meg generations, page 17
part #6 of meg Series
That’s when David realized the creature wasn’t actually positioned on its side; it was angled more on its back.
If it had been rolled over before it had ceased breathing, then there was a chance it wasn’t dead… that it was in a zombie-like state of sleep known as tonic immobility.
Leaving the hose in the Megalodon’s mouth, David swam with the bolt cutters to the albino predator’s right pectoral fin and started snapping through the entanglement of netting. He quickly worked his way across its belly to the other fin, then down its caudal keel.
As he pulled the severed sections of net free from the dormant creature’s tail, the Meg rolled onto its side, its jaws snapping shut over the end of the hose as it shook its massive head and righted itself.
David froze, his heart racing as the 4,000-pound animal slowly regained its faculties, its tail swooshing past his face as it propelled itself forward―
―its snout colliding with the inside of the hopper. Disoriented, the Meg spun around, its ampullae of Lorenzini homing in on the electrical impulses of David’s pounding pulse.
Stay calm … it’s curious but it’s not in attack mode.
With a flick of its half-moon-shaped caudal fin, the ghostly creature halved the distance between them and kept coming.
Oh, shit.
David reached out with both arms as the fifteen-foot juvenile was upon him, his hands gripping the Meg’s snout as the albino monster drove him backward in the water.
He heard the distant splash seconds after the Meg detected new vibrations in the water. Whipping its head around, it swam off to investigate the disturbance, David having to backstroke rigorously to avoid being swatted by the shark’s flicking tail. Releasing the bolt cutters, he rose quickly as the Meg homed in on the bleeding hunk of salmon being dragged along the surface in the far end of the hopper.
Snatching the morsel of food, the albino went deep, nearly pulling Monty over the hopper rail before the rope snapped.
David was hoisted out of the tank seconds later, greeted by his godfather, who looked as angry as the skies overhead.
West Boca Hospital
Boca Raton, Florida
By 8 a.m. Terry had been moved to a private room in the Intensive Care Unit and was breathing normally with the aid of a small device fastened over her nose. Too exhausted to speak, she wrote a note instructing Jonas to return to their apartment to get some rest.
Sorry boss, but I’m not going anywhere without you. Our next order of business is to get you a nutrient bag which will make you strong enough to start Maharaj’s protocol on Monday.
Staking out the nurse’s desk, he waited for the ICU administrator to make an appearance.
* * *
It took Debby Calvert several seconds to match the last name on the patient’s chart with the one-time B-list celebrity. Professor Taylor, in order to feed your wife intravenously we need a specialist to install a tube called a PIC line into her arm.
How long will that take?
First, we want an oncologist to look at her.
We have our own oncologist. Haven’t you spoken to Dr. Maharaj?
I left him a message. But Dr. Maharaj is not affiliated with this hospital and your wife is very sick.
Yes, I know. She also hasn’t eaten anything in two days and her creatinine levels were already at 2.2 when I brought her in.
Dr. Calvert turned to Terry’s nurse. What’s her level now?
The nurse checked her chart. She’s elevated to 2.9.
Then we’re going to need a renal specialist to approve the PIC line.
Jonas could feel his blood boiling as another hurdle was placed in front of Terry’s survival. Why do we need a renal specialist?
Your wife could go into renal failure.
Yes … which is why you need to hydrate her immediately and feed her nutrients. Doc, please―
Dr. Calvert nodded to Terry’s nurse. Page Dr. Urso. Tell him I need him in ICU right away.
Thank you.
Dr. Calvert scrolled through her iPhone photos. My husband and I were out to your facility a few years ago; we had to wait sixteen months just to get tickets. But it was worth it just to see Angel. She held up a video taken of the 74-foot albino Megalodon as it leaped out of the water to snatch a raw side of beef to the crowd’s oohs and aahs. Scary, huh?
He pinched away tears. Not as scary as watching my wife suffering like this.
You have my word; we’ll do everything we can.
Feeling himself losing his composure, Jonas nodded his thanks and returned to Terry’s room. She was lying back at a forty-five-degree angle, her eyes partially open in a vacant stare, her breathing labored behind the mask. She was weak and malnourished, clearly in a downward spiral as the cancer gained new footholds on her depleting immune system.
The PIC specialist arrived a short time later, a caring woman deter-mined to do her job as quickly and as efficiently as possible. She had already ordered the nutrient bag, which had to be specially prepared off-site. She promised it would arrive between eight and nine o’clock that night, but she could not install the feed line into Terry’s emaciated arm until the renal doctor signed off.
Forty minutes passed before the renal specialist arrived. Dr. Anthony Urso reviewed Terry’s chart before engaging in yet another exchange that made Jonas feel like he was Lou Costello arguing with Bud Abbott in a nightmarish medical version of Who’s on First, What’s on Second.
Mr. Taylor, your wife’s kidneys are failing.
Yes, we know. She needs nutrients right away. (Who’s on first?)
We can’t do that without a PIC line. (Yes.)
Yes, we know. That’s why we called you. (I mean the fellow’s name.)
Before I sign off on a PIC line, she needs a CT scan. (Who.)
Why does she need a CT scan? (The guy on first.)
Her creatinine levels are very high; she could go into renal failure. (Who.)
That’s why we need the PIC line! (The guy playing first base!)"
Fine. But I’ll need to consult with an oncologist. (Who is on first base.)
Why do you need to consult with an oncologist? (I’m asking you who’s on first.)
To read the CT scan. (That’s the man’s name.)
We don’t want a CT scan; we want a nutrient bag. (Who?)
We can’t do that without a PIC line. (Yes.)"
Dr. Calvert finally intervened, proposing that Dr. Strong sign off on the PIC line if Jonas agreed to allow the ICU to take a CT scan of Terry’s lungs.
Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland
Strait of Georgia, Salish Sea
The midnight cloudburst had released a deluge that forced everyone inside.
Mac led David and Monty up three flights of stairs to the bridge, chastising his godson in between grunts of pain from his arthritic knees. "I should have never allowed you uhhh into the hopper. If Monty hadn’t uhhh tossed that fish in, you would uhhh been dinner."
She wasn’t in attack mode, Mac. She was … curious.
"Curious? Well, I’ve eaten plenty uhhh things just because I was curious and paid the price. What are you snickering about, Monty? From the stench coming out of that sub, I’m guessing you didn’t exactly follow my dietary instructions, did you?"
No, sir.
They entered the bridge. Rain was punishing the windows, the wipers on high speed, battling to provide visibility to Mohammed Mallouh, who was standing at the wheel, squinting to see through the storm.
Report, Mr. Mallouh.
The pilot stole a quick glance over his shoulder at Mac. The yacht’s staying with us; she’s right in our wake. As for the other Meg, it’s still hanging out beneath our keel.
No shit? Dripping wet, David slogged his way over to the fish finder. Sure enough, Bela’s last surviving pup was darting back and forth beneath the sealed steel door of the McFarland’s hopper.
Mac, we have to find a way to get it on board.
How? Open the hopper doors and you’ll lose the albino.
Monty nodded. A Meg in the hopper is worth two in the Strait.
I just don’t want those fishermen to butcher it.
You destroyed their trawl net; it’ll take them some time to replace it. Bela followed Lizzy all the way back to Monterey when Paul Agricola caught her; maybe her offspring will do the same. The two of you look exhausted. Get some sleep and in the morning we’ll pick up Jackie.
* * *
David? David. Wake up.
He opened his eyes to find Trish standing over him. What time is it?
Four a.m. Something’s wrong with the Meg. Mac said it’s struggling to breathe; he doesn’t think it will last the night.
Shit. David rolled out of bed, his muscles aching from having spent most of the night piloting the Manta. He dressed quickly and then followed her out of his cabin and up a flight of stairs to the main deck.
It had stopped raining. The air was thick with humidity, the full moon low in the western sky, luminous behind a formation of white cumulus clouds.
Mac was standing on the hopper’s rise. David joined him, the captive creature nowhere in sight. Where is she?
Lying on the bottom of the tank, barely moving. Take a look. I rigged a GoPro to the keel of my kid’s remotely-operated toy motorboat. Mac turned his laptop so David could see the monitor. She’s been swimming erratically, bashing her head against the insides of the tank. There―can you see her mouth?
Mac zoomed in on the shark’s lower jaw, which was opening and closing rapidly as if the Meg was under extreme duress.
She’s acting as if she can’t breathe. Mac, how long has this been going on?
Hard to say. I had to wait until the rain stopped before I could use the motorboat … it’s been coming down in buckets. At least twenty minutes.
The rain … I wonder if it diluted the saline levels in the hopper to the point where her gills can’t handle the fresh water?
Only one way to find out.
Climbing down from the rise, Mac lowered the starboard dredge over the side, David doing the same with the portside device. Thirty seconds later the two hoses jumped to life, shooting sea water into the tank along either side of the hopper.
Several minutes passed before the Meg rose away from the bottom, circling back and forth between the two streams.
Good call, kid. There’s only about a foot of freeboard. Will that be enough?
The salt water’s denser; that’s why she’s staying deep. Let it overflow. We’ll push the fresh water right out of the … David paused. Mac … look.
The Meg had surfaced and was spy-hopping between the two streams, its massive triangular head held upright, her mouth remaining open below the water line. The creature’s right eye appeared luminous as it caught the full moon, which had poked free of a cloud bank.
Tell me that shark isn’t staring at the moon.
That’s what it looks like to me.
Any of the other Megs ever do that?
David shook his head. This one’s definitely the first.
They walked around to the west end of the hopper to where the Meg’s head was within ten feet of the starboard rail. Cast in the lunar light, the albino’s alabaster hide appeared to glow.
Mac, I know this sounds crazy, but I think it thinks the moon is Lizzy.
You’re right; that does sound crazy. Where are you going?
She wants her momma … maybe she’s hungry? David crossed the deck to where he and Monty had set up a five-foot-deep, twelve-foot-in-diameter above-ground wading pool. To feed any captured pups, they had brought along a half-dozen sides of beef which were hanging from hooks in the walk-in freezer. Jackie had nixed the plan, recommending live fish. Upon entering the Salish Sea, they had used the fish finder to track schools of salmon. As they fed in the shallows, the McFarland would pass over the cluster of fish, its empty hopper inhaling a dozen or more at a time. From there, they simply drained the tank and placed the captured Chinook in the pool.
David heard the fish getting agitated as he approached. Using a landing net attached to a short pole, he scooped up a forty-five-pound Chinook and carried it over to the hopper, aligning himself within the field of vision of the Meg’s right eye.
Hey, you! Are you hungry?
Mac scoffed. That fish is way too fast for your shark to catch.
Yeah, you’re probably right. Can I borrow your Bowie knife?
Mac pulled the six-inch blade from the sheath attached to his belt and handed it to David. Laying the fish on the rail’s two-foot-wide ledge, he proceeded to slice through the salmon’s thick caudal peduncle two inches below its tail.
Blood rolled down the fish’s pelvic fins, the droplets pooling along the surface of the tank.
Not very sporting.
No, but it should do the trick. David looked up at the Megalodon―
―only it was gone. He searched the tank but was unable to see below the surface which was refracting the full moon’s lunar light.
Mac, where’d she―
In one motion Mac lunged at David, dragging him away from the rail’s ledge as the Megalodon’s triangular head burst clear of the water, its open jaws gnawing at the top of the barrier where David had been standing until it managed to clamp down on the wriggling salmon, swallowing it whole.
For a frozen moment in time, the shark seemed to stare at David with its soulless gray eye. Then it slipped back beneath the surface and was gone.
