Generations Page 10

  The presence of these massive creatures entices another species to this remote island chain: Carcharodon carcharias—the great white shark. The seals are the predator’s favorite delicacy, and as many as thirty to one hundred mature male sharks and their larger female counterparts frequent these waters, their presence giving this expanse of sea the nickname “the Red Triangle.”

  * * *

  The seventy-four-foot yacht Lost Angel was designed by its owners, Andrew and Sally Bartolotta, as a means of paying homage to their favorite Megalodon, the ship’s dimensions actually mirroring those of the deceased shark—from Angel’s fearsome jaws, painted along the eleven-foot prow, to her seven-foot “dorsal sail,” mounted atop the upper deck to complete the effect.

  A studio session percussionist and artist on the Zildjian, Evans, and ProMark rosters, Andrew Bartolotta had made his fortune playing drums and composing songs for half a dozen successful heavy metal bands. When they weren’t touring North America, Australia, and Europe, the long-haired, heavily-tattooed, and pierced thirty-four-year-old and his wife lived on the yacht, which functioned as their primary dwelling and office. A fully equipped mastering studio—Angel’s Lair Studios, LLC—occupied most of the upper deck.

  In addition to being musicians and devoted “MEGheads,” the Bartolottas were avid divers. With the Tanaka Institute out of business, the closest they could come to experiencing the adrenaline rush of giant sharks was to cage-dive with the Meg’s modern-day cousins. Unfortunately, Andrew found the local great white excursions to be rather disappointing. Chumming the Farallones was strictly outlawed, forcing dive crews to rely on fake wooden seals to lure the sharks close enough to see through the murky water.

  Desiring to better the odds and treat his guests to a mind-blowing cage diving experience, Andrew had met with several marine biologists who had discovered that when music was pumped through underwater speakers, the vibrations—especially those of the bass-heavy, drum-pounding sounds of heavy metal—attracted sharks. Sensing kismet, he had dry-docked the Lost Angel for two weeks in order to outfit the ship’s keel with underwater speakers that could pump out music coming from Angel’s Lair Studios.

  With everything finally ready, they had set out from San Francisco in the early afternoon in order to avoid the commercial cage diving companies. Joining them for their first “Great White Jam Session” were members of September’s End—bassist Justin Kleya, lead guitarist Jack Morefield, drummer Jeremy Saltis, and singer Scott Marucci. The band’s engineer, Mike Burke, had passed on the offer—“Why would anyone serve themselves up as a meal to a two-ton animal with teeth?”

  Sally’s friends were more enthusiastic. Dr. Rebecca Bass and her husband, Judson McCurdy, were both certified divers, McCurdy having taken up the sport after an ATV accident that led to debilitating back problems. Servicing their guests during the two-day jaunt was Captain Jeffrey Ritter and his mother, Teresa—a master chef who was on a working vacation from her four-star restaurant in San Francisco.

  * * *

  An intermittent drizzle suddenly became a heavy rain, the wind-guided droplets battering the forward bay windows of the pilothouse. Jeffrey Ritter increased the wipers’ speed before checking the weather report again.

  Gray skies, light rain, clearing by 5 p.m. Five-to-eight-foot seas. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  The mouthwatering scent of fried onions wafted up from the galley, causing his stomach to growl. A moment later his mother ascended the spiral stairwell behind him, carrying a dish covered by an aluminum hot plate.

  “Everyone’s eaten; I thought you might be hungry.”

  “You read my stomach.” He removed the top, revealing a Philly cheesesteak, the melted provolone dripping off the sourdough roll. “Ma, you deserve a raise.”

  “Just remember, your boss owes me at least two cage dives. How far out are we?”

  “About forty minutes. We’d be able to see the islands if it wasn’t so overcast.”

  A light appeared in the distance, corresponding to a blip on his radar screen. Jeffrey adjusted the yacht’s course and then grabbed his radio, speaking into the mike. “This is Jeff Ritter aboard the dive yacht Lost Angel … coming up on your portside.”

  “Afternoon, Captain Ritter. This is David Popowitch aboard the dive boat Superfish.”

  “How are conditions in the Farallones, Captain?”

