MEG: Nightstalkers Read online

  And there it was—the offer that every female desiring to succeed in the business world feared—the enticement to spread her legs in order to move up in the company hierarchy. Only the Crown Prince wasn’t asking her to sleep with him, he simply wanted her to continue to be with David.

  Was that so wrong? After all, she was attracted to David and the sex was a welcome diversion they both looked forward to. Only now the Prince had made it a morality issue. But if she would have continued sleeping with him anyway, then what difference would it make in the scheme of things? She was already a candidate for the directorship, if continuing her midnight rendezvous with David helped him heal his broken heart, while solidifying her rightful place in the company, then it seemed a win-win.

  “I’m committed to the best interests of the Dubai Land Aquarium, Your Highness. Whether David and I spend time together after hours is no one’s business but our own.”

  “Then I assume you have no problem accompanying him and his associate, Mr. Montgomery aboard the Tonga to pursue the Liopleurodon?”

  “As your most qualified marine biologist, it’s where I expected to be.”

  The Crown Prince’s smile did not match the harsh look in his eyes. “Shouldn’t your first priority be to the three captured sea creatures aboard the Mogamigawa?”

  Jackie’s heart raced. “Of course, Your Highness. What I should have said is that I’ll join David and his friend aboard the Tonga once the three sea creatures arrive safely in Dubai and have been stabilized in their new habitats.”

  “Fiesal, who is the marine biologist assigned to the Tonga?”

  “Alexander Hardie; a competent scientist who is certainly capable of caring for the animals aboard the Mogamigawa. I sincerely doubt he is David Taylor’s type.”

  Jackie felt her cheeks flush. Assholes. They’re playing mind games with me.

  The Crown Prince feigned weighing a difficult decision. “Fiesal, I think it best to have one of your helicopters transport Mr. Hardie aboard the Mogamigawa, and then fly Ms. Buchwald, David, and his friend back to the Tonga. Does that work for you, Ms. Buchwald?”

  Jackie gritted her teeth against the fatigue and frustration, tears of indignity welling in her eyes. “Wherever Your Highness needs me.”

  PART TWO

  THE

  LIO

  12

  14 Miles Off the Coastline of Brisbane, Australia

  Southwestern Pacific

  The creature moved effortlessly through depth’s darkness, its 200,000-pound frame leaving barely a ripple as it glided above the silt-covered sea floor. Its crocodilian jaws, thirty feet long from snout to mandible, remained open as it swam, channeling water into its gills past a gauntlet of ten- to twelve-inch dagger-shaped teeth, the largest of which jutted outside of its mouth. Every so often its massive fore flippers would sweep the sea, stirring the bottom into swirling eddies.

  Liopleurodon panthalassa—the largest and most vicious animal ever to inhabit the planet—was a hybrid of nature, having evolved from a short-necked carnivorous marine reptile into a 122-foot-long gill-breather more than twice the size of its long-dead ancestors.

  Pliosaurs first dominated the seas during the Callovian stage of the Middle Jurassic Period approximately 155 million years ago. After a long reign these amphibious air-breathers eventually died off, succumbing to plunging ocean temperatures generated by the ice age—an aftereffect of the seven-mile-in-diameter asteroid which struck Earth sixty-five million years ago.

  The geological anomaly that saved and eventually trapped these monsters, along with a thriving food chain of ancient sea creatures, had formed in the depths of the Western Pacific 180 million years ago. Wedged between massive continental plates, the tiny Philippine Sea Plate was driven beneath its neighbors, its boundaries becoming volcanically-active rift zones which eventually forged the world’s deepest trenches. Over tens of millions of years the erupting magma cooled into a ceiling above the nine-mile-deep sea floor which spanned hundreds of miles across the southern region of the Philippine Sea. Beneath this false bottom lay an isolated habitat nourished by hydrothermal vents and cold seeps. Stable temperate zones and an abundance of prey lured thousands of warm and cold water species into the abyss. Over tens of millions of years these prehistoric species adapted to life in the perpetual darkness. Marine reptiles like the pliosaurs evolved gills; other predators developed scent and vibration-based sensory systems.

