Below (18 page)

B
lack water.

Even to the most sensitive eyes in the shoal, seeing had become somewhat difficult once the sun had gone down. But hunting only a few hundred feet beneath the surface allowed its members to take advantage of the dim light cast by distant stars and a waxing moon suspended far away in the night sky.

Cruising at this great depth, the shoal was nonetheless much shallower than it had been during the day. Since it had moved farther away from the coast days ago, it had spent most of its time in deeper and cooler water each day.

The shoal had made its way to the more comfortable ocean depths farther from the coast because many of its members were not getting enough sustenance in the warmer near-shore environment. For the past week, the Humboldt squid had drifted north in cool, nutrient-rich waters that flowed freely over an abyssal trench far below. Their initial drive to migrate north had again taken over after food had become limited in the shallower coastal waters.

The only time the shoal had fed well in recent days was when it had encountered another shoal of smaller, less-mature members of its own kind. The other group had been feeding on small fish in deeper water, and had created a frenzy of activity. In the frenzy, the larger shoal had joined the others to feed on the sardines.

And on many less-fortunate members of the younger shoal.

Now ready to feed again, the shoal moved through the darkness, hidden from most predators and invisible to most prey. The individuals in the shoal moved with purpose, but with little thought. Instinct drove them to keep moving until they located what they needed for survival. Now they again needed food.

A faint, familiar pulse from something far away traveled through the shoal.
Splashing.

The one-eyed female, near the front of the shoal, changed course slightly to begin closing the distance on the source of the activity. The splashes might have been made only by a large seabird, on which one or two members of the shoal might feed. But it could be something else—something bigger.

The sonic pulses from the splashing grew louder and more insistent, but now the large female had become aware that the sound was mixed with a deep drone. This was not the threatening, low pitch emitted by the predatory whales that could easily kill many in the shoal, but it was an unwelcome noise. Loud, less familiar. Even so, the urge to feed, coupled with an innate curiosity, drove her forward.

As she rose steadily and surged vigorously toward the potential prey, she was the first to see the activity in the water with her remaining eye.

A bright flash of color.

The nerves inside her surged to life, sending chemical signals through her body. Her eye widened. Her muscles tensed. Her pulse, produced by three hearts, quickened.

More went on in her body than normal predatory reactions, though. A deep aggression swelled in her, stronger and bolder than it should have been. Her mind focused not on caution, defense, learning.

Only on killing.

When she began to pass underneath the large, white shape on the surface emitting artificial vibrations and less-familiar whitish lights, little thought was given to any risk. Not every member of the shoal was as bold as the massive female, but her scarred sister and several others followed her.

There was no fear in the focused throng of predators. Only hunger. The detachment of squid left the shoal and single-mindedly rushed to the surface, toward the bright collection of large objects flashing above them in the moonlight.

 

 

Lindsay held the lead.

The knowledge that she was maintaining a faster pace than the other swimmers, compounded with the energy provided by a recent second wind, boosted her spirits and drove her forward, the other women stroking rhythmically behind her through the dark ocean swells.

Using long, measured strokes, Lindsay continued her steady pace toward the light of the charter boat ahead. The lead boat was keeping a course steady to the northeast. Lindsay couldn’t actually see the stern light, since her vision was limited to her left side, where she caught a glimpse of the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the ocean each time she raised her head to take a breath. But she could also usually see one of the two escort kayaks gliding nearby. The paddlers, wearing bright headlamps,
could
see the lead boat up ahead, and helped herd the swimmers into a straight path.

It didn’t matter that Lindsay’s visibility was minimal; it was too dark to see much anyway, and fog obscured the lights of the distant mainland.

Even though the few light sources around her didn’t provide much illumination, Lindsay was grateful for them. What had been the hardest for her to overcome tonight was the feeling of blindness that she dealt with every time her face was under the water, which accounted for most of the time on the swim. She could never get truly comfortable with the sensory deprivation inherent to long night swims. Years of training had at least built up her self-confidence and mental focus enough to make a swim like this manageable.

