Meg: Hell's Aquarium (15 page)

“DARPA, actually. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. They’re the evil Frankensteins who dream up our future weapons systems. Some pencil pusher decided sharks would make great spies. Of course, using animals to complete military missions is nothing new; the Navy’s been using dolphins and sea lions for decades to patrol harbors and locate sea mines. When it comes to stealth and spying, sharks provide far more advantages than marine mammals.”

“Only they’re not as smart.”

“Not true, my friend, not true. If you look at the relationship between brain size and body weight, sharks are right up there with mammals.”

“Body weight, huh? Tell me, Dr. Nichols, what do you think of these geniuses?” David pushes open the double metal doors at the end of the corridor—

—revealing the main gallery tank and the two sisters cruising the aquarium in formation—Lizzy on top and Belle below, slightly behind her albino sibling.

“Good God . . .”

“Elizabeth’s the albino. Bela’s the dark one. There are two smaller albinos in the hospital pen. We’re readying them for transfer to another facility.”

“And you expect me to train these monsters?”

“Heck, no. These are the juvees. We want you to train their mother.”

8.

San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California

The private Boeing 747 jumbo jet sits in the hangar, being readied for its flight to Dubai. David leans back against the hood of his father’s Lexus, watching Jonas “instruct” the four crewmen on how best to load the three huge crates containing the Manta Ray submersibles into the belly of the plane.

His mother declined making the trip to the airport, saving her final salvo of guilt for when her son was packing.

“Why go, David? Anything you can do in Dubai you can do here.”

“It’s just for the summer, Mom.”

“No. I think you’re hoping it’s more than that. I think you see this as an opportunity to finally step out of your father’s shadow.”

“You couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Your father . . . for many years, he allowed the creatures to define him. And your grandfather, Masao, he fell into the same trap. Don’t make the same mistake, David.”

“Mom, it’s cool.”

She sat on the edge of his bed, saying nothing, her long onyx hair hiding her face.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to put the kibosh on my whole trip by giving me the old ‘bad karma’ deal, are you? You’ve been pulling that shit on me and Dani for years.”

For a moment he thought she was laughing, until he realized she was crying.

That freaked him out.

But his mother could be like that, conjuring up her Asian harbingers of doom whenever her family stepped out of her comfort zone. In many ways David knew she was right, that by working at the Institute he would always be “Jonas Taylor’s kid” no matter what he developed in the lab or came up with in the field. Dubai represented a fresh start, a place he could earn his oats.

In the end, she relented, preferring to send him off with positive energy.

For his father, there would be hell to pay.

“Take this.” Jonas hands his son a thick envelope.

“Dad, it’s okay. I have plenty of money. Plus, all my expenses are covered.”

“Just do your old man a favor and take it.”

“Thanks.” David hugs his father. “I’ll call you from Dubai. Make sure you check your e-mail; I’ll be downloading photos of the aquarium.”

“Have a good time. Just remember our deal.”

“I know, I know. And sorry about Mom. Guess you won’t be getting any tonight, huh?”

Jonas smiles. “Get your ass on the plane.”

David boards the jet, an Arabic woman leading him down a circular staircase to the lower level. “His Royal Highness occupies the upper level, but I think we can make you quite comfortable. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Six rows of first-class seats are located up front, followed by a cherry-wood conference table, several private work stations, bathrooms, a dining area, and, in back, a home theater complete with padded lounge chairs and a fifty-two-inch screen.

“Nice.”

“You got that, brother. All we need now are some babes.” A leather recliner spins around, revealing a big chested, broad shouldered man in his late twenties with a shaved head and six-inch devil’s goatee. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a Chicago Cubs baseball jersey, his thick forearms covered in tattoos—Spider-Man, the Marine Corps eagle, the United States flag and the University of Arizona mascot—the words “pain don’t hurt” inked around his neck.

“Jonas Junior. Name’s Jason Montgomery, but you can call me Monty. All my buds do.” He never stops to take a breath. “So, dude, how’s it feel to work with monsters? Must be pretty cool, huh? Ever get nightmares?”

“Sometimes. And it’s David, not Jonas Junior. David Taylor.”

“Hey, David Taylor, did you know Coca Cola was originally green?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I wouldn’t have drank it. Hey . . . do you have dogs? I read the cost of raising a medium-size dog is sixty-five hundred dollars a year. Glad I have two pipsqueaks. Of course, two small dogs probably equals a medium-size dog. What do you think?”

“I think you’d better lay off the caffeine or the coke. Seriously, dude, are you amped?”

“Amped? No way, not me. On my mother’s life, I don’t do drugs. Well, actually, I do do drugs, just not
that
kind of drugs, you know . . . narcotics, space blasting, free-basing, on the pine, doin’ the line—”

“Dude, you’re mental.”

“Yes. Exactly. Thank you, Sigmund. I am mental, only I wasn’t born that way. Served in the Marine Recons as a corpsman combat medic. Got hit with a grenade in Baghdad. Almost blew off my right shoulder. Funny, I don’t remember seeing that part in the recruitment DVD. After the doctors put me back together again, the shrinks told me I had post-traumatic stress and bi-polarism. Double the pleasure, double the flavor, right? Ah, it’s all good.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to learn from you, brother. I used to be a pretty damn good pilot.”

“You piloted submersibles?”

“Choppers. That was before my brain got bounced. My uncle-in-law . . . he works for a guy who knows a guy who does business with some company in Dubai City. You know the deal. Next thing you know, I get a call at 2 a.m. telling me to pack a bag. What the hell, right? If I make the cut, I’m set for the next ten years. If not, it still beats disability.”

“What cut? What are you talking about?”

“Six submersible pilots.” David turns as two more men enter the cabin: the first, a tall athlete with a military crew cut and Thai complexion; the second, a short Canadian built more like a wrestler.

