The MEG

by Steve Alten

  The Sea Bat’s sonic acoustics had disrupted the female’s sensory organs, forcing her to attack. A dozen successive rushes had sent the shark up through the hydrothermal ceiling—the sudden shock of 33-degree water chasing her back before she could kill the source of the disturbance.

  Energy had been expended, her reserves were running on low.

  Now she had to feed.

  With a flick of her massive caudal fin, the hungry female accelerated through the darkness, closing fast on her quarry.

  *

  In the ocean’s pecking order it is size that matters. The cuttlefish of the Mariana Trench had adapted to their environment by growing large—eighteen to twenty feet from their finned heads to the tips of their eight sucker-covered arms and two feeding tentacles. Three hearts were required to pump their blue-green blood to these ten extremities while fueling a camouflage technique that allowed the squid to alter its skin color. Brilliant neon lights could lure prey or stun an enemy.

  Intelligent creatures, the cuttlefish had learned to travel in schools, their perceived size scaring off potential enemies. Upwards of ten thousand cephalopods moved as one through the canyon, the school undulating like a quarter-mile-long sea serpent.

  The cuttlefish tactic was clever, but it could not fool a Megalodon’s senses. Located along the top and underside of the female’s snout were sensitive receptor cells collectively known as the ampullae of Lorenzini. These deep jelly-filled pores connected to the shark’s brain by a vast tributary of cranial nerves, allowing it to detect the faint voltage gradients and bio-electric fields produced by the cuttlefish as their skin moved through the water. So sensitive were the ampullae of Lorenzini that the Megalodon could distinguish an individual cuttlefish from the moving pack of thousands by the distinctive rhythm of its beating hearts.

  *

  The Megalodon stalked its quarry, moving parallel to the swarm.

  Sensing the predator, the cuttlefish increased their speed while simultaneously illuminating their hides in phosphorescent greens and blues. The color pattern was a method of communication among the school as well as a warning to stay away.

  The Meg’s spine arched, forcing her pectoral fins to curl downward. Flushed in full attack mode, the juvenile killer was about to swoop in upon the moving mass of squid when she detected another presence lurking close by—a challenger.

  *

  At thirty-three feet and eighteen tons, the pliosaur was nearly as large as the megalodon, though it lacked the species’ girth. The creature’s head, nearly a third its length, resembled a crocodilian jaw overloaded with ten-inch dagger sharp teeth. Its skull sat atop a thick neck and stocky trunk, tapering back to a short tail. Snakelike movements were powered by four oversized flippers that propelled its streamlined body through the water.

  A survivor of the Middle Cretaceous, Kronosaurus began its existence as a reptile. For more than 50 million years its ancestors dominated the seas—until 65 million years ago when an asteroid struck the Earth. The celestial impact filled the planet’s atmosphere with debris which blocked out the sun, causing an Ice Age.

  Reptiles are cold blooded animals, their body temperatures dependent on the warmth generated by their environment. As the oceans rapidly cooled, the plesiosaur order quickly died off, unable to generate enough body heat to survive. Inhabiting the seas off Australia, Kronosaurus were the only species of plesiosaur in proximity to one of the few warm spots on the planet that remained unaffected by the glaciation period.

  Much as an alligator spends its days basking in the sun, members of the Kronosaurus species took to diving down to the hydrothermally heated depths of the Mariana Trench in order to survive. Over thousands of generations, this particular pliosaur group adapted to these extended dives by developing gills—an evolutionary feature that allowed them to permanently inhabit the warm abyss.

  *

  The male Kronosaurus glided silently through a vent field that spewed pockets of clear near-boiling water, the brackish sulfuric backwash causing acres of tube worms to dance. If Megalodon was the lion of this deepwater Serengeti then the Kronosaurus was its leopard. Though wary of the presence of a superior hunter, it too had to feed.

  Pumping its powerful fore-fins, the pliosaur banked sharply around a black smoker, placing it on a direct intercept course with the river of cephalopods racing through the canyon like a six-story-high train more than three football fields long.

  Detecting the charging Kronosaurus, the cuttlefish engaged their photochromic skin, igniting green and blue neon sparks of light in both directions in a flashing fast-changing pattern that appeared like the denticles of a massive sea snake.

