Meg: Hell's Aquarium, page 8
David makes the incision. Using their tools, Fran and Stelzer pull back the ten-foot flaps of skin created by the cut, exposing the dead Meg’s ovaries and right and left oviducts.
The smell is overpowering.
Using a handsaw, Dr. Stelzer slices open the ovary, revealing hundreds of clear eggs, each the size of a tennis ball. Fran hands him a plastic ladle and opens a specimen bag. One by one, Stelzer scoops out twenty eggs, then seals up the bag.
“Set these aside, Fran. We’ll look at them later. Let’s see how the guys are doing.”
Moretti and Virgil have removed Angelica’s eye and retina, bagging it in formalin. Using ladders and chainsaws, they are hard at work cutting around the juvenile’s six-foot jaws. It will take another hour before the incisions are complete, allowing Moretti to yank the jaws free from the Meg’s mouth using cables rigged to one of the forklifts.
The sun is just setting over the Pacific by the time David emerges from the locker room. The muscles in his shoulders, lower back, and arms ache, and despite two showers, he still reeks of formaldehyde. He steps out onto the main deck of the lagoon, allowing gusts of cold wind to blow in his face and long brown hair.
His eyes search the lagoon. The surface waters of the concrete bathtub are choppy with whitecaps, but there is no sign of its seventy-four-foot, fifty-one-ton resident.
Looking to his left, David spots Teddy Badault and his team working in the southern end of the arena by the A-frame, using a long chain to dunk a slab of raw beef from the steel tower as if it were a church belfry.
David jogs over. “Any luck?”
Ted shoots him a disgusted look. “Not a bite in forty-five minutes. Your father’s guests are growing impatient.”
Seated midway up the southern bleachers are the visitors from Dubai.
“Wait here, I have an idea.” David heads for the equipment room. The metal door is unlocked, and he enters.
Inside the large rectangular storage space are shelves filled with flotation devices, reach poles, lengths of steel chain, hooks, and an assortment of underwater lights. He quickly finds what he is looking for—a metal object roughly the size of a coconut.
David powers-on the device. Nothing.
He checks the batteries, replaces them with eight new D cells, and tries it again.
The thumper reverberates in his hands like a giant artificial heart.
Leaving the equipment room, he returns to the A-frame. “Ted, pull the carcass out of the water. I want to try something.”
The trainer signals to his two assistants, who swing the water-laden side of beef out of the lagoon and onto the deck.
Using his pocket knife, David slices a deep slit into a section of fatty tissue and shoves the thumper inside, powering it on high. “Try it now, only don’t bob the meat. Just let it float along the surface.”
The assistants hoist the carcass up over the sea wall and back into the lagoon. The side of beef floats just below the surface, the meat vibrating rapidly in the water.
Several minutes pass.
A harsh wind kicks up, whistling through the near-empty bleachers.
“Al Abyad! Al Abyad!” One of the men in dishdashi is on his feet, pointing at the canal entrance as a ten-foot wake pushes majestically into the lagoon, the ghostly form fully submerged, the killer remaining deep.
Ted Badault and his men instinctively back away from the sea wall as the great fish slowly approaches the thumping bait.
David never moves. He has watched Angel feed a thousand times. He knows her every approach, revealing her every mood. She’s hungry, but in no hurry. She’ll circle first, just to be sure. Maybe take a nip, then circle again . . . until she goes deep and comes up from below . . .
The alabaster dorsal fin, streaked with scars, cuts the surface like a triangular periscope. Angel rises. An eddy forms as the pale behemoth circles the bait twice. Then, with a sudden slap of her caudal fin, the huntress launches herself at the side of beef, waves cascading over the sea wall as she steals a quick bite before tossing her prey aside.
The Dubai delegation is on their feet, their videographer filming. For several long minutes they simply stare at the water, the lull allowing their fluttering hearts to calm as the creature remains out of sight. Is it over? Have they waited so patiently for so long, just to be teased?
