MEG: Nightstalkers

by Steve Alten

  The conversation was making Jonas dizzy. “Who said anything about capturing the Lio?”

  “How the hell else are ye going tae convince David tae leave money, stardom, and steady sex with his new girlfriend? Threaten tae put him in timeout?”

  “Why does it seem like you’re always two conversations ahead of me?”

  “Because I can see the entire forest while ye’re still lost in the woods. Speaking of which, why are ye still in the Salish Sea?”

  “I’m concluding a business deal with the future owner of the Tanaka Institute.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Paul Agricola. He’s a fisherman from a wealthy family.”

  “Agricola Industries?”

  “You know them?”

  “Let’s jist say our paths have crossed. Whit’s their offer?”

  “We settled on a one-hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar buyout.”

  “J.T., why would a private Canadian firm specializing in tar sand technology buy an empty aquarium for one hundred and fifty million dollars?”

  “Well, ah … part of the deal is me helping him recapture Bela and Lizzy.”

  “Let me understand this great deal; ye’re essentially risking yer life so this energy mogul can leverage yer assets tae buy yer facility. With the sisters recaptured he could easily mortgage the property fer fifty million. Whit’s he putting down? Sixty million? Seventy?”

  Jonas felt his face flush. “I just want out, Zach. No more lawsuits. No more people being eaten.”

  “Don’t sign anything until ye hear back from me. And don’t do something stupid.”

  “Define stupid.”

  “Ye’ll ken it when ye’re doing it. I’m emailing Mac a ‘tae-do’ list. Oh, and J.T., Megalodons and Liopleurodons don’t get along. Keep that in mind. Wallace out.”

  Jonas clicked END, shaking his head. The guy tells me to kill the sisters but prepare to capture a 120-foot Liopleurodon?

  “Who were you talking to?”

  Jonas turned to find Paul Agricola dressed in a navy-blue sweat suit with the logo of Agricola Industries over the heart.

  “That was my attorney. He says you’re low-balling the down payment.”

  “With a dozen lawsuits pending? If he can do better, let him. The fishing trawler’s waiting. Are we doing this or not?”

  “Fishing trawler?”

  Paul pointed aft. Two berths behind the ship was a sixty-six-foot fishing trawler.

  “You’re kidding, right? Bela and Lizzy will crush that into kindling.”

  “We’re after one of the pups; the presence of the hopper-dredge will keep the sisters out of our way. Don’t worry; between the dredge’s sonar and the trawler’s fish finder we’ll know when the sisters are in the area. By that time we’ll have netted a juvenile and baited the Marieke’s keel doors.”

  Aboard the Dubai Land-I

  25 Miles Off the Coastline of Brisbane, Australia

  The trawler maintained its southeasterly course at a modest eight knots, its captain keeping his vessel within a quarter mile of the Tonga’s portside bow. Thirteen sonar buoys were now deployed over a surface area covering 126 nautical miles. Without a confirmed hit on the Lio’s tag, forward speed meant nothing.

  Poised atop the trawler’s slanted stern ramp, ready for launch, were the two Manta subs, their cockpits open and empty. The four pilots were dressed in their neoprene jumpsuits—everyone waiting to hear the horn blast that signaled a sonar surface contact with the Liopleurodon.

  David was in the bow, leaning back against a canvas drop cloth covering one of the two trawl winches. The night was still young; the stars sprinkled between patches of white clouds, the temperature a balmy sixty-six degrees. Situated between his knees and laying back against his chest was Jackie. The marine biologist was text-messaging, her thumbs resembling a crab’s twitching legs as she worked the touch screen.

  David found himself drifting in and out of catnaps, his eyelids heavy against the steady headwind. He could sense Michael Mitchell, the reality show’s blogger lurking by the rail, taking photos. The Brit’s presence was intrusive, though not enough to disturb his rest.

  What was preventing David from moving into REM sleep was an uneasiness bordering on fear.

