Meg: Hell's Aquarium (24 page)

“I’ll give you an example. Let’s take Angel’s mother, whom we’ll call Momma Meg, and Angel’s deceased runt, the Virgin Angelica. Momma Meg, living in the nutritionally challenged depths of the Mariana Trench, relies on the conventional, and quite restricted, method of conceiving baby Megs through sex. Her grandchild, the Virgin Angelica, living in a habitat with plenty of food, reproduces without sex, her eggs released pre-inseminated during ovulation. Let’s say Momma Meg has four pups—two males and two females. A generation later, her two females have identical litters—again, two males and two females. Meanwhile, the Virgin Angelica, having no need for males, has produced four female pups. In turn, each of her four daughters have four daughters of their own. After only two generations, Momma Meg is responsible for eight new pups, four females and four males.

“Our Virgin Angelica, on the other hand, has produced all females, which have yielded a total of twenty pups. In the next generation, those twenty females can potentially produce another eighty female pups for a running total of one hundred Megs, while old Momma Meg, still relying on sex with males, can yield a maximum of only thirty-two pups, assuming, of course, each of these females can, in turn, link up with a suitable male partner. Let’s face it, gentlemen, when it comes to the survival of a species, males are dead-end products. Not only can’t we reproduce, but we also consume a lot of food.”

Mac smiles. “Some of us more than others, eh Doc?”

“Let’s not forget,” adds Dr. Stelzer, ignoring Mac’s comment, “that with
Carcharodon megalodon
, it’s the females that are bigger, nastier, and far more dominant than males. Angel actually hunted down and killed her mate to establish dominance in her territory.”

“Maybe it was revenge,” says Mac, only half-joking. “I saw video of the insemination; Angel wasn’t exactly having a good time.”

“Regardless,” Dr. Brown states, “the point here is that sex is clearly an inefficient method of reproduction. With their numbers dwindling close to extinction, it makes perfect sense that Megalodon would eventually evolve to sex-free reproduction. For all we know, it could have been the species’ adaptation back to surface waters that triggered the event.”

Dr. Stelzer nods in agreement. “Now you know why we wanted to speak with you. If Angelica was pregnant, then there’s a good chance the two surviving runts you just sold to the Dubai Aquarium are pregnant too—or will be very soon. They’re en route as we speak.”

Jonas feels his blood pressure simmer. “Jon, what the hell are you talking about? The runts weren’t scheduled to leave for another week.”

“Jonas, what choice did we have? Belle destroyed the Meg Pen gate, and the medical pool is far too small to keep the runts another week. Terry agreed it was safer to move them now.”

“Terry?”

“We tried to reach you. When we couldn’t—”

“Okay, fine, you did the right thing.” Jonas forces himself to think.
David’s in Dubai if you need him to monitor the runts . . .
“What about Belle and Lizzy? Is there any way to tell if their eggs are fertile?”

Mac shakes his head. “After what happened today, I don’t think you want to go there. My advice: Assume the worst and you won’t be disappointed.”

Dr. Stelzer isn’t through. “Since we’re examining worst-case scenarios, there’s one more we need to consider: It’s highly possible that Angel is also pregnant.”

Jonas and Mac groan.

“No . . . no . . . think about it! She hasn’t fed in weeks. She even regurgitated the snack David managed to get in her. Her behavior’s been erratic. She’s certainly put on weight. And we know she’s already reproduced one litter of pups without sex. It’s been four years . . . I’m telling you, she could be pregnant.”

For a moment, no one says a thing, the enormity of the statement simply hanging in the air.

Finally, it is Jonas that speaks, his right hand trembling noticeably. “This is insane. We cannot allow the most dangerous predator in the history of the planet to make a comeback. Agreed?”

Mac and the three scientists nod in unison.

“Okay, then. Keeping in mind the PETA crazies are watching our every move, how do we stop the insanity?”

“Not a whole lot of options,” Dr. Nichols replies. “You either find a means to sterilize Angel and her pups . . . or you kill them.”

