by Greig Beck
He grabbed some field glasses, and through the rain-battered window, Harper saw the first beacon light of one of his men. Then the second and third. He exhaled with relief – god bless for small miracles – they were close together, and hadn’t been washed far.
“Loop around them, and we’ll get them in the lee of the wind.” He lowered his glasses. “I’ll be down supervising the rescue. Keep her steady, Ethan, and…”
His brows came together, and he quickly lifted the field glasses again. The first beacon light went out, and moments later, so did the second.
“What the fuck?” Harper’s mouth hung open.
As he watched, the third light vanished in the darkness. The beacon lights were all gone; his men were gone.
Remember the shadow, his mind whispered again.
CHAPTER 26
Nick’s Cove, Marin County, California
– sixty-five days later
Jack Monroe hummed as he sanded the flaking deck; nice smooth circles, lightly does it, respect the wood, as his father used to say. He stood, admiring his work for a moment, with a grin beginning to split his face. He turned, sanding block still in hand, and now pointed at his Australian terrier, Ozzy.
“There is nothin' like a dame – c’mon, join in, buddy.” Ozzy cocked his head. “– there is nothin' you can name – that is anything, like, a, da-aaame!”
Jack lowered the sanding block, brows up. “How was that, Oz?”
Ozzy turned in a circle, his mouth open, and tongue out, in the doggy equivalent of manic applause.
“That’s what I thought.” He looked back at the deck – magnificent. He sighed, The Heceta – named in honor of the island cave that saved them – was all his. The sixty-two-foot motor yacht, designed and built in 1938 by the great pair of Alden and Jacob, was a beautiful mix of original teak planking over a white oak frame, and with enough modern equipment and power in its engine room to fight the most ferocious swells. Old world charm combined with new world tech.
Jack sat on a single small stool, coffee mug resting on an unread newspaper. Ozzy came and lay at his feet, having found an old dry paintbrush to work on.
Jack lifted his mug to sip at the lukewarm liquid. He grinned again; he still couldn’t believe he owned it. Right now, The Heceta was up in dry dock on Miller’s Boat ramp, and he had given himself the entire long weekend to do nothing but sand back the peeling paint on the deck, the last real job needing to be done. By tomorrow evening he hoped to begin the varnish and paintwork – the fun stuff. Then he’d polish the brass fittings, and she was ready for inspection and duty, and also visitors… or at least just one special visitor.
He looked up at the pilothouse. There was a saloon inside, a chart table, fully stocked bar, and two cabin bedrooms. He smiled and nodded; the Mironov Foundation had been generous; he could never have afforded a boat such as this on his salary – not in a dozen lifetimes.
“To Valery.” He toasted the lost Russian billionaire, and then sipped as he read the headlines. His eyes were always drawn to any articles about the sea, sea-life, or boats. He stopped at one.
‘Dolphin visitors moved in for good?’ The headline asked.
He flipped pages until he found the body of the article and began to read: swimming beaches all along the coast from Laguna in Orange County, on down to Coronado, Venice, Hermosa and even La Jolla, were all reporting pods of dolphins in close to the shoreline. Not actually beaching, but simply refusing to be herded back out to sea, or even to deeper water.
“What’s with you guys?” Jack read on, sipping slowly. They weren’t even the same type of dolphin; there were hundreds of Common dolphins, little guys that were fast and normally friendly. But also their bigger cousins, the Bottlenose – ten-footers who weren’t afraid to take on predators who invaded their patch.
He frowned. “And Rissos, too?” The Risso dolphin looked more whale-like than a dolphin with its round, blunt head. They were also pretty damn big, growing up to twelve feet. And they were shy, usually staying well away from humans.
Jack rubbed his chin. He’d followed dolphin pods before. An earthquake could throw them off and drive them into the shallows, so could a pod of hungry orcas, or a big a fishing party, like the slaughter fests in the outer Japanese islands.
