Meg: Hell's Aquarium (14 page)

“Order? You want fries with that order? This is America—”

Whump! . . . Whump! Whump!

The crown prince reaches inside the glove box, his fingers groping for a sick bag. He opens it, then quickly shoves it over his nose and mouth and breathes into it, hyperventilating.

“Alright, alright. Hold your cookies.” Fighting a mischievous grin, David accelerates directly at the double doors—

Whump! Whump!

—banking hard to the south at the last second. Leveling out, he races to the surface, the sea above their heads turning to blue sky as the winged sub bounces over the wave tops doing thirty knots. Fifteen seconds later he eases his feet off the twin accelerators, allowing the Manta Ray to settle back into the water, the pier appearing on their left.

David guides the vessel carefully between the two rows of concrete pilings, then hits grip on the remote control, activating the docking clamps.

A minute later the submersible is rising out of the water.

David turns to his guest, attempting to make peace. “Seriously, dude, you were never in any danger. Angel can’t get out. And even if she could, she could never catch us. So . . . we cool?”

The hatch pops open. The crown prince tosses the barf bag aside and climbs out, speaking rapidly to his guards.

David looks up . . . at the business end of four assault weapons.

One of the guards, a big man weighing over 280 pounds, reaches into the cockpit and grabs David by his collar, lifting him bodily out of the sub and dropping him to the deck on his knees. The captain of the guard pushes the big man aside, chambers a round, and aims the barrel of his Glock inches from David’s left eye.

David’s heart pounds in his throat. Part of him knows the man will not pull the trigger, but this is the crown prince, a member of the royal family and a U.S. ally possessing diplomatic immunity.
What was that stupid expression of Mac’s? Accidents happen in the best of families.

The crown prince rattles off another order. The captain holsters his weapon, then leads his security detail out of the dry dock, leaving the two men alone.

“You had your fun, yes? Now I have had mine. So, David . . . are we cool?”

David stands, his limbs still shaking. “Yeah, man . . . we’re cool.”

“Good. Because you have many talents, and I have many needs. Has your father told you anything about our new facility in Dubai?”

“Only that you’ll be purchasing Mary Kate and Ashley.”

“Indeed. The facility has the best of everything and will be run by some of the top marine biologists and animal specialists in the world. But your experience with Angel places you far above their level of expertise. I’m offering you a job, David. I want you to return to Dubai with me to inspect the facility and oversee the acclimation of the two Megs into their new habitat. We will take care of all your expenses, including lodging and travel.”

“Why me? Dr. Stelzer’s the expert—or Fran Rizzuto or my father. I haven’t even graduated from Florida yet.”

“Degrees are merely pieces of paper. What you possess is practical knowledge and a comfort level that can only be acquired through years of interaction with these creatures. I am spending a small ransom on this purchase; the fish offer me nothing in return if they die after being moved.”

“How long will you need me for? I have to be back in school August twenty-seventh.”

“The entire summer. With an option to remain if you like what we have to offer.”

“The summer, huh? How much money are we talking?”

“Fifty thousand for overseeing the two Megs until your school starts, with an additional twenty-five thousand for training a team of submersible pilots to operate a small fleet of Manta Rays. How many of these subs do you have in stock? A dozen?”

“More like four. And one’s in the shop being repaired. But are you sure my father agreed to sell you the subs?”

“It will be negotiated into the purchase price for the two juvenile Megs.”

“Why do you need the subs?”

“I need them, David, because I want them. So then? Seventy-five thousand dollars for a summer of fun in Dubai. What is your answer?”

“As long as I can leave no later than August twenty-fourth, you have yourself a deal.” David shakes the prince’s hand, his thoughts shifting from buying a new sports car to how he’s going to break the news to his father.

7.

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California

Retired United States Air Force pilot Jerry L. Bobo II stands before the two MLST (Megalodon Life Support Transits), dwarfed by the sheer size of the rectangular objects now situated on the lagoon loading dock. “Mac, exactly how big are these things?”

“Thirty-one feet high, sixty-two feet long, fifteen feet wide . . . that’s including the motorized carts they’ll sit on when we drive them into the cargo hold.”

“And these will be filled with water?”

“And one heavily medicated Megalodon. Each. We were thinking of having the Arabs lease one of Boeing’s Dreamlifters—the converted 747-400s they were using to ship components of their 787s.”

“The Dreamliner’s are big enough, but the cargo hold isn’t pressurized. Unless you want your monsters arriving dead-on-arrival, we’re looking at a C-5 Galaxy.”

“You think the Pentagon would let us use one?”

“No. But they might allow the crown prince.” Jerry walks halfway around the container. “I’m no shark expert, but how do you plan on keeping your fish breathing in a steel box for a twelve-to fifteen-hour flight?”

