Generations

by Steve Alten

  David nodded to the slender woman with shoulder-length brown hair seated across from him. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “He should not have gotten involved with Fiesal bin Rashidi.”

  David motioned to the stocky blonde. “Who’s the lady packing heat?”

  Joseph Williams replied, “I asked Police Chief Sandra Andrews to join us, just in case mediation fails.”

  The veins in Tom Cubit’s neck appeared to jump beneath his shirt collar. “Are you actually intending to charge my client with something, or is this your way of trying to coerce him through cheap intimidation tactics?”

  “Tread lightly, counselor. We’ve got a small army made up of family members of Belladonna’s victims pushing us very hard to charge the Tanaka Institute and its owners with criminal negligence. If we can’t work this out, then Chief Andrews will take Mr. Taylor into custody.”

  Sandra Andrews looked up at David and winked. “Got a nice holding cell all set up for you, sweet britches … something private so you and your future inmates can get acquainted.”

  “What is it you want me to do?” David asked.

  Sabrina Agricola took control of the meeting. “My brother’s dream was to build a Megalodon habitat in British Columbia. Agricola Industries has partnered with the Vancouver Aquarium to complete construction of a state-of-the-art tank and facility located on two hundred thirty acres of waterfront property situated between the existing park and Vancouver Harbour.”

  “You want me to catch Belladonna and transport her to her new home.”

  “Correct. We had originally planned on purchasing a Meg pup from Crown Prince Abu Naba’a—the Dubai-Land Megalodon, Zahra, recently gave birth to two albino offspring—but the ferocity of Bela’s offspring is expected to draw far bigger crowds.”

  “I dunno. Belladonna is much larger than Luna was when I caught her. The McFarland’s hopper is way too small to handle a monster this size. What am I supposed to use as a vessel?”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Sabrina said. “The Marieke and her crew will be made available to you.”

  The deputy minister closed the file he was reading and slid it across the table to Tom Cubit. “That’s your client’s ‘Get Out of Jail’ pass. Capture that creature and there will be no charges filed against you or the Tanaka Institute and its partners stemming from any Megalodon incidents—past or present—in the Salish Sea.”

  Tom Cubit scanned the legal document. “This agreement is bubkes, and you know it. Any claims against the Tanaka Institute were based on Bela and Lizzy’s escaping from their pen—an act perpetrated by an employee who was working with a radical animal rights group. Our insurance settled all claims pertaining to the sisters six months ago. This document specifically deals with Luna and Belladonna. Those Megs were born in the wild; neither David nor the institute has any liabilities regarding the sisters’ pups.”

  David slid his attorney a note.

  Cubit glanced at it and nodded. “I need a few minutes to speak with my client … in private.” Without waiting for a reply, he stood and walked toward the door, David following him out into the private hallway.

  “Don’t worry about these barking dogs, kid. Their bite has no teeth.”

  “I know, but I still want to do the deal … under the following terms. First, we agree to set up an offspring exchange program between the institute and their new facility. Second, for capturing Belladonna, I receive twenty percent of their gate.”

  Cubit shrugged. “I’ll do my best, but I expect they’ll probably forget about Bela’s offspring and buy one of the Dubai pups.”

  “There are no Dubai pups,” David whispered. “Barbara Becker, Jackie’s former boss, contacted me last month and told me Dubai-Land had flown her in as a consultant to inspect the aquarium’s water supply after Zahra—Angel’s surviving runt—gave birth to two stillborn offspring. The crown prince is keeping the story real quiet—”

  “Without a Meg, the Vancouver facility is out of business before they even open the doors.” Cubit grinned. “I’ll ask for thirty-five percent and settle for twenty-five. But I don’t want you in harm’s way; you’re dealing with a very mean, very aggressive fish.”

  David nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  Aboard the Yellow Dragon

  Western Pacific

  The Yellow Dragon’s command center occupied the forward compartment of C-Deck’s inner sphere. The nerve center for the biosphere was controlled by a central computer that organized and arranged data on navigation consoles as well as the chamber’s floor-to-ceiling smart windows. These tactical displays could pinpoint the location of the Yellow Dragon and her fleet of Dragon Pods and submersibles anywhere in the world—except for the Panthalassa Sea.

