Meg: Hell's Aquarium (42 page)

“Because it’s important for all of us that you succeed. Kaylie’s selection as co-pilot would never have been an issue if you two weren’t involved.”

“Maybe you told her because you were afraid I might have chosen you?”

Brian’s eyes flash a warning. “Listen, sport, keep it in your pants and you’ll be fine.”

“You listen, asshole. That deepwater dock had better be as stable as you say, or I’ll be bringing back holy hell.”

The war vet grins. “So you’re a tough guy now?”

“No. I’m just the cocky college student hired to make a dive we both know you don’t have the balls to even attempt. But hey, if I’m wrong, you can replace me right now. Am I wrong?”

Brian matches his glare. “We need the charts. You’re more qualified than I am. It’s your dive.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. All talk, no
Kokoro—
no spirit. No matter what happens to me, just remember which one of us is the hawk and who’s the pheasant . . . sir.”

David stares him down, saying nothing, waiting for a parry he knows won’t come.

Brian nods, breaking eye contact. “Make your dive.”

David leaves him standing there, smiling to himself as he mentally wipes Brian Suits’s blood from his sword. Crossing the deck, he heads aft to the Manta Ray, the sub poised on its dolly just above the stern ramp. Kaylie is already inside the cockpit, dressed in jeans and her heavy cotton hooded sweatshirt. Brian leans in to offer her some last minute instructions while David stretches his quads.

The other pilots join him. Debbie Umel gives him a quick hug, Marcus Slabine a knuckle-punch. “Glad it’s you, dude, and not me.”

Jeff Hoch offers up a prayer. “Please, Lord, we ask that you escort our companions to the depths and see to their safe return.”

“Thanks, Minister.”

Dr. Gotto hands him a brown paper bag. “Made this myself. Thought it might come in handy.”

David opens the bag, removing a flexible plastic six-inch tube attached to a capped sixteen-ounce bottle.

“It’s a portable urinal,” Gotto says with a wink. “Hope it’s the right size.”

“Extra large. Thanks, Doc. This may actually come in handy. Did you make one for my co-pilot?”

“She’s already wearing hers. Good luck, kid.”

Rick Magers approaches, the old man looking peeved. “I have something for you, too.” He holds up his middle finger.

“Yeah, thanks.” Dropping to the deck, David does a quick set of push-ups, stretches his lower back, quads, and calves, then climbs inside the open cockpit.

Kaylie smiles at him. “Did you want to get in a quick run? I can wait.”

“It’s a long dive.”

“Ninety-six minutes to the lab, if we stay on schedule.” She points to a new relay switch, which has been rigged to her side of the command center. “This device sends a signal from the sub’s antenna to the docking station so that we can activate the docking doors, just in case we lose the barracuda.”

“It better work. Or we could end up stuck in that hangar.”

“I brought along plenty of bottled water, plus snacks. Want an Imodium chewable?”

“Already did three of them. My intestine’s clean. Sphincter’s sealed tight. Ready to go down, baby?”

She pouts her lips. “Focus on your job and you might get lucky later . . . maybe.”

“I hear that.” He seals the cockpit, waits for the green light then gives a thumbs-up to the pit crew. The four men, tethered to the trawler, walk the submersible on its dolly and cable down the stern ramp. The incoming swells rise to catch the Manta Ray as they guide it into the chilly Pacific.

Waves wash over the neutrally buoyant submersible. David secures his harness and powers on the twin propulsion units. Dipping the starboard wing, he maneuvers the sub into a shallow dive, moving them beyond the trawler’s rudder and dormant pitch propeller, diving them into the blue void.

Circling below in forty feet of water is a five-foot-long, torpedo-shaped drone, its contours and steel fins resembling that of a large barracuda. Armed with sonar and an infrared beacon attached to a small video camera, the vehicle is being remotely operated by Brian Suits, who is stationed in the wheel house with Fiesal bin Rashidi and Ibrahim Al Hashemi.

