Generations

by Steve Alten

  “How was the Manta docked?”

  Captain Chau perked up. “It was wet-docked! Pods-2, 3, and 4 are our surgical units; the wet docks are located on Level-D. Once the surgical drones removed the animal’s liver, they returned to the wet dock, where robotic arms vacuum-packed the excised organ in a matching pressurized environment—otherwise it’d have spoiled. The Sting Rays were far too big to be wet-docked, but the Manta … Jonas?”

  “How far away from the access tunnel are the two Dragon Pods?”

  “Fifty-eight kilometers … about thirty-six miles.”

  “How many people are on board the DP-2?”

  “Five,” Catherine said.

  “Six,” Dr. Hon said, correcting her. “You forgot Dr. Jernigan.”

  “Six, huh? That’s two in the copilot’s seat, one in storage, and three in the glove compartment. I’ll have to make a few trips. Where’s the Manta?”

  “Aboard the Yellow Dragon. There’s a wet dock on S-Deck.”

  “Get her ready; I want to be in the Panthalassa within the hour.”

  Captain Chau pinched tears from his eyes. “Jonas, you would do this?”

  “Just make sure the Manta can trigger the DP-2’s wet dock to open. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to write a letter to my kids before I go.”

  Catherine waited until he exited the conference room before she spoke. “What if we learn that Terry was one of the pilots who were killed? Should we tell him?”

  “Absolutely not,” Captain Chau said. “Do that and he might decide to abort the mission. At the very least, his grief would become an enormous distraction.”

  “If she died, he’ll know soon enough.”

  Tanaka Institute

  Monterey, California

  Mac opened the conference room door, allowing Tom Cubit to enter. “Have you met my nephew, Monty?”

  The attorney shook the Iraqi war vet’s calloused hand. “How are you?”

  “Ask me in about an hour. Hopefully Jonas Junior over there will be fifty million dollars richer.”

  David motioned for Tom to sit. “What do you think?”

  “When it comes to the prince, I don’t trust him—period. Having said that, we know he absolutely wants the Lio, especially now that it’s a young adult. Moneywise, fifty million dollars is still fifty million dollars, but he’ll earn that back in a week.

  “The biggest concern I have is your ex-girlfriend telling him she hijacked the tanker. The prince is no prince, but he is an ally of the United States government, and the boys in the Coast Guard don’t take kindly to American citizens hijacking Saudi vessels in California waters. My advice is to move the Mogamigawa into the canal. Possession still remains nine-tenths of the law, and he can’t commandeer what he can’t access.”

  David turned to Mac. “Will it even fit?”

  “She’ll be tighter than a virgin on her wedding night, but we can try. You’ll have to move Luna into the Meg Pen … which brings up another problem. What happens if the prince calls your bluff and tells you he no longer wants the Lio and you can keep her? Last I heard, this beast is now amphibious. Where are you going to put her? Or are you planning to serve up your customers as early bird specials?”

  “The MEGheads would love that,” Monty said. “A good human feeding always jacks up attendance.”

  David ignored the comment. “What if we put an electrical collar on her? We could rig the boundary posts around the lagoon; if she tries to exit the lagoon, she gets zapped.”

  Mac mulled it over. “We’d have to ground the Meg Pen to protect Luna, but it’s not a bad idea. I wouldn’t be surprised if the governor suddenly changed his mind about expanding the institute. That monster would bring a lot of investors back to the negotiating table.”

  “I don’t know,” Monty said, shaking his head. “I still like that early bird special.”

  Tom Cubit looked horrified. “Do you have brain damage?”

  “Little bit, yeah.”

  Aboard the Yellow Dragon

  Mariana Trench—Western Pacific

  Jonas stepped off the bullet-shaped elevator onto S-Deck and followed the signs to the wet dock.

  The Yellow Dragon was a biosphere contained within a larger semi-permeable outer shell, separated by the containment area the Chinese called sheng chi. Functioning as the ship’s lungs, this pressurized space held a labyrinth of ballast tanks and bladders that could take on ocean water or expel it in order to adjust the ship’s buoyancy.