Weird. He read the last paragraph where a meteorologist was blaming climate change. Jack snorted. Was anything not climate change’s fault these days?
He dropped the paper and stood, looking back at the last bits of work to do. He was on schedule, and wanted to be ready to receive guests by Tuesday. Jack looked out over the calm, blue water, daydreaming for a moment. There was just one guest – Cate Granger, and she was coming down from Redwood to spend a week with him. They’d been dating again, and things were going great. But he knew if she was coming all the way over to finally set foot back out on the water, he’d see to it that it was done in utmost luxury.
He was a man of the sea. It was going to be awkward having a potential wife who couldn’t even look at saltwater. The boat had to be in tiptop shape, champagne in the icebox, the weather calm, and himself on his charming best behavior – everything all safe and secure. What’s not to like?
He lifted his sanding block. “Ready, Ozzy?”
The small dog dropped the brush and spun again, grinning madly.
“Then let’s do this.” Jack knelt, rubbed, and hummed.
CHAPTER 27
Cate held a half eaten apple in her hand as she and Abby sat on the Stanford lawn close to the main building. Neither spoke, and there was an awkwardness between them. She looked up at the small, brass plaque once again.
‘Dedicated to Greg Nathan Jamison – missed but never forgotten – From his family, friends, and faculty.’
That’s all that’s left of him, she thought, sighing and turning away. Abby had her face turned to the sunshine. Cate studied the young woman. She looked… better.
“So, how’s the geology department treating you?” Cate asked.
Abby shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.” She turned to look at Cate with ancient eyes. Her smile seemed forced. “What good is a geologist who can’t stand to go below ground?”
Cate nodded her understanding. “Yeah, it takes time.”
Abby tilted her head back to the sun. “I think they’re going to downsize us.”
“It’s happening all over. But you’re welcome to join me in the biology department. We can always use good people.” Cate chuckled. “After all, ever since the Mironov Foundation set up an annuity donation of one million dollars a year to our department, and in my name, for now at least I’m a highly protected species.”
Abby wrinkled her nose. “I’m a geologist, not a biologist. Thanks anyway, but I’ll be fine.” She stood, brushed her dress down, and turned to Greg’s plaque. “We care, but no one else does.” She turned to Cate. “I’m not even sure they believe us.” She snorted. “Not that we can tell anyone.”
Cate hiked her shoulders. “Does it matter? As long as no one else goes down there.” She, Abby and Jack had been interviewed too many times to count, by everyone from the Environmental Protection Authority through to Homeland Security. Bottom line was, they barely listened about the underground sea, or the Megalodon, or even Greg’s death. What they wanted to know was more about the tactical nuclear explosion, the connection to the billionaire, Valery Mironov, and also the Russian citizens, Dmitry Torshin and Yegor Gryzlov. Things they could understand and deal with.
Cate looked across the verdant lawns. While the authorities continued their investigation, the trio was instructed to talk to no one, any time, any place and any where. It was just fine by her.
Abby sighed. “You know, up here in the sunshine, it feels like it was all just a dream.” She looked down at Cate. “A bad dream.”
Cate nodded. “It was just a nightmare. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
Abby knelt to hug her, and then stood again. “Brings back bad memories.” Her smile faded. “Sorry, but
even seeing you does it to me. Good luck, Cate. Give my love to Jack.” She turned and strode away.
Cate groaned, sitting cross-legged. Wish I could just walk away from it all, she thought, watching the young woman vanish across the perfectly manicured lawns. She took another bite of her apple and chewed slowly, but the flesh was cotton-wool tasteless to her.
Yech. She dropped it onto the grass. She looked up at Greg’s plaque again – it accused her, damned her for pushing him, and there was that tiny voice that continued to whisper to her that he only went because she asked him. She sat back, her vision turned inwards. Even if she had been told of the dangers, she still would have gone, and so would Greg. How could any evolutionary biologist worth their salt have said no to the opportunity to witness the primordial past first hand? They were both just slaves to their professional curiosity.