“Sean Dustman, United States Navy.”

“David Taylor.” David shakes the taller man’s hand. “Sorry, I’m a little lost. Did you say six pilots were recruited?”

“Actually, I heard fourteen were recruited to fill six positions—plus two alternates. Each of us gets ten grand to complete your training and a hundred large, plus bonuses, if we make the grade.”

“The grade? What exactly is the mission?”

“No one knows.” The Canadian steps in between them offering a thick paw of a hand, his piercing gray-blue eyes reminding David of Angel’s cold eyes. “Hugo Boutin, Garde côtière canadienne. Canadian Coast Guard. No offense, eh, but you seem too young to be a submersible pilot, let alone a trainer.”

Monty slaps David across his shoulder blades. “Hey, frenchy, a little respect. This here’s Jonas Taylor’s kid.
The
Jonas Taylor. I’ll bet our boy here was practically weaned in subs. Hell, he’s probably more comfortable with a joystick in his hand than his own pecker.”

“Is that true? Are you more comfortable with a joystick in your hand?”

The three men turn in unison, staring at the stunning, blue-eyed woman seated at the conference table. She’s in her mid-twenties, her brunette hair long and wavy, tinged with red highlights, her features resembling those of a young Stefanie Powers. She’s wearing white shorts and a navy hooded sweatshirt, the name
K. Szeifert
embroidered in white beneath a Scripps Aquarium insignia. Her long, tan legs reveal the calves of a sprinter. A pair of flip flops dangle from her bare feet, which are propped up on the polished wood table top.

Monty squints his eyes to read her sweatshirt. “K. Szeif . . . Szerf?”

“It’s pronounced ‘See-furt.’ Kaylie Szeifert.”

Monty grins. “I never met a female sub pilot, at least none that looked like you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe there’s a reason for that, scruffy.”

Sean Dustman circles the conference table, eyeing her like a hawk. “U-Cal, San Diego, right?”

“Good memory.”

“We met at the Birch Aquarium. You were interning at Scripps. Did we . . . you know?”

“Honey, if you have to ask, it didn’t happen.”

Monty bellows a Santa Claus laugh. “I’m in love.”

“Get over it. I’m here to make the cut, and I don’t take prisoners. And before any of you start prejudging me because of my ‘X’ chromosomes, I spent the last two summers working at Hawkes Ocean Technologies helping them test their new Deep Rover submersibles. So I’m pretty comfortable with a joystick in my hand, too.”

“I bet you are,” Monty mumbles.

The stewardess reenters the cabin. “The captain has received clearance to proceed to the runway. For takeoff and landing we ask that you find a seat in one of these first six rows. Once we’re airborne the captain will give the signal that it’s okay to move around the cabin.”

Kaylie heads forward, selecting a window seat on the left side of the cabin. Sean points to the aisle seat next to him, but she waves him off. “You had your chance, sailor boy.”

“Easy, girl. Before you crucify me, you should know that I rated one of the top three sub pilots in the Navy. If you really want to make the cut, I could show you a few pointers.”

“In that case, I’d rather speak to the teacher.” She pats the seat for David. “Join me?”

David’s pulse pounds in his neck. As he slides into the leather chair, he casually cups his hand over his mouth, doing a quick breath check. “I’m David.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Monty ducks into the window seat directly behind Kaylie. He leans in between David and the girl, offering an air sickness bag. “Feeling queasy? I know I am.”

David’s eyes flash a warning. “Behave yourself, or you won’t make it through orientation.”

“Ouch.” He sits back, staring out the window.

A genuine smile creases Kaylie’s face, accentuating her high cheekbones. “Feeling your oats. I like that. Let them step on you once and soon they’ll be using you like a doormat.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

“Hell, yes. My mom and dad . . . they worked double shifts at Walmart for as long as I can remember just to save money for my college fund. Me? I wanted to join the Armed Forces and would have gladly gone Navy had the recruiting officer given me any sign of hope that one day I could pilot a sub. ‘Subs are not for women,’ he said. Can you believe that? Damn old boys network. Thank God Graham Hawkes’s people didn’t think like that.”

“So how did you get invited to this gig? I thought the Arabs weren’t exactly into the whole women’s lib deal.”

“Some bigwig—Fiesal bin Rashidi—contacted one of the engineers at Hawkes looking for their best available pilots. I wasn’t the best, but I was available. It didn’t hurt that I’ve been interning at the Scripps Aquarium.”

“And you have no idea what this mission is about?”

“They said it’s being sponsored by the firm building a new aquarium in Dubai. I’m guessing it has to do with netting species for their exhibits, which is very cool, don’t you think?”

“Sure.”

She smiles. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. How old are you?”

“About the same.”

“Liar. I bet you aren’t even twenty-one.”

“Yeah, I am . . . next month.”

She takes his hand in hers. “I need you, David. I need you to make me the best damn submersible pilot in the group. Life’s been kickin’ my butt for a long time, but I’m the kind of person who kicks it right back. Getting this job is very important to me. So I need you to do me a favor.”

“Yeah. Anything.”

“Don’t fall in love with me.”

She instinctively squeezes his hand tighter as the jumbo jet accelerates down the runway, then tilts into the sky, leaving San Francisco behind. Heading west, it banks over the ocean, then briefly follows the coastline south past Monterey before turning east.

David lays his head back in the cushioned leather seat, staring at Kaylie until she releases his hand.

“Sorry,” she says. “I’m a nervous flyer. But I’m totally at home in the water.”

“What’s the deepest you’ve ever been?”

“In a submersible? Twelve hundred feet. Twice.”

Monty pokes his head in between their seats. “Wow, that’s really deep. Still, I bet that’s not as deep as these Arabs want us to go. Am I right, Junior?”