Meg: Hell's Aquarium (53 page)

“This is the
Tonga
, go ahead.”

“We’re receiving a radio transmission from Delta team.”

“Put it through!”

Jonas and the others gather around the radio receiver to listen.

“. . . eighty-seven point two miles east of your location. Repeat, this is Delta team. We are trapped in Maren’s second lab, located 13.84 degrees North latitude, 140.33 degrees East longitude, eighty-seven point two miles east of your location. Repeat, this is Delta team—”

Jonas grabs the radio transmitter. “David, it’s Dad! We read you! David, we’re on the way!”

The trawler’s radio operator interrupts, “
Tonga
, Delta team is unable to receive incoming messages. They can only transmit. We have a fix on their location and have recalled Spiderman. We should be ready to make way in less than an hour.”

32.

Aboard the McFarland
Philippine Sea, Western Pacific

Mac stands at the very tip of the
McFarland’s
bow, the morning sun’s warmth beating down on his skin, compensating for the brisk Pacific wind.

To the eye of the observer, the hopper dredger’s bow appears nothing out of the ordinary—a V-shaped structure designed to slice through waves—but the water-line is deceptive, concealing the ship’s true keel—a rounded, bulbous affair that extends another thirty feet beyond the tip of the bow, providing additional stability to the craft, its crew, and the sleeping monster occupying a third of the
McFarland’s
girth.

Mac stares at the ocean, his mind’s eye penetrating the deep blue surface. Just as the waterline conceals the ship’s true keel, so too the sea obscures its volatile crusty bottom where a territorial battle has been raging since time immemorial.

Seven miles below the
McFarland’s
keel, two oceanic crusts—the monstrous Pacific Plate and the smaller Philippine Plate—are colliding in an epic battle of tectonic forces, their meeting leaving a geological imprint on the entire planet.

Born along the mid-ocean ridge where molten rock rises from the mantle, cools, and solidifies, the Pacific Plate is far more massive than its tiny counterpart. As its western boundary strikes the Philippine Sea Plate’s eastern face, the denser giant is driven beneath the lighter tectonic crust like a giant wedge, creating the Mariana Trench, the deepest gorge in the world. Sinking deeper into the mantle, the Pacific Plate releases hot fluids, causing the overlying mantle to melt. New molten magma rises in its place, erupting along the sea floor in the form of hydrothermal vents and underwater volcanoes.

Twenty-five to fifty million years ago, approximately the same time a new shark species,
Carcharodon megalodon,
evolved to become the ocean’s most dominant predator, the Mariana Trench’s convergent boundary birthed a volcanic island chain collectively known as the Mariana Islands. Composed of fifteen small land masses, the southern islands consist of level terraces of limestone, while the northern islands rise as towering active volcanoes.

More than fifty volcanoes dot the Mariana Arc, all part of the larger Ring of Fire, a 21,600-mile, horseshoe-shaped series of volcanic islands, arcs, and oceanic trenches that outline the Pacific Plate—home to ninety percent of the world’s most destructive earthquakes.

Staring out to sea, Mac’s eyes wander to the coastline of Guam, the southernmost island in the Mariana chain. Jonas is aboard the
Tonga
, the supertanker racing to the deeper waters located just southwest of the Western Mariana Ridge, Michael Maren’s secret access point into the Panthalassa Sea. Mac’s orders are to stand pat and wait until Jonas completes his rescue mission before releasing Angel to the Mariana Trench.

Turning to face the hopper, he gazes at the ten-foot-high upper lobe of the Megalodon’s caudal fin, the powerful tail sweeping slowly from side to side as its owner sleeps. “The Panthalassa has enough monsters to contend with; the last thing Jonas needs to worry about is you.”

For a long moment, Mac stares at the hopper’s drain. He runs his calloused hand over the lever, contemplating . . .

I could kill you right now . . . put you out of all our misery.

San Francisco Yacht Club
San Francisco, California

Tan and fit, his arms covered in tattoos, his left eye permanently scarred above the brow, Joseph Michael Park does not fit the description of a typical Wall Street tycoon. And yet this is where the
summa cum laude
graduate of Northwestern University School of Law made his millions, taking his Internet company, ShockNet Video, public.

“Welcome aboard. Watch your step.” Park greets the R.A.W. guests as they come aboard the
Cleveland Rocks
, his sixty-eight-foot sports yacht. “There’s a buffet in the main salon. Help yourself.” He applauds as Lana Wood and her four-year-old grandson make their way up the gang plank. “Plenty O-Toole! I am such a huge fan.
Diamonds Are Forever
was the very first Bond film I actually remember seeing in the movie theater. Bet I wasn’t much older than this little guy.”

Lana forces a smile for the documentary camera. “This is my grandson, Max. Max is a shark fanatic. He practically begged me to bring him along. Isn’t that right?”

“Where’s Belle and Lizzy?”

Park kneels down to the boy, trying his best not to look at the camera. “Belle and Lizzy are still stuck in their cage, Max. But if we’re lucky, we’ll get to see them swim free for the first time.”