  The intimidated Kronosaurus veered away, its survival instincts momentarily overriding the need to feed.

  And then, without warning, the formation suddenly burst—ten thousand phosphorescent bodies flushing red as they dispersed in a cascading explosion of brilliant blinding color—

  —the stampede ignited by 54,000 pounds of rampaging shark. The Megalodon bulldozed its way through the center of the herd, the female’s hyperextended jaws clamping down upon a mouthful of squirming cephalopod, its serrated teeth shredding tentacles into ribbons as its senses searched the chaos for the Kronosaurus.

  The startled challenger darted away, twisting and turning, scorching its belly in the super-heated outflow of a vent as it was swept away in a frenzy of fleeing squid.

  The Meg swallowed a succulent thousand-pound bite of cuttlefish as the squid circled back into formation, their skin flashing in rapid sequences as they twisted and looped again as one. The reforming mass of glowing bodies raced north through the submarine canyon, igniting the darkness like a slithering green-blue luminescent serpent.

  The Meg circled the scraps twice, its senses searching the area for its challenger. The female detected the Kronosaurus several hundred yards away, moving along the sea floor as it followed the reorganizing school of cuttlefish.

  Her appetite stimulated, the shark altered its course, homing in on both the cuttlefish and her fleeing nemesis.

  6

  Challenger Deep

  JONAS’S EYES DARTED from the depth gauge to the viewport, the last five hours of fatigue disappearing in the adrenaline rush accompanying the extreme depths.

  31,500 feet…

  31,775 feet…

  Debris rattled across the Sea Cliff’s outer hull like hail on a tin roof. He eased up on the foot pedals, adjusting the submersible’s rate of descent.

  31,850 feet.

  An object bloomed into view in the small reinforced porthole by his stockinged feet, the DSV’s lights illuminating a swirling river of brown water. Jonas hovered the submersible fifty feet above the hydrothermal plume, fighting to adjust the trim against the rippling surge of the raging current.

  “Wake up, gentlemen, we’ve arrived at the gates of hell.”

  Michael Shaffer shook Dr. Prestis awake. “You need to get a new tagline, Jonas. How about, ‘Hey, Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’”

  Richard Prestis rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “That’s not new, every lame movie uses that line. How about, ‘Of all the deep water trenches in the world, she swam into mine.’”

  “Can you imagine looking out the viewport and seeing a mermaid?” Shaffer said, readying the ROV for deployment.

  “I prefer my mermaids with a D-cup or better,” Prestis joked. “Any mermaids surviving down here would be flat-chested from all the pressure. Stand by, I’m powering up the Flying Squirrel.”

  Jonas smiled. “I meant to ask you guys—whose idea was it to name the ROV the Flying Squirrel?”

  “Dr. Shaffer gets the credit on that one.”

  “What can I say; I’m an old Rocky and Bullwinkle fan.”

  Jonas struggled to control the DSV’s pitch and yaw as the Sea Cliff tossed above rolling wakes of cold water hitting warm. “Maybe we should nickname Danielson and Heller, Boris and Natasha.”

  Prestis grabbed fo
r a handle bar, closing his eyes against the turbulence. “Which one’s Boris and which one’s Natasha?”

  Shaffer ignored him, reciting a quick prayer.

  “Heller should be Natasha,” Jonas responded, “he has nicer legs. Mike, you okay?”

  The submersible’s bow and tail teetered as if on a slow-moving see-saw. “Let’s just finish this damn mission and get the hell out of Dodge. Deploying Flying Squirrel.”

  Roughly the size of a go-cart, the rectangular, canary-yellow ROV decoupled from the DSV’s sled, its twin propellers rapidly moving it away from the submersible, its docking berth feeding out piano wire from a motorized spool, keeping the drone tethered to the Sea Cliff.

  “Engines—check. Lights—check. Infrared—check. Night vision—check. Forward camera—check. Rear camera—check. Grappler—check. Richard, try the vacuum.”

  “Vacuum’s working. Send your Flying Squirrel into Jonas’s hell hole and order it to bring back some juicy nuts.”

