by Steve Alten
“Doug, retrieve the Sea Bats. I think it’s time we headed south to flee the storm.”
*
Aboard the Sea Cliff
Eight thousand feet, and they were running out of air.
Jonas couldn’t see the sphere spinning but he felt the effects of the vertigo in his gut. He collapsed to his knees and retched, then gasped, unable to catch his breath. The sphere became his skull, the compressed weight crushing his brain, squeezing his lungs. As he gasped for air in a fetal position, a bottle rolled against him.
Water bottle? Attached to a piece of rubber … a rubber mask?
Pony bottle!
Strapping the gift of life to his face, Jonas popped the release valve and breathed.
*
Aboard the Maxine D
In the swaying fury of the storm, Captain Richard Danielson entered the command center, his mind gripped by the developing consequences of his actions. “What happened down there? Why the emergency ascent?”
“Sir, we don’t know. Commander Taylor hasn’t responded, but they’re coming up very fast … too fast, sir.”
“Alert Dr. Heller and make sure he has the recompression chamber ready. What’s the sub’s surface ETA?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Get a dive team standing by on deck.”
*
Petty Officer Second Class Gustave Maren hooked his harness to the aft rail and held on as twenty foot swells tossed the Maxine D like an amusement park ride. It had been six weeks since Maren’s secret rendezvous with Benedict Singer, five weeks since the billionaire’s money arrived by wire into his Swiss bank account. The ten thousand was only an advance of course, the real money would come after he delivered the rock.
Not rock, asshole. Manganese nodule.
Gustave Maren had little interest in rocks or manganese or anything to do with the ocean, but he took great pride in the fact that his fourteen-year-old son was an expert on all these things. First in his class and an I.Q. that could not be traced to any genetic branch on the Maren family tree.
Gus was doing this for Michael.
Thoughts of money danced in the sailor’s head. Yes, he was doing this for Michael, but the truth was that his son was already receiving offers to attend Ivy League schools. A scholarship meant Gus could save on his only child’s tuition, using the profits from this minor theft to pay off the mortgage, perhaps even buy a new car.
The divers in the wild sea beckoned. The sub was rising. A belch of bubbles and foam and there it was, swaying on the surface like a drunken whale, the divers fighting with Typhoon Marian to capture it.
Harnesses in place, the A-frame kicked back, hoisting the Sea Cliff out of the Pacific just as the swirling gray storm clouds opened up and the drenching began. Danielson appeared on deck, a fool playing to his men, his face ashen. The Sea Cliff’s pilot, Taylor, was well-liked. This accident—or whatever they were witnessing—had been foreseen by everyone.
The captured sub swayed in the grayness of an angry dusk, the ship’s deck lights revealing the rain … and one other item.
Trailing the dripping Sea Cliff was a cable, taut with a weight still submerged.
Danielson pounded on Gustave’s rain gear with his open palm. “Once the Sea Cliff is secure, I want your crew to retrieve that ROV! See to it, sailor.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gustave waited for the fiberglass hull to touch down, then he traced the ROV’s cable to its docking station situated in the bow of the Sea Cliff’s sled.
Jesus, what happened to it?
Using his flashlight, he located the exterior controls and attempted to reverse the winch, but the power was out.
“Wismer, Beck! We’ll need a portable generator and some cables.” Maren looked up as the sub’s hatch was opened. Seconds later, a body was pulled from the submersible—a white-haired scientist. Dr. Prestis was followed by a corpse, pale except for the dead man’s head wound, splattered dark with blood.
The third man out was Taylor. He was rushed with the first man to the infirmary below decks—leaving Gustave and his crew alone to tend to the ROV.
*
Jonas opened his eyes to a bright light that shifted from pupil to pupil, accompanied by waves of needle-like pain in his joints and the condescending voice of Frank Heller.
“Shaffer’s dead. Prestis suffered what appears to be a major stroke about ten minutes ago. Before it hit he told me you lost it down there, that your actions endangered the mission and the crew. He said you put the sub into an emergency ascent which blew out the pressurization system.”
