by Russ Elliott
Drew twisted around in his chair. “Doesn’t look like a patrol boat. Looks more like a fishing boat; maybe someone’s got the same idea as we do. What do you think we should do?”
Al hooked the soup ladle back onto the top of the barrel. “Just sit tight. We’ll see what they want.”
As the boat drew nearer, Drew’s eyes widened. “Looks like a fishing boat, but he ain’t dressed like no fisherman!” He dropped his rod onto the deck.
The lieutenant fought back a smile as Drew threw his rod away and tried to look innocent while strapped to the chair. Slowly, Vic pulled around in front of Drew’s boat, then cut throttle about ten yards off their starboard.
Vic looked along the long chum slick leading to Drew’s boat. “You gentlemen wouldn’t be out here doing any shark fishing, would you?”
“No sir! Just came out here to dump our chum,” replied Drew. “Didn’t want to dump it too close to the docks . . . might bring in too many sharks!”
Vic laughed. “That’s awfully considerate of you guys. What about that line you’ve got running into the water?”
Al spoke up. “That’s just our beer. Got to keep ’em cool you know.”
Vic looked at the thick line running from the rail into the water. “They must be awful heavy, judging from the gauge of wire you’re using. Looks like that wire is strong enough to raise the Titanic!”
John watched, tense, finding no humor in the situation.
Vic continued his prodding. “And Drew, you must be expecting some rough weather, the way you’re all strapped into that chair.” He looked over at Al’s chum-stained shirt, pointed, and said sternly, “That’s enough, guys. You know you’re not supposed to be out here. Let’s go.”
“But we didn’t bring no tourists. It’s just the two of us,” pleaded Drew, his hands out to his sides.
Vic shook his head. “Pack it in. Let’s go, guys.”
Al and Drew shrugged in defeat. Thank God, thought John with a nervous glance around the water. Finally, they were heading back in. Drew reached down to undo the first strap of his harness, when suddenly his line stretched taut.
Vic laughed. “Don’t look now, but it looks like your beer is making a run for it!”
Al’s eyes sprang open when he saw the rod dancing toward the gunwale. “Drew, grab the rod!” he yelled. “You’ve got something!”
Straining against the straps, Drew leaned forward, reaching for the rod. It sat straight up, pinned against the gunwale six inches from his fingertips. Then, just before the rod shot over the rail, Al raced over and grabbed it. Getting a firm grip, he slowly pulled the rod back to Drew. “You got it?”
Drew braced his feet and the rod started to bend. “I’ve got it!” he shouted. “It feels like a monster!”
“Wind it in, wind it in!” yelled Al.
Drew dropped the rod forward, desperately winding to gain a few precious revolutions on his reel, then pulled back, using every muscle in his body. Suddenly, a splash of water jetted through the air from a swipe of a massive gray nose.
“Did you see that?” asked Al. “It’s huge! You sure you’re okay?”
Drew nodded, unable to speak as sweat beads streaked his face. Again, he dropped the rod down and wound the reel frantically.
Al slapped Drew’s chair. “That’s it, Drew. Bring it home, baby. This one’s for the record books.” Fifty feet out, another spray of water went flying through the air.
The lieutenant leaned against the rail, trying to get a glimpse of what was on the end of Drew’s line. Apparently, his sense of duty or any thought of stopping them was overruled by sheer curiosity.
John’s skin turned ice cold. He shouted across to Drew, “Cut the line. Cut it now!”
Drew pulled back with all his strength. The rod bent farther while his face turned a deeper shade of red.
Al pleaded, “Come on, Drew! Let me help. This is too much!”
“No way. I’ve got it!” grunted Drew, straining harder, holding his breath in one maximum effort.
Al stood up and for the first time got a good look as the creature on the end of the line. He took two slow steps back. “Drew . . . Drew! We were hoping for a record, but this thing’s huuuge!”
Drew didn’t acknowledge his presence. He just kept his eyes shut and pulled even harder, the rod now bent to its maximum.
