by Steve Alten
Jonas grabbed his carry-on bag and joined them. With their black hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones and identical smiles the siblings could almost pass as twins.
“D.J., this is Jonas Taylor. Don’t call him professor, it makes him feel old.”
D.J. shook Jonas’s hand. “My sister’s a pistol, huh?”
“A real delight.”
“So, I understand we’re going to be descending together into the Challenger Deep. Sure you’re up for it?”
“I’ll be fine,” said Jonas, sensing D.J.’s competitive nature. “I would like to do a few practice runs. Where are the subs?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Jonas followed D.J. and Terry aft to where the two Abyss Gliders were lying horizontally, secured to the deck in their dry mounts. The vessels were ten feet long by four feet in diameter and resembled fat glass torpedoes with small mid-wings and a tail assembly.
Working on one of the undercarriages was a man in his late thirties, only his grease-stained sky-blue jumpsuit visible.
D.J. slapped his hand on one of the sub’s clear plastic nosecones. “Lexan. The plastic’s so strong, it’s used as bulletproof glass in presidential limousines. The entire escape pod’s made of the stuff, rendering the craft neutrally buoyant. Technically, the chamber is one big escape pod. If the Glider gets into trouble, simply pull the lever located in a metal gear box along your right side and the interior chamber will separate from the heavier chassis. It’s like being in a buoyant bubble. You’ll rise right to the top.”
The mechanic crawled out from beneath the sub’s chassis, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll give the tour, kid. After all, I did redesign the damn things.”
Jonas’s face broke into a broad smile. “Mac! What the hell are you doing here?”
James “Mac” Mackreides turned to his friend. “I should be asking you the same question. I called Vegas this morning; the line on you actually showing up was six-to-one.”
“How did you bet?”
“You know me, always go with the underdog.”
The two men embraced.
Terry looked at her brother. “Did you know they knew each other?”
He shook his head. “Mac never said a word.”
Jonas stood back, taking in his friend. Mac’s navy-regulation crew-cut had grown out into a mop of dirty-blonde hair, his hawkish hazel eyes sporting a few more stress lines since their shared three month stay together in the mental ward where they had met seven years ago. The boyish twinkle was still present.
“You look good.” Jonas patted Mac’s stomach. “Glad to see you’re eating well.”
“That’s bought and paid for, pal.”
“Just like your women.”
“You misjudge me, Commander Taylor. I’m no longer delivering V.I.P.s to tropical island bordellos.”
“That’s because Dick Danielson shut you down.”
“Danielson didn’t do dick. Some hotshot Congressman decided to use his wife’s VISA card to pay for services rendered. When the missus found out, she went on a rampage. Doesn’t matter. I work for Masao now, keeping his ship and submersibles running and his bar replenished with the finest kind of beer and shine.”
D.J. hesitated. “I was just about to explain about the advantages of having a neutrally-buoyant sub.”
“Go for it.”
“When you construct a sphere out of titanium, you lose half your battery power just trying to pilot the sub, not to mention your lack of speed and maneuverability.”
Mac looked at D.J. “At least explain to him how the mission will go.”
“Look beneath the belly of the sub,” D.J. instructed Jonas “There’s a retractable mechanical arm with a claw. When we make our descent, you’ll take the lead. I’ll follow in my sub, which will have a steel cable attached to my glider’s claw. The damaged UNIS has several eye bolts located along its outer casing. Once you clear the debris away from the UNIS, I’ll attach the cable and the Kiku’s winch will haul the unit back to the surface.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad.”
“It’s a walk in the park, but it’s still a two-man job,” said D.J. “I tried to attach the cable on my first descent, but I couldn’t maintain the claw’s grip on the steel cable and clear the debris. I finally tried letting go of the cable; the next thing I know the hydrothermal plume dragged it two miles to the south.”
“Maybe you were just nervous,” Terry teased. “You told me it’s kind of scary down there. Being cramped in a pod the size of a phone booth, knowing that you’re seven miles down, surrounded by thousands of pounds of pressure. One mistake, one crack in the hull, and your brains implode.” She glanced at Jonas, looking for a reaction.