Lana helps her grandson onto the yacht. Crossing the main deck, she leads him inside the salon, a plush, cherry-wood paneled living area packed with present and former members of the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels.

Lana’s expression drops. “Come on, Max. We’re leaving.”

“Lana, wait!” Sara Toms quickly intercepts. “I know you’re upset—”

“I told you I didn’t want to be associated with thugs.”

“The Lost Boys aren’t thugs. They’re just bikers who helped bring national attention to our cause. Why don’t you take Max up to the flybridge where it’s more private, and the two of you will have a birds-eye view of Belle and Lizzy when we set them free.”

Lana glares at the activist. “You’re on thin ice with me. If things get out of hand I’ll demand to be taken ashore. If you don’t comply, my next public appearance will be my resignation. Come on, Max.”

Taking her grandson by the hand, she pushes her way through the inebriated crowd to the spiral staircase leading up to the flybridge.

The sport yacht’s twin engines rumble to life, belching white clouds of exhaust and carbon monoxide fumes. Minutes later, the ship pushes away from the pier and into San Francisco Bay, on its way to Monterey.

Aboard the Tonga
Philippine Sea

Tipping the scales at three hundred sixty-three pounds, John LeBlanc, Jr. is, by far, the biggest member of the
Tonga’s
crew, his size offering him a sumo stature among the Japanese deck hands. A scruffy beard now converges with what had been a clean-shaven, black goatee at the start of the voyage, around-the-clock shifts over the last three days leaving little time for sleep, let alone shaving.

Seated on a heap of wet cargo netting by the starboard mooring winch, the former Air Force brat and naval engineer fights to stay awake as his team splices lengths of steel cable together to create a single seven-mile-long cord. He forces himself to his feet as Brian Suits approaches. Fiesal bin Rashidi is with him, an armed bodyguard trailing close by.

Brian inspects the coupling. “How much longer, Mr. LeBlanc?”

“This is the last section. Once we add the hook we’ll retract the line and we’re ready to go.”

The
Tonga
shudders beneath them, the supertanker’s captain shutting down the engines before putting them into reverse, beginning the three-mile braking process that will ease the supertanker to the drop-off point.

“Sir, this lab we’re expected to haul off the bottom . . . how heavy is it?”

“Forty-seven tons.”

“Then, with all due respect, we’re pissing in the wind. She’ll never handle that kind of load.”

“The winch is not strong enough?”

“The winch is fine. Cable’s the problem. These magna splices are strong, but the couplings weren’t designed to hold anything over 65,000 pounds.”

“Do the best you can, Mr. LeBlanc. That’s all we can ask.”

The engineer points aft to where Jonas Taylor is preparing his submersible for its dive. “What if he asks?”

Bin Rashidi’s black eyes stare coldly across the deck. “Finish splicing the line, engineer. I’ll handle Dr. Taylor.”

Jonas Taylor lies on his back, inspecting the underside of the
Abyss Glider III.
The stiletto-shaped vessel, an untested prototype mounted atop its four-wheeled sled, is nine feet long from its pointed nose to its rear afterburner, with stubby wings located two-thirds back at what would be the dagger’s hilt. Each wing holds a propulsion unit, the sphere-shaped cockpit, large enough for one pilot, situated between the wings. The acrylic escape pod’s night glass is midnight-green, matching the rest of the sub’s dark hull. The aft third of the sleek craft is a four-finned tail assembly that houses a tank of liquid hydrogen—an underwater afterburner designed for short bursts of speed.

Running the length of the sub, situated beneath its keel, is a telescopic robotic arm. Jonas is working on the gripper’s claw, which is stubbornly refusing to open.

Brian Suits clears his voice. “Dr. Taylor, a word, please.”

“I don’t have time. The hydraulic claw’s not functioning and I—”

“Make the time, Dr. Taylor,” bin Rashidi says, “or you’ll have no need for the claw, or your vessel.”

Jonas wiggles his way out from beneath the
AG III
, staring the Arab down. “You have something to say, say it.”

“Your son has managed to bring us to the very place we’ve spent three years and countless dollars in search of. Still, what good is an access point if none of my divers are willing to go down and lure up the monsters that I seek.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Actually, it just became your problem,” says Brian Suits. “In exchange for providing you with the means to rescue your son, we expect something in return.”

Fatigue and anxiety fuel an anger already seething in the pit of Jonas’s gut. “You want a monster for your exhibit? Fine. After I rescue David—”

“After you rescue David, I’ll have lost my leverage,” bin Rashidi states. “You’ll bring me back the creature I seek now, or Maren’s lab will never see the light of day.”

Jonas takes two steps toward bin Rashidi before the bodyguard steps between them. “All right, you bastard. I’ll lure something up for your nets . . . after I attach the cable to the lab.”

“Not just anything. I want
Liopleurodon
!”

Panthalassa Sea

“. . . this is Delta team. We are trapped in Maren’s second lab, located 13.84 degrees North latitude, 140.33 degrees East longitude. Repeat, this is Delta team—”

“David, enough! We’ve been at it six straight hours. If they haven’t heard us by now, they never will.”