MEG: Nightstalkers Page 4

  “Freezing. The Panthalassa was segregated into hot vent areas and cold seeps. The creature preferred a chilly habitat. You’re saying the Panthalassa Lios grew much larger than their reptilian ancestors in order to stay warm?”

  “Precisely,” Dr. McDonnell said.

  The Crown Prince stood, his movement eliciting a response from the Dunk. “David, no one knows that monster better than you. I would love to hire you and your friend to join my cousin in hunting down the Lio … only I can’t.”

  David felt a knot in his stomach. “Why not?”

  “Because you seek to kill this magnificent creature, just to avenge the death of this Szeifert girl … a girl you barely knew.”

  “I give you my word, I won’t kill it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Test me. Let me prove it to you!”

  The Crown Prince stared at the San Francisco Giants sweatbands covering David’s wrists. “There are two converted supertankers engaged in hunting down several predatory species that fled the Panthalassa Sea. The Mogamigawa is in the Western Pacific heading north toward Japan; her sister ship, the Tonga, is after the Lio, which is heading south. Prove to me your motives are pure aboard the Mogamigawa. Pilot one of the Manta subs and help the crew capture these creatures and I’ll allow you to join my cousin aboard the Tonga.”

  David exhaled. “What about Monty? My friend needs a job.”

  “He can join the crew as a deckhand.”

  Monty shrugged. “Beats living in my cousin’s garage.”

  “Dr. Al Hashemi will take you to your hotel. Spend a few days resting poolside. We’ll fly you out on the next cargo plane bound for the Mogamigawa.”

  The aquarium director led David and Monty out, leaving the Crown Prince and the marine biologist alone to talk in private.

  “Is he really worth it, Your Highness?”

  “The girl’s death was witnessed by both ships’ crews. After seeing the size and ferocity of the Liopleurodon the other pilots quit, along with a third of the deckhands aboard the Tonga’s trawler. In the last three months we’ve recruited a dozen more submersible pilots from around the world—Navy SEALs, Air Force pilots … none possess the reflexes or skills of David Taylor. He’s fearless, ready to put himself in harm’s way to kill that monster.”

  “There’s a difference between fearless and suicidal. The kid’s as angry as Ahab, and that makes him dangerous. How do you expect to turn David’s demons into something more manageable?”

  The Crown Prince smiled. “Leave that to me.”

  3

  Tanaka Oceanographic Institute

  Monterey, California

  A steady wind howled through the concrete and steel bowl, ruffling canvas canopies and rippling the azure-green surface of the man-made lagoon. Sunlight warmed the aluminum bleachers. The Pacific was more aggressive, slapping at the mammoth steel doors sealing the ocean-access canal, causing the bells atop the warning buoys to toll.

  The Tanaka Institute and Lagoon: once home to the most dangerous creatures in the planet’s history; now an empty fortress.

  James “Mac” Mackreides exited the elevator on the third floor. He walked past rows of vacant desks to the executive suites. The office manager—a petite blue-eyed blonde in her early forties—was seated before a computer screen, her newborn son, Kyle, swaddled in a blanket in her lap.

  Patricia Mackreides looked up at her husband. “The authorities on San Juan Island couldn’t contain the story; it went viral about twenty minutes ago. Are you packed?”

  “The gear’s in the chopper.”

  “Mac, what are you doing?”

  “My job.”

  “You’re sixty-five years old. Do you really need to be chasing after sea monsters?”

  “Hey, I’m a spry sixty-five. My loins just sprouted a kid.”

  “My loins did the sprouting; yours couldn’t make it out of bed for his four a.m. feeding. And your pal Jonas is in worse shape, hobbling around on two bad knees. Terry said he was up all night again with his acid reflux.”

  “The sisters will do that to you. This is the life we’ve chosen.”

  “Don’t give me that GodfatherII bullshit; you’re not in the Mafia. Sell the institute and walk away from this nightmare while you still can.”

  “You don’t think I want to? I spent two hours last night meeting with Tom Cubit. According to our lawyer, we’re liable for any damages inflicted by Bela and Lizzy, even though they’re no longer under our care.”

