by Michael Cole
“You hit a rock?” Napier said, surprised. “Is your boat okay?”
“Damn you,” Thompson exclaimed, angrily. “That was no rock. I saw something down there, and whatever it was, it was enormous and alive.” While Napier was intrigued by what she was saying, he was more curious as to whether or not she recognized him. Deputy Drake shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what to say. Suddenly he heard the chief call out to him, ordering him over by where he was standing. He quickly followed his orders, and happily. It got him away from the lieutenant, whom he thought was losing her mind. Napier suddenly found himself without an excuse to be near his old girlfriend. He figured there was nothing to gain and thought about heading back to his boat, being as Mr. Gary should be arriving any minute. As he was about to leave, he noticed Thompson making a beeline right towards him. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he figured he’d try a formal approach.
“Is there anything I can do to help--” his words were stopped suddenly by a sharp smack to the face. It was a damned vicious impact too, causing Napier to stumble back a couple steps. “Holy mother of ass!”
“I see you’re as much of a dick as you were back in school!” She said, barely keeping her voice below a shout. Napier kept his cool, which was not something he was good at. She recognized him alright. He thought of their high school breakup, which was probably his best practice at being calm in tense situations.
“I’m sorry for my remark about the sea monster,” he said. “I just was making conversation with Deputy Dra--” Another smack struck him on the right cheek, again catching him off guard. He could feel his temper brewing within him. His interest in Thompson was quickly diminishing. “Okay,” he said, holding his hand to his jaw. He kept his words slow and spaced apart. “Don’t you think this could get you in trouble with your superiors, slapping me like this? A civilian?”
“I’m probably facing court-martial anyway,” she said, darting toward him. Napier braced for another smack, but instead she walked past him. To his surprise, he wasn’t feeling anger towards her, rather sympathy. A person died under her supervision, and due to her testimony, everyone in the Coast Guard was beginning to think of her as a lunatic. Her reputation and career were at stake. And the worst part of it was she knew she saw something, and for some reason the Coast Guard wasn’t able to locate it on radar. He stood silent for a minute and watched her walk away. As he looked in the distance, he noticed a pickup truck parked near the Catcher.
“Oh shit,” he said. He made his way to the boat after recognizing Mr. Gary, who was waiting patiently to make their transaction.
CHAPTER
8
Dr. Isaac Wallack sat alone, smoking a six-inch long, curved pipe, shaped like a rippling sea serpent. The cauldron end of the pipe where the tobacco burned was shaped like the mouth of a dragon, while the rest of the pipe resembled its scaly body up to the mouthpiece. He sat alone in his private office, purposely secluding himself from the rest of the world. His maple desk had several papers scattered about, mostly notes dedicated to his hybrid specimens which he had been working on for years in the Atlantic Warren Laboratory, up until recently. After the recent incident in one of the lab chambers, which resulted in the escape of the most expensive hybrid experiment, Colonel Richard Salkil demanded the funds be eliminated from Wallack’s projects. One terrible accident had left the ambitious scientist without any money, making further progress nearly impossible. The United States Government provided all of the funding and resources to make his dreams a reality, but unfortunately the Colonel didn’t see eye-to-eye with him, and filed a report to Washington to shut down the project. Even the massive laboratory was taken away from him. He would have to start over completely, and the worst part was he didn’t have the funds or resources. The doctor thought about Project 241, wondering what became of it. Colonel Salkil was convinced it had died at sea, due to the fact that it was never able to test its instincts and fend for itself. It was always given the nutrients it needed by its creators, and Salkil believed it wasn’t able to hunt food for itself. Wallack knew better. However, after an extensive naval radar hunt for the specimen produced no results, he too began to believe that Project 241 had perished to the bottom of the sea.
