MEG: Nightstalkers Read online

  “It’s okay, I can handle it.”

  “No, no, I insist.”

  “Okay. How about an egg white omelet with ham and cheese.”

  She turned to Monty. “Idiot, you will make him the best egg white omelet ever or I will slice open your ball sack and fry your testicles in that skillet. David, please go and sit, I will serve you your food when it is ready.”

  Monty winked behind the raven-haired beauty’s back.

  David glanced over his shoulder, realizing everything was being filmed. Spotting Jackie, he squeezed his way past three more contestants offering to serve him breakfast and hurried over to her table.

  “Good morning.”

  She looked up at him from behind her laptop. “Can I help you?”

  “No. I just thought I’d join you.”

  “These seats are taken. Why don’t you sit with the members of your harem.” She pointed to a table where Jihan, a Dubai brunette, and Saba, a Jordanian actress were waving him over.

  “I’d rather eat here.”

  “David, you’re interrupting my work. You’re also late for the captain’s nine a.m. briefing.”

  David sat down. Whispered, “Jackie, did I do something wrong?”

  Rana joined them, carrying a plate with his omelet in one hand, a tray of muffins in the other.

  Zeina set down two glasses of orange juice, the dark-haired Egyptian actress squeezing into the chair next to him. “Rana has failed to please you; your eggs are too hot to eat. Give them to me, I shall blow on them.”

  Shutting her laptop, Jackie stowed it inside her backpack and left.

  “Jackie, wait—”

  Rana wrestled the omelet back from Zeina. “Do not let this Egyptian dog contaminate your breakfast with her rancid breath. If you knew where her mouth has been—”

  “Enough!” David stood on his chair. “Ladies, can I have your attention, please. Everyone see the egg man over there? His name is Jason Montgomery and he’ll be the one deciding which three of you will be finalists on the show, not me. Say something, Monty.”

  “I am the egg man, goo goo g’joob.”

  * * *

  David climbed the five flights of stairs to the supertanker’s bridge—a wide expanse of steel surrounded by large bay windows. Computerized instrument panels set on evergreen counter tops framed the command center.

  Captain Steven Beltzer looked up from his chart table. “You’re late, Mr. Taylor. Our meeting was scheduled for nine. Nick, tell Mr. Taylor what we do with members of the crew who don’t show up to meetings on time.”

  “We feed them to the sharks.” The command chair swung around, revealing a blue-eyed nineteen-year-old male with a mop of dirty-blond hair and an infectious grin. He was balancing on two stumps where his legs should have been, his arms extending just beyond his elbows.

  “David Taylor, this is my son, Nick Porter. Nick’s a big Megalodon fan; we took him to the institute when he was eight.”

  Nick smiled. “I used to tell everyone at school Angel ate my arms and legs.”

  David fist-bumped at the offered appendage. “I saw Angel take out a guy your age last summer; it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  The captain passed his son his prosthetic arms and legs. “Nick’s been training with the Manta crews as a co-pilot. His sonar scores are tops on the team. We were hoping you might give him a tryout.”

  David tried to hide his discomfort. “I’m not sure that’s my decision—”

  His aluminum alloy legs attached, Nick slid off the chair—standing chest to chest with David. “If you’re worried about my ability to operate the foot pedals, I can reach them fine with my prosthetics. I’ve been operating Xbox, Wii, and Playstation controllers since I was a kid and wrestled in middle school until my weight left me behind. As far as the decision goes, it’s yours to make.”

  David stepped back, not wanting to commit. “It’s only fair I meet the rest of the team before I choose my co-pilot, but I promise I’ll keep you in mind. Captain Beltzer, about our briefing—”

  Beltzer handed him a computerized map of the Philippine Sea Plate. “We’ve been tracking the three Shonisaurus on and off for months. The white dot marks the extraction point out of the Panthalassa Sea; the numbers correspond to our four confirmed satellite sightings. As you can see, the creatures were following the eastern boundary of the Philippine Sea Plate. Two nights ago a fishing trawler was sunk two hundred and sixteen miles south of the Japanese mainland, two crewmen lost. The boat’s captain told the coast guard that his deckhands were bringing up the nets with a big haul when two enormous whales with dolphin-shaped heads attacked the catch. One of the creatures struck the keel and split open the trawler’s hull. Satellite thermal images confirmed the sighting and picked up the trio at four this morning as they continued north, closing on the Japanese mainland. This may be our best opportunity to capture the shonisaurs. My orders are to get you aboard the Dubai Land-II at thirteen hundred hours for a briefing on tonight’s mission.”

