by Steve Alten
“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 and sweaty.
“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 wounded intruder, her back arched and ridged as she prepared to launch an attack from below, when suddenly the prey disappeared. Traces of its presence remained—static sparks of electricity borne of seawater and debris striking steel—but to the female, the wounded prey appeared either dead or diseased.
The Meg’s posture eased.
For several minutes she continued to circle. Then, with a succession of powerful whip-like flicks of her tail, the female resumed the hunt, gradually closing the distance on the multitude of cuttlefish as they trekked north by northeast 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-2?”
“Twenty minutes. Call me again and it’ll be thirty minutes.”
Paul grabbed the phone. “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. Land lover. 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 that were left.
Swimming like a barracuda, parallel with the school of cuttlefish, the eighteen-ton Kronosaurus suddenly turned upon the swarm, succeeding in separating several dozen squid from the hastily reorganizing pack. A lone cuttlefish was targeted and the hunt began.
The cuttlefish was quick, but brain patterns long forged from a pack mentality created its undoing. Instead of distancing itself from the hunter, the squid sought only to rejoin its fleeing siblings, taking the most direct route.
Soaring in from behind a towering black smoker, the Kronosaurus cut off the creature’s retreat. In one treacherous bite, it snatched the squid’s head within its jaws, igniting a furious response of tentacles which lashed out, 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 two bites before its senses were alerted to the presence of a larger predator.
By attacking the Meg’s intended prey, the Kronosaurus had clearly challenged the Megalodon. Forsaking the school of cuttlefish, the young queen changed course to intercept the pliosaur—the need to conserve energy holding no sway over thirty million years of instinct. Circling three hundred feet above the sea floor, the Meg waited patiently for her enemy to flee.
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, the angle of attack compensating as she closed the gap, making escape impossible. The bullrush ended in a violent cloudburst of silt as the forty-eight foot prehistoric Great White crushed the Kronosaurus against the sea floor, the resounding thud popping loose two of the female’s upper teeth which disappeared beneath a fog of sand, severed tube worms 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 stunned senses.
Slowly recovering, the first disturbance the Meg detected was 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 kill, Carcharodon megalodon rose to intercept.
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.
The “percussion” driving the barely controlled mayhem was the steady cadence of pings from Sea Bat-II’s sonar station, deployed at 28,400 feet.
Paul’s “string section” was provided by the incessant squealing of Sea Bat-I’s winch, operated by a quartet of crewman on the main deck.
In the “pit,” Captain Heitman shifted the brass thrusters, veering the Tallman from port to starboard, shortening the length of Sea Bat-I’s cable whenever the monster drew too close to the ROV.
Paul’s objective was to use Sea Bat-I to lure the Megalodon above the hydrothermal plume to a shallo
wer depth where the Sea Bat-II and the transmitter dart awaited. The first of several problems with this deepwater game of cat and mouse was that Sea Bat-I’s sonar could only engage the Meg when the ROV dropped below the hydrothermal plume at 32,075 feet. Until then, Paul was running blind. The real challenge would arise once the towed device entered the deep and went active—the audible pings would immediately send the Megalodon into attack mode. The only way to avoid losing the mouse would be for the deck crew to engage the winch and rapidly haul Sea Bat-I back up through the plume into the frigid waters which began around 31,930 feet. Once the Meg chased Sea Bat-I above the plume, the hope was that it would home in on the pinging Sea Bat-II, the second ROV loaded with the transmitter dart.
The major hurdle here was that Sea Bat-II only had enough cable to reach a maximum depth of 28,400 feet—a good half mile above the hydrothermal plume. So far, the Meg refused to ascend that far from its tropical habitat. Further complicating the situation was that the predator was adapting with every bull rush. No longer reacting solely to Sea Bat-I’s sonar pings, the creature was now homing in on the ROV’s electrical signature, making it increasingly difficult for Paul to evade the monster when it entered the cold zone, a task he likened to reeling in a sailfish that was being chased by an Orca.
“Paul, the deck crew says it’s ready to try again. Sea Bat-I is holding steady at 30,320 feet. Sonar is off.”
“Let’s try something different this time. Release the line, make Sea Bat-I’s depth 32,700 feet.”
Doug Dvorak, the ship’s engineer, lowered his walkie-talkie. “That’s seven hundred feet deeper than the plume. I don’t advise that.”
“I wasn’t asking. Captain Heitman, the moment Sea Bat-I enters the Challenger Deep, I want you to increase our speed just enough to maintain a safe distance. Keep the ROV out of the Meg’s reach without forcing us to engage the winch.”
