Meg: Hell's Aquarium, page 7
“About 320 million years.”
“Oh. Is that all?”
Dr. Al Hashemi smiles. “It’s incredibly exciting, don’t you agree? A lost world, preserving the most dangerous life forms ever to have existed.”
Mac looks at the geologist and shrugs. “I’m just a working stiff, pal. The shelf and the ancient sea . . . sure, that I can believe. But these other monsters? I mean, granted, Jonas did find a Megalodon population inhabiting the Mariana Trench—”
“—along with a subspecies of Kronosaurus,” adds bin Rashidi.
Jonas turns his attention back to the bathymetric chart. “Megalodon only disappeared between ten and a hundred thousand years ago. The Kronosaurus . . . I always considered their survival more of a fluke of nature, sort of like the Coelacanth. But these species?”
“Look at the common variables,” Al Hashemi says. “Survival over eons of time is a matter of adaptation combined with circumstantial luck. There have been several mass extinctions that wiped out land and sea creatures alike since the Devonian Age. For any species to survive that long would require a vast isolated habitat possessing a perpetually replenishing food chain. This particular area, which Dr. Maren called the Panthalassa Sea, is contained beneath a five-thousand-square-mile geological ceiling, isolating and protecting its inhabitants from sudden environmental changes resulting from volcanism, asteroid strikes, ice ages. If the Coelacanth managed to defy the odds in the isolated deep waters off the coast of Africa, then—”
“The Coelacanth is a fish,” Jonas snaps. “Half the creatures on your wish list began life as air-breathing marine reptiles. Living in the sea is one thing; living beneath it is another. At some juncture they would have had to evolve gills—”
“—just as the kronosaurs you encountered in the Mariana Trench managed to do,” Ibrahim Al Hashemi retorts. “Considering that the first land creatures were once fish like the Coelacanth, reacquiring gills over the last several hundred million years would probably not be a big leap up the evolutionary ladder.”
“What about the food supply down there?” Mac asks.
“The entire region is volcanically active,” answers Dr. Al Hashemi. “We believe there are vast hydrothermal vent fields down there, using chemosynthesis as a basis to sustain a thriving, diverse food chain.”
“There is also evidence of high levels of methane gas,” offers Dr. al-Muzani. “Dr. Maren’s notes indicate the western section of the Panthalassa Sea may contain more than a thousand square miles of cold seeps.”
A harsh glance from bin Rashidi tempers the geologist’s excitement.
“Cold seeps?” Jonas ponders this new information. “Yes, that would make sense. Cold seeps emit methane and hydrogen sulfide at a slower and far more dependable rate than hydrothermal vents. We’ve discovered huge abyssal communities supported by cold seeps, with prokaryotes—chemo-autotrophic bacteria—processing abundant amounts of chemical energy. Exactly how much methane gas did Maren indicate he discovered down there?”
The geologist looks to bin Rashidi for help.
The cousin of the crown prince waves the matter off. “Impossible to say. But the sonar signatures Maren left behind provide evidence of a variety of life occurring in several different locations beneath the Parece Vela Basin. His notes and drawings go far to theorize what these creatures might be.”
Mac looks again at the chart. “If this ridge ceiling is sealed like you say, how did your genius manage to get his remotely operated vehicles down inside this ancient sea?”
“He discovered a hole in the basin . . . here.” The Dubai geologist points out a red dot located in the southwest section of the basin. “This access point became Maren’s base of operations . . . and ours.”
“Thank you, Dr. al Muzani, that will be all.” Bin Rashidi once again assumes control of the discussion. “Based on Dr. Maren’s findings, along with the recent evidence of the dead Leeds’ fish, the crown prince has generously committed a billion dollars to fund the new Dubai Aquarium and Resort and stock it with these amazing remnants of the prehistoric age. Dr. Taylor, in addition to purchasing two of your Megalodon juveniles, the crown prince has asked me to employ the services of both you and your staff. We also wish to purchase a dozen of your institute’s new Manta Ray submersibles, which we would use to help lure and capture life forms inhabiting this ancient sea. Your field expertise would be invaluable, Dr. Taylor. You and your associate would be extremely well paid for your services.”
