by Steve Alten
“Vertigo?”
“No thanks, I have enough.”
“It’ll pass.”
“As reassuring as that is, Frank, I’m pretty sure my brain is milk toast.”
Captain Danielson entered. “How’s our boy?”
“Grumpy. I’m prescribing Antivert for his vertigo and a shot of B-12 to alleviate the fatigue, otherwise he’s good to go.”
“Wait, what?”
“Excellent. Commander, I’m sure the good doctor will have you feeling ship-shape in no time.”
“The good doctor must have fallen off the wagon. My brain’s in a fog, my dexterity’s off-kilter, and I’m working on three hours of sleep.”
“Navy SEALs do it all the time. Man up, Taylor. Get some caffeine in you, a few calisthenics. You’ll be right as rain.”
“Right as rain? I’m not driving Aunt Bea in the squad car to deliver apple pies to Mayberry’s church picnic, Dick. This is the Mariana Trench. I need to think clearly down there. And don’t get any ideas about Royston. He’s nowhere near ready.”
“The navy obviously disagrees or he wouldn’t have been selected to be your back-up.”
“Regulations demanded a back-up. The other two candidates in training quit. Royston was the only pilot available who had dived beyond 15,000 feet.”
“Then, technically, he’s qualified.”
“Technically, Frank here is a doctor, but I wouldn’t trust him to lance a boil on your ass, which in your case is probably the equivalent of brain surgery.”
Danielson’s face turned red. “Dr. Heller, have you certified Commander Taylor fit to dive?”
Frank avoided Jonas’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Commander Taylor, I am ordering you to pilot the DSV at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you fail to do so you will be subject to a court martial and Mr. Royston shall take your place. Is that clear?”
Jonas stood. For a long moment he and Danielson stared at one another, then the DSV pilot unbuckled his pants and ceremoniously dropped his boxer shorts, exposing his bare buttocks. “You can plant your B-12 shot right there.”
Forty minutes later, Jonas Taylor was in the DSV Sea Cliff going through his pre-dive checklist—his life about to change forever.
2
Guam Naval Base
LOCATED IN THE REGION of the western Pacific known as Micronesia, the Mariana Island chain is an arc-shaped archipelago consisting of fifteen volcanic mountains. The islands were birthed millions of years ago when lava was released along the Philippine Sea floor as a result of the western edge of the Pacific Plate subducting beneath the Mariana Plate. This region, the most volcanically active convergent plate boundary on Earth, forms the deepest point on the planet—the Mariana Trench. Water trapped in the fault line, heated by the subduction process, is the source of the hydrothermal activity that proliferates throughout this seven-mile-deep, 1,550-mile-long crevasse.
The largest and southernmost island in the Mariana chain is Guam. Home to the Chamorro, a seafaring people whose heritage dates back over four thousand years, Guam’s identity underwent a drastic change when it became part of the United States following the Spanish-American War. Guam’s location between Hawaii and the Asian mainland rendered the island a strategic location for a U.S. military base, and it is now home to five installations, including the main naval base on Orote Peninsula on the central west coast and Andersen Air Force Base on the northeastern tip.
*
Command Master Chief Steve Leiffer’s gaze shifted from the dark gray skies to the black Cadillac SUV now approaching the main gate. Rear Admiral Kevin Quercio’s unannounced visits were more social call than inspection, his V.I.P.s always political allies or elite members of the military industrial complex. At the end of the day (or days) everyone had a good time, entertaining themselves on a taxpayer-funded holiday.
With Danielson gone and a typhoon on the way, the last thing Leiffer needed to deal with was the renowned partying admiral and his inebriated guests.
Leiffer saluted Admiral Quercio as the imposing man climbed out of the SUV. “Admiral, welcome back to Guam.”
“Chief, good to see you. You remember Senator Michaels?”
The Republican from Alaska nodded.
“And these two gentlemen … well, let’s just call ‘em Mr. Black and Mr. Blue to make life easier.”
Leiffer recognized the two executive officers from Brown and Root and BP Oil. “Gentlemen. My apologies. Admiral, Captain Danielson is away on a mission, and we’re busy preparing for Typhoon Marian. However, if you need me to arrange accommodations off the base—”
“Already handled, Leiffer, we’ll be staying at the Radisson. But I promised our guests a helicopter tour of the island. Where’s Mac?”
