The Trench

by Steve Alten

  “And you call this a pliosaur?” Benedict asked, examining the jaw.

  “Actually, I’ve identified this particular animal as a Kronosaurus, the largest of the known pliosaurs. The species dates back to the early Cretaceous, more than one hundred million years ago. Until Carcharodon megalodon came along, these monsters were the true lords of the sea. Kronosaurus dominated the warm shallow seas along the landmass that eventually became Australia. Fossilized evidence indicates the creature’s length reached more than forty feet. This animal was four to five times heavier than a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and could probably have eaten one for breakfast.”

  “And this was the creature’s skull?”

  “Just a section, beginning about its midjaw, extending back to its forelimb girdle and upper rib cage. See these two holes,” Heath stated as he pointed along the dorsal skull. “It’s hard to tell because they’re crushed, but those were the creature’s orbital bones, or eye sockets. Kronosaurus’s head was flat-topped, with a set of powerful jaws larger and more destructive than that of T-Rex. Each upper and lower jaw contained twenty to twenty-five teeth. The rest of the body was ellipsoidal, very streamlined, with two pairs of elongated limbs, which acted like wing-shaped flippers. The torso tapered back, ending in a short, muscular tail. The rather large limb girdles we’ve collected from other fossils indicate the creatures were pursuit predators, capable of swimming very fast through the sea.”

  Benedict stared at the fossil with respect. “How old is this specimen?”

  “That’s what’s so incredible. The animal we’re looking at inhabited these waters less than two thousand years ago. What’s more, this animal shows clear anatomical adaptations to its environment.” Heath pointed to the crushed rib cage along the wider end of the skull. “Again, it’s difficult to tell because of the overwhelming damage, but these grooves along either side of the gastral rib cage appear to be gill slits.”

  “Gill slits? I thought this was a reptile.”

  “It is, or rather, it was. What you’re looking at is a prehistoric marine reptile that adapted to a deep-water habitat by growing gills. This particular species apparently evolved over tens of millions of years in order to exist within the unique environmental conditions of the Mariana Trench.”

  “Then you believe the Prometheus was attacked by Kronosaurs?”

  “As unbelievable as it sounds—yes. Look, we know that most of the dinosaurs disappeared worldwide at the end of the Mesozoic era, about sixty-five million years ago. The ancient marine reptiles disappeared about the same time, but their extinction was more gradual, due to a steady drop in sea temperatures.

  “Reptiles, being cold-blooded, rely on the sun as their main source of energy and heat. Scientists always believed that life couldn’t exist without the sun. The discovery of hydrothermal vents in 1977 changed all that. Now we know that bacteria and other sea creatures of the abyss are able to utilize sulfur and other chemicals that spew out of hydrothermal vents. Instead of photosynthesis, these creatures rely on chemosynthesis.”

  “You’re not telling me anything new, Professor.”

  “I realize that, sir, but everything I’ve just said leads up to an incredible theory I have about the Trench.”

  Heath pulled out a U.S. Geological Survey map of the Western Pacific. A red line circled the arching chain of the Mariana Islands. The dark outline of the Mariana Trench ran parallel, just east of the landmass, as if shadowing it.

  “We know the Mariana Trench, Ridge, and the adjacent Mariana Islands were all formed by the continuous subduction of the Pacific Plate thrusting beneath the Philippine Plate. This tectonic process has probably gone on for billions of years. At one time, the Mariana Islands, which are a classic example of an active chain of stratovolcanoes, were all, in fact, underwater. One hundred million years ago, the area from here to the Australian landmass was a warm tropical sea teeming with all sorts of prehistoric species of fish and reptiles. And at the top of the food chain were the Kronosaurs.

  “Sixty-five million years ago, an asteroid collision set off a series of mass extinctions. Sea levels dropped, the air cooled, as did water temperatures. Kronosaurus, being a reptile, suddenly found the sun no longer capable of sustaining its body temperature. Desperate for warmth, many of these creatures would have ventured into the deepest warmer depths of the Mariana Trench, where the superheated waters rising from hydrothermal vents act like a primordial furnace, allowing the marine reptile to maintain its body heat.”

