Meg: Hell's Aquarium (26 page)

Bin Rashidi’s limo is flagged to a stop by a police officer. An exchange with the driver and they are allowed to proceed to the shoreline.

Red and blue lights revolve atop police cars. An ambulance is parked off to the side next to a massive pick-up truck. Resting in the rear cargo bed is one of the Manta Rays.

Brian Suits exits the back of the limo, followed by David and Monty. Bin Rashidi remains in the car. The captain points to the end of the bridge a half mile away. “They lost a man tonight. Chinese, in his late thirties. Had a wife and kids. They want the body back.”

“Geez . . .”

“All this construction has churned up the bottom. Visibility’s near zero. Currents are some of the worst in the region. The worker was weighted down with a riveting gun and assorted tools. He went in where the two causeways divide, so you got a little break. Locate the body, and we’ll send down the divers.”

David and Monty look at one another.

“You two have a problem with the mission?”

“Not at all.” Monty smiles nervously. “I was just wondering why we’re doing it in the middle of the night.”

“Because the sun’s not up.” The captain’s eyes flash anger. “The worker went in less than two hours ago.”

“I see. And he’ll be less dead if we fish him out now, as opposed to six hours from now, when we can actually see him?”

“Candidate, you’ll be operating in less than two hundred feet of water, as opposed to the seven-thousand-foot depths required for the aquarium’s mission. If two hundred feet scares you, I suggest you resign now and saves us the time in cutting you later.”

“We’re good to go, Captain,” David interjects.

Ten minutes later the sub is in waist-deep water, six workers positioned along its wings, keeping it steady against the incoming tide. David and Monty, both wearing wetsuits, wade out, hoisting themselves into the open cockpit.

Brian Suits approaches as they strap in. “Activate your homing signal, Taylor, just in case we lose you.”

“Yes, sir.” David lowers the Lexan top and locks it into place, sealing them within the emergency pod. He offers a thumbs-up then accelerates forward, keeping the sub along the surface.

Monty grips the dashboard in front of him as they bounce along the chop, cutting across open water on an intercept course with the uncompleted bridge. “They’re testing you. You know that, right?”

“I know. You nervous?”

“After four deployments in Iraq? Please. This is Disney World.”

They reach the last pilings, the night reverberating with the sound of heavy machinery. David descends, enveloping the submersible in brown, murky space, the sub’s exterior lights illuminating a swath of brown, flaky particles.

“Man, he wasn’t kidding about the zero visibility. Monty, grab those headphones and listen in on sonar. Go active and listen for a return ping that registers the bottom, or anything else in our path.”

Monty flips a toggle switch on the sonar controls, pinging their surroundings with sound waves. “It’s hard to hear anything. Sounds like I’m in a toilet bowl. Is that it?”

David steals a quick glance. “Those are pilings. The sub’s diving on a forty-degree plane. You have to chart objects based on the horizon in yellow or you’ll never know up from down. What’s our depth?”

“Depth . . . depth . . . uh, one hundred thirty-seven feet. One forty—”

Crunnnnnch
!

The Manta Ray heaves hard to starboard as David overcompensates for the sudden port-side impact. “I told you to watch the sonar!”

“I am watching! I just don’t know what the hell I’m watching for!”

David levels out. The sub’s exterior lights illuminate a cement mixer, barely visible along the bottom.

“Guess we’ve arrived.”

“How can you tell?”

“Cement mixers don’t float.” David guides them along a parallel course to the bridge, remaining a good twenty feet from the unseen pilings. “This sucks. I can’t see shit.”

“Funny. All I see is shit. This is a fool’s errand, you know. We might as well be searching for Jimmy Hoffa. In fact, I think we just—”

—the port-side wing suddenly heaves up and over their heads, the current flipping the Manta Ray upside-down, driving the craft into a jungle of unseen concrete bridge supports. The unrelenting river of muck pushes them deeper. David is unsure how to react, afraid to muster the propulsion necessary to roll the sub right-side up lest he end up burying them nose-first in the mud.

As quickly as the thought passes they are slammed sideways, the Manta Ray’s port-side wing driven into the muddy bottom, the vessel pushed backwards until its belly is bashed against an immovable object, wedged in by the current.

