by Russ Elliott
John and Kate stood in stunned silence as Steven finished his rapid-fire lesson. “And let’s not forget the teeth. The largest megalodon teeth are about seven and a half inches, whereas pliosaurs stretch the tape to eighteen inches—a full ten inches longer. And when it comes to bite force, the comparison is not even close. Scaling up the bite force of a great white shark, scientists have concluded that megalodon had a maximum bite force of twenty thousand pounds per square inch. As I mentioned earlier, pliosaur had a bite force in excess of sixteen tons. Clearly, this beast could rip a megalodon in half!”
John held up his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you!”
Kate whistled in disbelief. She looked up at the suspended jaws. “I still can’t believe it . . . a creature like this out there all these years, and no one’s seen it.”
“Oh, but they have.” Steven grinned wide. “It’s been seen . . . it’s just that no one’s been able to find it!”
“You mean like the creature in Loch Ness?” asked Kate.
Steven laughed. “Hardly! Everyone knows there’s nothing in Loch Ness, no food supply. However, the ocean is an entirely different story.” He stuck his finger high in the air and bellowed, “July 30, 1915. Off the coast of Ireland, the German submarine U-28 had just torpedoed the British ship Iberian. As the ship sank, there was an enormous explosion that sent debris a hundred feet into the air. Then, amidst the boiling debris, rolling up to the surface appeared a colossal prehistoric marine reptile over sixty feet long. The submarine crew witnessed the living creature writhe on the surface for about fifteen seconds until it slowly sank into the sea.”
Kate’s eyes grew wide. “Are you serious?”
“Every word of it’s true. But that sighting pales to this one.” Steven’s voice grew ominous. “It involves another sub at the end of World War I. The German submarine UB-85 was caught on the surface in broad daylight and sunk by a British patrol boat. The German crew was captured. Once onboard, Captain Krech, the sub’s commander, was asked why he didn’t submerge when he saw the British ship . . . well, he had some story to tell.”
John found himself leaning forward slightly in anticipation. He looked over at Kate; she was doing the same.
Steven’s eyes glowed with fervor as he continued the story. “They had been recharging their batteries the previous night on the surface, when all of a sudden, a huge beast climbed aboard from the sea. All they could see was its enormous eyes and teeth. It was so massive it listed the sub to the point where the captain feared an open hatch would drop below the waterline. Every man on watch fired at the creature, but its teeth were latched onto the forward gun mount and wouldn’t let go. Ultimately, the beast let go and slid back into the sea. But in the struggle, the forward plating had been damaged so severely the sub could no longer submerge. ‘That’s why you were able to catch us on the surface,’ Captain Krech had concluded.”
“Wow,” John said, “I’ve never heard this.”
Kate just shook her head.
“The Monongahela Monster, the Pensacola Bay Incident of ‘62 . . . the list goes on. In the last century there have been thousands of plesiosaur and pliosaur sightings throughout the world’s oceans,” assured Steven. “And in 1983 something incredible washed up in our own backyard.”
John eased back against the stairwell as Steven continued. “On June 12, renowned wildlife enthusiast Owen Burnham, in the presence of family members, ran across a bizarre carcass on Bungalow Beach. It was sixteen feet long, had a long pair of jaws containing eighty teeth each . . . and two pairs of paddle fins.”
John’s eyes lit up.
“That’s right,” said Steven, “paddle fins that prove it was a pliosaur. At sixteen feet it was most likely a juvenile. But what was also amazing about the carcass . . . it had not begun to decompose, other than a torn rear flipper. It was entirely intact!”
Steven grinned wide and said, “So much for it being a decomposed basking shark, which has been the case in some of the other assumed pliosaur carcasses. Not this time.”
“So where is the carcass now?” asked Kate. “Lying about in formaldehyde at the Smithsonian?”
