Then, it was gone.
Heaving slowly up and down in its aftermath, the Harbinger’s lurching movements were accompanied by creepy groans emanating from the hull.
For a full minute, Amara did nothing but stand there, her trembling hands tightly gripping the railing of the still-swaying ship. Above her, a pair of noisy black-backed gulls circled.
Amara tried to speak, but managed only a high-pitched croak. She swallowed hard, cleared her throat. “Willie, you’ve been a sonar operator for ten years. What the hell was that?”
Willie said nothing. He just remained where he was, staring blankly down at the water that continued to slap against their rust-marred hull.
Amara shook her head. Even her stoic first mate was shaken by what just happened. She peered over the railing at the Sycophant and its shivering occupants. “Lane, are you guys alright?”
The tentative thumbs-up signal Amara got back from her two waterlogged interns was reassuring. At least her crew had survived the encounter with their giant mystery guest. Exhaling heavily and shaking her head a few times to clear the cobwebs, Amara called into her radio. “Adam, tell me you got that!”
There was a long pause.
“That’s a negative, boss,” Adam said. “Interference from the inflatable’s engine disrupted the transmission on our cameras. I’ve got some far-off footage showing something, but it’s so grainy you can’t really make out much. Sorry.”
“Damn it!” Amara cursed. She clamped her finger onto the radio’s mute button, exhaling slowly as she struggled to remain calm. “It’s okay, Adam . . . no problem. I know you did your best, as always. We’ll be right down.”
A quick glance over Willie’s shoulder as he played back his footage showed the watery disturbance they witnessed in full detail. But it failed to shed any light on the identity of the culprit that panicked a pod of sperm whales and displaced enough seawater to cause their entire ship to sway.
Amara stared across the Harbinger’s deck, out at the ocean’s now calm surface. She shook her head. Lips taut, she turned to Willie and let out a heavy sigh. “Well, I guess we had enough excitement for one day.” Her face glum, she headed toward the winding stairs that led below deck. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty drained right about now. You know what I mean?”
“Aye, Amara, dat I do,” Willie’s said. “But if ya tink about it, it could have been far worse.”
“Really?” Amara paused in mid-stride. She turned and looked back at him, an inquisitive expression on her face. “How so?”
“Well . . .” A slow smile crept mischievously across Willie’s face. “At least nobody got eaten!”
“The day’s still young,” Amara said. “C’mon, let’s go check out whatever footage Adam has and see what we can make of it.”
Below her, an exhausted and bedraggled Lane and Mike made their way slowly up the Harbinger’s grated boarding steps and emerged topside. Their haunted countenances were grim indicators to everyone they encountered of just how close they’d come to the unknown terror that nearly claimed them.
NINE
Phil Starling hung on for dear life, leaning back into the Sayonara’s sturdy fighting chair as the tuna made yet another blistering run. It was over two hours since the mammoth fish inhaled one of their butterfish, yet the monstrous bluefin was showing no signs of fatigue.
Phil, on the other hand, was nearing the point of exhaustion. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, and his worn t-shirt was soaked with perspiration. Even so, he tenaciously hung on. Removing his aching hands from the rod’s reinforced handle and shaking them out whenever his giant adversary ran, he paced himself with all the wisdom his decades at sea provided him.
It was the fight of his life. He’d gotten a good look at the gigantic tuna early on. The fish was one of the largest he’d ever seen, and weighed at least eleven hundred pounds. In sushi dollars, it was worth a small fortune to the avaricious Japanese brokers who would be waiting at the dock, once the call went out that the fish was being brought in for auction. Depending on fat content and fight time, the bluefin would net him as much as thirty thousand dollars and would make his season. It would allow him to not only catch up on his mortgage and medical bills, but also enable him to finish paying off the Sayonara. Owning the latter meant the world to the old man; with his wife gone these past two seasons, he desired nothing more than to leave his precious boat to his nephew, fully rigged and debt-free.
“Get ready,” Phil said. “She’s heading down deep again!”