As the Manta Ray moves closer, the barracuda descends, leading them into the depths.

“You don’t have to spiral down,” Kaylie says. “Just maintain a sixty-degree down angle. I’ll tell you when to change course.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Missed me, didn’t you?”

“Only the sex.”

“You lie.”

David accelerates, his harness all that keeps him pinned in his seat against the sub’s steep angle of descent. The blue void deepens to violet as the submersible leaves the mesopelagic shallows.

One thousand feet . . . sixteen hundred . . .

The sun’s light fades into curtains of gray, extinguishing into black.

David glances at his gauges. The water temperature has dropped to 52°F, the pressure slipping past 720 psi, increasing 14.7 pounds per square inch for every 33 feet of depth.

He smiles as the dark void suddenly comes alive with thousands of twinkling lights.

They have entered another universe—the bathypelagic zone, or mid-water region—home to the largest ecosystem on the planet. Encompassing upwards of ten million species, these bathypelagic life forms have adapted to an eternity of living in darkness by evolving large, bulbous eyes that can pick up slivers of light. And by creating their own.

Bioluminescence in living organisms is generated through a chemical reaction, in this case a light-producing luciferin and its catalyst, a luciferase. Fueled by the release of adenosine triphosphate (ATP), the luciferase causes the luciferin to oxidize, creating a bioluminescent light.

Luminous lights zap on and off as the sub and its two passengers race toward the abyss, each color as brilliant as the LED lights on the command center.

David switches on his exterior lights and is immediately blinded by a blizzard of marine snow—organic particles floating from the shallows on their way to the bottom. He douses the lights, relying on the cockpit’s night glass and instruments.

His eyes return to the depth gauge as it passes 5,300 feet.
One mile down. Five more to go . . .

The Manta Ray’s wingspan creaks beneath 2,400 pounds per square inch of pressure. David tries to be casual as he wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “Angel’s mother’s skin was bioluminescent at night. Angel too, but it faded over the years. Must be related to diet, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re nervous. When’s the last time you went this deep?”

“High School. I snuck the sub out into Monterey Bay while my parents were in Hawaii and my sister was making out with her boyfriend.”

“Be honest. What would you do if you saw something big glowing in the Panthalassa?”

“If I saw something big, you wouldn’t be doing your job.”

“Speaking of which, it’s time to change course. Come to two-seven-zero and flatten your angle of descent to fifty-five degrees. In about ten minutes we’ll be coming to the spider web.”

“What’s that?”

“Fishing nets. An array of them. They’re anchored along the bottom around the access hole, splayed at different angles using buoys. Each net is rigged to the tanker by cable. This is important, so don’t forget it: You can only get in and out of the access hole by following course two-seven-zero along a fifty-five-degree plane. If we get chased out of the Panthalassa you have to follow that escape route or we’ll get netted like a tuna.”

“Ever happen to you and Debbie?”

“Our first week, on my fourth dive. We were circling in twelve thousand feet of water, and suddenly this huge object pops up on sonar about two hundred yards behind us. I freaked, thinking it was a Meg, and Debbie–she nearly sent us flying bow-first into the ceiling. Finally, she managed to hit the chute—that’s what we call the hole—only she headed topside on a straight vertical, completely forgot about the spider web. Next thing I know we’re being hauled upside-down to the surface in one of the cargo nets. Nothing you can do at that point but wait out the ride.”

“What was the object on sonar?”

“Turned out to be a Leeds’ fish, as gentle as a lamb. Like I said, it was only my fourth dive. I can handle things now.” She points ahead. “There. See the red warning lights? That’s the netting. There’s the barracuda. Follow it in. It’ll lead us right to the hole.”

She flips the radio toggle switch. “Spiderman—Delta team, come in.”

“Delta team—Spiderman, we see you. Tell your hotshot pilot to slow to five knots before your wake tangles our nets. I would hate to torpedo you.”

“That you, James?”

“None other, sweet pants.”