  The difference between traveling aboard the tanker and trawler was palpable; the Tonga was on the water, the Dubai Land was in it. Somewhere within the dark ocean that surrounded them was a creature that could easily sink their vessel and devour the entire crew. The anxiety came in waves and was similar to the fear of flying—the threat of dropping out of the sky summoned by a sudden bout of turbulence, or a strike of lightning, or …

  Stop thinking about it and get some rest.

  Adjusting Jackie’s weight distribution, David rolled onto his left shoulder and closed his eyes, his inner thoughts forming a gauntlet against the solace of sleep.

  * * *

  The marine pelagic environment or open-ocean zone is situated between the surface waters and the abyss and constitutes the largest aquatic habitat on Earth. Each night trillions of small forage fish such as herring and sardines are drawn to the surface, their presence sending off dinner bells to the largest migratory feeding event on the planet. In the waters off Australia schools of krill attract pelagic fish like the southern bluefin tuna, which in turn summon sailfish, whales, sharks, and other predators to the moonlight rise.

  For five nights the Liopleurodon had remained deep, its eyes sensitive to the brilliance of the full moon. Now, as the nocturnal orchestra assembled and the predators swarmed into the first overture, the monster rose to join the feast.

  Forelimbs beat the sea, back muscles arched as the creature ascended, its senses sifting through the chaos overhead. Adjusting its vertical trajectory, it homed in on the mother humpback whale and her calf, the pliosaur’s formidable presence scattering predators and prey alike. Those that could not move quickly enough were swept into its vacuous gullet.

  The two cetaceans sensed the creature coming, but there was no sanctuary in the open ocean.

  Widening its crocodilian jaws, the Liopleurodon launched its entire upper torso out of the sea, its mouth snapping shut over the adult humpback’s midsection, its fourteen-inch stiletto-sharp teeth puncturing blubber and sinew.

  With several shakes of its thirty-foot skull the Lio split open the belly of its catch, eviscerating the whale’s insides across the surface of the South Pacific.

  * * *

  He tugged at the number 85 visitor’s jersey, the sweat causing it to cling to his shoulder pads. His high school football team was trailing by four late into the Friday night contest and his quarterback had just changed the play at the line of scrimmage, noticing the defensive back cheating up a step, looking to jump the slant route.

  At the snap, David faked a cut and sprinted down field, wide open. Turning, he looked up into an ebony sky framed by a periphery of lights, the football high and deep—a brown object falling surreally … his outstretched hands reaching up to grab it over the free safety’s lunge.

  His legs were churning somewhere beneath him, only his muscles seemed filled with lead as he strode toward an end zone that seemed far away.

  The siren sounded, ending the game before he could cross the goal line—awakening David from the dream.

  Jackie Buchwald was standing over him, shouting over the noise. “Did you hear me? The Lio surfaced! Twenty-three kilometers to the south—about fourteen miles. They want you to occupy it while we set the nets. David, are you hearing me?”

  He struggled to his feet, his mind still lost in the dream.

  Grabbing his hand, Jackie led him past a maze of crewmen and equipment to the two submersibles. Gregg Hendley and Rick Frazier were already sealed inside Manta-Five, Tina Chester was in the starboard cockpit of Manta-Six, her patience waning.

  “I already performed the pre-dive check. Do you want me to take her out?”

  “Sonar.” David climbed into the portside bucket seat, hi
s heart racing as Commander Molony leaned in over him.

  “She surfaced twenty-three-point-six kilometers to the south; stay on course one-one-four until we can get another fix. Keep her on passive sonar but maintain a three-hundred-meter cushion. Whatever you do, do not go active. Is that understood?”

  Tina turned to hear David’s reply.

  “Just get those trawl nets in the water, Red. Low bridge, watch your head!” David lowered the cockpit’s Lexan dome, knocking Commander Molony’s baseball cap from his head in the process.

  He adjusted his seat, snapped his harness into place across his chest, then took a quick look at his instrument panels.

  “I told you I already went through the pre-dive. Just because I’m a woman—”

  “You’re a woman?” David looked her over, feigning surprise. “Hope you brought your own urinal.”

  Tapping the cockpit glass, he gave a “thumbs-up” to the pit crew.