  The tectonic plate that separated the Pacific Ocean from the three-hundred-million-year-old prehistoric habitat was more than a mile thick, rendering GPS satellites useless. Hon Industries’ solution was to deploy remotely controlled deep-water drones throughout the isolated sea. Once anchored, these barrel-size robots generated a passive sonar signal strong enough to map out the uncharted domain without attracting any of the Panthalassa’s life-forms.

  Engineers quickly realized the Philippine Sea Plate was simply too thick for a drone’s weak signal to reach the mothership. To remedy the situation, Dragon Pod-1 was converted into an automated deep-water relay system. Controlled by the Yellow Dragon, the crewless vessel was now a permanent fixture within the Panthalassa Sea.

  It was through DP-1 that the command center’s sonar operators were able to track the damaged sphere. Caught within a powerful current, Dragon Pod-2 and its crew were now located sixty-one kilometers to the northwest of the Panthalassa Sea’s access hole.

  Among the many challenges of planning a deep-water rescue mission was a ticking clock: The Panthalassa’s current was rapidly pushing the damaged sphere to the edge of the drones’ fifty-two-kilometer sonar limits. Knowing the DP-2 would soon be out of range of the closest bot, Captain Chau had dispatched the last two drones aboard Dragon Pod-1, positioning them at staggered distances behind the damaged minisphere.

  “The most I can stretch the relay is about a hundred and twenty kilometers, and that’s pushing it. The reality, Dr. Hon, is that every minute we delay launching this rescue mission brings us closer to a blackout. Once we lose DP-2’s signal, we may never reacquire it.”

  “Understood, Captain. Everything needed for Professor Taylor’s Megalodon Defense Protocol has been loaded aboard a C-5 transport and is expected to leave Monterey within the hour.”

  “Which means it will be at least twelve more hours before it arrives at our location. I sincerely doubt the creatures that attacked DP-2 would have abandoned the Leeds’ fish kill had a Megalodon shark arrived. Johnny, my wife is aboard DP-2.… I am begging you—dispatch DP-3 now, along with two of the Sting Rays, before we lose their signal.”

  Dr. Hon contemplated his decision. “What’s the soonest DP-3 will be ready to launch?”

  “Two hours.”

  “Make it so.”

  “Thank you. With Toshi and Jiang dead, I have been struggling to determine which pilot to promote to take over as squad leader. Captain Deng is most qualified as an officer, having served six years in the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Duane Saylor—the Ukrainian-American we recruited from Dubai-Land—has logged the most hours in the Panthalassa.”

  “Who is the most skilled Sting Ray pilot on board?”

  “Skilled? I suppose the American trainer, Dulce Lunardon. As she is not part of the team, I never considered her.”

  “Has she been briefed?”

  “She was shown the video of the Helicoprion attack to get her tactical recommendations. She has not been told about the nature of the Dragon Pods or anything about the planned rescue mission.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Sir, Pilot Lunardon has shown no respect for authority in the short time she has been on board. She questions every c
ombat strategy, undermining me and my officers while creating doubt in the minds of our pilots. In my opinion, her presence aboard DP-3 would compromise the mission.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. Where is she now?”

  * * *

  There were five submersible berths located along the Yellow Dragon’s outer sphere at C-Deck, each composed of a curved watertight hatch encircled by a compression ring similar to the apparatus that had been used on the International Space Station. Guided by cameras located along the belly of the sub, the pilot was required to align the Sting Ray’s male adapters to the biosphere’s corresponding female clamps, close enough to engage the docking berth’s magnetized capture locks, which immediately jammed the two craft together. Once the seal was complete, a green light flashed above both the sub’s hatch, as well as in the access tunnel connecting the docking berth to the Yellow Dragon’s inner shell.

  Two of the Yellow Dragon’s five berths were currently occupied by Sting Ray submersibles. A third sub was docked in an inverted orientation along Dragon Pod-3’s southern axis.

