Meg: Origins (6 page)

· · ·

At thirty-three feet in length, the pliosaur is nearly as long as the
Megalodon
; at thirty-six thousand pounds it is nowhere near the shark’s girth. The creature’s head, nearly a third its length, sports a crocodilian jaw overloaded with ten-inch dagger sharp teeth. Its skull sits atop a thick neck and stocky trunk, tapering back to a short tail. Snakelike movements are powered by four oversized flippers that propel its streamlined body through the water.

A survivor of the Middle Cretaceous,
Kronosaurus
began its existence as a reptile. For more than 50 million years its ancestors dominated the seas—until 65 million years ago when an asteroid struck the Earth. The celestial impact filled the planet’s atmosphere with debris which blocked out the sun, causing an Ice Age.

Reptiles are cold blooded animals, their body temperatures dependent on the warmth generated by their environment. As the oceans rapidly cooled, the plesiosaur order quickly died off, unable to generate enough body heat to survive. Inhabiting the seas off Australia,
Kronosaurus
were the only species of plesiosaur in proximity to one of the few warm spots on the planet that remained unaffected by the glaciation period.

Much as an alligator spends its days basking in the sun, members of the
Kronosaurus
species took to diving down to the hydrothermally heated depths of the Mariana Trench in order to survive. Over thousands of generations, this particular pliosaur group adapted to these extended dives by developing gills—an evolutionary feature that allowed them to permanently inhabit the warm abyss. Their presence in the submarine canyon was the bait that would ultimately lure
Megalodon
to share their temperate oasis.

· · ·

The male
Kronosaurus
glided silently through a vent field that spewed pockets of clear near-boiling water, the brackish sulfuric backwash causing acres of tube worms to dance. If
Megalodon
were the lions of this deepwater Serengeti then the
Kronosaurus
was its leopard. Though wary of the presence of a superior hunter, it too had to feed.

Pumping its powerful fore-fins, the pliosaur banked sharply around a black smoker, placing it on a direct intercept course with the river of cephalopods racing through the canyon like a six-story-high train more than three football fields long.

Detecting the charging
Kronosaurus
, the cuttlefish engaged their photochromic skin, igniting green and blue neon sparks of light in both directions in a flashing fast-changing pattern that appeared like the denticles of a massive sea snake.

The intimidated
Kronosaurus
veered away, its survival instincts momentarily overriding the need to feed.

And then, without warning, the formation suddenly burst—ten thousand phosphorescent bodies flushing red as they dispersed in a cascading explosion of brilliant blinding color—

—the stampede ignited by 54,000 pounds of rampaging shark. The
Megalodon
bulldozed its way through the center of the herd, the female’s hyperextended jaws clamping down upon a mouthful of squirming cephalopod, its serrated teeth shredding tentacles into ribbons as its senses searched the chaos for the
Kronosaurus
.

The startled challenger darted away, twisting and turning, scorching its belly in the super-heated outflow of a vent as it was swept away in a frenzy of fleeing squid.

The
Megalodon
swallowed a succulent thousand-pound bite of cuttlefish even as the squid circled back, their skin flashing in rapid sequences as they twisted and looped and converged as one. The reforming mass of glowing bodies raced north through the submarine canyon like a slithering green-blue serpent.

The
Meg
circled the scraps twice, its senses searching the area for its challenger. The female detected the
Kronosaurus
several hundred yards away, darting along the sea floor, following the reorganizing school of cuttlefish.

Her appetite stimulated, the shark altered its course, homing in on its fleeing prey.

6

Challenger Deep

JONAS’S EYES DARTED
from the depth gauge to the viewport, the last five hours of fatigue disappearing in the adrenaline rush accompanying the extreme depths.

31,500 feet…

31,775 feet…

Debris rattled across the
Sea Cliff
’s outer hull like hail on a tin roof. He eased up on the foot pedals, adjusting the submersible’s rate of descent.

31,850 feet.

