Meg: Hell's Aquarium (27 page)

“A neural implant?” Adam Wooten stops packing his briefcase. “You mean . . . like in her brain?”

“You got it.”

“Well, I don’t know. Has it been tested?”

“Absolutely. Same design as the device created by the Pentagon. They’ve been using neural implants to turn sharks into stealth spies for years. A series of electrodes would be embedded directly into Angel’s brain. Using a radio signal from a laptop, we’ll be able to stimulate the Meg’s directional olfactory center, causing her to move in any direction we desire. Better yet, the implant allows us to monitor her central and autonomic nervous system. We can tell when Angel is agitated and even calm her down by tapping into her sleep functions.”

The insurance underwriter takes out a legal pad. Terry and Jonas wait while he jots down notes and takes out a pocket calculator. “If you can prove this device actually works, then I’d be willing to renew your policy at an adjusted premium.”

Terry’s expression darkens. “What kind of increase are we talking about?”

“Twenty percent.”

“You little shit, I should feed you to Angel myself!”

“Terry, easy.” Jonas smiles at the insurance agent, who has gone deathly pale. “Adam, if we’re removing the risk, then why would you raise our premiums?”

“Premiums always go up after claims are made—”

“—unless the risk is reduced. Not only have we reduced our juvy population by sixty percent, but we now have a means of keeping our big girl calm. That’s significant progress on any slide rule, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“Forget him, Jonas.” Terry says. “At what we’ve been paying in premiums, I bet one of his competitors would bend over backwards to get our business.”

“Fine, okay. No raise in premiums, if the device actually works.”

“Surgery’s scheduled for the end of the week. I’ll call you when we’re ready for a demonstration. Meanwhile, the policy remains intact. Agreed?”

“Agreed. For now. But I’ll be here when you reopen.” Adam Wooten gathers his belongings. He hastily shakes Jonas’s hand, avoiding Terry’s burning eyes, and exits the conference room.

Jonas turns back to his wife. “That went well, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re insane, that’s what I think. How the hell are you going to implant an electronic device inside Angel’s brain?”

“I don’t know. Carefully?”

Dr. Brent Nichols finishes downloading the animation program into the computer work station then turns the monitor to face the Taylors, Mac, Fran Rizzuto, and Dr. Stelzer. “Okay, I know this seems like
Mission Impossible
, but keep in mind I’ve performed more than a dozen of these operations on hammerheads and nurse sharks, and working on a specimen the size of Angel is actually easier in many ways.”

Mac scoffs. “Easier almost ate me a few days ago. Nothing about this monster ever goes easy.”

“I was referring to the actual surgery. A hammerhead’s brain is the size of two fingers; Angel’s brain is the size of a man. Once we complete the incisions, we’re in and out in twenty to thirty minutes tops.”

“And where exactly is this surgery going to take place,” Terry asks.

“That’s the best part. The entire procedure will be done remotely, from right here in the lab. All we have to do is attach a benthic chamber equipped with a da Vinci surgical unit to Angel’s skull. Here, let me show you.”

Dr. Nichols types in a few commands, starting the animation program.

A computer graphic featuring an overhead view of the canal appears on screen. Angel is situated just inside the channel’s porous steel doors, a boat anchored outside the underwater barrier. Animated workers lower a series of hoses to divers, who swim them down to the doors.

“Step One will be to sedate our patient. This will be accomplished by pumping high doses of tricaine methanesulfonate from the boat directly into the canal by way of the door’s pores. Angel will ingest the anesthetic and slowly lose consciousness. Once asleep, she should drift to the bottom of the canal where the combination of her enormous pectoral fins and the close confines of the canal should keep her propped fairly upright. Divers will then insert a tube into her mouth, pumping in sea water and more anesthetic so she can breathe.”

Dr. Nichols pauses, allowing the animation to catch up with his presentation.

“Step Two is the actual surgery. The benthic chamber shown here is a six-by-eight-foot-wide, self-contained surgical chamber that will be weighted down and sunk, then bolted in position atop Angel’s head. Once it’s sealed in place, the chamber will be pumped free of water and Dr. Stelzer and I will perform the procedure remotely, using robotics.”

He opens a cardboard box, removing a Y-shaped device about the size of a violin from its Styrofoam protective casing. Electrodes protrude from all sides of the pliable, wafer-thin implant. “This is the neurotransmitter. It’s actually a fairly simple device, essentially a series of electrodes and microprocessors that receive their instructions from a laptop. The program’s signals are sent by way of a radio signal to an antenna that will be attached to Angel’s dorsal fin. The antenna relays the signal to the Megalodon’s brain, stimulating the sensory areas desired. Stimulate the right side of her olfactory center and she moves right. The left and she goes left. Sharks don’t reason; they’re conditioned to respond to any sensory stimulus. It’s a phantom sensation, but she can’t tell the difference.”

Mac examines the device. “I get it. You’re turning Angel into a Pavlov dog. Is that it, Doc?”