Small waves lap at the sea wall. Somewhere close by, a metal bracket clinks against a naked flagpole, its hollow cadence set to the wind. The Pacific thunders in the distance. Monterey grays as a storm front moves in from the west.
There are no warnings, no telltale fin, no tsunami-like wake. Death simply rises from the aqua-green depths as if drawn to the heavens. The triangular head, as large as a garbage truck, yawns open to form an encompassing cavern of teeth. The carcass—and several hundred gallons of sea—are siphoned, crushed, and swallowed in one all-consuming bite, pink froth squeezing out the sides of the clenching jaws as the albino goddess continues to rise clear out of the lagoon.
The half-moon tail curls as it flicks air. The broad, almost barrel-shaped back, arches. For one gravity-defying split second the most prolific hunter ever to stalk the planet is airborne, its 102,000-pound girth blotting out the opposite end of the arena—
—until the laws of physics return and the monster plunges through the sea, its mass not so much sinking as opening a great hole from whence it is swallowed.
The craaack of mass striking water echoes across the empty arena, followed by a geyser of sea that shoots four stories high. The Dubai entourage remains awestruck, their mouths hanging open, their minds struggling to grapple with what their eyes have just witnessed—
—save for Fiesal bin Rashidi, who is staring at David Branden Taylor. The twenty-year-old had never so much as flinched. Poised three feet from the heaving sea, Jonas’s young prodigy remains unafraid, totally within his element.
6.
KGO-TV
San Francisco, California
Wednesday
Terry Taylor closes her eyes as the woman applying make-up touches up her dark circles. Hovering behind her is Kayla Cicala. The publicist had arranged this morning’s live interview as a means of presenting the Tanaka Institute’s side against the mounting tide of public opinion that is being stirred by members of the radical PETA affiliate, R.A.W.
The station’s producer enters the room. “Terry? Keith Auton. I’ll be coordinating things on our side. Have you ever done a satellite interview before?”
“No.”
“It can be a little disorienting. You’ll be looking into the camera while one of the hosts at Good Morning America speaks with you through an earpiece. He can see you. You just can’t see him.” The producer scans his notes. “I see they have Frank Youngblood scheduled to do the interview.”
“Frank’s straightforward but fair,” Kayla says, checking Terry’s make-up. “Blot the lipstick. You don’t need it, and it sends the wrong message.”
An intern pokes her head inside the doorway. “They want her on the set.”
Kayla gives Terry a smile and two thumbs up. “You’ll do great.”
The studio is cold, the lights hot and bright, the cameras a bit intimidating. The set features a backdrop of the San Francisco skyline. A sound man attaches a microphone to Terry’s blouse collar, instructing her to snake the wire down her shirt. He pins the remote’s battery pack to the back of her skirt, then hands her an earpiece.
She hooks it in place behind her right ear, eavesdropping on a cross-conversation among producers in New York.
“Hi, Terry. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.” She looks at the large studio camera, its lifeless glass lens pointed directly at her. Someone has taped a “Happy Face” above the lens, providing her with a point of reference.
“Terry, this is Frank Youngblood. Thanks so much for agreeing to do the show. How’s your daughter?”
“Fine. Better. She gets out of the hospital today.”
“Great. Stand by.”
Terry sits back in the upholstered chair, each breath slow and deliberate, her racing pulse gradually slowing.
“Thirty seconds.” The red light above the camera blinks on. Theme music plays in her ear . . .
“. . . and we’re back. For the last four years the Tanaka Institute and Aquarium has rivaled Disney World’s popularity, attracting tens of millions to its seaside arena to visit Angel: The Angel of Death. Last Saturday, visitors watched in horror as two volunteers were swept into the lagoon, one of the men—an undergrad at usc—devoured by the seventy-four-foot Megalodon. Less than twenty-four hours later, one of Angel’s offspring attacked and killed a smaller pup inside the aquarium known as the Meg Pen. With us here this morning, live, via satellite from our ABC affiliate in San Francisco, is Terry Tanaka-Taylor, CEO of the Tanaka Institute. Terry, good to have you with us.”
“Good morning.” The bright lights cause her eyes to water. She forces herself to focus on the yellow Happy Face.
“Let’s start with the incident on Saturday. Packed audience, visitors of all ages . . . what do you say to the fifteen thousand people who witnessed this horrible death?”
“There’s not much anyone can say. It was a tragic accident. Unfortunately, on rare occasions, these things can happen. Whether it’s in an aquarium or zoo or circus, we’re dealing with wild animals. Years ago, Roy Horn was mauled by one of his white tigers. Sometimes, despite every precaution, the unthinkable happens. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the family and friends of the young man who died.”
“Looking at the footage . . . it seems like it could have been worse. Massive waves were rolling out of the lagoon, pummeling frightened visitors. Parents were clutching their children. Panic ensued. Several people, including your own daughter, were taken to the hospital.”
“It was a bad day for all of us.”
“Where do you go from here?”
“Changes are underway to make the pavilion seats less exposed. New precautions are being implemented regarding feeding regimens. Safety has always been a priority at the Institute, and that will continue.”
“What about safety for your animals? Members of Release Animals back to the Wild have accused the Institute of keeping far too many Megalodons in the Meg Pen, that conditions are unsafe, and things will only get worse.”
“The Meg Pen was constructed before Angel birthed her pups. We were expecting a litter of two, not five. Angelica’s death was an unfortunate incident. I do not classify it as an accident, because the species is predatory, and attacks among rival predators happen all the time in the wild. The male that fathered these pups was himself killed by Angel following insemination. The radical group that has been stalking myself, my family, and our staff for two years now is more concerned with acquiring donations than the actual safety of these animals, whose ferocious nature prevents us from ever releasing them back into the wild.”
“Can the Meg Pen be expanded?”
“No. We’ve petitioned the governor several times and have been turned down. However, my husband is making arrangements with another aquarium to transport two of the remaining four juveniles to another facility.”
“Really? And where might that be?”
“I cannot say . . . at least not until the deal has been finalized.”
“You realize there are groups, comprised of family members of those killed by these Megs, that are calling for the extermination of the species. What do you say to them?”
“These are wild animals. Unlike humans, they kill only to feed, and humans are not part of their natural diet. By studying them we can add to our growing body of scientific knowledge and can learn to protect all sharks and the sanctity of the ocean’s food chains. It serves no purpose other than revenge to slaughter Angel or her offspring. My family first crossed paths with these amazing creatures twenty-five years ago. My younger brother, D.J., died when he was attacked by Angel’s mother. He was about the same age as the young man who was killed on Saturday. My initial reaction was revenge. I wanted to hunt down and kill the shark, but my father refused; he knew it was wrong and that my brother would never have agreed to such an inhumane act.”
“So . . . in that regard, you share the same beliefs as the members of R.A.W.”
“No. R.A.W. is an extremist group. Their leaders espouse animal rights only as an excuse to draw public attention and monetary contributions. We’re an aquarium—an educational facility. We believe in protecting our aquatic species, not harming them.”
“And yet R.A.W. was right about the Meg Pen being too small.”
“Animals sometimes die in captivity, Frank. Years ago, despite every precaution, one of the whale sharks at the Georgia Aquarium contracted an infection and died. Some people protested, calling the habitat cruel. Meanwhile whale sharks were being slaughtered by the hundreds in Taiwan and other Asian countries. Nobody seemed to protest that fact. Orca and sea lions are dying off—a result of the effects of global warming. The media ignores that story, preferring instead to cover the death of one whale shark or one Megalodon. The more sensational the better. The reality is aquariums offer a practical means of understanding and studying these sea creatures while protecting them from the onslaught of man. Hopefully we can prevent another species from becoming extinct.”
“Does that mean you intend to breed Megalodons?”
Terry smiles. “God, no. Even if we wanted to, the juveniles are all females.”
