by Steve Alten
Making herself comfortable, Terry pulled the computer’s keypad onto her lap and typed in the word, “GUEST.” The program booted. A Geo-Tech Industries emblem appeared, offering the user a choice of user languages. Terry manipulated the arrow to “ENGLISH,” pressed “ENTER,” then waited for the program to begin.
“Welcome aboard the Benthos,” crackled a feminine dubbed-in voice, “Geo-Tech Industries’ crowning achievement for deep-sea exploration.”
A computer-animated image of the Benthos appeared, the vessel resembling the northern hemisphere of an enormous globe, cut in half along its equator. Three clawlike legs dangled from beneath the ship’s false flattened undercarriage.
A scale replica of a six-story building materialized next to the Benthos, only to be dwarfed by the dome-shaped object.
“The Benthos is a marvel of engineering and technology. The largest submersible ever built, it measures two hundred thirty feet from the peak of its dome to the bottom of its three retractable shock-absorber legs. The diameter of its circular undercarriage extends a full three hundred feet across. Submerged, the entire ship displaces sixty-four thousand six hundred and fifty tons.
“The Benthos hull is composed of eighteen layers of six-inch titanium, one hundred eight inches thick, capable of withstanding compressive forces in excess of ninety-six billion pounds. The hull of the vessel is actually a perfect sphere, its flattened underside a non-pressure cowling designed to support its ballast tanks.
“The interior of the Benthos is divided into seven decks, each self-contained. In the unlikely event of a hull breach on one deck, the remaining decks would maintain integrity.”
The computer image of the Benthos changed, its outer casing dissolving to reveal its internal compartments.
“As we can see, each deck is linked by a sealed stairway, or companionway, as well as an access tube that runs as a vertical connecting shaft down the very center of the vessel. Watertight hatches capable of withstanding pressures in excess of sixteen thousand pounds per square inch separate each adjoining level.
“Our tour begins at the top, or A deck. This domed section, which we call our observation deck, contains an additional interior shell composed entirely of ten-inch-thick LEXAN, a clear, impenetrable plastic. Thirty percent of the outer titanium hull along A deck can be retracted like the dome of a telescope, revealing the unexplored beauty of the deep Universe.
“B deck contains the bridge, or command center of the Benthos. Our computer and engine room is located directly below the bridge on C deck. D deck, the central and largest deck in our spherical sub, contains our galley, dining area, and recreation lounge. Crews quarters are located on E deck, along with the ship’s stores. Deck F is where the Benthos’s nuclear reactor is housed, as well as a variety of equipment and mechanical rooms. The sub’s single screw can also be accessed from here. The lowest level, its dimensions identical to the observation area, is G deck. It is here, at the bottom of the sub, where all entry into the Benthos takes place.
“Situated beneath the Benthos’s hull is an abyssal docking station designed for the vessel’s submersible transport ships, the Proteus, the Prometheus, and the Epimetheus. A pressurized vault originates just below G deck. Mechanical docking arms located in the undercarriage position the submersible, lifting its conning tower up and into the flooded docking bay. Once the sub is sealed in place, this compartment drains and repressurizes, a feat made possible using the combined efforts of ten five-hundred-horsepower pumps, creating over two million two hundred and forty thousand foot pounds of force per cubic foot. G deck also houses a one-thousand-eight-hundred-square-foot underwater hangar, which can be pressurized or vented using massive hydraulic ram pumps located on level F, allowing for deployment of heavy equipment or robotic operational vehicles into the abyss.
“Designed as both an exploratory vessel and deep-sea-submarine docking center, the Benthos can remain within the deep at neutral buoyancy for months at a time. The ship’s flat undercarriage is composed of two different types of pressurized ballast tanks. Gasoline-filled pontoon-like tanks provide positive buoyancy while pressurized tanks filled with seawater can be adjusted to achieve both negative and neutral buoyancy. Forward maneuverability is made possible by our nuclear-powered S8-G reactor, which provides steam to drive the electrical turbo generators and motor that turn the Benthos’s single-propeller shaft—”
Terry turned the computer off, wrapping herself tighter within the blanket. They had been descending for more than three hours now, more than four miles of ice-cold ocean above their heads. She closed her eyes.
