by Steve Alten
“Engines—check. Lights—check. Infrared—check. Night vision—check. Forward camera—check. Rear camera—check. Grappler—check. Richard, try the vacuum.”
“Vacuum’s working. Send your Flying Squirrel into Jonas’s hell hole and bring back some juicy nuts.”
Shaffer mumbled, “I’ll settle for a dozen manganese nodules filled with Helium-3.” Using a joystick, the scientist maneuvered the ROV into a steep descent, aiming for a dark spot on the hydrothermal plume now appearing on his monitor. “Tears in his eyes as he lines up this last shot. A Cinderella story, outta nowhere… a former greens keeper, now about to become the Masters champion.”
Jonas and Prestis looked at one another, grinning at their colleague’s dead-on imitation of Carl Spackler from Caddyshack. Together, all three yelled out, “It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!” as the ROV punched through the warm layer of swirling soot, its reinforced chassis buffeted by the volcanic debris.
For several minutes Shaffer’s monitor remained a field of static—until the remote sub exited the hydrothermal ceiling and entered a placid sea.
“We’re through. Switching to night vision.”
The monitor changed from black to an olive-green tint, revealing dark brown billowing clouds rising from unseen chimneys. Schaffer worked the joystick, veering the mini-sub away from the volcanic haze, diving the craft toward the bottom.
“Michael, quickly–pull up!”
“It’s okay, Jonas. I’m clear.”
“Just do it. There’s something big on sonar, heading for the ROV.”
Shaffer yanked back on the joystick, sending the tethered sub retreating back toward the hydrothermal plume.
Richard’s heart raced. “Jonas, what is it? How big?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Jonas powered off the Sea Cliff’s underwater lights, allowing them to see through the occasional swath of clear water into the swirling flotsam of minerals below.
Reverberations—like bare feet slapping on wet concrete—built to a crescendo, and then the darkness suddenly ignited into a dazzling green and blue current of phosphorescent strobe lights, the life forms streaking two thousand feet below the hydrothermal ceiling, racing through the trench like an offspring of St. Elmo’s Fire.
Forty seconds passed before the silent darkness returned.
Richard Prestis wiped beads of sweat from his temples. “That was unbelievable. Almost alien.”
“I think I crapped an alien.” Dr. Shaffer’s heart was pounding so hard that it affected his breathing, each deep inhalation bordering on hyperventilation. Hands quivering, he popped a Valium. “Richard, I think I need you to take over.”
“Do you need another Valium?”
“I need air.”
“Slow deep breaths, nice and easy. Jonas, can you adjust the blowers?”
“Done.”
“Mike, tell us a joke. How about the… ”
“Shh.” Jonas stared hard at the ROV’s sonar. “Richard, keep the Squirrel steady.”
“What’s wrong?” Both scientists looked up, their faces pale.
“Sonar’s picked up a straggler. Only this one’s different. It moves like a predator.”
The three men huddled over the sonar screen as an orange blip moved lazily through the depths, cutting slow figure-eights below the ROV.
Jonas whispered, “It knows the robot’s there.”
“How?”
“Steel prop. It gives off electrical discharges. Better cut the robot’s power.”
Prestis and Shaffer exchanged eye contact, unsure.
“Do it. The tether will hold it in place.”
Prestis powered the ROV off.
· · ·
The Megalodon circled the intruder, her back arched and ridged as she prepared to launch an attack from below, when suddenly the prey disappeared.
For several minutes the big female continued to circle. Then, with a succession of powerful whip-like flicks of her tail, the shark resumed the hunt, gradually closing the distance on the multitude of cuttlefish as they trekked through the heated waters of the submarine canyon.
Aboard the Tallman
6 miles north-northeast of Guam
“Paul, you’d better look at this. According to Sea Bat-I, your monster has just changed course.”
Paul Agricola pushed one of the other scientists aside to join Captain Heitman at the ROV’s sonar screen, his head and stomach in knots from the twenty foot seas. “I see several blips. Which damn blip is it?”
“The smaller one, here. This larger mass must be a school of fish. When the fish changed course, your shark changed course. Look, it just passed below us.”