A knock on his office door quickly drew Wallack’s attention. “Come in.” The door opened, revealing a man in his late thirties, dressed in a white dress shirt tucked into black pants, not wearing any tie. It was the doctor’s general assistant, Jeb Keith. He held a newspaper tucked under his right arm. After the military confiscated everything, Jeb continued to work at Wallack’s side. It was as if he had sworn allegiance to the scientist. He had assisted him throughout the years on board the Atlantic Warren Laboratory, and was one of the few people who took his ideas seriously, after several others laughed at the prospect of what Wallack believed he could accomplish. Jeb took a step into the office, taking a few quick glances at the numerous photographs on the walls, which almost appeared as a diagram illustrating the progress they had made with the hybrids. He saw his employer, or at least a broken shell of him, slumped at his desk staring at his hundreds of pages of notes. In the midst of those scattered papers were two empty beer bottles, and a third rested in Wallack’s hand. However, Jeb believed he carried news that would bring back that hope and ambition to the doctor once again.
“What is it?” Wallack said half-heartedly through a few puffs of his pipe. His words had slowed, perhaps a combined effect of the alcohol and broken spirit.
“Sir, you may want to read this,” Jeb said as he placed the newspaper on the desk. The doctor didn’t budge. He simply looked down at the paper, unwilling to gather the tiny amount of energy and focus to pick it up and read the article.
“What’s so important?” he grumbled. He took another puff of his pipe, blowing smoke rings that clouded the small office. Jeb sighed and picked up the newspaper.
“There was a incident in Mako’s Ridge regarding a sunken vessel. It sank near the island of Mako’s Edge, and there was a report that a Coast Guard diver was killed during the search for it,” he explained, holding the front of the article up to his mentor. Wallack’s expression remained about the same: Detached and depressed. Jeb wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or the disconnection from reality, but he immediately knew the doctor wasn’t able to piece together what he was getting at with this news. Finally he threw the newspaper back on the desk, dispersing several pages of the notes. “Just read the damn thing!” he demanded. Wallack’s expression finally changed. His eyes widened in brief shock, and he scooted a few inches back into his seat. It wasn’t like Jeb to speak to him in this manner. Wallack decided not to challenge his younger assistant. He overcame his detached state-of-mind and picked up the newspaper. The title was in a large bold font: More Tragedy Strikes Mako’s Ridge!
He read the article, which recapped the bizarre wreckage of Steve Hogan’s fishing vessel. The article continued on to describe the Coast Guard operation to locate the vessel and any possible bodies, which resulted in the death of Officer Denning. Jeb watched Wallack’s facial expression suddenly become alive, and he knew he was reading the section of the article summing up Lieutenant Lisa Thompson’s report of what she saw. The doctor now summed up what his assistant had been trying to explain to him. These strange incidents were happening at Mako’s Edge, the location in which the secondary laboratory was located to house Project 241.
“Oh my God,” he said with excitement. He looked up to Jeb, who was also smiling. “It found its way home! It’s there! It’s alive!” It made so much sense. As a much smaller creature, it nearly escaped into the rocky waters of Mako’s Edge. It appeared to treat the area as its natural habitat, blending into the rough environment. “Why didn’t I think of it before?” He stood up with the paper still in hand.
“We need to contact the government,” Jeb said. “If we can recapture Architeuthis Brachyura, perhaps we can get our funding back from the government. Then we’ll be able to continue your experiments.” Wallack
stood quietly for a few moments, thinking over the prospect.
“Thanks to the Colonel, that’s not likely to happen,” he explained. “When he arrived at the laboratory for his inspection, he immediately detested 241 after I explained it to him. He didn’t think the military was ready for such a massive hybrid, rather, he didn’t think it could be controlled.”
“So what do we do?” Jeb asked. Wallack already had the answer in mind before Jeb even asked his question.
“We’re going to place a call to Redford Gibson,” he said. He searched his pockets for his cell phone, but could not remember where he had placed it. He had been an isolated, unsocial, drunken wreck for the last few days. “Get me the phone,” he demanded from Jeb, who quickly left the office to retrieve a cordless phone from the lobby. Without military assistance, Wallack was forced to resort to his own resources to track down his creation and hopefully recapture it. He had plenty of his own money saved, enough to hire a team of mercenaries to complete the mission.