And that’s when the massive head burst from the surface, hitting the air with its mouth stretched open. With a tremendous crash, it hit the deck—the head of a great white shark, severed from behind the first gill slit.
Al stared down at the massive decapitation. Blood from the gaping wound gushed across his feet.
Drew looked over. “I’ve never seen that happen before!”
Al was completely dumbfounded.
“Show it to Vic,” Drew said. “See what he makes of it!”
Al reached down, grabbed the cable protruding from the lifeless mouth, and wrapped it around his hand. Using every ounce of strength, he raised the three-foot wide head to the side rail. He shouted across to Vic, “Ever seen anything like this before?”
Stunned, John stepped back from the lieutenant. “Get out of here . . . now!”
John could only watch while Drew laughed from his chair, “Guess I pulled too hard. Didn’t mean to yank its head off.” It was all just a joke to the fishermen as Al strained to hold the huge decapitation high enough for everyone to see.
Then Al’s knees buckled. The severed head fell to the deck as the tiny fishing boat began to rise from the water--a glistening white column appearing beneath it. Drew screamed from his chair. Like fireworks, loud crackling sounds rose with the boat. Planks from the deck were snapping like twigs.
John’s view was a mass of white as he stared at a rising underbelly, fifteen feet wide. The great beast continued to rise from its straight-upward attack, water cascading from its body.
Massive paddle fins burst from the sea. Still, John was unable to comprehend the sheer size of the creature as the span of its paddle fins extended wider than the boat on which he stood.
John looked upward from the shadow of the towering beast. He watched Drew’s boat rise forty feet above the water’s surface, clutched within the pliosaur’s jaws. The boat paused in midair. Its momentum catapulted Al upward another twenty feet. Chum thrown from the barrel painted a crimson streak across the deep blue sky.
John watched Al soar sixty feet overhead until he flew beyond his field of view. Still, he could hear Al’s screams.
Then gravity seemed to finally take hold. The monster’s upper body started falling, seemingly in slow motion, straight toward John and Vic and their old fishing boat, with Drew’s crumbling boat still gripped in its jaws.
John glanced at Vic. Vic looked back at him. “It’s real,” Vic said, barely loud enough to be heard. At the last second, John dove to the left and Vic to the right. The massive reptile smashed through their boat, tearing it in half. Its head slapped the sea, the remains of Drew’s boat spewing out across the water from the sides of its jaws.
A thunderous crash echoed around John as the great beast plunged beneath the surface in a streak of whitewater and bubbles. He rolled amid a cloud of debris, pulled by the powerful undertow created by the descending giant.
He tumbled, deeper and deeper.
Disoriented, John took a short breath but caught himself as saltwater burned through his sinuses. He desperately looked to his left, right, then below. He found the light from the surface and quickly swirled around. A bizarre object tumbled past him. He saw Drew’s lifeless body somersaulting to the depths while still strapped into the chair. His right hand was caught under one of the straps as his left hand waved overhead. Trailing behind him was the severed head from the great white. The thick cable protruding from its jaws swirled like a ribbon in the wind.
John looked back toward the light and frantically swam through the debris. After what felt like near death under water, he burst through the surface, gasping. After several long breaths
, his mind started to clear, though his head was pounding.
He looked around the surface for the source of the destruction but saw only scattered debris. Off to his left he heard something—a groaning. He spotted the lieutenant floating face down beside a sinking chum barrel. Reaching him, John threw an arm around his neck and pulled his face above the water. A red haze swirled below. For a split second, John thought it was his blood, then realized it came from Vic’s torn pant leg.
He desperately examined the surface. Now what? His mind raced as fast as his pounding heart. He realized that in all the haste of getting out into the channel, neither of them had put on a life jacket. Past the sinking chum barrel, he spotted the large bait bin from their boat and backstroked for it as fast as he could tow the lieutenant. Reaching the four-foot, trough-like structure, he slowly crawled inside. Careful not to bring in too much water, he struggled to haul in the lieutenant. Vic slid in, and with a final groan, collapsed unconscious.
