Meg: Origins (3 page)

“The good doctor must have fallen off the wagon. My brain’s in a fog, my dexterity’s off-kilter, and I’m working on three hours sleep.”

“Navy SEALs do it all the time. Man up, Taylor. Get some caffeine in you, a few calisthenics. You’ll be right as rain.”

“Right as rain? I’m not driving Aunt Bea in the squad car to deliver apple pies to Mayberry’s church picnic, Dick. This is the Mariana Trench! I need to think clearly down there. And don’t get any ideas about Royston. He’s nowhere near ready.”

“The Navy obviously disagrees or he wouldn’t be your back-up.”

“Regulations demanded a back-up. Royston was the only pilot available who had dived beyond 15,000 feet.”

“Technically, he’s qualified.”

“Technically, Frank here is a doctor, but I wouldn’t recommend him performing surgery on a brain tumor or lancing a boil on your ass, which in your case is probably the same thing.”

Danielson’s face turned red. “Dr. Heller, have you certified Commander Taylor fit to dive?”

Frank avoided Jonas’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Commander Taylor, I am ordering you to pilot the DSV at oh-nine-hundred hours. If you fail to do so you will be subject to a court marshall and Mr. Royston shall take your place. Is that clear?”

Jonas stood. For a long moment he and Danielson stared at one another, then the DSV pilot unbuckled his pants and ceremoniously dropped his boxer shorts, exposing his bare buttocks. “You can plant your B-12 shot right there.”

Forty minutes later, Jonas Taylor was in the DSV
Sea Cliff
going through his pre-dive checklist—his life about to change forever.

2

Guam Naval Base

LOCATED IN THE REGION
of the western Pacific known as Micronesia, the Marianas Island chain is an arc-shaped archipelago consisting of fifteen volcanic mountains. The islands were birthed millions of years ago when lava was released along the Philippine Sea floor as a result of the western edge of the Pacific Plate subducting beneath the Mariana Plate. This region, the most volcanically active convergent plate boundary on Earth, forms the deepest point on the planet—the Mariana Trench. Water trapped in the fault line, heated by the subduction process, is the source of the hydrothermal activity that proliferates throughout this seven-mile-deep, 1,550-mile-long crevasse.

The largest and southernmost island in the Mariana chain is Guam. Home to the Chamorro, a seafaring people whose heritage dates back over four thousand years, Guam’s identity underwent a drastic change when it became part of the United States following the Spanish-American War. Guam’s location between Hawaii and the Asian mainland rendered the island a strategic location for a U.S. military base, and it is now home to five installations, including the main naval base on Orote Peninsula on the central west coast and Andersen Air Force Base on the northeastern tip.

· · ·

Command Master Chief Steven Lebowitz’s gaze shifted from the dark gray skies to the black Cadillac SUV now approaching the main gate. Rear Admiral Kevin Quercio’s unannounced visits were more social call than inspection, his V.I.P.s always political allies or elite members of the military industrial complex. At the end of the day (or days) everyone had a good time, entertaining themselves on a taxpayer-funded holiday.

With Danielson gone and a typhoon on the way, the last thing Lebowitz needed to deal with was the renowned partying admiral and his inebriated guests.

Lebowitz saluted Quercio as the imposing man climbed out of the SUV.

“Admiral, welcome back to Guam.”

“Chief, good to see you. You remember Senator Michaels?”

The Republican from Alaska nodded.

“And these two gentlemen… well, let’s just call ’em Mr. Black and Mr. Blue to make life easier.”

Lebowitz recognized the two executive officers from Brown and Root and BP Oil. “Gentlemen. My apologies. Admiral, Captain Danielson is away on a mission, and we’re busy preparing for Typhoon Marian. However, if you need me to arrange accommodations off the base—”

“Already handled, Lebowitz, we’ll be staying at the Radisson. But I promised our guests a helicopter tour of the island. Where’s Mac?”

