by Michael Cole
BEHEMOTH 2
A NOVEL BY MICHAEL COLE
www.severedpress.com
Copyright 2019 by MICHAEL COLE
CHAPTER
1
Vertical gusts of wind pounded the Atlantic water, already rippling from the remnants of the storm that had passed through. Five hundred feet above, three Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk helicopters accelerated northward in a triangular formation. Bluish-gray in color, sixty-four feet in length, and a loaded weight of over seventeen thousand pounds, the two trailing Seahawks kept at a three-hundred yard distance from the leader in front. All three were fully loaded, with armaments including three Mark 46 torpedoes, four Hellfire missiles, and an M60 machine gun mounted within the sealed cabin. Etched into the steel above the weapons pylons were the words United States Navy.
The normally blue water appeared more like a liquid charcoal, reflecting the grayish black clouds above. The clouds still blocked the sun, giving an eerie grayish appearance to the horizon, as if the choppers were flying over a graveyard. The rain was reduced to a steady shower now after hours of torrential downpour.
This was fine by Ensign Matt Riggs. Harnessed into the fine leather pilot seat within the cockpit of the lead Seahawk Helicopter, he led the small unit north. He replaced his aviator sunglasses, previously having removed them after visibility was compromised by the intense rain. To his amazement, his co-pilot, Lieutenant Sherman, never removed his glasses. He stared dead ahead, with a soulless mechanical expression on his face. Although Riggs had been through plenty of missions, he still got nervous when conditions got bad. Sherman, however, never broke a sweat. It certainly made an impression. Riggs almost wondered if Sherman was, in fact, machine.
“We have a new reading. Target has descended fifty meters. Continuing to move rapidly,” a voice spoke into his headset. The traffic was heard by all crew in each chopper. They all knew the voice.
Colonel Richard Salkil sat in the cabin, eyes glued to a computer screen. Normally dressed in an officer’s uniform, the Colonel was outfitted with a blue combat jumpsuit, as if prepared to jump into action himself. And prepared he was. It was quite a sight, even to the two soldiers seated with him in the cabin. Unshaven from two days of tracking his Moby Dick, he intently watched the red blip on the radar monitor. The tracking device installed onto the target was still functioning, although it would glitch every so often. He was so intent, he didn’t even notice Sergeant Mike Logan standing nearby, watching the monitor. Built like a tank, he also watched the monitor. Small red letters flashed with the blip; IP-15.
What does that stand for?
Logan was well versed in most acronyms and codes used by the U.S. military. But IP-15, he had no clue. It was also odd to see the Colonel so intent on finding the target. Riggs felt the same, although he didn’t know the Colonel so well. Even Lt. Sherman, though nobody could tell through his expressionless face, felt a bit odd about the scenario.
When told to scramble, the only information given to them regarding the target was that it was a killer shark. Of course, they followed the orders without question, as they were trained to do. But each man and woman of this Navy unit felt the same bizarre sentiment. A Naval Destroyer, patrol ship, and fully armed Seahawk helicopters, to take out a shark?
For Logan, it wasn’t the first time he had been called upon to hunt a deadly sea animal. Two years prior, a great white was believed to be the cause of death for two surfers up along the Jersey Coast. His unit happened to be close by, so rather than the Coast Guard, he was called upon to hunt the creature down. And all it took was a Navy hull boat, launched from the USS Hurricane, a patrol vessel.
Logan stuck his head into the cockpit and looked ahead. He could see the Destroyer, the USS Freedom, closing in from the north. Down at the console, the blip at the pilots’ radar monitor. They were nearly over the supposed shark. Riggs glanced up at him and cupped his hand over his microphone.
“You think the boss is just really hungry for shark-fin soup?”
“I don’t know what this is about,” Logan said. “It’s real hush-hush. All they’ll say is that it’s something they want dead.”
“A cover-up?” Riggs asked.