This wasn’t her first night swim, although it was her first all-night, open-water swim, a super-endurance test of twenty-one miles from Catalina Island to San Pedro, near Los Angeles. They had left Catalina Island at 11:54
P.M.
with air temps in the mid-sixties and the water pushing seventy degrees. She and three other women had been swimming in the San Pedro Channel for roughly five hours, which meant the finish line was still about ten miles away.

Only the best open-water swimmers in the world attempted the all-night crossing, from a small beach in Doctor’s Cove on Catalina to the mainland. Virtually everyone crazy enough to attempt it did it at night, because of calmer seas, lighter winds, and less boat traffic. Only about a hundred and fifty swimmers had ever successfully completed the challenge.

Lindsay and the other swimmers were some of the world’s most elite open-water competitors. To even consider a swim of this nature, every one of them had been swimming in endurance-oriented, long-distance swims for years. All of them had at least one swim of over fifteen miles under her belt, and all had been swimming more than that many miles every week in the months before the race. None wore wet suits tonight, because it would rule out their acceptance into the official record books. Instead, each wore a brightly colored one-piece swimsuit that offered virtually no added buoyancy. Hers was neon green; the others had on shades of neon orange, pink, and yellow. The bright, distinct colors made it easier for escort boats to keep track of the women.

Lindsay knew the two older, more experienced German swimmers behind her had previously swum the English Channel, and were well prepared for this. But not Julie. Lindsay’s friend and longtime training partner was also swimming behind her—possibly too far behind her. Lindsay and Julie, both in their late twenties, didn’t know the older women well. The four had agreed to join for the swim after meeting over the Internet ; on a daunting swim of this distance in nighttime conditions, every added swimmer provided a boost of comfort to the others. The more contestants, however, the more complicated the efforts of the team involved. More swimmers meant a greater likelihood of separation as each set a different pace, just as Julie was now beginning to demonstrate.

A separation of the swimmers was unacceptable for safety reasons. All the women had agreed to try to stay together, and that if one of them lagged too far behind, she would concede the channel swim, allowing the charter boat to head back and pick her up. Even though they were competing with one another to some degree, this was supposed to be more about simple accomplishment. But as competitors, none of the women would give less than full effort tonight.

Lindsay had really started to worry about Julie, who was now trailing somewhere behind the other women. She could slow her pace and see if Julie could catch up, but that would mean allowing the Germans to pass her. And she didn’t want to give up a great time simply because her friend couldn’t keep up. Julie was her friend, but this wasn’t her problem. She was going to finish this. To finish strong. She felt sure of herself, her abilities. She still had plenty of energy. The escorts on the two kayaks, including Lindsay’s husband, would have to make the tough decision to pull Julie if she couldn’t go on.

Although concerned about her friend, Lindsay was elated by a recurring thought.
My first channel race, and I’m leading more than halfway through it.
She forced the image of winning out of her head. She still had a long way to go. It really didn’t matter if she had the “lead” now or at the end, anyway. This wasn’t a race in any sense except for a best-effort time. The ever-changing conditions of the channel—not the swimmers’ efforts—would truly dictate their final times. Lindsay was hoping for a swim under nine hours, but she realized it might take longer than twelve. She was on pace right now for a nine-and-a-half-hour swim.

Lindsay fought off the thoughts of how nice it would be to walk out of the water in San Pedro and collapse on the sand in the mid-morning sun—not to mention the satisfaction she would eventually experience from a warm bed and a hot plate of pasta. All the swimmers had eaten tonight were liquid energy shakes served in plastic bottles. Each time she treaded water with the other women and waited for the escorts to toss her next liquid meal to her, she felt like a dolphin at a marine theme park.

As Lindsay felt a large, rolling swell begin to lift her gently, she thought she saw something far below her. Some sort of dull glow. She turned her face out of the water to take a breath, then looked down into the black water through swim goggles as she exhaled. Nothing. Maybe she was starting to see things. The thought worried her.

She had to finish the swim. She couldn’t remember the last time anything had been so important.

 

 

The first time the shoal had encountered this unusual form of prey, its members had been hesitant. These animals were not a familiar food source, and were larger than the creatures they normally targeted.