  Johnny Hon entered C-Deck’s aft chamber, which housed the pilots’ private sleeping quarters, a briefing room, a cafeteria, an entertainment center, and an exercise facility. There were also two simulators, each holding a two-man pod suspended within an aluminum-framed wheel where the crew could train.

  Simulator-A was being recharged.

  The pilot operating Simulator-B was pushing the machine to its limits … and beyond.

  As he watched, the oval-shaped pod pitched, rolled, and yawed within the confines of its wheel like a hamster on cocaine, pulling a full G with a cage-rattling, three-hundred-sixty-degree barrel loop, only to level out and throttle up into a stagnant sprint, the 35-knot special effect reserved for its sole occupant.

  The third barrel roll, and its accompanying two-hundred-seventy-degree wing-over-wing maneuver, unleashed a blue spark from a floor-mounted fuse box and the scent of burning rubber. As Dr. Hon watched, the machine slowed to a grinding stop. A moment later the hatch popped open along the pod’s belly and a Caucasian woman fell out sideways onto the wheel, the greased tracks leaving gray streaks on her orange jumpsuit.

  Fighting vertigo, she dragged herself onto her feet, staggered to the nearest plastic trash can, and puked.

  When she was through, she sat on the floor, massaging her head.

  “Here … drink this.”

  She looked up at the barrel-chested Chinese man and accepted the bottled water. “Thanks.” Dulce rubbed the bottle’s cold condensation across the back of her neck. “No offense, but who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the man who signs your paychecks.”

  “Helen Emmett signs my checks.”

  “And I sign hers. Dr. Johnny Hon. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Recognizing the CEO’s name, she attempted to stand—

  —Johnny catching her as she tumbled sideways. “Easy.”

  “Sorry. Dulce Lunardon, pilot trainer. Guess you already knew that.”

  “Since you are our only female pilot or trainer on board, I suspected as much. I’ve never seen anyone operate a simulator like that before. What were you attempting to do?”

  “Keep from being eaten.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “I was until the machine broke down.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “It’s as useless as polishing a turd.”

  He looked at her with uncertainty.

  “It’s an expression. It means you can only do what you can do with the tools at hand. These Sting Rays … they were designed for extended missions in extreme depths, not speed and maneuverability. To outrun a herd of Helicoprion, you need a Manta.”

  “What about the Sting Ray’s new defense systems?”

  “The simulator isn’t equipped with them, so I was limited to tactical maneuvers. Hopefully they’ll work when your pilots need them.”

  “Captain Chau tells me you have been questioning our deep-water strategies.”

  “I question stupidity. Your former Dubai-Land pilot made it standard operating procedure to engage the Sting Ray’s electrical field before the high-beams. I disagreed. When I attempted to explain, Captain Chau cut me off, stating that, as a woman, I wasn’t qualified to question his authority. Somehow having breasts renders my opinion moot.”

  “My sincerest apology. Captain Chau is old school. When it comes to our workforce, China has a long history of treating its women as second-class citizens. When the government instituted population controls, many parents chose infanticide—killing their newborn daughters so they could try again for a son.”

  “That’s barbaric.”

  “Things are changing. However, perhaps you should not be so quick to dismiss Mr. Saylor’s recommendations. After all, he is one of the few pilots who has navigated a submersible among these prehistoric creatures.”

  “Define ‘navigate.’ None of the Dubai-Land pilots ever actually got close enough to engage these monsters … except my fiancé. He’s the one who taught me that an electrical field can scramble a shark’s senses up close and personal, but they can also attract them over great distances. That’s why I suggested using the lights first.”

  “Is your fiancé a marine biologist?”

  “No. But he keeps a Megalodon as a pet.”

  “A Megalodon? Oh, I see … your fiancé is David Taylor—how perfect.”

  “I had to agree to marry him; he’s the only person ever to beat my score in the simulator. Of course, that was with a Manta. I can kick his ass aboard the Sting Ray.”

  “Does David know you are here?”

