MEG: Nightstalkers (22 page)

“David!”

Tina screamed again as the spherical cockpit became an amusement ride through a hell revealed in terrifying glimpses behind the night-vision glass.

David frantically tore open the panel to the sub’s fuse box as they slid past two-story-tall fluttering gill slits. He reached for a luminous red toggle switch as they teetered between the esophagus and the trachea, seconds from plunging into the monster’s stomach.

“Tina, don’t touch the glass!”

A blinding burst of blue current short-circuited both control panels as ten thousand volts of electricity was redirected from the sub’s batteries through a latticework of microwires set within the cockpit glass.

The shock stunned the
Liopleurodon
’s nervous system, triggering a powerful gag reflex that caused the creature to regurgitate the sphere. One moment David and Tina were about to be swallowed, the next they were being propelled through the open sea at sixty knots, rising to the surface.

Tina gripped the edges of her seat, her eyes wide as her mind tried to grasp what had just happened. “Oh my God, oh my God, we could have been … I mean we were—”

The blood rushed from her face. Fumbling through her storage panel, she hurried a seasickness bag to her mouth and vomited.

16

Tanaka Institute
Monterey, California

James Mackreides sat in his office easy chair, staring out the bay windows overlooking the institute’s man-made lagoon. Beyond the southwestern bleachers, anchored at the institute’s pier was the
McFarland
, a 319-foot-long hopper-dredge Jonas had purchased in a government auction and converted to a Megalodon transport. Mac had spent three long weeks on the rusted monstrosity of steel, hauling Angel to what turned out to be her final resting place, and now Jonas was asking him to ready the ship for a ten-thousand-mile voyage to Antarctica.

His wife entered, carrying their son, Kyle, in his car seat. “Well? Are you going with him, or are you staying here with your family?”

“For right now I’m staying. There’s no reason for me to travel with the boat, the captain said he’d pick me up in Santiago, Chile. That buys me two weeks to make a decision.”

“As far as I’m concerned … well, you know my opinion.”

“Trish, he’s my best friend and he’s my partner.”

“A partner in what? A bankrupt business? I’m supposed to be your best friend; I’m supposed to be your partner. And why Antarctica?”

“I told you; David is hunting the Lio and the Lio is headed for Antarctica.”

“According to who? The last reality show episode we watched had David capturing those creatures off the Japanese coast.”

“The reality shows are taped. David’s aboard the
Tonga
now and the
Tonga
is searching for the Lio in the waters off East Australia.”

“Then why go to Antarctica?”

Mac sighed. “I told you this last night; Zachary Wallace said—”

“How the hell does Zachary Wallace know where the creature is headed? Is he psychic? He’s not even a marine biologist anymore; you told me he’s involved in some covert energy scheme.”

“It’s not a scheme. We invested in his company years ago, and since then Jonas takes what he says as the gospel.”

“Then let him risk his own life.”

“Enough. If it were our son out there hunting that creature you could bet the farm Jonas would be by my side.” Mac stood, moving to his desk to retrieve a flight itinerary for Danielle Taylor. “Dani’s plane arrives from London in three hours. Terry’s seeing her doctor; she asked if one of us could pick her daughter up at the airport.”

“By one of us, you mean me.”

“I’m ordering supplies for a three-month trip to Antarctica, refitting the Mantas with lasers, and recruiting a crew. Think you might help me out on this one?”

“Sure. And you can breast-feed your son.”

She snatched the itinerary and left.

“Trish, come on—” Mac winced as she slammed the door. “And that, Kyle, is why God made Adam before Eve; He didn’t want a woman nagging Him about the specs.” He checked the diaper bag, making sure his wife had left him a bottle of milk. Propping the car seat in front of the flat screen television, he fished through a stack of
Barney
and
Sesame Street
DVDs. Tossing them aside, he selected a
Three Stooges
short from his book shelf.

