Meg: Hell's Aquarium (50 page)

The creature’s dorsal surface is lead-brown, camouflaging it in the sea, its dark skin mottled in patches of ivory that turn stark-white along the underside of its lower jaw and belly. The head, from the tip of its smooth, crocodilian mouth to its short, muscular neck, is as long as the juvenile sisters’ entire bodies and spans a full third of its gargantuan torso. Its jaw line alone is thirty-two feet, its mouth filled with ten-to twelve-inch, dagger-like teeth. The fangs located at the tip of its snout are so long and sharp that Nature has aligned them to jut outside of the mouth at crisscrossing angles.

Rippling along either side of the monster’s neck are gill slits, each evolutionary adaptation twenty feet tall, enabling the ancient species of plesiosaur to breathe like a fish. The creature’s mid-section is as thick and long as a train car, possessing a reinforced ribcage that supports a muscular shoulder girdle, powering a pair of forward flippers twice the size and girth of a humpback whale’s pectoral fins. The abdomen tapers back to a pair of rear limbs and a short, thick tail, the sleek design providing the monster with grace and speed.

“
Liopleurodon
. . .” David’s flesh tingles as he whispers the name, his eyes wide as they take in the largest marine predator ever to have existed in the planet’s four billion year history.

The monster passes beneath the Manta Ray as it rises majestically, its yellow reptilian eyes appearing luminous in the night glass, its 122-foot-long body dwarfing even that of the deceased
Leedsichthys
. Moving almost surreally, the creature wraps its open jaws around the girth of the dead Leeds’ fish, bites down, and swims off with its prize, its powerful forelimbs propelling it into the darkness.

David releases his breath. Kaylie whispers a prayer of thanks—

—as the giant mosasaur’s head suddenly blooms out of the darkness before them, its outstretched jaws clamping down upon their sub!

Only the dense cockpit colliding with the roof of the sea monster’s mouth prevents its teeth from meeting and crushing the tiny submersible.

Kaylie cannot muster the breath to scream.

David fumbles to restart the sub, somehow managing to power on the exterior lights—

—turning the blackness into a pink throat and dark gullet, the periphery into brown-stained, banana-size, ivory teeth. External pressure briefly soars past 19,000 psi, sending red warning lights flashing across the command center, the cockpit a mere up-tick of structural stress from being violated by sea and monster, the two terrified pilots seconds away from death.

Unable to bite down or swallow its prey, the mosasaur reopens its jaws in order to reset its grip—

—as Kaylie punches the active switch on sonar, blasting sound waves at the beast—

—and David slams his left foot to the floor pedal, revving the port-side propeller. The Manta Ray slingshots out of the right side of the monster’s mouth, racing into the darkness.

Kaylie tears at her brunette hair, her exhausted mind overwhelmed by fear. “This isn’t happening, it isn’t happening—”

David zigs and zags, plunging them into a steep descent. “Kaylie, I need your help!”

“. . . this isn’t happening—”

“Kaylie, get a grip! It’s chasing us to the bottom, I need to know what the hell’s down there.”

“Huh?” She turns around and sees the mosasaur racing after them, its jaws snapping at the sub with every lunge. Grabbing her headphones, she actively pings the Panthalassa, searching for its ancient sea floor.

The depth gauge passes 28,000 feet, the water temperature elevating above sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Water pressure continues to build as they race toward the bottom, the ocean’s sheer weight crushing the Manta Ray’s underlying carriage. The damaged starboard wing’s acrylic seams pop, the decrease in hydrodynamics causing the entire submersible to buck like a bronco.

“David, too fast, too deep!”

“Just get me a fix!”

“Bottom’s at 31,877, but there’s black smokers everywhere. You have to level out!”

“Tell that to Godzilla!” David switches on his exterior lights—

—revealing a petrified forest of hydrothermal vents, each chimney stack one hundred to four hundred feet high, spewing thick black clouds of superheated mineral water into the abyss.

The mosasaur lunges again, its front teeth snapping off the starboard propeller.

The submersible spins as it descends in a near vertical drop. David targets one of the taller towers of volcanic rock, their bodies squeezed into their seats as he pulls a full G, looping the sub around the black smoker’s thirty-foot-wide shaft straight into a dizzying barrel roll before leveling out at 31,470 feet.