Redford Gibson was a hardened ex-marine whom Wallack had hired previously to do his ‘dirty work’. Nearly a year ago, a team of Nigerian cartel members stole precious materials from a small vulnerable supply ship that didn’t contain security personnel. When the government took too long to begin an operation to resolve the matter, Gibson and his tough-as-nails team of ex-military gun-for-hires were quick to track down the Nigerians before they reached their destination. Not one was spared, which Wallack intended to serve as a warning to anyone who dared to attempt to interfere with his projects. For the right price, Gibson was more than willing to attempt any assignment. And Wallack believed he had just the right amount of money. He was going to recapture his creation, or go broke trying.
“Sir?” Jeb said, gaining Wallack’s attention as he walked back into the office. “We may be able to afford the mercenaries, but we may not be able to acquire other resources for this particular mission. We won‘t have a large enough boat to hunt down the specimen.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Wallack said. He took the phone from his assistant. “We’ll conduct personal checks on the locals living in Mako’s Center. Sadly, there are times that it’s necessary to just take what you need from those who have it.” He dialed a series of numbers on the phone and held it to his ear. It rang twice before a rough grizzled voice answered on the other line. Wallack’s lips formed a devilish smile. “Mr. Gibson? It’s Dr. Isaac Wallack from Atlantic Warren Laboratory. I have a proposition for you…”
CHAPTER
9
Nic Kelly took a swig of his root beer while his colleague, David Wellers sat across from him, looking over a dinner menu. It had been suggested to them by many of the island residents that the restaurant, Fast Fillet, was a great place for tourists to dine. Kelly and Wellers didn’t think of themselves as tourists, as they had come to Mako’s Ridge to check out the newly discovered cave in Mako’s Edge. The Geology Institute of Georgia, in conjunction with the University of Florida, requested research be conducted of the new discovery. While they appeared more like young thrill seekers than scientists, both Kelly and Wellers held Master Degrees in Speleology, with a particular interest in underground and underwater caves. Both men had exceptional experience in scuba diving. They explored underwater caves located in Alaska, such as the El Capitan Cave, which was the largest in that state. In addition, they explored countless locations in South America, such as Cueva de los Tayos in the Morona-Santiago province of Ecuador, and Toca da Boa Vista in Brazil, which was the largest known cave in the southern hemisphere. Now they were excited to be the first to dive into the unnamed cave leading into Mako’s Edge, despite the delays resulting from the incidents taking place at the rocky island which prevented them from doing their job the last two days. The Coast Guard had cleared out, and by the looks of it, the two explorers would finally be able to conduct their search tomorrow.
The Fast Fillet was a privately owned restaurant located almost in the dead center of town. Like most food service businesses on the island, it served mainly seafood recipes. Chicken and beef meals were also on the menu, but at a higher retail price than in the mainland. The restaurant was particularly crowded this evening. Several sporting fishermen had come to the island for the Annual Bailey Fishing Tournament, a yearly event which brought many thousands of dollars to the local businesses in Mako’s Center. Each year, hundreds of sportsmen fish off the coast of the island in a competition to get the biggest fish. Last year, the competition was won by an Australian contestant who hooked a four-hundred pound marlin on the north side, creating a new record.
“I hope he gets here soon,” Nic said, referring to Old Hooper. The cranky old fisherman was due to briefly meet them here at the restaurant to specify terms of tomorrow’s trip, namely the time of departure and the length of time he would have to wait as they begun studying the underwater geography. In addition, they both had a suspicion that the bastard would also try to renegotiate to increase his pay. Old Hooper didn’t have a cell phone, so the discussions had to be made in person.
“He’ll show,” David said. He placed his menu down on the rectangular shaped table, having decided what he was going to order.
