serrated edge to slice through the right sleeve of his wetsuit. Then she wrapped it around his right biceps and tied it as tightly as she could.

  “That should hold for now, but we need to get you out of here.”

  He nodded, fighting to keep from blacking out. “The harness … is there anything left of it?”

  She looked back where Mason and Jalen were retreating from the advancing Meg, the harness still dangling from its hoist. “It’s torn, but salvageable.” She waved to the boys. “Circle back and grab the harness; we’ll need it to get your dad out of here.”

  “It can’t turn.”

  Jackie looked around before pinpointing the voice to her left shoulder. “Ashton?”

  “The Meg can’t turn—the water’s too shallow. It can only go forward.”

  Jackie realized the teen was talking to Jalen, who was struggling to stay ahead of the surging shark. Cutting hard to his right, he launched himself into a frenzy of swim strokes and kicks to avoid the lunging shark’s snapping jaws—

  —and its belly suddenly grounded, preventing it from pursuing Ashton’s older brother.

  Mason retrieved the canvas sheath and dragged it through the water to his father and Jackie. “Contact Mac. Have him raise the hoist so we can climb inside what’s left of the harness.”

  Using the Velcro straps, he fashioned the torn fabric into a giant sling while his brother occupied the incensed Meg, preventing it from going after the others.

  Jackie reached for the radio strapped to her shoulder. “Mac, this is Jackie … do you read me? Mac, come in! Are you kidding me?”

  * * *

  Unable to reach Monty on his radio, Mac had left the crane’s cab to see what was happening inside the Meg Pen. He joined his nephew by the outer rail.

  “Mac, what are you doing? Didn’t you hear me yelling at you to raise the hoist? The Meg’s awake—”

  Mac grabbed the radio from the frantic man. “Idiot! You’re on Channel-1, the shark crew’s channel. I’m on Channel-2!” He switched the dial, stole a quick glance into the Meg Pen … and took off in an awkward jog, each pounding stride on the cold concrete surface sending shooting pains through his arthritic knees.

  * * *

  Jackie and Mason helped Alan into the harness. She scooted in beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist as the hoist rose above their heads, pulling up the slack.

  Mason called out to his brother. “That’s far enough!”

  Jalen had led Luna thirty yards in the other direction. Circling back, the slender eighteen-year-old found himself out of breath, struggling to move quickly in the chest-deep water.

  The Meg shook its head, its flared directional nostrils snorting the water—

  —locking in on the scent of blood. Whipping its caudal fin into a wide arc, the Meg thrashed and twisted itself into a hundred-eighty-degree turn, its snout pointing directly at the canvas sling holding the three humans—

  —Jalen Cox directly in its path.

  Mason stood up and yelled, “Run!”

  Alan opened his eyes. Weak from the loss of blood, he knew he was going into shock, but seeing the white dorsal fin advancing on his son snapped him out of it.

  “Jalen! Stop trying to outrun the damn thing and start swimming!”

  Hearing his father’s order, the teen dove forward into a crawl stroke, and now it was a race, the teen two body lengths out in front, the shark picking up speed as it adapted to moving through the shallows with short, quick swipes of its tail.

  The harness had risen three feet out of the water when Jalen righted himself and jumped, grabbing his brother by the hand—

  —his right boot actually stepping on the Meg’s snout as he used it to boost himself out of the water onto the canvas perch.

  * * *

  The steel cable retracted, lifting the harness out of the Meg Pen. Thirty seconds later it was set down on the concrete deck, where EMTs quickly worked on Alan Cox.

  Mac looked out the open cab door to see Jacqueline Buchwald heading his way, her wetsuit unzipped and dangling around her waist, revealing a red bikini top.

  As she reached the cab, he realized her top was actually white, the thin spandex material soaked in blood.

  Jackie signaled for him to shut down the crane’s motor, then handed him her radio.

  “I quit.”

  Monterey High School

  Monterey, California

  The gymnasium carried the heavy scent of perspiration that only comes with age. Wood bleachers rattled beneath a foot-stomping crowd that easily surpassed the fire marshal’s twenty-five-hundred-person capacity as the pregame clock ran down to 0:00. Cheerleaders scurried onto the basketball court, led by the home team’s mascot—a toreador, replete with a red bullfighting cape.

  The visitors’ starting five were introduced to a chorus of boos. And then the band’s trumpet section played the Toreador theme.

  “… and now, for your Green Machine! Starting at center … a six-foot, seven-inch junior—number thirty-three, Jim Tiknor. At power forward … a six-foot, five-inch senior—number twenty-one, Joel Benavides. At small forward … a six-foot, three-inch junior—number thirty-two, Kyle Lancaster. At point guard … a six-foot senior—number twelve, Michael Davies. And at shooting guard … a six-foot, five-inch All-Conference senior—number eleven, Matthew Cubit.”