“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. It could lose interest.”
“Or it could eat the damn ROV,” Doug spat, under his breath.
“It’s already tiring. If we don’t hit it with the dart soon, it’ll stop leaving the warm layer altogether.”
“Sir, Sea Bat-I has entered 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.”
“No, it’s too risky. The creature’s already homing in on the Sea Bat’s vibrations, I can’t chance running blind.”
“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 fifteen 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. “Probably a fishing trawler.”
“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—thirteen knots.”
“Helm, match speed. Doug, restart the winch.”
Dvorak yelled into his walkie-talkie. “Restart the winch. Bring her up!”
“Range to Naval vessel one-point-three nautical miles.”
“Paul?”
“I’m thinking, Luis!”
“Nothing to think about. We need to change course.”
“Sea Bat-I has entered the plume.”
“Quickly, shutdown SB-I sonar. Go active on SB-II.”
“Switching to Sea Bat-II sonar. Sea Bat-I has entered the cold zone.”
“Paul, I’m changing course. Heading west on course two-seven-zero.”
“Sir, target has entered cold zone—range to SB-I… thirty feet.”
“Helm, increase speed to—”
“I got it!” The captain throttled-up the Tallman’s engines, the rumble of the revving propellers overmatched by the fury of the Pacific Ocean. The Tallman swayed within the onslaught of forty-foot swells.
“Doug—”
“Winch is retrieving SB-I. Approaching 29,000 feet.”
“Paul, target is homing in on Sea Bat-II. Range—2,200 feet and closing.”
“Captain, reduce your speed, I think we’ve got her! SB-II team, prepare to tag target.”
Agitated by the incessant pings, her muscles flushed hot with blood, the Megalodon rose again through the hydrothermal layer, ignoring her body’s own survival instincts, determined to catch her prey. She closed her mouth to restrict the flow of sulfurous debris from entering her gills and within seconds passed through the plume, once more entering a cold alien world.
At first, the sudden exposure to the near-freezing temperatures invigorated her and she continued to rise, ascending a thousand feet in less than a minute. But the cold was unrelenting, sapping the heat from her overworked muscles, causing the Meg’s blood vessels to constrict.
Her caudal fin slowed. Her breathing became erratic.
Thirty feet from her prey, a half a mile above the churning hydrothermal layer, the twenty-seven ton predator’s swim muscles seized.
Slowly, majestically, one of the planet’s last remaining apex predators sank head-first into the darkness, the annoying reverberations in the Megalodon’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 ROV to the sea floor, guided by its built-in sonar and the laptop’s night-vision monitor.
“Michael, I’m two hundred feet from the bottom. How do I access 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 awoke as if shocked. As his eyes snapped open, his legs pumped 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. A ghost.”
“You don’t need to ping for black smokers, the 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.”
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
Unable to propel herself forward to drive water into her mouth and gills to breathe, the Megalodon sank head-first through the abyss, her muscles drained and unresponsive from overexposure to the frigid temperatures. For three thousand feet she spiralled downward, her mouth agape, the sudden influx of seawater still not enough to revive her.
Reaching the plume she plunged into the river of soot, swallowing water laden with sulfur and minerals. The combination of toxins unleashed a spasmodic regurgitation reflex that shocked her system, forcing her gills to flutter.
Reentering the warmth of the Challenger Deep, she sank another two thousand feet before the heat reached her bloodstream, stimulating her half-frozen fins to move.
Pectoral fins unfurled, catching the sea.
The female descended in a steadily widening spiral, her muscles slowly thawing.
Sensing the current, the Megalodon merged with it, leveling out a thousand feet above the sea floor, allowing the river of warm water to carry her through the canyon.
· · ·
Aboard the Maxine D
Dick Danielson entered the radio room, his complexion jaundiced, his head pounding from the unrelenting seas. He took a headset from the radio operator and positioned it over his ears, his empty stomach curled in knots.
“Danielson. This better be important, Mr. Lebowitz.”
“Sir, we had… an incident. I’m not sure quite how to explain it.”
“Damn it, Lebowitz, just tell me what happened!”
“It involves Rear Admiral Quercio and Commander Mackreides.”
Danielson closed his eyes. “Go on.”
“Mac… he took the admiral and his party down to Marizo aboard one of the Sea Kings.”
“In the middle of a typhoon?”
“The admiral was insistent. Anyway, a service was being rendered aboard the chopper at five hundred feet between the admiral and two local girls. Apparently there was a disagreement over monies owed for services rendered. The admiral refused to rectify the matter, so the women tossed the admiral’s clothing out the cargo door.”