The infuriated mosasaur smashes through the vent, scorching its belly and tail in the scalding water as it continues the chase.

David zigs and zags around black smokers and clusters of tube worms, the Manta Ray swaying violently in the steamy water, each reverberation shaking the submersible with teeth-rattling jerks.

Kaylie’s feet are braced against the dashboard, her eyes squeezed tight as she continues to send and receive sound waves through the chaos, yelling out instructions. “Starboard ten degrees! You’re clear for another two hundred feet. Approaching a steep ridge. On my mark you’ll climb. Steady, steady . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . climb!”

The Manta Ray soars over the sea mount then drops back into the valley.

The mosasaur follows them over the ridge. Instead of pursuing its prey into the basin, it circles left, then right—

—then disappears into the darkness.

David eases back on the port-side propeller. “Is it gone?”

“No, it’s still out there, circling four hundred feet off our starboard wing, keeping its distance. Something must have spooked it.”

David kills the exterior lights, employing the night glass.

The five-hundred-foot monster slowly materializes out of the olive darkness, looming up ahead.

30.

San Francisco, California

Virgil Wade Carmen leans back on the uncomfortable couch, staring at the
Free Willy
poster.

Make them put up cash. Sara’s okay, but I don’t trust that other woman as far as I can throw her. Anyone who dyes their hair purple can’t be—

He stops fidgeting as the two women reenter the loft.

Sara forces a smile. “Virgil, you’re not telling us everything, are you?”

“I told you what I know. Angel’s gone. Jonas and Mac released her and—”

“—released her where?” The veins in Jean Thompson’s neck are bulging, the woman’s face a mask of rage. “Taylor wouldn’t have just released her, not into the Monterey Sanctuary.”

“No one knows. Terry’s keeping it all hush-hush, but I found out. I found out how they did it, where they’re taking her, and all sorts of other information you’ll want to know. But it’ll cost you.”

Sara looks at Jean, then back to Virgil. “How much?”

“A hundred grand. In cash. And don’t tell me you can’t afford it. I know you just landed two more sponsors, and it was all because of my footage. Face it, ladies, I’m the one who got you the media, the YouTube videos, the sponsors. Hell, I even got you Lana Wood. Now, I want a taste.”

Jean is ready to spew a string of expletives, but Sara cuts her off. “Virgil, we appreciate you coming to us with this information, but this isn’t exactly something the Institute can keep a secret very long. Of what possible value—”

“—Jonas beat you to the punch, Sara. He’s releasing Angel at a remote place far away from humans—essentially stealing your thunder. And just for good measure, he’s documenting everything, which means he’ll be putting it right in your faces. I can tell you  their present location, where they’re headed, and—”

“Christ, he’s taking her back to the Mariana Trench.”

“How?” Jean asks.

“Boat, no doubt.” Sara swears, “Son of a bitch. There was a hopper dredger docked outside the canal during the debate.”

Sweat breaks out across Virgil’s face.

“Sneaky bastards. With Angel gone, Taylor can seal up the lagoon. He’ll put Lizzy in one aquarium, Bela in the other—”

“—and we’re out of business!” Jean kicks her ergo-metric chair across the loft. “Sara, I just signed a contract with the
YouTube Channel
. We promised them footage of Bela and Lizzy’s release. Do you have any idea how much money’s at stake?”

“I can do that,” Virgil states.

Sara ignores him. “Maybe we can still get Angel on tape. What’s the status of our sister organization in Japan?”

“Forget it. They’re strictly out to protect the whales.”

“That could work. With Angel in the Western Pacific—”

“Are you deaf?” Virgil tosses a throw pillow at Sara. “I said I can free Belle and Lizzy!”

“How?”

“The canal’s stuck in the open position. The doors must have jammed when they moved Angel. Terry’s not bothering to fix it since they’re sealing up the lagoon, anyway. Construction starts in three days, which gives you plenty of time to set up a film crew outside the canal entrance while I release the sisters.”

Sara looks at Jean, her eyebrows raised. She sits next to Virgil. “How do we do that, Virge?”

“
We?
We don’t do anything. I’m the only one who can open the channel.”

“What channel?”

