by Steve Alten
In 1993, the Japanese launched Kaiko, an unmanned robotic craft, which descended to 35,798 feet before breaking down.
Terry skimmed through the file, skipping the recent reference to the UNIS deployment. Nothing about Jonas Taylor here, or the naval dives seven years ago.
She signed off and closed the laptop, thinking back to the lecture.
Her first meeting with Jonas Taylor had been ten years ago at a symposium held in San Francisco, sponsored by the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute. Masao had invited the deep sea navy pilot to speak about his dive into the Puerto Rican sea trench. At the time, Terry was fresh out of high school. She had worked closely with her father, organizing the symposium, coordinating travel and hotel arrangements for more than seventy scientists from around the world. She had booked Jonas’s ticket and met him at the airport herself. She recalled developing a schoolgirl crush on the deep-sea pilot with the athletic build.
Terry looked at his picture again in her file. Tonight, Taylor had clearly lacked the confidence of their earlier meeting. He was still a physical specimen, possessing a handsome face, bearing a few more stress lines around the eyes. The dark brown hair was turning gray near the temples. Six foot three, she guessed, about 195. But something was missing on the inside.
What had happened to the man? And why had her father insisted on locating him? As far as Terry was concerned, Jonas Taylor’s involvement was the last thing the UNIS project needed.
*
Jonas woke up on his office sofa, his wool suit jacket serving as a blanket. A dog was barking somewhere in the neighborhood. He squinted at the clock: 6:08 a.m.
He sat up slowly, his aching head pounding, his foot knocking over the half-empty coffeepot, staining the beige carpet brown. Computer printouts from the overflowing catch tray were scattered around him. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then glanced at the computer. His screen saver was on. He tapped the mouse, revealing a diagram of the UNIS remote, glowing on screen. His memory came flooding back.
The dog stopped barking. The house seemed unusually quiet. Jonas got up, went into the hallway, and walked down to the master bedroom.
Maggie wasn’t there. Their bed hadn’t been touched.
The Lagoon
TERRY TANAKA SPOTTED Jonas as he crossed the airport tarmac from the parking lot. She jogged out to meet him.
“Good morning, professor” she said, just a little bit too loud. “How’s your head?”
“Don’t ask.” He shifted his carry-on bag to his other shoulder. “Talk softer, and stop calling me professor. It’s Jonas or J.T. Professor makes me feel old.” He eyed the waiting plane. “Kind of small, isn’t it?”
“Not for a Beechcraft.”
The plane was a twin-turbo, with a whale logo and “T.O.I.” painted on the fuselage. Jonas climbed aboard, tossed his bag behind him, then looked around. “Okay, where’s the pilot?”
She gave him a mock salute.
“You? No way—”
“Hey, let’s not start that chauvinistic crap again. I’m licensed and qualified, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been flying for six years.”
Jonas nodded uneasily. It didn’t make him feel better.
“Are you all right?” she asked as he fumbled with his seat belt. “You look a little pale.”
“Low blood sugar.”
“In back’s a small cooler, might be some apples. If you’d rather sit in back there’s plenty of room to stretch out. Barf bags are in the side pocket.” She smiled innocently.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“In all honesty, I never imagined an experienced deep-sea pilot like you would be so squeamish.”
“Just fly the damn plane,” he said, his eyes compulsively scanning the dials and meters on the control panel. The cockpit was a little tight, the copilot seat felt jammed up against the windshield. He searched for a level to adjust his leg room.
“Sorry, that’s as far back as it goes.”
He swallowed dryly. “I need a glass of water.”
She noticed his trembling hands. “In back.”
Jonas got up and struggled into the rear compartment.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” she called out.
Jonas unzipped his bag, found his shaving kit, and took out a prescription bottle filled with small yellow pills.
Claustrophobia. His doctor had diagnosed the problem after the accident, a psychosomatic reaction to the stress he had endured. A deep-sea pilot with claustrophobia was as useless as a high diver with vertigo. The two just didn’t mix.
