Meg: Hell's Aquarium (13 page)

“Let’s start with the incident on Saturday. Packed audience, visitors of all ages . . . what do you say to the fifteen thousand people who witnessed this horrible death?”

“There’s not much anyone can say. It was a tragic accident. Unfortunately, on rare occasions, these things can happen. Whether it’s in an aquarium or zoo or circus, we’re dealing with wild animals. Years ago, Roy Horn was mauled by one of his white tigers. Sometimes, despite every precaution, the unthinkable happens. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of the young man who died.”

“Looking at the footage . . . it seems like it could have been worse. Massive waves were rolling out of the lagoon, pummeling frightened visitors. Parents were clutching their children. Panic ensued. Several people, including your own daughter, were taken to the hospital.”

“It was a bad day for all of us.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Changes are underway to make the pavilion seats less exposed. New precautions are being implemented regarding feeding regimens. Safety has always been a priority at the Institute, and that will continue.”

“What about safety for your animals? Members of Release Animals back to the Wild have accused the Institute of keeping far too many Megalodons in the Meg Pen, that conditions are unsafe, and things will only get worse.”

“The Meg Pen was constructed before Angel birthed her pups. We were expecting a litter of two, not five. Angelica’s death was an unfortunate incident. I do not classify it as an accident, because the species is predatory, and attacks among rival predators happen all the time in the wild. The male that fathered these pups was himself killed by Angel following insemination. The radical group that has been stalking myself, my family, and our staff for two years now is more concerned with acquiring donations than the actual safety of these animals, whose ferocious nature prevents us from ever releasing them back into the wild.”

“Can the Meg Pen be expanded?”

“No. We’ve petitioned the governor several times and have been turned down. However, my husband is making arrangements with another aquarium to transport two of the remaining four juveniles to another facility.”

“Really? And where might that be?”

“I cannot say . . . at least not until the deal has been finalized.”

“You realize there are groups, comprised of family members of those killed by these Megs, that are calling for the extermination of the species. What do you say to them?”

“These are wild animals. Unlike humans, they kill only to feed, and humans are not part of their natural diet. By studying them we can add to our growing body of scientific knowledge and can learn to protect all sharks and the sanctity of the ocean’s food chains. It serves no purpose other than revenge to slaughter Angel or her offspring. My family first crossed paths with these amazing creatures twenty-five years ago. My younger brother, D.J., died when he was attacked by Angel’s mother. He was about the same age as the young man who was killed on Saturday. My initial reaction was revenge. I wanted to hunt down and kill the shark, but my father refused; he knew it was wrong and that my brother would never have agreed to such an inhumane act.”

“So . . . in that regard, you share the same beliefs as the members of R.A.W.”

“No. R.A.W. is an extremist group. Their leaders espouse animal rights only as an excuse to draw public attention and monetary contributions. We’re an aquarium—an educational facility. We believe in protecting our aquatic species, not harming them.”

“And yet R.A.W. was right about the Meg Pen being too small.”

“Animals sometimes die in captivity, Frank. Years ago, despite every precaution, one of the whale sharks at the Georgia Aquarium contracted an infection and died. Some people protested, calling the habitat cruel. Meanwhile whale sharks were being slaughtered by the hundreds in Taiwan and other Asian countries. Nobody seemed to protest that fact. Orca and sea lions are dying off—a result of the effects of global warming. The media ignores that story, preferring instead to cover the death of one whale shark or one Megalodon. The more sensational the better. The reality is aquariums offer a practical means of understanding and studying these sea creatures while protecting them from the onslaught of man. Hopefully we can prevent another species from becoming extinct.”

“Does that mean you intend to breed Megalodons?”

Terry smiles. “God, no. Even if we wanted to, the juveniles are all females.”

“Finally, as someone who lost a brother to one of these predators, what do you say to the family of the young man who was killed?”

Terry pauses. “I would say that sometimes bad things happen to wonderful people. Cancer, war, traffic accidents . . . these tragic losses affect us all. My heart is heavy with your pain. From my own loss I can tell you that you will never get over it; but I pray, in time, that you will learn to live with it.”

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California

The creature is dark brown on top with a white belly, its body nine feet long, not counting its four-foot tail. Its wingspan extends eighteen feet.

The crown prince follows David Taylor down into the dry dock located at the end of a concrete pier outside the southern bleachers. Suspended above the ocean by a pair of hydraulic arms, the two-man submersible resembles
Manta birostris
, the giant manta ray.

The prince taps the sub’s outer hull with his knuckles. “This is metal?”

“Layered acrylic,” David says. “Gives it positive buoyancy. There’s a second shell inside, a spherical escape pod that can withstand nineteen thousand pounds per square inch of water pressure. The old Abyss Gliders used similar technologies, only they ran like a torpedo. The
Mantas
actually glide hydrodynamically through the water.” He kneels by the tail assembly and points. “Twin props. Silent and fast. With the current she can approach forty knots, or barrel roll into a 360-degree loop. Flying these puppies is better than sex.”

“You have piloted this vessel before?”

“Only all the time. I’ve even trained some of the Navy guys. It was my demo that got us a contract with the Pentagon. You should have seen them kissing my father’s ass. Man, he was loving it. Of course, their souped-up version will be bigger, loaded with all sorts of gadgets and weapons, but ours will still be faster. Wanna go for a spin?”

The crown prince’s eyes widen. “A ride? Yes, please. Are you allowed to take it without clearance?”

“My father asked me to show you the sub. Best way to see it is to take it for a test drive.” David points to the four armed security guards. “The gorillas have to stay here.”