“We’ll begin your formal education into manhood with the classics.…”

Obstruction Pass, Salish Sea

There are over two hundred species of kelp growing in the waters surrounding the San Juan Islands. These algae stalks, attached to sea bedrocks by “holdfasts,” are an essential part of the marine food chain, attracting crustaceans and snails, salmon and orca. Clusters of kelp appear as algae forests, their floating canopies forming vegetative rafts that provide rest areas for seals, sea otters, and the occasional kayaker.

Paul Agricola squinted into a blinding sunset as he guided the sixty-six-foot fiberglass fishing trawler west through Obstruction Pass. The channel’s current picked up as it swept the boat past Obstruction Island, driving them toward Orcas Island’s East Channel. The hopper-dredge
Marieke
remained in the deeper waters of Rosario Strait a half mile away, her superstructure disappearing from view behind Obstruction Island’s tree-covered highlands.

Jonas Taylor sat in the bridge hunched over a rectangular computer screen, his eyes bleary from almost seven hours of staring at the fish-finder.

“That’s it Paul, I’ve had enough for one day. My back is breaking, that lunch made me queasy, and whatever your crew has covered beneath that tarp stinks to high heaven. Take us back to the
Marieke
, we’ll get an early start in the morning.”

“Morning is for catching salmon; we’re after night stalkers.”

Jonas’s adrenaline kicked in, his heart pounding heavy in his chest. “That wasn’t our deal. When the sun goes down you agreed we’d be in port or aboard the dredge.”

“The dredge can’t enter the passes around Obstruction and Blakely Island and there’s a kelp forest up ahead I wanted to check out.”

“And if we spot one of the sisters? What then?”

“Then we hightail it back to the dredge. Stop worrying; I’ve got a plan.”

A muscular man in an Army Strong T-shirt entered the bridge. “Cheney and Rumsfeld had a plan, and look where that got us.” He extended a callus-covered palm. “Presley Gibbons, part-time grease monkey, full-time sport fisherman. So how big are these sisters? I was in the
Tallman-II
asleep when your beasties decided to sink the yacht. From the newscast I’d guess they’re about thirty-five feet.”

“Forty-six feet and twenty tons of nasty.”

“Ouch. At the risk of over-abusing the phrase—I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat.”

“We have a bigger boat; we need to be
on
the bigger boat.”

“Relax, Jonas. Presley is the one who caught Bela’s pup. Lured her to the surface with a bloody burlap bag of salmon and netted her for one of my guests. Of course, once I saw her markings I knew what we had.”

“Is that what’s in the stern attracting all the flies?”

“Not this time,” Presley said. “Last night the boys and I went hunting for Columbia black-tail deer; got us a big buck. Just an appetizer for your sisters, but it’s a nice meal for a six to eight footer. We’ll gut it and drag it around the surface. Last time the entire procedure from cast to capture took less than ten minutes. The key is to net her and get her out of the sea into one of the saltwater holds before momma and auntie get close enough to catch a vibration.”

Jonas slid his sunglasses back over his eyes and squinted against the late afternoon sun. Obstruction Pass was bringing them to the spot where Orcas Island’s East Sound waterway emptied into the Salish Sea. “You’re heading for the site of the charter boat attack?”

Paul nodded, pointing out the spot on his chart. “It’s shallow water with a big kelp forest and some major rock formations—perfect for a Megalodon nursery. The diver you rescued can’t remember much of anything. But I have a good feeling about this one.”

Paul slowed the boat to three knots. “Take a look off the starboard bow. Can you see the kelp canopies? I’ll circle the mat; Pres, take over for Jonas at the fish finder.”

Jonas relinquished his seat to the fisherman, who adjusted the range finder. “It’s a kelp forest all right … I’m guessing bull kelp. A few nice sized salmon moving among the stipes. Wait, I see seals in the canopy. I don’t know, Paul. If there are seals hanging out I doubt the juvies are in the area.”

“Keep watching. The diver swore he saw at least one six-foot albino great white.”

Jonas looked up. “I thought you said he couldn’t remember anything?”

“That was before I paid him five hundred bucks. Pres, tell your guys to drop the bait in the water. Let’s see if we can flush them out.”