For several terrifying moments they say nothing, suspended sideways and nearly upside down in the cockpit, David below Monty, both men held in their seats by their harnesses.

The current rocks the sub like a brown churning snowstorm.

“Monty, you alright?”

“Can’t breathe! Gonna be sick.”

“No! Don’t be sick!” David strains to reach the temperature controls, blasting them both with waves of cold air. “Better?”

“No.” Monty leans forward and retches, the vomit barely missing David as it splatters the sonar controls with chunks of tortillas and refried beans.

“Ugh!” David pulls his wetsuit collar up over his nose, gaging at the overpowering stench. “What is wrong with you?”

Monty spits out remnants. “I’m hanging upside down, buried alive in an underwater shit-storm. Do something quick before I really wig out.”

Pressing down on his right foot, David eases back on the left joystick, rocking the sub forward as he fights to level them out, and succeeding, only to smash the sub nose-first into a concrete piling.

“What the hell was that?”

“A piling. I can’t see where the hell we are. Your damn dinner’s covering my sonar.”

Monty wipes it clean with his rubber sleeve. “Here. Take the headphones and get us topside.”

“I can’t. We’re somewhere beneath the bridge. Sonar can’t distinguish the muddy current from the pilings.”

“Then jettison the chassis, the escape pod will float us to the surface.”

“No way. Even if I did, we’d still be lucky to make it out alive.”

Monty begins hyperventilating. “David, I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I’m not doing real well in my skin right now. Do something soon, or I’m gone.”

“Shut up and let me think!” David peers outside, his lights reflecting the mud blizzard, his depth gauge steady at 139 feet. He shuts off the lights, casting them in pitch darkness, the orange glow of the controls all that is visible.

David can hear Monty’s labored breaths. The claustrophobia becomes contagious, the smell in the cockpit nauseating, tempting him to pop open the cockpit and simply wash their lives into oblivion—

—and then his eyes adjust and he can see out the night vision glass, discerning a faint pattern before him.

Gently, he presses down with both feet, adjusting his course to starboard, the current still pushing him to port. No matter, the Manta Ray is moving forward, slipping between two sets of pilings one row at a time, the current increasing, forcing him to adjust his pitch.
Keep your nose down, don’t let it flip you over again . . .

And then they’re free!

David punches both feet to the pedals and ascends in a long arching turn—

—plowing the sub upside down into the muddy sea floor.

The suddenness of the unexpected impact releases waves of panic. David struggles to breathe, his body bathed in sweat. He rips open the wetsuit zipper, fighting to reason.

Asshole, you were upside down! You never checked your horizon.

“Monty? Dude, you alright?”

Jason Montgomery hangs suspended from his harness, unconscious.

Okay . . . remember what dad always told you to do when you’re in trouble . . . stop and think. Take a breath and analyze the situation. You’re buried upside down in mud. Pull up on the joysticks and you go deeper. Push down and
—

David taps the right foot pedal and pushes down on his joysticks, rolling the sub right-side up. He checks the sonar again, verifies he’s indeed right-side up and level, then he slowly ascends the sub.

Seconds later, he is rewarded by a tapestry of stars and a symphony of construction noises. Looking around, is surprised to find they are on the opposite side of the bridge from where they started. Remaining on the surface, he accelerates around the structure then races back to shore, nudging Monty awake.

“You okay?”

Monty nods, grateful to be on the surface. “I’ve had worse first dates. Did you find the Chinese guy?”

“Yeah. He’s on his way back to Beijing by way of the EAC.”

“EAC?”

“Eastern Australian Current. It was a joke. The corpse can rot on the bottom for all I care.”

David beaches the craft then pops the cockpit, the brisk fresh air invigorating. They climb out, washing off as Captain Suits watches from the shoreline, observing everything.

“Sorry, Captain. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find the body.”

“There was no body. This was a test to see if you could navigate in zero visibility under difficult circumstances. I was tracking you the entire time and you failed miserably, hotshot. You and your protégé here couldn’t coordinate your tasks or find your way in a hundred feet of water. If this had been the abyss, you’d be dead. Maybe now you know what I mean by pleasure cruising.”