Jonas shook his head, the pain becoming unbearable. “Shark attacked us. Big as a house, ghostly white. Bit the sled.”
“A shark? That’s your excuse? There are no sharks in the trench, Taylor. You imagined it.” He signaled to the two orderlies. “Get him inside the recompression unit.”
*
Gustave Maren waited for his crew to leave before turning his attention to the catch basket. The lid was sealed, the rocks having been collected and stored inside the porous steel bin by way of the interior vacuum assembly.
Lying on the swaying deck, Maren disconnected the vacuum and reached his hand up through the suction tube until his entire arm was inside the hose. He felt a nodule, the hard wet surface covered in slime. As a teen he had used a similar technique to steal cans of soda out of a vending machine, his crime spree ending when his arm had gotten caught.
He momentarily panicked as the deck shifted and the weight of the basket pinned his wrist inside the housing; mercifully the ship rolled again and he was able to yank the pineapple-size rock free.
He shoved it into his jacket as the crew returned with the portable generator.
*
“A shark?”
Frank Heller nodded at Danielson from behind his desk, his face red with anger. “He swears it was white and as big as a house.”
“Could this shark have damaged the sub?”
“Wake up, Danielson, there was no shark. Taylor obviously imagined the whole thing. It’s called aberrations of the deep. Prestis said Jonas lost it down there.” Heller unlocked a desk drawer, removed a bottle of whisky and motioned to his friend.
“No. And you shouldn’t either.”
“Don’t pull rank on me now. We should have never allowed him to dive, he wasn’t fit for duty. The two scientists … they were friends. Prestis won’t make it through the night. What do I tell Shaffer’s wife and kids?”
“What about Taylor? How’d he manage to survive?”
“Seems he found a pony bottle before the air ran out.”
“So he caused the accident, but managed to cheat death.”
“I certified him fit for command.”
“You also were an eyewitness to Prestis’s account of what happened down there. What did you call it? Aberrations of the deep? Taylor was trained to handle these things and he failed.”
“We should have sent the back-up pilot.”
“Taylor wouldn’t allow it, he said Royston wasn’t ready. That was his fault, not ours.” Danielson poured himself a shot and drained the liquid heat. “Frank, there will be an investigation. Taylor’s finished as a submersible pilot. He’s navy, but he’s a flash-in-the-pan, destined for civilian life. You and me—we’re career servicemen, we’ve put in our time. You want to lose everything because some rock star choked under pressure?”
“There’s blood on all our hands, captain.” Heller took a swig of whiskey, then resealed the bottle. “Prestis said he lost it down there. I’ll testify to that. I’ll also state that Taylor said he felt more qualified to handle the dive than his back-up. Will that do it for you?”
“That, and one last detail. Recommend Taylor undergo a three month psychiatric evaluation following his discharge.”
“What for?”
“Credibility. Years from now, when he decides to write a memoir slamming the navy, I want to make sure the world knows that Jonas Taylor was deemed a nutcase by the m
edical establishment.”
*
The Maxine D was underway, her bow rising and falling as it met the onslaught of twenty-five foot waves, the boat racing Typhoon Marian back to Guam.
Alone on deck, Captain Danielson made his way to the Sea Cliff, using his flashlight to inspect the damage before the ship’s engineers could get a look back at the naval base.
The seas caused the submersible to teeter, its weight balanced awkwardly on its chassis. Danielson shone his light on the damaged sled, inspecting the back-up batteries and the air tanks, one of which had imploded.
A fourteen inch section of the reinforced fiberglass housing had been peeled back, leaving a gaping hole.
What the hell could have done that?
He knelt by the assembly, his light revealing a triangular white shape lodged in the mangled air tank—an object that clearly didn’t belong there. Danielson gripped and twisted it free, its sharp serrated edges tearing the flesh of his right palm.
For a long moment he stared at the object, his bleeding hand cleansed by the rain. Then, concealing the six inch weapon under his jacket, he walked toward the stern rail.