The prince converses with his men. They do not appear pleased.

“The captain wishes to know if the ride will be dangerous.”

“Nah, I’ll go easy.” David lifts a concealed panel roughly the size of a gas tank cover positioned in the Manta Ray’s port-side wing. Inside is a circular lever and two indicator lights: one green, one red. The green light is on. Reaching inside the compartment, David turns the lever ninety degrees clockwise. The red light turns on—

—activating the outer hatch of the spherical escape pod, the upper twenty percent of which protrudes from the dorsal surface of the Manta Ray behind its two exterior headlights, shaped like eyes. With a hiss of hydraulics, the dark-tinted acrylic top pops open, allowing them access into the cockpit.

There are two low-slung, leather bucket seats inside, each set before dual, high-tech steering wheels and an operational system equipped with a radio and sonar. “Most of the actual steering is done using your feet,” David explains, climbing down into the command hub. “Left and right foot pedals operate the port and starboard engines. If you want to go left, you press down with the right pedal which guns the starboard prop. So everything works opposite. Joysticks control your pitch and yaw. Pull back to raise the nose; push down to descend.”

The crown prince climbs down into the co-pilot’s seat on the starboard side, assisted by his security detail. He can see the entire cockpit is actually a Lexan sphere that sits low inside the Manta Ray’s body. “Both of us are required to pilot the vessel?”

“No, just one. Port controls are the primary. Your side is strictly backup. So? Ready to go?”

The crown prince catches a deep breath. “Yes.”

David reaches for a circular lever on the dashboard, identical to the one embedded in the outside wing. He gives it a quarter-turn counterclockwise and closes the hatch, rotating it into position above their heads before sinking a half inch into a titanium band that wraps around the diameter of the escape pod. With a
click
the hatch locks into place, the panel light switching from red to green, indicating a perfect seal.

David opens a padded compartment situated between the two seats. Inside is a small remote control. He presses lower—

—activating the dry dock arms, which immerse the sub into the awaiting Pacific.

The crown prince, just under 5 feet 10 inches, strains to peer out of the tinted hatch.

“Reach along the side of your seat,” David instructs. “You’ll find a series of control switches that will raise and adjust your seat. There’s barf bags in the glove box, just in case you need ‘em.”

“Will I need them?”

David smiles. “Buckle up.” He presses release on the remote, freeing the Manta Ray from its docking clamps. The flat-winged submersible is immediately buffeted by the incoming sea. Pushing down gently on the pedals with both feet, David propels them forward—

—the sleek craft leaping ahead, gliding effortlessly between a row of concrete pilings before accelerating into the majestic-blue underworld.

The crown prince holds on, almost giddy. “This is . . . fantastic!”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

David pushes the twin joysticks forward, diving the vessel toward the sea floor. The depth gauge drops from 35 feet to 80 feet in seconds then levels out. For several moments they soar above a flat sandy terrain—

—which suddenly drops away into a deep gorge that plunges into blackness.

David hits another switch, activating the night glass—an optical feature that transforms the sphere’s treated acrylic surface into night vision glass. The crown prince reflexively grabs for the handles of his seat as he stares below into a gray-green, three-dimensional abyss, the trench highlighted with jagged cuts that slice into the widening aperture of geology like giant fingers. “Amazing. What is this?”

“Monterey Bay Submarine Canyon. It’s just over a mile deep here, but it widens and descends to about twelve thousand feet a bit farther out. The chasm walls are sheer vertical rock faces with some real nasty currents, so we have to be careful.”

They soar through a ravine, surrounded by rock. The depth gauge drops below 700 feet.

The prince breaks out in a cold sweat, struggling to breath. “Please . . . I would prefer the shallows.”

David glances at his guest, who appears pale in the olive green light. He adjusts the cabin temperature, blasting him with cool air as he pulls back on the joysticks, ascending to 130 feet. “You okay?”

“Better. I never realized I was so claustrophobic.”

“Happens to almost everyone. I once took a jet fighter pilot for a ride. The moment we dived into the canyon the guy wigged out. Guess he realized if something went wrong he couldn’t parachute to safety.”

“Please . . . you are not helping.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll move back into the shallows in a minute, I just want to show you something really cool.”

They remain above the lip of the chasm, which winds around to the north, then narrows slightly as it turns back to the east.

“By the way, Your Highness, back at the lagoon . . . what was it your men were chanting at Angel?”

“
Al Abyad
. The white. Albino creatures have a special place in our culture.”

“Then I’m guessing you enjoyed seeing Angel up close and in the flesh?”

“I loved it. She is death personified—a vision that rattles the soul.”

“She’s all that, alright.” David slows the sub to a crawl, the Pacific waves rolling in at their back, the surface seventy feet above their heads. Ahead, appearing out of the gray-blue murk, looms something massive. They venture closer, the prince’s heart beating faster as the object materializes in the haze—

—a set of steel double doors.

“Just thought you might like to meet
Al Abyad
up close.”

The crown prince grips his seat, going white-knuckled. “No! You will take us away from here!”

“Easy, Your Highness. I rattle my soul like this all the time.”

The submersible closes to within fifty feet, the basketball-size pores of the giant doors now visible, revealing a soft white glow—

—as the sea awakens with sound . . . a deep metallic
whump.
The reverberation registers in their bones as the albino monster on the opposite side of the barrier makes its presence known.

Sweat pours from the prince’s face. He gasps for breath, his limbs quivering. “I command you to take us away from here! Do it now! That’s an order!”