  Twelve million years ago volcanic activity sealed the Panthalassa’s access points beneath the Philippine Sea. Among the last creatures to seek refuge in this abyssal purgatory was Carcharodon megalodon.

  The arrival of another apex predator into its habitat had a profound effect on Liopleurodon ferox. To combat its new, better equipped rival, the pliosaurs grew enormous.

  * * *

  The female Liopleurodon continued its southeasterly trek, shadowing the pod of orca moving along the surface three thousand feet overhead. The killer whales were stalking their own quarry—a mother gray and her calf.

  Ordinarily, the Liopleurodon would have taken the juvenile from below, but the orca posed a threat and the big female was still recovering from wounds sustained from its encounter months earlier with Carcharodon megalodon.

  The clash of the titans had occurred in the Panthalassa Sea, ending in the surface waters of the Western Pacific Ocean. The Liopleurodon found itself trapped in an alien sea with a higher oxygen content and prey rich in blubber. These two variables combined to increase the creature’s metabolism, sending it into a hyperkinetic state which forced it to feed more often. It also affected the animal’s reproductive system, inducing the internal fertilization of one of its own eggs.

  The Liopleurodon was entering its last trimester of pregnancy—the supertanker, Tonga shadowing its every move.

  Aboard the Tonga

  Fiesal bin Rashidi was a prisoner of his own ambition.

  It didn’t have to be this way. There were fifty-three cousins who nursed at the teats of the Crown Prince. Most were useless scoundrels who behaved as if it were their birthright to waste the kingdom’s riches.

  Not Fiesal. His father, a civil engineer, had sent him to live abroad at the age of twelve, enrolling him at a private prep school in England. With Dubai committed to tourism, Abdul bin Rashidi knew his eldest son would need a western education to stake his claim in the expanding Arab emirate.

  Dubai had forged its own path in the Arab world when the Maktoum family had taken power in 1830. Under the leadership of Sheikh Maktoum bin Hasher Al Maktoum, foreign traders were exempted from taxes, paving the way for the United Arab Emirates to become the leading commerce center in the region. Unlike most of the other autocratic nations, the UAE invested its oil riches back into its economy, transforming the desert into a metropolitan oasis.

  Fiesal was a second-year student studying engineering at Cambridge University when al Qaeda terrorists hijacked four American commercial airliners on September 11, 2001. The event ushered in a tide of hatred aimed at all Arabs, the undercurrent of which had always existed. Never mind that al Qaeda had been conceived by the Afghani Mujahideen freedom fighters armed by the United States and supported by Saudi Arabia, in the eyes of most westerners a Muslim was a Muslim and not to be trusted.

  Fiesal could register the lingering eyes of his fellow students. Strangers grew bold, questioning his presence at public events. Airport security nodded at him and whispered.

  Things grew worse in 2005 after the July 7 bombings in London. Having graduated with degrees in civil and naval engineering, Fiesal could not find an employer willing to hire a Muslim, no matter what his qualifications. A month later Fiesal’s girlfriend, Jourdan Coker, under pressure from her parents, broke off their engagement.

  Fiesal had sublet his apartment and intended on returning to Dubai, when a friend introduced him to a marine biologist in need of an engineer. Dr. Michael Maren was as paranoid as he was brilliant—an odd chap who avoided eye contact when he spoke and trusted
no one. His mother had died recently, leaving him an abundance of wealth to pursue his scientific endeavors. Maren was interested in exploring the deepest ocean trenches in the world and was looking to hire a naval engineer who could design an abyssal habitat and lab possessing a submersible docking station capable of withstanding water pressures in excess of 23,000 pounds per square inch.

  The challenge was enormous, the requirement a bit baffling since the Mariana Trench, the deepest location on the planet, possessed a mere 16,000 pounds of pressure. Still, the job paid well and allowed him to remain in England. Over the next three years Fiesal tested a half dozen miniature models before coming up with a design stable enough to flood and drain a docking station nine miles beneath the surface.