Jonas and Mac look at one another . . . and break into hysterical fits of laughter.
Bin Rashidi’s smile disappears.
Mac wipes tears from his eyes. “Oh, baby, that was worth the price of admission.”
Jonas clears his throat. “Forgive me, but after everything we’ve been through, there’s not enough oil in Dubai to convince us to return to that hell hole, especially on a venture having anything to do with Michael Maren.”
“Five million dollars each, gentlemen. Think it through.”
“The old deal or no deal, huh?” Mac fights to control his smile. “Tell you what, toss in a luxury box at Pac Bell Field and a peace treaty between the Israelis and Hamas, and we’ll pack our bags for the Philippine Sea.”
“Mac, enough.”
“I offer you the opportunity of a lifetime and you mock me?” Bin Rashidi signals to his entourage. The four men in dishdashi stand as one to leave—
—until the Arab in the gray business suit speaks to bin Rashidi quietly in Arabic.
Bin Rashidi’s demeanor changes. “Dr. Taylor . . . my colleague requests a moment with you . . . alone. Please, it would be most appreciated.”
“Of course. Again, my apologies.”
The four men in dishdashi exit the room. Jonas nods to Mac, who follows them out, closing the office door behind him.
Jonas turns to the man in the gray suit. “Your Highness, it’s a pleasure.”
The crown prince smiles with his eyes. “You knew?”
“I recognized you from your photos.” Jonas pulls out a thick file from his desk drawer and holds up several State Department photos of the crown prince. “I always like to know who I’m dealing with before any business meeting. Masao taught me that years ago.”
“A wise man. So? As one businessman to another, tell me your opinion in regard to our little venture. Is it feasible, or am I wasting my time and money?”
“Is it feasible? If the creatures Maren claims to have found really exist, then sure, anything’s feasible. What’s puzzling is why you would need my help.”
“You were the one who captured Angel’s mother twenty-five years ago with nothing more than a net and a harpoon. Who better to lead the expedition?”
“For starters, anyone younger. If you haven’t noticed, I passed my prime long ago; moreover, I did my time in hell chasing sea monsters. Besides, you and I both know you’re not really after these creatures. You’re after the methane.”
The crown prince’s eye lose their sparkle.
“Yeah, I know about that, too.” Jonas leans back in his chair. “Philippine basin’s loaded with gas hydrates. Estimates of the Nankai Trough alone exceed 27 trillion cubic meters. The Japanese are already drilling for the stuff, pinpointing locations using Bottom Simulating Reflectors. Maren probably bribed an official for the sediment data.
“No offense, Your Highness, but I’ve traveled down this road before. Twenty years ago, Benedict Singer stole the Institute from Masao in order to gain access to manganese deposits located in the Mariana Trench. The way I figure it, teaming your expedition with our institute buys you the same kind of credibility and backdoor access. Hell, if it works for you go for it; the world certainly needs to get off the fossil fuel needle. But other than selling you two of Angel’s pups and a few of our submersibles, my family and I won’t be a part of your little methane venture. And there’s no wiggle room in my answer.”
“Fair enough. But you are wrong about the aquarium. While it is true the hydrates would subsidize the venture, the aquarium stands on its own virtue. Attracting tourists to my country remains my primary objective, and a new resort featuring such aquatic attractions would certainly accomplish that. The main tanks are already complete, and two refitted oil tankers are on their way to the Philippine Sea as we speak to locate these creatures and capture as many of them as we can. What harm would it do for you to supervise such a venture aboard the lead vessel?”
“Again, Your Highness, you have my final answer. As for the sale of the Meg pups—”
“Mr. bin Rashidi will negotiate the terms and conditions of the two surviving runts.”
“Mary Kate and Ashley? Really? I thought for sure you’d want the sisters.”
“While they are, by far, the more impressive specimens, they are too vicious, making them unpredictable. I may be a risk taker, Dr. Taylor, but I am not a gambler. You have given me your answer, and I must respect your wishes. However, before I leave, I really would like to see Angel. And of course, those wonderful submersibles of yours.”
“I’ll have my son show you the subs. As for Angel, unfortunately, Your Highness, she is also unpredictable. But we’ll do our best to coax her out of the canal.”
“I would be most grateful.”
5.
R.A.W. Headquarters
San Francisco, California
Tuesday
The organization’s address is listed in a tri-level house overlooking San Francisco Bay. The floors are bamboo, the main rooms naturally lit by bay windows and block glass. Airy and open, the dwelling is one that would attract most local artists—if they could afford it.
Thirty-two-year-old Jessica Jean Thompson feeds her two dogs, Daisy and Duke, while her cat, Sawyer, purrs on the counter, craving attention. Grabbing her coffee in one hand, the cat in the other, she heads upstairs to the third floor loft—headquarters of her foundation: Release Animals to the Wild. Sliding into her ergomatic chair, she pulls her brownish-red hair into a tight bun, exposing the underlying purple-dyed locks, then turns her attention to the video already cued up on her laptop.
The opening footage, supplied by her partner’s mole inside the Tanaka Institute, had been filmed using the Meg Pen’s mounted underwater cameras. The sequence features a pale object thrashing underwater, moving in and out of focus. She advances the video, pausing as a dark blur moves into the frame. Not much here, you can’t really tell what’s going on. She fast-forwards the tape again, hitting play as the camera angle shifts to a surface shot. Taken at night, filmed using a hand-held camcorder, the wobbly footage clearly shows the wounded Megalodon being lifted out of the tank in a cargo net. For a full minute it hangs from the steel crane’s expanse beam, its thrashes subsiding as a female trainer stabs at it with a reach pole.
Cruel bastards. Jess sips her coffee—
—choking down the last bitter swallow as the lead-backed Meg suddenly leaps into the frame from below and clamps its hideous jaws upon its netted sibling’s exposed belly in a sickening, horrifying bite! Jessica’s eyes widen, her heart pounding from caffeine and adrenaline, as Bela remains suspended out of the water by her teeth, her twenty-ton girth obliging her serrated fangs to tear a massive chunk out of the smaller Meg’s stomach. Innards pour from the eviscerated wound like a waterfall, the sight causing the animal activist to gag.
She reaches for her cell phone, speed-dialing a number, her eyes refusing to leave the computer screen. “Sara, have you seen this?”
“Only four times.” Sara Toms, R.A.W.’s co-founder, is a former Airborne surveillance instructor with the United States Air Force with a hit-the-ground-swinging attitude. “Mike McCormick’s editing it down to three minutes. It’ll be on our website by noon Eastern Time. I haven’t been this primed for battle since Michael Vick decided to buy himself a bunch of dogs. My ‘Deep Throat’ did good, didn’t he?”
“He did great. What about the Lost Boys?”
“Still too early to reach them, and honestly, we don’t need them protesting today. This video pushes us into the major leagues. Morning shows, evening news . . . we’re there.”
“What about that last bit, the one with the Meg’s guts falling out . . . you think it’s too gory for prime time TV?”
“Probably, but they’ll air it anyway, especially after a million people an hour start downloading it from our site. Jess, you concentrate on donations; let me play Rambo on this. I don’t want PETA stealing our glory . . . or our sponsors.”
“It’s your baby, Sara. Run with it.”
The line goes dead.
Jessica Thompson rewinds the footage, replaying the attack again, a smile creasing her face. By tonight we’ll be the major story on every network and cable news program. By tomorrow morning we’ll be global. God, I live for these days . . .
She pauses her stream of thought only to toss Sawyer off her desk when the purring cat blocks her view of the screen.
Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
David Taylor follows Dr. Jonathan Stelzer into the staff locker room. The Institute’s top marine biologist converses as he pulls on a pair of protective orange coveralls, matching rubber boots, a rubber apron, and thick, double-layer rubber gloves. “Necropsy is an important phase in your development as a marine biologist, David. Analyzing the threat of a disease in an aquarium can prevent an epidemic that could wipe out your entire ecosystem. Morbidity and mortality must be examined.”
“No argument. But Angelica didn’t die of a disease.”
“It doesn’t matter. Her demise offers us a rare opportunity to delve into the internal workings of a predator species we still know very little about.”
David tugs on his own pair of heavy rubber boots. “Can we really make accurate conclusions when most of Angelica’s guts fell out?”
