Meg: Origins (9 page)

“Wismer, Beck! We’ll need a portable generator and some cables.” Maren looked up as the sub’s hatch was opened. Seconds later, a body was pulled from the submersible—a white-haired scientist. Dr. Prestis was followed by a corpse, pale except for the dead man’s head wound splattered dark with blood.

The third man out was Taylor. He was rushed with the first man to the infirmary below decks—leaving Gustave and his crew alone to tend to the ROV.

· · ·

Jonas opened his eyes to a bright light that shifted from pupil to pupil, accompanied by waves of needle-like pain in his joints and the condescending voice of Frank Heller.

“Shaffer’s dead. Prestis suffered what appears to be a major stroke about ten minutes ago. Before it hit he told me you lost it down there, that your actions endangered the mission and the crew. He said you put the sub into an emergency ascent which blew out the pressurization system.”

Jonas shook his head, the pain becoming unbearable. “Shark attacked us. Big as a house, ghostly white. Bit the sled.”

“A shark? That’s your excuse? There are no sharks in the trench, Taylor. You imagined it.” He signaled to the two orderlies. “Get him inside the recompression unit.”

· · ·

The rectangular-shaped ROV rose from the sea, weighed down by the collection basket. