Meg: Hell's Aquarium (52 page)

Monty smiles, misinterpreting the skipper’s meaning. “Yeah, he’s got something big crammed up his ass, that’s for sure.”

The British-Indian captain shoots the American a harsh look. “You have a problem with Mr. bin Rashidi?”

“Me? No. Of course, not.”

Nick Cato steps in. “The captain meant his statement literally. Back in 2007, the
Mogamigawa
was cruising through the Persian Gulf at top speed when she sucked an American attack sub right off the bottom. The
USS Newport News
, wasn’t it?”

The captain nods. “The
Mogamigawa’s
a big girl, displacing over 300,000 tons. Once she’s moving fast in the water she makes a hole that can vacuum everything into her keel. The American sub only displaces about seven thousand tons. Bigger always wins.”

“It’s called the venturi effect,” the deck officer says, returning to his work. “Something about the acceleration of water through a constricted area relating to a rise in pressure.”

“Venturi effect . . . sure.” Monty rubs his head, suddenly lost. “Did you know the planet’s termites outweigh the human population by a ratio of ten to one? I mean, so I’ve heard.”

The captain and Nick Cato exchange looks.

“Sorry. I’m just worried about my friend. Every-one’s assuming the worst, that he would have radioed in by now. The Japanese sub’s heading back down to lower a relay transmitter into the hole to try and pick up a signal, but if Delta team’s radio’s out, then that idea’s fucked.”

“What about a rescue mission?”

“We’re down to one Manta Ray, and no one wants to pilot it . . . not after what happened to Alpha team.”

A red light flashes across Nick Cato’s control board. “We’ve got company, skipper. Another cargo chopper.” The deck officer takes his place at the radio station, slipping a set of headphones over his ears.

Timon Singh moves to the aft bay windows, the captain’s binoculars locked in on the approaching he licop ter. “Too small to be another delivery. Have they identified themselves?”

Nick Cato listens to the transmitted message, his eyes going wide. “It’s a military transport out of Guam. They’re delivering a rescue pilot—

—Jonas Taylor.”

Panthalassa Sea

The sea floor growls like thunder, its anger reverberating through the thick titanium sphere.

Lying prone in the suffocating darkness, David Taylor collapses next to the girl, his body exhausted, his mind falling into sleep’s heavenly void . . .

“Yo, David. Wake up, man.”

He opens his eyes, shocked to find himself lying face down on an old, familiar beer-stained sofa. Daylight streams in from the open balcony of his off-campus apartment at the University of Florida, winter in the Gainesville air.

His roommate, Chad “Stone Cold” True, the football team’s backup center and long-snapper, is seated on the floor using a laptop. “Dude, you were moaning in your sleep.”

David sits up, nearly passing out again from the hangover. “What happened?”

“You went a little ballistic last night at the Delta’s keg party.”

“Delta? I don’t remember a thing. Did I have a good time?”

“Looked like it to me. You and that brunette with the sweet hooters were goin’ at it pretty good.”

“Kaylie?”

“Whatever.”

The phone rings. Chad ignores it. “Probably your old man. He’s been calling all morning.”

David grabs the receiver. “Hello?”

“David, thank God.”

“Dad?”

“David, you’ve got to get out of there. The air’s running out, you don’t have much time.”

David looks around the room, confused. “Dad, what are you talking about? It’s a beautiful day. There’s a nice cool breeze—”

“Wake up, David—”

“—open your eyes.”

David opens his eyes, his body bathed in sweat. Kaylie is kneeling next to him. She looks pale in the dim emergency lighting, her eyes filled with fear.

“How long was I asleep?”

“I don’t know. I passed out, too. Sorry to wake you, but I’m on the verge of really freaking out.”

He sits up, his head pounding. “The Manta Ray?”

“Gone. Along with the entire docking chamber. We’re stuck on the bottom. Trapped.”

He stands, looking around, his legs and arms aching from piloting the sub for so long. “Where’s the life support system?”

“Over here.” She leads him to an alcove harboring two generators rigged to a series of fuel cells and a five-hundred-gallon water tank. “Any idea how this thing works?”

The lab’s proximity to the hydrothermal vents is turning the interior of the metal lab into a sauna. He wipes sweat from his eyes, scanning the life support system. “This is pretty high-tech stuff. It’s used aboard naval subs.” He points to a toggle switch. “Basically, it has two modes: life support and electricity. When it’s in life support mode, which it’s in now, it uses this fuel cell to electrolyze potable water and metabolize carbon dioxide to produce oxygen and methane. In fuel cell mode, it uses the stored oxygen and methane as fuel for the solid oxide cell, which generates a direct current.”

“Whatever that means. Just tell me how much air we have left.”

He checks the water tank meter. “Shit. Less than seven gallons.”

“Which means?”

“Which means if you have to use the toilet, don’t flush.”

“David, don’t bullshit me. How many hours?”

“I don’t know! I’m guessing not many. I’m not a freakin’ engineer.” Head pounding, angry at himself for being in this predicament, he pushes past her and climbs the aluminum ladder leading to the upper deck.