“SHH!” Sherman suddenly hissed. It was the first movement from his face in hours, it seemed. He leaned toward his co-pilot and spoke very softly. “You realize he can hear you. Knock off the chatter and just focus on the mission.” Sherman then sat up straight, and returned to his expressionless, statue form.
Salkil could hear them. Years of Marine combat and survival training, and years of applying his tactics, enhanced many of his natural senses. One of which was the sense of hearing. It became useful when detecting enemy troops nearby when sabotaging narcotic operations in the jungles of Columbia and Ecuador. He trained himself to hear the shallow breathing and light footsteps of a passing enemy. Now, in the present, that ability never wavered.
It wasn’t the first time he overheard confused conversation about the mission. He understood that it was most unusual, and wished there was a better story he could give them. But the U.S. Government had given the military strict instructions to keep this operation as quiet as possible, and because he had knowledge of the situation, Col. Salkil was in charge. In addition to destroying the target, the military instructed him to eliminate further loose ends of the failed Warren Institution experiments.
What was supposed to be a simple inspection had become a nightmare.
It was only days ago when Salkil had arrived at the Warren Institution, called in to inspect the project and possibly approve further funding. The facility was an enormous underwater lab, which provided an artificial habitat for the bizarre experiments taking place. There, he met Dr. Isaac Wallack, the geneticist in charge of the project.
Salkil was given a tour of the facility, only aware that its purpose was to create a new kind of weapon for the U.S. military. What Salkil found fascinated him, and simultaneously, disturbed him.
Through a process of genetic fusing, Dr. Wallack had created an army of hybrid beasts. The first was a new breed referred to as Isurus Palinuridae…a disturbing genetic fusing of Mako Sharks and Spiny Lobster. Wallack was convinced that, with the help of technology, he could command these creatures to go into warzones and eliminate enemy personnel and sea craft, while the hardened shell would protect the creatures from enemy fire. Adamant that he could control anything he created, he had revealed his ultimate creation: Architeuthis Brachyura, a sixty-foot crossover of a giant squid and a crab. In what seemed like a twist of fate, the beast proved Wallack wrong while this meeting was taking place.
The Behemoth tore through the steel siding of its chamber, flooding the laboratory. The event was so unexpected, there was no time to seal off the chamber. Water ravaged much of the lab’s interior, overflowing the pools containing the other hybrid specimens. This was only the beginning of the problems.
The hybrid creature had made its way to the island chain called Mako’s Ridge. There, it made a habitat in the rocky island of Mako’s Edge. There, it attacked fishing boats, and eventually killed a Coast Guard diver sent to investigate a sinking. The United States Coast Guard investigated, but didn’t locate the creature, as it was hiding in an underwater cave. However, it did not take long for more tragedy to strike. During a marlin fishing competition, the hybrid went on a bloodthirsty rampage, sinking several vessels and devouring many people, including members of law enforcement. It eventually made its way to the beach, where it killed more, and maimed many others.
Matters were made even worse when Dr. Wallack took his own initiative to capture the beast. With a small team of mercenaries, he had kidnapped a local fisherman, Rick Napier, to commandeer his vessel to capture the creature. Others kidnapped were Napier’s daughter, her boyfriend, the l
ocal police chief, and an off-duty Coast Guard diver.
The plan to capture the beast proved unsuccessful. It killed the mercenaries, as well as Wallack, the very man who gave it life. Napier and his friends were able to make it out alive, thanks to a nearby Coast Guard cutter. With several shots of the seventy-millimeter gun, Architeuthis Brachyura was destroyed.
That solved the issue of the creature being on the loose. However, many more problems were created as a result. There were many eye witness accounts of the hybrid beast, including an exclusive report featuring Rick Napier regarding the events surrounding him, and what he learned of Dr. Wallack and his experiments.
Worse yet, an inventory of the remaining specimens revealed that one was at large. One of the Isurus Palinuridae hybrids had escaped as a result of the breach and subsequent flooding.