“First, these contraptions aren’t steel. They’re acrylic. Six inches thick. You can’t have any metal in the tank; it upsets the Meg’s senses. As far as breathing, these MLST are rigged with built-in head currents similar in design to the ones used to train Olympic swimmers. It’s sort of like being on an underwater tread mill. The Meg has to swim to breathe. This allows them to swim in a stationary position.”

“You said the fish will be medicated?”

“With oxygen and Tricaine Methanesulfonate. They’ll be acclimated to the MLSTs days before we move them. We calculated a combined weight of the two tanks at 275,000 pounds.”

“How many in your flight party?”

“Seven. Four marine biologists and three engineers.”

“With the cargo weight—” Jerry Bobo makes a few quick calculations “—it’s seven thousand nautical miles and change from San Francisco to Dubai International. That puts us about seven hundred miles short on fuel. Looks like we’re stopping over in London.”

Mac frowns. “It’s a major hassle to add an additional stop. Customs can be a bitch; everyone and their mother wants to see what’s in the hold. Plus, it’s more added stress on Mary Kate and Ashley.”

“Well, I suppose we can arrange to refuel in-flight, but it’ll cost you.”

“Won’t cost me a dime, pal. It’s all on the crown prince.”

“Dad, what’s your problem?” David pushes himself away from the conference table in disgust. “This is a great opportunity. Why do you want to blow it for me?”

Jonas rubs the tension from the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to ruin your life, David, but I worry. Your mother worries. It’s what parents do. Keeping these monsters penned, allowing you and Dani to work with them . . . it’s like playing with fire. And this whole Dubai venture . . . it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Seventy-five grand for keeping an eye on the two runts and training a bunch of submersible pilots doesn’t feel right to you? Dad, come on. I’d practically do this for free!”

“If you’re just training these pilots in Dubai, I don’t have a problem. If it’s something else—”

“What else? Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

Jonas debates on what he should reveal to his son.
Tell him about Maren’s discovery and he’ll jump at the chance to go. There’ll be no stopping him.

“Dad.”

“Okay. I’ll sell the crown prince the Manta Rays as agreed, but only under one condition—that you promise me you’ll remain in Dubai for the summer.”

“Where else would I go?”

“David, I can’t go into details, but one of the reasons the crown prince came here was to recruit me to help them capture different deepwater species for their aquarium.”

“What kind of species?” David’s eyes widen. “Wait. I know. They wanted your help to capture a kronosaur. That’s it, isn’t it? Dad, no worries. I’d never go down to the Mariana Trench—not after what you and mom went through. No way.”

“Then promise me you’ll stay in Dubai.”

“You have my word.”

“And you’ll be careful with the runts?”

“Dad—”

“I worry, David. You’ve got that cocky swagger that leads to mistakes. I had it, your mother had it, and it contributed to your Uncle D.J.’s death. If anything ever happened to you . . . well—”

“Dad, I’m not D.J. And I’m not out to prove something to the world. I’m a marine biologist, and I love what I do. Please, for once, just let me do it.”

Jonas stares at his son, his heart swollen with pride.
Wasn’t it yesterday when I held my newborn son in my arms? Coached his little league team? Taught him how to scuba? To pilot a mini-sub? Where did all those years go?

“Dad?”

“Better make sure your passport’s in order. The prince leaves in the morning.”

David pumps his fists and gives his father a quick hug before dashing out of his office . . . leaving Jonas to wonder how he’s going to explain this to his wife.

The taxi cab turns into Masao Tanaka Way, inching its way through a throng of protestors. The lone passenger stretched out in the backseat shakes his head in amazement.
A million people a day are starving to death or dying of AIDS, and these assholes have their underwear knotted in a ball because one big shark was killed by another bigger shark.

The cab double parks as close as it can to the main entrance. Brent Nichols struggles to pull his heavy-set, 6 foot 3 inch, 290-pound frame out of the cramped backseat and waits for the driver to unload the two metal trunks on wheels. The scientist pays the cabby, grabs a trunk handle in each thick palm, and trudges toward the nearest set of glass doors.

A sign reads: CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.

A security guard approaches. “We’re closed, big fella. Can’t you read?”

“Far better than you, my friend. Does that walkie-talkie work?”

“Yeah.”

“Then do us both a favor and let Mr. David Taylor know his shark trainer has arrived.”

“Ricardo told me you were the best,” David says, leading the marine biologist down an access corridor to the main gallery.

“Were? I
am
the best, kid, and don’t let this spare tire fool you. In the water I’m a seal. Okay, maybe a sea elephant.” Dr. Nichols wipes sweat from his reddish-brown goatee. “I’m a field scientist by nature; not much escapes my eye. After I graduated with my masters, the Sea Lab in Mobile hired me to condition their aquatic animals to feed. Using flashes of light, we were able to teach lemon sharks to congregate in assigned areas of their tanks, segregating the population to ensure they were all being properly fed. Amazingly, sharks were able to learn these tasks ten times faster than cats or rabbits.”

“And that led you to be recruited by the Pentagon?”