  The dark-haired teen hustled to center court and was surrounded by his teammates as the crowd chanted, “Green Machine … Green Machine.”

  Twenty rows up, Tom Cubit occupied the last two seats in the upper row of the center aisle. As the referee tossed the ball for the opening tap, the attorney and former two-guard at the University of Central Florida casually scanned the crowd, identifying clusters of Division I college coaches pretending to scout his son. In reality, every coach in the country knew what Matt could do; at this juncture they were simply using the game as an excuse to “court” Tom, hoping to gain an edge in signing his son to a Letter of Intent.

  Michael Selby was the first to approach. The third-year coa
ch at UCLA and his assistants had been engaged in a “full-court recruiting press” ever since Matt’s Facebook post stating that he might be interested in playing closer to home after all. This had sent waves of panic through the staffs at the former front-runners, Duke and North Carolina, and both schools’ assistant coaches were in attendance.

  Tom Cubit watched Selby make his way up the rickety bleachers. “Tommy?”

  “Hey, Coach.”

  “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for a reply, Selby squeezed himself onto the last two feet of wood bench. “Tom, you know how much we want your boy to come to UCLA—we’re a perfect fit. As a friend, I just wanted you to be aware of some nasty rumors being floated out there.”

  Cubit’s hazel eyes grew fierce. “What rumors?”

  “Something about a secret surgical procedure that enhanced Matt’s shooting range. It’s crazy, I know, but I had to ask. I mean, the kid wasn’t on anyone’s radar as a junior; suddenly he’s averaging thirty-eight points a game while shooting NBA threes.”

  As if on cue, Matthew buried a three-pointer from five feet beyond the top of the key, sending the bleachers reverberating with stomps.

  “Coach, Mattie was born with pectus excavatum; it’s a condition where the breastbone is sunken in the chest. He could have lived with it, but as an athlete it was affecting his wind and workouts. When he turned fourteen he begged us to have it fixed. We took him to a surgeon, who performed something called a Nuss procedure. Basically, they inserted a concave steel bar beneath his breastplate and then flipped it over, popping out his chest. It’s secured with stabilizers, but you have to wear it for four years, and I know it had to affect him. Mattie never complained; he just worked harder. This past summer his surgeon removed the bar, and suddenly the kid’s shooting the ball like he’s Stephen Curry.”

  The crowd roared again as number eleven hit a jump shot from deep in the corner.

  “Tom, that’s an amazing story; I think we should publish it the day Matt signs with the Bruins. As for those rumors, don’t say I said anything, but the guy spreading it…” Selby nodded in the direction of Chris Carter, the head basketball coach at USC, the local competition.

  Cubit was about to reply when he saw a young woman enter the gym, her hair tucked beneath a San Francisco Giants baseball cap. “Hey, Coach, there’s someone here who needs to speak with me … you don’t mind?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Selby shook Cubit’s hand and left, passing Jacqueline Buchwald on the way down.

  She held out her hand when she got to Tom. “I’m Jackie. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Cubit. I’m curious—why here instead of at your office?”

  “This isn’t on the clock. We’re simply engaging in a casual conversation.”

  “Casual? How’s this for casual: The crown prince claims he has evidence that his cousin and I conspired to sink the Tonga.”

  “What evidence?”

  “The transmitter bin Rashidi gave me to tag the Livyatan melvillei … it wasn’t a tracking device, it was an injection cartridge. The prince showed me results of a lab report that indicated the cartridge contained traces of a powerful stimulant. Mr. Cubit, Fiesal bin Rashidi told me the harpoon held a tracking device. He ordered me to use it on Brutus. I swear, I didn’t know about any of this.”

  “I believe you. But why would he purposely sink a tanker, killing so many innocent people?”

  “To get back at his cousin for forcing him out of the company. The guy’s a sociopath. He also has his own reasons for releasing the Lio. A few weeks before the Tonga arrived in Monterey, I overheard one of the other marine biologists talking about a new start-up venture coming out of China. That gives bin Rashidi a major buyer should he manage to recapture the Lio.”

  “Bin Rashidi’s dead. So is Paul Agricola. Their remains were found in the Farallon Islands—their raft was attacked and sunk by great white sharks that were feasting off the dead Miocene whale. That’s the official story. My contacts in the Coast Guard told me what really happened. Agricola’s remains were found near the shoreline; bin Rashidi was attacked inside a maintenance building.”

  “By what?”

  “The Lio. Looks like your former boss was devoured and then regurgitated, with his flesh melted down to the bone by the creature’s digestive juices.”

  “May his soul rot in hell. Are you sure about the Lio venturing on land? I mean, I realize these monsters were once amphibious, but they’ve clearly evolved gills.”