Jonas chased down two of the pills with a bottled water. He stared at his trembling hand, then closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. When he reopened them he was no longer shaking.
“You okay?”
Jonas looked up at her. “I told you, I’m fine.”
*
It was a two hour flight to Monterey. The pills eventually took effect, allowing Jonas to relax. They were following the coastline north, flying over Big Sur, one of the most dramatic landscapes on the planet. For seventy-two miles violent Pacific waves crashed against the foot of the Santa Lucia Mountains, all bordered by California’s scenic Highway 1, a mountainous roadway with harsh grades, twin bridges, and blind turns.
Terry spotted a pod of whales migrating south along the shore. “Grays,” she said.
“Cruising to Baja,” he mumbled, thinking of Maggie.
“Jonas, listen … about the lecture. I didn’t mean to come off so harshly. It’s just that my father insisted I find you, and frankly, I didn’t see the purpose of wasting your time. I mean, it’s not like we need another submersible pilot.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t be interested.”
“Good, because we don’t need you!” She felt her blood beginning to boil again. “Maybe you could convince my father to allow me to follow D.J. down in the second Abyss Glider?”
“Pass.” He gazed out his window.
“Why not?”
“First, I’ve never seen you pilot a sub—”
“I’m piloting this plane.”
“It’s totally different. You’re dealing with harsh currents, perpetual darkness and unnerving water pressure.”
“Pressure? You want pressure? Hold on.” Terry pulled back on the wheel.
Jonas grabbed the dash in front of him as the Beechcraft rolled into a series of tight 360s, then dropped into a nauseating near-vertical nosedive.
Terry righted the plane at 1,500 feet.
Jonas grabbed an airsick bag and puked.
*
San Diego
David Adashek adjusted his wire-rimmed bifocals, then knocked on the double doors of Suite 810. No reply. He knocked again, this time louder.
The door opened, revealing a groggy Maggie Taylor, wearing nothing but a white robe. It was loosely tied, exposing one of her tan breasts.
“David? Christ, what time is it?”
“Nine a.m. Rough night?”
She smiled, still half asleep. “Not as rough as my soon-to-be ex-husband’s. Come in before someone sees you.”
Adashek entered. She pointed to a pair of white sofas that faced a big-screen TV in the living area. “Sit.”
“Where’s Bud?”
Maggie curled up on the far sofa opposite Adashek. “He left about an hour ago to play golf. You did a nice job of harassing Jonas at the lecture.”
“Is all this really necessary, Maggie? He seems like a decent enough guy—”
“So you marry him. After ten years, I’ve had enough.”
“Why not just divorce him and get it over with?”
“It’s not that simple. Now that I’m gaining traction as a local celebrity, my agent says we have to be very careful about the public’s perception. Jonas still has a lot of friends in this town. He has to come off as a lunatic. People have to believe that his actions brought this divorce on. Last night was a good start.”
“The mental ward thing was a low blow.”
; “I play to win. Where’s Jonas now?”
Adashek pulled out his notes. “He went home with the Tanaka woman.”
“Jonas? With another woman?” Maggie laughed hysterically.
“It was innocent. Just a ride home from the awards. I followed him to the commuter airport earlier this morning. They’re headed to Monterey. My guess is to that new whale lagoon the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute is constructing along the coast.”
“Keep me informed. By the end of the week I want you to go public with the navy story, emphasizing the fact that two innocent civilians were killed. Once the story gains traction you’ll do a follow-up interview with me, then I’ll push for the divorce, public humiliation and all.”
“You’re the boss. Listen, if I’m going to be following Jonas, I’ll need more cash.”
Maggie pulled a thick envelope out of her robe pocket. “Bud says to save the receipts.”
Yeah, thought Adashek, I’m sure he needs the write-off.
*
Monterey
“There it is.” Terry pointed to the coastline as they descended toward Monterey Bay.