  The wet dock was fifteen feet long and fifteen feet wide, but only ten feet high. Reinforced aerogel walls formed a sleeve that spanned the sheng chi before exiting out retractable doors housed within the outer shell. The floor functioned as a massive drain, the ceiling a pressurizing vent.

  Sandwiched within these tight confines was Manta-4.

  Jonas walked around the sub, a harbinger of bad memories.

  The two tubular devices attached to the wings were not part of his and Mac’s original design; they had been added by his friend and fellow creature researcher Zachary Wallace in order to pilot the craft in the frozen Antarctic Sea. The two boosters had certainly come in handy in melting the ice, and the lasers had saved his son’s life, but the additional weight affected the two-man sub’s speed and maneuverability.

  What’s more important to have in the Panthalassa: speed or a weapon?

  He thought back to the video footage of the Helicoprion sharks swarming upon the DP-2’s Sting Rays.

  The lasers were designed to melt ice, not fend off a school of prehistoric sharks. Plus, they burned flesh only on contact.

  Exiting the wet dock, he returned to the biosphere to find something to remove the cumbersome devices.

  Tanaka Institute

  Monterey, California

  The full moon had risen above the cloud-covered horizon, summoning the Megalodon to surface.

  David stepped inside the legs of his wetsuit, tugging the tight rubber material up and over his buttocks. He glanced across the deck to the Meg Pen, where Luna was spy-hopping, the sixty-foot albino shark watching him.

  “Sorry, girl, I can’t play with you now.” Grabbing his mask and fins, he crossed the deck to the northern wall of the canal, following the footpath to where Monty was waiting with an air tank and scuba gear.

  The war vet spoke into his radio. “We’re in place, Mac. You can open the gate.”

  Rust-infested hinges screeched in protest as the massive doors at the end of the waterway slowly opened inward, beckoning the tanker to enter. Measuring two hundred twenty-six feet across, the canal was just wide enough to accommodate the Mogamigawa’s hundred-ninety-six-foot beam.

  It was the depth of the ship’s keel that would be their biggest challenge.

  Monty helped his friend on with his buoyancy control vest and air tank. Securing his fins and mask, David eased himself off the algae-infested concrete wall into the dark water. Monty tossed him an underwater light and then watched as he made his way to the bottom.

  Jackie had ordered her crew to empty the tanker’s hold as much as they could in order to raise the ship’s draft. With no Coast Guard in sight, they had waited until 8:30 p.m. and high tide before attempting to bring the massive ship inside.

  David hovered above the muddy bog, directing his light at the slowly advancing bow. The vessel was sitting high out of the water, its keel clearing the canal floor by less than six feet.

  Satisfied, he added air to his vest and floated back to the surface.

  “Tell Mac we’re good. How soon until the banks open in Dubai?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Aboard Manta-4

  Jonas’s thoughts raced as a deluge of seawater poured in from the floor and ceiling, filling the wet dock’s chamber. Bright yellow gauges mounted along the inside of the aerogel walls reported the external and internal water pressure. When the latter reached 16,000 psi the exit door would open, releasing him to fulfill his final mission.

  Jonas did not know if his wife
was alive or dead, but he knew Captain Chau would not inform him one way or the other before he reached the two Dragon Pods. It was the correct play—Chau’s wife was aboard the DP-2—but it still made him angry.

  Anger was good. Anger engaged his adrenal glands and kept fear at bay.

  Sorrow, on the other hand, was a dangerous distraction.

  The yellow numbers on the pressure gauge reached 16,000 psi and turned green. A moment later track lighting along either wall sent arrows advancing to the opening exit.

  Pressing down on both propulsion pedals, he accelerated the Manta submersible into the abyss.

  Aboard the Mogamigawa

  The videoconference call had been scheduled for 9:15 a.m. Dubai time, 10:15 p.m. in California.

  At 10:19 p.m. (PST) an image of a bank conference room appeared on Jackie’s laptop. A moment later the crown prince filed in with a team of attorneys.