  “I don’t understand. It was that radical animal rights group that broke in and released the sharks; the institute had no intention of letting them go.”

  “Technically, Virgil Carmen was still employed as the institute’s assistant director of husbandry. As for the shark lovers at R.A.W., they don’t have a pot to piss in. Cubit’s right; the victim’s family will come after us.” Mac offered her his best Michael Corleone imitation, “Every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in.”

  “This isn’t a joke. I didn’t marry you to be widowed before our first anniversary. Don’t you want to enjoy your son growing up? Look at what Jonas and Terry are going through with David. Is that Kyle’s destiny … to be hunting these prehistoric monsters until one kills him?”

  Mac remained silent, watching his sleeping child.

  “Terry’s had it, Mac. She’s ready to leave Jonas. So I’m asking you again; what are you doing?”

  * * *

  The bay windows of Jonas Taylor’s office looked out onto the man-made lagoon, the western bleachers, and the blue waters of the Pacific. Jonas adjusted the venetian blinds to filter out the reflecting rays of sunlight while he waited for the overseas call.

  Like Jonas, Dr. Zachary Wallace was a marine biologist who had resolved the demons of his past by proving to the world that an ancient creature—in his case the Loch Ness monster—actually did exist. The two had met in San Francisco seven years ago while Zach was on a world tour promoting his autobiography, The Loch. They had become close friends and it was actually the Scottish intellect who had convinced Jonas to pen his own memoir—one of many projects he had never finished.

  Three years later Angel had returned from her eighteen-year hiatus and the institute was back in business. With money to burn, the Taylors invested in a start-up alternative energy company founded by Wallace that his friend promised would one day manufacture clean energy machines designed to replace fossil fuels. Why a world-famous marine biologist like Zachary Wallace would walk away from his career to develop zero-point energy generators remained a mystery to Jonas, but he backed the brilliant inventor with $14 million in start-up costs without asking any questions—even after he refused to go public with his first line of prototypes, three of which were now being tested on the institute’s second generation of Manta submersibles.

  Jonas’s iPhone chimed, chasing away his thoughts. “Zach, thanks for getting back to me.”

  “No problem. I jist read about the attack in British Columbia. Whit are ye going tae do? Nothing crazy, I hope?”

  “I don’t know yet. The authorities asked for my help in tracking down the sisters; I’m debating whether to recapture them or just kill ’em. What would you do?”

  “Yer askin’ the man who was once the single-most despised human being in all of Scotland whether tae kill two sharks and potentially save a lot of lives, or risk yer own life tae save a business that grossed close tae a billion dollars in the last four years? The irony would be laughable if the outcome wasn’t so serious. So before I provide ye with an answer, assure me again that the new Manta subs the Crown Prince ordered are all equipped with air bags inside both cockpits.”

  “You ask me this every time we talk. Yes, Dr. Wallace, the subs have air bags. Any other recurring dreams I need to pacify?”

  “I’ll make a list. Which brings me tae David. Ye were right, yer son and his brain-bashed friend are in Dubai looking tae rejoin the monster quest. My source inside the aquarium tells me David leaves f
er Japan in a few days, where he’ll rendezvous with the supertanker Mogamigawa.”

  “The Mogamigawa? Then he’s not after the Lio?”

  “Word is he has tae prove himself first before the Crown Prince will allow him tae go after the big girl. I don’t expect that tae last. Bin Rashidi’s crew hasn’t had a whiff of the Liopleurodon fer weeks and he’s losing it.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good. It means David’s going tae be on the Tonga sooner rather than later, so ye jist make sure those new air bags are workin’ properly so I can sleep at night.”

  “When are you going to share this recurring dream with me?”

  “When ye and yers stop chasing sea monsters. Which brings me tae the sisters. Many a night after my own near-death drama did I lay awake and question my actions, especially when the tourism industry shut down in Loch Ness and families were going hungry. My own father pointed the finger at me fer ruining his resort, and not his index finger if ye ken whit I mean. But we built our factory in Drumnadrochit and hired only Highlanders and now all is forgiven.