Michael Maren’s lab is a mess, the work stations littered with charts and drawings, the shelves with books, video camera equipment, and a computer—

—everything having been tossed into one big pile when the sphere had collapsed upon the remains of the deepwater dock.

“Kaylie, come up and help me look for a radio.”

“No.”

“No?” He looks down the ladder at her. “Are you for real?”

“I don’t like the way you’re speaking to me.”

David slaps himself across the forehead. “Kaylie, we’re trapped in a titanium ball at the bottom of some godforsaken sea, monsters everywhere, six miles of ocean above our heads, and we’re probably down to our last five hours of air . . . and you want to get into a fight?”

“I know our situation! I told you I’m freaking out, and you’re making it worse by yelling at me!”

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I’m a little freaked out myself. Now, would you please help me find Maren’s radio.”

She climbs the ladder. Points to a stainless steel receiver and transmitter lying atop a collapsed desk two feet from where David is standing. “Right in front of your face, Mister Engineer.”

Grinding his teeth, he rights the desk and places the two devices on its table, plugging in the power cord. “It’s dead. Go back down and flip that switch from LIFE SUPPORT TO D/C . . . please.”

“This is a waste of time. How can a radio possibly work this deep?”

“I don’t know. Fiber optic cable, rigged to a set of relay buoys and antennae? Maren was a bit twisted, but he was also pretty clever. He must’ve devised a way to contact the surface, just in case of a malfunction. When we were circling that first lab, I saw eye-bolts rigged to the titanium hull. At some point, they probably lowered these labs by cable.”

“Then we can be rescued. They can send another sub down with a tow cable—”

“—if we can get this radio to work.”

She slides down the ladder, flipping the toggle switch atop the fuel cell, powering up the exterior floodlights, bathing the surrounding abyss in red light.

David presses his face to a three-foot-thick funnel of acrylic glass, peering out the porthole. A steady cloud of blood is rising from somewhere beneath the lab. A shadow of movement darts by, then another.

Then he sees the kronosaurs. Moving in slowly from the dark periphery, the two thirty-six-foot pliosaurs circle the lab, their presence chasing away sharks and other life forms as they zero in on an unseen object located somewhere beneath the sphere.

The first creature lunges out of view. It reappears moments later, paddling backward, back into David’s sight-line. Hanging out the sides of its hideous mouth is a section of the mosasaur’s thick tail.

“Does it work?”

“Huh?”

“The radio! Is it working?”

David pulls himself away from the feeding frenzy to check the transmitter.

The green power light is on.

Aboard the Tonga
Philippine Sea, Western Pacific

A cold wind whips across the supertanker’s deck, whistling beneath pipes and steel housings, churning up whitecaps along the Pacific’s six-foot seas.

Jonas Taylor steps down from the Sikorsky, greeted by a man in his late twenties. He’s built like a wrestler, a baseball cap covering his shaved head, a six-inch devil’s goatee cloaking his chin.

“I’m Jonas Taylor. I’m guessing you’re Mac’s inside guy?”

“Jason Montgomery. Call me Monty. Patricia Pedrazzoli’s my aunt. Only now, I guess her last name’s Mackreides.”

Jonas heads for the
Tonga’s
infrastructure. “Where’s my son?”

“No one knows. We lost contact twelve hours ago . . . give or take. But hey, if you need a co-pilot, I’m volunteering. Granted, I’m not very good; in fact, I pretty much suck. But if this is a rescue mission, then I’m your man.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to solo. Where’s bin Rashidi?”

“Waiting for you on the bridge.”

Fiesal bin Rashidi looks nervous, despite the presence of Brian Suits, Captain Singh, the deck officer, and his armed bodyguard. “Dr. Taylor, no one coerced your son into making this dive. We offered him the mission, and he accepted it.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s twenty years old,” states Brian Suits. “Legally, he’s an adult.”

“You took advantage of him, asshole. You bribed my son to take on your suicide mission! You recruited him to make that dive, just like you tried to recruit me. Now I want to know why. What’s down there that you needed David so badly?”

“We needed the Panthalassa charts.” Allison Petrucci enters the bridge from the captain’s quarters. “Michael kept them in his abyssal labs.”

Jonas stares at the petite brunette. “Do I know you?”

“We met once, about five years ago, aboard Michael’s yacht.”

“Maren’s yacht? Wait . . . you were his assistant.”

“And his lover.”

“His lover?” Jonas smirks. “I can only imagine which part of him you loved.”

She reaches out to slap him—

—Jonas catching her hand. He twists her wrist, forcing her arm behind her back.

The guard raises his .9mm, aiming it at Jonas’s chest.

“Whoa, let’s everybody settle down.” Brian Suits pulls Allison free from Jonas, motioning for the guard to lower his weapon. “We all want the same thing here, Dr. Taylor. Tell us what you need to rescue David, and we’ll provide it.”

Jonas looks from Brian to bin Rashidi, sizing up the situation. “I need seven miles of cable and a winch strong enough to haul Maren’s lab out of the sea.”

“How will you attach the cable?” Brian asks. “The Manta Ray’s aren’t equipped with robotic appendages.”

“I brought my own ride with me.”

Nick Cato glances down at his radio board as the call comes through from the trawler. “
D.L. I
to
Tonga
, come in please.”