  “Interesting,” Benedict said, stroking his goatee. “So the Mariana Trench became an oasis for certain prehistoric species of marine life.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This animal, Professor—what killed it?”

  “The only natural enemy the Kronosaurus had was Carcharodon megalodon. Even though the sharks didn’t evolve until much later in the Cretaceous, Megalodon was bigger, meaner, and better equipped to handle changes in water temperatures. Fossilized records of Megalodon teeth indicate the sharks continued to thrive in oceans all over the world up until the last ice age, about one hundred thousand to two million years ago.”

  Heath glanced at his watch. “I’ve read Jonas Taylor’s theories on how Carcharodon megalodon managed to survive extinction after the last Ice Age by inhabiting the warm bottom layers of the Mariana Trench. The one thing I always questioned was how these enormous sharks could survive, isolated in the abyss, with only a limited food supply. It turns out that the food supply wasn’t limited at all. Kronosaurs had been proliferating in the Trench for tens of millions of years, long before the first Megalodon ever sought refuge in the gorge. Of course, once Megalodon moved into the Trench, the hunters became the hunted.”

  Heath pointed to a series of holes lining the rib cage of the fossil.

  “See these holes?” Heath said. “They’re bite marks. This Kronosaurus was killed by a Megalodon. The shark clamped its jaws onto the animal’s head and upper torso, chomping through bone in one powerful bite that not only crushed its prey’s spine, but actually severed the marine reptile in two. I’ll bet the reason these Kronosaurus now hunt in packs is to defend themselves against Megalodon attacks.”

  “So the mysterium tremendum is finally resolved. And how do you propose we defend ourselves against this pack of Kronosaurus?”

  “In the Mariana Trench, size matters. The Kronosaurs are nearly as large as the Prometheus, so they’ll continue to attack. But even four of these beasts are no match for the Benthos, the largest moving thing in the Trench. My advice is simple: Keep the Benthos close at all times, even if it means delaying the completion of your mission.”

  “I understand.”

  Heath turned as Sergei entered the lab.

  “Sergei, wait for me in the corridor, please,” Benedict said, “I’ll be right with you.” He turned back to Heath, extending his hand. “Better get down to G deck, Professor.”

  Heath smiled, shaking Benedict’s hand.

  Instead of releasing his grip, Benedict placed his left hand over the inside of the paleo-biologist’s wrist, feigning a gesture of warmth.

  “One last question before you go,” Benedict said, positioning the fingertips of his left hand over the man’s pulse. “Have you ever heard of Devil’s Purgatory?”

  Heath’s eyes locked onto Benedict’s, the CIA agent’s pulse racing.“Devil’s Purgatory? No, never heard of it. Sounds like a kid’s ride. Why do you ask?”

  Benedict smiled, releasing the professor’s hand. “No reason. Again, thank you, and have a safe journey. Your information has helped me to see things much more clearly.”

  * * *

  Terry hastily tossed her belongings into her travel bag. Word had spread quickly about the Prometheus’s early departure and she was determined to be one of the first on board.

  A knock startled her.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sergei. I am to escort you to sub.”

  Terry felt herself break into a cold sweat. “That’s okay, I’m fine, than
k you.”

  “I wait for you here,” replied the Russian.

  Terry sat down on the edge of her bed, her body trembling. She stared at her travel bag, tears of frustration and anger welling in her eyes. She knew that Sergei had no intention of escorting her to the sub.

  The message had been delivered, its meaning quite clear: Terry was now a fly in Benedict’s web. She would not be permitted to leave the Benthos alive.

  Seafood

  Aboard the William Beebe

  7:35 A.M.

  Jonas opened the cabin door. Mac entered, giving him a scowl. “Late night?” he said accusingly.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I hope you’re more focused on avenging Dief’s death than on fucking Celeste.”

  “You’re way out of line. Celeste and I went into town to pick up supplies. We had dinner, that’s all. Nothing happened, and nothing will.”

  Mac held up his hands. “Fine. My fault.”