The fisherman reached for the two-way radio clipped to the back of his belt. “Rod, we’re a go. Gut her and drag her.”

*   *   *

It took Rod Larrivee three attempts to suck in his belly enough to shove the radio back into its belt holster, during which time the wind shifted, blowing a cloud of blue-gray carbon monoxide in his face. Cursing under his breath, the big man turned away from the engine exhaust and reached for the red kerchief dangling from his shirt pocket, mopping sweat beads from his receding hairline.

The deep guttural sounds of the twin outboards reverberated beneath his feet, mixing with the “Moves Like Jagger” lyrics pounding from fifteen-year-old Matthew Dunn’s iPod.

“Hey kid, it’s show time. You want to gut Bambi or me?”

Matthew held up the sheathed Bowie knife to his uncle. “Can I use this?”

“Sure you can handle it?”

“No problem.” The teen followed his uncle to the gray tarp. Rod pulled back the covering, revealing the dead buck. The smell was gamey and rancid, tufts of white fur lifting into the wind. A one-inch-thick braided rope was already tied around the animal’s neck and attached to the stern winch.

“Give me a hand.” Rod grabbed the deer by its antlers; Matthew the hindquarters—the two Canadians half wrestling, half dragging the carcass on top of the transom.

Matthew inspected the buck’s bloated belly. “So … do I just slice it open?”

“Not in the belly. Shove the knife in its asshole and work your way up.”

“Are you serious?”

“What’s wrong, eh? Afraid you’re going to hurt it?”

Matthew gripped the knife with one hand, the buck’s left leg with the other.

“Sometime today, kid.”

“Maybe you ought to do it, Uncle Rod.”

“Gimme the knife, Davy Crockett.” In one motion the big man shoved the tip of the blade into the dead animal’s anus, working his way up its belly as he eviscerated the deer.

Matthew gagged at the sight of the intestines as they oozed from the wound.

Rod pushed the carcass overboard. The buck fell into the emerald sea, twisting on the line. Moving to the winch, the big man released forty feet of rope. “Okay, kid. First one who spots a dorsal fin gets a beer.”

*   *   *

The moon rose amber to define the dark horizon, splaying a funnel of lunar light that seemed to follow the fishing trawler as it circled to the south.

Jonas stood in the bow, the crook of his casted left arm wrapped around the support of a searchlight, his right hand free to hold the night-vision glasses to his face. The neon-orange life vest was secured around his chest, the precaution drawing laughter from the crew.

Jonas couldn’t care less what they thought. The Canadians’ bravado was forged on a confidence that came from years at sea and an ignorance regarding the sisters’ ferocity. Paul Agricola was the biggest offender, his attitude toward Jonas a mix of cockiness and judgment. Jonas Taylor had led the life the former marine biologist coveted, only
he
would have done it better.

“No offense, Jonas, but Angel escaped twice on your watch. How many innocent people died because you neglected to permanently seal the canal doors? Even when she was in captivity she still managed to kill four or five people. Now the sisters are on the loose, spawning genetic clones … You can bet the down payment that my team won’t be making the same mistakes yours made.”

“We got sharks, boys!”

Jonas’s heart raced as he made his way back to the bridge, where the crew had gathered around Presley Gibbons and his fish-finder. The screen showed five sharks circling beneath the boat’s keel and the bait.

“One minute the screen was clear, the next—there they were. I dunno, Paul, maybe there’s a trough or an underwater cave down there … something that concealed them.”

“It doesn’t matter; what matters is that we net one of these bitches and get her on board as quickly as we can.”

“We’re on it.” Presley led Rod and his nephew outside to a thirty foot trawl net supported by a central mast.

“Matthew, man the winch; I want the bait no more than ten feet behind our wake. Rod, let’s get the net in the water.”

Jonas watched as the two men released the net over the starboard side, allowing it to sink forty feet before maneuvering it into position beneath the deer carcass, which was being dragged along the surface just behind the boat’s white water wake.