“Bring us about before we lose them.”
“Helm, come about quickly to course zero-one-five. Watch your bow, keep it facing the waves. Increase speed to ten knots.”
“Aye, sir.”
Paul tapped the plastic light table with his index finger, his eyes studying the charts. “How much longer until Sea Bat-II can launch?”
The captain grabbed the phone by his station and dialed the extension to the utility room. “Doug, how much longer on SB-II?”
“Twenty minutes. Call me again and it’ll be thirty minutes.”
Paul grabbed the phone from the Tallman’s skipper. “Doug, I need to know the maximum depth we can fire the transmitter dart?”
“As long as the Sea Bat’s above the hydrothermal plume she’ll fire. As far as firing straight or penetrating the Meg’s hide— hell if I know. My advice is to let your fish get real close, then say a prayer.”
Paul slammed the receiver down on its cradle. “Twenty minutes, captain. Call me the moment we launch, I’ll be in the head puking up my guts.”
Lucas watched his friend exit the pilothouse. Landlubber. Just like his old man…
Challenger Deep
There are rules on the African Serengeti, a pecking order to the hunt. When the lioness stalks zebra, it is her field of play. After she partakes of the spoils, the wild dogs and hyenas can move in to feed.
There is a similar order in the ocean. In surface waters, the sea lion kill is orchestrated by Orca; the buffet of a dead cetacean by the Great White shark.
In the Mariana Trench, it is Carcharodon megalodon that commands the feast. It begins with the stalking of the prey, a ritual designed to warn off other predators. Body language moves from the submissive to an aggressive posture—the Meg’s spine arching, its pectoral fins pointing downward. A Megalodon may also mark its kill zone by urinating while circling its intended meal.
To cross this boundary is to challenge the predatory pecking order.
· · ·
The male Kronosaurus needed to feed. The encounter with the Megalodon had caught the pliosaur by surprise, and the escape expended what little energy reserves the creature had left.
Swimming parallel with the school of cuttlefish, the eighteen-ton Kronosaurus suddenly turned upon the swarm, succeeding in separating several dozen squid from the pack. A lone cuttlefish was targeted and the hunt began.
The cuttlefish was quick, but its brain patterns had been forged by a pack mentality, its unexpected separation from the group leading to its undoing. Instead of distancing itself from the hunter, the squid sought only to rejoin its fleeing siblings, taking the most direct route despite the obvious danger.
Soaring in from behind a towering black smoker, the Kronosaurus cut off the cuttlefish’s retreat. In one treacherous bite, it snatched the squid’s head within its jaws, igniting a furious response of tentacles which lashed out, its barbed suckers tearing at the unseen enemy’s hide. But the cephalopod’s life force was bleeding out and it quickly went limp in the pliosaur’s mouth.
The Kronosaurus managed to clamp its hideous mouth upon the cuttlefish seconds before its senses were alerted to the presence of a larger predator.
By attacking the cuttlefish the Kronosaurus had indirectly challenged the Megalodon. The young queen changed course t
o intercept the pliosaur—the need to conserve energy holding no sway over thirty million years of predatory instinct.
Still clenching the dead cuttlefish in its crocodilian jaws, the Kronosaurus swam off, serpentining through undulating fields of giant tube worms in an attempt to lose the huntress.
Owning the higher ground, the Megalodon accelerated in a steep descent, adjusting her angle of attack as she closed the gap, rendering escape impossible. The Meg’s bull-rush ended in a violent cloudburst of silt as the forty-eight foot prehistoric Great White crushed the Kronosaurus against the sea floor. A resounding thud fractured two of the Meg’s upper teeth, her snout disappearing beneath a cloudburst of minerals, soot, severed worm tubes and blood.
The blood originated from the Kronosaurus. The creature’s internal organs had burst upon impact, the splattered remains ejected out of the dead animal’s esophagus behind the vertebrae-splintering force generated by twenty-seven tons of shark moving at eighteen knots.