Lebowitz’s heart skipped a beat. “Sir, Commander Mackreides is securing his airships in their hangars. Perhaps I can arrange for Commander Rosario to escort your party.”

Admiral Quercio placed a hand on Lebowitz’s shoulder, leading him away from his guests. “Let’s dispense with the horseshit, son. Go find Mac and tell him to meet us at the helipad in exactly ten minutes, or it’s your ass and his.”

· · ·

Commander James “Mac” Mackreides’ hawkish eyes moved from the pair of jacks in his right hand to the D-cupped breasts barely contained beneath the brunette’s olive-green tee-shirt. “You’re bluffing again, Rudd. I can always tell when you’re bluffing because your nipples get hard.”

Natalie Rudd blew him a kiss. “The bet’s a hundred, Mac. Like your hookers say, are you in or out?”

“They’re not hookers, Rudd, they’re military escorts.” Mac glanced down at the dental assistant’s remaining chips. “Tell you what. I’ll see your hundred and raise you two hundred.”

“Asshole. You know I haven’t got two hundred, I only have sixty.”

Warrant Officer Vicky Baker rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. What’s it going to be this time, Mac? Shots at Geronimo’s or a drive down to Facpi Point?”

“Quiet, Baker, we’re negotiating. Actually, Rudd, if you lose, I was thinking about a weekend’s stay at Pago Bay. Just you, me, and the twins.”

“Vic, lend me the buck-forty so I can call this gorilla’s bluff.”

“Let me see your cards.”

Rudd passed her friend the hand.

“Call,” said Vicky, adding her own chips to the pile.

“If you’re so sure, Baker, why not raise me?”

“And give you a chance to raise the pot again and draw me into your childish games? Not a chance.”

“Think about it, Baker. You, me, and Rudd, alone in a bungalow.”

“Sounds like fun, Mac, but what will you do?”

The enlisted men whistled cat calls.

“Okay, Rudd, I call. Show me your pair… and your cards, too.”

The brunette turned over her hand. “Full house, tens over threes.”

Mac ground his teeth, snapping the wooden match in his mouth. “Take it.”

Rudd high-fived her friend. “Pleasure doing business with you, James.”

“Aw, poor guy,” Vicky pouted, “He looks like he’s gonna have a Mac Attack.”

Mac was about to reply when he saw a jeep skid to a halt in front of the open hanger doors.

“If it isn’t our second-in-command. What’s wrong, number two? Danielson drown at sea trying to retrieve his golf balls?”

“This is serious, Mac. Rear Admiral Quercio just arrived, along with a GOP Senator and two civilian hard-ons. He wants you and your chopper ready to go in ten.”

“No way, Stevie. First, my crew just finished tucking the birds in their nests. Second and more important, Quercio stiffed my girls the last two times out. I’m not taking him to the lagoon until he settles his tab.”

“Mac, please—”

“Forget it. Get Baker and Rudd here to entertain them.”

“Like that’s ever gonna happen,” Natalie said, cashing out her chips.

“Mac, he’ll have both of our asses in the brig.”

Vicky smirked, “Is that why they call him a Rear Admiral?”

Lebowitz ignored the joke. “Mac, you owe me. I covered for you twice last month with Danielson.”

“My girls have families they support, Stevie, they expect to get paid. No tickee no shirtee.”

“Okay, I didn’t want to bring this up, but if you don’t handle this for me, I’ll tell Danielson about Ashley Kushnel.”

Natalie Rudd’s eyes widened. “The dolphin lady with the tattoos? Man, Danielson fell head over heels for that chick. Remember her, Vicky?”

“How could I forget, he kept asking me for advice. That boy was whipped. He wined her, dined her; he even picked out a ring. Two days after he popped the question she put in for a transfer.”

“All Mac’s doing,” Lebowitz said.

“What did you do to her, Mac?”

