Generations

by Steve Alten

  David nodded, a lump in his throat as he hugged his father.

  Dr. Calvert exited the room ten minutes later, followed by the paramedics. “All right, Mr. Taylor, she’s been intubated. You and your family decide what you want to do next.”

  “Thank you.” Jonas and his children entered the room, Dani closing the door behind them.

  Terry was lying flat, the breathing tube in her mouth—the machine beside her pumping air in and out of her lungs. The digital vital signs behind her bed showed her pulse was 48, her blood pressure 78/56.

  David stared at his mother, barely recognizing her. “How much weight has she lost?”

  “Too much,” Jonas said, returning his chair to the right side of her bed. He stroked her hair gently. “Terry, David’s here. He came all the way from British Columbia to witness your miracle.” He motioned for David to sit in the chair.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Jonas joined Dani, who was inspecting the two intravenous bags feeding into her mother’s frail arms. “What do you think?”

  “This thick elixir running below her armpit is the nutrient bag; we don’t want to disturb that. I can run the granulocytes through the morphine drip, but I think we should wait until after the nurse comes in to change out the bag so they don’t notice it. It should drain in the next fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “Okay … good.”

  “Dad, as these granulocytes make their way through her body and start attacking the cancer cells, it’s really going to take a toll on her. Dr. Maharaj said it will induce a high fever. She’s already so weak … what happens when she goes Code Blue again? How many times can you keep starting her heart?”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “I just…” Dani wiped away tears. “I don’t want to torture her because we’re not ready to let her go.”

  “Let’s just get this stuff flowing in her veins.”

  * * *

  It was 10:15 p.m. when the nurse entered to swap out the empty IV bag with a new one. She took note of her patient’s vitals and left.

  David followed her out, closing the door behind him. He waited for her to enter another room and then tapped on the outside of the window of his mother’s ICU room.

  Dani removed the clear bag of fluid from her purse. She waited while her father unhooked the new bag of morphine from the stand and then hooked the donor bag of granulocytes in its place.

  Jonas rehung the morphine bag, positioning it so it partially concealed the new IV.

  Dani started the drip. “Okay, we’re in.”

  “How long will it take to drain into her system?”

  “I don’t know … three or four hours.”

  Jonas checked the wall clock. “Maybe you should go back to the apartment with David.”

  She shook her head. “If something goes wrong with the drip—”

  “Dani, if they discover that IV then I don’t want you here. This could get you kicked out of medical school.”

  She hesitated, weighing his words. Then she checked the IV, hugged her father good night, and left.

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland

  Strait of Juan deFuca, Salish Sea

  Cyel Reed stood by the stern rail, glancing from the cloudless night sky aglitter with stars to the blinking yellow bow light of the Hot & Spicy, which was trailing the McFarland half a mile to the east.

  Three months at sea, stuck on this damn garbage scow. Smallwood better go for this or I’m contacting that prince.

  The cell phone in his front pants pocket vibrated. He checked the time—3:59 a.m.—then glanced around to make sure he was alone before answering it. “I’m here.”

  “Have you completed the job?”

  “Not yet.”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Van Sicklen has no influence with the Coast Guard outside of the Salish Sea. At your present course and speed, you will be leaving the strait in eighty-three minutes. If you wish to be rescued from the wrath of your crew—”

  “I wish to be paid in full.”

  “Our arrangements were clear. We sent you twenty percent of your fee as a down payment.”

  “Things have changed. I want the balance of the fifty wired now … unless you’re not interested in having me eliminate both remaining pups.”

  “Bela’s offspring? You know where it is?”

  “It’s beneath our keel. Somehow it knows the albino is inside the hopper, but it’s there for the taking.”

  “How would you bring it aboard?”

  “I’d have to kill the albino first, then drain enough water from the hopper to reestablish a negative pressure differential powerful enough to suction Bela’s pup into the tank. Once that monster’s in, I’ll drain the tank and suffocate her.”