  “No. Helen had me sign a nondisclosure agreement when she hired me. David thinks I’m in the Mediterranean presenting the three Sting Rays to the U.S. Sixth Fleet as part of their annual war game exercises.”

  “What about you? Do you know why we’re out here?”

  “It’s not hard to figure out. If you don’t mind me asking, how much are you charging the crown prince to stock his aquariums?”

  “What makes you think we are here to capture specimens?”

  “Why else would you be baiting the Dragon Pods?”

  “Baiting the Dragon Pods? Oh, I see.… No, my dear, the Dragon Pods were designed to be used on our Panthalassa safaris. We needed a secondary business venture to justify the massive financial expenditures required to build this complex.”

  Dulce appeared confused. “I don’t understand. You’re not using the pods as traps?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then why did the Sting Ray pilot kill that Leeds’ fish?”

  “To collect its liver.” Dr. Hon quickly briefed her on Dr. Jernigan’s discovery and their need to launch a rescue mission with the weaponized Sting Rays.

  “The cure for cancer … in a two-hundred-million-year-old fish’s liver—wow. That certainly explains how you managed to bring Jonas here. I was kinda shocked when I saw him and Terry step off that jet. None of the Taylor men want anything to do with the Mariana Trench or the Panthalassa Sea.”

  “Jonas agreed to join the rescue mission if we use his Megalodon protocol. Unfortunately, we cannot wait any longer for the C-5 transport to arrive.”

  “Megalodon protocol? What are you talking about?”

  Dr. Hon explained Terry’s idea.

  “Geez, that’s actually pretty clever. How’d Mac manage to load everything aboard a C-5 without telling David?”

  “Helen informs me he is out of town.”

  “Out of town? Doing what? He never leaves Luna alone. That boy’s got some explaining to do—”

  “Dulce, DP-3 launches within the hour. Join the mission and help us rescue the crew and I’ll make it worth your while.” Reaching into his pocket, he removed a folded check, handing it to her.

  She stared at the figure. “That’s a lot of zeros.” She handed it back. “No offense, Dr. Hon, but if I’m going to risk my life, it has to be for something more important than mone
y.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “David and I have plans: We want to turn the Taylor Institute into an entertainment mecca. To attract hotel chains and major investors, we need to expand, and expansion means we need more than a Megalodon tank. If I were to come home with a few prehistoric species—I don’t know, say a few Helicoprion to start—that would be worth risking my life for.”

  Johnny Hon stared at her, incredulous. “I offered you a million dollars to lead a rescue mission; instead you want Hon Industries to invest a billion dollars to help you and your boyfriend capture these sea creatures?”

  “He’s my fiancé, and this won’t cost anywhere near that.”

  “I beg to differ. We spent six months and millions of dollars investigating the most efficient ways to locate, capture, and eviscerate Leeds’ fish, and that included diversifying the start-up costs to build a Chinese version of Dubai-Land in Chengdu. We’d need nets and subs and adrenaline-junkie pilots like your fiancé, not to mention a vessel large enough to transport these creatures across the Pacific Ocean. There is a reason we chose to build an amphibious hotel. Anything short of committing to build and stock a resort the size of Dubai-Land simply cannot be done. End of discussion.”

  “Can I at least explain how I’d capture these creatures?”

  “No. I have a crew that must be rescued, and you are wasting valuable time.” He turned to leave, but she was on her feet and blocking his exit. “You are just as bad as Captain Chau! All I’m asking for is thirty seconds. Are my services worth half a minute?”

  He exhaled an exasperated breath. “Thirty seconds.”

  “You don’t need nets or subs or crazy sub pilots, or a converted oil tanker, to haul the captured creatures back to California. All we’d need is the shell of a Dragon Pod and a few basic design changes.”

  Reaching into the right pants pocket of her jumpsuit, she removed a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Dr. Hon. “This is what I thought you had created the Dragon Pods to do.”

  He unfolded a rough hand-drawn blueprint of an empty, porous Dragon Pod shell. The end cap located along its south pole was sealed and completely clear, while the north cap was anchored on hinges that allowed it to swing in.