Stunned by the concussion-inducing blow, the juvenile queen could not locate the crushed remains of its prey. Shaking her gargantuan head, the female slowly circled away from the cloud of silt, attempting to reboot her overloaded senses.
Recovering slowly, the Meg detected a familiar high decibel sound that exacerbated the injury and inflamed her sensory array. Attempting to lose the annoying sensation, the female swam in a figure-eight holding pattern, while bloodied remains danced along the sea floor. The irritating blip… blip… blip continued to taunt her, driving the Meg into a frenzy.
Abandoning the mangled remains of the Kronosaur, the Megalodon ascended toward the swirling hydrothermal plume to intercept the Sea Bat.
7
Aboard the Tallman
THE PILOTHOUSE HAD BECOME an orchestra of organized chaos.
Paul Agricola was the conductor, the mission’s maestro calling out direction in response to a rapidly changing concerto playing out six miles beneath his feet.
Two Sea Bat drones were now being towed by steel cable: SB-I just over the hydrothermal plume, SB-II a half mile above it, the second drone’s range limited by the length of the steel cable available on its winch.
That missing two thousand feet of line was proving to be a difference maker. While the Megalodon had chased Sea Bat-I above the hydrothermal plume, it had never exposed itself to the frigid waters above the warm layer for more than thirty seconds. Paul was hoping this was due more to the fact that they had been forced to stop Sea Bat-I from pinging above the plume to keep the drone from being eaten rather than the Meg’s avoidance of the frigid water.
The new plan was to engage Sea Bat-II’s active sonar the moment the shark emerged from the mineral layer, hoping the Meg would immediately go after the second drone, which was armed with a transmitter dart rigged to a motion sensor, its maximum range—sixty feet.
Doug Dvorak, the ship’s engineer, lowered his walkie-talkie. “Paul, the deck crew is standing by at the winches. Sea Bat-II’s depth is steady at 28,435 feet, Sea Bat-I hovering just above the plume. Both sonars are off, as ordered.”
“Make Sea Bat-I’s depth 32,700 feet.”
“Paul, that’s more than seven hundred feet deeper than the plume. I don’t advise that.”
“I wasn’t asking for your opinion, Douglas. Captain Heitman, the moment Sea Bat-I drops through the plume and reenters the Challenger Deep, prepare to increase our speed just enough to maintain a safe distance.”
“You want to get it used to chasing the lure before you lead it out of the warm layer?”
“Exactly.”
“It could backfire, Paul. A longer chase expends energy. The Meg could lose interest.”
“The Meg’s tiring, Luis. If we don’t hit it with the tracking dart soon, it may stop leaving the warm layer altogether.”
“Paul, Sea Bat-I is inside the plume. Sixty feet to Challenger Deep… thirty feet. Standing by to activate SB-I sonar.”
Paul wiped sweat from his forehead. “Maybe you should wait on the sonar… let the ROV reach its new depth first.”
The captain shook his head.“It’s too risky. The creature’s already homing in on the Sea Bat’s vibrations, I can’t chance running blind; I need to know exactly where that creature is the moment the Sea Bat emerges from the plume”
“Skipper, SB-I has entered the warm layer.”
“Activate sonar on SB-I.”
“SB-I sonar is active. Target acquired. Range 520 feet. Speed… seven knots… Ten knots.”
“Helm, increase speed to twelve knots.”
“Range is four hundred feet… four-twenty… five hundred. Target speed holding at twelve knots.”
“Helm, decrease speed to ten knots.”
“Skipper, I’m picking up a surface ship on radar. Two miles to the south; we’re heading right for her.”
The captain glanced at his radar. “It’s probably a fishing trawler. Ignore it, captain.”
“They’re hailing us, Skipper. It’s a Naval ship. The USS Maxine D.”
Paul swore under his breath. “Sonar, where’s the Meg?”
“Two hundred and thirty feet from the ROV and closing.”
“Skipper, the Navy says we’re entering a restricted area. We’ve been ordered to change course.”
“Paul, target has closed to seventy-five feet, speed—sixteen knots.”
“Helm, match speed. Doug, restart the winch.”
