Meg

by Steve Alten

  James Gelet stepped forward, his camera still rolling. “Our van is parked outside the northern gate.”

  They followed him out the closest exit to the parking lot. The segment producer tossed the keys to Monty and climbed in back to film while David hopped in front, speed-dialing a number on his iPhone―

  ―hanging on for dear life as his friend accelerated, the van racing south across the arena’s parking lot at eighty miles-an-hour. “Come on, Uncle Mac … pick up.”

  The call went straight to voicemail: “This is Mac. Me and the kid are busy soiling our diapers and taking naps. Leave a message if you want to annoy me, otherwise go to―”

  Beep.

  “Uncle Mac, Jackie just called. She said Brutus escaped and the Tonga is sinking. Call the Coast Guard.”

  Monty exited the lot and headed west down a private access road leading to a concrete pier. The security gate was unlocked and he bashed open with the front bumper, accelerating along the one-lane concrete path while six-foot swells crested and broke between the pilings beneath them.

  David glanced to his right. The pier ran parallel to the lagoon’s canal which extended into the Pacific two hundred yards to the west. Farther out, the Tonga dominated the horizon, its superstructure towering above the Pacific.

  If the tanker was sinking, it certainly wasn’t obvious to the naked eye.

  David grabbed the dashboard as the van skidded to a halt in front of a single-story building located at the far end of the dock. Exiting the vehicle, he hurried inside the submersible maintenance and launch area, known to the staff as the “Sub Shack,” where he found the institute’s chief engineer, Cyel Reed, seated at a large wood table, using a mounted magnifying glass to examine the inner workings of a pocket watch.

  “Well, look who it is? Little Boss man.”

  “Cyel, I need a Manta!”

  “Do you now? Did you clear it with the Big Boss man?”

  “I’m a partner; I don’t have to clear anything with anybody.”

  “You’re a junior partner, junior. That makes you a worker bee, just like me. And us worker bees don’t collect honey until we’re guaranteed the money … as in a new contract―capiche?”

  David felt the blood rush to his face as Monty entered, followed by James Gelet with a camera perched on his shoulder.

  “Well? What are you waiting for? Go save your Baby Mama.”

  David hurried past Cyel to the back room. There were four launch cradles poised over four sealed hatches on the floor. Three were vacant, the fourth held Manta-7, a two-man submersible with a nine-foot wingspan and contours similar to that of Manta Birostris, the aquatic species that had inspired its design.

  The vessel’s chassis was composed of a seamless layered acrylic which supported its cockpit, a spherical clear Lexan escape pod that could withstand 19,000 pounds per square inches of water pressure.

  Powered by dual pump-jet propulsor units, the Manta was quiet, fast and neutrally buoyant. The two hydrogen tanks mounted on its back added another gear―a forty-second burn which temporarily transformed the deep-water submersible into a rocket.

  “Cyel, where’s the remote … never mind.” He saw the key fob hanging from its lanyard on a hook and placed it around his neck. Powering on the device, he pressed the green OPEN button.

  With a hiss of hydraulics, the dark-tinted acrylic top popped free from its assembly and yawned open, allowing him to climb down into the port-side bucket seat of the two-man cockpit.

  David powered up the engine and then quickly strapped his feet onto the two foot pedals, his eyes taking a brief scan of the wrap-around control panel.

  “Jesus, Cyel, the fuel cell’s at 19%! How hard is it to recharge the goddam battery?”

  “Tell your new partner that he’ll get one hundred percent when I get a new contract … and don’t blaspheme in my workshop.”

  “Ugh!” David resealed the cockpit and pressed LAUNCH on the keypad, causing the horizontal doors beneath the submersible to open. Gray-green swells rolled below the pier’s pilings.

  David’s iPhone rang as the hydraulic cradle began lowering the Manta into the incoming surf. “Jackie?”

  “David, where are you!”

  “On my way.” He waited for the next swell to pass before releasing the cradle.

  The Manta splashed down on its belly. David quickly engaged both foot pedals, the twin pump-jet propulsor units accelerating the submersible into the next swell―

  ―his right hand pushing down on the joystick, diving the craft into deeper water as it shot out from between the last set of pilings.