  “According to one of the Farallon marine biologists, the Lio decimated the elephant seal population—that’s why it left the water. David believes the creature has functional lungs, which simply remain deflated until it breathes air. The governor’s keeping this quiet—the last thing he wants is to panic the public.”

  “Where is David? I’ve been trying to reach him since he returned to Monterey. Why is he avoiding my texts and calls?”

  “David’s in a precarious position, Ms. Buchwald. As of last week, he officially took ownership of the institute. As you know, we’re suing the prince and his corporate entities. You worked for Dubai-Land before and during the transfer of the Lio to the Tonga. Prince Walid’s accusations won’t hold up in court, but once the story breaks, the families of the survivors will go after you, too.”

  “There’s nothing you can do to help me?”

  “I wish there were. Again, it’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Sounds to me like my whole relationship with David Taylor is a conflict of interest.” She stood to leave—

  —and Cubit grabbed her by the wrist. “David asked me to give you something.” Reaching beneath the bench, he pulled out a decorative gift bag, a cardboard box inside.

  “What’s this?”

  “Two five-inch Megalodon teeth: one from Lizzy, the other from Bela. David included a list of private dealers as well. He says the pair should pull in close to a million dollars each.”

  “Tell the new owner of the Tanaka Institute I don’t need his blood money … that I’ll manage on my own.” She handed the package back to the attorney and stormed down the bleachers.

  Tom Cubit waited until halftime. Then he stepped outside the gym and placed the call.

  “David, bad news: She turned down the package.”

  * * *

  David sat in the dark galley, watching the albino Megalodon as it circled counterclockwise around its new habitat. Having spent most of her existence being towed through the water by her dark-pigmented cousin, Luna had developed a lazy caudal fin, a condition that caused her to sink every twenty feet until she lashed her tail to compensate.

  He could have stayed all evening in the Meg Pen’s bleachers, but hearing the news from the attorney sent him heading for the exit, cursing under his breath.

  “If she didn’t take the teeth, that can only mean one thing: The crown prince is blackmailing her.”

  “To do what?”

  “To go after the Lio.”

  Carmel, California

  Jonas entered his master bedroom. Sitting in his wife’s favorite wicker rocking chair, he gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the emerald-green swells rolling into Otter Cove.

  How long has it been since I was home? Three months?

  It seemed a lifetime ago that he had agreed to relocate to Boca Raton with Terry to enjoy their retirement years together in peace.

  “The Pacific gave us a tempest life; the Atlantic offers us serenity. I know you love this house, Jonas, but you’ll see … the change will do us good. We’ll make new memories.”

  She was right. Over the last three months they had made many new memories—all of them nightmares.

  * * *

  Nearly two weeks had passed since he had been summoned to Dr. Calvert’s office, feeling like a teen about to be expelled from school.

  “We’ve met with Dr. Maharaj, who provided our medical board with a complete breakdown of what was in the IV bag. He stated emphatically that he had spoken to both you and your da
ughter about Terry’s high creatinine levels … that he had told you she was far too weak to handle the granulocytes in her present condition. He also made it quite clear that he never authorized his staff to release the donor cells to your children.”

  “I paid for them; they were ours. My son took them as per my instructions. In football it’s what we call a ‘Hail Mary pass.’ Terry was dying; the cancer had—”

  “Introducing an alternative medical protocol without the knowledge of your wife’s physician or our staff violates every rule in this facility. Under normal circumstances, these cancer-killing agents elevate the patient’s internal temperature. In Terry’s case, her elevated creatinine levels caused a massive swelling of her brain tissues.”

  “The results from the last blood tests seem to indicate the cancer is gone.”

  “Yes, but at what cost? Instead of passing in peace, your actions have left your wife in a coma.”

  “People awaken from comas. Terry’s breathing on her own; isn’t that a positive sign?”

  “Mr. Taylor, your wife is in a persistent vegetative state … a state of severe unconsciousness. With a persistent vegetative state, there is breathing, circulation, and sleep-wake cycles, but she is unaware of her surroundings and incapable of voluntary movement. While there is a slight chance of her one day progressing to wakefulness, she’ll never recoup her higher brain functions, meaning she’ll remain in a permanent vegetative state until the day her organs finally shut down and she dies.”

  “For better or worse, that was the deal.” Jonas pinched away tears. “Whatever it costs to take care of her, I’ll pay it. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”

  Dr. Calvert shook her head. “Not here you won’t. My assistant is putting together a list of facilities where she can be remanded.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Tell your staff to get her ready to travel. We’re taking my wife home, where she belongs.”

  * * *

  The knock on the open bedroom door snapped Jonas back into the moment. He turned to Dani, who was standing in the hallway.