  “And as far as killing the Meg, you don’t have to lecture me on being focused. I’m Captain-fucking-Ahab, remember?”

  “Have you come up with a plan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” Mac rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry, Jonas. I’m just a bit on edge.”

  “I know. Dief was a good guy.”

  “Yeah, he was.” Mac pinched his nose, wiping back a tear. “We should have blown this motherfucking fish away years ago.”

  “Is your new chopper ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go find Angel.”

  Vancouver Island

  10 miles south of Barkley Sound

  Andrea Jacobs held up her hand, signaling the rest of the group to stop paddling. She pointed to a spot one hundred yards ahead.

  Turning around in the seat of her kayak, she glanced back at the others and smiled.

  Her husband, Ronald, gave her a thumbs-up in the kayak directly behind her. Karen McNeil, the group’s leader, slid her craft into position to his left. Andrea’s staff writer, Shirley Kollin, gave an encouraging wave from the front of her two-seat kayak; her husband, Jon, seated behind her, was busy reloading his camera.

  Andrea maneuvered the bow of her kayak to face south. Then she sat back and waited, her adrenaline pumping.

  It had taken more than two years of prodding before Andrea’s travel editor had finally agreed to green-light a feature article on Vancouver Island. Lying to the west of the city of Vancouver, parallel to the main coast of British Columbia, the island, the largest in the eastern Pacific, possessed the kind of dramatic geography, variety of wildlife, and contrasting weather conditions that made it an ideal spot for vacationers who enjoy rugged, get-back-to-nature experiences. Arriving in Port Hardy by ferry, the two couples had spent their first week biking mountain trails and exploring the granite peaks and alpine glaciers, which ran like a spine along the center of the island. Andrea had photographed majestic snowcapped mountain peaks, hordes of nobly crowned elk, bald eagles soaring in flight, and even several black bear pulling salmon from a stream—but it was whales she was really after, big ones. That meant exploring the cold and hazardous ocean waters off the island’s western coastline. Andrea had to convince Karen McNeil that their group was experienced enough to handle the rigors of sea kayaking, the best method for getting close to the pods. And so they had put in at Pacific Rim National Park that morning, staying relatively close to shore as they traveled north through rough coastal waters.

  Now all their effort was about to pay off.

  Andrea pulled the hood of her dry suit over her head, then positioned her face mask and snorkel. Her heart fluttered with excitement. Securing the underwater camera around her neck, she grasped the paddle tightly and waited.

  With a great kwoof of air, the killer whales surfaced, the shiny hooked black dorsal fins of the females dwarfed by the three-foot bladelike fins of the males. Remaining close to the surface as they closed on the kayakers, the pod of Orcas rose and dived in a gentle, rhythmic pattern.

  Andrea sucked in a deep breath of air and rolled sideways, plunging herself and the rotating kayak into the icy Canadian waters. Suspended upside down, secure in her seat, she watched in awe as the pod emerged through the misty deep-blue underworld.

  Aiming the underwater camera, she quickly snapped off a dozen pictures as low-frequency whistles and high-pitched clicking sounds filled the water all around her. As the pod glided to her right, a thirty-three-foot male appeared out of the mist, moving in to take a closer look. Andrea’s heart pounded wildly in her chest as the incredible creature hovered five feet away, the mammal’s mouth large enough to engulf her entire upper torso in one bite. She took several more pictures, overwhelmed by the sheer majesty and intelligence of the creature, then watched as it swam away, disappearing into the blue haze with the rest of the pod.

  Pushing down hard with the paddle, Andrea flipped herself over, feeling her husband’s assistance along the back of the kayak. She spit out the snorkel and gasped for air, her face tingling from the cold.

  “That was absolutely incredible!” she announced to the group.

  Her husband tossed her a towel. “You take years off my life every time you do that.”

  “Isn’t the water freezing?” Shirley asked.

  “It’s really not that bad,” Andrea said. “The dry suit keeps me warm. My cheeks just freeze up a bit.” She turned to Karen. “I thought you said Orcas preferred the eastern coast of the island.”