Behind him, Steve Starling made quick adjustments to the boat’s throttle with one hand, while manipulating the fighting chair with the other.
Stevie had proven himself a godsend as the fight wore on. An apt pupil who readily absorbed everything Phil threw at him during their first season together, the teenager quickly showed his worth. He calmly set the hook and handed the rod off as soon as the take took place, reeled in the other lines to avoid entanglements, and most importantly, maneuvered the big Bertram like a pro as his captain directed him. This included backing down on the fish when necessary, changing angles as needed, and putting her in neutral when he was told. Phil couldn’t have asked for a better assistant.
Fifteen minutes later, after several more scorching runs that pulled close to two hundred yards of braided line off the big Penn International reel, the tide finally started to turn. The fish’s runs were growing noticeably shorter, and the gigantean force being applied against the sturdy trolling rod was slowly diminishing. The bluefin was tiring at last.
Invigorated at the prospect of victory, Phil smiled as he began to exert more pressure on the giant fish, pulling steadily, forcing the tuna to exhaust itself even further so they could finally finish it off. It rankled him that he’d wasted his ammo earlier and couldn’t kill it with a quick slug from his shotgun. The flying gaff would have to do. Once its huge barbed hook was embedded in the bluefin’s flesh, it would be simple to put a tail rope on it and use their heavy-duty gin pole to hoist it clear of the water.
Phil reared back against the pull of one of the tuna’s remaining runs and yelled over his shoulder, “Stevie, get the gaff ready!” He was gasping, sweat streaming down his face. “And make sure the line’s attached to one of the main cleats. I don’t want anything going wrong in case this mama’s got any surprises up her sleeve when we stick her!”
“The gaff’s already prepped, Uncle Phil,” Steve said. “I’m ready whenever you say the word. How far out is she?”
His face intense, Phil leaned forward and cranked the reel handle like a maniac, then eased himself back in the fighting chair. He looked down at the hot spool before answering. “Not far,” he said breathlessly. “Maybe fifty yards, if that! Get ready, kiddo. It won’t be long now!”
Buoyed by a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength that surged through his chemotherapy-ravaged body, Phil smiled like a Cheshire cat. The giant bluefin was finished. He could tell by the vibrations running up the braided line as it made its way through the rod’s roller guides. The fish was spent. As long as the hook stayed in, all he had to do was keep exerting slow, steady pressure.
Arching carefully back, Phil leaned forward once more, this time moving the reel’s sealed drag system lever to its maximum setting. He took a deep breath and slowly cranked in another of the precious yards separating them from the beautiful bounty waiting on the other end. He smiled again, knowing they were going to win.
With a metallic screech reminiscent of a girder bending, the massive tuna rod suddenly bent nearly double. To the two men watching, it seemed the fish on the other end somehow quintupled in weight. There was a groan as the entire stern of the Sayonara dipped six inches from the force of the downward pull, then line started screaming off the reel like the other end was tied to a speeding Corvette. One hundred yards vanished in seconds, then two hundred.
“Jesus Christ!” Phil spat, his frail legs shaking as he strained to keep from being pulled out of his fighting ch
air and yanked overboard. “Stevie, grab hold of me!” he screamed as his knees started to buckle.
Already in action, the teenager sprang behind the Sayonara’s fighting chair, wrapping his wiry arms around his uncle in a powerful bear hug, holding on for all he was worth. Even with their combined strength, all they could do was hold on and pray as the two hundred pound test line continued unchecked off their spool. The screeching sound was punctuated by several loud popping noises as, one by one, the tuna rod’s heavy-duty steel roller guides broke off. Suddenly, the pulling ceased.
Caught off guard by the unexpected cessation of pressure, Phil yelped as he crashed back into the hard wooden chair with enough force to herniate discs. His nephew was sent flying head over heels, ending up in an embarrassing heap, piled against the nearest bulkhead. Crawling painfully to his feet and dusting himself off, Steve made his way over to his uncle to check on his condition.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, it was Steve that broke the silence. “So, what do you think happened?” His right hand grasped the tuna rod where it still sat in the gimbal. He began examining the ruptured roller guides.