  “Ms. Buchwald, are you there?”

  “We’re here.”

  “We are prepared to advance you and the crew and officers of my tanker the amount requested—provided you make way immediately for the Persian Gulf.”

  “What about the money you owe David?”

  “We do not owe Mr. Taylor any money, as he failed to deliver the Lio on the day of settlement.”

  “It was on board the Tonga for three days!” Tom Cubit snapped, the lawyer’s carotid arteries flaring along either side of his neck. “When you took possession, you took ownership. You were supposed to wire the funds.”

  “Tom, take it easy—it doesn’t matter anymore,” David said. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but I’ve decided to keep the Lio. I spoke to a private investor, who’s putting up the ten million to pay Jackie and her team. He’s putting together a business plan that will bring in hotel chains, restaurants, and a billion dollars to expand our facility—all because of the Lio.”

  “How soon will we get paid?”

  David turned to Jackie. “The money will be wired tonight. The funds are coming from China.”

  “Great! What should I do with the Mogamigawai?”

  “I don’t give a damn. Why don’t you park it next to the Tonga.”

  “Done.” Jackie ended the call. “That was fun. How soon do you think he’ll call back?”

  “As soon as his heart starts beating again.”

  Aboard Manta-4

  Jonas circled the rim of the 1.7-mile-deep tunnel a half-dozen times in an attempt to regain a feel for piloting the sub. Satisfied, he pulled back on the joystick and executed a three-hundred-sixty-degree wing-over-wing loop above the entrance before dropping into a ninety-degree vertical straight down into the hole.

  The sub’s lights reflected off the rounded obsidian walls. A minute later the Manta shot out of the accessway and into the Panthalassa Sea.

  The sub’s GPS immediately started chirping as two dots appeared on the sub’s grid about forty miles to the northwest.

  Jamming both pedals to the floor, Jonas accelerated to 35 knots, only to cut his speed in half as the debris in the water struck his windshield like a December snowstorm.

  Aboard the Mogamigawa

  The Liopleurodon had been in a semiconscious state for three days, its gills processing oxygen from the seawater inside its holding tank that was laced with a powerful combination of animal sedatives.

  In order to raise the ship high enough for its keel to enter the Tanaka Lagoon’s canal, the tanker’s captain had drained 35 percent of the water inside the creature’s holding tank that served as ballast. In lowering the waterline below the Lio’s mouth, he inadvertently bypassed the creature’s gills, forcing it to engage its lungs in order to breathe—cutting off the supply of sedatives to its system.

  At 9:57 p.m. (PST), the creature awoke from its three-day nap, groggy and in a foul mood.

  * * *

  Tom Cubit looked over the faxed deal one last time. “All right, David, the terms of the agreement essentially state that, upon its execution, fifty million dollars U.S. will be transferred into the Tanaka Institute’s offshore account to cover the initial capture of the juvenile Liopleurodon two years ago. For liability reasons, the prince is leaving the language regarding Dubai-Land’s acceptance of the creature vague, but the fact that he will be paying you places the Tonga’s sinking in his end of the pool. So … initial here and here, and sign the last page, which I will notarize as a licensed notary … and—”

  The thunder of pounding metal shook the ship.

  Mac slammed the top of Jackie’s laptop closed, cutting off the Skype call, as the attorney quickly stamped the agreement and signed his name as notary.

  Monty glanced at David. “It’s awake … and it sounds cranky.”

  “It sounds like it’s using its lungs. Jackie, when you drained ballast from the hold, did you leave enough to keep water flowing over its gills?”

  “You’re asking me that now?”

  Mac stepped from the control room to the metal staircase looking out over the main deck.

  The Lio’s enormous crocodilian head appeared as it bit down onto the wood framework of the open hold, its right forelimb wedged outside of the opening as it struggled to pull itself out.

  “Aww, hell.”

  Mac reentered the control room. “People, we got ourselves a little problem. And by ‘little,’ I mean a hundred tons of nasty that’s climbing out of the hold as we speak.”

  “Where’s the fax machine?” Tom yelled.

