Meg: Origins

  Meg: Origins

  By Steve Alten

  For my readers…

  especially the Megheads.

  Preface

  Meg was my first and most important novel, as it launched my career as an author. The inspiration to write the story originated back in 1975 when I read Jaws as a teenager. Peter Benchley’s novel made me want to “devour” everything I could about Great White sharks and the true accounts regarding their attacks on man.

  Read about Great Whites and at some point you’re bound to discover their prehistoric cousin, Megalodon. Megs were quite real, easily the most fearsome creatures ever to have existed. And yet hardly a word was written about them, at least when I was a teen.

  Flash forward to the summer of 1995.

  I was a married man in my mid-thirties, struggling to support my wife, her two kids, and our newborn daughter when I picked up a Time magazine, and on the front cover was the Mariana Trench. The article revealed the mysteries of the abyss, hydrothermal vents, and the wondrous life forms found in this unexplored realm… and the acorn of an idea took root. What was the name of that huge shark I read about as a teen?

  A year later my first novel, Meg, was sold to Bantam Doubleday, the company that had published Jaws. Within a few months Meg was optioned to publishers in twenty-five more countries. Since then, Meg and its sequels have sold three million copies worldwide, with thousands of middle and high school reading, science, and English teachers using the book as part of their curriculum to encourage teens to read (see www.AdoptAnAuthor.com), completing the circle that began when I read Jaws.

  As for a Meg movie… fingers crossed for summer 2013!

  So why, after four Meg books and a fifth one to be written, did I write a prequel? First, because the story lent itself to a prequel. This was what happened to Jonas Taylor seven years before the first book began—the back story that changed his life (and mine). And it was fun to write, allowing me to create details that I could tie into Meg 5: Night Stalkers. Most of all, the prequel gave me the opportunity to give something back to my readers. If you’ve never read any of the Meg books, then this story should whet your appetite for things to come.

  I encourage you to visit my website (www.SteveAlten.com) where you can register to receive free monthly updates and even enter contests to become a character in one of my future novels.

  Pleasant dreams.

  —Steve Alten, Ed.D.

  July 2011

  Acknowledgments

  It is with great pride and appreciation that I acknowledge those who contributed to the completion of the Meg prequel.

  First and foremost, a special thanks to my friend and literary agent, Danny Baror of Baror International, as well to his assistant, Heather Baror-Shapiro. My gratitude and appreciation to my personal editor, Lou Aronica at the Fiction Studio (laronica@fictionstudio.com) whose advice was invaluable, and to reader/editors Barbara Becker and Sally Shupe.

  To Scott Gere and Mike Donovan at Gere Donovan Press for publishing this e-book, as well as Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror, the full story that follows the prequel. Special thanks for a (fingers-crossed) Meg movie to producer Belle Avery, Tony Lui, and Peter Chang.

  Very special thanks to my friend, graphic artist Erik Hollander, whose iconic chapter images really set a tone for the reader.

  Finally, to my wife Kim and our children; my mom, and to my father, Lawrence Alten, who passed before its writing. Y.A.M.H.

  Reader’s Companion

  This e-book edition is accompanied by a bonus Reader’s Companion, provided by the author as an enhancement to the original text.

  You’ll find author commentary, supplemental photos and video content, additional information, and more. You can follow along as you read each chapter, or wait until you’re finished—no spoilers, guaranteed!

  Visit www.SteveAlten.com for instructions and access.

  Prologue

  Aboard the H.M.S. Challenger

  Philippine Sea

  October 5, 1874

  CAPTAIN GEORGE NARES stood defiantly on the heaving gun deck, his weight giving at the knees as the broiling Pacific tossed his command within the valleys of its fifteen foot swells. Each rolling crest of blue levitated the British warship’s bow, each rise ended with the crash of copper keel meeting ocean. For the Scot, the spray of sea and the flap of canvas from the three mainsails defined the mantra of the past seven hundred-odd days; despite the danger, he much preferred the ocean’s fury to the mission’s incessant ports of call.