  “Jackie, what section of the keel is the hole on?”

  “Somewhere in the stern.” Jackie stood upon the steel framework, the crown of her skull pressed against the underside of the deck, the rising water already up to her knees. “David, please hurry.”

  * * *

  Lee Shone followed the two cameramen, key-grip, soundman, make-up artist, and second unit director down three flights of stairs to a small corridor which led to a watertight door set inside the bulkhead. The mixed martial-arts-fighter-turned-actor had been hired by the crown prince as the Master of Ceremonies to introduce the Liopleurodon to Dubai-Land’s VIPs. The footage taken in the hold with the Micocene whale would be used in an upcoming episode of the reality series … or so his agent was told.

  Jon “Ponyboy” Cesario had directed half the reality show episodes aboard the Tonga. He was familiar with the hold, having shot six hours of worthless B-Roll of the dozing whale over the previous two weeks.

  Three hours earlier his crew had mounted spotlights in half a dozen locations along the port and starboard rails in anticipation of some promised “action” shots. Having instructed his cameramen, he waited impatiently for the makeup artist to finish powdering Lee Shone’s forehead.

  “Okay, big guy, we’ll get a few takes of you opening the watertight door, then it’s up to Brutus. Hopefully he’s more awake than he was earlier; otherwise we’re wasting our time.”

  The British-born action star examined the steel watertight door. “So I push down on this lever and pull it open, yes?”

  “Yeah, babe. Wait until we mark the scene and I say, ‘action.’ ”

  An assistant stepped in front of the bearded fighter, holding up a smart-slate which displayed the time code generated by the audio recorder. “Brutus hold, scene one―take one.”

  “Ready camera-one.”

  “Ready live shot, sound full … and action.”

  Lee Shone pushed down on the handle and yanked open the watertight door―

  ―releasing an explosion of bone-chilling seawater that knocked the action star off his feet and blasted the film crew with the force of a fire hose.

  The corridor filled within seconds, sweeping the director and his team out to the stairwell.

  Still gripping the door, Lee Shone attempted to reseal the hatch, only there was nothing to brace his feet against for leverage, the water level already above his head.

  Abandoning the effort, he released the door and swam out of the corridor to the stairwell to join the others.

  * * *

  David banked hard to starboard on a north by northwest heading. He descended to eighty feet, the silt-covered shallows suddenly dropping away to become a foreboding jagged crevasse, the keel of the Tonga emerging out of the murk up ahead.

  Using the Manta’s headlights, he searched the tanker’s immense keel for a way in.

  “Oh … geez.”

  The whale’s impact had punched loose a forty-foot seam of rivets along the starboard side of the stern. The plates were still intact, but the gap was wide enough to drive a train through.

  David guided the sub through the opening, his ears immediately assaulted by the sound of screeching steel.

  The tanker’s superstructure’s in the stern. With all that weight, she’ll roll bow-up and sink ass-first.

  “Jackie, I’m inside. Jackie, where are you?” He glanced at his iPhone,
the call having disconnected.

  Easing up on the foot pedals, he halved his speed and rose along one of the hold’s interior walls, his left hand redialing Jackie’s number―

  ―his heart racing as the phone went straight to voicemail.

  “Come on, show me an air pocket …”

  He jumped as the Manta’s prow struck the steel framework supporting the tanker’s enormous deck.

  The entire hold’s underwater … I’m too late!

  He caught the splash of bubbles in his peripheral vision and veered toward it.

  The girl appeared pale in the sub’s lights and then she was sprawled across his hatch, her blue-eyes wide in terror, her strawberry-blonde hair blown out, the herky-jerky limbs telling him she was drowning, with no air pocket in which he could surface to allow her inside the sub.

  “No!” David released his harness and spun around in his seat to the storage compartment, his right arm stretching out, straining to reach the pony bottle of air. Snatching it, he twisted back around and reached for the launch controls dangling from the lanyard around his neck. He pressed the green button as Jackie burped out her last bite of air and went limp, her body floating away.

