Stumbling backwards as the horror dawned on him, Steve cried out in dismay. The entire rear of the Sayonara was splattered with reddish brown droplets of half-dried blood, putrefying in the midday sun. The boat looked and smelled like a slaughterhouse. And his uncle was nowhere to be seen.
“Uncle Phil!” Steve yelled out, cupping his hands around his mouth. His mind engaged in a desperate struggle to hide the awful truth from itself. As he took in a breath to call again, a wave of nausea wracked him and he staggered back. Slipping on another thickening puddle of his uncle’s blood, Steve threw his head over the nearest gunnels and vomited uncontrollably.
After what seemed like hours, the painful retching sounds started to subside and the drained first mate slumped wearily down into a seated position, his back pressed against the Sayonara’s thin fiberglass hull. He stared into space, wishing his nightmare would be over.
Shaking, Steve struggled to figure out what happened. Another boat couldn’t possibly have caused the damage their cockpit sustained. A collision between two vessels would have completely ruptured the Bertram’s hull, or at least the transom portion.
It had to be the shark. Great whites grew to immense size – up to twenty-five feet in length – and could weigh several tons. A fish that size could definitely rear up over the side of their boat and cause the damage they sustained.
Suddenly, the charter boat’s radio squawked. Startled by the sound, Steve realized he forgot about the radio. It functioned even when the boat’s powerful diesel engines were offline. He could call for help. In a heartbeat he was on his feet, grabbing the wired microphone.
“Calling the Infidel, this is the Sayonara calling. Repeat: Sayonara calling. Come in Infidel!” he shouted into the metal and plastic handset.
No answer.
Fighting the growing hysteria that threatened to overwhelm him, the distraught teen tried again. “Infidel, this is Steve Starling onboard the Sayonara. Repeat, Steve Starling onboard the Sayonara. This is an emergency! Do you read me?” On the verge of hyperventilating, Steve clenched the hand mike tightly in his fist, desperately willing Jake Braddock to answer.
“This is Sheriff Braddock, Sayonara. What’s going on there?”
Steve wanted to cry for joy at the sound of the lawman’s voice. Struggling to stay in control, he yelled into the radio, “Jake, this is Steve. I don’t know what happened, but my uncle’s gone! I think a shark got him! The boat’s a complete wreck, and there’s blood everywhere! I don’t know what to do. You gotta help me!” By the time he finished his last sentence Steve was screaming.
“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Jake’s fierce voice ripped out of the squawk box. “And what shark? Where are you? What happened?”
“I’m not sure of our exact location, Jake.” Steve cradled his injured head in his hands, fighting back a moan. “We’re about five miles west of the Cutlass, on an inshore drift, I think. How soon can you get here?”
There was a long silence. “All right, I know the area. We’re on our way. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Stevie, tell me what happened to Captain Phil. Where is he?”
An unexpected thump beneath the boat diverted Steve’s attention. His jaw fell. The noise might be his uncle surfacing under the boat, perhaps even struggling to get back onboard. He nearly cracked the mike’s talk button with his thumb. “Sorry, Jake, I gotta go.”
“Go? Go where? Steve! Come in, goddamn it! Where is Phil?”
Steve dashed to the back of the boat. His eyes wide, he planted his palms on the shattered transom, leaning out over the water, struggling hard to peer into its murky depths. He stood there, breathing hard and praying for a sign that Phil Starling was still alive, that he was only injured and would miraculously return.
He caught a glimpse of a dark shape passing underneath. Then the entire stern portion of the thirteen-ton vessel launched itself six feet above the water, catapulting the off-guard teenager over the side. Suspended in the air for a moment, a muffled cry of alarm escaped Steve’s lips as he plunged headfirst into the tepid waters of the Gulf Stream. An expert swimmer, the athletic teen found himself flailing against an inexplicably strong undertow that sucked him under.
Gasping for air as he surfaced, he realized the powerful current had dragged him a hundred feet from the stern of the Sayonara. He rubbed his burning eyes with the backs of his hands and turned to make his way back to the boat. He started to sidestroke, trying to ignore the merciless hammering in his head and the stinging pain as seawater ate into his injured forearm. The riptide that pulled him under was now nowhere to be seen.