  “Six-to-eight-foot seas, coming in at twenty-second intervals. Water temperature’s fifty-five degrees, visibility’s only about two feet.”

  “Any sightings?”

  “Nothing in the cages. Lots of Risso’s dolphins when we crossed the channel. Leaving Southeast Farallon, we saw a pod of orca west through Maintop Bay; that might explain the missing great whites. If you’re planning on doing any cage diving, you may want to try Fisherman Bay. Lots of sea elephants out on the rocks, barking up a storm. Our passengers complained about the stench, so we circled upwind.”

  “Appreciate the advice, skipper. Ritter out.”

  He turned to his left, the fifty-four-foot dive boat blasting its horn as it passed a hundred yards off the yacht’s portside bow. Jeffrey returned the gesture before easing back on the wipers as the rain let up.

  Teresa took the wheel, allowing her son to eat and use the head. By the time he returned, the sun was poking through the clouds and a gauntlet of sharp, gray islet peaks were visible along the horizon.

  Maintaining a northwest heading, Jeffrey kept a healthy distance from a breakpoint marked by white water. The Farallones resided in “confused seas,” meaning the waves came in from all directions. As they neared the shallows they would stack up, rise, and break a good two to five feet higher than the swells that had delivered them across thousands of miles of ocean.

  * * *

  Using his binoculars, the captain stole a quick glance to port. Sea lions dotted the cliff faces and frolicked in the foam-coated shallows. Up ahead loomed a windswept mountain of gray rock; rising from the sea to starboard was a weather-battered obstacle known as Seal Islands.

  Jeffrey cut his speed to 10 knots as he guided the yacht between the two landmasses, feeling the ebb tide pushing his vessel to the west and an unforgiving shoreline.

  Throttling up to 15 knots released the sea’s grip on his keel. Satisfied with his level of comfort with the elements, he reached for the radio’s handset, switching over to the ship’s intercom.

  * * *

  Andrew Bartolotta scanned the soundboard and pressed the button labeled PLAYBACK, sending the musical track of his band’s new song, “Millennial Brain,” through his singer’s headphones.

  Scott Marucci offered him a thumbs-up from the other side of the soundproof glass. Focusing his gaze upon the sheet of lyrics clipped to the music stand, he leaned into the microphone to lay down the vocals.

  “No time for books or magazines … My thoughts are barbed, but extra lean.

  Don’t need no vowels, sacrifice the I … Retweet a link, update a lie.

  “Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.

  Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going viral is X-Stas-C.

  “The iPhone is—a deadly new disease. Instead of talking, we text to please …

  The poles are melting, good jobs are few. I earn my keep … with likes and views.

  “Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.

  Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going viral is X-Stas-C.”

  Scott tapped his foot, the instrumental quieting for his solo at the bridge.

  “Truth is buried in the lies of the beholder.

  Hate thy neighbor as we grow older.

  Divide and conquer, the end is near.

  Social media preys on our fears—

  Alternative facts feed the Millennial Brain

  Alternative facts feed the Millennial Brain!

  “Twitter, Facebook, Instagram … It’s followers that make a brand.

  Servitude to the one-four-tee … Going
viral is X-Stas-C.”*

  Andrew offered him a thumbs-up, then turned on his microphone. “Sounded great. I want to do the bridge again. This time build it to a crescendo so that you’re screeching right as Jack’s guitar lick takes us into the final chorus.”

  A blinking red light on a wall panel caught his attention. He wheeled his chair over, pressing the intercom. “Andrew here. Go ahead, skipper.”

  “We’ve reached Southeast Farallon. Awaiting your orders.”

  Locating his iPad on a stack of albums, Andrew clicked on a link that located his yacht on a Google-Earth map.

  “We’re here to dive with the great whites, skipper. Any idea where they might be?”

  “One of the commercial boat captains recommended Fisherman Bay. He said the elephant seals were abundant in the area. He did mention there’d be a nasty stench.”

  Andrew looked over at Jack Morefield.

  The lead guitarist shrugged. “What’s a little stench among friends.”

  “Good point. Fisherman Bay it is.”