“Talking about me?” A deep, croaky voice called out from the crowded restaurant aisle. Both scientists took notice of Old Hooper as he walked to their table from the bar area. He was dressed in his usual: muddy old Carhart vest over a black long-sleeve shirt, which thanks to his beer gut was barely tucked into his blue jeans. They were barely blue due to the amount of dirt that covered them. His face wasn’t much better. He clearly hadn’t shaved in two weeks, and he didn’t spout a good beard. It was patchy, with plenty of empty areas. The stains of dirt on his face only added to the filth. He held a beer in hand, dripping from the tip of the bottle as he held it nearly horizontally. Both scientists were not thrilled with the idea of hiring him for the job, but unfortunately, he was the only one who didn’t mind driving his boat into the rocky waters of Mako’s Edge.
“Hi,” Nic greeted. Normally he shook a man’s hand on these occasions, but the stench made him think otherwise. However, it was in his nature to be as polite as possible. “You may take a seat at our table if you like.” Old Hooper advanced for the seat opposite Nic. David had no intention of sitting next to this human waste bucket. He quickly slid out of his seat and scooted to Nic’s side of the table, just as Hooper sat down.
“Let’s make this quick,” the old fisherman said. Yes please, David mouthed the words to himself.
“Okay,” Nic began. “We’d like to be at the location by noon. It is supposed to be a nice sunny day tomorrow, so the extra illumination will help us locate the exact position of the cave. We’re going to have to get as close to the island as we can to minimize the amount we’ll have to swim.”
“I can’t make you any guarantees there, boy,” Hooper spat out a few suds from his mouth. “I may be crazy enough to go out there, but the rocks get worse the closer you get to the island itself. So if you want to minimize the likeliness you’ll have to swim back here to Mako’s Center if we sink, you’ll just have to deal with the fact that I can only get you within two hundred yards.” Nic struggled to keep himself from cussing the old fisherman out. Why does this prick have to be our only boating option? He pleaded with God in his mind. Hooper took another slug of his beer, which was going on empty. He nearly slammed it down on the table, as if he was slugging shots at a drinking competition. “Unless you have the coin,” he concluded his statement.
“Dude,” David spoke up. “We’re already paying you a thousand dollars.”
“That’s the fee for any kind of regular diving,” Hooper argued. “This is a different matter. My boat, and subsequently my life, is in jeopardy with this job. Therefore, I’m upping the cost. Unless you want to try your luck with the other fishermen on this island.” Both scientists knew very well that he didn’t care one bit about the risks. He took the exact same risks just to make a few extra bucks netting fish off the island.
Nic exhaled sharply.
“We can increase your pay up to fifteen hundred,” he bargained. “It’s not going any higher than that. The institute simply won’t allow it.” Hooper chuckled.
“Obviously the institute,” he held up both of his hands and formed quote signs with his middle and index fingers, “doesn’t give a shit about your stupid explorer thing.” He took a long pause, waiting for Nic to up the offer. When nothing was said, Hooper finally decided to put his terms to plain English. “Two grand is the deal.”
“The hell with you!” David accidentally let his tongue slip. Nic’s whole body notably tensed for a moment, resulting from his colleague’s mishap. Hooper began to stand up.
“Well, you know how where to find me if you change your mind,” he said.
“Whoa, hold on there a sec, friend,” called another voice from the crowd. Old Hooper and the scientists looked to the man who stepped up to their table, whom none of them recognized. He was dressed rather fashionably, with blue Wrangler jeans along with a dark green shirt under a brown sleeveless leather vest, along with brown cowboy boots and a black safari hat. He wore a necklace which contained an inch-and-a-half long white ivory shark tooth, resembling that of a great white.
“Who the hell are you?” Old Hooper immediately shot his mouth off. His trailing voice gathered the attention of numerous people dining around them, who looked in their direction as if they expected a fight to go down. The stranger, dressed like Crocodile Dundee, simply lit up a big smile.
“Perhaps you’ve heard of me,” he said. Nic and David were both surprised that his accent was purely American, when they were expecting it to be Australian. “My name is Rein. Ryan Rein.”