  Four men tethered to the main deck walked the submersible on its dolly down the stern ramp. A swell caught the Manta’s wings and lifted it, allowing the crew to heave the neutrally buoyant sub into the Pacific.

  David adjusted the tint on the cockpit’s night-vision glass, causing the dark sea to glow olive-green. Powering up the engine, he pressed both feet to the two foot pedals, the twin propulsion units responding to his touch. Using the center console joystick, he dipped the port wing and accelerated into a shallow dive, taking a position off the trawler’s starboard bow as he waited for the second Manta to join them—his mind’s eye wandering back to the last time he had seen the Liopleurodon.

  * * *

  “Earth to David, everyone’s waiting.” Tina shook her co-pilot by the shoulder—jumping back as he lashed out.

  “David, get your head in the game!”

  “Huh? Sorry.” Looking to port, he saw the second submersible’s exterior lights. Pressing down on both foot pedals, he accelerated away from the trawler, adjusting his course to the southwest.

  He guided the sub through the olive-green void at thirty knots, descending to six hundred feet to avoid a ballet of krill. After a few minutes of silence he spoke, registering his co-pilot’s eyes on his wrists.

  “Something on your mind, Captain Chester?”

  “Molony ordered you not to use the active sonar.”

  “Was that an order? Sounded more like a tip to me.”

  “Either way, pinging is very dangerous.”

  “Why don’t you ask me what’s really on your mind—am I suicidal? Do I still have a death wish?”

  “Do you?”

  “No. But if I tell you to ping, I expect you to comply without hesitation.”

  “You’ve never seen the Lio move through surface waters. The prudent move would be to gauge its speed before you start screwing with its auditory senses.”

  “Fine.”

  He checked his sonar monitor. The white blip on the oval smart screen represented his sub, the yellow—Manta-Five. The blinking red dot was the Liopleurodon.

  “Captain, why is the red dot blinking?”

  “Call me Tina, I’m retired from the Air Force. The red light is blinking because it represents the Lio’s last confirmed location. Notice the sonar buoy is no longer actively pinging—that’s because the creature destroyed it. Like we said, it’s very temperamental when it comes to loud, vibratory sounds. Range to target … ten kilometers.”

  “Tina, go active on sonar. Six pings a minute.”

  She stared at him. “I thought we just agreed—”

  “We’re six miles away and I need an accurate fix. You wanted me to gauge its speed, I’m doing it. Unless you’d prefer I let it get closer.”

  She hesitated. Then she began pinging the sea every ten seconds.

  Rick Frazier’s voice came over the radio on the third auditory blast. “Hey, guys, we were ordered not to go active.”

  “Rick, take up a position five hundred yards off my port wing. When she closes to five hundred yards, I’m doing a one-eighty to lead her north. Loop around behind her and start pinging. The moment she chases you, head south. I’ll chase her and pull her back to me.”

  “What’s the end game, Mr. Taylor?”

  “The end game is to wear this bitch out.”

  Tina shook her head. “This is not how we were trained. It’s also extremely dangerous. We’re not dealing with a sixty-foot Megalodon. This creature is twice the size and extremely agile—”

  “‘If your opponent is temperamental, seek to irritate him.’ Sun Tzu; The Art of War. This is war, Tina, not hide and seek. Rick?”

  “Okay, partner, we’re in. Better check your screen, she just moved into range.”

  David glanced at his sonar monitor. The blinking red dot was gone, replaced by a solid blue dot that was advancing steadily from the southwest.

  Jesus, she’s fast.

  Tina continued pinging, recalculating distances with each sonar blast. “Range, four kilometers. Speed … thirty-seven knots. At our present combined speeds she’ll be deep-throating us in about two minutes.”

  David eased up on the foot pedals, reducing his speed to twenty knots.

  “Two kilometers. Just a reminder—our safety zone is three hundred meters—about three football fields for you dumb jocks who don’t like the metric system. If you’re going to attempt a one-eighty moving at our present speed she’ll have gained fifty meters on us before you can accelerate out of the loop.”

  David gripped the joystick tighter.