  He knew from day one that this command would be far different from his others. Once the flagship of the Royal Navy’s Australia Station, the Pearl-class corvette had been stripped of all but two of her guns and her spars reduced. The extra space had been converted to laboratories brimming with microscopes and chemical apparatus, water sampling bottles and specimen jars filled with alcohol—and not the kind her captain much preferred. In addition to the equipment and labs, the main deck had been altered to accommodate dredging platforms. These stations projected outward along either side of the ship like scaffolds, so that their occupants could work without fear of running afoul of the fore and main yards. The men who worked on these platforms were scientists, their crew skilled in troweling and dredging the bottom. To accomplish this feat required netting and containers rigged to great lengths of hemp, the coils of rope exceeding 140 miles, with an additional twelve and a half miles of piano wire reserved for sounding gear. Motorized winches released and gathered these lines—a chore that still took most of each work day to accomplish.

  Science was the mission of the H.M.S. Challenger, a voyage of discovery for the two-hundred and forty-three men aboard—a mission that would take four years while trekking nearly 69,000 nautical miles.

  Popular among his men, Nares led with an even temperament; what he lacked in physical stature he more than made up for with his cunning. Standing by the mainsail, he watched with a mixture of trepidation and amusement as a heavily bearded professor warily made his way aft along the swaying deck. “Professor Moseley. What is it to be then?”

  “Sink lines, followed by more dredging. The crew’s been rigging longer lines, the depths seem to have no end in this area of the archipelago.”

  The captain glanced to starboard. For weeks they had been following a course that took them past the Mariana Islands, each mountainous mass carpeted in green jungle. “I would have thought the depths around these islands far more shallow.”

  “As it turns out, these volcanic islands sit in the deepest waters we have yet come upon. The sea bed is ancient, yielding a treasure-trove of fossils and manganese nodules. This morning’s sink line exceeded thirty-five hundred fathoms and still there is no sign of bottom. We had to splice in another…”

  The captain grabbed the teetering scientist and held fast as the bow lifted again, then crashed back into the Pacific. “How soon until a new length of cable can be made ready?”

  “I’m told another twenty minutes.”

  “Very well. Helm, come hard to starboard. Mr. Lauterbach, lower the mainsails; prepare to engage steam engines.”

  “Aye, captain.” The first officer rang his copper bell, the signal mobilizing two dozen crewmen as the Challenger leaned onto its starboard flank to shed the wind within the valley of a swell.

  Captain Nares waited until the scientist disappeared safely down a hold, then returned his gaze to the Pacific, staring hard at the heaving waters.

  Thirty-five hundred fathoms… more than six kilometers of ocean. How deep could these waters run? What strange life forms could they be concealing?

  The depths surrounding this strange archipelago had certainly offered a bounty of clues, from cetacean vertebrae and whale ear bones to thousands of shark teeth, more than a hundred of t
hese manganese-encrusted fragments as large as his hand. Moseley had identified these larger specimens as the genus, Carcharodon, those teeth exceeding four centimeters belonging to the species Megalodon, a true ancient sea monster.

  The spectacular size of the creature’s teeth led to nightly debates in the galley as to whether these sharks might still be alive. The dark lead-gray serrated triangles were fossilized to be sure; only a white specimen would bear proof of the Megalodon’s continued existence. For his part Professor Moseley carefully inspected each haul, hoping to find one ivory treasure among the fragments—so far, to no avail.

  “Some of these fossils are not that old, Captain,” the scientist had cooed the night before last, draining his third brandy. “This tells me the creatures might still be around, prowling the deeper fathoms.”

  “Exactly how big would these mega-sharks of yours be?”

  “Some say thirteen meters, but these fragments tell me different. I’ve held an eighteen centimeter tooth in my hand; its owner had to measure twenty meters from snout to tail.”

  “Good God, man! That’s more than half the length of the Challenger. A creature that size… we’d need a bigger boat. Has any man ever spotted such a beast?”