  Two titanium habitats were constructed while Maren’s research vessel was fitted with an A-frame, winch, and steel cable strong enough to lower and raise the enormous weight. After five years of planning and construction Maren was ready to set sail to “an unexplored realm.” Fiesal was offered a position on the maiden voyage, but the thought of spending upwards of a year at sea with the volatile scientist and his lover, Allison Petrucci, held no appeal. Accepting an offer from his father’s firm, the engineer returned to Dubai to work on the emirate’s new airport.

  Eighteen months later, Fiesal was contacted by Allison Petrucci. Maren was dead, killed by one of the creatures he had dedicated his life to studying. After coercing the engineer into signing a non-disclosure agreement, the woman presented him evidence of an unexplored sea that dated back hundreds of millions of years, possessing ancient marine life that could be captured and placed on exhibit. For a seven figure sum she would provide Fiesal with maps which showed the access points into the realm her fiancé referred to as the Panthalassa Sea.

  The Middle East was a battleground. America’s military interventions and a failed Arab Spring had only added more fuel to that fire. Democracy was subverted in Egypt, autocratic rule festered in Syria and Iran, and military uprisings were tearing apart an already toxic situation in Iraq.

  Fiesal bin Rashidi convinced the Crown Prince to fund the prehistoric aquarium theme park, believing that the venture would make Dubai the vacation Mecca of the world, presenting westerners with a more positive opinion of the Arab world while inoculating the UAE against the threat of radical Islam.

  A high-speed rail would connect the new airport to Dubai Land and its dozen five-star hotels. The completed aquariums were an engineering marvel—all that was left was the underwater safari required to stock the habitats.

  Jonas Taylor was the unanimous choice to lead the mission, only the former navy submersible pilot and marine biologist flatly refused. He and Maren had crossed paths before; the last time culminating in Michael’s death. The Tanaka Institute agreed to sell Angel’s two surviving Megalodon runts to the Crown Prince, along with four Manta subs.

  But there was another Taylor who captured Fiesal’s eye—Jonas’s son, David. The cocky twenty-one-year-old was not only the most qualified and skilled Manta pilot but seemed fearless around the Megalodons. A lucrative summer job offer in Dubai to stabilize the runts in their new aquariums brought David to the UAE; love would send him into the depths of the Panthalassa Sea.

  Locating and netting the Panthalassa life forms proved more than a bit challenging. After several months only four different species were captured, two perishing within their tanker pens. And then Fiesal bin Rashidi laid eyes on the Liopleurodon.

  The monster was an aberration of evolution; a specimen that Fiesal knew would easily become the identity of the aquarium. While the rest of his crew aboard the Tonga remained mesmerized by the surfacing creature, Fiesal fired a transmitter dart into the animal’s back, ensuring that they wouldn’t lose track of their prize.

  That was nearly three months ago.

  Half a year at sea changes a man; half a year of failure poisons ambition. The Lio refused to surface, and the Tonga’s submersible pilots were too afraid to venture close enough to engage the goliath and lure it into the tanker’s nets. Compounding the problem was the failure of bin Rashidi’s second unit aboard the Mogamigawa to capture the three shonisaurs that had escaped the Panthalassa Sea. With only three of the twelve exhibits occupied, the Crown Prince’s initial excitement about the aquarium had waned, turning Fiesal’s optimism into doubt, his joy festering into resentment, frustration, and bitterness.

  As the weeks became months, a sense of gloom seemed to hang over the Tonga. Desperate, lacking a game plan and clearly out of his element, Fiesal bin Rashidi lost the respect of his crew. The driving force behind the aquarium spent his days alone in his stateroom, a prisoner to his own ambition. Women no longer interested him, gold no longer shimmered. Stuck on a seemingly endless voyage of damnation, Fiesal bin Rashidi—once the favored cousin of the Crown Prince—had become his albatross.

  And then David Taylor arrived on board the Mogamigawa and lady luck returned. Three animals captured within thirty-six hours, including a mosasaur!

  It was as if the sun had shone for the first time in six months.

  The Crown Prince arranged for a helicopter to transport David, his friend Monty, and the female marine biologist to the Tonga. Fiesal ordered three of his officers to give up their quarters to the VIPs. A buzz of excitement spread through the crew—the son of Jonas Taylor would take charge of the mission and capture the Lio. The Tonga would return home with its prize, families reunited, bonus checks cashed.