15.

Dubai Land
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

The classroom consists of twenty-three chairs with table attachments set up along aquarium T-7s topside deck. Suspended five feet above the water, swaying within a canvass harness attached to the arm of a small hydraulic crane, is one of the Manta Ray submersibles.

The trainees, all wearing wetsuits, gather around the wide, flat sub. Brian Suits allows the unzipped top half of his wetsuit to hang around his waist, exposing his muscular upper torso and battle scars as he points out a few of the water craft’s features.

“. . . radio antenna located in the tail assembly. Twin directional propulsion units, 350 horse power each. The outer hull is acrylic. The interior pod is Lexan, capable of withstanding pressures exceeding even that of the Mariana Trench. Over the next six days, each of you will log twenty hours as both pilot and co-pilot, as well as five hours a day in your rooms practicing on simulators. At the end of this week of intensive training we’ll begin a series of field tests which will determine who our final candidates will be. Those chosen six, along with two alternates, will be flown out to our fleet in the Pacific where operations have been underway for several months. Questions?”

Hugo raises a thick arm, constricted by the wetsuit. “You said six days. I was told we would have two full weeks of training.”

“Change of plans. Because we only have three Manta Rays available, I decided to make cuts a week early. I’d rather give our finalists the extra week to log hours on location in the open ocean before the mission’s first official dive.”

The captain motions for David to step forward. “This is David Taylor. David has probably logged more time aboard these subs than any person alive. While pleasure diving is a far cry from what I’ll be training you to do, I’ve asked David to give us a quick demonstration of the sub’s basic capabilities.”

Brian Suits presses a switch on the side of the hydraulic winch, lowering the submersible into the water. He pulls David aside. “Just a few laps. Give us a barrel roll, maybe a figure eight or two.”

“Basically a pleasure dive. Got it.” David steps out onto the starboard wing, then down into the open cockpit. He buckles the shoulder straps in extra tight and seals the pod—

—stealing a glance at the expansion bridge now situated fifteen feet over the center of the tank.
Pleasure dive, huh? Pleasure this, Captain Dingus.

David starts the sub’s twin propellers, quickly maneuvering the Manta Ray into a shallow dive. He descends to forty feet, slowly increasing his speed as he circles counter-clockwise around the immense tank, getting a feel for his tight surroundings. He executes a tight barrel roll then banks into a semi-hard, ninety-degree turn, flying past the huge expanse of window located along the northern end of the aquarium. Turning again, he rolls into a sweeping figure eight as he moves into the center of the tank.

Brian Suits activates his radio. “Well done, David. A few bursts of speed along the surface and bring it on home.”

Ascending quickly, David jams both feet to the pedals, the Manta Ray breaking the surface doing forty knots. Eyeballing the crowd, he shoots across the length of the tank in seconds. Then, nearing the classroom he drops his port-side wing as he jams his right foot down on the accelerator, pulling a full G as he drives the sub into a hard 180-degree surface turn—

—unleashing an arching spray of water that soaks the trainees and their pissed-off head instructor.

Grinning, David shuts off the radio. Descending to seventy feet, he accelerates along the bottom at thirty knots before he runs out of tank. He eases up, then banks into a sweeping turn along the far end of the tank, feeling the adrenaline butterflies in his stomach.

Pleasure cruise my ass . . .

Accelerating out of the turn, he levels out along the bottom, then yanks back hard on both joysticks, launching his craft topside at a steep sixty-degree angle.

The Manta Ray leaps out of the water and continues rising—

—easily clearing the suspension bridge . . . coming within ten feet of the duct pipes running along the top of the aquarium’s ceiling!

Gravity quickly intervenes. David leans forward, coaxing the nose of the sub downward as he free falls twenty-three feet, punching nose-assembly-first back into the water.

The jolt knocks him woozy. Heart pounding, he submerges the vehicle, circles the tank one last time at ten knots (gathering a few precious seconds to regain his composure) then surfaces the sub, guiding it back into its harness.

