by JE Gurley
He vaguely understood the Navy’s reasoning in choosing the drillship Vanguard as its center of operations. The megalodons’ path before the storm took them in a generally easterly direction, and the rig offered a stable platform from which to spring the trap they were preparing to stop the creatures’ eastward advance. For his money, evacuating the area and launching a BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missile tipped with a W80 nuclear warhead set for a 20-kiloton blast would be simpler and surer, but Russia might not look too kindly on a nuclear explosion so close to her northern border. No American president wanted to be the first president to use a nuclear weapon in almost three-quarters of a century. Besides, they could not be certain all of the sharks were in the same general location. A handful of smaller megalodon sharks and giant crabs had been spotted as far away as the Aleutian Islands, but most of the large ones had remained in frigid Arctic waters.
He looked up at the drillship towering above the Sunfish and watched the last MH-60 Seahawk helicopter leave the helipad carrying the last of the rig crew to the USS Kirby, an America-class escort aircraft carrier less than fifty miles away. Once there, they would transfer to MV-22 Ospreys for the flight to the mainland. When the soft whumph of the rotors died away, the only sounds remaining were the waves pounding against the hollow columns and the sizzle and bright actinic glare of arc welders, as engineers mounted missile launchers to the rig’s deck.
Unlike his Griffin missiles, the launchers were part of a RUM-139 ASROC air-to-surface system capable of launching Mark 46 Mod 5A torpedoes, a five-hundred pound, eight-and-a half-foot long instrument of destruction. Unlike legendary whale-hunting, metal-tipped harpoons of yore, the Mark 46, tipped with a ninety-eight-pound warhead packed with PBXN-103 explosives, could sink a frigate. It was quite capable of delivering death in large doses to a megalodon.
The same Seahawks that had delivered the ASROCs and evacuated the drillship’s crew had also delivered dozens of large crates, a modified anti-shark mine, which ordinance technicians had been assembling all day. In essence, they were transforming the drillship Vanguard into a stationary weapons platform.
He wondered what kind of chaos would be unleashed when the orders came to attack. Missiles and torpedoes he understood, something quantifiable. They delivered a measurable amount of destructive power. He knew nothing about the new weapon the scientists were preparing; therefore, he could place no faith in its effectiveness. He had watched too many Godzilla movies to know that secret weapons seldom performed as well as predicted. He placed his faith in high explosives and the men who knew how to use them.
He turned to Chico Rodriquez, former engineer newly promoted to executive officer. The twenty-three-year-old from San Bernardino was still uncomfortable with his new position as second-in-command, but Will trusted him.
“Launch the aerial drones, Chico. Let’s see if we have any company.”
He watched Rodriquez and another crewman pull the four drones from their crates and assemble them. Twenty minutes later, all three were buzzing along on their four rotors and six-foot wingspans six-hundred feet above the surface, relaying high-resolution images to the split-screen monitor on the bridge. The rapidly changing view of the surface was dizzying. He didn’t know how technician Cal Grayson could keep up with everything. It was multi-tasking in the extreme. Like most young people, the nineteen year old had probably grown up attached to a video game controller. Except for the whitecaps dotting the surface like a sprinkling of meringue, the ocean was empty. Recharging their batteries from solar cells built into the body, the drones could have remained aloft all day and for long hours into the night, but he had seen enough.
On their return flight, Will ordered Grayson to buzz the Utah, allowing him a close-up view of the three-man DSV sitting on her aft deck. He was curious about the submersible and what part it would play in the operation. In his mind, the DSV looked too small and fragile to operate in the midst of hungry giant megalodon. After landing safely on the Sunfish’s bow, the crew disassembled the drones and returned them to their crates in preparation for the next day’s use.