“Ah, you’re just jealous,” said D.J., who turned to Jonas, his face full of animation. “Truth is, I loved it down there. What a rush, I can’t wait to go back. I thought bungee jumping and kite surfing were cool, but this beats the hell out of them.”
Jonas stared at the young man, recognizing traits from his own youth. “You consider yourself an adrenaline junkie?”
D.J. calmed himself. “Me? No, sir... I mean, yeah, I’m an adrenaline junkie, sure, but this is different. The Challenger Deep... it’s like being the first person to explore another planet. There are these huge black smokers everywhere, and the weirdest fish you ever saw. But why am I telling you? You’ve been on dozens of trench dives before.”
Jonas tugged on one of the glider’s red vinyl flags emblazoned with the Tanaka logo. “I’ve piloted more than my share of dives into deep-sea trenches, but I’ve never been to the bottom of the Challenger Deep.”
“Then tomorrow morning we’ll pop your cherry.”
“What about my practice dive?”
“No practice dives.”
They turned as a large dark-skinned man in a red knit cap approached, accompanied by two Filipino crew members.
“Jonas Taylor,” D.J. said, “Leon Barre, the Kiku’s captain.”
Jonas shook the French-Polynesian’s hand, his thick palm as padded as a catcher’s mitt.
“Welcome aboard,” he said, his baritone voice booming. Barre tipped his hat to Terry. “Mademoiselle,” he said reverently.
DeMarco joined them, slapping the big man across his shoulder. “You’re putting on a little weight, Leon?”
Leon’s face darkened. “The Thai woman, she fattens me like a pig.”
DeMarco laughed, turning to Jonas. “The captain’s wife’s a hell of a cook. We could all use a little of that, Leon. We’re starving.”
“We eat in an hour, but no practice dives. Bad weather is two days out; I want to be back in port before it hits.”
Jonas turned to Mac. “What about a quick surface dive?”
“Sorry, pal. The A-frame’s generator is being repaired; we need to save the back-up unit’s juice just in case we need it for tomorrow’s dive. But stick around and I’ll prep you as best I can.”
Jonas waited until the two Tanaka siblings followed DeMarco and the captain into the ship’s infrastructure. “Mac, you haven’t been speaking to Masao or anyone else about our little vacation in the crazy bin?”
“No.”
“But you knew I was coming.”
“I knew Masao was going to offer you the dive; I honestly didn’t think you’d take the gig... not with Frank Heller on-board.”
Jonas felt the breath squeeze out of his chest. “Heller’s part of this expedition?”
“Masao never told you?”
“You think I’d be here if he did?”
“Stay calm. Heller’s Masao’s physician, his presence has no bearing on your dive this time around.”
“Where is he?”
“Probably in sick bay. That’s on C-Deck.”
Jonas turned and walked away.
FRANK HELLER
JONAS ENTERED THE SHIP’S infrastructure and ascended one flight of stairs to C-Deck. Following signs posted on a corridor wall, he located sick bay and entered without
knocking.
A gaunt man in his early fifties with short gray hair and heavy, black-framed glasses was bent over a computer keyboard. He glanced up at Jonas, his moist blue-gray eyes swollen behind the thick lenses, then turned back to his monitor. “Another fishing expedition, Taylor?”
Jonas paused a moment before he answered. “That’s not why I’m here, Frank.”
“Why are you here?”
“Masao asked for my help.”
“The Japanese have no sense of irony.”
“Like it or not, we’re going to have to work together. The only way to find out what’s going on down there is to haul up the damaged UNIS. D.J. can’t do it alone—”
“I know that!” Heller rose quickly and crossed the room to refill his coffee cup. “What I don’t understand is why you should be the one to go with him.”
“Because nobody else has been down there in the last thirty years.”
“Oh yes they have,” Heller said bitterly. “Only they died making the trip.”
