Gargantuan: A Deep Sea Thriller

by Alan Spencer

  Kristie Gaines Off Camera

  "Let's get the fuck out of here guys. Those gunshots keep getting closer, and I keep hearing noises from the ocean. I don't want to be around if those giant things come back. Did you see those dead bodies they were lugging in wheel barrels? They were smashed to pieces. Something is going on beyond what the government is telling us, and I'm going to find out what is really happening. I'll put my life on it!"

  Captain Mendel in Person with President Ted Yearling

  The Sub-basement of The White House

  Enjoying drinks at President Yearling's Personal Bar

  Captain Mendel's normal confidence had dried up during the past few hours. Ted Yearling, a three hundred pound man with bold white hair and a face the color of a burst capillary, was on his fifth bourbon on the rocks. Captain Mendel had barely sipped his bottle of oatmeal stout. The president stayed behind his bar counter, eying the numerous posters of scantily clad women. When female flesh failed to distract him, the president drilled darts into the board across the room.

  "Okay, we've got some shit to clean up here," Ted grumbled. "I was afraid this mission had too much room for error."

  "It's not over yet," Captain Mendel insisted. "We've lost communication, is all. One of them on board blocked my signal. That was intentional. Everything could be going just fine."

  "Highly doubtful." Ted sucked on an ice cube, and then crushed it into pieces with his teeth. "Any signs of those creatures coming back out of the Pacific Ocean yet?"

  "The last sighting was six hours ago," Mendel said. "Our fleets beneath the water have kept them busy."

  "Did any of the attack subs survive the attack?"

  "No."

  "And no word from those on The Annihilator. Damn. This is looking bad."

  Ted was drunk and highly reactive. He didn't like to lose. The man was a pork-bellied politician who thought America couldn't lose, right or wrong, weak or strong. Ted could spout jingoistic American propaganda and strong morals, while simultaneously butt-fucking an eighteen year old. Also, the soapbox had to be pretty big to carry the loaf's bulk of bullshit.

  "Then we go nuclear," Ted said, raising his voice the way drunk people do. "We turn the ocean into a boiling pot until every creature rises up from the depths like fried batter."

  "And poison our waters, as well as international waters?" Mendel shook his head. "No. We have to give our team a chance to complete their mission. The Annihilator hasn't been destroyed. There's still a chance they can blow her up from the inside."

  "I don't like it," Ted growled. "I'm in charge. I'm the Executive in chief. I can shit in my own back yard as much as I please, and you, Captain, will clean it up."

  "Listen to yourself. The pressure is getting to you. You should slow down on the drinking, sir."

  "No, I'm thinking clearly, drinks or no drinks. It's called grace under pressure. I'm not cracking. I've had ideas for America for a very long time. Our economy is in the tank. My approval ratings are down the shitter. It's about time to unveil my plan for the new America."

  Captain Mendel wasn't in the mood for this nonsense.

  He was going to hear it anyway.

  "You see, we hire some terrorists to blow up strategic locations in the United States. We keep casualty rates low as possible. When we use our nuclear weapons against these sea creatures, we'll blame it on the terrorists, saying it was the terrorists who muddied international waters. Everybody will want to see those terrorists destroyed. After our nuclear attacks, the monsters will be gone, no problem. Cinch. Two birds, one stone. This is the kicker. Then, we'll move Americans to a third world country as the nuclear shit in the air clears up. We'll modernize Africa, or Gambodia."

  "Gambodia isn't a place, sir. Maybe you mean Cambodia?"

  "Whatever, they're all poor and struggling just the same. Spin a globe and pick a place, who cares? We'll turn their country into a super America. We'll call it "Re-America.” The white trash will call it R'merica. Yeah. R'merica. I like the way it sounds. It's like starting over again. There will be so many jobs created. Imagine it. We'll pull ourselves up from our shoestrings, get back to work, and return to the old values that made us such a wonderful country. Like pilgrims riding on the Oregon Trail. Manifest Destiny, new world style. We'll set sail like Christopher Columbus, but we won't rape the natives as his team did. When the nuclear cloud clears over the original United States, we can kick the natives the hell off the newly realized America. They'll go to the old America, you see. It's a perfect plan. Hell, a nuclear scorched America is a fuck of a lot better than how some of these impoverished countries have it now. It's humanitarian."