As evening fell, a golden glow spread across the horizon, creating deep shadows beneath the rig. It was a moment of quiet time for him. Leaning against the rail on the leeward side of the boat out of the spray, he watched the buzz of activity aboard the drillship. Light towers burst into life, washing the deck with bright lights, allowing the workers to complete their tasks. The crews worked quickly but methodically, installing the launchers and making the necessary modifications to turn the rig into a base of operations. By morning, the installation would be complete. Later in the day, the leading edge of the storm would be upon them, and, hopefully, the megalodon. They would learn if all their preparations had been enough.
Will sighed. Hurry up and wait. That was the Navy way. He was ready for some payback.
“It looks like we’re going to have some company, Skipper,” Grayson announced. “I just received a message from the Amberjack. They’ll arrive in two hours.”
Will nodded. The USS Amberjack was a Mark VI patrol craft, the Sunfish’s sister ship, one of four in the Arctic. He had met the boat’s captain, Mark Eisner, at the operations briefing in San Diego. Eisner, at 46, was old for a small boat captain, but he was experienced and had contributed some good points at the briefing. The Amberjack’s assignment had been Wrangel Island farther west of the Vanguard, but he was glad for the added firepower.
“Good, we could use the help.”
The Amberjack had not undergone a refitting in Barrow, as had the Sunfish. She retained her .50 caliber and 25mm chain guns and the depth charge racks installed in San Diego, but did not carry Griffin missile launchers. Even so, a second highly maneuverable boat could make a difference in the success of the operation.
He reached for the headset to speak with Eisner. “Welcome to nowhere, Mark.”
“There’s a lot of nowhere in the Arctic. We just left another little bit of it yesterday. We came through the storm front. It left us pretty beat up. The Mark VI wasn’t built for heavy seas. We need to tidy up and shift some cargo. Maybe I’ll get a chance to drop by later for coffee.”
“Pot’s on anytime. Did you see any megalodon?”
Eisner’s voice took on a harder edge. “No, but we passed through the wreckage of a Russian trawler earlier today. No survivors. It looked like it had been run through a car shredder.”
“We’ll stop them.”
“We had better. Well, I’ve got to get my crew cracking. I’ll talk with you later. Good hunting.”
“Same to you, Mark.”
Eisner’s report left a hard knot in Will’s stomach. The megalodon were on their way.
8
December 25, 2018 Shell Oil Drillship Vanguard, Beaufort Sea–
The unexpected arrival of the Navy cast a cloud over Simon’s plan to kill the megalodon. He and Asa maintained a low profile, avoiding the staff rounding up workers and assigning numbers for transport, by remaining in Simon’s quarters until dark. Throughout the day, a steady stream of helicopters arrived and departed ferrying rig crew off the ship. Others delivered Navy engineers and crates of equipment. Even amid the hustle and bustle, Asa was afraid someone would confront them and send them packing. Simon could not hide his eagerness to implement his plan, but the anxiety of waiting allowed doubt to creep into Asa’s resolve. Fear gripped him so tightly he could feel it on his skin, like cold clammy hands.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked Simon. His mouth was dry. He badly wanted another sip of Simon’s Bunnahabhain Scotch, but the chef had not offered any. He wasn’t sure even good Scotch could ease his nerves.
Simon’s head snapped up from the pile of papers on his desk to glare at him. “Having second thoughts?”
“When the repercussion of getting caught was being fired, I thought it was worth the risk. Now …”
“I’m going through with this with or without your help.” Simon paused. “I could use it though.”
&
nbsp; “Look, the Navy warned me to keep my mouth shut. If we’re caught, it won’t take them long to discover who I am. Now, with the neurotoxin in our possession, they might decide we’re terrorists and drop us out of a chopper on the way back to the mainland. No questions asked.”
Simon’s features softened. “I have to avenge my sister’s death. I see her ghost every time I try to sleep. Her shade won’t let me rest.” He studied Asa for a long moment, and then said, “I can’t begin to understand what you must have gone through—the doubt, the guilt, deserved or not, the threat of prison for trying to clear your name. You’re the shell of the man you once were. I can tell. Don’t you want your life back? Don’t you want redemption?”