He was sixty feet away when he felt the pressure. It was the sea pushing against him, like the displacement waves he’d seen dolphins ride in front of cruise ships. Casting anxiously in every direction, Steve saw nothing. Still alarmed by the sensation, he turned back toward the boat and resumed his efforts. Then he heard an explosive sound, like an old-fashioned locomotive giving off excess steam.
Breaking the surface of the water not fifty yards away was the largest animal he ever saw. It was gigantic, like a dinosaur, but as huge as a whale. Its wrinkled head was bigger than a station wagon, and its feral eyes glowered at him like giant rubies with bottomless black centers. He could see its exposed arsenal of razor-sharp teeth, dozens of which protruded over its scaly lips like a bristling forest of ivory.
Steve began to shake uncontrollably. An overpowering adrenaline rush brought on by sheer terror spewed through his veins in gouts. He blinked rapidly, his eyes on the potential haven of the Sayonara, its white hull bobbing up and down atop the swells. The Bertram was barely fifty feet away, but it might as well have been a thousand.
As if on cue, the nightmarish apparition moved in his direction. Steve uttered a primal scream of terror, then turned and swam for his life. With his heart thumping so hard his chest hurt, he plowed through the water like an Olympic athlete, too horrified to think of looking back. He could feel the water pressure change as the monster drew closer, and he redoubled his efforts, flailing away like a madman. He could see the Sayonara’s stern, dead ahead, and could just make out her name, boldly inscribed across the back of her battered transom, the tops of the letters missing where the wood was torn away.
She was close – only thirty feet. If he could just make it onboard, he could kick the charter boat’s powerful diesels into high gear and make a run for it. He doubted very much it could catch the fleet canyon runner at its top end speed.
Only twenty feet to go. His limbs on fire, Steve refused to surrender. Even though he sensed the creature was right behind him, he wouldn’t quit. He would make it. Just as that beacon of hope began to shine down upon him, the bright sun overhead vanished from view. A looming shadow enveloped him. Confused, he gazed wide-eyed as the daylight grew dim. Then, he realized the ultimate horror: the creature had overtaken him, its jaws opened wide.
He was in its mouth.
With only ten feet separating him from the Sayonara’s beckoning stern, Steve Starling’s youthful world ended in darkness. The monstrous jaws of the giant predator closed on him like a collapsing cave, its ceiling draped with ivory stalactites. As the crushing blackness stifled his muffled screams, the last thing Steve saw was the word Sayonara, scrawled across the battered transom of the old charter boat, just beyond reach of his outstretched hand.
The glass and steel exit doors of Atlanta International Airport sprang apart with a hiss, as Karl Von Freiling emerged. Terse and tired, he squinted as the bright sunlight stabbed at his eyes. He glanced back at himself in the door’s reflective surface and scowled. He desperately needed a shave, and his hawk-like face looked absolutely haggard from lack of sleep. He donned his Maui Jims, grateful for still having them, and took a moment to stretch muscles that were cramped from being jammed into a coach seat for six hours. He adjusted the weighty shoulder bag he carried and made his way toward a waiting taxi. The driver he picked stood with his back to the terminal, one hand leaning on the roof of his brightly
colored minivan.
“Hey there, chap. How goes it?” Von Freiling asked.
“It is good my friend, where-” The driver whirled around. He was Pakistani, judging from his accent, and his anticipatory gaze grew fearful as he sized up his prospective passenger.
Amused, Von Freiling smiled disarmingly from behind his shades. He was used to such reactions. His size and the scars that coated much of his skin often caught people off guard. Of course, the drops of dried blood splattered across what remained of his barely concealed undershirt didn’t help any . . . “I need to get to Daytona Beach,” he said, placing his luggage on the sidewalk and casually buttoning up his intact outer shirt.
“Daytona Beach? That is very far, my friend. It is at least a six hour drive.” The driver eyed him nervously up and down. He glanced at the bag.
“Nearly seven, if we’re obeying posted speed limits,” Von Freiling winked. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet whose sides bulged like a gorged anaconda. He grinned, noticing his soon-to-be chauffeur had forgotten his previous nervousness. “How much?”