  Captain Mendel noticed the small mirror on the bar top covered with white dust residue. Cocaine. The president was blasted out of his head. The white pony released the inner lunatic in the politician. Ted had as many hair-brained schemes as he had shit up his ass. That's why Captain Mendel advised men like Ted Yearling from making a big horse's ass out of themselves in public. Ted wouldn't be the first president with insane ideas, and he wouldn't be the last. Captain Mendel was here to censor and convince the president there were better ways to handle the situation.

  Re-America?

  God help us.

  "Sir, slow down. You've got funny powder up your nose and a moonshine distillery cooking in your belly. Think. Really take a moment to consider what you're saying. Our mission hasn't failed. My job is to advise you, sir. I've helped you bury people under the system. I'm the one to help you make those critical choices when it comes to our nation's future. I have to be evil, underhanded, and maniacal, but also sound in my final process. When it comes to matters of national security, I know my business. Your business is people, President, and my business is diplomacy. I work behind the scenes, and you're the main attraction."

  Ted liked what the captain was saying.

  The dope still had one issue.

  "What if your crew has failed in their mission? I need a back-up plan. You give me a back-up plan, I'll give your original plan more time to succeed."

  Captain Mendel's cell phone rang. "Excuse me, sir."

  Captain Mendel answered the call.

  There was good news on the other end. Captain Mendel ended the conversation and returned to the president.

  "Sir, it appears we're getting readings from The Annihilator. This is great news."

  "I still want a Plan B."

  "And you'll get one. Let me meet with my team. Give me an hour, sir. We'll come up with something good."

  "Go to it, Captain."

  "Sir?"

  "Yes."

  "You're going to have to go on live TV soon," Captain Mendel said. "You might want to slow down on the drinking and snorting. You've got a nation to address later today."

  Ted laughed. "Reading a Teleprompter ain't shit. I've been blasted many times when addressing the nation. You do your job, I'll do mine. Now go on."

  Captain Mendel

  Sub-level of the White House

  Think Tank Chamber

  Emergency Meeting

  Captain Mendel was ushered by a team of security to the think chamber on the fifth floor beneath The White House. He entered a conference room with six suited individuals. These people were members of a secret committee engaged in matters of covert national security. Hard decisions were made here, and Captain Mendel was familiar with these situations. These stern-faced deciders were only interested in one thing.

  Gargantuan samples.

  Only one of the suited individuals talked, and that was the silver-haired, hard-faced old man who had seen America in crisis dozens of times. Captain Mendel didn't even know the prune face's name.

  "According to our readings on the ship, Dr. Singer is alive. He better perform to expectation. We pulled a lot of strings to remove Andrew Stevens from jail. We risk so much going along with your plan, Captain. We better get our reward. If Dr. Singer doesn't surface with samples from Gargantuan, your neck is in the noose.

  "You've been
allowed many freedoms with your position, Captain Mendel. You fail us when we need you the most, consider yourself dead. That could mean rotting in prison alone for the rest of your days. Or we could send you on a suicide mission. Maybe strap a bomb to your ass, throw you in a terrorist cave, and be done with you. Better yet, we should let somebody falsely imprisoned have a shot at killing you. Stick you in a locked room with somebody who has every right to murder you. I'd like to see you in a fist fight, or maybe a knife fight.

  "That's no matter. You succeed, you carry on, Captain Mendel. Otherwise, we will have to send a fleet of subs armed with nuclear weapons to put a stop to Gargantuan. Our foreign relations with be down the crapper, but what can you do? Our backs are against the wall.