  “I assume you want another fifty for Bela’s pup?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “No deal. I can go as high as sixty.”

  “Then you’d better call the missus, because I’m not risking my neck for anything less than seventy-five thousand.”

  “Stand by, I’ll call you right back.”

  Cyel pocketed the iPhone and headed forward. Three months without a new contract … I gave the institute twenty years of my life and this is how Taylor and Mackreides repay me? Old man Tanaka would have never left me twisting in the wind like this—even when he was on the verge of bankruptcy he’d always take care of his key personnel.

  And placing David in charge … What the hell does a kid know about running a business? I’ll give him credit for capturing the albino, but what are the chances this juvenile manages to survive in captivity … one in five at best? When it dies, I’ll be out of a job. Even if it lives, it’ll be years before it’s large enough to draw decent-size crowds. Meanwhile the lagoon’s falling apart and the filtration system needs to be replaced. Does Taylor think a bank’s going to loan a twenty-two-year-old the millions needed to turn this thing around?

  Screw ’em. Better to get off the Titanic now before we hit the iceberg.

  Arriving at the hopper, Cyel stayed to the right, following the starboard rail to the control station that operated the dredge. Powering the system was a 50-kilowatt generator anchored to the deck, the unit as large as a minivan. Situated next to the device was a plywood storage trunk, its brass latch sealed with a padlock.

  Cyel removed the silver chain that held the key from around his neck. He popped open the lock and raised the lid, removing a ten-foot-long bamboo fishing pole. A copper pulley was attached at the tip. Mounted beneath it was a copper block and matching metal plate.

  He laid the wood pole by the generator and then slid open the miniature power plant’s side panel, exposing two lengths of insulated copper wire. The longer wire ran from the unit’s positive terminal to the bamboo pole like fishing line, passing over the contactor en route to the leader.

  The second line ran from the generator’s negative terminal to a copper plate that was the approximate size of a legal pad.

  Cyel carefully lowered the copper plate into the hopper, allowing it to sink several feet below the surface. Donning a pair of rubber work gloves, he slipped them on just as his iPhone vibrated in his pants pocket.

  “Speak.”

  “The balance of the first fifty has been wired. You’ll receive an additional twenty-five thousand in your account after you send us footage of the dead albino. The Coast Guard cutter is standing by to pick you up after you capture the dark-backed pup and send us the image.”

  “And the remaining twenty-five large?”

  “When the second pup is dead.”

  “Terms accepted, with one caveat—the moment I send you photos of the dead Megs, you call for the B.C. Coast Guard to get me off the ship before Mackreides and his loony-tunes nephew throw me overboard.”

  “No worries. Now get to work.”

  Cyel carried the bamboo fishing pole to the wading pool holding the live fish. Wearing the rubber gloves, he managed to grab one of the circling salmon by the base of its tail
and dragged it out of the container with two hands, laying it on the deck. Pressing the bottom of his right sneaker to the writhing fish’s gill slits, he proceeded to bait the copper hook.

  The engineer’s invention was simple but deadly: When the Megalodon took the bait, the action would cause the copper block to connect with the copper plate on the bamboo pole. This would close the connection on the electrical circuit and zap the albino predator with 56,000 volts of electricity. The beauty of the plan was not just the ferocity of the assault but the lack of evidence implicating Cyel. A necropsy would indicate only that the shark’s heart had stopped, not the cause.

  He carried the pole and the thirty-five-pound fish up to the tank’s retaining wall—

  —and was startled to find the ghost-like Megalodon’s triangular head sticking out of the water, its snout level with his perch, the moon reflecting in the creature’s soulless cataract-gray eyes.

  “Evening, Cyel.”

  He turned to find Jackie watching him from the generator, the two ends of the copper wire that had been attached to the generator now dangling from her hands.

  The engineer was caught red-handed, his mind racing.

  “How much is Van Sicklen paying you?”

  “Van Sicklen’s all about protecting the orca. This is about protecting innocent people. Six years ago, the big male that tracked Angel along the coast entered these waters. A man was killed … his name was Heath Shelby. The guy had a wife and kids—they’re the ones who asked us to intervene.”