  Fiesal stood on the bridge, his eyes focused on the transport helicopter approaching from the north, his entire future dependent on the whims of a twenty-one-year-old who either intended to help capture the largest predator on the planet—or kill it.

  13

  Friday Harbor, San Juan Island

  “So here’s my advice, J.T.: Kill those bloody Megalodons. And when I say kill, I don’t mean you and Mac. Let the United States Coast Guard do the dirty work. Then go find yer son, sell the institute, and live out yer days happy, fat, and stupid.”

  Jonas opened his eyes, his heart pounding heavy in his chest. The hotel suite was dark, an outline of gray conforming to the top of the bedroom drapes. Turning to his right, he saw the face of the digital alarm clock—7:22 a.m.

  He did not need to turn to his left to know Terry was gone.

  For a long moment he thought about the dream. He and Zachary Wallace were both marine biologists, but that’s where the similarities ended. Jonas was a man of action who was forced to become an academic in order to give his theories credence. Zach was a scientist—a gifted thinker forced to take action in order to prove his theories regarding a legendary life form living in Loch Ness.

  Jonas had funded Zachary’s energy venture years earlier and the two had become close friends. Still, there was something disturbing about the Highland-born American—at times it seemed he possessed a sixth sense about things that made Jonas feel more than a bit uneasy.

  Like his insistence that every Manta submersible cockpit be refitted with pilot airbags. Zachary claimed that for weeks he had experienced a recurring nightmare about an accident involving David and knew the matter needed to be resolved.

  That he was now being insistent over killing Bela and Lizzy was no less disturbing.

  Jonas sat up in bed, gazing at the empty suite. He felt empty without his wife and he knew she was right. But the sisters were still his responsibility and he was not the kind of person who passed the buck.

  The council members had held their vote last night after Terry had abruptly left the meeting. Eighteen votes to kill the sisters, three votes to capture. Nick Van Sicklen was tasked with locating the Megalodon nursery, Commander Royston with taking out Bela and Lizzy.

  It seemed everyone but Jonas wanted the creatures destroyed.

  Fuck it.

  Rolling out of bed, he started a pot of coffee and then hustled into the bathroom, his bladder ready to burst. It was yet another “parting gift” of getting older. Shrinking prostate, bad knees, an arthritic back �
�� His broken arm itched beneath the cast, agitating his already dour mood.

  His morning inventory of ailments was interrupted by a knuckle rapping lightly but insistently on the door.

  “Terry?” Flushing the toilet, he hurried to the door and opened it—disappointed to find Paul Agricola standing in the hallway.

  “What do you want?”

  The silver-haired marine biologist-turned-fishing boat captain looked uneasy. “I have a proposal. If I could just have two minutes of your—”

  Jonas slammed the door.

  Paul knocked again. “Come on, Jonas—two minutes. I brought breakfast sandwiches. Scrambled eggs, ham, and avocado on a fresh bagel.” He held the take-out bag up to the peephole.

  The door reopened, Jonas snatching the bag. “Two minutes.”

  Paul followed him inside. “Nice room. Sorry about the blow-up with the missus. I hear she caught the last ferry to Puget Sound. Probably en route to San Francisco as we speak.”

  Jonas sat at the kitchen table, unwrapping the second breakfast sandwich, having already devoured the first. “Ninety seconds.”

  “That wasn’t thirty seconds. And that other sandwich was supposed to be mine … never mind. Listen, I know you don’t want to kill Bela and Lizzy. I have a plan that can save them both and get you back in good with the missus.”

  Jonas chased the second breakfast sandwich down with a swig of orange juice.

  “Don’t they feed you?”

  “I didn’t eat dinner. So what’s the brilliant plan?”

  “You help me recapture the sisters, then sell me the Tanaka Institute for a hundred mill. Ten million dollars due on signing, the balance to be paid in ten-million-dollar installments over the next five years with a forty-million-dollar balloon payment in year six.”

  “What kind of deal is that? Each of Angel’s last four years netted twice that much.”