  * * *

  It was four thirty-five in the afternoon by the time the Lost Angel dropped anchor in a hundred sixty-five feet of water. With the engines off, the yacht rose and fell with each swell, the eight-foot waves rolling beneath the keel before breaking into white water fifty yards to the west.

  A football field away, hundreds of elephant seals belched and snorted across an inaccessible shoreline marked by several caves. With the winds blowing in from the east, the captain’s location spared the Lost Angel’s guests from the pungent scent of pinniped droppings.

  The yacht’s dive shed occupied the back twenty feet of stern along the main deck and held enough equipment and gear to accommodate a dozen divers. Mounted along the outside of the transom was an A-frame; dangling from this perch by steel cable was a shark cage large enough to hold four adult divers. Everyone on board had donned wetsuits, save for the captain and September’s End’s drummer, Jeremy Saltis, who changed his mind when he saw that the shark cage was made of aluminum.

  “Ya’ll are crazy. If it were me, I’d want titanium around me … at least steel.”

  Andrew laughed. “Steel’s too heavy, dude. You’d need a crane to drag it in and out of the water. Plus steel rusts. Either way, there’s nothing to fear—sharks hate the taste of metal.”

  “How about rock ’n’ roll?”

  “We’ll soon find out.” Andrew keyed open a large plastic storage trunk secured to the deck. He raised the lid to reveal four plastic face masks, each trailing fifty feet of hose attached to an air machine. He handed the mask attached to the yellow hose to Rebecca Bass, the red to her husband, Judson McCurdy, the blue to Teresa Ritter, and kept the green one for himself.

  “This is an Integrated Dive Mask. As you can see, the IDM covers your entire face, allowing you to breathe naturally through your nose and mouth. Air circulates across the inside of the visor to prevent fogging, and I’ve never had one leak. If you do get water in your mask, just hit this purge valve. Best of all, the IDM has a built-in microphone. Channel-1 is linked to the boat; Channel-2 connects you to the other divers in the cage. Press this button by your chin to talk.”

  Andrew pressed the power button on the air machine, causing the four hoses to inflate.

  Teresa placed the IDM mask on her face, adjusting its six straps to create a snug fit. “This is great. My jaw always gets so sore from having to bite down on a regulator.”

  Rebecca helped her husband adjust his mask. “See? No heavy air tanks to lug in and out of the boat; this will be fun.”

  Collecting his fins, Andrew joined his wife by the shark cage. “The CD’s loaded. Give the sharks ten minutes to assemble on their own before you start pumping out the music.”

  “Understood.” Sally kissed him on the lips. “Keep an eye on my friends, especially Judson. He was in horrible lower back pain on the ride out; I saw him popping opiates like they were breath mints.”

  Leaning on the transom, Andrew pulled the fins over his rubber boots before securing the mask over his face. He pressed the microphone button by his chin. “If you can hear my voice, raise your hand.”

  The three divers complied.

  “Okay, let’s pump some adrenaline.” Sitting on the fiberglass transom, he spun around on his buttocks to the awaiting shark cage and lowered himself inside while Sally fed his hose over the side.

  “Let’s go blue next, then red and yellow.”

  Teresa Ritter awkwardly made her way to the transom in her swim fins. She sat down before twisting around to face the cage, which was suspended upright in the water by the A-frame’s steel cable. Inching her way out, she dangled her fins in the open gap framed by the cage’s four aluminum buoyancy tanks before easing herself over the side.

  The frigid sea took her breath away, the gray-blue underworld causing her eyes to widen in wonderment. Visibility extended only a few feet in every direction except to the north, where the cage was too high out of the water to see the yacht’s keel.

  “What’s on tonight’s menu, Chef Teresa?”

  She turned to Andrew and smiled. “Hopefully not us.” She looked up as a pair of fins plunged between them, followed by Judson McCurdy. As the heavyset man’s mask dropped to her eye level, she saw the contortions on his face ease into a blissful smile.

  “Oh, God … this feels like heaven.”

  “Are you in that much pain?”

  “You have no idea. I fractured my pars bone years ago in an ATV accident. The pars is the only bone in the body that doesn’t heal. Without it, the vertebral discs systematically fail, causing my L-5 to press against my spinal cord. I know it’s hard to believe, but I used to be an athlete. Over the last five years I’ve lost two inches in height and gained fifty pounds.”