* * *
Terry woke with a start, feeling as if she were falling. Flailing her arms out to her sides, she grabbed hold of a console until she regained her equilibrium.
Two more hours had passed. She glanced at the depth gauge above her head: 34,487 feet. The view from her porthole had turned murky. She realized the temperature within the pod was rising.
The Prometheus descended through a layer of dense sedimentlike clouds, an abyssal ceiling of superheated water and minerals originating from beneath the seafloor. Spewed forth from towering hydrothermal sulfide chimneys, the suspended minerals helped maintain an insulated layer of warmth over many areas of the Mariana Trench.
Minutes passed, the water gradually clearing. Another fifty feet and they descended into a canyon of shimmering black water whose temperatures varied from fifty degrees along its abyssal plains to upwards of seven hundred degrees directly above the mouths of its hydrothermal vents. They had reached bottom.
An unfathomably large shadow loomed ahead. Terry could make out docking lights flickering on and off.
The Benthos.
Staring wide-eyed out the porthole, she watched in fascination as the long bow of the Prometheus slid within the docking assembly mounted along the undercarriage of the Benthos. With a groaning of rubber against metal, the sub stopped. Hydraulic sounds reverberated all around her as the docking assembly’s arms raised the submersible into position. Terry could hear a pressurized sleeve being fitted over the sub’s conning tower, and then a great whoosh of air as the compartment was sealed and repressurized.
Benedict ducked his head into the pod. “To the extreme, at last.”
Terry climbed out of the spherical compartment, then followed Benedict up the conning tower ladder into a small chamber, its circular walls still moist with seawater. They exited out a pressurized vault door, entering deck G of the Benthos.
A barrel-chested man in his forties greeted them. Benedict shook his hand, turning to Terry.
“Terry Taylor, this is Captain Breston Hoppe.”
“Welcome aboard the Benthos, Mrs. Taylor. We’ll stow your gear in cabin eight, which is on E deck, two levels up. We only have a few rules for our guests, but we ask you to follow them to the letter. There are only two passages leading to adjacent decks. When passing through, please be sure to secure all watertight doors behind you. In the unlikely event of a hull breach, titanium doors will automatically seal all batches and the access tube, but the watertight doors must remain closed for the seals to lock into place. You may feel free to access any part of the vessel, with the exception of certain high-tech areas marked ‘authorized personnel only.’ We also don’t allow smoking on board.”
“Not a problem.”
“Captain, I’ll join you in a few moments in the bridge,” Benedict said. “First, I want to show our guest the observation room.”
Benedict bypassed the companionway stairs, choosing to ascend directly through the core of the vessel by way of the vertical access tube. Terry followed him into the ten-foot-diameter chute, then up the steel ladder, her arms aching by the time they reached A deck.
The circular room was just over a hundred feet wide, its dome-shaped, cathedral-like ceiling rising thirty feet above their heads. Plush violet carpeting lined the expanse of floor. Suede chairs and luxurious down sofas ringed one half of the room, with a large oak conference table, chairs, and ba
r along the opposite side.
Benedict moved to the wall behind the bar and reached for a series of switches mounted on a sophisticated control panel. The lights dimmed.
“From the moment we first descended from the trees, man has been an explorer,” Benedict said, his voice echoing throughout the room. “We have conquered every corner of the world and have circumnavigated the globe. We have probed the distant reaches of the galaxy and explored the nucleus of the atom. We’ve set foot on the face of the Moon, landed on Mars, and have dispersed spacecraft to all the planets within our solar system. And yet for all our accomplishments, we have barely penetrated the void that covers sixty-five percent of our own world’s surface.