The cockpit opens and David climbs out, greeted by a smattering of applause—and severe looks from Brian Suits, whose clipboard is dripping wet.

Reaching into his wetsuit, David pulls out a dollar bill from the lining, and casually hands it to the Navy captain. “Park it in the shade, will you? Us pleasure divers hate climbing into a hot cockpit.”

Seated in the shadows along the opposite end of the aquarium are two figures. One is Fiesal bin Rashidi, the other a petite brunette in her early thirties. The Boston native wears no make-up and bites her nails, more to keep them short than out of habit.

“So, my dear . . . what do you think?”

“Brash and cocky . . . just like his father.” Allison Petrucci, Michael Maren’s former assistant and fiancé, smiles. “He’s perfect.”

16.

San Francisco, California

Virgil Carmen fidgets on the violet sofa, the uncomfortable cushions unyielding, the armrest set at an awkward height. As if that were not annoying enough, there is no air conditioning in the loft, and the purple-haired woman’s cat keeps climbing on his lap, pawing at his groin as if giving him some kind of feline lap-dance.

He stands, dumping the cat to join the two women at the computer. “So, Sara? Did I do good?”

With her blonde hair and green eyes, R.A.W. co-founder Sara Toms possesses a classic girl-next-door look—until one sees her arms and back, which are covered in military tattoos. The former AWAC airborne surveillance instructor pauses the playback of the video-cam footage taken yesterday at the Meg Pen. “Virgil, this is great stuff . . . if our organization were filming an action movie. Where’s the cruelty you promised us?”

“Are you kidding? My boss drowned!”

“She means cruelty to the animals.” Jessica Thompson clicks off the program. “None of this is useful to our cause. If anything, it only reinforces Taylor’s point of not releasing the Megs back into the wild.”

“Agreed.” Sara spins around in her chair to face Virgil. “What I was hoping for was footage of the two runts who were confined to the Med Pool. That’s the kind of cruelty that gets us air time.”

Virgil suddenly feels naked. “The runts . . . I totally forgot. I meant to call you—”

“What happened? Was there another accident?”

“The runts are gone.”

Sara grabs his wrist, a Celtic cross visible on her right arm. “What do you mean they’re gone?”

“Jonas sold them to another aquarium.”

“Another aquarium?” Sara grips his arm tighter. “Virgil, which aquarium? Was it San Diego?”

“I don’t know. They kept it quiet. But there were a bunch of Arabs hanging around all last week. I’m guessing they’re the ones who bought Mary Kate and Ashley.”

“Dammit!” Jessica turns to her partner. “Sara, what am I supposed to do? I’ve got three private donors lined up—big donors! This diffuses the whole situation.”

Sara releases Virgil. “Take it easy. We pull back and refocus our attention on Angel.”

Jessica shakes her head. “Angel is way too big and way too scary. Even the most radical animal lover won’t take a public stance to set her free.”

“Then we focus on the two sisters. The Meg Pen’s still too small to hold two adult Megs; let’s make the push to release them now, while they’re still pups and can adapt to the wild.”

“You want to release Bela and Lizzy?” Virgil shakes his head. “I don’t think you want those two predators roaming free.”

“Elsa was a predator,” Jessica retorts. “Should they have denied her the right to live free?”

“Who the hell’s Elsa?”

“Go rent
Born Free.
You’ll cry your eyes out.”

“Do it later. We have other priorities.” Sara removes an envelope from her purse. She hands it to Virgil then leads him down the stairs. “I’m paying you, but you owe me big time. Look through the Institute’s archives. Find me footage of the two sisters ramming their heads against a tank wall, shots of them fighting over food . . . any erratic behavior that demonstrates how inadequate in size the Meg Pen really is.”

“Yeah . . . I can do that. How soon do you want it?” She opens the front door. “Yesterday works for me.”

Dubai Land
Dubai, United Arab Emirates