  He looked up as his wife slipped into the cage next to him. She mouthed several sentences in silence until her husband pointed to the communication button by her chin.

  “Sorry. I was just saying how cold the water is, even in a wetsuit.”

  “I love it,” Judson said. “It feels great on my back.”

  “Well, I’m freezing. I may have to get out.”

  “Give your body a few minutes to acclimate,” Andrew said. He switched channels on his communicator. “Sally, seal the cage and lower us to thirty-five feet.”

  “Thirty-five feet; will do.”

  They looked up as the top of the cage was flipped over. Andrew reached up to position the four air hoses through a gap in the bars before snapping the aluminum grill in place.

  A dull mechanical whine was their only warning as the cage suddenly sank beneath them, forcing the divers to grab hold of the aluminum bars for the ride down. Judson found himself floating along the underside of the aluminum hatch, his wife and the other woman standing upright beneath his dangling legs.

  Rebecca Bass looked up at the bottom of the boat—one moment the keel was visible, the next it was gone. A minute passed before the winch was shut down, leaving them suspended in silence, surrounded by a gray-brown haze. Had she not been in the cage, she would have lost all orientation, unable to discern up from down.

  The physician jumped as the creature shot out of the murk and began circling them, its big black eyes watching her in silence.

  Rebecca reached out to pet the harbor seal, her gloved hand palming its gray-and-white-spotted hide as it maneuvered close by.

  The mammal pirouetted like a sleek ballerina and disappeared into the surrounding ether, only to be replaced by three more of its kind.

  “They’re so cute,” Teresa said, aiming the lens of her underwater camera at the passing gray torpedo.

  “They’re our canary-in-a-coal-mine,” Andrew shot back. “If the seals are here, then there are no great whites in the area.” Reaching for his Comm Link, he switched channels. “Sally, start the CD, please.”

  “Stand by.”

  Judson tapped his wife’s arm, pointing to a dark silhouette rising slowly beneath them. “Is that a shark?”<
br />
  All eyes watched the twelve-foot, two-ton mass ascend out of the murk.

  Andrew switched his communicator back to Channel-2. “It’s an elephant seal. Looks like a young bull—”

  The four divers jumped as the opening riffs of Metallica’s “Seek and Destroy” pumped out of the keel’s underwater speakers.

  The baritone sounds reverberated through the sea, attracting prey and predator alike.

  * * *

  The oceans harbor many of our planet’s highest peaks and deepest valleys. The longest gorge in North America resides off the California coastline. Spanning two-hundred-ninety-two miles, the Monterey Submarine Canyon is similar in size to the Grand Canyon, except that it is twice its depth, plunging more than two miles below the surface.

  Monterey Canyon is the most prominent of a cluster of fissures that cut east to west along Northern California’s continental shelf. These geological grooves serve as sediment conduits, channeling silt across more than thirteen hundred miles of seafloor.

  Since its escape from captivity, the juvenile Liopleurodon had inhabited a seven-mile-wide, twelve-mile-long stretch of seafloor along the bottom of the Monterey Canyon. This limited the pliosaur’s diet to deep-water denizens that belonged to a food chain derived from methane pumping out of cold seeps. This chemosynthetic environment was easily adapted to by the Lio, whose ancestors had spent the last seventy million years living in the perpetual darkness and colder temperatures of the Panthalassa Sea.

  Unchallenged in its deep-water realm, the Lio would have remained there indefinitely, never to surface again, had it not been for the turbidity event.

  It had begun as an underwater earthquake along the San Andreas Fault that had triggered an avalanche of silt. Racing through the ravine, this rapidly moving current of sediment-laden water buried cold seeps and hydrothermal vents. Lethal to all gill-breathing life-forms, it had chased the Liopleurodon to the north, where the pliosaur had taken refuge in the Soquel Canyon. When the biological communities in these deep-water channels failed to satisfy its dietary needs, the carnivore had continued its forced migration, exploring the Ascension and Nao Nuevo canyons farther to the north.