“James Vidal, meet David Taylor, my pilot for the day. David, James is our point man, an extra pair of eyes and ears.”

“The bonus baby. About time. Maybe now we’ll finally see some action.”

David adjusts his headset. “James, where are you?”

“Sea floor, two o’clock.”

David powers on his exterior lights, illuminating the gray-brown loops of the cargo nets, which are suspended 150 feet off the silty bottom by partially inflated, orange flotation buoys. Hovering along the bottom, barely visible through an entanglement of cargo nets, is the Shinkai 6500 submersible. The twenty-five-ton vessel’s rectangular shell is situated around a protective, pressurized titanium sphere with an internal diameter of six and a half feet. Owned and operated by JAMSTEC, the Japanese submersible is stark-white with yellow fins, and is equipped with two manipulator arms, thrusters, search lights, digital video and still cameras, sample baskets, and an observational sonar.

“I’ve got a visual on you, James. Nice sub . . . if you like turtles.”

“Hey, I’m just the combat engineer. Been doing it for Uncle Sam since ‘98. Suits recruited me for his hunting expedition after my second tour of duty in Iraq’s lovely Al Anbar Province with the 3rd Infantry. And I thought those Bradley’s were tight. Love to trade these mechanical  arms for a 25mm cannon, though I’m not sure I  need one. Been here ten days and all I’ve seen so far are a bunch of over-grown tuna. So get your bonus baby ass down in that hole and net us some real monsters, pronto. My boys and I need the extra money.”

Following the barracuda, David guides the Manta Ray through the labyrinth of nets—

—as the chute comes into view.

It is the diameter of a cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood—a black, seemingly bottomless pit set along the flat, barren sea floor. Silt is being sucked down the hole’s throat, softening its rocky edges, giving it the appearance of being perfectly round.

“Jee . . . zus. How did Maren find this thing? Did he just drill it himself?”

“No one knows.” Kaylie switches her headset back to sonar, her expression suddenly more serious. “There’s a strong downward current. Take it slow.”

David enters the passage dead-center, the sub’s exterior beacons showing faint hints of jagged escarpments. The beams barely illuminate the darkness, as if the aperture was a celestial black hole, its gravitational density inhaling all light. Through the claustrophobic funnel of volcanic rock they descend, moving through the vertical on a spiraling downward plane, their speed steady at five knots, the pitch enveloping them from behind, until the hole reopens to an ancient void—

—the Panthalassa Sea.

26.

Panthalassa Sea

The Manta Ray moves out from the hole, hovering beneath a vast, seemingly endless ceiling of ancient rock, its geology dating back more than 225 million years. An influx of current sweeps nutrients down from the chute and across the ceiling in all directions, feeding an inverted sea floor crawling with tens of thousands of trilobites, the albino arthropods gathered en masse around their abyssal Mecca to feed.

David powers on the sub’s exterior high beams. The light casts a spectral radiance across the subterranean roof, illuminating the solid crystalline eyes of crabs and lobsters, snails and sea scorpions, their alabaster exoskeletons covered in spikes and spindly claws, the largest of the horde crawling over the smallest, the oldest as long as seven feet from front pincers to barbed, poisonous tails.

A chill creeps through the cockpit, the water temperature outside barely registering above freezing. Kaylie adjusts the thermostat then leans over and kisses David softly on the lips. “That’s for luck.”

“Check the time. I want to be back in this very spot in two hours.” Pushing down on both joysticks and pedals, he sends the sub accelerating downward in a steep dive, the depth gauge spinning past 9,000 feet.

They ride in silence, the bantering gone, the quiet essential now for Kaylie to listen to the surrounding sea through her sonar headphones. The water is crystal clear and bone-chilling cold, the sub’s wings moaning every so often, protesting the increasing weight of the ocean.

Two miles . . .

Three.

Particles appear in the water—more marine snow, only different. Composed of hydrogen sulfide and methane, the debris is blowing upward from the bottom, originating from countless cold seeps purging their life-giving emissions from beneath the planet’s crust.