“The channel that connects the lagoon to the Meg Pen—it’s situated below the main deck about fifty feet beneath the bridge. There are two doors, one on either side, with a foot of free board allowing for pressure differentials between the two aquariums. The engineer designed it that way, just in case we ever needed to move the pups into the lagoon. Only time we ever used it was when Angel gave birth.”

Jean sits on the sofa’s arm rest on the other side Virgil. “And you have access to the channel’s controls?”

Virgil nods. “A hundred grand in cash delivers the two sisters to your film crews while beating Jonas Taylor to the punch. My offer’s good until midnight tonight. After that, I’m off to interview at the Miami Sea Aquarium.”

“A hundred grand, my ass,” Jean shoots back. “I’d rather go belly-up than pay you that.”

“No worries, then.” Virgil stands to leave. “I’m sure the two of you can always land jobs with PETA, tossing buckets of blood at celebrities wearing mink coats.”

Philippine Sea
Western Pacific

The Sikorsky S61N helicopter soars high over the Pacific, cruising southwest at 120 knots. The two pilots converse in the cockpit—

—while their lone passenger stretches out in the cargo area next to a twelve-foot-long shipping crate marked: T.O.I. ABYSS GLIDER III HANDLE WITH CARE.

Jonas is lying on an old Army mattress and blanket, his body desperate for sleep, his mind in turmoil. There is no worse feeling for a parent than knowing their child is in danger; nor is there any greater anxiety than having to wait to learn of their son or daughter’s fate. In Jonas’s case, he has had to endure two torturous days of flying from the hopper dredger’s helicopter flight pad back to San Francisco, to the flight from California to Hawaii, followed by another long connecting flight taking him to Guam. And now this, the final leg of his five-thousand-mile journey, a chopper ride across the Philippine Sea in search of the supertanker,
Tonga.
Only it is not the final leg—

—it’s only the beginning. The final leg is a six-mile journey into the abyss—an endurance test he last accomplished twenty-three years ago—its success already jeopardized by his age, his anxiety, and his overwhelming physical and mental fatigue.

Must sleep . . . for David’s sake.

He adjusts his head on the make-shift pillow and closes his eyes again, his mind refusing to give in to reason.

Mac’s inside guy said David had succeeded in deep-water docking the
Manta Ray.
That means he either left the lab and got lost, he left the lab and became trapped, or the deepwater dock imploded and he’s trapped inside the lab . . .

His bloodshot eyes pool with tears as darker thoughts once more attempt to pierce his resolve.

No! Don’t go there! Focus on the other options. Orga nize your rescue efforts.

If he’s trapped in the lab then you’ll need enough cable to reach bottom, plus at least an extra mile of slack. Figure 37,000 feet, just to be safe. The lab weighs forty-seven tons, which means you’ll need an industrial winch powerful enough to haul the lab top-side. The tanker should have something like that on board.

But if he’s lost down there, or his sub is crippled, it won’t be easy to find him. Best strategy is to
ping
an expanding radius along the bottom. Of course, there’s a danger in doing that, too.

Memories of his encounters with
Carcharodon megalodon
in the Mariana Trench slip through his defenses.

Screw it! It doesn’t matter what’s down there. Besides, if David’s sub was damaged, he would have ejected the escape pod. The pod floats free, but the chances of hitting that access hole are a million to one, which means he could be pinned to the
Panthalassa
ceiling . . . that’s probably where you need to begin your search.

He rolls over again.

No, Jonas, first you need to sleep . . . for David’s sake.

Panthalassa Sea

The creature is standing upright along the bottom, towering five hundred feet above a sea floor long since decimated by its arrival. Weighing upwards of ten thousand tons, the monstrosity of rusted steel is buried bow-first, surrounded by a debris field highlighted by the remains of its raised upper deck and tripod mainmast, eight boilers and four sets of turbines that had once powered its four out-turning propellers.

David activates the sub’s exterior lights as he maneuvers the Manta Ray slowly around the Portland Class heavy cruiser’s ancient keel. The silenced propellers are caked with barnacles, the steel plates rusted but intact—

—save for two massive holes located aft of midship, created by the impact of the two Japanese torpedoes that sank the American warship more than six decades earlier.