Salkil was notified to tie up any loose ends. Immediately, he sent officials to Mako’s Ridge to take care of the devastation taking place. More importantly, he was to track the escaped hybrid. Each one had a tracking device installed, but the tech was glitching, possibly due to damage during the incident. Under no circumstance should this creature be allowed to escape.
The bottom line was: nobody else was to know of the existence of these creatures, and there must be nothing linking these incidents to the government. Already, cover stories were being cooked up regarding the attack at Mako’s Center. Salkil also knew, that after destroying this surviving specimen, he would have to pay Rick Napier a personal visit.
“This is Admiral Joel Ford of the USS Freedom. We have a reading of the target. Colonel Salkil, are you copying this transmission?” The Colonel pressed his finger to the microphone attached to his headset as he spoke.
“Yes, Admiral,” he said.
“As I said, we have a reading on your fish. I’m sending in three hull boats to draw it to the surface. Once it comes up, they’ll spray it with some shark-repellant fifty-cal. Easy-peasy.”
Logan had taken his seat in the cabin as the call came in. It was then when he noticed the slightest twitch in the Colonel’s expression. Most people would have missed it, but he had been around enough higher-ups to recognize the subtle clues to what they were thinking. Salkil’s facial muscles constricted briefly before returning to form.
“Negative, Admiral,” he said. “I have authorization to use necessary force to eliminate the threat. I want to lock Mark 46 torpedoes on the target.”
“For a fish? Negative!” The Admiral spoke.
“Sir, this isn’t…” Salkil was about to follow with any ordinary fish, but managed to stop himself. Even to higher ranking officers, he couldn’t even hint to the identity of the creature. “Sir…I must insist on the most direct method on destroying the target. We can destroy it with the torpedoes and be complete.”
“As I said, negative,” the Admiral said. “I’m not wasting explosives on a damn fish. Our guys on the Zodiac crafts will draw it up with chum, and eliminate it. That’s how it’s going to be.” Salkil’s face tensed once more.
“Copy,” he said through gritted teeth. He moved the microphone away from his mouth. “Goddamn,” he mumbled. It was another case in which he was expected to get a task done but had so many obstacles that impeded his progress. For this plan to work, it would mean the sailors aboard those ships would likely get a visual of the creature; which was exactly what he was trying to prevent. In addition, Salkil wasn’t convinced that plan would work. He was aware of the creature’s exoskeleton, and how Dr. Wallack had designed it to withstand gunfire. However, to his understanding, there was no field test conducted. And what did Wallack know of military weapons, anyway?
He could only hope the shell wasn’t thick enough to withstand gunfire.
“Target ascending twenty yards,” Sherman spoke through the comm. There was a pause of nearly twenty seconds. “Target is also decreasing speed. We’re nearly above it. Colonel, we’ll have to reduce speed or we’ll be past it.”
“It probably senses the presence of the Freedom,” Salkil spoke into his microphone.
“Zodiacs are en-route,” another voice spoke. The Colonel stared at the monitor intently with unblinking eyes. He could see the large blip representing the Freedom, and the blips for the Zodiac boats approaching IP-15.
“Salkil to Viper 4 and 5… form a perimeter around the target area. Be ready to provide support if necessary.”
Riggs looked over at Sherman, curious to see if the Lieutenant was as confused over the situation as him. Sherman maintained the same stone like expression, though he found the order bizarre. Then again, this whole mission was bizarre. There was no question that the Colonel knew something they didn’t.
Salkil felt the cabin tilt toward the right as the Seahawk turned. His eyes went to the door as Logan slid them open and propped an M60 machine gun. The black nose of the weapon protruded through the open doorway, while a blast of cool ocean air swarmed the cabin. Salkil propped himself up and looked down toward the water. Three black Navy Zodiac boats, spaced two-hundred feet from each other, splashed through the rippling current below. Several hundred yards across were Viper 4 and 5, appearing like black dragonflies against the gloomy sky. He could almost see the guns pointing down toward the water.
“Viper 4 in position.”
“Viper 5 in position.”