  “So here’s my advice, J.T.: Kill those bloody Megalodons. And when I say kill, I don’t mean ye 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.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Brother Wallace. But I’m already getting fatter and stupider by the day; I just need to work on the happy.”

  4

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Ibrahim Al Hashemi was standing outside the entrance of the Dubai Land Hilton, waiting by the stretch limousine when David and Monty exited the five-star hotel. “Good morning gentlemen. You look refreshed. It appears a day in Dubai Land did you some good.”

  David handed his duffle bag to the driver. “Sun, pool, massages, and all the lobster and jumbo shrimp you can eat … yeah, I’d say it was just what the doctor ordered. Please be sure to tell the Prince thank you.”

  “You can thank him by helping him fill the nine vacant tanks at the aquarium. The driver will take you to a private airport where the Crown Prince’s personal 747 jumbo jet is waiting. Flight time to Tokyo is ten hours.”

  David and Monty looked at each another. “We’re flying out on the 747? I thought we were traveling with the cargo?”

  “The nature of the cargo has changed. To promote the opening of the aquarium, the Crown Prince has agreed to an offer from the Discovery Channel for a new reality series that will document life on board the Mogamigawa. The two Manta subs have been equipped with night vision video cameras; you and your fellow pilots and crew members will be filmed while you attempt to capture these incredible prehistoric sea creatures.”

  The aquarium director opened his attaché case on the hood of the limo. “The contracts are fairly straightforward; you’ll each receive three thousand U.S. dollars for every episode you appear on camera.”

  Monty snatched the pen and contract from Dr. Al Hashemi and flipped to the last page, scribbling his signature. “I was born to play this role. Did you know the new Rolls-Royce Phantom takes two months to build and comes in a choice of forty-four thousand colors?”

  “Monty, don’t you want to at least read the contract?”

  “Why? Where else am I gonna earn forty-four thousand dollars for being myself?”

  “It’s three thousand an episode and … never mind.” David glanced at the four-page document. “Can I read it on the plane?”

  “Read it on the way to the airport, we begin filming on the plane. You’ll be flying over with your co-stars—ten of the most stunning actresses and models in all of Arabia. These women are competing to become the three finalists that you, David Taylor, will select to join you aboard the Tonga. Be fair warned—our contestants will do their best to influence your vote. I do envy you, my young friend.”

  Monty punched David on the shoulder. “Women and a free Rolls-Royce … sign the contract, stupid!”

  If it gets me aboard the Tonga …

  Ignoring his father’s voice in his head, David signed the last page of the contract, then handed it back to the aquarium director and climbed inside the back of the limousine.

  * * *

  Monty propped his hiking boots up on the opposite seat, stretching out. “Dude, what’s with the sour face? Ten hot women, fighting to get inside your pants. Every guy watching the show will be wishing he was you … except for maybe the gay guys. Oh yeah, and when you’re being chased in your sub by some giant fish trying to eat you … Know what? Forget about what I said, no one will want to be you.”

  “You don’t get it, Monty. The Prince is manipulating me; he thinks he can cure my depression by dangling a bunch of beautiful women in front of me. It’s not about sex. I hurt because I loved Kaylie. I wanted to marry her! My heart aches whenever I think about her. You just don’t shut that down. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Monty glanced at the thick sweatbands covering the freshly scarred wounds on the inside of his friend’s wrists. “Yeah, man, I feel you. Kaylie was a thunderbolt, a girl so incredibly beautiful the closest you probably figured you’d get to being with her was inside your own head. And she really liked you. When you piloted her sub during the last day of competition … capturing a sea turtle on the hood of your Manta when your net malfunctioned—dude, you were her hero. Hearing you cry at night … I hurt for you. But David, you gotta move on, you gotta let her go. Look at me. When I left for Iraq I had a steady girl and a good job. Two tours of duty later my brains were scrambled, my boss lets me go, and the woman I loved was with another guy. You think there weren’t nights when I didn’t seriously think about swallowing the barrel of my gun?”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Two things. The first was God. I was raised to believe the man upstairs has His own game plan for each one of us and He isn’t a big fan of suicide.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “What second reason?”