“Nothing like that. I simply offered her my professional opinion of her would-be fiancé.”

“Professional opinion? You’re a chopper pilot.”

“True, but first and foremost I consider myself a life coach.”

“Lebo, how did Sir Galahad here manage to get her to listen? As far as I knew, she never even knew he existed.”

Lebowitz grinned. “He sent Kushnel an order on Danielson’s stationary, ordering her to report to the base counselor for her annual psychiatric evaluation.”

“And she fell for it?”

“Who did the evaluation?”

“Dr. James Mackreides.”

Mac shrugged. “The shrink was away at a three day seminar. His assistant let me use the office.”

“Mac even forged a diploma. He and Kushnel spent four hours together, plus the following weekend in Honolulu.”

Mackreides winked. “I’d tell you what we talked about but that would violate our doctor-patient confidentiality.”

· · ·

The H-3
Sea King
was a twin engine, all-weather multi-purpose helicopter used by the Navy to detect, classify, track and destroy enemy submarines. Phased out in the 1990s by the SH-60F
Sea Hawk
, the four 73-foot, six-ton airships relegated to Guam were maintained by the mechanics under the command of pilot James Mackreides.

The
Sea King
followed the southwest coastline of Guam, battered by thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds. Mac headed for the village of Merizo, located on the southern peninsula by Cocos Lagoon. Admiral Quercio rode up front, his guests strapped in back in the cargo area.

“Mac, those two lovely young ladies you introduced me to last time… what were their names?”

“Their Chamorro names are too difficult to pronounce. I just call them Ginger and Mary Ann.”

“Nice. Once we get my guests settled, you’ll arrange a rendezvous.”

“Ginger’s father lost his leg last year to diabetes, Mary Ann has a kid. They expect to be paid for their services.”

“So pay them.” The admiral squeezed Mac’s shoulder. “I know you take a nice cut from every transaction, son. Consider my on-the-house excursions a necessary business expense.”

Mac ground his teeth, then offered Admiral Quercio a Cheshire cat grin. “We’ve actually added something new for our V.I.P. customers. It’s sort of our own version of the mile-high club. I’ve got two inflatable mattresses in back. I fly us out over the lagoon—the privacy makes the girls less inhibited—plus the sound of the rotors blocks out their screams.”

“A flying bordello, huh? What about the wind?”

“Ginger and Mary Ann prefer a bumpy ride.”

The admiral grinned. “Let’s do it.”

3

Aboard the
Tallman
26 miles north-northeast of the
Challenger Deep

PROPELLED BY DUAL
653-horsepower engines, the 275-foot research vessel
Tallman
continued its erratic southwestern course. Privately owned by Agricola Industries, the ship and its crew were routinely leased out by the Canadian company to the oil industry for completing pre- and post-dredge surveys, pipeline inspections, and wreck imaging prior to salvage operations. While these jobs helped pay the bills, what the ship’s owner preferred were the more challenging academically-oriented assignments—like the one they were now close to completing.

An international science expedition had brought the
Tallman
to its present location in the Philippine Sea, hiring Paul Agricola, the CEO’s son, to gather data on NW Rota-1, a deep submarine volcano. Since its discovery three years ago, the erupting volcano had added another eighty feet to its already imposing cone, which now towered twelve stories off the bottom of the world’s deepest trench.

Surveying the deepest sea floor in the world required a sophisticated sonar array. Fastened to the
Tallman
’s keel like a twelve foot remora was a gondola-shaped device that housed a Multi Beam Echo Sounder (MBES), its dual frequency deepwater sonar pings designed for mapping the abyss. The bigger challenge was penetrating the hydrothermal plume which played havoc with the sonar signal six miles down. The solution was the
Sea Bat
, a winged, remotely-operated vehicle. Tethered to the MBES, the
Sea Bat
dropped below the plume like an underwater kite, using on-board sonar to relay signals back to the mother ship, identifying every object within acoustic range.