An object bloomed into view in the small reinforced porthole by his stockinged feet, the DSV’s lights illuminating a swirling river of brown water. Jonas hovered the submersible fifty feet above the hydrothermal plume, fighting to adjust the trim against the rippling surge of the raging current.

“Wake up, gentlemen, we’ve arrived at the gates of hell.”

Michael Shaffer shook Dr. Prestis awake. “You need to get a new tagline, Jonas. How about, ‘Hey, Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.’”

Richard Prestis rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “That’s not new, every lame movie uses that line. How about, ‘Of all the deep water trenches in the world, she swam into mine.’”

“Can you imagine looking out the viewport and seeing a mermaid?” Shaffer said, readying the ROV for deployment.

“I prefer my mermaids with a D-cup or better,” Prestis joked. “Any mermaids surviving down here would be flat-chested from all the pressure… powering up the
Flying Squirrel
.”

Jonas smiled. “I meant to ask you two—whose idea was it to name the ROV the
Flying Squirrel
?”

“Dr. Shaffer gets the credit on that one.”

“What can I say, I’m an old Rocky and Bullwinkle fan.”

Jonas struggled to control the DSV’s pitch and yaw as the
Sea Cliff
tossed above rolling wakes of cold water hitting warm. “Maybe we should call Danielson and Heller, Boris and Natasha.”

Prestis grabbed for a handle bar, closing his eyes against the turbulence. “Which one’s Boris and which one’s Natasha?”

Shaffer ignored him, reciting a quick prayer.

“Heller should be Natasha,” Jonas responded, “he has nicer legs. Mike, you okay?”

The submersible’s bow and tail teetered as if on a slow-moving see-saw. “Let’s just finish this damn mission and get the hell out of Dodge. Deploying
Flying Squirrel
.”

Roughly the size of a go-cart, the rectangular, canary-yellow ROV decoupled from the DSV’s sled, its twin propellers rapidly moving it away from the submersible, while its docking berth fed out piano wire from the motorized spool.

“Engines—check. Lights—check. Infrared—check. Night vision—check. Forward camera—check. Rear camera—check. Grappler—check. Richard, try the vacuum.”

“Vacuum’s working. Go. Send your
Flying Squirrel
into Jonas’s hell hole and bring back some juicy nuts.”

Shaffer mumbled, “I’ll settle for a dozen manganese nodules filled with Helium-3.” Using a joystick, the scientist maneuvered the ROV into a steep descent, aiming for a dark spot on the hydrothermal plume now appearing on his monitor. “Tears in his eyes as he lines up this last shot. A Cinderella story, outta nowhere… a former greens keeper, now about to become the Masters champion.”

Jonas and Prestis looked at one another, grinning at their colleague’s dead-on imitation of Carl Spackler from
Caddyshack
. Together, all three yelled out, “It’s in the hole! It’s in the hole!” as the ROV punched through the warm layer of swirling soot, its reinforced chassis buffeted by the volcanic debris.

For several minutes Shaffer’s monitor remained a field of static—then, the remote sub exited the hydrothermal ceiling and entered a placid sea.

“We’re through. Switching to night vision.”

The monitor changed from black to an olive-green tint, revealing dark brown billowing clouds. Schaffer worked the joystick, veering the mini-sub away from the volcanic haze, diving the craft toward the bottom.

“Shit. Michael, pull up!”

“Jonas, I’m clear.”

“Just do it! There’s something big on sonar, heading for the ROV.”

Shaffer yanked back on the joystick, sending the tethered sub retreating back toward the hydrothermal plume.

Richard’s heart raced. “Jonas, what is it? How big?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Jonas powered off the
Sea Cliff
’s underwater lights, allowing them to see through the occasional swath of clear water into the swirling flotsam of minerals below.

Reverberations—like bare feet slapping on wet concrete—built to a crescendo, and then the darkness suddenly ignited into a dazzling green and blue current of phosphorescent strobe lights, the lifeforms streaking two thousand feet below the hydrothermal ceiling, racing through the trench like an offspring of St. Elmo’s Fire.