Simon’s words sounded sincere, but Asa wondered if anything could ever heal the scars of the Kulik’s sinking. “Redemption?” He shook his head. “Killing these bastards isn’t redemption. It’s revenge. Maybe the Navy can do a better job of it than we can.”
Simon hissed, “I don’t trust them. They’ve had a year to do it.”
Neither did Asa, but he was hesitant to admit it to Simon. He needed a way out of his promise, not to ensnare himself deeper in Simon’s plan.
“How can we do it with the Navy all over the rig?”
“We do it tonight after things quiet down. I checked the weather station. The storm front will be here early tomorrow and with it, the megalodon. We have to be ready.” He stared at Asa, waiting. “Are you in or out?”
Asa sighed. What more did he have to lose that he had not been taken from him already? “I’m in.”
Simon relaxed his stance and nodded. “Good. We can do this.”
“I hope the hell you’re right.”
Simon glanced at the photo of his sister. “I have to be right.”
* * * *
By six p.m., things had quieted down on the drillship. Whatever the technicians had been assembling behind a wall of canvas screening was ready. Most of the work installing the ASROC torpedo launchers was completed as well. The large, box-shaped metal launchers on each swivel mount each held eight missiles with a range of twelve miles. The drillship looked like the deck of a missile frigate. Only a handful of Navy men and the four scientists remained aboard the Vanguard. The Dynamic Positioning Officer, the Chief Mechanic, and the two crane operators had left on the last helicopter. Simon checked the corridor outside the room and found it clear.
“It’s now or never,” he said.
Asa sighed and joined him. His legs felt leaden, but he knew it was only his fear holding him back. They reached the mechanics shack undetected. Working from Simon’s crude drawings, after adding a few modifications of his own, Asa gathered the necessary items and began assembling them using the TIG welder. For a delivery system, he modified a small oxygen tank to contain the deadly saxitoxin. He attached a pressure regulator to control dosage. A thin tube extended from the regulator into the cylinder to pressurize it, and a length of flexible, metal-fiber coated tubing served as an oxygen line. He cut one end of a three-foot-long, ½-inch diameter hollow tube at a sharp angle to create a bevel and welded it to the regulator’s outlet.
His final modification was a bracket to attach the injector to the ROV’s manipulator arm and use the claw of the arm to activate the injector. The task took two hours to complete. By eight o’clock, they were ready to attach it to the ROV. His eyes burned from the welder flash even through the darkened glass of the shield. It had also given him a headache that threatened to split his skull.
Simon admired Asa’s work and grinned. “It looks better here than on paper.”
“It should do the job.”
Working in the mechanic’s shack had been easy. No one could see them. Preparing the ROV was another matter altogether. It sat on the drill platform where the roustabouts had left it after decoupling the Blowout Protection Valve. They would be in plain sight to anyone bothering to look in that direction.
Trusting to luck, they worked quickly to make the necessary modifications, and then acquainted themselves with its operation. The ROV’s construction was basic—a buoyancy tank, a frame containing five thrusters for movement and positioning, a motor, work lights, and a high-resolution NTSC camera. Various plug-in attachment packages included manipulator arms, cable cutters, and a welder. For their purpose, they would use the modified manipulator arm.
Attaching their giant shark-sized hypodermic syringe to the manipulator arms allowed them some degree of control in hitting a vital spot on the shark. The mechanism would release a predetermined amount of pressurized saxitoxin upon impact. A second blast of air would clear the nozzle of any flesh or cartilage to prepare for a second injection. Holding the regulator open would empty the cylinder in one burst. Asa began to feel more confident that Simon’s plan would work. Work once, anyway, he corrected himself. He doubted they would get a second chance. Once would be enough. Their goal was not to eliminate all the megalodon, simply to strike a blow, a token gesture. If the creature doesn’t swallow the ROV whole.
“It’s as ready as I can get it.” He stared at Simon. “I wish we could test it.”