  "Our main objective is acquiring those samples. Our scientists want live samples, not dead samples. We want to grow more of whatever we find. They can become a powerful weapon if contained, studied, and cultivated properly. We can afford to lose American lives, but we can't lose this powerful biological weapon. Stay sharp, Mendel, or it's your ass.”

  * * *

  President Ted Yearling

  Addressing the Nation

  "My fellow Americans, I am initiating house arrest across the country for the next twelve to sixteen hours. This curfew is intended to protect you against this highly unusual threat. Lock your doors and stay in your basement. Do not go outside. Police and emergency crews will be checking the streets. If you are out of your homes, you will be arrested. We must band together during this vulnerable time for our nation. We will succeed in our battle. America does not back down to anything, human or monster."

  PART FOUR: CLOSE COMBAT

  Dr. Singer

  Dr. Singer had banged his head against the pilot's console when The Annihilator made its crash landing into the unknown. He swayed in place about the bridge like a drunkard. He could feel the warm blood coursing down the side of his head turning ice cold. Crew members were spread out on the floor unconscious or collecting himself or herself. Every blinking light on the panels had gone dim. Red emergency lights had come on, bathing everything in that intense photographer's dark room color. Dr. Singer did his best to blink the double vision out of his eyes and move from the bridge.

  He could feel the box vibrate in his pocket.

  Captain Mendel was trying to contact him.

  Dr. Singer managed to descend the stairs without falling forward headfirst. He snuck back into the conference room where he'd briefed Anchor and his crew on the mission. Deeper down in the submarine, he could hear officers rushing around to help each other out and access the damage done to themselves and the submarine.

  Dr. Singer removed the box from his pocket. The box was a two-way communication device.

  "I'm here, sir."

  "What's the status of your mission?"

  "Fucked, sir. I'm not sure if The Annihilator is functional."

  "Have you set the charges?"

  "We're inside Gargantuan. The ship crashed. I'll get the crew together and leave the ship to set the charges."

  "And the samples?"

  "I'll personally see to it, sir, that we get the samples. It's the only reason I agreed to this mission. I want to be the one to introduce this biological weapon. There's so many possibilities. I can't wait to get out there, and—"

  "Put your chubby away and do your job. If you fail, I'll kill you myself. I'll be in touch."

  "Wait! The Annihilator may not be functional. How do I get back to the surface?"

  There was a long pause on the other line.

  Captain Mendel was thinking.

  "You're going to have to be smart handling this. Complete the mission. Gargantuan has to be destroyed. The samples must be salvaged. We're both in hot water if this fails. You have one option. You can only save yourself. Everybody else will be scraped. Once you've set the charges and acquired the samples, you go into the very bowels of the ship, and then you..."

  Anchor's Awake

  "Anchor? Anchor, wake up. You have to wake up. I can't do this alone."

  Anchor opened one eye, and in rushed a massive headache. His head hadn't stopped hurting ever since he woke up in this damn submarine. The pain was only going to keep on coming.

  Bright was kneeling over him, shaking him. Her blonde hair was loose about her shoulders. She had a bruise on her left eye, and her left nostril had been bleeding. Everybody who survived the crash looked like hell.

  "You're alive! Thank God. Topper and Wolfe are dead. It's only you, me, and Olsen alive. I can't find Dr. Singer. He's not on the bridge."

  "The rat bastard is up to something," Anchor said. "It's a feeling I've had about him. Ever since he killed Kipper, I knew it. I don't think we're playing on the same team. Better find the egg-brained fuck and go from there."

  Bright helped Anchor up off the floor. Anchor stopped in place seeing that Topper's head had been sent through his pilot's console. Half his head was smashed into pulp. Wolfe lay twisted up on the floor. His neck was turned at a bad angle, snapped. The crew, at gunpoint, had also ended up dead, suffering from massive head traumas.

  Going down the stairs, Anchor and Bright removed themselves from the bridge. Anchor could see Dr. Singer standing in the hallway. He was clutching his head and regaining his breath.

