Vengeance from the Deep - Book One: Pliosaur

by Russ Elliott

  After climbing up to the top of the helicopter, John pulled his leg to the opposite side and straddled the craft. He looked down at the five-inch-long spear hole in the crowning. “Should be just big enough to cover it.” With his head sticking up between the blades, he peeled the sticker off its backing and realized oil had seeped into part of it. He did his best to stick the unsoiled part of the sticker over the hole. “That’s gonna have to do it!” he muttered, pressing the sticker down tightly with the palm of his hand.

  Suddenly, he heard movement in the nearby foliage. Off to his right, he saw a line of rustling leaves heading in his direction. He quickly realized it wasn’t the wind.

  John slid down the side of the helicopter like it was a sliding board. He landed in front of the pilot’s door and dove to the floorboard beneath the startled chimp. He grabbed the machine gun, ripped the empty clip from its bottom, and thrust his hand under the passenger seat. His hand desperately searched until he felt a cold metal rectangular object and quickly pulled it out. With a crisp “click,” the new clip found its way into the bottom of the automatic weapon.

  The rustling grew closer.

  John dove back out through the pilot’s side door, landed on his back, and pointed the barrel in the direction of the rustling leaves, the Baby Ruth bar still protruding from his mouth. Squinting, he looked down the barrel to where the thick foliage of the jungle met the beach. The pilot’s door slowly swung shut above him. The sound of the thrashing leaves drew closer when suddenly a wild boar burst from the thick foliage and ran across the beach.

  John let out a sigh of relief and laid his head back on the damp sand. Eventually, he came to his feet and reached to open the pilot’s side door. Pulling the door open, a thought crossed his mind. What scared the boar?

  A spear shot through the passenger side window. At the last second, John ducked, feeling the wind brush his cheek as the weapon barely missed his head. He looked back up and saw a tribesman on the opposite side of the helicopter. He was soon joined by his fellow islanders. Aware that John had seen them, the natives screamed in unison as they burst into full stride. John jumped back into the cockpit. From the pilot’s seat, he fired his machine gun through the passenger-side window at the oncoming natives. The startled chimp jumped into the floorboard and put her hands over her ears.

  Machine gun fire ripped through the passenger-side door, tearing most of it from its hinges. The ebony figures dove to the side, avoiding fragments from the exploding door and the flurry of bullets. John started the helicopter. The chimp raced across the back of John’s seat toward the open pilot’s side window. John glanced at the black streak behind him. She’s got the right idea.

  He twisted the throttle to maximum RPM. He pulled up on the collective to lift the helicopter, then he pulled to the left, letting the bottom of the helicopter come between him and the wall of natives. A series of dull thuds and pinging sounds echoed from the craft’s underbelly. A spear flew past the windshield and was disintegrated by the chopping blades. Fragments of wood sprayed the windshield. Below, buffeted by the wash from the main rotor, John saw half-painted faces shouting up at the sky. One large man stood out among the others. There was no mistaking the burning eyes of Kota glaring up at him. John gave him a final salute and increased his altitude. The surrounding tribesmen ran past Kota and continued pursuit in the shadow of the helicopter. Waving their spears, they crossed the beach and never slowed until they were waist high in the ocean.

  The dark figures on the distant shoreline shrank as the chopper pulled farther away. The shoreline eventually disappeared. Soon, the island was only a small green speck in endless blue water . . . and then it was gone.