He’s right. Guess I’m the real asshole.
David looks up at the crewcut veteran with a newfound respect. “I owe you an apology. I became disoriented and panicked. It won’t happen again . . . sir.”

Brian Suits nods. “The two of you stink like a Mexican banquet. Get your asses in the back of the pick-up truck. You can ride back to the aquarium with the sub.”

They head for the vehicle, the staff positioning the Manta Ray in the cab.

“Taylor!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be at training at ten o’clock sharp. And so help me God, if you ever challenge me again, I’ll rip your head off and shit down your neck.”

17.

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California

Jonas and Terry Taylor sit together at one end of the conference table, watching the short young man with the white-blonde hair unpack his briefcase and carefully lay out three thick manila folders.

“Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, my name is Adam Wooten. I’m the underwriter the insurance company has assigned to these pending claims.”

“You seem kind of young,” Jonas remarks.

“Yes, sir. Anyway, the insurance company has given me the task of determining if the recent deaths suffered at the Institute are covered under your workers’ compensation policy. If we look at the first claim—”

“By young, I meant inexperienced,” Jonas continues. “There’s a lot at stake. I just want to make sure you have the same qualifications as Earl Fischl. Earl sold us our policy five years ago and kept close tabs on our business. If Earl said we were covered, we were covered. A real shame he had to move back to Ottawa—something about starting up a web-game company. Good man, Earl . . . not that you’re not. It’s just that—”

“With all due respect to my predecessor, it’s my responsibility to determine if the risks associated with your organization have exceeded the insurance company’s responsibilities. You may feel I’m too young, you may not agree with my decisions, but I assure you, those decisions will stand.”

Jonas is about to respond when Terry grips his arm. “Jonas, let the man finish before you rake him over the coals.” She smiles. “Go on, Mr. Wooten.”

“Uh, yes. Thank you.” The underwriter opens the first folder. “Now, in regards to the drowning of Mr. Moretti, I’ve determined the claim is covered by your workers’ compensation policy.”

Jonas nods to his wife.

“As for the college student who was . . . eaten. Mr. Francis was a volunteer, and he did sign a waiver form which covered accidental death or dismemberment. After careful consideration, I’ve determined the deceased’s death would fall under your General Liability Umbrella policy. We’ll cover the settlement with the family, as well as the defense costs.”

Jonas’s squeezes his wife’s hand beneath the table. “You’re doing a helluva job, son. And hey, if you ever want to bring your family down to see one of the shows—”

“I’m not quite done. The insurance company will cover the losses, but we will not be renewing your policy. I’m giving you a thirty-day notice.”

Terry releases her husband’s hand. “You’re canceling our policy? Do you know how much your premiums have cost us over the years? Cancel us now and we can’t reopen.”

Wooten packs his files into his briefcase. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re putting us out of business, and all you have to say is sorry?”

“Terry, take it easy—”

“Before this accident, we had zero claims. Not even a burn from someone spilling their coffee. Still, we paid you millions of dollars and—”

“Ma’am, you have my sympathies, but these animals are simply too dangerous to continue to insure under present circumstances. Mr. Moretti’s death could have been worse. You almost lost a truck crane and its driver. Had that vehicle fallen in the aquarium, the losses would have been catastrophic. Then there’s Angel. I’m not convinced those steel doors can hold her much longer.”

“Now you’re an engineer?”

“No, ma’am, but I’ve had three engineers look at the structural loads. If that monster escaped again, well, she could bankrupt both our businesses.”

“Nonsense! You’re just like the rest of the damn insurance companies; you’ll keep a policy active until the holder actually needs it, then you run for the hills when it’s time to collect. It’s all about the profit margin.”

“No, Mrs. Taylor. It’s about the risk. Penning a fifty-ton monster that eats people in an aquarium that seats fifteen thousand potential meals is risky business. Since there’s no way to actually control the shark—”

“What if there was?” Jonas motions his wife to sit. “What if I told you I have a team of scientists who, at this very moment, are designing a neural implant that will allow us to control Angel’s behavior.”