“Finally, as someone who lost a brother to one of these predators, what do you say to the family of the young man who was killed?”
Terry pauses. “I would say that sometimes bad things happen to wonderful people. Cancer, war, traffic accidents . . . these tragic losses affect us all. My heart is heavy with your pain. From my own loss I can tell you that you will never get over it; but I pray, in time, that you will learn to live with it.”
Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California
The creature is dark brown on top with a white belly, its body nine feet long, not counting its four-foot tail. Its wingspan extends eighteen feet.
The crown prince follows David Taylor down into the dry dock located at the end of a concrete pier outside the southern bleachers. Suspended above the ocean by a pair of hydraulic arms, the two-man submersible resembles Manta birostris, the giant manta ray.
The prince taps the sub’s outer hull with his knuckles. “This is metal?”
“Layered acrylic,” David says. “Gives it positive buoyancy. There’s a second shell inside, a spherical escape pod that can withstand nineteen thousand pounds per square inch of water pressure. The old Abyss Gliders used similar technologies, only they ran like a torpedo. The Mantas actually glide hydrodynamically through the water.” He kneels by the tail assembly and points. “Twin props. Silent and fast. With the current she can approach forty knots, or barrel roll into a 360-degree loop. Flying these puppies is better than sex.”
“You have piloted this vessel before?”
“Only all the time. I’ve even trained some of the Navy guys. It was my demo that got us a contract with the Pentagon. You should have seen them kissing my father’s ass. Man, he was loving it. Of course, their souped-up version will be bigger, loaded with all sorts of gadgets and weapons, but ours will still be faster. Wanna go for a spin?”
The crown prince’s eyes widen. “A ride? Yes, please. Are you allowed to take it without clearance?”
“My father asked me to show you the sub. Best way to see it is to take it for a test drive.” David points to the four armed security guards. “The gorillas have to stay here.”
The prince converses with his men. They do not appear pleased.
“The captain wishes to know if the ride will be dangerous.”
“Nah, I’ll go easy.” David lifts a concealed panel roughly the size of a gas tank cover positioned in the Manta Ray’s port-side wing. Inside is a circular lever and two indicator lights: one green, one red. The green light is on. Reaching inside the compartment, David turns the lever ninety degrees clockwise. The red light turns on—
—activating the outer hatch of the spherical escape pod, the upper twenty percent of which protrudes from the dorsal surface of the Manta Ray behind its two exterior headlights, shaped like eyes. With a hiss of hydraulics, the dark-tinted acrylic top pops open, allowing them access into the cockpit.
There are two low-slung, leather bucket seats inside, each set before dual, high-tech steering wheels and an operational system equipped with a radio and sonar. “Most of the actual steering is done using your feet,” David explains, climbing down into the command hub. “Left and right foot pedals operate the port and starboard engines. If you want to go left, you press down with the right pedal which guns the starboard prop. So everything works opposite. Joysticks control your pitch and yaw. Pull back to raise the nose; push down to descend.”
The crown prince climbs down into the co-pilot’s seat on the starboard side, assisted by his security detail. He can see the entire cockpit is actually a Lexan sphere that sits low inside the Manta Ray’s body. “Both of us are required to pilot the vessel?”
“No, just one. Port controls are the primary. Your side is strictly backup. So? Ready to go?”
The crown prince catches a deep breath. “Yes.”
David reaches for a circular lever on the dashboard, identical to the one embedded in the outside wing. He gives it a quarter-turn counterclockwise and closes the hatch, rotating it into position above their heads before sinking a half inch into a titanium band that wraps around the diameter of the escape pod. With a click the hatch locks into place, the panel light switching from red to green, indicating a perfect seal.
David opens a padded compartment situated between the two seats. Inside is a small remote control. He presses lower—
—activating the dry dock arms, which immerse the sub into the awaiting Pacific.
The crown prince, just under 5 feet 10 inches, strains to peer out of the tinted hatch.