Steven’s smile faded. That’s just it. Burnham had left the carcass briefly to retrieve his instruments to document the find, and by the time he returned, it was gone. Apparently the locals disposed of it.” Steven raised a finger. “But I assure you, Owen Burnham is an extremely reliable, knowledgeable eyewitness and was in the presence of others when he examined the carcass. And many well-respected paleontologists regard this as significant evidence of pliosaurs’ existence in today’s oceans. But that’s not the only one. In 1922, on another beach in South Africa, a farmer—”
John cut in. “Steven, this is all riveting. But trust me, I’m the last person you need to convince that these things still exist. What we want to know is where this creature is likely to turn up next? What does it feed on? Territory?”
Steven squinted for a moment, realigning his thoughts. “As far as diet and territory, I would say anywhere along the coast where upwelling occurs, places producing plankton-rich waters that attract whales . . . a top item on pliosaur’s diet. Keep an eye out for unusual carcasses washing—”
Kate’s ringing cell phone cut Steven short.
“Sorry,” she said. She listened for a moment, and her jaw went slack. She looked up at Steven. “Do you have a TV?”
~~~
Steven sat on the corner of an ornate wooden desk in his office. Kate and John were perched on chairs beside him, all eyes riveted to a small TV on a bookshelf.
“Mom said she just saw this on the news,” said Kate. “But apparently it’s been going on for hours.”
The image on screen showed several tourists struggling to cut a beached whale from a shark barrier net. A female reporter was at the tide line. “This is the second beaching in Plettenberg Bay, and this one has researchers baffled. This same disoriented creature beached itself earlier, then was saved and released. But instead of heading into deep waters, it turned around and headed back to shore.”
Kate said, “That whale’s not disoriented. It knows what’s out there.”
The trio watched as someone handed the reporter a note. She glanced at it and continued. “Now we’re going to take you live to another beaching fifty miles east, discovered earlier this morning.”
The screen switched to a black female reporter walking alongside a beached sperm whale. Although dozens of people were collected along the shoreline, no one helped the creature, for it was clearly dead. News helicopters thumped in the background.
“Michelle Reiner, Channel Eight News, reporting to you live from Paradise Beach. Behind me is yet another beached sperm whale, but as you’ll see in a moment, this one’s a bit different.” The camera followed Michelle as she waded to the opposite side of the enormous carcass where bystanders, knee deep in water, frantically snapped their cameras. When the news camera turned, Kate and Steven gasped. The screen filled with an enormous bite mark in the whale. Huge chunks of spilled blubber swayed with the tide.
“Look at the size of that bite mark!” Kate exclaimed.
Michelle continued. “I know what you’re thinking, but relax. Researchers assure me that what looks like an enormous single bite mark is in fact the result of a number of sharks feeding from the same area.” Sloshing closer, she pointed out smaller bites taken from inside the enormous wound.
John just smirked.
Michelle waded over to four long gashes beside the wound. “But what no one can explain are these deep, long tears through the whale’s flank.”
“I can,” muttered John. “That would be where it missed.”
Steven finally broke his silence. “Southwest . . . aah, the Agulhas! I should have known.” He slid off his desk. “Follow me. We need to have a look at something.”
~~~
Kate and John followed Steven into a vast exhibit room. Pedestals and platforms displayed skeletons of prehistoric South African marine life.
Passing a twelve-foot sea turtle skeleton, they stopped in front of an enormous wall map of South Africa. Different colors indicated major currents.
Steven pulled a laser pen from his pocket and indicated a spot on the map. “Judging from the Motanza attack and the beachings, the pliosaur is clearly heading southwest. My guess would be that it’s picked up the Agulhas, a warm, south-flowing current that flows between Madagascar and Mozambique and skirts along the coast of South Africa.”
“What’s so alluring about this particular current?” asked John.
“The creature is probably using it to help propel its tremendous bulk, conserving calories while looking for spots where upwelling occurs—steep embankments or any place producing plankton-rich waters that attract whales.”
“Toward the Western Cape? Aren’t there a lot of seal colonies in that area?” asked Kate. “Like around False Bay?”