Dvorak yelled into his walkie-talkie. “Restart the winch. Bring her up!”
“Sir, target has followed SB-I into the plume.”
· · ·
Agitated by the incessant reverberations generated by the Sea Bat’s pinging sonar, the Megalodon rose again through the hydrothermal layer, intent on devouring the creature. She closed her mouth to restrict the flow of sulfurous debris from entering her gills and within seconds had passed through the plume, once more entering a cold alien world.
· · ·
“Range to Naval vessel one-point-three nautical miles.”
“Paul?”
“I’m thinking!”
“Sir, Sea Bat-I has exited the plume.”
“There’s nothing to think about, Paul. We need to change course.”
“Quiet! Doug, shut down SB-I sonar. Go active on SB-II.”
“Paul, I’m changing course. Heading west on course two-seven-zero.”
“Sir, target has exited the hydrothermal plume.”
· · ·
The Megalodon emerged from the hydrothermal plume into near-freezing temperatures, the cold momentarily invigorating its overheated muscles. Homing in on the annoying pings coming from the second drone, the female continued to rise, ascending a thousand feet in less than a minute.
· · ·
“Target is now homing in on Sea Bat-II. Range—275 feet and closing. Congratulations, Paul, looks like your plan worked.”
“It’s too early to be doing the victory dance, Doug. Captain, reduce your speed, we need to keep it interested enough in Sea Bat-II to come within sixty feet of the tagging device.”
· · ·
The sea was ice-cold, penetrating the Megalodon’s energy-depleted muscles, causing the creature’s blood vessels to constrict.
The female’s caudal fin slowed. Her breathing became erratic.
Seventy-two feet from her prey, a half-mile above the churning hydrothermal layer and just twelve feet from triggering Sea Bat-II’s tracking dart, the twenty-seven ton predator’s swim muscles suddenly seized.
Slowly, majestically, the Megalodon sank head-first into the abyss, the annoying reverberations in the female’s brain fading to a dull, distant echo.
Aboard the Sea Cliff
The Valium had kicked in quickly, soothing Michael Shaffer’s rattled nerves like a warm blanket. Sleepy-eyed, he watched Richard Prestis maneuver the Flying Squirrel to the sea floor, guided by the ROV’s built-in sonar and the laptop’s night-vision monitor.
“Michael, I’m two hundred feet from the bottom. How do I a
ccess the coordinates from the last dive?”
“Hit F-7.”
A red blip appeared on the laptop’s navigation screen. “Got it.”
“Right click on it with your mouse and the auto-pilot will engage—”
“—guiding the Squirrel right to our sack of nuts.” Prestis right clicked the mouse.
Nothing happened.
“Something’s wrong. The coordinates are up but the autopilot won’t engage.”
Shaffer closed his eyes to think. “Check your sonar, make sure it’s running active.”
“Jonas, are you listening? Switch from passive to active. Jonas?”
The Sea Cliff drifted to starboard—then continued rolling, pitching Prestis into Shaffer’s lap.
“Taylor, wake up!”
Strapped in at his control station, Jonas Taylor’s eyes snapped open, his legs desperately pumping the foot pedals to trim the ballast tanks.
The teetering submersible rolled to port, finding equilibrium.
“Sorry. I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“Then take another dose of caffeine pills before you flip us.”
“I can’t, my heart’s doing somersaults already.”
“At least switch the ROV’s sonar to active.”
“Sorry Richard, we’re not going active. Not with a large predator in the area.”
“What you saw could have been anything.”
“Richard, you don’t need to ping for black smokers, the ROV’s guidance system has a temperature setting that will steer the unit clear of any vents exceeding 225 degrees. Just use the joystick and fly the Squirrel to the collection site.”
“I need the sonar active in order to use the auto-pilot to map the bottom. Now turn it on.”
Mike Shaffer looked at him, eyes bloodshot. “Please.”
Jonas hesitated but finally flipped the toggle switch on the control board to ACTIVE.
A low decibel PING could be heard in the distance, the audible reverberations registering in his overwrought nerves.
Challenger Deep