“There’s still plenty of internal organs left in place. Again, knowledge is a hands-on experience, and we don’t get many opportunities like this in our line of work. Ready?”
“Yes, sir.” David adjusts his face shield in place and follows Dr. Stelzer out of the locker room—
—into a refrigerated warehouse. The dead female Megalodon has been placed belly-up, propped slightly on its left side to prevent the remains of its insides from falling out of a jagged wound the size of a Jacuzzi. Heavy plastic sheets cover the concrete floor, bright portable lights illuminate the carcass. Dissection tools have been laid out across the tops of three large tables located by the creature’s head. Their “surgical” equipment includes a variety of chainsaws, handsaws, vacuum hoses, hunting knifes, machetes, rakes, hooks, and a stack of clean towels. A fourth table—a portable lab—holds beakers, test tubes, blood sampling kits, and a dozen sterilized, plastic vacuum packs. Two electric, heavy-duty Toyota forklifts are parked off to one side, their steel prongs wrapped in plastic.
The necropsy team has already assembled, everyone dressed in similar protective attire. Steven Moretti, director of husbandry, is using a metal rake to retract Angelica’s upper lip and gums, allowing Dr. Stelzer’s assistant, Fran Rizzuto, to snap a few photos of the wide front row of teeth. Moretti’s assistant, Virgil Carmen, uses an acetylene torch to mark areas of incision along the remains of the dead Meg’s devastated ventral surface.
Dr. Stelzer observes his crew, then walks to a dry-erase board. “Gentlemen—and Frannie—if you could join us, please.” He picks up a blue marker and draws a rough sketch of the dead Megalodon. “Moretti, I want you and Virgil to begin with the skull. Remove Angelica’s right eye and place it in formalin before starting on the upper and lower jaws. You’ll need to cut here—” he references the diagram “—to remove the jaws to allow us access to her gill arches. Every tooth, including those folded back into the interior gum line, will be removed from the jaw, then laid out on a board and numbered, measured, and photographed, as they’re worth a small fortune. And please don’t get any ideas; there are security cameras recording every procedure.
“Fran, you and David will assist me in taking tissue samples of the major organs. Heart, liver, intestines, gonads, and liver . . . at least what’s left of them. Remember, all toxicology samples must be frozen and stored immediately. Anything that appears abnormal gets documented, cut, placed in formalin, and tagged. Keep an eye out for lesions. We’ll work for two hours then break for twenty minutes and reevaluate. Questions? . . . No? . . . Then let’s get started.”
The two teams head for the equipment tables. Steven Moretti grabs a hunting knife to excise Angelica’s eye, his assistant filling a Tupperware bowl with formalin—a strong-scented liquid disinfectant that will help preserve the visual sensory organ.
Dr. Stelzer points to the sixteen-inch chainsaw. “David, that’s your tool for today. Fran, grab a machete and a handsaw.”
The biologist selects a metal rake then leads them to the massive bite mark located along Angelica’s stomach. “Bela did quite a job on her. We lost her stomach, spleen, and most of her intestines. We’ll access her heart after Moretti and Virgil remove the gills; so, for now, our primary target will be the gonads. David, very carefully, I want you to make an incision from the edge of the bite mark to the anal fin, making sure you only slice into the hide. Fran, as he cuts with the chainsaw, we’ll use the rake and machete to retract the Meg’s skin, exposing the internal organs.”
David sets the chain saw on the floor and gives the pull-starter a yank, starting the engine. Avoiding Angelica’s enormous wing-like pectoral fins, he moves to the edge of the jagged bite mark and sets the whirring blade against the rancid bite wound.
The chain saw spits out blood and shards of alabaster-pink skin.
Dr. Stelzer sets the teeth of his rake against the splitting four-inch-thick skin, pulling the upper flap back while Fran hacks at the connective tissue with her machete. David continues his cut, pausing five minutes later at the anal fin, an equilateral triangle of flesh harboring the female Megalodon’s cloaca.
“Good enough, stop there.” Dr. Stelzer climbs over the carcass. “Now, make a transverse incision here.” He traces an invisible crosswise line over the Meg’s lower belly.