  “There have been rumors, whalers mostly. Lots of blood in the sea attracts all kinds of sharks.”

  “Attracts them? How so?”

  “Unknown. Perhaps they can taste the blood. Sharks are not my specialty, but a devil like this Megalodon… I'll confess, captain, each time we retrieve the nets I find myself watching the sea, secretly wishing our cast would lure one of these monsters up from the depths, if only so I could lay eyes on such a magnificent animal, surely nature’s most feared creation of all time.”

  Staring at the foam-covered swells, Captain Nares shook his head, trying to imagine a shark that could consume four of his men in one bite, wondering if such a fish could still be alive, inhabiting the unexplored realm harbored by these ungodly depths.

  1

  Aboard the U.S. NAVY DSV-4 support ship: Maxine D

  Philippine Sea

  Present Day

  CAPTAIN RICHARD DANIELSON stood defiantly on the main deck, his ears assaulted by the thirty knot winds swirling southeast across the broiling Pacific. Each gust disturbed the twenty-nine ton beast held aloft above the stern, each sway threatening to tear harness from machinery and cast the “white whale” from its perch.

  For the American naval officer, the spray of sea and the incessant rolling steel beneath his feet were a constant reminder that his scheduled twelve day mission was now entering its third week. A commander who commanded best from behind a desk, Danielson was clearly out of his element. Three years ago he had transferred to the U.S. naval base at Guam seeking a non-combat position where he could spend his days pushing papers until his retirement. Guam was exactly what the doctor ordered—a tropical island paradise brimming with pristine beaches, deep sea sport fishing, and world class golf courses. And the women—exotic islanders and Asian delights. True, the job was flavored with the occasional “readiness at sea” command, but these maritime exercises occupied no more than a few of his days every quarter.

  Danielson knew he was in trouble the day the Maxine D arrived in port. More research ship than naval vessel, the boat was essentially a steel camel designed to transport its charge—a Deep Submergence Vehicle. Unlike his other maritime exercises, his orders were being sent directly from the Defense Department. The DSV’s deployment site was prioritized as top-secret, its location—a six hour voyage from Guam in the Philippine Sea. The DoD had made it clear from the onset that while the Guam Naval Base commander was technically in charge of the tender, the eggheads on board would be running things.

  The problem was that up until last week, barely anything had been running. First it was the A-frame’s winch, then the primary generator, then the DSV’s sonar relay. The seemingly endless breakdown of equipment had rendered Danielson a prisoner to a mission he knew little about, and the eggheads on board only served to irritate him more. Compounding the repeated delays was the weather, which had grown uglier by the day. Danielson had puked-up his last solid meal ten days ago; even the most experienced sailor felt perpetually queasy and hung over.

  Ironically, it was Mother Nature that decreed an end to the mission. P.A.G.A.S.A., the Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration, was tracking a powerful category 2 typhoon, dubbed Marian. The name was apropos; the storm’s predicted path would take it south from the Sea of Japan on a long sweeping arc that traced the Mariana Island chain before channeling it farther east away from land. Packing ninety-two-mile-an-hour winds, the typhoon’s eye wall would be upon them in twenty-six hours.

  Protocol should have sent the Maxine D on its way back to Guam, the southernmost island in the chain. At the urging of the scientists on-board, however, the Pentagon had insisted on one last dive on what would be their fourth venture into the Mariana Trench’s Challenger Deep.

  The Mariana Trench was the lowest point on Earth, a seven-mile-deep, 1,550 mile-long, forty mile-wide canyon formed by a volcanic subduction zone. Named after the British research vessel that had dredged its depths more than a century earlier, the Challenger Deep was its deepest section.

  Why the Navy would want to expend time and money to explore this hellhole was beyond Dick Danielson. At this point his only concern was getting the scheduled seventeen hour dive underway as soon as possible, allowing him as large a window as he could get to recapture the DSV, secure it to the deck, and race back to the naval harbor at Guam before Typhoon Marian turned the surface of the Pacific into a watery version of the Himalayas.