  The engineer lowered the fish into the tank, feeding out copper wire. “You and Shelby’s daughter are about the same age. Imagine witnessing your father eaten alive by a sixty-foot monster. Imagine the nightmares this family has had to endure.”

  He laid the pole down and approached the marine biologist. “The Shelbys can’t bring Heath back, but they can prevent other innocent people from suffering a similar fate. The facts are the facts, Jackie. The Tanaka Lagoon has yet to hold an adult Meg captive. Angel escaped and killed a bunch of innocent people. Bela and Lizzy did, too. One day this juvenile will weigh fifty tons and be as big and as nasty as her grandmother. There’s a good chance she’ll bust through the lagoon’s rusted steel doors and more innocent people will die—only this time, their deaths will be on your head.”

  Jackie’s heart pounded in her chest, her cheeks flushing.

  Cyel saw the fear in her eyes. “Drop the wires and go back to bed; let me handle this.”

  The marine biologist hesitated. Then she released the two insulated wires and walked away.

  Cyel smiled. Moving quickly to the generator, he bent to retrieve the wires—

  “Arrrghhh!”

  —and collapsed, writhing on deck like the baited salmon.

  Monty stepped out from behind the far wall of the tank, the two wires feeding out from the Taser in his right hand embedded in Cyel Reed’s back.

  “How’s that feel, you old fart?”

  The former Army medic reached into the pocket of his sweat suit and removed his walkie-talkie. “Uncle Mac, you awake?”

  “I am now. Where are you?”

  “On deck, by the hopper controls.” Monty retrieved the bamboo pole and tossed it over the starboard rail into the sea. “You were right about Cyel. He’s on Smallwood’s payroll.”

  “What about Jackie?”

  “That’s more complicated.”

  “Monty, yes or no … can she be trusted with the Meg?”

  Cyel Reed attempted to sit up, only to be rewarded with a swift kick to his solar plexus.

  “In my opinion, they both need to be put ashore.”

  Southeast Farallon Island

  27 Nautical Miles Due West of San Francisco’s

  Golden Gate Bridge

  Chief Petty Officer Sean Ogden stood in the bridge of the Mighty Hawksbill, gazing at the rocky eastern shoreline through his night-vision binoculars. The eighty-seven-foot Coast Guard cutter had been the first ship to respond to the Marieke’s distress call, but once the former English teacher from Elizabeth, New Jersey, realized the nature of the emergency and the parties involved, he requested their homeport in Monterey to dispatch a forty-seven-foot motor lifeboat and rescue chopper.

  Dawn was still several hours away, which Ogden considered a blessing. When word spread about the hopper-dredge’s mission and the dead Miocene whale, every tour boat operator in San Francisco would be congregating around the cluster of islands, media helicopters crowding the skies.

  The Coast Guard chopper had located Captain Robert Gibbons lying inside a motorized rubber raft along the southern shore. Ogden’s medical officer, Danielle Letina, had treated him for shock before instructing the chopper to transport him to San Francisco. From the patient’s feverish testimony and the inch-wide puncture marks encircling the flesh above the missing foot, the physician confirmed Gibbons had been attacked by a shark.

  The twelve-year veteran had been hesitant to make the same pronouncement about Paul Agricola. Contacting her CO by radio, she had described the deceased man’s eviscerated remains and the carcasses of the elephant seals that blanketed the area, making the search for Fiesal bin Rashidi difficult. “I’m certainly no marine biologist, Mr. Ogden, but this doesn’t look like any shark attack that I’ve ever seen.”

  “Could it have been the whale?”

  “I seriously doubt it. By the smell of things, the monster’s been dead for a while, and some of these seal kills are fairly fresh. I’m guessing the attacks happened in these coastal waters and the seals’ remains washed up with the incoming tide; I won’t know for sure until the sun comes up. But if I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re standing in a killing field. And frankly, sir—”

  “Stand by, Letina.” The CPO switched radio channels. “Ogden here. Go ahead, Mr. Blount.”