The ship’s twin propellers churned the dark waters into a trail of foam. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Danielson tossed the white Megalodon tooth into the Pacific Ocean, returning it to its rightful owner.
Epilogue
Naval Medical Center - San Diego, California
One month later…
“THE HEARING WAS A JOKE. My JAG officer essentially told me my career was over, that the best deal I could make was to accept the dishonorable discharge and complete a three month psychiatric evaluation. I actually felt relieved this morning when I got the note that you finally wanted to see me. Guess I was lucky the hospital was in San Diego. At least my wife can visit.”
“And does she?”
“Does she what?”
“Visit you. It’s been a month. Has she been back since the men in the white suits brought you in?”
“She’s been busy. She just started working weekends as a restaurant hostess.”
“Which leaves Monday through Friday.”
“What are you implying?” Lying on the leather sofa, Jonas Taylor sat up and gazed at the psychiatrist. The man had his bare feet propped up on the oak desk, the drab white wall at his back harboring framed diplomas and a few naval photos—none resembling the psychiatrist.
“Implying? Nothing. In fact, it’s common for spouses of dishonorably discharged officers to distance themselves at first. Same thing happens with drunk drivers who kill innocent bystanders. Forgiveness takes time.”
“Now that I think about it, Maggie seemed more upset about me losing my commission than killing those two scientists.”
“Women … Actually though, I was talking about you. I’ve been watching you since you got here. You’re angry. You feel used. Abandoned by the navy, your brothers-in-arms. You also feel guilty about what happened on the dive. You’re a moral guy. We need to work on that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if you can’t deal with death then don’t become a mortician or enlist in the military. No sane person dives the Mariana Trench; those two eggheads knew the risks just as every soldier knows the risk when he enlists. Two guys died on your watch. Deal with it. I’ve been in combat and I’ve killed other human beings. It’s a sucky, clouds-of-doom feeling, and even though it’s true, the whole ‘doing it for God and country’ business still doesn’t heal the wound.”
“What does?”
“For starters, instead of moping around, try doing something nice for a stranger. Help others who are less fortunate than you. You’re staying in a hospital, how about visiting some sick people? There’s an entire ward of kids with cancer here—teach ’em how to play poker. God will judge you when He’s ready; use the time you have left to give Him as many positives on your resume as you can. At the same time, stop being such an all-American patsy. You should have told Danielson and his piss boy, Heller to take that last dive order and shove it up their asses.”
“You don’t sound like any shrink I’ve ever met.”
James Mackreides grinned. “That’s because I’m more of a life coach.”
“Hey coach, how come you’re not in any of the family photos on your desk?”
“We’ll discuss that in the EVAC chopper.”
“EVAC chopper?”
“The one on the roof. We’re taking it to tonight’s 49ers-Cowboys game.”
“You have tickets?”
“Hell, no. I figured we’d worry about that after we stole the chopper.”
“Makes sense.”
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jonas Taylor smiled. Then he followed his new friend and fellow inmate out the door to steal a helicopter.
The end of
MEG: ORIGINS
We hope you enjoyed this prequel to the Megalodon series!
For an exclusive preview of book two in the series, read on…
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Acknowledgements
About Steve Alten
About the Megalodon Series
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgments
In August of 1995, inspired by a TIME article on the Mariana Trench and a photo of six nerdy scientists seated in a giant shark jaw, I began working on the manuscript that would eventually become MEG: A Novel of Deep Terror. Thirteen months later, having lost my job as GM of a wholesale meat company (on Friday 13th, 1996 … my lucky day) the manuscript became part of a bidding war and I had my first publishing deal. It’s been a rollercoaster ride ever since – MEG alone having been optioned three times as a movie. As I write this acknowledgment Warner Bros. is casting a summer 2017 release.