But this prey had proven to be slow, awkward, harmless—and an excellent source of nourishment. Even though they were larger than most members of the shoal, they presented no threat and were vastly outnumbered.

The huge, one-eyed female accelerated toward the nearest prey, a long, flailing creature exhibiting an exciting green color. She rushed upward until several feet below the surface and then spun in the water, directing her tentacles toward the front of the animal above.

Then she attacked. Just before her tentacles closed around the bright green animal’s body, she saw its eyes widen as it flinched backward in an effort to escape.

 

 

“Come on, Julie! You gotta pick up the pace a bit.”

Bob Brunner paddled slowly and smoothly alongside his wife’s friend, hoping she could somehow find the energy to catch up with the other swimmers. They were probably sixty yards behind the other swimmers now, but he didn’t feel it was time to cut Julie off yet. There was minimal risk of separation from the others in these calm conditions, and she had trained so hard for tonight.

Bob certainly wasn’t going to judge Julie. How any of these women could swim even this far was a mystery to him. He was an active guy, who kayaked, surfed, and went running, but after an hour or so of activity he’d rather plop down in a lawn chair with a microbrew.

“Julie, I’m headed up front for a few minutes. Okay?” His yelling at her didn’t seem to be helping. He might as well paddle forward for a minute and see how his wife was doing. Maybe getting left alone would motivate Julie more.

He steered his sixteen-foot kayak through the calm darkness toward the lead swimmers and realized how tired he had become simply paddling a kayak. He looked at his watch.
4:47
. Dawn would be arriving soon.

As he passed widely around the German swimmers, he began to make out the lighter spot on the surface that was his wife, just ahead. As soon as he could see the white splashes from his wife’s strokes in the beam of the headlamp, his eyes widened. The splashes were much too big. Something was wrong.

“Lindsay! Is everything all right?”

Bob heard a loud splash as a crescent of water sprayed high into the air, catching the beam of his headlamp. The jet of water reminded him of a water fountain. But it was too difficult to see his wife in the dark water, which quickly absorbed the light cast by the small LEDs. He grunted as he drove his paddle into the water and sped toward his wife. He glanced down to make sure his radio was still around his neck, in case he had to call the charter boat. As he looked up again to make sure he wouldn’t run into Lindsay, fear and confusion poured into his veins.

His wife was gone.

The German swimmers were fast approaching, and even though Bob was dimly aware his kayak was in their path, he floated in place, staring down into the dark water where his wife had been and trying to control his heart.

To his right, there was a loud splash, and he heard his wife scream.

“M
orning, sunshine.”

“Hey, Sturman,” Val muttered sleepily into her cell phone. She was sprawled out on her stomach in a mess of bedsheets on the hotel room’s firm mattress. “What time is it anyway? Don’t you know I sleep in on Saturdays?”

Sturman grunted. “It’s about six. I know you haven’t gotten much sleep yet, but I just got a disturbing phone call. We need to talk.”

Val yawned and rubbed her eyes. She had only been asleep for a few hours. Sturman never called her early in the morning, and had become more understanding as he realized that even on nights when they didn’t head out on the ocean, she stayed up very late out of habit. “Let me call you back in a minute.”

“All right. But hurry.”

After a trip to the bathroom, starting coffee, and putting on some clothes, she sat on the flower-print comforter at the edge of the bed and dialed Sturman’s phone from her cell. “Okay. I think I can pay attention now. So what’s going on?”

“Joe Montoya called me this morning. The sheriff ’s office picked up emergency transmissions from a charter boat up near Los Angeles that was helping some swimmers cross over from Catalina Island.”

“Swimmers? Crossing the channel? That’s over twenty miles, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But pros do it every year. Anyway, these were no beginners.” Sturman paused. “They didn’t make it, though. One of them is apparently dead.”

“That’s horrible. Don’t tell me he was attacked—”

“She.”

Val stopped breathing. She suddenly understood the early phone call.

“We don’t need a transmitter, Doc. I’m pretty sure I know where the shoal went.”

“Did Montoya respond to the scene? Out in the channel?”