Leiffer’s heart skipped a beat. “Sir, Commander Mackreides is securing his airships in their hangars. Perhaps I can arrange for Commander Rosario to escort your party.”
Admiral Quercio placed a hand on Leiffer’s shoulder, leading him away from his guests. “Let’s dispense with the horseshit, son. Go find Mac and tell him to meet us at the helipad in exactly ten minutes, or it’s your ass and his.”
*
Commander James “Mac” Mackreide’s hawkish eyes moved from the pair of jacks in his right hand to the D-cupped breasts barely contained beneath the brunette’s olive-green tee-shirt. “You’re bluffing again, Rudd. I can always tell when you’re bluffing because your nipples get hard.”
Natalie Rudd blew him a kiss. “The bet’s a hundred, Mac. Like your hookers say, are you in or out?”
“They’re not hookers, Rudd, they’re military escorts.” Mac glanced down at the dental assistant’s remaining chips. “Tell you what. I’ll see your hundred and raise you two hundred.”
“Asshole. You know I haven’t got two hundred, I only have sixty.”
Warrant Officer Vicky Baker rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. What’s it going to be this time, Mac? Shots at Geronimo’s or a drive down to Facpi Point?”
“Quiet, Baker, we’re negotiating. Actually, Rudd, if you lose, I was thinking about a weekend’s stay at Pago Bay. Just you, me, and the twins.”
“Vic, lend me the buck-forty so I can call this gorilla’s bluff.”
“Let me see your cards.”
Rudd passed her friend the hand.
“Call,” said Vicky, adding her own chips to the pile.
“If you’re so sure, Baker, why not raise me?”
“And give you a chance to raise the pot again and draw me into your childish games? Not a chance.”
“Think about it, Baker. You, me, and Rudd, alone in a bungalow.”
“Sounds like fun, Mac, but what will you do?”
The enlisted men whistled cat calls.
“Okay, Rudd, I call. Show me your pair …and your cards, too.”
The brunette turned over her hand. “Full house, tens over threes.”
Mac ground his teeth, snapping the wooden match in his mouth. “Take it.”
Rudd high-fived her friend. “Pleasure doing business with you, James.”
“Aw, poor guy,” Vicky pouted, “He looks like he’s gonna have a Mac Attack.”
Mac was about to reply when he saw a jeep skid to a halt in front of the open hanger doors, Steve Leiffer hustling inside.
“Well, if it isn’t our second-in-command. What’s wrong, number two? Danielson drown at sea trying to retrieve his golf balls?”
“This is serious, Mac. Rear Admiral Quercio just arrived, along with a GOP Senator and two civilian hard-ons. He wants you and your chopper ready to go in ten.”
“No way, Stevie. First, my crew just finished tucking the birds in their nests. Second and more important, Quercio stiffed my girls the last two times out. I’m not taking him to the lagoon until he settles his tab.”
“Mac, please—”
“Forget it. Get Baker and Rudd here to entertain them.”
“Like that’s ever gonna happen,” Natalie said, cashing out her chips.
<
br /> “Mac, he’ll have both of our asses in the brig.”
Vicky smirked, “Is that why they call him a Rear Admiral?”
Leiffer ignored the joke. “Mac, you owe me. I covered for you twice last month with Danielson.”
“My girls have families they support, Stevie, they expect to get paid. No tickee no shirtee.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to bring this up, but if you don’t handle this for me, I’ll tell Danielson about Linda Kushnel.”
Natalie Rudd’s eyes widened. “The ER nurse with the tattoos? Man, Danielson fell head over heels for that chick. Remember her, Vicky?”
“How could I forget, he kept asking me for advice. That boy was whipped. He wined her, dined her; he even picked out a ring. Two days after he popped the question she put in for a transfer.”
“All Mac’s doing,” Leiffer said.
“What did you do to her, Mac?”
“Nothing. In fact, I only met her once, at which time I simply offered her my professional opinion of her would-be fiancé.”
“Professional opinion? You’re a chopper pilot.”