  “Six hundred meters … Five-fifty—”

  I want to see her before I turn and run. I want to see the monster that ruined my life!

  “Four hundred meters. David, make the turn.”

  Rick Frazier’s voice cut in over the radio. “Kid, ease up, you’re too close.”

  He saw the creature’s enormous head materialize from the olive-green ether, its monstrous crocodilian jaws widening enough to bite down on a two-story building.

  Ugly bitch. I could fly down your esophagus and tear you open from the inside.

  “Three hundred meters! David, what are you doing?”

  “Keep pinging until I say stop.” David accelerated to thirty knots, aiming dead-center of the Liopleurodon’s mouth.

  “Oh God, David, don’t do it!”

  One hundred meters …

  Fifty meters … thirty—

  “David!”

  “Stop pinging … now!”

  The muscles in the Lio’s neck and back flexed to engulf its prey—its jaws snapping together on empty sea as David rolled the sub to port, shooting sideways past the creature’s lower jowl and fluttering gill slits.

  Before he could catch a breath the pliosaur’s left forelimb occupied his entire field of vision, forcing him to continue the barrel roll until they were inverted, soaring over the creature’s tail.

  David righted the sub.

  Tina leaned over and punched his right shoulder. “You sick son of a bitch. You actually had me thinking you were going to pull a move like your old man.”

  “Maybe I was.”

  She checked her sonar, then quickly spun around, looking behind them. “Oh, hell.”

  David turned around—shocked to see the Liopleurodon had already reversed its course and was in pursuit less than fifty yards behind them.

  Ping … ping … ping.

  The disturbance was coming from the north.

  Confused, the Lio snapped its jaws to the right and left, then arched its back into a rapid turn, homing in on the other Manta.

  * * *

  Gregg Hendley continued pinging, each acoustic blast repainting his target, which was closing fast. “Nine hundred meters … seven hundred—come on, kid! Where’s the reciprocation?”

  Ping … ping … ping.

  The infuriated animal snapped blindly at empty sea before contorting back to the south.

  * * *

  David banked into a tight 180-degree turn and roll to the south while Tina worked the radio. “Manta
-One to DB-I; we’ve engaged the Lio … where’s the goddam nets?”

  “This is Molony. First trawl net has been deployed. Net float depth is set at two hundred feet. We are six minutes away on course three-five-two.”

  David jammed both foot pedals to the floor, maintaining his four-hundred-meter lead over the Lio.

  “David, she’s slowing. Twenty knots. Fifteen.”

  “Blast her again.”

  Ping … ping … ping.

  The pliosaur made a brief rush in the direction of the sub, then turned away, heading southeast.

  David went after her, coming up on her right hind flipper doing twenty-two knots.

  “One ping … now.”

  “You’re insane.” Tina pressed the button.

  The acoustic blast sent the Lio’s head twisting around, its jaws snapping blindly at the annoying creature, which was already darting over its left hind flipper, sending it into a painful contortion.

  The Manta raced to the north, David matching the fatigued monster’s speed, keeping its interest by maintaining only a thirty-meter lead.

  “Tina, where’s the net?”

  “Two-point-seven kilometers on this course.” She read his expression. “Sorry … a little over a mile. But we’re still too deep.”

  “I don’t want the trawler scaring her off. We need to keep her attention while ascending to the mouth of the net, while giving us enough escape room so we don’t end up getting trapped in there with her. Start calling out our depth and distance … in English. My brain can’t handle the metric system.”

  Unbuckling his harness, he sat sideways in his seat, piloting the sub while facing backwards. Alternating foot pedals with his right foot, he sent the Manta lurching from port to starboard and back again while easing up on his velocity, allowing the Lio to close the gap to twenty meters.

  The Liopleurodon snapped at its prey, too preoccupied to be distracted by the surface ship approaching from the south at three knots.

  “Two hundred yards, depth is four hundred and twenty feet.”

  David focused on the creature’s mouth, noting how the Lio’s jaws widened prior to each lunge.

  “One hundred and fifty yards, depth is three-zero-five feet.”