John lay half across the lieutenant, staring at the skies in horror. His breaths echoed in the tight confinement. He could see straight up through the top, but his view from the back and right side were blocked. To his left, a basketball-sized hole in the bin offered a look outside–if he dared. John slowly caught his breath, his head still pounding mercilessly.
He lifted his head and leaned over on one elbow. Three inches of bloody water slurred around the bottom of the bin. He glanced at Vic in the fading light. Beneath his torn open pant leg was a deep scrape that ran from his hip to his ankle. From the creature?
Trying to sit up more, the pain in John’s head shot to his stomach, causing him to roll onto his side, vomiting up seawater. He then rolled onto his back, looking once again upward. The blue sky swirled then flushed white as he lost consciousness.
~~~
When he eventually came to, the throbbing pain in his head was so intense he realized it was probably what caused him to wake. He stared up at the clouds with no idea how long he had been out. The sky seemed darker, but he could not tell for sure how much time had elapsed. He leaned on his left elbow and looked through the hole in the side of the bin. Was it still around?
There was a splash about five yards behind him. John turned around and tried to see, but the side of the bin was too high. He waited, holding his breath.
Another splash—closer!
Something slammed into the fiberglass behind his head. Suddenly Al’s face appeared in the hole as he banged his fist against the bin. “You gotta let me in. That thing’s still out here. Let me in!”
Through the hole, John saw the water darken. He could hear Al frantically swim around to the opposite side of the bin—as if the bin could protect him from the inevitable. The enormous shadow drew nearer, transforming into gray, pebbled skin. John lay back and braced himself against the bottom of the bin.
Outside, Al’s pleas intensified.
The bin tilted.
John saw Al’s fingers curled over the top of the bin as he tried to tip it far enough to get inside. Water poured in through the hole; the bin tilted. John watched in motionless horror as Al’s fingers slipped from the fiberglass. The bin fell back, righting itself on the surface.
Al splashed back into the water, screaming.
A deafening roar shook the bin.
Inside the small structure, John heard Al pounding and clawing against the wall behind his head. There was a hideous grinding. He could feel the vibration of the creature’s stony skin sliding against the fiberglass. The grinding sound intensified until a sudden jolt brought Al’s horrific screams to an end.
Eventually, the small tub-like structure began to settle. John’s rapid breaths slowed and faded until he could hear the waves lapping against the bin. Lying against the lieutenant, he looked at the sky again. The pain in his head slowly returned after briefly being dulled from the horror. The clouds had grown darker. He lay still amidst the mixture of blood and water collected in the bottom of the bin with no perception of time. Has it been five minutes or an hour? Is it gone?
More time passed, and he felt the current taking over, pulling the small structure toward the open ocean. The waves were now more noticeable and slapped against the fiberglass in a strangely soothing rhythm. In total silence, John lay on the bottom of the bin. Although the blue sky had long since given way to complete darkness, he still didn’t move a muscle.
~~~
Kate guided the helicopter through a darkening sky. Below, a blanket of fog hung over the Dyer Channel with only an occasional speck of black water appearing through the mist. Thousands of gray backs glistened in the haze. Tonight the occupants of Seal Island appeared to be lumbering on a cloud.
Banking right, she made another pass over the channel. “Okay, this time we’ll take it a bit lower.” Her frustration grew. “The dispatcher said they’re out here,” she muttered to herself. “Checks out; saw the naval Hummer in the parking lot. Okay, where are you guys?”
Descending, Kate’s eyes grew wide. The rotor wash from the chopper blew back the fog to reveal a mass of boat debris strewn across the water. Hundreds of wood fragments glared in the light. She grabbed the mike on her headset. “God, no!”
~~~
Ten miles off the Dyer Island Channel, John continued to float helplessly with the current. He lay still against the unconscious lieutenant, wide-eyed, listening for the slightest sound. Outside the bin, there was nothing but darkness and fog.