“True, but first and foremost I consider myself a life coach.”
“Stevie, how did Sir Galahad here manage to get a woman he met once to listen? Did he get her drunk?”
Leiffer grinned. “Nothing like that. Kushnel received an order to report to the base counselor for her annual psychiatric evaluation.”
“Base counselor? We don’t have a base counselor.”
“Who did the evaluation?”
“Dr. James Mackreides.”
Mac winked. “We spent four hours together, plus the following weekend in Honolulu. Poor girl, she had a lot to get off her chest. I’d tell you about it, Rudd, but that would violate doctor-patient confidentiality.”
*
The H-3 Sea King was a twin engine, all-weather multi-purpose helicopter used by the navy to detect, classify, track and destroy enemy submarines. Phased out in the 1990s by the SH-60F Sea Hawk, the four 73-foot, six-ton airships relegated to Guam were maintained by the mechanics under the command of pilot James Mackreides.
The Sea King followed the southwest coastline of Guam, battered by thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds. Mac headed for the village of Merizo, located on the southern peninsula by Cocos Lagoon. Admiral Quercio rode up front, his guests strapped in back in the cargo area.
“Mac, those two lovely young ladies you introduced me to last time …what were their names?”
“Their Chamorro names are too difficult to pronounce. I just call them Ginger and Mary Ann.”
“Nice. Once we get my guests settled, you’ll arrange a rendezvous.”
“Ginger’s father lost his leg last year to diabetes, Mary Ann has a kid. They expect to be paid for their services.”
“So pay them.” The admiral squeezed Mac’s shoulder. “I know you take a nice cut from every transaction, son. Consider my on-the-house excursions a necessary business expense.”
Mac ground his teeth, then offered Admiral Quercio a Cheshire cat grin. “We’ve actually added something new for our V.I.P. customers. It’s sort of our own version of the mile-high club. I’ve got two inflatable mattresses in back. I fly us out over the lagoon—the privacy makes the girls less inhibited—plus the sound of the rotors blocks out their screams.”
“A flying bordello, huh? What about the wind?”
“Ginger and Mary Ann prefer a bumpy ride.”
The admiral grinned. “Let’s do it.”
3
Aboard the Tallman
26 miles northeast of the Challenger Deep
PROPELLED BY DUAL 653-horsepower engines, the 275-foot research vessel Tallman continued its erratic southwestern course. Privately owned by Agricola Industries, the ship and its crew were routinely leased out by the Canadian company to the oil industry for completing pre- and post-dredge surveys, pipeline inspections, and wreck imaging prior to salvage operations. While these jobs helped pay the bills, what the ship’s owner preferred were the more challenging academically-oriented assignments—like the one they were now close to completing.
An international science expedition had brought the Tallman to its present location in the Philippine Sea, hiring Paul Agricola, the CEO’s son, to gather data on NW Rota-1, a deep submarine volcano. Since its discovery three years ago, the erupting volcano had added another eighty feet to its already imposing cone, which now towered twelve stories off the bottom of the world’s deepest trench.
Surveying the deepest sea floor in the world required a sophisticated sonar array. Fastened to the Tallman’s keel like a twelve foot remora was a gondola-shaped device that housed a Multi Beam Echo Sounder (MBES), its dual frequency deepwater sonar pings designed for mapping the abyss. The bigger challenge was penetrating the hydrothermal plume, which played havoc with the sonar signal six miles down. The solution was the Sea Bat, a winged, remotely-operated vehicle. Tethered to the MBES, the Sea Bat dropped below the plume like an underwater kite, using its on-board sonar to relay signals back to the mother ship, identifying every object within acoustic range.
For three months the Tallman had circled the area above the undersea volcano, gathering water samples while imaging a thriving ecosystem feeding off the heated bottom. Clouds of shrimp and crab would flee each eruption, then return to feast on the fast-growing bacteria, begetting a unique food chain that enticed massive schools of eighteen-foot albino cuttlefish and the occasional giant squid.
Having completed its mission, the crew of the Tallman was recalling the Sea Bat when a large object suddenly appeared in the sonar array’s field of vision. There was no doubt the blip was a biologic. The question: what was it?