“It wasn’t my fault, Greg,” she whispered. She tore her eyes away, and looking for a diversion switched on her slim computer. She placed it on her lap, signed in and then opened up her favorite link to a paleontological news site that listed global events, and read with passing interest about the latest discoveries unearthed from as far away as the Himalayas and Greenland, to the Australian outback – like the new raptor-like dinosaur discovered in the north-west Queensland in an abandoned opal mine, with claws the size of kitchen knives – it was a big guy, termed a megaraptorid, and showed just how far these things had spread, or perhaps was an indicator of concurrent evolution of the species.
She scrolled some more, to a story on how the Chinese were going to try and clone a gigantopithecus, the ten-foot tall, prehistoric hominid. They believed they had extracted viable DNA from a hundred and fifty thousand year old canine tooth – she’d love to see that one, she thought, smiling.
She scrolled again. Even though the site was supposedly run by academics, sometimes the articles tended to cross the line into cryptozoology, which was as much wishful thinking as it was science. She flicked to the next page, feeling slightly better, when she froze. Cate sprang in closer and enlarged the image to full-screen mode.
It was a fish, a dozen feet long and powerfully shaped. But it was the now rotting head that got her attention – it was armor plated. The Russian fishermen had claimed they pulled the creature from waters near Bering Island, a barren, desolate piece of land that was two hundred miles from the Russian mainland. The creature was already dead, and the freezing waters had preserved it intact for however long it had been floating out there.
She quickly read down the page – Russian scientists were awaiting final verification, but believed it was a hypercarnivorous apex predator species of Placoderm that had supposedly vanished during the late Devonian period. They were calling it the biggest find since the rediscovery of the Coelacanth in 1938.
Cate enlarged the image further, and then sat back. “Oh no, no, no.” Her stomach turned. Even though the thing was little more than a pipe of gray meat, the shape of the head, the heavy armor plating and mechanized looking jaws were unmistakable – after all, she’d seen one up close and personal.
Impossible. It couldn’t possibly be that much of a coincidence. Could it?
She wished Greg were here, her ever-present colleague, friend and scientific sounding board. She folded her arms, her mind working. She should take a look at it, up close, just to satisfy her curiosity. She distantly remembered an earthquake followed by a tsunami a few months back in the northern hemisphere. She thought nothing of it at the time, but now wondered, was there a relationship?
Time to talk to the experts. But, let your fingers do the walking. She entered her browser and typed in a request for a contact number for a west coast earthquake center. The closest link returned was a seismic activity center in Colorado. She punched in the number, and let her Voice-over-Internet connect her.
“National Seismic Activity Information Center, Colorado; Frank Hennie speaking.”
The voice was laid back, but she smiled at her luck. In their website’s Who’s Who section, Frank was one of their chief scientists.
“Hi there Dr Hennie, it’s Professor Cate Granger of Stanford University calling. How are you today?”
“I’m okay. What can I do for you?”
Cate bristled; the man sounded like he had zero enthusiasm for speaking to the public. She decided to be brief and cut to the chase.
“Dr Hennie, I’m doing some research down here and wondered about a recent seismic event I believe occurred in or around the Bering Sea a few months ago. Did you guys have any more information you can share with me?”
“Not really.” There was a long sigh.
“Anything, please.” Cate ground her teeth.
Next came a pause, a grunt, and then the sound of some liquid being sipped. “It was a bit of an anomaly. Out of nowhere we got an ellipse-pattern of a seismic shock moving out from an epicenter that was some place in the middle of the Bering Sea.” Another sip. “There’s an area up there called the Denali Fault; it’s a major intracontinental strike-slip fault in western North America, extending from northwestern British Columbia, Canada, to the central region of Alaska. It’s a big one, and prone to shifting. But where this new movement came from was nowhere near that. It was weird.”
Cate smiled; Frank seemed to be warming as he remembered the scientific data. “Weird? I like weird. Tell me more.”