Salkil watched the boats. The one in the center carried a large red tub. He could see one of the sailors pop the top off and dip a large scoop into the murky red chum mixture over the sides. In a few short minutes, there was a large red stream of fish guts trailing the boats. On the radar screen, the target maintained position, possibly confused by the commotion in the water. It slowly ascended, but only slowly. Salkil worried that the presence of the Destroyer had made the creature wary.
At this moment, another voice spoke through the comm.
“This is Lieutenant Hendricks from Unit One calling for Colonel Salkil.”
The Colonel looked down toward the boats. He could see the Lieutenant in the center boat, holding the microphone extender. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, as you well know, we’ve commenced the operation. Exactly how big a fish are we talking about, here?”
Salkil recalled the documents he had seen before the creature was revealed to be missing. Fifteen Lobster-Shark specimens were in containment. The first three were measured at twelve feet. The following eleven had grown between fifteen and eighteen feet in length. Then there was number fifteen… which had grown to be the largest of the specimens. And it was the one at large.
“Twenty-three feet,” Salkil said. Logan glanced over his shoulder, saw that twitch in the colonel’s expression again.
“Big ass fish,” Lieutenant Hendricks said to himself as he replaced the microphone. Not really big enough for a friggin Naval ship. At six-foot-three and a solid muscular frame, he stood at the helm while his two shipmates, Private Dunn and Corporal Meyer, stood at opposite sides of the boat. With the red tub in front of the Fifty-Cal., they shoveled loads of chum into the water. The red trail quickly zigzagged with the uneven currents. Hendricks looked over his shoulder at the trail, hoping they would luck out and the shark would come up at the most convenient place to shoot it.
He briefly scanned the sky, drawn to the sight of the three Seahawks up above. The drone of the twin turbine engines of each one created an endless howl in the grim afternoon sky. The Destroyer held at bay five hundred yards south. In each hull boat traveling parallel, a man stood at a mounted Fifty Cal. machine gun.
They really want this shark dead. It was odd, indeed. During his career, even when going after Somali pirates or drug smugglers did they sometimes not use so many resources. And this was only a shark. There had been plenty of times when he didn’t have the full scoop when undergoing a mission. When infiltrating a Columbian drug smuggler’s yacht, little did he know that he was actually exterminating an informant who was giving U.S. secrets to Iran. When instructed to open fire on, and ultimately sink, a cargo ship approaching the Gulf of M
exico, it was under the guise that it was carrying deadly diseases from a south Atlantic island. Only later did he find out that the ship was actually carrying a mercenary group that conducted operations starting in Northern Egypt and worked their way through the Mediterranean. To this day, he never knew what they did, but it was so Top-Secret, the U.S. Government wanted them eliminated to preserve the secret. With that knowledge in mind, Hendricks did not want to know.
What he did know, was that the government wanted this animal dead. Though it was only a fish, or so he was told, the principle remained the same. It contained a secret that the Feds did not want exposed. What that would be, once again, he figured it was best not to know.
“Hurry it up, boys,” he said to his team. “We don’t know how long the weather will hold up. Might be another front moving in. I don’t want to be caught in it.”
“Tell it to the fish, sir,” Corporal Meyer jabbed.
********
All the creature had ever known was the controlled environment in which it was imprisoned. Every aspect had become familiar, down to the food, the smell, the sounds, even the sensation of the water against its rigid shell. Now everything was new. It had to fight against the motion of currents and allow its eyes to adjust to the differing changes in light. Then there was the temperature, which was much lower than what the shark was previously exposed to. This initially slowed its movements, until its body eventually adapted.
At six thousand pounds, it glided with graceful freedom as it explored its new surroundings. Its blood red color contrasted sharply with the surrounding blue water. With a solid shell plating its entire body, the creature was split into segments; the head, body, and tail, which itself had multiple segments for flexibility. Each swing of its tail forced water through its gills, oxygenating its blood. For a while, this was all its system required as it migrated. Its only purpose was to swim endlessly.