“More or less. But DARPA’s advances have gone far beyond the olfactory center. For instance, we’ve learned that a shark’s ampullae of Lorenzini uses the earth’s magnetic field like a compass. It’s no doubt how Angel found her way back to the lagoon after being gone for so many years. If she ever escaped again, we could use this device to lead her right back to the lagoon without her even knowing it.”

“Let’s go back to the antenna,” Jonas says. “I assume that’s not being attached remotely.”

“No. The job requires two divers.” Dr. Nichols offers a nervous smile. “I was hoping you and your friend here could take care of that little chore while Dr. Stelzer and I are operating.”

Mac exhales. “So let me get this straight: While you and Jon here are playing with joysticks and sipping piña coladas, Jonas and I will be scuba diving inside the canal, bolting a transmitter onto you-know-who’s dorsal fin.”

“Second dorsal fin, actually. The primary dorsal’s too thick to get through. But no worries, Angel will be completely sedated. It’ll be no more dangerous than changing a tire.”

“Changing a tire. Right. While the car’s doing sixty miles an hour.”

Dubai Land
Dubai, United Arab Emirates

David is alone in the cockpit, lost in a black sea so vast it has no up or down, no beginning or end. He jams the foot pedals to the floor, yet nothing happens. He works the joysticks and gets no response. The powerless sub continues to drift sideways in the ceaseless current, the emptiness of the void shrinking his existence, the cockpit closing in, his air supply diminishing. Fear brings with it paralysis, his limbs become numb. As powerless as the sub.

Breathe . . . can’t breathe!

Death’s icy fingers tingle his flesh even as its soothing weight sinks him deeper into the abyss.

Sleep . . . mustn’t sleep. Sleep and you won’t wake up . . .

So tired . . . don’t fight it . . . just sleep . . .

No!

The instinct to survive battles the paralysis, his strength of will shaking his body, forcing a single finger to flex, the effort draining yet encouraging. Over and again, flex the finger, circulate the blood, now move the hand. Smash it, roll it, feel the pain. Pain is sobering. Pain is life. Now the arm. Beat it against the lifeless leg. Wake the limb, keep smashing it until the pain is solid—

—until it awakens you.

Wake up, David. Wake up and breathe.

“Ahhhhhhhh!”

David’s face rolls off the suffocating, goose-down pillow, gasping a life-giving breath. His left arm is numb and asleep, his right, tingling with pins and needles. For several moments he just lies in bed and breathes, staring at the ceiling, exhausted and shaken—

—until he realizes someone is knocking on his door.

He rolls off the bed, staggering into the living room. The sun is barely up, but he has no right to be, not after last night—a night that ended mere hours ago. It was after five a.m. when his head had finally hit the pillow, his exhausted body sinking like lead sand.

Another knock. More urgent.

“Alright, I’m coming.” David yanks open the door, his irritation rising.

It is a tall man, the one he had seen days ago, the one assisting the woman orchestrating the transportation of the giant crate. He’s wearing jeans and a white lab coat, a black tee-shirt peeking through, the words
Sicilian Taurus
embroidered across his barrel chest. “Dr. Becker needs you now. Get dressed and come with me.”

“Who the hell is Dr. Becker?”

“Barbara Becker. Director of marine biology.” The big man shoves David back inside. “Get your clothes. We have to hurry!”

“Why? What’s the rush?”

“The runts have arrived. We have them in the tanks. They’re dying.”

The car is waiting for them outside the lobby. The lanky assistant climbs in back. David scoots in after him, and the vehicle accelerates away before he slams the door shut.

“When did they get here?”

“Twenty minutes ago. The biologists from your institute, they knew something was wrong on the cargo plane. I’m Michael Eason. Dr. Becker recruited me from Scripps. Did you know your father’s a legend there?”

David’s retort is stifled as he grabs for the door handle, the car making a sharp right turn before the driver slams on its brakes.

“Come on!” Eason climbs out from the back seat, David right behind him. They jog past the aquarium’s loading dock and down a covered path that leads to a secured entrance way. The tall biologist swipes his magnetic security card, causing the locks to open. He pushes the gate back and they enter.

The hydraulic hum of generators fills a basement corridor lined with pipes. They hurry down a double-wide avenue, passing alcoves numbered T-7, T-5, T-3 on the left, and T-6 and T-4 on the right. They stop at the T-2 service elevator, which opens immediately, and transports them up to the seventh floor.

The lift doors open, revealing the deck of the 80-million-gallon tank. Dr. Becker is supervising her team of six, three members of the Tanaka Institute among them. The fifty-year-old dishwater blonde sees David and signals him over to the side of the tank.

“I’m Barbara Becker. The Megs arrived in shock. This one swam half a length and sank.”

David looks down into the crystal clear water. Lying on the bottom, seventy feet below the surface, is the Megalodon runt known as Ashley. A team of divers is manipulating the twenty-five-foot shark into a canvass harness. The bridle is attached to cables that rise out of the tank to a motorized cart located on a circular track suspended from the ceiling.

Dr. Becker’s walkie-talkie squawks to life. “She’s in. Start the winch!”