  "Dr. Singer, you made it?" Anchor asked. "What's your condition?"

  "A bit rattled, but I'll be f—"

  Anchor rammed his fist into the man's stomach. "That's for sticking a gun in my face and pistol whipping me. From now on, we work together, or we don't work at all."

  Anchor squeezed Dr. Singer's neck with both hands.

  Bright was startled. "No, Anchor, don't hurt him!"

  "He just needs some understanding beat into him. I hate backstabbers. I don't trust you, Dr. Singer. Now what were you doing down here?"

  Anchor let go of the man's throat.

  "Looking for survivors," Dr. Singer said, gasping for air. "Calm down, Anchor. I'm only doing my job. Completing the mission is top priority. You were making things harder than they needed to be."

  "Never leave my sight," Anchor said. "This is not negotiable."

  "Fine, Anchor. Now we've got to find out who's alive on this sub and make a new plan. You going to help me or not?"

  "After you," Anchor said, "but remember what I said. I'll kill you myself if you try any more of that sneaky shit with me."

  They moved to the bottom level of the submarine. Olsen was down there tending to the injured that were laid out on the floor. Other officers were running around, trying to access the damage to the ship fast, and perform damage control. After spending an hour with Bright, Singer, and Olsen bandaging the injured and putting the dead in body bags, they were able to return to the mission at hand.

  Dr. Singer told the remaining crew, about fifty persons, to stay below, while Anchor and his team formed a plan to set the charges. They returned to the conference room. Dr. Singer stood at the head of the room and stated the situation in straightforward terms.

  "The Annihilator is running on emergency power. I've talked to the crew, and they say the submarine is inoperable. We're running short on air, time, and power."

  Olsen's eyes went wide. "So we're not going home?"

  "Nobody is going home," Dr. Singer said. "This mission was full of risks. We've come this far. We must set those charges."

  "And we will," Anchor said. "Put a tampon in it, Olsen. We're dead. Remember that when we go out there. Remember your loved ones, your families, and the entire world. They're depending on us. So let's get over this dying issue. Continue, Dr. Singer. How do we kill this thing?"

  "Below, there's an elevator that will lower us out of the submarine safely, after depressurizing. We have suits to wear. They're lightweight and fairly comfortable. Down below, we have charges that will go off on timers, and there are specially equipped guns with multiple functions that we can use to defend ourselves against anything that gets in our way. Who knows, there might not be a damn thing that ge
ts in our way."

  "I'm not counting on it," Anchor said. "You saw how those muscular walls of that thing made us crash. It knows we're here, and it wants us dead."

  Dr. Singer disagreed. "If it wanted us dead, it would've crushed us like a paper cup where we stand. A better guess, it wants to study us. If we don't set those charges and defend ourselves, consider your grave to be in a sea creature's test tube."

  "No thanks," Anchor said. "So we strap on the suits you're talking about, set the charges, and then what?"

  "We return to the ship," Dr. Singer said, "and enjoy what little of our life we have left. I believe there's enough bourbon in that cabinet across the room for everybody to enjoy. Then we say goodbye to this world."

  Anchor could read it on Olsen's face. The pretty boy wanted to make good on the people he killed on that cruise liner when testing The Annihilator's capabilities. Now that he knew, he was going to die, all that virtuous crap went out the window. He regretted volunteering for the mission. Olsen's expression was cast in dismay.

  Bright's face revealed something else. Accepting death wasn't something she could accept or deny, but she was ready to serve her country, and not because she was patriotic. It was because she didn't have any choice. That was Anchor's mentality. They would die no matter what. So what? They had a job to finish. What else were they going to do down here deep inside of a monster? Play cards?

  Anchor had to say something to clear the air.

  "If we're going to die, then so is this fish bitch. Let's get on with it. Olsen, you can cry into your pillow in hell. Now, can we get on with this shit?"