CHAPTER 13
Aboard the Hopper-Dredge McFarland
Strait of Georgia, Salish Sea
THE THUNDERING CHORUS of helicopter rotors beating the air space above the ship woke David from a deep sleep. Reaching for his iPhone, he checked the time.
Seven thirty-eight? Damn helicopters … what the hell do they want?
Oh, yeah …
The captured Megalodon was the lead story. He tracked several news updates on his iPhone until he located a video clip taken by one of the news choppers flying overhead. For the next ten minutes he sat on the toilet and watched the bird’s eye view of the McFarland’s hopper. Then he showered, brushed his teeth, dressed and left his cabin―
―only to be intercepted by Trish. By the look on her face, he knew the news was bad.
Jackie?
She’s fine. Mac’s on the way back with her.
The Meg―
David, it’s your mother. She’s in the hospital. They don’t think she’ll make it through the night.
Trish’s words struck him like a blow to the gut. He felt his knees buckle as the blood rushed from his face. I don’t understand? Dani said there was a protocol … that Mom was less than two weeks away.
Pack a few belongings. Mac will fly you to Vancouver. You’ll catch a connecting flight in San Francisco. Dani’s already en route; she’ll pick you up at the Fort Lauderdale airport tonight outside the baggage claim.
He staggered back to his cabin, the excitement about having captured Lizzy’s offspring gone.
Over the past eight weeks he had received text updates every few days from his sister. He knew his mother’s health was spiraling from not eating; he also knew that he had been so consumed with locating the Megalodon pups that he had ignored the possibility that she could actually die.
She might not make it through the night …
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he broke down and cried.
* * *
Jackie was waiting for him by the helipad. She hugged him tightly, then spoke loud enough in his ear to be heard over the din of rotors. Be with your family; I’ll handle things here.
David nodded, then walked to the chopper and climbed in the co-pilot’s seat next to Mac. He secured his seatbelt and placed the headphones over his ears as the helicopter lifted away from the deck.
Mac headed east, scattering the three news choppers―
―the airship passing over the superyacht, Hot & Spicy, which was following in the McFarland’s wake.
Aboard the Hopper Dredge, Marieke
Southeast Farallon Islands
27 Nautical Miles Due West of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge
Paul Agricola circled the hopper deck, iPhone in hand as he searched for a signal. It had been several weeks since the Marieke had been close enough to land to use his cell phone, and while the ship-to-shore line worked, when it came to accessing his bank account he didn’t trust the system or his new employer.
Three months at sea with this lunatic. If the deposits aren’t there, I’ll leave him on the most desolate hunk of rock I can find, and he can swim back to Dubai …
The signal flirted with his phone as he headed forward to the bow. In the distance he could make out the three pyramid-shaped summits of the South Farallon islands, one of the four groups designated as a National Wildlife Refuge.
Their arrival at bin Rashidi’s unscheduled stop sent a twinge of tight-ness down Paul’s left arm.
For the first time since their voyage had begun, the former marine biologist had finally been making progress; having located a series of sea elephant kills along the northwest coast of Oregon that he was convinced belonged to the Liopleurodon. A few more attacks and he’d be able to narrow down the creature’s feeding schedule―the most important variable he needed to track down the elusive beast and capture it.
And then, out of the blue, bin Rashidi had ordered the Marieke’s captain to chart a course for the South Farallones, wasting months of Paul’s hard work.
"Why are you doing this? The Lio’s close … we actually have a legitimate shot at capturing it!"
"Something important has come up … a necessary task that requires my immediate attention. I will explain everything when we arrive."
The iPhone’s signal indicator jumped from no bars to three. Paul immediately pressed the preprogrammed number.
"You have reached Bank of America’s small business services. Please enter the number of the account you wish to―"
He typed in the memorized info, followed by the last four digits of his social security number and waited to hear the balance.
"Your available balance is $426,712 dollars."
He disconnected the call and exhaled a toxic breath. Bin Rashidi had wired his fourth monthly payment as promised, buying him another thirty days of Paul’s services.