  Seaman Ryan Blount sounded visibly upset. “Sir, I’m standing in one of the structures … looks like a maintenance shack. Something happened in here—there’s blood everywhere.”

  “Secure the area, Mr. Blount, I’m on my way.” He switched channels. “Dr. Letina, get your team over to the maintenance building on the southern part of the island; I’ll meet you there.”

  West Boca Medical Center

  Boca Raton, Florida

  Jonas had remained by his wife’s side all night, applying cold compresses to her forehead and neck. Her flesh was hot to the touch, her internal temperature hovering above 105 degrees Fahrenheit. Now as the wall clock’s minute hand inched its way toward seven o’clock, he felt his eyelids growing heavy, his head bobbing—

  —the pain in his fingers snapping him awake as his wife violently squeezed his hand, her voice in his head. “How could you do this to me, Jonas? We talked about this!”

  “I couldn’t bear to lose you … I wanted to give the white cell protocol a chance.”

  “By turning me into a vegetable? By placing my soul in purgatory, preventing me from moving on? This is not living.”

  “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

  “Let me go.”

  * * *

  His head snapped back, his eyes opening as the blue light flashed above Terry’s vital signs and an emergency team of doctors and nurses rushed in.

  “Mr. Taylor, you’ll have to leave!”

  “Nurse, I changed my mind—I’ll sign the DNR.”

  She turned to the physician, who continued working on his patient. “Don’t look at me. I’m not stopping until the form is signed.”

  The nurse quickly exited the room as David entered, carrying a cardboard tray holding two cups of coffee and several breakfast sandwiches. “Dad?”

  “Say your good-byes, son—we have to let her go.”

  “No—” He left the food on a table and squeezed past his father to check on the white cell IV. The bag was drained. “See? It’s in her! We can’t give up now.”

  The nurse returned, handing Jonas a clipboard with a Do Not Resuscitate form attached. “Sign here and here.”

  “Dad—
”

  “She didn’t want this, David … to be kept alive hooked up to a bunch of machines. She made me promise.” Jonas signed the form, then he hugged his weeping son as the doctor removed the tube from his mother’s throat.

  Terry’s vital signs went into free fall, plunging to zero—

  “Time of death … 6:52 a.m.”

  —and then she took a breath.

  Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland

  Strait of Juan de Fuca, Pacific Ocean

  James Mackreides trudged up the three flights of steel stairs leading to the pilothouse, each push-off generating a stabbing pain in his knees. Three months on the McFarland were eleven weeks too many for the former Navy chopper pilot’s arthritis. Having to deal with the fallout from last night’s activities on two hours of sleep only compounded his misery.

  Reaching the rusted steel door, he twisted the knob and put his shoulder to it, fighting the pressure differential caused by the wind.

  Mo Mallouh was in the pilot’s chair, watching the fish finder. Mac’s wife, Trish, was seated on the vinyl sofa next to Jacqueline. Both women glared at him.

  Uh-oh … they’ve formed a coalition.

  “You’re firing me?” Jackie said, beating him to the punch. “I’m the one who stopped Cyel from frying your fish.”

  “And then you walked away. If Monty hadn’t been there, the Meg would be dead.”

  “I made a mistake … I was confused. But I knew Monty was there.”

  “They were both keeping an eye on Cyel,” Trish said, playing the part of her legal counsel.

  “It doesn’t matter. After last night, I don’t trust you around the Meg. If I see you anywhere near that tank, we’ll put you ashore.”

  “And who’s going to take care of it?”

  “Monty and I can handle it.”

  Trish rolled her eyes.

  “It’s not brain surgery. We toss in a few salmon every hour and pump in fresh water a coupla times a day, no big deal.”

  Jackie turned to Trish. “He thinks he’s taking care of a goldfish.”

  “The Meg’s in shock, Mac. Listen to your marine biologist.”