  “Here, give it to me!” Taking the stack of signed papers from the attorney, Jackie placed them faceup on the fax machine and hit the preprogrammed number.

  David ducked outside with Mac in time to witness the Lio climb out of the hold, its belly bloated with air.

  “QUURRRLTURP!” The deep throttled chirp echoed clear across the waterway.

  “Don’t look at me,” David said. “I’m scared shitless.”

  “Technically, it’s the prince’s problem now.”

  “Unless it goes after Luna.”

  They turned in unison to the Meg Pen, where the albino shark was spy-hopping, staring at the full moon.

  Spotting the Meg, the Liopleurodon scrambled over the side of the tanker and into the canal to attack.

  Aboard Manta-4

  Panthalassa Sea

  The sonar alarm startled Jonas—in all his years of piloting the Manta he had never heard the bizarre warning sound outside of Mac’s workshop.

  Glancing at the screen, his first reaction was that the system had malfunctioned. How else could there be thousands of predatory life-forms ahead of him?

  Unsure of what to do, he shut down the system and rebooted.

  A minute later, the same configuration appeared.

  He had avoided using the night-vision optics because it strained his eyes, leading to migraine headaches. But he switched to it now, fearful of what lay ahead.

  “Oh, geez…”

  They were everywhere—dozens of different species, all heading to the northwest. Directly in front of him, blocking the Manta’s way, was a school of long-necked Elasmosaurs, and there appeared to be no way around them.

  Without warning, a head the size of a utility truck circled back, its mouth filled with two-foot-long, stiletto-shaped teeth.

  Pulling back on the joystick, Jonas barrel-rolled the Manta over the plesiosaur’s snapping jaws—

  —only to be bashed sideways by another and another, the seafloor rushing up at him.…

  * * *

  Mac had described Dr. Michael Day as “Eastern philosophy applied to Western fears.”

  “You need someone trained to deal with these kinds of issues, J.T. His office is in Suite 208; go up the stairs and turn right.… He’s expecting you.”

  Jonas exited the Cadillac convertible, angry at Mac’s deception in getting him to meet with his shrink.

  “What brings you here, Mr. Taylor?”

  “James Mackreides.”

  “I asked ‘what,’ not ‘who.’ Surely there must be
something in your life that I might be able to offer you a few tools to deal with better.”

  “All right. How about fear?”

  “That depends. There is healthy fear and there is unhealthy fear. For instance, the fear of death is not constructive—death is merely the passage into a higher realm. The key to overcoming the fear of death is to meet this inevitability with a controlled mind.”

  “What about the fear of being trapped?”

  “All fear, Mr. Taylor, comes from our own uncontrolled minds. To quote Shantideva in A Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life, ‘All fears and all infinite sufferings arise from the mind. While it is not possible to control all external events, if I simply control my mind, what need is there to control other things?’”

  “And how does one control the fear and anxiety of being separated from the person you love more than anyone in the world? My wife—she’s been in a coma for ten months.”

  “I am so sorry. And how does that make you feel?”

  “Angry.”

  “Because there is nothing you can do about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The root of all fear, Mr. Taylor, comes from our ignorance of our own existence. Without getting too deeply into this profound subject, life is the dream; what follows is the true reality, and it is our conviction that things exist independently of our mind that is the source of all our fear.”

  “And how do I deal with it?”

  “By understanding that while we are in the samsara—the process of birth, death, and rebirth—we will continuously be separated from all the conditions that make us feel safe: our home, our family, our friends, our money and possessions, and our physical health. If we are not separated from these conditions before death, we will be separated from them at death. What happens to us afterward depends on the karma we have created in this life or in previous lives. This is not something we like to hear, but it is the truth.

  “When you are frightened, ask yourself what you are actually frightened of. Our fear of death is unhealthy—death is simply part of the process. A healthy fear of death would be the fear of dying unprepared. Our focus, therefore, should be on the things that we can actually take with us—the imprints of the positive and negative actions we have generated. Instead of fear, our focus should be on purifying our negative karma while accumulating as much good karma as we can.”