  “What’s tonight’s mission?”

  Captain Beltzer turned to his son, whose eyes lit up like a defensive tackle about to sack the opposing quarterback. “We want to net the juvenile so we can use it to bait the two adult shonisaurs.”

  * * *

  The Dubai Land-II continued on a northwesterly course, its captain reducing the trawler’s speed to three knots to allow the Zodiac motorized raft and its two passengers to board. The Mogamigawa remained a mile and a half astern. The difference between predator and prey among prehistoric marine life was often determined by size; the trawler’s captain did not want the supertanker frightening off his intended quarry.

  The Arab sailor piloting the Zodiac accelerated right up the stern ramp used to disperse the trawl nets and launch the Manta subs. Two crewmen held on while David assisted Nick Porter out of the craft. Weaving around trawl nets, winches, gallows, and towing blocks, the two made their way forward to the wheelhouse to find out where the mission briefing was being held.

  Captain Inge Ehrenhard was from the city of Nijverdal in the Netherlands. David found the big man in his command chair surrounded by electronic displays that integrated the ship’s navigation equipment, communications, trawl sensors, and fish detectors. A shark tooth necklace hung from the skipper’s unshaven neck.

  “Captain, I’m David Taylor. There’s supposed to be a briefing—”

  “Ah, goedemiddag, Meneer Taylor.”

  “Could you tell me where the meeting is with the other pilots?”

  “Sorry, ik spreek geen English. Goedemiddag.” Smiling, he returned to his instruments.

  David waited thirty seconds before heading back outside. “Nick, do you speak any Dutch?”

  “Ja, een beetje … yes, a little.”

  “Congratulations, you’re my new co-pilot. Get up there and ask Captain Gilligan where our meeting is being held.”

  Five minutes later they were below decks, entering the galley.

  Jackie Buchwald was leading the briefing. Seven men, all in their late thirties to mid-forties, were seated around a wooden table. The elder among them was a blue-eyed, silver-haired pilot who greeted them with a drill sergeant’s glare. “Mr. Porter, you know better than to be late to one of my mission briefings.”

  “Yes sir. We hit a rough patch on the crossing and—”

  “It’s actually my fault,” David said with a sheepish grin. “We should have never stopped for sushi.”

  Jackie winced. “David, this is Commander Kenney Sills, a retired Navy SEAL submersible pilot and our mission leader.”

  “Ms. Buchwald left out the most important part; I’m also the asshole who determines whether you get to graduate to the Tonga. So take a break from the stand-up, Mr. Comedian, and park your keister on the fucking pine.” He nodded to Jackie. “Continue, please.”

  The other six pilots seated around the table covered their grins.

  Jackie returned to her power-point display of the trawler towing its net underwater. �
��As I was saying, in order to catch the juvenile Shonisaurus, the Dubai Land-II will deploy two parallel trawl nets. The first will remain deep while the bait trawl skims the surface, its net filled with scad and yellowtail.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Buchwald,” David interrupted, “but is scad and yellowtail what that Japanese trawler was hauling when it was sunk?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then why—”

  Commander Sills cut him off. “We suspect the Japs were hauling dolphin—the mammal not the fish. Since we’re not about to kill Flipper on prime-time television, Ms. Buchwald elected to go with scad and yellowtail. Is that all right with you?”

  “You realize I’m half Japanese.”

  “I don’t really give a shit what you are.”

  Jackie hurriedly advanced the projection. “The Shonisaurus travel in a staggered formation with the big male out in front. The first Manta sub must play a cat and mouse game to lure him away. The moment that happens, the second sub will engage the mother, allowing the deep trawl net to sweep junior up from behind. Once the calf is caught, the captain will circle back to the Mogamigawa, leading Mom and Dad into the tanker’s big trawl nets. The two adults must be sedated before they’re removed from the water and placed in their holding pens or they’ll bash themselves to death.” She nodded at Commander Sills, shutting off her laptop.