Sonar painted the picture of a very large animal, with a length exceeding fifty feet and a girth that would place its weight between fifteen and twenty-five tons. That ruled out even the most giant squid, and the sheer depth of the blip—32,332 feet—eliminated a sperm whale or any other mammal from the list.
The consensus among three of the four oceanographers on-board was that it was most likely a very large whale shark.
The youngest scientist on the team disagreed.
Paul Agricola was not a capitalist like his father, Peter, but, the thirty-two-year-old biologist rarely allowed an opportunity to slip through his fingers. Delaying the ship’s departure, he ordered the captain to circle while he conducted a few experiments with the Tallman’s sonar, using the Sea Bat as bait.
Actively pinging the ROV’s sonar at 24 kHz had no effect on the mysterious creature, however the lower 12 kHz sound waves sent the monster charging up from the depths—a behavior not observed among whale sharks. To Paul, the biologic was clearly a carnivore and not a krill feeder, and yet, as aggressive as it was, it refused to ascend beyond the hydrothermally-warmed bottom layer of the hadalpelagic zone.
“It’s definitely not a whale shark, but it is a shark. Sensitivity to the array’s bio-electric fields suggests a biologic possessing an ampullae of Lorenzini …I think we’re looking at a member of the genus Carcharodon.”
“Based on what evidence?” challenged ichthyologist Eric Stamp.
“Size, for one. Its girth exceeds any whale shark sighting I can think of.”
“Ah, yes, but an increase in size can be an adaptive response to the frigid waters of the abyss. Don’t forget Bergmann’s Rule: larger body size is consistent with colder water creatures—an adaptation that keeps proportionately less of a fish’s body close to the outside environment, reducing its loss of internal heat. I’d say that makes it a bottom feeder, a trait not found among Carcharodon.”
“It’s a deep water feeder, professor, but not necessarily a bottom feeder, and neither bottom feeders nor whale sharks attack ROVs. Anyway, I suspect the shark could leave the warm layer if it desired.”
“Okay, genius, tell us how you know that.” Lucas Heitman was the Tallman’s captain and Paul’s former fraternity brother, a New Jersey native who never missed an opportunity to deflate his
friend’s ego.
“It’s simple deduction, based on the science of a shark’s body mass, something you know nothing about. Take Carcharodon carcharias, the Great White shark. Nature endowed big sharks with an anatomy that can handle the cold—their lateral lines contain a web-like structure of veins and arteries. As the shark swims, its moving muscles generate heat in the venous blood, which warms the cooler arterial blood like an internal bellows. It’s known as gigantothermy. Our shark must be similarly equipped, which means it can easily generate the heat needed to reach the surface waters, but it doesn’t. Why? Because it’s been conditioned to remain in its tropical habitat.”
“Conditioned by what?”
“The last Ice Age. Stay with me on this, Lucas, I’ll try to explain it so that even a fifth grader can understand it. We know glaciation from the last Ice Age affected the flow of warm water currents, shunting off food chains in the three temperate oceans. But these deep water trenches sit on volcanic hot spots. As we’ve seen from the Rota-1 volcano, warmth equals bacteria and bacteria anchors food chains. If these sharks inhabited surface waters that contained a Hadal Zone, they had a survival option to go deep into the hydrothermal layer beneath the plume. The rest of their kind couldn’t handle the extreme cold and perished.”
“The rest of their kind? Paul, you sound like you know what this creature is.”
“I do. Based on its size, its ferocity, and the fact that it hunts alone, I’d say with ninety-seven percent certainty that we’ve been tracking Carcharodon megalodon.”
“A Megalodon?” Professor Stamp scoffed.
The two visiting oceanographers seemed intrigued. “Megs hunted whales, Paul. From the tens of thousands of fossilized teeth we’ve found near land, it seems obvious the Megs preferred the shallows.”
“Maybe man finds most Megalodon teeth in the shallows because that’s where it’s easier for us to find them. However, we also find Megalodon teeth in the depths. In fact, the H.M.S. Challenger found them in these same depths, in these very waters. No, gentlemen, this is definitely a Megalodon, and I intend to prove it.”
