Meg

by Steve Alten

  “Fine … okay. But can you take that tube out of her mouth? She’s had it in for twelve straight hours, she can’t handle it anymore.”

  Dr. Bradley re-entered the private room and removed the device from Terry’s mouth, instructing the male nurse to place a far more humane oxygen tube in her nostrils.

  Relieved, Terry laid her head back against the pillow, her breathing shallow.

  Jonas ran his palm gently over her forehead, brushing back strands of her silky black hair. “You did it, babe. Your lung is clear. Rest easy and we’ll get you out of here.”

  The male nurse jumped in. “Excuse me, Mr. Taylor, but your wife isn’t going anywhere. She’s being moved into the ICU.” He pointed to the digital display on the oxygen device. “And if her breathing capacity drops below 90%, I’m putting the mask back on.”

  As Jonas watched, Terry’s numbers dipped to 88%.

  “I’m sorry, but the mask goes back on―”

  Jonas balled both fists. “She’s exhausted, give her a chance.” Turning back to Terry, he held her hand. “We’ve been through a lot worse than this … just breathe nice and easy. That’s it … much better.”

  Terry’s numbers rose to 92%.

  “Good job. See that, Meg-bait? Sometimes you just need to give the patient a chance.”

  The nurse left.

  Terry squeezed her husband’s hand.

  Jonas leaned over and kissed her, then took out his iPhone and called Dr. Maharaj.

  “Hey, Doc. Rough night, but she’s breathing better.”

  “Are they giving her nutrition?”

  “I don’t know. She’s got an IV going but―”

  “Jonas, you must insist they get Terry a nutritionist and start feeding her intravenously right away or she could go into renal failure.”

  Jonas forced a smile for Terry before chasing after the male nurse who was going off-duty. “My wife needs a nutritionist. How do we get her one?”

  “The ICU physician has to see her first; that’s why we’re admitting her.”

  “Then what?”

  “That’s not for me to say.”

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland

  Strait of Georgia, Salish Sea

  For David Taylor, seconds seemed like minutes as he kept the Manta along the starboard side of the McFarland, waiting for the hopper-dredge’s speed to drop under five knots so that Cyel Reed could deploy the submersible’s docking platform. Two more excruciating minutes passed before the rubberized triangular object appeared along the starboard rail, beginning its fifty-foot descent.

  “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-in-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 com-pressed 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-sized 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 taking his breath away. 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 4,000-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 Hospital

  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 nurse’s 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 one-time 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 2.2 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 2.9.”

  “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 74-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 deter-mined 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, What’s on Second.

  “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 uhhh been dinner.”

  “She wasn’t in attack mode, Mac. She was … curious.”

  “Curious? Well, I’ve eaten plenty 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 Mohammed 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 fresh water?”

  “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 sea water 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.