“No. He’s San Diego County. But he knows a few of the sheriffs up that way, and called one of them a few minutes before he called me. Witnesses said the swimmer was dragged under, at night. She completely disappeared, never resurfaced. Some guy in a kayak, who was there to provide support for his wife, actually had to watch her die.”

“My God.”

“Yeah. But the good news is he got a real good look at her attackers. And they weren’t sharks.”

“You’re telling me he saw a Humboldt squid attacking her?”

“He saw what sounds like several Humboldts
kill
her. There’s more, Doc. He beat the shit out of one of the bastards with his oar, and must have a pretty decent swing. He killed it.”

Val walked over to the window and spread the drapes, looking down over the huge Southern California interstate running past her hotel, just beginning to experience heavy traffic in the gray dawn. It was hard to take all this in, especially before having coffee. She moved to the steaming pot and tore open a packet of powdered cream.

“Did they recover the dead squid?”

“I guess so. The charter boat captain got back to them too late to help the one lady, but he managed to get the other swimmers on board and gaff the body of the dying squid. That’s one reason Montoya called me. He wants you to look at this thing right away.” He sighed. “Look, Doc, I think it’s time we accept what’s going on here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean these squid are obviously still killing people, and the smartest thing we can do right now is figure out a way to stop them, not study them.”

“So you want to kill all of them. Is that it?”

“Damn right I do.”

“And how do you plan to do that? Have a lot of fishing buddies we can call? Maybe we can set up a big competition this weekend—”

“Goddammit! I don’t give a shit how we do it, but it needs to be done. Before anyone else dies. For Christ’s sake, these things are headed to the most crowded coastline in the state.”

“We still can’t even be sure this is the same shoal that . . . wait a minute. Of course. Sturman, how far away did this happen from San Diego?”

“A long way. Why?”

“Where?”

“The Catalina Channel. Or the San Pedro Channel, whatever it’s called—between Catalina Island and the mainland. A hundred miles or so north of here, maybe a hundred and fifty.”

“Right.”

“Hang on. How fast can these squid travel?”

She knew Sturman had caught on. “Not a hundred and fifty miles in a single day. I’m firing up my computer now to check the transmitter’s location, but we just attached it, what, thirty hours ago? There’s no way the individual we tagged traveled that far north in one night. On the other hand, the shoal that killed Steve Black and the other divers could easily have traveled that far by now, since they went missing over a week ago.”

“We tagged the wrong shoal, didn’t we?”

“Maybe. We might have been out chasing the wrong animals. Or maybe there’s more than one dangerous shoal. Either way, we’re clearly dealing with more than one group here.”

While the computer warmed up for a few minutes, Sturman suggested that they head north to rendezvous later with Joe Montoya. “He can provide us access to see the squid carcass.”

“That’s a good place to start. Okay . . . here it comes.”

Val had opened the mapping software on her laptop. After what seemed like forever, she downloaded the most recent reading from the satellite tag and plotted it on a map of Southern California.

“Well?” Sturman sounded impatient.

“Just like I thought. The transmitter is maybe a little farther north than where we tagged that guy, but it’s still near San Diego.” Val swore and set down the laptop before walking back over to the window. She had never been faced with anything like this. Her research was no longer the primary objective. “This still doesn’t seem possible.”

“What? That a shoal of Humboldt squid appears to have acquired a taste for humans? Look, why don’t you ride with Montoya up to Los Angeles? They’re putting the squid on ice at a police station in Long Beach until they can figure out what to do with it.”

“Okay. That sounds like a good idea. But what about you? Aren’t you coming?”

“I figure I can’t do much to help. Besides, what good is my boat down here if the squid are headed to Hollywood?”

Val shook her head and smiled. “You don’t mind bringing your boat up to Los Angeles, then? Spending some time up there? We might need to go even farther north, if the squid continue up the coast.”

“I figured you’d ask eventually, which is why I’m offering. I need to get outta town for a few days, and I want to find these bastards.”

“When will I meet Montoya?”

“I’ll have him come by your hotel. Might as well check out in the next hour, if you can.”

“Right. I guess all my equipment’s on your boat. So I guess that’s it. Wow. Crazy week, huh?”

“I reckon it was. See you in L.A.”