“Yes, False Bay . . . or as the locals call it, the Ring of Death.”
“Ring of Death.” John repeated the words solemnly.
“Yes, charming, isn’t it?” Steven traced the coast with his laser pen and circled the spot. “There’s a rocky island in the center of the bay that houses sixty thousand fur seals. Surrounding the island, there’s an area the seals have to pass through to swim back to shore. The area is so saturated with great whites, it’s been labeled the Ring of Death. Right around the island, the elevation drops straight down to a depth of fifty feet. That’s an ideal situation for a predator the size of pliosaur to move up close to its prey.
“You’ve probably seen the area on that TV documentary where the great whites soar through the air. The waters are so deep that during an attack, sharks can swim straight up from the bottom, reach full speed, and breach about six feet above the surface.”
Steven’s beam followed the coast and stopped on another area. “But before that, a little farther east, you have a real hot spot, the Dyer Island Channel. They even nicknamed it Shark Alley. That’s also where they have the—” Steven’s jaw dropped. “Oh no. The shark tours! They won’t have a chance!”
“Shark tours?” John’s mind reeled at the thought.
Kate matched Steven’s expression. “Yes, it’s a huge attraction. People fly in from all over the world for this. The tour operators chum the water for hours and then bring tourists out to watch them feed the sharks from the boat. But for some of those crazy tourists, that’s not enough, they drop down in a cage right in the middle of a feeding frenzy—”
John cut in. “If the pliosaur’s anywhere near there . . .” He turned to Steven and hurriedly shook his hand. “Steven, you’ve been tremendous, but we need to get to the chopper.” Kate saluted Steven, and they were on their way.
Hurrying along the hallway, John said to Kate, “I’ll call the Navy on the way. We don’t have time to wait until they see the tooth. We’ve got to get these tours closed down immediately.” The two bolted through the glass double doors and made for the jeep.
Chapter 22
STILL IN THE GAME
Kota slid his thumb to the edge of the driver’s license, allowing him to see the small photograph of John Paxton more clearly. He looked over at the red X on Kolegwa’s chest representing a sworn oath to kill his enemy, or take his own life if he fails. “Relax, you may still get a chance to fulfill your vow.”
“You can find white man from that?” grunted Kolegwa in their native tongue.
“Yes. This can take me right to him!” Kota picked up the leather wallet from a table in the small hut. He slid out the corners of about a dozen business cards. “These will help too.”
He turned to Kolegwa, eyes ablaze. “Remember the white holy man who came to the island and taught me their language, Afrikaans? The man who took me with him to Africa to learn their ways? You said it was a waste to learn outsiders’ ways.” He released a grim smile. “But now you will see. The chief’s death will be avenged!” Kota raised the driver’s license. “He thinks he’ll stop Kuta Keb-la, but I will stop him!” He motioned to Kolegwa. “Come, there is little time to prepare.”
Kolegwa followed Kota through the series of huts to the east corner of the village. They came to a guarded cave entrance. The guard quickly stepped aside . . . as did anyone in Kota’s path.
Entering the cave, there was only darkness initially. Soon there was a hint of light and the increasing echo of the ocean. The passageway emptied into a breathtaking lagoon surrounded by a vast cavern. On the far side of the cavern, an opening looked out to the blue-green waters of the Indian Ocean.
The banks looked like a marine surplus store in the wake of a hurricane. The duo passed piles of clothing, life jackets, life rafts, and various small pleasure boats collected along the banks––all that remained of troubled seagoers who’d sought refuge on the island. Kota looked around contently. Clearly, Kuta Keb-la had dined well over the years.
Behind Kota and Kolegwa, villagers flooded into the entrance, watching with wild-eyed anticipation.
Kota paused at a wooden barrel. He decided to take one last look at his crate of souvenirs. He lifted the wooden top. Inside was a stack of life preservers adorned with the names of various ships––trophies they had collected over the years from fishing and whaling vessels that ventured too close to the island.