  John turned his attention back to the windshield. He squinted into the distance, carefully scanning for storm clouds. The sunny sky and long white clouds brought him a little piece of mind. He leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. A few deep breaths and his pulse rate lowered closer to normal. Slowly he turned his head from side to side to ease the tension in his neck. His gaze stopped on the giant tooth in the passenger seat. The image of the screaming natives faded and left only one thought on his mind. The creature’s already been free for more than a day!

  ~~~

  Kate sat at her computer desk in her small Cape St. Francis airport office. The monitor displayed a weather map while she listened to her cell phone. “You still haven’t heard from them?” Her face showed genuine concern. “Mom, you know something’s not right . . . they’re more than a day late. And you said Paxton’s always been meticulous about his flight schedule.”

  Kate listened while looking at the monitor. “I suppose you could be right. I’m looking at a weather map now . . . looks like it’s been a bit nasty out there, it could have been a weather delay.”

  She paused while a plane taxied past the window. “When I get back from my next flight, if you still haven’t heard from them, I’ll start calling around . . . see if any choppers have been reported down or anything of the sort. And if they don’t turn up by tomorrow morning, I was considering flying out there and having a look around—”

  Kate paused. Her nose wrinkled, “You can’t forbid me from doing anything! If I want to go out there, you can’t—”

  Kate listened for a moment. “Okay, okay! I promise. I won’t go without calling you first. We’ll wait . . . see what happens in the next couple hours.”

  Although she didn’t necessarily agree, she decided to humor her mother. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right . . . probably just a weather delay.”

  Kate closed the phone and stared blankly at the screen. Why did her mother practically forbid her from going to the island? Now she was certain that John and Brad’s delay was due to more than just the weather.

  ~~~

  After hours of flying under ideal conditions, the sky began to grow more ominous. The waters flashing below faded to dark gray. The wind whipping through the cockpit grew cooler.

  About two miles ahead, John saw an enormous storm cloud in his path. He wondered how the sticker on the crowning was holding out, or if it was even still there. “Better not risk it,” he muttered. He pulled the stick to the left, adjusting his course to avoid the dark cloud. He glanced down to the fuel gauge. “Yow. It’s going to be close.” He knew there was only so far he could alter his course and still make it to the African coast.

  Easing off the stick, he noticed a piece of broken windscreen lying on the instrument cluster. In it he saw his reflection. In spite of all the scratches crusted on his face, his eye went to an old scar that had left a slight separation in his left eyebrow. Over the years he’d told everyone it was from a playground mishap. If only I’d been that lucky, he thought.

  In his mind’s eye, John went back twenty-four years to the morning after the accident, when he saw his picture in the local newspaper. Above it, the headline read: “Medical Student Fails Major Test.” Those five words had changed the course of his life. He glanced at the giant tooth in the passenger’s seat, and like a long-lost friend, a familiar sense of guilt began to swell inside. He was afraid to imagine what the headlines would say this time.

  Chapter 12

  MOTANZA

  Three miles off the coast of Mazeppa Bay, Mike Boland stood at the bow of a Coastal Eight News boat, adjusting his camera. Through the lens, he watched an attractive young newscaster receive a final touch of makeup. In the glistening waters behind her, a flotilla of small boats formed a circle around an enormous fishing net.

  The newscaster turned her microphone to make sure the red number eight on its front was in proper alignment.

  The makeup girl stepped out of frame.

  “Five seconds, Susan!” Mike called out from behind the camera. He counted down with his fingers . . . three . . . two . . . one, and signaled that she was on the air. “Okay, baby. Let’s see that million-dollar smile,” he whispered.

  The young woman’s eyes came to life. “Susan Sherman, Coastal Eight News, reporting to you live. We’re just
a few miles off Mazeppa Bay on this warm, sunny day to bring you the Mazeppa Motanza.” She had to speak above a nearby boat of environmentalists who were shouting and waving signs.

  “What’s a Motanza, you ask? Well, that’s Italian for Bloody Festival—not for the squeamish, I might add. This tradition was adapted from the original Motanza held annually in Italy off the coast of Sicily.”

  Susan brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Now the way this works, as you can see behind me, is that the local fishermen circle their boats around an enormous net dropped deep beneath the surface. Then the fishermen in each boat pull in the net until it rises to the surface, trapping everything within the circle. The goal is to trap some forty or fifty yellow fin tuna, each weighing in at around two hundred pounds. Although not quite as large as the blue fin variety caught off Sicily, these fish can still put up quite a struggle.