  Shaffer mumbled, “I’ll settle for a dozen manganese nodules filled with Helium-3.” Using a joystick, the scientist maneuvered the ROV into a steep descent, aiming for a dark spot on the hydrothermal plume now appearing on his monitor. “Tears in his eyes as he lines up this last shot. A Cinderella story, outta nowhere …a former greenskeeper, now about to become the Masters champion.”

  Jonas and Prestis looked at one another, grinning at their colleague’s dead-on imitation of Carl Spackler from Caddyshack. Together, all three yelled out, “It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!” as the ROV punched through the warm layer of swirling soot, its reinforced chassis buffeted by the volcanic debris.

  For several minutes Shaffer’s monitor remained a field of static—until the remote sub exited the hydrothermal ceiling and entered a placid sea.

  “We’re through. Switching to night vision.”

  The monitor changed from black to an olive-green tint, revealing dark brown billowing clouds rising from unseen chimneys. Schaffer worked the joystick, veering the mini-sub away from the volcanic haze, diving the craft toward the bottom.

  “Michael, quickly—pull up!”

  “It’s okay, Jonas. I’m clear.”

  “Just do it. There’s something big on sonar, heading for the ROV.”

  Shaffer yanked back on the joystick, sending the tethered sub retreating back toward the hydrothermal plume.

  Richard’s heart raced. “Jonas, what is it? How big?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Jonas powered off the Sea Cliff’s underwater lights, allowing them to see through the occasional swath of clear water into the swirling flotsam of minerals below.

  Reverberations—like bare feet slapping on wet concrete—built to a crescendo, and then the darkness suddenly ignited into a dazzling green and blue current of phosphorescent strobe lights, the life forms streaking two thousand feet below the hydrothermal ceiling, racing through the trench like an offspring of St. Elmo’s Fire.

  Forty seconds passed before the silent darkness returned.

  Richard Prestis wiped beads of sweat from his temples. “That was unbelievable. Almost alien.”

  “I think I crapped an alien.” Dr. Shaffer’s heart was pounding so hard that it affected his breathing, each deep inhalation bordering on hyperventilation. Hands quivering, he popped a Valium. “Richard, I think I need you to take over.”

  “Do you need another Valium?”

  “I need air.”

  “Slow deep breaths, pal, nice and easy. Jonas, can you adjust the blowers?”

  “Done.”

  “Michael, tell us a joke. How about the …”

  “Shh.” Jonas stared hard at the ROV’s sonar. “Richard, keep the Squirrel steady.”

  “What’s wrong?” Both scientists looked up, their faces pale.

  “Sonar’s picked up a straggler. Only this one’s different. It moves like a predator.”

  The three men huddled over the sonar screen as an orange blip moved lazily through the depths, cutting slow figure-eights below the ROV.

  Jonas whispered, “It knows the robot’s there.”

  “How?”

  “Steel prop. It gives off electrical discharges. Better cut the robot’s power.”

  Prestis and Shaffer exchanged glances, unsure.

  “Do it. The tether will hold it in place.”

  Prestis powered the ROV off.

  *

  The Megalodon circled the intruder, her back arched and ridged as she prepared to launch an attack from below—when her intended prey abruptly disappeared.

  For several minutes the big female continued to circle. Then, with a succession of powerful whip-like flicks of her tail, the shark resumed the hunt, gradually closing the distance on the multitude of cuttlefish as they trekked through the heated waters of the submarine canyon.

  *

  Aboard the Tallman

  6 miles north-northeast of Guam

  “Paul, you’d better look at this. According to Sea Bat-I, your monster just changed course.”

  Paul Agricola pushed one of the other scientists aside to join Captain Heitman at the ROV’s sonar screen, his head and stomach in knots from the twenty foot seas. “I see several blips. Which damn blip is it?”

  “The smaller one, here. This larger mass must be a school of fish. When the fish changed course, your shark changed course with them. Look, it just passed below us.”

  “Bring us about before we lose it.”

  “Helm, come about quickly to course zero-one-five. Watch your bow, keep it facing into the waves. Increase speed to ten knots.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Paul tapped the plastic light table with his index finger, his eyes studying the charts. “How much longer until Sea Bat-II can launch?”

  The captain picked up the phone by his station and dialed the extension to the utility room. “Doug, how much longer on SB-II?”