With great pride, he reminisced how they would paddle out toward the ship. Then, when they were close enough, the men would lie down in the bottom canoe and cover themselves with palm fronds. The only soul visible would be a small boy perched at the bow. He would hold up a pearl necklace and motion to the fishermen, as if he wanted to offer them a trade. It worked every time.
The greedy fishermen always waved the youth over, thinking they could take advantage of an ignorant native boy. And that was when they got the surprise. That was when their jaws dropped and their faces turned even whiter with fear. He recalled the look in their eyes when the tribesmen sprang up from the palm fronds with their spears in hand. The fishermen never had a chance. There was never more than a two-minute struggle. After the bodies were tossed overboard, they would burst a large hole into the hull and leave the ship to slowly find its way to the dark depths of the Indian Ocean.
Kota smiled with pride and closed the top of the barrel. And the outsiders always wondered why this area has a bad reputation for ships being lost at sea. Yes, those were the good old days, Kota thought . . . at least until he was a little older, and they sent him to school with the missionary. But that was good too. It gave Kota the tools he needed—knowledge of the outside world that no one else in the tribe possessed. Otherwise, he could have ended up with the intellect of Kolegwa. Well, maybe not that bad.
Heading farther along the bank, Kota passed two weather-beaten pleasure boats and stopped at a twenty-eight-foot naval patrol boat surrounded by tribesmen. A smear of blood crusted on the driver’s seat evoked a smile from Kota. A look inside showed everything was loaded up: gas cans, life raft, and a suitcase of African rand bills.
Kota climbed aboard. Now, what to wear? He picked up a maroon sailing jacket that was already on the boat and tried it on. As Kolegwa started to board, Kota pointed to the pile of clothes and ordered in their native tongue, “First, find something that fits you. Can’t have you walking around looking like an overgrown version of Shaka Zulu.”
Kolegwa’s brow wrinkled, not sure what that meant.
Kota watched as Kolegwa rambled through the pile of clothes. It’s a good thing I’m taking him with me, he thought. Otherwise, with the chief dead, he might try to empower himself while I’m gone. That is, if the imbecile doesn’t follow through on his vow and take his own life.
Kota turned his attention to the gas containers, then checked the boat’s fuel gauge, and estimated there was more than enough for the trip. He looked through a briefcase filled with rand. Yes, they had everything they needed.
“What about this?” shouted Kolegwa.
Kota looked up and saw Kolegwa standing proudly in front of the pile of clothes. He wore a mul
ticolored polyester shirt with every button strained to its limit and sleeves that stopped well above his wrist. His selection of lime-green pants fit in a similar manner, ending about five inches above his ankles. Kota smiled, “Nice choice. You’re gonna drive those African women crazy. Come, let’s go!”
Kolegwa turned to his family. He gave a heavyset woman and two little girls a hug, then climbed on board beside Kota. Kota smiled, took a skipper’s hat from the driver’s seat, and crowned Kolegwa. “Aaah! That’s it. I knew something was missing.”
Taking his place at the helm, Kota clapped his hands. Eight men, four to a side, hefted the vessel onto their shoulders. Carrying it pallbearer-style, they crossed the bank and waded into the lagoon until the waves reached the hull.
The engine roared to life, echoing through the cavern, muting the sound of the sea. Kota stood, facing the crowd along the banks. His machete thrust overhead, he shouted in their native tongue, “Prepare a pole at the base of the lagoon for the white man’s head!”
The villagers sounded out in a victory cry as the boat disappeared into the glaring light at the opposite side of the cavern.
~~~
Kate zipped the jeep along a bumpy road as they entered Cape St. Francis. John had one hand on the giant tooth sprawled across his lap; the other held a cell phone.
“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” Lieutenant Vic Greeman’s voice echoed through the phone. “You want me to close down the shark tours because of an eighteen-foot marine reptile heading their way?”