Every bobble made him shudder. Every wave, every splash sounded like the creature’s skin grinding against the fiberglass. Even the slightest shadow in the curling fog took on the form of the giant frill rising in the mist.
He dared another glance around at his surroundings. Was it his imagination or was the water level inside the bin rising? Minutes ago he could see his boot strings. Now they were barely visible, swirling beneath the red haze of water. He relaxed his neck and eased his head back against the lieutenant’s shoulder. He hoped his belt he’d used as a tourniquet around Vic’s thigh was doing the job. Was the man alive or dead? John had no idea. Either way, John was obsessed with keeping his forearm against Vic’s cheek so that his face remained above the water. “No way,” he whispered to the lieutenant. “No way am I gonna let you die. Not this time . . . not this time . . .”
It was cold. Every muscle in his chest, shoulders, and arms ached from holding the same position for what seemed like hours. How long had he been adrift, and how far out? John closed his eyes. Just a moment to relax. But he refused to sleep. He feared the moment he drifted off his arm would stop supporting the lieutenant’s face, drowning the man. He released a long breath in an attempt to calm his nerves. That’s it. Just stop thinking. Stop thinking—
A shrill noise echoed through the bin. John nearly jumped out of his skin, scurrying back from the sound. He heard it again, and then it registered. He reached over the lieutenant’s waist to his hip and felt the SAT phone which was ringing in his pocket.
“You gotta be kidding me!” Sloshing frantically, he managed to retrieve the phone, its buttons glowing in the night. He answered it. “Who? Kate?” He laughed weakly. “Am I still at the Dyer Channel?”
Chapter 25
SILENT WITNESS
No matter how many times John rubbed his eyes, they wouldn’t adjust to the glaring lights in the Stanford Hospital lobby. His entire body ached. It was difficult to focus as he sat in a hard plastic chair. Even the floor seemed to sway like the current as the horrific images from the bait bin replayed in his mind. Worse yet, he could still hear the sounds—Al’s heinous screams rising from the sea.
He took another sip from an electrolyte concoction. It seemed to ease the pounding in his head as he gazed blankly at his surroundings. Eventually, his mind drifted back to the pointless conversation he was having with the pair of officers seated across from him, Officers Berg and Branson. He didn’t know which one was which and didn’t care. With Vic in no condition to back his story, this was all a waste of time.
Th
e heavier of the two had jowls like a bulldog. They shook as he fired another question. “When you said this thing hit your boat . . . are you sure you don’t mean that you got distracted by what you saw in the water and then collided with the other vessel? And you’re certain there was no fire or explosion?”
John rubbed his eyes. There’s no way he could repeat the story again. “Guys, you’re not buying my story, and I’m not gonna change it, so what do you say we call it a night?” Although it wasn’t in his immediate possession, John still had his trump card, the tooth. “Besides,” he smirked. “You”ll be more open-minded once you check the Dyer Channel parking lot and see what’s in the front seat of Vic’s Hummer.”
The bulldog officer leaned back in his chair and gasped. “Yes, the tooth. I promise, we’ll check it out in the morning.” He shrugged at the other officer. “We’ve got his statement. We’ll let the admiral handle the rest in the morning when he arrives.”
“So, I’m free to go?”
The thin officer nodded, and with a wince, John rose from the chair.
~~~
Clicking on the light, John saw a heavy bag dangling from the ceiling. Beneath it sat a pair of cast iron dumbbells that would intimidate the average man. Beside a kitchenette was a ballet bar stretched across the wall. His eyes drifted up to a large photo of the jagged-tooth helicopter over a battlefield. No doubt this is Kate’s office, he thought.
There was a shriek. The chimp bounded across a couch and raced over to John. Catching her with a groan, he set her down on the floor. “Crystal, hope your day went better than mine.”
Kate followed closely behind him as she talked on her cell phone. “Okay, Mom. I promise I’ll keep you posted. And yes, I’ll show you the tooth as soon as we get the chance.” With that, Kate switched off her phone. She tossed her keys onto a counter in the kitchenette of the small airport office. “Well, Mom’s up to speed.”