  “Twenty minutes. Call me again and it’ll be thirty minutes.”

  Paul grabbed the phone from the Tallman’s skipper. “Doug, it’s Paul. I need to know the maximum depth we can fire the transmitter dart.”

  “As long as the Sea Bat’s above the hydrothermal plume she’ll fire. As far as firing straight or penetrating the Meg’s hide—hell if I know. My advice is to let your fish get real close, then say a prayer.”

  Paul slammed the receiver down on its cradle. “Twenty minutes, captain. Call me the moment we launch, I’ll be in the head puking up my guts.”

  Lucas watched his friend exit the pilothouse. Landlubber. Just like his old man …

  *

  Challenger Deep

  There are rules on the African Serengeti, a pecking order to the hunt. When the lioness stalks zebra, it is her field of play. Only after she partakes of the spoils can the wild dogs and hyenas move in to feed.

  There is a similar order in the ocean. In surface waters, the sea lion kill is orchestrated by Orca; the buffet of a dead cetacean by the Great White shark.

  In the Mariana Trench, it is Carcharodon megalodon that commands the feast. It begins with the stalking of the prey, a ritual designed to warn off other predators. Body language moves from a submissive to an aggressive posture—the Meg’s spine arching, its pectoral fins pointing downward. A Megalodon may also mark its kill zone by urinating while circling its intended meal.

  To cross this boundary is to challenge the predatory pecking order.

  *

  The male Kronosaurus needed to feed. The encounter with the Megalodon had caught the pliosaur by surprise, and the escape expended what little energy reserves the creature had left.

  Swimming parallel with the school of cuttlefish, the eighteen-ton Kronosaurus suddenly turned upon the swarm, succeeding in separating several dozen squid from the pack. A lone cuttlefish was targeted and the hunt began.

  The squid was quick, but its brain patterns had been forged by a pack mentality, its unexpected separation from the group leading to its undoing. Instead of distancing itse
lf from the hunter, the squid sought only to rejoin its fleeing siblings, taking the most direct route despite the obvious danger.

  Soaring in from behind a towering black smoker, the Kronosaurus cut off the cuttlefish’s retreat. In one treacherous bite it snatched the squid’s head within its jaws, igniting a furious response of tentacles which lashed out, its barbed suckers tearing at its unseen enemy’s hide. But the cephalopod’s life force was bleeding out and it quickly went limp in the pliosaur’s mouth.

  The Kronosaurus managed to swallow the cuttlefish seconds before its senses were alerted to the presence of a larger predator.

  By attacking the cuttlefish the Kronosaurus had indirectly challenged the Megalodon. The young queen changed course to intercept the pliosaur—the need to conserve energy holding no sway over thirty million years of predatory instinct.

  Still clenching the dead cuttlefish within its crocodilian jaws, the Kronosaurus swam off, serpentining through undulating fields of giant tube worms in an attempt to lose the huntress.

  Owning the higher ground, the Megalodon accelerated in a steep descent, adjusting her angle of attack as she closed the gap, rendering escape impossible. The Meg’s bull rush ended in a violent cloudburst of silt as the forty-eight foot prehistoric Great White crushed the Kronosaurus’s neck in a horrific bite while simultaneously pinning its enemy against the sea floor. A resounding thud fractured two of the Meg’s upper teeth, her snout disappearing beneath a cloudburst of minerals, soot, severed tube worms and blood.

  The blood originated from the Kronosaurus. The creature’s internal organs had burst upon impact, the splattered remains ejected out of the dead animal’s esophagus behind the vertebrae-splintering force generated by twenty-seven tons of shark moving at eighteen knots.

  Stunned by the concussion-inducing blow, the juvenile queen could not locate the crushed remains of its prey. Shaking her gargantuan head, the female circled away from the cloud of silt, attempting to reboot her overloaded senses.

  Recovering slowly, the Meg detected a familiar high decibel sound that exacerbated the injury and inflamed her sensory array. Attempting to lose the annoying sensation, the female swam in a figure-eight holding pattern, while bloodied remains from her kill danced along the sea floor. The irritating blip …blip …blip continued to taunt her, driving the Meg into a frenzy.