  “Our local pods do,” the group leader said. “Johnstone Strait, which is on the northeastern side of the island, is the summer home to thirteen resident Orca pods. The group that just passed by are transients.”

  “How can you tell?” Jon asked.

  “Only transients stay to the ocean side of the island. They prefer to hunt seal and sea lions on their way to the Bering Sea. Our locals prefer fish, and their pods are much larger in number.”

  “Orcas are great, but you can photograph them at Sea World,” Andrea said. “What I want to see are the big whales.”

  “They’ll be a little farther out,” Karen said. “What I suggest we do is continue to stay within a half mile of shore. In about an hour we’ll cross Barkley Sound on our way to Ucluelet. At that point we’ll be in open ocean and should run into some grays, perhaps even a pod of humpbacks. Are you sure you’re up to handling six-to-nine-foot swells?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Andrea said, winking at Shirley. “If the men can’t handle it, we’ll leave them ashore.”

  * * *

  Jonas watched the shadow of their helicopter pass over the Cape Flattery lighthouse. Moments later, they were flying over water, heading northwest, approaching Vancouver Island.

  “Welcome to Canada, eh,” Mac said.

  Jonas ignored him, staring at the ocean.

  “What’s the matter, Jonas? You’ve hardly said a word all afternoon.”

  “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Celeste, or the shark?”

  “Both.”

  Mac lifted his sunglasses and looked Jonas in the eye. “Take my advice and keep your distance from both.”

  “I told you. I’m not interested in Celeste.”

  “Come on, pal, you’re not the least bit attracted?”

  “No comment.”

  “She came on to you last night, didn’t she?”

  Jonas grinned. “You might say that.”

  “And you just turned her away.”

  “Told her I wasn’t interested. We’ll never be anything more than friends.”

  “Friends? Christ, Jonas, wake up. You’d be better off fucking her once and getting it over with than to elevate her to a position of trust.”

  “Actually, we’ve had some pretty interesting talks.”

  “Aw, well ain’t that sweet. Maybe you guys can take an aerobics class together when you get back to Monterey.”

  “And what makes you such an expert on women? I don’t know anyone who thinks with h
is pecker more than you do.”

  “Hey, even my pecker’s smart enough to know when someone’s playing me for a fool. You think Celeste would be shoving her titties in your face if she wasn’t after something? No offense, pal, but you ain’t exactly Mel Gibson.”

  “Maybe she’s lonely.”

  “Wrong. Celeste is cold-blooded. She doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself. If she’s making nice with you, it’s only because she needs you.”

  “Needs me for what? Maren’s handling everything.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. There’s a reason she brought you along, and it’s not to play footsies under the breakfast table. Stop being taken in by all that false charm she turns on and off like a faucet. The William Beebe ain’t the Love Boat. Celeste is nothing more than a female version of Benedict.”

  “That’s another thing. She told me Benedict has had his way with her sexually since she was fourteen. I can’t tell if she loves him, or fears him.”

  “Probably both.” Mac banked to the west, guiding the helicopter across the Strait of Juan De Fuca toward the Canadian border.

  Jonas focused his binoculars on Vancouver Island, looming ahead on the horizon. “Okay, Ann Landers, tell me something. If Celeste fears Benedict, why won’t she leave him?”

  Mac grinned. “I’ll answer that for you in one word: power. He’s got it, and she wants it. I’ll bet she’s still spreading her legs for him.”

  “Then why is she interested in me?”

  “I told you, Jonas, she wants something. You’ve heard the saying that men use love to get sex, and women use sex to get love. Well, Celeste uses sex to manipulate people into doing what she wants. And that’s when she’s most dangerous.”

  The chopper descended over the southern tip of the island. “Should I head over deeper waters or follow the coastline?”

  “Coastline.” Jonas focused on a pod of Orcas making their way north. For the next several minutes, they rode in silence; Jonas scanning the surface. Somehow, he hoped to detect some type of disturbance or whale remains that would indicate the presence of the elusive albino predator. He felt frustration building inside. Angel hadn’t been sighted in nearly three days.