Jonas broke eye contact. “Look, there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by in the last seven years that I haven’t thought about the Sea Cliff. To be honest, I’m still not sure what really happened. All I know is that I believed I saw something rise up from the bottom to attack our sub, and I reacted.”
“Reacted? You panicked like it was your first day at boot camp.” Heller moved to Jonas, standing nose to nose. His eyes burned with hatred. “Maybe your little confession makes everything all right in your book, but it changes nothing with me. You were daydreaming, Taylor. You hallucinated, and instead of reasoning, you panicked. You killed two of our team. Mike Shaffer was my friend; I’m godfather to his kid. Shaffer’s family lives with your mistake every day.”
“And what about your contribution to the accident?” Jonas yelled back. “You were the physician of record. You assured Danielson that I was medically fit to make a fourth dive, despite the fact that I had vertigo and was suffering from exhaustion. Four descents in nine days! Do you think that decision may have had anything to do with my ability to function?”
“You were a naval commander. You’re supposed to be a cut above the rest. Ultimately, it was your decision whether you piloted the sub or your back-up.”
“He wasn’t ready. You and Danielson knew it, which was why the two of you set me up to be the fall guy... just to cover your own asses.”
“What is it you want from me, Taylor? I can’t absolve you of your actions any more than I can render an excuse for my own. Danielson was my commanding officer, but he was being pressured by the Pentagon. Did you want him to disobey a direct order because his lead pilot was tired? The navy’s not interested in hearing excuses, they want results.”
“And if you could turn back the clock to that morning, what would you do?”
“I don’t know. The truth is, you were a damn good pilot—maybe that influenced my decision to let you go as well. But let’s just make sure that the reason you’re making this dive with Tanaka’s kid is to assist him and not to go off looking for some tooth.”
Jonas headed for the door, then turned to face Heller. “I know my responsibilities, Frank. I hope you remember yours.”
· · ·
An hour later, having showered and changed, Jonas entered the galley where a dozen crewmen were noisily feasting on fried chicken and potatoes. He made himself a plate and grabbed a bottled water from a cooler.
Mac signaled him over to his table.
He sat down, listening to D.J., who was involved in a heated debate with DeMarco and Captain Barre.
Heller’s absence was conspicuous.
“Doc!” D.J. sprayed half his mouthful of chicken out with the word. “You’re just in time. There’s a rumor going around the ship that you spent three months in a looney bin after you blamed a submersible accident on one of those prehistoric sharks you wrote about. Is that true?”
The chamber fell quiet.
Jonas no longer felt hungry.
Mac flicked a potato at D.J. with his fork.
“Dude... really?”
“Jonas and I met at that facility seven years ago. What you call a looney bin was actually a clinic that cared for disabled vets. So be careful; as a fellow lunatic-turned-submersible mechanic, your accusation may cause me to accidentally forget to charge your emergency batteries.”
D.J. smiled, but it was forced.
“We have a right to ask, Mac,” Terry interjected. “One of the guests at Jonas’s lecture claimed two people died as a result of your friend’s actions. I spoke to Frank Heller; he wouldn’t come out and say exactly what happened, but he did tell me Jonas received a dishonorable discharge from the navy following the incident.”
D.J. looked Jonas squarely in the eye. “Doc?”
All eyes were on Jonas, who pushed his tray away. “It’s true. Only Frank left out a few things... like I was exhausted from having completed three deep dives prior to the fourth, all amassed within a nine day period. As far as tomorrow’s dive is concerned, I made a commitment to your father to complete the mission and I intend on doing so. And for the record, I’ve piloted more submersibles on deep-sea missions than you’ve had birthdays, D.J. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Jonas stood up to leave, “I think I’ve lost my appetite.”
D.J. grabbed his arm. “No, wait, Doc, come on now. Tell me about this shark. I really want to know. After all, how will I recognize it if we happen to run into one tomorrow?”
“You’ll know right away,” Terry said. “It’ll be the one with the missing tooth.”
Laughter cascaded around them.