Simon’s face was grim. “Either it works or it doesn’t. You did a great job putting it together. It’ll work. I’m sure of it.”
While he appreciated the chef’s vote of confidence, Asa was still worried. Too many things could go wrong. There were too many variables. They had no idea on the proper dosage necessary to kill a megalodon, so they erred on the concept that more was better. With the makeshift tank filled to maximum, the pressure regulator would allow them three injections of sixty-six milligrams each, if luck gave them the opportunity. Much of the success depended on the thickness of megalodon skin. Their calculation was all conjecture and supposition based on the nearest relative, the Great White shark.
A thought occurred to Asa, one he had neglected to consider in his haste to aid Simon. “These megalodon are blind. I’ve seen it. How do they find their prey?” he asked, feeling foolish for not thinking of the creatures’ blindness earlier.
“Sharks have an excellent sense of hearing and sense of smell. Loss of visual acuity probably enhanced their other senses to a remarkable degree.”
“So how do we attract them? Does one of us offer a pint of blood for the water?” He envisioned slicing his arm and letting his blood drip into the water. “Do we chum the rig with Porterhouse steaks?”
“I considered using blood as bait, but decided we might have better luck with an auditory signal.”
“What kind of …?” Asa began; then smiled. “The sonar on the ROV. You intend to use the sonar as a beacon.”
Simon smiled as well. “The scent from any other type of bait would disperse quickly, too quickly to sustain for long periods. We can set the sonar to broadcast as wide a frequency as possible for as long as necessary. Sharks have an organ called the ampullae of Lorenzini, electroreceptor in their snouts. They can detect very faint electromagnetic fields.”
Simon’s thoroughness heartened Asa but did not alter the fact that he now proposed competing with the United States Navy in a battle to kill megalodon. Asa could think of a hundred ways for the plan to fall apart, several of which ended with the two of them dead or in a federal prison. He knew broaching the subject with Simon would be useless. Simon had already made up his mind, and nothing would sway him from his course of action, his vendetta. For better or for worse, Asa had enlisted in Simon’s army. He would not let him down. Neither death nor imprisonment could be worse than the agony he had suffered for the past year. In a way, he had nothing to lose.
“Shall we get started?” Simon asked.
Asa took a deep breath, released it slowly, and said, “It’s why we’re here, right? Let’s do it.”
As they carefully filled the converted oxygen cylinder with the saxitoxin, Asa thought, too late to back out now. I’m committed.
* * * *
11:00 p.m.–
Will leaned against the rail on the leeward side of his boat out of the salt spray. T
he bitterly cold wind did not howl, but it did growl as the storm front drew closer. The Sunfish bobbed like a cork on a line downwind from the dock. He had watched the flurry of activity all day aboard the Vanguard, the constant stream of helicopters, the welders installing the torpedo launchers. Now, the drillship was quiet. The furtive movements of two civilians outlined in the rig’s lights drew his attention. What were they doing? For a moment, he considered calling in a report, but then decided to investigate himself. He needed the exercise.
He pulled the Sunfish closer to the dock by hand with the bowline and leaped the gap between the deck and the dock. The long climb up the stairs inside the hollow column winded him, but at least he was out of the cold. The lack of any sentries surprised him, but supposed they assumed there was no need. After all, the enemy they faced was not man but a beast. Everyone was inside the building enjoying the evening or asleep with the exception of the two mystery men. He located them near the drill platform inside the glass-fronted control room out of the cold wind. He watched them work for a few minutes to determine if their actions were innocent or nefarious. He had his sidearm in case of the latter.
The pair, a taller man and a shorter, heavy-set one, huddled around a stack of instruments set up on a table. Two of the cases held video monitors. A third looked like a sonar screen. The taller man held a toggle control in his hands. Will crept closer until he stood just outside the door, where he could better eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Camera clarity is good,” the taller one said. “Range is one-twenty-five to one-fifty yards.”
“Switch to Infrared,” the overweight one suggested.
“Still clear,” the first answered few moments later.