Frank chortled. “Well, there was no prewarning shocks and no aftershocks – a single event, pinpoint, and then our ocean-based surge buoys detected tsunami movement. We put out a standard alert to all the coastal communities of Alaska, Canada and even Russia. But the surge dissipated pretty quickly, with no damage.”
“Interesting,” Cate said. “Anything since?”
“Nada. Been quiet as a tomb since.”
Cate’s mind worked. “Doctor Hennie, was there anything out of the ordinary that you can remember?”
Frank exhaled and then sipped again. “There was one thing. We have surge buoys dotted throughout the oceans. They monitor everything from wave surge to climate conditions. At the time of the seismic event, the buoys in the Bering Sea all registered a temperature spike of over twenty degrees.” He snorted. “It was as if someone had emptied a jug of hot water into a cold bathtub.”
“Shit,” Cate breathed.
“Like I said; weird. Well, that’s all I got Professor Granger. Was there anything else?” Frank was moving back into bored mode now that he’d finished talking.
“No, no, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Cate cut him off and looked again at the picture of the rotting fish. She tapped her chin; she was going down to see Jack again in a few days, and she’d love to get his opinion. She hit the print button on her computer, sending the data to the printer. She felt a little better knowing she’d have her sounding board after all, and also just the thought of spending time with her Captain Jack lifted her spirits. She missed him all the time now, bad, and sometimes thinking of him made everything else seem unimportant.
Get a grip, girl; you’re not a teenager anymore, she tried to tell herself. She sighed. Love makes everyone a dumb kid, she knew. She remembered an old saying that went something along the lines of: the human brain works twenty-four hours a day, from the time you are born until the day you die… and only ever stops working when you’re in love.
“Just a pair of old dummies in love then.” She grinned, and picked up the printed pages.
CHAPTER 28
“Let’s bring her round for another coastal sweep. We’ll start the next run from Big Sur and round it out up at Santa Cruz.” Senior Chief Petty Officer, Vincent Kelly, lowered the field glasses and felt his breast pocket to assure himself he had his sunglasses ready to pull on. The horizon was just beginning to glow as the sun was about to poke its head up. Once it came over the rim, then the glare would reduce surface visibility to near zero without polarizing lenses.
“Okay, got a slight onshore breeze picking up now, so any floating debris should be pushed towards the shore.”
Pilot First Class, Regina ‘Ginny’ Boxer, eased the wheel around. The HH-3F Pelican helicopter responded smoothly, and turned in the air. The massive machine was seventy-three-feet long from cabin to tail, and with a rotor diameter of sixty-two feet. It was invaluable to the Coast Guard, as it was one of the few craft that was air-amphibious – being able to land and take off from water.
The Pelican was a fast and tactical search and rescue tool. The downside was that the big baby was thirsty as hell, and in an hour they’d have chewed through nearly seven hundred gallons of gas. This was their third time out that night, and this trip they’d already been out for thirty minutes and still hadn’t found any trace of the latest boat to disappear, a small pleasure craft called the Bella Donna out of Monterey, with two onboard – Brad and Cindy Levinson. It was in this search quadrant the boat had called for help; either the owner, Brad Levinson, had activated the distress beacon himself, or it was auto-activated by an EPIRB – Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon – a tracking transmitter that was triggered upon immersion, when a boat got into trouble.
So far, Vince and Regina had seen nothing up top, and their worry was that if the Bella Donna drifted, and then sunk over the edge of the shelf, then the beacon would be compromised as the pleasure cruiser models weren’t designed for depths – after about a thousand feet, they simply stopped working.
Vincent lifted the field glasses again; last night at about twenty hundred hours Bella’s beacon had lit up and pinged them, and then gone dark. He didn’t have a good feeling about their chances. So far this month there had been five boat disappearances, none had been located, and not a single body recovered. Something weird was happening, and he was pretty sure they hadn’t found themselves in some sort of new Devil’s Triangle.
“We’ll have better light in the next twenty minutes,” Regina said, confidently.
