Meg: Hell's Aquarium (39 page)

It is after seven o’clock at night by the time they have finished, two hours of steady work yielding access to a stomach bladder the size of a stretch limousine. Richard uses a seventeen-inch hemostat clamp to cut off the esophagus, preventing the remains of the Leeds’ digested prey from being jettisoned out of its stomach. The scientist repeats the procedure with the lower intestines before using a pair of pruning shears to slice open the immense stomach.

A wave of putrid brown muck flows out of the incision, the concentrated organic soup dripping through the porous decking. Richard adjusts his air mask then shocks his young protégé by climbing inside the stomach lining, sifting through the five-foot-deep organ with his body. “Shrimp . . . jellyfish . . . same plankton content as the other ones. Rich in hydrogen sulfide and methane . . . all coming from cold seeps originating beneath the Philippine Sea Plate. Strange . . . there’s not much here for an eighty-five footer. Wait a second . . . what’s this? Feels like—”

Suddenly Richard’s head disappears, his entire body yanked into the brown slime!

David rushes over as a gloved hand reaches out of the stomach. He grabs it before it disappears and pulls hard, dragging Richard’s body out of the slit-open organ—

—along with a seven-foot-long, 225-pound shark, its snout embedded into the bloody remains of the marine biologist’s stomach!

“—aahhh! Ahhh! Get it off!” Blood pours out of Richard’s mouth, pooling in his mask.

David grabs the scientist and drags him away from the creature. The shark’s upper jaw still clenches Richard’s intestines, clamping them to its bizarre lower jaw—a spiral configuration outfitted with a whorl of teeth resembling the vertical blades of a circular saw!

The primordial shark flops and flounders in the muck. Primitive gill slits gasp for air, forcing it to release Richard. Innards gush out of his open wound, the eviscerated man bleeding out over the deck.

Trembling, David grabs the prehistoric beast by its tail and drags it to the edge of the deck, pushing it over the grated metal floor. The prehistoric shark falls twenty feet into the tank of seawater below and disappears.

Heart in his throat, David kneels by the dying Filipino, supporting his head as he gently pulls off his air mask.

Richard Hibpshmans looks up, opens his mouth to speak, and gurgles on his own blood. A moment later his eyes glaze over . . . dead.

David leans back against a steel support beam, breathing deeply, fighting shock—

—while below, a spiked dorsal fin skewers the surface, the
Helicoprion
shark feeding off the dripping muck and blood falling through the porous steel deck of pen number four.

Aboard the Dubai Land I
Philippine Sea

Ibrahim Al Hashemi enters the skipper’s cabin, the Dubai Aquarium director shaking as he delivers the news to Fiesal bin Rashidi. “The biologist’s remains have been placed in refrigerated storage, as requested.”

“I don’t care about him. Tell me about the shark!”

“The shark . . . is incredible. A female
Helicoprion
, and in excellent condition!”

“How did it get there? You told me these Leeds’ fish were filter feeders.”

“Yes, sir. I completed the autopsy of the
Leedsichthys.
It seems the fish had recently shed its giant mesh plates in the back of the throat. This probably happens annually. With the filtering organ temporarily gone, the consumption of the shark was purely accidental and probably led to its death by choking. As for the
Helicoprion
, though it will only grow to be ten feet long, its capture is a major prize. The lower jaw contains over one hundred seventy razor-sharp teeth set it in a spiral. The species itself dates back to the late Jurassic Period, over 150 million years ago.  Maren’s journal made no mention of the shark, so I never imagined such a find like this was possible.”

“And what of the species Maren did document? When will we find them, let alone capture one? I’m growing exceedingly impatient, Hashemi. And so is my cousin!”

“Sir, we’ll find them—”

“Not today we won’t.” Brian Suits enters the cabin, wearing greasy overalls and a slicker. He peels off the wet jacket, hangs it on a hook, then flops down on a cushioned chair. “My teams are ascending. No casualties. No captures.”

The Aquarium director can feel bin Rashidi’s rage. “How far into the Panthalassa Sea did they venture today?”

“Beta team went nearly a mile before the pilot lost his nerve. Part of that has to do with all the bait in the water.”

“Then remove the bait! Find a better way!” Bin Rashidi grows angrier, causing his thick uni-brow to knit upward like an inch worm. “What about Taylor?”

“He’ll need to be challenged. Leave that to me.” Brian reaches into a small cooler and fishes out a beer. “I heard about Richard. Unbelievable. Anyone contact the family?”

“Technically, he was part of your crew,” bin Rashidi spats. “You handle it.”

“Yeah, sure. Pretty quick thinking by the kid to save the shark. How’s he holding up?”

“He’s sleeping in sickbay aboard the
Tonga
,” says Ibrahim Al Hashemi. “We need to discuss the
Helicoprion
. Who gets credit for its capture? Technically, Delta team captured the Leeds’ fish. They will insist on receiving the points.”

“No,” states bin Rashidi. “Delta team’s species died. Give the catch to Taylor. Bring him aboard. I want to speak with him tonight.”

The dark olive ocean is barely visible through the night glass. David can feel the sea’s weight squeezing in upon the powerless sub’s thin acrylic shell. He can hear the wings buckling beneath timeless pressure. The invisible vise causing the straining microscopic fibers to sing.