  As the outer storm bands played havoc with the teetering Sea Cliff and the DSV’s pit crew struggled to ready its launch, one man was screwing up Captain’s Danielson’s plans.

  · · ·

  The late afternoon sun is hot, the beach crowded. Jonas Taylor rises off the blanket onto his knees, his lower back sore from lying on his stomach. He stretches, then turns his gaze to the model gorgeous blonde stretched out in the beach chair next to him, her tan, oiled breasts two swollen grapefruits in the skimpy red bikini.

  Jonas beckons his wife to join him for a dip in the ocean.

  Maggie waves him off.

  Jonas jogs to the shoreline. The Pacific is calm, barely a ripple. He strides in up to his waist, joining a dozen other bathers.

  An Asian boy is suddenly standing next to him, no more than ten years old. Piercing almond eyes match an expression of deep concern.

  “Don’t go.”

  Jonas stares at the boy, then scans the crowd for a potential parent.

  Curious. The other bathers are now gone.

  He turns back to the beach. Maggie is standing, ready to leave. She is no longer in her bikini. Instead she is wearing a black dress, with matching stockings and shoes. She walks away without so much as a glance.

  Bud Harris is there with her, wearing a charcoal-gray suit. Jonas waves at his best friend. Bud waves back, then follows Maggie up the beach.

  Jonas turns to the boy.

  The boy is gone.

  Jonas is alone.

  His heart pounds, disrupting the silence. Every breath echoes in his ears.

  A deep rumble builds like distant thunder.

  The sky remains clear.

  A mile out to sea the tidal wave appears, levitating the horizon. It crests slowly, majestically—a mountain of curling dark water rising twenty stories high.

  Jonas turns to flee, but his legs refuse to obey.

  He looks up at a sheer wall of water that blots out the sky, hanging over him, and with a clap like thunder, it falls.

  “Ahhh!”

  · · ·

  Jonas Taylor sat up in bed, his flesh and the tangled bed sheets drenched in so much sweat that for a moment the thirty-year-old naval commander wasn't sure if the tidal wave had been a nightmare or real.

  The familiar gray cabin walls assured him it was a dre
am.

  And then the room began to spin.

  He closed his eyes, but the nausea said no and he reopened them. The suddenness of the vertigo returned him to a similar sensation experienced a decade earlier as he lay semiconscious on a grass football field, the junior tight end’s head ringing and Beaver Stadium rolling sideways in his vision. Penn State’s team physician had shouted his name over the crowd noise. “Don’t move, J.T.! Focus your eyes on one spot until your vision clears!”

  His first choice back then had been to focus on the football, still clutched in his hands; the choice now was the porthole, but with the ship swaying he held up his left hand and stared at his wedding ring.

  As his pupils locked on, the vertigo passed.

  An insistent knock demanded his attention.

  “Shut up already and come in.”

  Michael Royston entered, the DSV pilot’s East Tennessee State University tee-shirt soaked in sweat from a morning workout. “Sorry to wake you, boss. Heller wants you in sick bay for the pre-dive. Jonas, you okay? You look like hell.”

  “Been there. Three times in the last eight days. Don’t have a fourth in me. Not today anyway.”

  Royston’s eyes widened behind his glasses. As the mission’s back-up hydronaut, the twenty-seven year old was accustomed to playing Robin to Jonas’s Batman. Twice in the last year he had accompanied his mentor to the bottom of the Middle America Trench, but co-piloting a DSV at 20,000 feet and making a solo dive to 36,000 feet suddenly seemed worlds apart—the equivalent of asking a Single-A pitcher to strike out Micky Mantle in game seven of the World Series.

  “Jonas, you think I’m ready? I mean, hell yeah, I’m ready. I’m your back-up, right? If you need me to stand in, then sure, let’s do it.”

  It was a bad play. Royston’s cockiness was gone, replaced by trepidation. A healthy dose of fear was warranted before any deep sea dive; what concerned Jonas was that his young co-pilot was a better actor than this. Clearly he wanted to be bailed out.