  “Now this is where the Motanza lives up to its name. The fishermen use large hooks in an attempt to bring these massive fish on board their dinghies where it all turns into a bloody struggle between man and fish.”

  Mike gave Susan her queue. She stepped aside, allowing the camera to close in on the action. Dredged up from the depths and pulled taut by the fishermen, the giant net was filled with thrashing tuna. Mike closed on one of the two-hundred-pounders as it slipped off a fisherman’s hook and thrashed back down to the center of the net, blood spewing from its side. He panned to another group of fishermen. Several hooks ripped into a giant tuna, hauling it on board. Beneath the thrashing tail, blood gushed down the side of the boat and flowed into the rising net.

  The camera panned back to Susan. “Oftentimes, dolphins, sharks, and other forms of sea life fall victim to the indiscriminate net. And, as you may have noticed from the signs around me, not everyone is happy about this newly adapted form of fishing.”

  The camera zoomed in on a group of eight, standing at the rail of a yacht. They all held a banner that spelled MURDERERS in smeared red letters. Waving the banner, they chanted, “No more Motanza! No more Motanza!”

  As the protests grew louder, Susan moved back into the shot. “Whether you’re a spectator or participant, one thing is for sure—the Motanza festival is certainly not for the faint-hearted.” She gave a winning smile. “This is Susan Sherman for Coastal Eight News, Mazeppa.” As per tradition, she held her smile for a few moments. Then it turned to a grimace. “Yuk! Get what you need, and then let’s get out of here before I lose my lunch.”

  Susan clicked off her mike with a sigh of relief. Then in the background a huge, gray shape burst out of the waters below the net, pushing the net upward. Mike stood up from behind the camera, not believing his eyes.

  Ten feet . . .

  Twenty feet . . .

  The net continued to rise while taking on the form of a massive head.

  Susan turned around and dropped the microphone, her facial expression one of horror. She tried to speak, but her words were muted by the cries of the fishermen.

  The net rose higher. With nearly half its body towering above the surface, the veiled monstrosity thrashed in midair. Dozens of yellow fin tuna were propelled upward, flopping and twisting forty feet above the sea.

  Fishermen in the creature’s shadow dove from their boats. The towering body began to fall. In an explosion of whitewater, the tangled giant crashed down on the boats on the west side of the circle, splintering them throughout the sea. Simultaneously boats on the opposite side were capsized from the violent pull of the net. A swell shot out and slapped the news boat’s hull, rocking the deck. Mike and Susan struggled to maintain her balance. Screams battered the air. In disbelief, Mike quickly ducked back down behind his camera, fighting to cover the scene. Before the swaying lens were shoulders ripped from their sockets and fingers torn from hands still clinging to the net.

  The tangled beast dove and rolled beneath the waves, taking with it several fishermen who couldn’t free themselves in time.

  Splash! A plume of water shot up in front of the camera. Another splash . . . the tuna sent skyward were dropping like bombs. Another fish slapped the water near the bow. Without warning, a gigantic tuna landed on a girl holding part of the banner on the protestors’ boat. To Mike’s left, another tuna had landed on another boat, catapulting a man into the water. Tuna continued to fall at random, water spewing into the air like exploding depth charges.

  Mike frantically panned the camera, trying to get the bizarre scene into frame. He searched for the netted creature, but found only the damage left in its wake. On the protestors’ boat, he saw a woman’s leg protruding from beneath one of the tuna. Three men struggled to move the huge fish while the woman’s heel slid from side to side on the deck.

  In front of the protestors’ boat were many capsized fishing boats. Men in the water struggled to crawl on top of their overturned hulls. Other fishermen swam for the spectators’ boats where they were eagerly pulled aboard. Mike panned left and saw two men lying on the deck of a fishing boat. Their faces grimaced in pain while several men around them ripped off parts of their shirts to wrap their bleeding hands.