  Asshole … it won’t open underwater. You have to override the safety measures.

  Ripping open the center console, he felt inside for the emergency override and twisted the control a half-turn counterclockwise before pulling it up―

  ―causing the hatch to pop loose from its seal and open, flooding the cockpit with frigid water.

  David stood and pushed it open wider. Grabbing Jackie by her wrist, he dragged her limp body inside and resealed the hatch.

  A yellow light labeled BILGE PUMP blinked on his dashboard. He pressed it with his left thumb as his right hand pinched Jackie’s nose and held her mouth shut. The water level had already dropped below her neck by the time he slipped the pony bottle’s mouthpiece between her purple lips and squeezed the purge button, releasing a blast of air inside her mouth that filled her belly―causing her to vomit out the seawater she had swallowed.

  Continuing to pinch her nose, he opened her airway and pressed his lips to hers, expelling three quick breaths into her lungs. He paused to feel for a pulse along her carotid artery, then repeated the breathing ritual as the Tonga lurched and rolled around his vessel, sinking stern-first.

  * * *

  Fiesal bin Rashidi had returned to the helicopter to find his luggage stowed on board, but no pilot. He located Captain Gilbert Gregg at the Lio tank, the former Navy flight instructor standing with his back to the glass, attempting to take a selfie with his iPhone as the creature circled the aquarium.

  “Pilot, the crown prince insists you fly me back to the hotel at once.”

  “Sure thing. Just do me a solid and take my picture with the Lio; I can’t seem to time it right.” The captain handed him his iPhone.

  “This is ridiculous; we are paying you to service our group, not to take photos. Take me back now, or I’ll toss this phone into the sea!”

  “Captain, what seems to be the problem?”

  Fiesal turned to see Walid Abu Naba’a and his entourage approaching.

  The pilot snatched back his iPhone. “Your Highness, this man is insisting I fly him back to San Francisco.”

  “Those were your orders, cousin.”

  Kirsty Joyce inspected Fiesal’s pants. “Why are you all wet?”

  “A harmless prank … one of the crew hosed me down when he heard I was leaving. I’ll change back at the hotel.”

  The crown prince was about to respond when the crowd oohed and aahed. Turning to face the aquarium, he realized the Liopleurodon had broken off from its circular pattern and was cutting sharp figure eights, bashing its head against the thick Lexan glass.

  “Fiesal, why is it behaving this way?”

  “I wouldn’t know; you’ll have to ask Ms. Buchwald.”

  “Summon her.”

  “I can’t, I turned in my walkie-talkie. Cousin, my father is very sick; I am attempting to catch an earlier flight out of San Francisco. Please―”

  “Stop whining, Fiesal.” The crown prince turned to the pilot, Gilbert Gregg. “Get him off my ship.”

  The pilot pocketed his iPhone and headed back to the helipad, Fiesal walking ahead of him, mentally urging the man to quicken his pace.

  “You’ll have to change.”

  “Of course … as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

  “No, you’ll change now; otherwise you’ll get the seat all wet.”

  “It won’t be a problem; I’ll sit on my luggage. Please … I’m trying to catch a flight.” Reaching into his back pocket, he retrieved his wallet and pulled out three soggy hundred-dollar bills. “Your tip … in advance.”

  The captain pocketed the cash in the breast pocket of his windbreaker and climbed into his seat, starting up the engine. Fiesal ducked in back, sitting on his duffle bag. Buckling his seatbelt, he placed a pair of headphones over his ears and glanced out the windows on the right side of the craft―his pulse quickening as he saw the Reality Show’s second unit emerge from the Tonga’s superstructure, everyone dripping wet and in a state of panic.

  He could not hear their shouts over the sound of the overhead rotors, but he knew what they were saying.

  He closed his eyes and thanked Allah as the chopper mercifully lifted off―

  ―his heart sinking as it hovered ten feet off the deck before setting down again.

  “Captain, what are you doing?”