  “The second reason you didn’t try to kill yourself.”

  “I didn’t try to kill myself; an I.E.D. did this to me.”

  “Not the explosive … never mind.” David watched as Monty grabbed a bottle of scotch from the limo’s bar and crammed it into his duffle bag. “Really, dude?”

  “Hey, it’s not for me. That’s for you, in case you want to sleep on the plane. The last thing we need is for you to go off into la-la land and wake up screaming from one of your night terrors.”

  “The new meds my shrink gave me seem to be working. Besides, I’m not tired.”

  “And what if you end up in the Prince’s bedroom suite? Trust me, after you get lost between the sheets with three or four of those Arabian beauties you’ll be nodding off like a newborn. Of course, if you can’t handle it you can always call your old pal, Monty. The last woman I was with had to be inflated.”

  David smiled. “I have a better idea.”

  * * *

  The driver stopped at two airport security checkpoints before following a private road onto the tarmac where the Crown Prince’s 747-300 jumbo jet was in position to taxi onto the runway.

  Standing on either side of a red carpet leading up the mobile staircase were ten women in their mid to late twenties. Each Arabian beauty wore a crème-colored Dubai Land blouse and a short gray skirt with matching stiletto pumps. Name tags written in English and Arabic identified the participants’ first names.

  David climbed out of the back of the limousine, only to be rushed by an American sporting a video camera and a familiar face. “David? James Gelet. We’ve never officially met, but I worked for your father aboard the hopper-dredge McFarland, when we transported Angel out to the Panthalassa Sea.”

  “Dude, I think you have me confused with the guy in the limo. I’m Monty, James Mackreides’s nephew.”

  The documentary director looked confused. “But you look just like Jonas and Terry—”

  David grabbed his arm, leaning in. “I’m Monty. Just go with it.�
��

  Monty climbed out of the back of the limo. “Hello, hello! David Taylor is in the house. Who’s hosting this freak show?”

  A petite woman in her early thirties with dark blond hair and a Texas accent hurried to Monty’s side. “Amanda Silvernail, I’m the executive producer of the show. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Of course it is. Introduce me to the ladies, Anita; I’ve got an important announcement to make.” He whispered in her ear, motioning at David. “That’s Monty. Don’t waste a lot of air time on him, he’s a little meshugganah.”

  They approached the reality show contestants. “Ladies, this is David Taylor, the submersible pilot who will be selecting three of you as finalists over the coming weeks.”

  “You mean hours. I’ll be rendering my decision the moment we land in Tokyo. Ten hour flight; ten ladies. Do the math, Wanita.”

  “It’s Amanda, and this isn’t what we agreed to.”

  “Hey sweet thing, that’s the way David Taylor rolls. Every time I go down in my sub, there’s no guarantee I’m coming back. Life’s like that for us adrenaline junkies. Speaking of going down, I’ll be conducting one-on-one interviews in the Crown Prince’s private suite. Each of you lovely ladies will have an hour to persuade me to vote for you. So, who wants to be first? How about you?”

  Monty approached the first woman on the right side of the red carpet, a Lebanese model. “And what’s your name?”

  “Hoda.”

  “Well, Hoda, I’d love to check under your hood-a.” He winked, then turned to the dark-haired Egyptian actress on his left. “Zeina … how would you like to play my warrior princess?”

  And on it went, Monty working his way from one Arab beauty to the next. There was Rana, a well-endowed Iranian actress and Jihan, a Dubai brunette with the legs of a swimsuit model. Nesrin was a Syrian university student with bedroom eyes; Ghada was born in Libya to a Syrian father and Lebanese mother. Saba was a Jordanian actress with a Botox lower lip. Ayisha was a model from the United Arab Emirates, sporting a knockout figure and western attitude. A sultry Moroccan with raven-black hair … a Qatar beauty with waist-length wavy brown hair.