“Since the days of Galileo, millions have glimpsed the heavens, yet only a handful have gazed into the abyss. But it is here,” he raised his voice, “here, within the deepest recesses of the ocean, that life truly originated. Since time began, an elixir of chemicals, the components of life itself, has been spewing forth from these unexplored depths. The answer to life’s riddle is here, Terry; yet man, for all his bravado, continues to fear the deep, terrified by its dark secrets and primal chaos.”
Terry sensed a controlled madness in his voice.
“Audentes fortuna juvat—fortune favors the bold. Like the great explorers before me—Marco Polo, Columbus, Magellan, Galileo, Hubble, Armstrong, Beebe—I dare to fail greatly so that I may achieve greatness.”
Benedict hit a switch, extinguishing the interior lights. A deep rumbling reverberated overhead, and then a section of the domed wall began retracting.
“Behold, man’s last, greatest unexplored world!”
Terry stifled a scream, her heart racing in flurries as the titanium hull parted. She stared into the black heart of the abyss and thought of oblivion.
Benedict’s soothing voice came out of the pitch. “Let there be light.”
An eerie incandescent-red glow ignited from the Benthos, the powerful lights revealing a vast alien world like nothing Terry could have ever imagined. The view overlooked a petrified forest of countless black smokers, whose chimneylike formations silently bellowed superheated water and smoke from their primordial stacks. At the base of the structures, some of which towered more than six stories, were clusters of albino clams and mussels and crustaceans, sprawling in worship around their source of nourishment. Freakish specimens of glowing fish wove in and out of the hydrothermal vents, swirling like pixie dust within the Trench.
It was a magnificent hell.
Benedict stood before the window, his arms outspread, emerald eyes blazing as he reveled in his glory.
“I am the master of my fate, the captain of my soul. Veni, vidi, vici,” he whispered, “I came . . . I saw . . . I conquered.”
Propositions
“Doctor, quick. He’s awake.”
Still in the throes of his nightmare, Jonas sat up, thrashing, tearing the tubes from his arms. He tried to scream, gagging in the effort.
“We need some help here,” called the nurse. An orderly joined her. Together, they managed to strap Jonas’s wrists to the guardrails.
The doctor steadied the IV, injecting the hypodermic needle’s serum straight into the tube.
Jonas felt lead seeping into his body. He floated backward, eyes half closed, staring up at the nurse.
A man’s face appeared. A dull light shone in one of his eyes, then the other.
Jonas tried to protest, but his mind fell back into the abyss.
* * *
Jonas opened his eyes. Sunshine. An enormous weight was lying on top of his left leg. He tried to kick it off.
The sensation of a thousand daggers stabbing his leg sent a jolt of pain coursing through every nerve of his body. In agony he thrashed back and forth in bed, gagging on the object lodged in his throat.
The doctor appeared overhead. “Hang on. Let’s get that tube out of you. When I count to three, blowout hard. One . . . two . . . three—”
An object slid out of Jonas’s throat. He gagged, then gasped a huge breath.
“What—” Jonas rasped, his raw throat unable to voice the words.
“Try not to talk right away. You’re in a hospital. You were attacked by a shark. We were able to save your leg, but you lost a lot of blood.”
A wave of nausea washed over him. He closed his eyes and took several breaths, then tried to sit up.
“Wait, let me get those straps.” The physician unbuckled the leather bands from around his wrists.
Jonas sat up. He stared at his left leg, which was heavily bandaged.
The physician pointed to a series of moist orange-red dots where blood had oozed through the thick gauze padding.
“When they brought you in, you had two-to-three-inch holes running from your midquad to just below the calf,” the physician said. “I believe we counted twenty-one tooth marks, requiring one hundred and eighty-three stitches, including a dozen just to close the femoral artery. By all rights, you should have bled to death.”
Jonas whispered, “Mac?”
“Your friend? Yes, he saved your life. Actually reached into your leg and pinched off the artery with his fingers. We’ve had you on antibiotics over the last three days to prevent infection. Sharks’ teeth tend to be havens for germs.”
“Three days?”
“The worst is over. You’ll be discharged tomorrow morning. The pain should begin letting up in about a week. Until then, it’s painkillers and bed rest, crutches if you need to move around. And I don’t want you back in the water for at least another two months.”