Forty seconds passed before the silent darkness returned.

Richard Prestis wiped beads of sweat from his temples. “That was unbelievable. Almost alien.”

“I think I crapped an alien.” Dr. Shaffer’s heart was pounding so hard that it affected his breathing, each deep inhalation bordering on hyperventilation. Hands quivering, he popped a Valium. “Richard, I think I need you to take over.”

“Do you need another Valium?”

“I need air.”

“Slow deep breaths, nice and easy. Jonas, can you adjust the blowers?”

“Done.”

“Mike, tell us a joke. How about the… ”

“Shh.” Jonas stared hard at the ROV’s sonar. “Richard, keep the
Squirrel
steady.”

“What’s wrong?” Both scientists looked up, their faces pale and sweaty.

“Sonar’s picked up a straggler. Only this one’s different. It moves like a predator.”

The three men huddled over the sonar screen as an orange blip moved lazily through the depths, cutting slow figure-eights below the ROV.

Jonas whispered, “It knows the robot’s there.”

“How?”

“Steel prop. It gives off electrical discharges. Better cut the robot’s power.”

Prestis and Shaffer exchanged eye contact, unsure.

“Do it. The tether will hold it in place.”

Prestis powered the ROV off.

· · ·

The
Megalodon
circled the wounded intruder, her back arched and ridged as she prepared to launch an attack from below, when suddenly the prey disappeared. Traces of its presence remained—static sparks of electricity borne of seawater and debris striking steel—but to the female, the wounded prey appeared either dead or diseased.

The
Meg
’s posture eased.

For several minutes she continued to circle. Then, with a succession of powerful whip-like flicks of her tail, the female resumed the hunt, gradually closing the distance on the multitude of cuttlefish as they trekked north by northeast through the heated waters of the submarine canyon.

· · ·

Aboard the
Tallman
6 miles north-northeast of Guam

“Paul, you’d better look at this. According to
Sea Bat-I
, your monster has just changed course.”

Paul Agricola pushed one of the other scientists aside to join Captain Heitman at the ROV’s sonar screen, his head and stomach in knots from the twenty foot seas. “I see several blips. Which damn blip is it?”

“The smaller one, here. This larger mass must be a school of fish. When the fish changed course, your shark changed course. Look, it just passed below us.”

“Bring us about before we lose them.”

“Helm, come about quickly to course zero-one-five. Watch your bow, keep it facing the waves! Increase speed to ten knots.”

“Aye, sir.”

Paul tapped the plastic light table with his index finger, his eyes studying the charts. “How much longer until
Sea Bat-II
can launch?”

The captain grabbed the phone by his station and dialed the extension to the utility room. “Doug, how much longer on SB-2?”

“Twenty minutes. Call me again and it’ll be thirty minutes.”

Paul grabbed the phone. “Doug, I need to know the maximum depth we can fire the transmitter dart?”

“As long as the
Sea Bat
’s above the hydrothermal plume she’ll fire. As far as firing straight or penetrating the
Meg
’s hide? Hell if I know. My advice is to let your fish get real close, then say a prayer.”

Paul slammed the receiver down on its cradle. “Twenty minutes, captain. Call me the moment we launch, I’ll be in the head puking up my guts.”

Lucas watched his friend exit the pilothouse.
Land lover. Just like his old man
…

· · ·

Challenger Deep

There are rules on the African Serengeti, a pecking order to the hunt. When the lioness stalks zebra, it is her field of play. After she partakes of the spoils, the wild dogs and hyenas can move in to feed.

There is a similar order in the ocean. In surface waters, the sea lion kill is orchestrated by Orca; the buffet of a dead cetacean by the Great White shark.

In the Mariana Trench, it is
Carcharodon megalodon
that commands the feast. It begins with the stalking of the prey, a ritual designed to warn off other predators. Body language moves from the submissive to an aggressive posture—the
Meg
’s spine arching, its pectoral fins pointing downward. A
Megalodon
may also mark its kill zone by urinating while circling its intended meal.