Jonas sat back down. “Okay, kid, you really want to know about these monsters, I’ll tell you. The first thing you have to realize about sharks is that they’ve been around a lot longer than us, about four hundred million years. Our ancestors only fell from the trees two million years ago. And of all the species of sharks ever to have evolved, Megalodon was the undisputed king. We’re not just talking about a shark; we’re talking about a formidable killing machine, the apex predator of all time—a sixty-foot, forty ton version of a Great White shark. The Meg wasn’t just big, it was endowed with senses that could track prey from miles away. It could smell and taste you, it could feel your heart beating and sense the electrical impulses generated by your moving muscles. Blood or urine in the water? You might as well have lit up a flare. And if it ever got close enough to see you, then you were already dead.”
Leon Barre shook his head. “How do you know so much about a dead fish nobody’s ever seen?”
The room quickly quieted, awaiting Jonas’s response.
“For one thing, we have their fossilized serrated teeth. An inch of tooth equates to about ten feet of shark. The biggest teeth we’ve found were just over seven inches in length, so do the math. The bottom teeth were narrow, used for gripping their prey while the uppers were massive, designed to puncture whale bone and saw through muscle and sinew.”
“I want to know more about these senses,” said D.J., now truly curious.
Jonas gathered his thoughts. “All right. Just like its modern-day cousin, Carcharodon megalodon possessed eight sensory organs that allowed it to search, detect, identify, and stalk its prey. Let’s start with the ampullae of Lorenzini. These jelly-filled capsules located beneath the snout could detect the faint electrical field of another animal’s beating heart or moving muscles from many miles away. That means if the Megalodon was circling our ship, it could still detect a whale calf in distress off the shoreline of Guam.
“Almost as amazing as the ampullae of Lorenzini was the Megalodon’s sense of smell. Unlike man, the creature possessed directional nostrils which not only could detect one part of blood or sweat or urine in a billion parts of water, but could also determine the exact location of the scent. That’s why you see Great Whites swimming with a side-to-side motion of their heads. They’re actually smelling the water in different directions. And a full-grown adult Megalodon’s nostrils... they were probably the
size of a cantaloupe.
“Now we come to the monster’s skin, a sensory organ and weapon combined in one. Running along either side of the Meg’s flank was its lateral line, a canal that contained sensory cells called neuromasts. These neuromasts were able to detect the slightest vibrations in water, even the flutter of another fish’s heartbeat. The skin itself was made up of denticles, which were essentially layered scales, sharp as scalpels. Rub your hand against the grain and your flesh would be sliced to ribbons.”
Al DeMarco stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got work to do.”
“Ah, come on, Al,” said D.J. lightheartedly. “There’s no school tomorrow. We’ll let you stay up late.”
DeMarco gave D.J. a stern look. “Tomorrow happens to be a big day for all of us, especially you and Mr. Shark Tales here. I suggest you get some rest.”
“Al’s right, D.J.” agreed Jonas. “Besides, I’ve already mentioned the best parts.”
“One thing you didn’t mention, Taylor, is how these sharks of yours could exist in depths where the water pressure reached 16,000 pounds per square inch.”
“Water pressure effects mammals and subs because they both have air cavities. Sharks, being fish have no air cavities to squeeze. Megalodon also possessed an enormous liver that probably constituted one-fourth of its entire weight. Besides serving the creature’s normal hepatic functions and storing fatty energy reserves, the liver would have allowed the Megalodon to adjust to any changes in water pressure, even at depths as great as those in the Challenger Deep.”
“All right, professor,” said DeMarco, feeling baited, “let’s assume, just for shits and giggles, that these Megalodon sharks do exist in the trench. Why haven’t they surfaced? There’s got to be a lot more food up here than down there.”
“Fleas in a jar.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Terry asked.
“If you place fleas in a jar without the lid, they’ll all jump out. Leave the lid on a week, then remove it and the fleas will still remain inside. The reason is conditioning. The hydrothermal plume insulates the warm bottom layer from six miles of freezing-cold water. Megalodons that survived in the Mariana Trench were conditioned over eons to remain in the warm depths—there’d be no impetus to surface.”