Jonas sipped the coke, his stomach still jumpy from Terry’s little air show. His head pounded, and he had already made up his mind to leave immediately after meeting with Masao. As far as he was concerned, Terry Tanaka was the last pilot he’d ever recommend to descend to the bottom of the Challenger Deep.
Looking down, he saw an empty white shell stretched out like a giant bathtub on a five-square-mile parcel of land just south of Moss Landing. From the air it looked like an emptied oval-shaped swimming pool. Lying parallel to the ocean, the structure was just over three-quarters of a mile in length and a quarter mile wide. From having read articles on its construction, Jonas knew it was over one-hundred-and-twenty-feet deep, its underwater viewing area, located along its southern end, featuring galley windows three stories high. A concrete canal intersected the western section of the lagoon and merged with the deep waters of the Pacific.
The lagoon held no water. If and when it was ever finished, the massive steel doors located at the canal entrance would open and the lagoon would fill with seawater, rendering it the largest man-made aquarium in the world.
“Impressive. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Jonas said as they prepared to land.
Terry nodded. “My father’s dream. He designed it to be a living laboratory, a natural yet protective environment for its future inhabitants. Each winter tens of thousands of whales migrate along California’s coastal waters to Baja. Masao is convinced we can coax a few pregnant females inside to give birth.”
Jonas nodded. “Marine science meets family entertainment.”
*
Forty minutes later, Jonas found himself in the Tanaka Institute’s empty parking lot, the lagoon’s owner and CEO exiting a set of glass doors to greet him.
“Taylor-san!” Masao Tanaka strode across the tarmac to shake Jonas’s hand. The tall Japanese man was in his early sixties, his gray hair tucked behind a San Francisco Giants baseball cap, his goatee white, contrasting with his tan complexion. The almond eyes were full of life.
“Let me look at you. Ah, you look like shit. Smell like it too. What’s wrong? You don’t like flying with my daughter?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.” Jonas gave the girl a look to kill.
Masao glanced at his daughter. “Terry?”
“His fault, Masao. It’s not my problem if he can’t handle the pressure. I’ll be in the projection room.” She headed inside the building, leaving them to talk.
“My apologies, Taylor-san. Terry is very head-strong, she is somewhat of a free spirit. It is difficult raising a daughter without a female role model.”
“Forget it. I really came up to see you and your whale lagoon. Looks amazing from up there.”
“I’ll give you a tour later. Come, we’ll get you a fresh shirt. Then I want you to meet my chief engineer, Alphonse DeMarco. He is reviewing the video D.J. took in the trench. Jonas, I really need your input.”
Jonas tossed his bag over his shoulder and followed Masao inside.
The lobby was unfinished, the floor still bare concrete. There were abandoned scaffolds by the drywall, canisters of plaster and paint half-covered with a drop cloth.
Masao led him past empty twenty-foot-high cylinder-shaped saltwater tanks to a souvenir shop. Using a pocketknife, he cut open a box labeled XXL and tossed Jonas a tee-shirt. “Your pay for the day.”
“Thanks.” Jonas stripped off his soiled shirt and pulled on the cotton tee-shirt, the front emblazoned with an artist’s rendition of gray whales inside the Tanaka Lagoon.
A stairwell led them downstairs. A long maintenance corridor harbored the massive filtration systems that would one day hum to life.
At the end of the hall was a media room.
A short man with dark curly hair and a wrestler’s physique was seated before a control console, a large projection screen taking up most of the forward wall. Terry occupied a leather wrap-around couch facing the screen.
“Jonas Taylor, this is my chief engineer Alphonse DeMarco. Al, this is the submersible pilot I’ve been bragging to you about.”
Jonas shook the man’s hand, which was heavily calloused and felt like it could crush steel.
“Have a seat, Commander Taylor. We were just looking at footage D.J. took of the damaged UNIS.”