This is not the book published by Bantam/Doubleday in the summer of 1997. Having written an ebook prequel several years ago called MEG: ORIGINS, I wanted to combine that story with MEG, only the quality of writing simply didn’t mesh – twenty years having matured me as an author. And so I rewrote the entire novel, extending scenes and developing characters while including artwork which enhances the reading experience. I’m excited to present this “new & improved” version of MEG to you, while acknowledging those who contributed to the novel, my career, and (fingers crossed) the upcoming movie.
To my partners at VIPER PRESS – my close friend, Mark Maller, manager Tim Schulte, marketing guru Michelle Colon-Johnson, and our tireless, never-say-die lead producer of MEG, Belle Avery. Very special thanks to Wayne at Gravity Pictures, Ben at Reach Glory in Beijing and Mr. Liu at FFD in Tianjin as well as the team at Warner Bros, scribe Dean Georgaris, director Eli Roth, and attorney John Jessee.
To my personal team: Barbara Becker for editing my work and for her dedication over the last ten years as a volunteer and supervisor in the Adopt-An-Author program and to my webmaster Doug McEntyre at Millennium Technology Resources for his excellence in preparing my monthly newsletters and maintaining the Steve Alten website. To Erik Hollander, my gifted graphic artist who has been creating my cover art for years and James Gelet, for all of his amazing book trailers. Thanks as well to artists Bill McDonald, Tan Ngo and underwater photographer Malcolm Nobbs for their contributions.
My heartfelt appreciation to my literary agent Danny Baror and Heather Baror-Shapiro at Baror International, my attorneys Joel McKuin and Rob Goldman and my former manager Ken Atchity at AEI, to whom I owe so much of my early success. And to the publishers, editors, and individuals who have contributed to the MEG franchise – Nick Nunziata, Ed Davidson, Tom Doherty, Bob Gleason, John Scognamiglio, Eric Raab, Whitney Ross, Scott Gere and Mike Donovan at Gere Donovan Press, Trish Stevens at Ascot Media Group, and the staffs at Bantam/Doubleday, Kensington/Pinnacle, Tor/Forge, Rebel Press, and Cedarfort Books … my gratitude.
Finally, to my wife and soul mate, Kim, our children, my parents, and especially to the MEGheads: Thank you for your correspondence and contributions.
Your comments are always a welcome treat, your input means so much, and you remain this author’s greatest asset.
Steve Alten, Ed.D.
To personally contact the author or learn more about his
novels, go to www.SteveAlten.com
Preview
Read on for a preview of Meg: The Trench
Four years after the incident at the Mariana Trench that unleashed a pregnant Megaladon, Jonas Taylor now houses her one surviving offspring at the Tanaka Institute.
Deep in debt, Taylor has turned to an eccentric billionaire to help keep the institute afloat, but it doesn't come without a price. Drawn into a web of deceit and lies, plagued by nightmares of his own death, Taylor must once again face frightening monsters of unimaginable power.
Only this time, it's not just the sharks he has to watch out for.
Can’t wait? Buy it here now!
Deep Pressures
Mariana Trench
12 degrees North Latitude
144 degrees East Longitude
March 22, 2001
RETIRED NAVY DEEP-SEA PILOT Barry Leace wiped the sweat from his palms as he checked the depth indicator of the Proteus. Thirty-four thousand, seven hundred and eighteen feet. Nearly seven miles of water above their heads, sixteen thousand pounds per square inch of water pressure surrounding them.
Just stop thinking about it…
Barry glanced around the tight quarters of the four-man submersible. Racks of computer monitors, electronics, and a bewildering jungle of wires filled the pressurized hull. The watertight coffin barely had room for its crew.
Below the navigation console, team leader Ellis Richards and his assistant, Linda Heron, stared out through tiny portholes in the floor of the Proteus’s bow.
“See those animals with the furry green pelt?” Linda asked.
“Those are Pompeii worms, capable of withstanding temperature variations from twenty-two degrees all the way to eighty-one degrees Celsius. The hydrothermal vents supply sulfur for bacteria to live off, which in turn are digested by the tube worms—”