A nurse entered. She handed Jonas a cup of water. “Your friend’s outside, and there must be a dozen reporters downstairs waiting to speak with you. You shouldn’t be speaking to anyone right now. You need to rest.”
Jonas shook his head. “Just Mac,” he rasped.
The doctor motioned his friend in, then followed the nurse out of the hospital room. Mac sat on the edge of the bed. He looked exhausted. “Hey, shithead.”
Jonas smiled.
“You sure look like shit. How do you feel?”
“Like Swiss cheese.” Jonas held out his hand weakly. “I really owe you this time.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll put it on your tab.”
“The Meg?”
“Gone.” Mac handed him a paper from earlier in the week. Jonas examined the front page.
MONSTER SHARK ESCAPES
by Mike Clary, Los Angeles Times Staff Writer
MONTEREY—Carcharodon megalodon, the 72-foot, 62,000-pound prehistoric cousin to our modern-day Great White, yesterday demolished the steel canal doors that had held it in captivity at the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute since its capture four years ago. A stunned capacity crowd of 10,000 could only watch as “Angel” fled her tank, escaping into the Pacific Ocean. Just as the creature freed itself, Jonas Taylor, the controversial paleo-biologist from the Tanaka Institute, managed to tag the beast with a small transmitter. Authorities at the Institute are now tracking the Megalodon, which appears to be heading north along the California coastline.
In response to the creature’s escape, authorities have ordered all Monterey beaches closed and have issued a small craft advisory, warning all boaters to stay clear of the area. (See complete coverage on page 6A.)
Jonas put the paper down, staring at the ceiling.
Mac smiled. “Notice they give you all the credit for tagging the shark. Hey, Jonas—”
“Huh, sorry, Mac. What did you say?”
“What the hell happened to you down there? All those great whites—what were they doing in the canal?”
Jonas closed his eyes. “I know why the Meg’s been agitated. I know why she escaped.”
“So do I. She was hungry and she probably smelled all those delicious whales swimming by.”
Jonas shook his head, looking at his friend. “Angel’s in estrus.”
“Estrus? You mean she’s in heat? How do you know that?”
“The great whites, they were a
ll males. She must be giving off some kind of powerful scent. I guess I got caught in their mating ritual.”
“Those puny twenty-footers think they’re gonna impregnate that female?” Mac scoffed. “Shit, you’d stand a better chance of breeding a Chihuahua with a Rottweiler.”
“Those sharks don’t want anything to do with the Meg. They were just lured into the area by their prehistoric cousin’s scent.”
“So what do we do now?”
Jonas closed his eyes. “You’re going to get us a weapon, something that can stop a tank. Once I heal up a bit, we’re going to track our little Angel down, and kill her.”
* * *
“Ahh, Goddamn it!”
The stabbing pain snapped him out of his night terror. He lay back, catching his breath as he took in his new surroundings.
He had absolutely no idea where he was.
An adjoining door opened. He was shocked to see Celeste Singer emerge, wearing only a man’s white dress shirt. Her long, silky legs moved toward him.
“Dobraye utra.”
“Is that good morning? My Russian’s a bit rusty.”
“Da. Are you all right? You were screaming.”
“Yes. . . . What are you doing here? Christ, where the hell am I?”
“Just take it easy. I had you moved to another room, one more private. The press can be difficult. I’m staying next to you in the adjoining room. Let me help you sit up.”
“I can manage.”
Celeste sat down on the edge of his bed. He caught a glimpse of beige silk underpants beneath the shirt.
She squeezed his hand. “Jonas, darling, I really need your help.”
Jonas felt himself becoming intoxicated by her scent. Her platinum-blond hair dangled over the nape of her neck, covering the swell of her breasts. He stared at the movement of pulse at the base of her throat. Looking at her mouth, her lips . . .
Stop it! “I need to use the bathroom.” He swung his bandaged leg over the side of the bed, registering the painful throb from the rush of blood.