  “Thank you, Ms. Buchwald. I’ve divided the night into two shifts. Colton Wright and Paul Rudd are in Manta-One from nineteen hundred hours to oh-one hundred; Chris Mull and David Taylor in Manta-Two. Second shift runs until dawn. I’ll be in One with Chris Coriasco; Matt Evans and Eric Stamp are in Two. If there are no other questions—”

  “Nick’s my sonar guy,” David said. “I promised him the gig.”

  The other pilots snickered.

  Commander Sills’s expression cut them off. “Mr. Porter is not on the duty roster, Mr. Taylor.”

  “You’re in charge, Commander; put him on.”

  Sills stood very slowly. “Gentlemen … Ms. Buchwald, let Mr. Taylor and I have this room.”

  Jackie followed the pilots out of the galley, Nick Porter the last one out.

  Commander Sills hovered over David and leaned in until the tips of their noses nearly touched.

  And then both pilots cracked up in laughter.

  “David Taylor, half Jap, one hundred percent kamikaze pilot. How in the fuck are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Sure you are. Let me see those wrists … sweet Jesus, you meant business, didn’t you?”

  “That was a bad time; I’m better. What are you doing out here? Last I heard you were in Iraq. Aren’t you a little old for that shit?”

  “You sound like my wife and daughters. I was in the Green Zone solely as a trainer; you know, sittin’ by the pool stuff, teaching rookies younger than you how to keep from getting blown up. Then the surge happened, and well … I couldn’t handle worrying about my guys, wondering who’d come back in a body bag. I figured they’d be safer with me going out on patrol with them. One day we were in Tikrit and an RPG-7 hit a propane tank on a local’s house. I ran in and dragged two kids out, only to be hit by hot frag during the explosion. My legs were badly burned, plus there was shrapnel that required surgery to remove. They shipped me to Guantanamo, then back to Kauai. Two surgeries and three months later this guy bin Rashidi contacts me and says Dubai needs a submersible trainer and lead pilot to capture live sea species. Easy stuff; good money. They sent me video footage of that Dunk and that sealed the deal. I had no idea the institute had sold them Manta subs until I arrived. Four months at sea and we’ve barely gotten wet.”

  “Just the same, please don’t tell my father I’m out here.”

  “He already knows. When you skipped town, he called his Scottish pal, Zachary Wallace, who has connections in Dubai. Wallace told him you’re on board. He also convinced your old man to reconfigure the Tonga’s two subs with Valkyrie lasers.”

  “Lasers? What the hell for?”

  “Who knows? Your dad ordered me to restrict your activities and not to allow you to set foot on the Tonga.”

  “Screw that, Kenney. I’m the best pilot you’ve got.”

  “For the daredevil stuff … maybe. When it comes to staying within mission parameters you’re a royal pain-in-the-ass. I’m giving you one mission at a time; take an unnecessary risk and I’m pulling you off the duty roster. And what’s this stuff about Nick Porter riding shotgun with you?”

  “I looked into his eyes; he’s not afraid.”

  “Then he’s stupid.”

  “His father said he graded out tops in sonar.”

  “Which would actually mean something if you were nine miles down in the Panthalassa Sea, covered by a rock ceiling. Here you’ve got a trawler and supertanker patrolling the surface, equipped with sonar and the best hi-tech fish-finders oil money can buy. I’ll be in your ear telling you where to turn before Porter can utter a word. The kid’s a gamer, but his prosthetics slide off the Manta’s foot pedals. If you’re exhausted or injured and he needs to take over—what then?”

  “Give him one shift, Kenney, that’s all I’m asking.”

  “One shift; but only if you answer me honestly. Buchwald—are you tapping that?”

  David grinned. “How’d you know?”