Avoiding Terry, Jonas sat down in a folding chair as DeMarco dimmed the lights.
The video was shot using a night-vision lens, giving the footage an olive-green tint. The UNIS was lying on its side, its exposed flank crushed like a beer can.
Masao took the empty chair on Jonas’s right. “D.J. found it fifty yards south of its original position. These systems weigh close to half a ton. They are lowered into position using a large A-frame mounted in our surface ship. For the current to have moved this half the length of a football field … impossible.”
Jonas rose from his seat and approached the screen. “What do you think happened?”
DeMarco zoomed in, revealing the scarred titanium surface. “The simplest explanation’s always the best. The robot got caught in a seismic event. The subduction zone can be pretty violent.”
Jonas examined the sonar plate Tanaka’s son had retrieved on his last dive, the section of titanium lying on an oak work table. He touched the dented metal surface. “The titanium casing’s three-inches thick. I’ve seen the stress-test data—”
“Once the UNIS’s shell loses its integrity, the water pressure takes over and the titanium might as well be aluminum.”
“But again, what would cause it to lose its integrity?”
DeMarco zoomed out on the video. “You tell us, that’s why we brought you here.”
Jonas stared at the video footage, his mind drifting back to his last dive in the trench. He had never seen the Challenger Deep sea floor, his mission confining him above the hydrothermal plume. He looked back at DeMarco. “What about the other three damaged robots? Were they crushed the same way?”
“We’ve only accessed this one unit, so it’s impossible to say.”
Jonas turned toward the monitor. “You’ve lost four units. Isn’t it pushing the limits of probability to say they’ve all been destroyed by seismic activity?”
DeMarco removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He’d had this argument with Masao more than once. “The purpose of the array is to detect seismic activity. To detect seismic activity required us to distribute the UNIS ’bots along a fault line. Three of the four downed systems were all located in the same sector of the Challenger Deep. I’d say those factors even out the probability odds significantly.”
Masao stood. “Jonas, the future of this facility depends on our ability to determine what happened to these robots and correct the situation immediately. We’ve located the last UNIS, the only one of the four not located directly along the fault line. I’ve decided we must retrieve this robo
t. The job requires two subs working together: one to clear debris from the O-ring used to hoist the unit topside while the other pilot attaches the tow cable.”
“I’m going, Masao,” Terry said. “I’ve trained for this, I can get it done.”
Masao was about to reply when Jonas yelled, “Stop the tape.” He pointed to the screen. “Al, go back about twenty seconds.”
DeMarco rewound the video.
“Good, that’s good. Let it play again from there.”
They stared at the screen, seeing nothing new.
“There—can you freeze that frame?”
DeMarco complied.
Jonas pointed to a tiny white fragment lying beneath the tripod legs. “Can you blow that up?”
The engineer punched some buttons and a square outline appeared on screen. Moving a joystick, he positioned the square around the object, then pulled it out so that it filled the entire screen.
The object appeared triangular and white, still a bit too out-of-focus to identify.
Jonas stared at the screen. “It’s a tooth.”
DeMarco moved closer to the screen, scrutinizing the image. “A tooth? You’re nuts.”
“Al,” commanded Masao. “Show the proper respect to our guest.”
“Sorry, Mas, but what our professor here’s saying is impossible. You see that?” He pointed to a bolt dangling from a titanium strut. “That bolt is three inches long. That would mean this tooth, or whatever it is, would be twice that length … at least six, maybe seven inches long.”
He looked at Masao. “There’s no creature on Earth with teeth that big.”
Masao
THE SURFACE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN sparkled like diamonds beyond the western bleachers; a cold wind howled through the barren canal.
The man-made lagoon was spread out before them like God’s bathtub. Massive drains were set along its walls, part of a massive filtration system. A glint of sun reflected off the acrylic windows situated along the southern wall twenty feet below the main deck, the gallery accessible from inside the arena.
The arena itself provided bench-style seating for 10,000.