The driver hesitated as Von Freiling made a great show of peeling off one hundred dollar bills. “I am . . . not sure. I’ve never taken anyone so far. I will have to call dispatch.”
“Hmm. How does six hundred sound?”
“Six hundred dollars? Um, it sounds very well, but there’s also the cost–”
“I’ll throw in another one-fifty for gas.”
“That sounds excellent indeed, my friend. I think you have got yourself a deal.” The driver gave him a thumbs-up sign and smiled amiably. He started to reach for his passenger’s luggage.
“That’s okay, I got it,” Von Freiling said, hoisting it with one hand.
“Very good, my friend,” the driver said, holding the passenger door for him. “By the way, I am Aziz.”
“Gesundheit!” Von Freiling smirked. He tossed his bag in the back and removed his sunglasses, then turned and took Aziz’s hand in a ligament-straining grip, looking him dead in the eye. “Just kidding. I’m Chuck. Nice to meet you.”
The cabbie paled when he saw what lay behind the shades. “Um . . . nice to meet you too, Chuck,” he managed.
With a smirk, Von Freiling stretched out across the backseat, his shoulder bag placed beneath his head, and his size thirteen shitkickers propped up. He pretended not to notice how Aziz’s hand trembled as he struggled to insert his key into the ignition.
Still shaken by her vessel’s encounter with the intruder, Amara returned to her cabin. She sat on her bed for a minute or two, shifting her hip when it started to ache. As small as it was, her stainless steel shower looked very inviting. The thought of shampooing all the sea air and salt out of her hair while hot water ran over her aching head and neck was tempting . . . Instead she shook her head, got up, and moved over to her computer desk.
She logged onto her PC, waiting impatiently for the wireless connection to take hold. It was her tenth attempt since they received the mysterious crate, and she was growing more and more frustrated. There was a direct connection between the prehistoric fish head they’d been sent and the enormous creature that nearly swamped them. There had to be. Their simultaneous appearance and the bite marks on the specimen were too much of a coincidence.
As her contact list popped up, Amara quickly scanned it from top to bottom. The bastard still wasn’t there. Or, he was blocking her. Damn.
A second later, a loud twanging noise heralded a previously hidden icon revealing itself.
It was him. Tora50. Amara gasped, reaching for the keyboard.
Surprisingly, he wrote first:
Tora50 [10:43 A.M.]: I’ve been expecting you.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:43 A.M.]: Oh, really?
Tora50 [10:44 A.M.]: Naturally. I have not been able to remain online for more than a few moments at a time. My duties prevent it. My apologies.
Amara’s eyes started to narrow.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:44 A.M.]: Your ‘duties’? That’s a fine way to put it.
Tora50 [10:45 A.M.]: It has been a long time. I hope we can avoid arguments. Let us keep things as civil as possible.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:45 A.M.]: Cut the crap. And don’t get all Japanese on me. You sent me something. Do you have any idea what it is?
Tora50 [10:45 A.M.]: No, but I knew you would.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:46 A.M.]: You’re right. I suppose I should be grateful. So thank you.
Tora50 [10:46 A.M.]: You’re welcome. I am curious though. What is it?
Amara hesitated, her fingers suspended over the keys.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:47 A.M.]: I won’t discuss it over the web. Too risky. Tell me, where was it found, and how long ago?
Now, it was Tora50 who hesitated.
Tora50 [10:49 A.M.]: I cannot give you that information. It is, as you said, too risky.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:49 A.M.]: Too risky? To who?
Tora50 [10:49 A.M.]: To myself and my ship. I am sorry, Amara. But I know your dedication to your field, and to your beliefs. You are just like your father. Just as tenacious, and just as misguided.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:50 A.M.]: That’s a riot. I’m misguided? You go around emptying the oceans so that you and your investors can line your pockets? You rape our planet for money! Which of us is misguided? And don’t you DARE talk about my father!
Tora50 [10:51 A.M.]: I see now that it was a mistake to contact you. Forgive an old man for his sentimentality.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:51 A.M.]: Where are you? You must be close or you wouldn’t be afraid to give me your location.