The long shadow circles closer in the distance, drawn by the disturbance. The creature’s eyes appear iridescent-green in the glass, its black pupil locked in on him, revealing a godless soul . . .

“Huh!” David sits up in bed, the room dimly lit. It takes him several unnerving moments before he can place the memory.

Tanker. Sickbay.
He lies back, remembering everything.
I shouldn’t be here . . .

He squints as the lights turn on and someone enters. Nick Cato offers him a bottled water. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

“Storm’s let up. The submersible crews are returning. Captain says they want you on board the trawler.”

A waxing three-quarter moon illuminates a haze of clouds directly overhead, the night cool but not uncomfortable. David moves to the supertanker’s port-side rail and looks down. Thirty feet below, the
Dubai Land I
maneuvers close by, its crew positioning heavy rubber truck tires over the starboard side to prevent the two boats’ metal skins from colliding.

Nick Cato lowers a rope ladder from the tanker rail. “It’s the only way down, unless you feel like getting wet.”

“Think I’ll pass.” David swings his left leg over the rail, balances his foot on a wooden plank, then follows with the right leg, very deliberate as he descends the unstable ladder one rung at a time. Reaching bottom, he steps out onto a tire, and is helped onto the swaying trawler by an older gentlemen bundled in a heavy sweat suit.

“Welcome aboard, hotshot.”

David searches his memory for the former smuggler’s name. “Rick? How’s it going?”

Rick Magers grunts and spits. “Like herding squirrels. Bunch of pansy-ass pilots—still too afraid to explore the bottom. Take me down with you, kid. We’ll show ‘em what for.”

David looks aft. Beneath the powerful floodlights an object is being hauled out of the sea and up the slanted stern ramp by way of a heavy cargo net. The trawl winches retract more netting, revealing the object to be a submersible—one of the Manta Rays.

The cockpit is unsealed. A short woman in her mid-thirties climbs stiffly out of the pilot’s seat, giving an earful to one of the crewmen.

The sonar operator climbs out from the co-pilot’s position, wearing a hooded jacket. The hood is drawn back, releasing a mop of long brunette hair.

Kaylie . . .

David’s heart pounds in his chest as he crosses the deck, waving. Kaylie’s pilot, Debbie Umel, spots David first and points.

Kaylie stares at him, expressionless. Leaving the sub, she crosses the upper deck to meet him.

David waits for her by the trawler’s big net drum. He watches her as she approaches, her head down. In his mind’s eye he had imagined their reunion a hundred times, now her offish demeanor is keeping him at bay.

“You shouldn’t be here, David.”

“I shouldn’t be here? I guess I’m crazy, because I thought you asked me to be here.”

Rick Magers saunters over to eavesdrop.

Kaylie looks up at the old man. “Rick, do you mind?”

“Hell, no, I don’t mind.”

Kaylie rolls her eyes then grabs David by the crook of his arm. “Come on.” She leads him forward to the trawler’s twin bow gantries then down an aluminum ladder to the mid-deck. David follows her through a tight corridor past the crew’s galley, turning right at a short hallway bordered on either side by cabins.

She keys open Cabin 5, holding the door so he can enter. The room is small. Bunk beds, two sets of drawers, and a private bathroom. Women’s underwear occupy every square inch of available hanging space.

“Nice room. I think your roommate would get along with Monty.”

“Debbie’s married. There’s no laundry service aboard, so you make do.”

“Kaylie, for two weeks, you’re all I’ve thought about. I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“I am. My mind’s just in a different place than it was back in Dubai. I’m into the job.”

“And me being aboard screws that up?”

“No. Well, yes. Maybe a little. It’s like having your girlfriend show up unexpectedly at football camp. You want to be together, but you need to maintain your focus. Your presence also changes the dynamic of our group.”

“From what I hear, your group hasn’t been so dynamic.”

“We’ve had our challenges, but we’re getting better every day. Nothing—no amount of training—prepares you for what we’ve had to do. David Shiffman quit after one dive. Guess he crossed that item off his personal to-do list. And Peter, the guy in the wheelchair, he left last week. He was having too difficult a time getting around the trawler. Peter was our best sonar op, so everything got reshuffled.”

“Now I’m here. Maybe I can help.”

“Maybe. The real problem is the extreme depth and our total lack of knowledge of the Panthalassa—that’s what they’re calling the subterranean sea.”

“Wait . . . there’s a subterranean sea?”

“I thought you knew. I’m sure they’ll brief you, now that you’re here. It’s located beneath the Parece Vela Basin. We’ve been told it covers five thousand square miles of sea floor. Somehow we’re expected to explore it using this one access hole. Bin Rashidi’s losing patience fast. There’s no charts to guide us, just a big hole in the sea floor that leads into an even bigger ocean of black water, everything sealed up under a claustrophobic ceiling of rock that just unnerves the hell out of you after a while. Our job is to search the abyss for life forms. The Manta Rays are essentially bait. If we locate something we try to lure it out of the hole where a Japanese submersible is waiting with the nets. The problem is, everyone’s still too freaked out about venturing too far from the hole’s entrance.”