  Mike scanned the water searching for the creature. He tried to lower the camera to where several spectators were pointing, but the bow of his boat blocked his view. Stepping in front of the camera, he walked to the edge of the bow. Susan backed away. Beneath the rippling surface, Mike saw the huge shadow still under the swirling net while several tangled figures trailed behind. With another thrash, two of the men were thrown clear of the net. They quickly paddled upward and broke surface, blood streaming from their hands.

  Mike watched the remaining fisherman trying to free his hand from the metal hook tangled in the net. He was trying to undo the strap that secured the hook to his wrist. Every time he had it loose, the net pulled, causing the strap to tighten. Again the net jerked. The shimmering figure went limp, his now lifeless body tossed about with the creature’s every move. Mike wanted to jump in and help, but he hesitated. He had no idea what was under the net.

  He stood on the edge of the bow, struggling to get up his nerve. Adrenaline pounded in his veins. Then the trail of bubbles flowing from the fisherman’s nose stopped. Before Mike knew what he was doing, he was already in the water. Susan’s screams disappeared when he dropped below the waves. He swam toward the tangled creature. The enormous net billowed, reaching for him as if it had a mind of its own.

  He reached the unconscious man and felt his way through a blood cloud around the strapped wrist. The net went slack. Mike carefully looked to make sure the massive head was still pointed in the opposite direction.

  He jiggled the hook, trying to get it to release. Blood swooshed around his hands. He almost had it free when a sudden thrash from the beast tossed the net over them. Mike felt his way through the swirling maze until he found the edge of the net. Pushing the bundled net aside, the hook released from the extra slack.

  He grabbed the limp body around the neck and swam clear of the net. He looked back. The massive tail thrust, throwing the net clear of the creature’s body. From Mike’s angle, he caught a glimpse of an enormous paddle fin until the swirling net again blocked his view.

  A few more strokes, and Mike finally reached the surface. He gasped for air, again hearing the cries and moans. Men on a nearby fishing boat quickly pulled the injured fisherman from his arms. Mike swam back to the news boat where Susan was waiting for him behind the ladder.

  “Are you okay?” Susan had tears streaming down her face.

  “Yeah, yeah. Where is it? Is it still tangled?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Mike ran to the camera and searched for the rising net. Water from his drenched clothes poured onto the deck while he jockeyed the large TV camera.

  The creature suddenly burst from the surface, thrashing wildly to free itself from the net. Water spewed over the bow of Mike’s boat and onto the camera lens.

  After finding her microphone, Susan, crouching low, poked her head in front of the camera
. “Are you getting this?”

  “You better believe it!” Mike said. “I don’t know what it is—but we’re looking at worldwide news. And to think you didn’t want to come out here and cover a lousy protest!”

  The camera followed the choppy water until the bundled net submerged. Little remained of the circular formation of boats as Mike searched the debris and overturned hulls, looking for the slightest trace of whitewater.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Susan?” yelled Mike. “Say something!”

  Susan, her makeup streaked with tears, gathered her composure. She searched for words to describe what was unfolding before her.

  As she began to speak, there was a loud splash behind her, and then the boat jarred abruptly as the deck rose from the water. The camera continued to roll, filming only white clouds while Susan’s commentary was reduced to a scream.

  Moments later, Mike opened his eyes to find Susan lying on the deck beside him, frantically crying. Mike rolled over on his side. “Are you okay?”

  “I . . . I think so,” Susan got up and ran back behind the helm.

  He looked back and saw the camera protruding from the boat’s windshield. “Yeah, I’m okay too. Thanks for asking!” Mike slowly stood, his eyes scanning the water. The entangled bulk glided away from the scene. Mike pressed his hand to his heart.

  ~~~

  Due west, just beyond the tattered circle of boats, a couple in their sixties watched from the starboard rail of their yacht. They held hands and silently witnessed the horror unfold, unsure what had happened. That’s when they saw a bundled net heading their way, bumping smaller boats out of its path.