Tora50 [10:52 A.M.]: Not as close as some would wish. I am sure that your American Coast Guard would like to ascertain my location so they could impound my ship and imprison my crew. I am sorry, Amara, but I cannot risk you giving them my coordinates. I hope you can understand: duty is everything.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:53 A.M.]: Look, you sent me the scientific find of the century. If there are more of these fish out there, I need to know so they can be protected. I don’t give a damn where you and your murder machine are right now. I’ve got bigger fish to fry! I need that location.
Tora50 [10:54 A.M.]: Such insolence. I see you are spending far too much time with Americans.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:53 A.M.]: I am an American. Didn’t anyone tell you? Now, are you going to give me the location where you found this thing or not?
Tora50 [10:54 A.M.]: I already told you, I cannot. At least, not at this moment.
WhaleGirlsRule [10:54 A.M.]: You go to hell.
Tora50 [10:55 A.M.]: In time, Amara, in time.
Amara’s snarl of rage echoed throughout her cabin. She sprang to her feet, her hands grasping her monitor screen. For a moment she thought about smashing it against the nearest wall. She shook her head, released her grip, growled, and took in a few deep breaths. Her eyes intense, she sat down and grabbed her mouse, clicking a quick end to the infuriating conversation.
She continued to sit there, closing her eyes and focusing on calming herself with yoga breathing exercises. A few minutes later, she felt her calmness finally begin to return. She opened her eyes, stood up, and started to disrobe.
She needed that shower.
With its outboard smoking from thermal buildup, the Infidel skimmed across the sea like a hunting missile. Jake Braddock stood like a granite statue, his hands tightly gripping the center console’s chromed steering wheel as he continued to push the sleek craft beyond its limits.
From his boss’s demeanor, Chris could tell Jake was beyond worried about his former mentor. The sheriff’s piercing eyes gave him away, sweeping back and forth like pendulums from the horizon to their radar screen and back up again. Several times his gaze fell on their boat’s radio, but after a dozen failed attempts at reaching Steve Starling, Jake seemed disinclined to continue trying.
“Wow, forty-five knots, chief,” Chris said over the roar of the outboard, trying for the fifth time in the last twenty minutes to initiate a con
versation. “How long before we get there?”
He got no response. Chris opened his mouth once more, then closed it. Slumping back into his copilot’s chair, he resumed scanning the horizon with binoculars in the hope of spotting the Sayonara. Suddenly, a tiny spot of color appeared in the distance. Chris focused. It was a Jet Ski, a single rider, cruising at high speed in the direction of the marina.
“There’s a skimmer off the starboard bow, chief. Five hundred yards away.” Not bothering to wait for a response that wasn’t coming, he kept on talking. “Maybe the rider saw something. Let me zoom in and see who it is.” Cranking the high powered optics from twenty to fifty, he took a closer look. “Hmm, it’s Brad Harcourt. Wow, he’s really hauling ass. I wonder where he’s going in such a hurry?”
“To hell, one hopes,” Jake said unexpectedly. “Keep on those binoculars, Chris. We’re within a mile of the location Steve was talking about. I’ll keep an eye on the radar and sonar.”
“You got it, chief.” Chris smiled, reached over and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “Good to have you back.”
Jake said nothing. He just continued looking and driving.
Five miles from the Infidel’s position, the creature floated motionless on the surface, the thick hide of its broad back drying in the afternoon sun. A groan escaped its thick-scaled lips and sent an approaching mako shark scurrying for its life.
It was completely gorged, its distended stomach stretched to the limit from over ten tons of flesh and debris. Nearly comatose from feeding so heavily, the predator drifted atop the swells, the sun’s rays beating down upon its dark-colored skin.
Fearless in its supremacy, the basking monster fell into a deep slumber.
Jake rubbed his temples as he slowed the Infidel to just below cruising speed. The search was taking its toll, and aggravation and frustration were forcing their way through his normally stolid exterior. He exhaled through his teeth as he reached for the radio once more.
“This is the Infidel calling the Sayonara. Repeat, the Infidel calling the Sayonara. Do you read me, Sayonara?”
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 18