  “The way you were eyeballing her, with the emphasis on the balling.” Kenney Sills shook his head. “You live to buck authority and she’s a control freak. Where do you think that ship’s headed? Ah, screw it … there’s a million square miles of sea for these monsters to hide in, we could be at this a year and still not catch a whiff. Go on, find yourself an empty stateroom and get some shut-eye. But if this boat starts rockin’ in calm seas I’m kicking down your door and putting you on trawl duty.”

  7

  Peace Island Hospital

  Friday Harbor, San Juan Island

  Terry Tanaka-Taylor waited for the cab driver to remove her suitcase from the trunk of his taxi before handing him a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks. Ma’am, are you all right?”

  She waved, managing her way slowly up the handicapped ramp, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

  Parkinson’s Disease. Michael J. Fox had called it the gift that keeps on taking. Eighty percent of the neurons in Terry’s brain responsible for secreting dopamine had shutdown before her first telltale symptom had appeared years ago, and now the degenerative disease was progressing. Resting tremors, slow movements that fell under the term Bradykinesia; postural challenges that affected her balance … worst of all the damn rigidity. The muscles on the right side of her body felt like they were coated in lead, especially where her quadriceps inserted into her hip, forcing her to shuffle and lean forward when she walked. A friend with advanced PD had once joked that Frankenstein suffered from Parkinson’s, and now Terry found herself struggling to stay upright on leg muscles that felt like they were adhered to the ground.

  If Parkinson’s was a forest fire, then stress acted like gasoline, exacerbating her symptoms. The last six months things were as bad as she could remember. Her son had attempted suicide. The institute was shut down, its attractions gone. A fresh batch of lawsuits were being filed against her family and their business … and now Jonas was laid up in the hospital, having nearly perished in a helicopter crash.

  And once more, these damn sharks were to blame.

  Terry entered the hospital lobby, only to be swarmed upon by the media.

  * * *

  Considering the extent of the damage to the Coast Guard helicopter, Jonas Taylor’s injuries had been minor—a concussion, bruised ribs, and a fractured left radius bone close to his wrist. Sitting up in bed, he held his arm out as an orthopedic tech wrapped florescent-orange gauze from his left hand up to his elbow, the wet material quickly setting into a cast.

  Dr. David Thomas Ford entered his “celebrity” patient’s private room, having just given a statement to the horde of reporters and news crews ga
thering in the lobby. An emergency room and hyperbaric physician, the former medical director of the Free Hispanic Mission had moved his family from Columbia, South Carolina, to the San Juan Islands because of his addiction to SCUBA diving. Dr. Ford’s office walls featured photos of his dives with schools of hammerhead sharks, bull sharks, and his experience hitching a ride on the back of a whale shark. Like the other islanders, he was not happy with the recent ban on water activities, forced by the relocation of the Megalodon siblings.

  Leaning on his patient’s bed, Dr. Ford shined the ophthalmoscope’s light into Jonas’s left eye, examining the interior structures of his retina. “The blurriness should clear in a day. If it doesn’t, I’ll set you up with our ophthalmologist.”

  “The eye’s fine; breathing’s the challenge. Last time I bruised my ribs was playing football my junior year at Penn State. I remember it hurt for weeks.”

  “What was that … about a century ago?” Mac entered the room, limping noticeably.

  “Mac, they told me you were okay.”

  “I jammed my left knee when we landed. Probably tore the meniscus. At least I was strapped in. Hey, doc, were you the one who treated the diver?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Ford shifted the scope to Jonas’s right eye.

  “Did the guy say anything to you before he went into a coma?”

  “We induced the coma, Mr. Mackreides, and no, the brain trauma was too severe. But I know the patient; he’s a local dive master.”

  Jonas shut his eyes against the purple spots remaining from the exam. “Doc, any idea why a dive master would violate an ordinance and risk his life to enter the water with Bela and Lizzy in the area?”

  “Oldest reason in the book—money. Lucas Heitman spent a lot of time with a local Russian mobster by the name of Alexi Lundgard. Alexi’s girlfriend was the woman aboard the charter boat your monsters sank. I’m guessing Lucas was retrieving something Alexi had stashed in the shallows. The water’s not very deep coming out of the strait; Lucas probably didn’t think the Megs would venture that close to shore.”