“What happened?” Phil cranked furiously on the smoking reel to retrieve whatever was left at the end of the now-slack line. “I’ll tell you what happened. Some goddamn overgrown shark came along and made himself a meal out of our hard-earned tuna!”
“Wow, really?” Amazed, he scanned the surrounding waters. “But Uncle Phil, what kind of shark eats a thousand pound bluefin?”
Phil growled and continued reeling. Just then the tag end of the heavy-duty tuna rig came flying up over the side. Unhooking his bucket harness from the reel lugs and leaning forward, Phil caught the end of the line as it wafted in the breeze. He examined it in detail. “Just like I thought, Stevie. The leader’s bitten clean through, only two feet below the barrel swivel. That was a four hundred pound test leader. Goddamn it!”
Flinging the loose end of the line away in disgust, Phil sat there fuming, his weathered chin resting uneasily on the back of one gnarled fist. “I’m sorry, Stevie boy,” he said after a moment. “There’s only one kind of shark in these waters that hunts giant tuna and can bite through a leader like that.” He twisted his lips angrily as he continued. “A great white. And from that little tug, a damn big one.”
“A . . . great white?” Steve repeated the words, a tinge of awe creeping into his voice. “Holy cow, should we try to catch it?”
“Against the law, kiddo,” Phil replied, his face still resting on his hands as his tired eyes studied the swells beyond the Sayonara’s transom. “Even if it wasn’t, we don’t have anything to use as bait except butterfish. And I don’t know about you, but I’ve never heard of any shark that likes to smear butterfish on its food.” Phil smiled sadly. He pulled the damaged tuna rod free from the gimbal and swiveled the fighting chair around using his feet. “Say, anything interesting showing up on the fish finder?”
Stevie took a quick look at the monitor. “Not a thing, Uncle Phil,” he said, trying to hide the dejection they both felt. “Should we call it a day?”
Exhaling heavily, Phil checked his watch and the position of the sun overhead. “Nah, let’s give it one more shot. Who knows, maybe the school will come back.” He sighed and handed his nephew the broken rod. “Here, kiddo. Take this downstairs and bring me the backup rod, if you don’t mind. And another tuna rig also, please.”
“You got it, captain!” Steve replied with forced fervor. Spinning on his heels, the teenager disappeared below decks.
Phil rose painfully to his feet, limped over to the Sayonara’s helm, and took one last look at the fish finder before turning off the Bertram’s twin diesels. Still disgusted by how close they came to landing the fish of a lifetime, he made his way back to the boat’s fighting chair and slumped slowly down into its uncomfortable frame. As he sat there, staring out at the unforgiving sea, his age weighed heavily on him, and he found himself feeling worn out and old.
Less than a hundred yards away, the creature’s monstrous body remained suspended beneath the sparkling surface of the water, an occasional flutter from its powerful flippers keeping it silently in place. With a quick shift of its jaws, it finished swallowing the hapless fish it purloined, the skin of its throat stretching to accommodate its meal. It spouted twice and continued its explorations. As it descended, something drew its attention.
There was a boat nearby.
The creature avoided boats. The high frequency sounds they gave off were like fingernails on a chalkboard to its sensitive eardrums, and this one was no exception. Annoyed by the screeching racket, it snorted loudly and changed course.
As it started to move off, the noise suddenly stopped.
Curiosity, combined with the scent of blood still lingering in the water, began to tug at the monstrous reptile. Though nearly gorged, the possibility of purloining another meal was too powerful to resist. Caution gave way to gluttony, and the creature crept closer. Its superb vision focused past the water’s shimmering surface, toward what waited above. Stopping only ten yards away, it studied the white vessel – and the small mammal seated in its chair.