  Gil Gregg motioned to the left where the two security men in dark suits had their guns drawn and aimed at the pilot. One of the men wrenched open the sliding door and hustled the VIPs in back while the crown prince climbed up front to occupy the vacant co-pilot’s seat.

  He turned to face Fiesal as the tanker lurched beneath them. “You would leave me to die, cousin?”

  “One good turn …”

  Walid Abu Naba’a motioned to the nearest bodyguard, who grabbed Fiesal by the wrist and dragged him off the chopper.

  The engineer landed on his back on the helipad tarmac, the headphones ripped from his ears as the helicopter lifted off.

  For a long moment Fiesal remained on his back, watching the airship disappear from view. And then he felt the tanker lurch beneath him as the Tonga’s bow rose slowly out of the sea.

  * * *

  The breaths aren’t getting in; she must still have water in her lungs …

  Pulling her inert body onto his lap, David reached his arms around her waist and squeezed her belly in a Heimlich maneuver. The abdominal thrust released a mixture of seawater and cappuccino, the marine biologist’s pale complexion flushing pink as she coughed and drew a breath.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded, hugging him around the neck. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Better buckle in, this could get rough.”

  He helped her snap the harness across her chest. Then he strapped himself in and engaged the starboard propulsor unit, descending in a vertigo-inducing, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree roll as the tanker began sinking stern-first into the Monterey Submarine Canyon.

  The Manta’s lights darted across endless walls of steel plates and dead-ends.

  “Shit …”

  “David, get us out of here!”

  “Really?” He reached across her chest for the sonar―only to find the controls covered in vomit. Wiping the debris from the screen with his right hand, he pressed ACTIVE.

  Ping … ping … ping …

  The sound reverberated around the hold, painting his surroundings on the screen. He rotated the three-dimensional image until a void appeared below and to his left. Wiping his palm clean on Jackie’s pants, David reached again for the joystick―this time turning hard to port.

  The Manta submersible shot out of the Tonga’s mortal wound―

  ―directly into the path of the 80-foot Livyatan melvillei.

  * * *

  “Kess Ommak!” The Arabic curse w
as muffled by the dull beating of helicopter blades receding to the east and a long, drawn out protest of steel.

  Fiesal bin Rashidi jumped as the deck trembled beneath his feet. He ran to the starboard rail and looked forward in time to see the bow of the 350,000-ton tanker slowly lift out of the Pacific, the deck shifting beneath his feet.

  Five degrees …

  Ten.

  Screams rent the air as the one hundred and thirty-nine invited guests suddenly realized what was happening.

  He looked to the north for a Coast Guard cutter, but saw only vacant ocean, then grabbed for the rail as the deck listed twenty degrees.

  He glanced to the east and saw the walls of the Tanaka canal a half mile swim away. Looking down, he estimated the surface to be a good six stories below, the distance increasing as the bow rose higher.

  Too high to jump. Get to the stern and jump before it sinks and sucks you below with it.

  Twenty-five degrees.

  He attempted to ease his way down the slanting deck to the stern by holding on to the rail, only to realize the Tonga was rotating vertically too quickly to manage his footing.

  He stripped off his suit jacket and straddled the rail backwards. Using the garment to protect his hands, he slid backwards like a kid on a banister, quickly shooting past the mid-deck.

  He looked to his left as he passed the aquarium.

  Water was pouring over the lowering side of the tank. The Liopleurodon was swimming back and forth against the angled glass, its habitat diminishing by a thousand gallons a minute.

  * * *

  Lee Shone had escaped the flooded corridor and stairwell, only to find the watertight door leading out to the main deck blocked from the other side. With the sea rising behind him, the mixed martial arts fighter had forced the gauntlet open just enough to squeeze his way out―

  ―emerging on a tilting deck buried beneath a labyrinth of metal.

  Like a mountain climber buried beneath an avalanche, Shone had fought his way to daylight, battling not only an entanglement of aluminum that had been the south bleacher, but a steadily increasing stream that was quickly turning into a waterfall.

  Emerging from the refuse, he stood triumphantly―only to realize he had crawled out of the frying pan and into the fire.