Reclining in the Sayonara’s fighting chair, Phil took a moment to relax. He closed his eyes and rested his weary head against the hard-but-comforting wood, reveling in the sensation of the sun beaming down upon his weatherworn skin, the sea breeze dispersing its heat, and the gentle rocking of the waves as they lapped against the hull. Though losing their prize fish still chafed him, Phil knew better than to dwell on bad luck or past failures. There would be other tuna. If not today, tomorrow. It didn’t really matter all that much. It was all part of the bigger scheme of things. Opportunities would always present themselves for those that sought them, and life was long.
Well, maybe not for everyone, he mused silently.
Spinning the tuna chair around so that his back was to the transom, Phil closed his eyes once more, waiting for his nephew to return so they could prep for another drift, and another shot at improving their fortunes.
As he dozed off, the old fisherman was unaware of the darkness that slowly enveloped him – its enormous shape rising up out of the water and climbing high into the sky, until it towered over twenty feet above the Sayonara’s glistening hull.
As he rifled through several of the Sayonara’s tackle bins, Steve Starling fought off the sense of frustration that gnawed at him. Although he didn’t know the exact details of his uncle’s financial state, nor would he have asked, the teenager was both intelligent and observant. He knew the giant bluefin would have made a substantial difference in his uncle’s fortunes. They’d come so close, only to be robbed at the last possible moment.
They fought the fish with textbook efficiency, using every appropriate tactic and technique to their advantage. And his uncle had shown amazing strength and endurance, considering his age and condition. How could they have known there was a prowling shark that size lurking in the area?
Steve shrugged off the feeling of exasperation and grabbed the backup rod with its heavy monofilament backing. He checked to make sure everything he carried was in order and turned to head above deck. Then, the ceiling came down and nailed him with a knockout punch.
Stevie opened his eyes and found himself lying on his back. He was covered with an assortment of deep-sea rods, lures, coolers, and boxes of tackle, all fallen from their usual places. Bewildered, he struggled to sit up. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He instinctively brought his hand up to his face, pushing away some of the items that blocked his vision. A wince of pain made him pull his hand away from his aching head.
It was bloody. Gingerly touching the nasty scalp wound, Steve struggled to his feet. As he did he felt another sharp spasm of pain, this time in his forearm. The hook from a fallen marlin lure was buried in the fleshy part of his left forearm, right below the elbow. Stifling a curse, Steve called out to his uncle for assistance. He was greeted with silence.
Still dazed, he
leaned back against a nearby bulkhead and carefully grasped the tine of the hook, above the point where it pierced him. Grimacing, he reversed the hook, easing the point backwards to minimize any additional damage. The pain was excruciating. The injured youngster forgot about his aching forehead for the moment, despite the trickle of blood that started to seep into his left eye.
Finally, working the oversized hook free from his now lacerated arm, Steve breathed a sigh of relief. He checked his torn scalp once more while scanning the dimly lit room. He surveyed the devastation. To Steve, the inside of the boat’s cabin looked like a tornado had torn away at it.
Still confused, he stared at the tangled pile that was once their well-organized tackle and gear. He dreaded what his uncle would have to say about the mess.
“Uncle Phil!” The teen forgot his own woes and leapt up the nearby steps, flying through the double doors that led below deck, back up to the Sayonara’s cockpit.
The sight that greeted Steve stopped him dead in his tracks. The entire rear portion of the expensive charter boat had been ravaged beyond recognition. Jagged chunks of oil-stained wood and fiberglass lay scattered like leaves across the Sayonara’s normally pristine deck. The stern portion of the vessel was also damaged: one third of the heavy wooden transom was missing, ripped away, leaving behind a jagged section of raw wood.
His eyes wide open, Steve staggered a few paces forward, struggling to take in the chaos all around him. Then, he realized the boat’s tuna chair was completely gone. Other than a few scraps of wood, all that remained of the fighting chair was a jagged section of base where it was bolted into its heavy metal floor plate.
As he took another tentative step, Steve’s right foot suddenly slipped out from under him, causing him to lose his footing. The burgundy-colored oil that stained the soles of his boat shoes was thick, viscous, and strangely coagulated.
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 17
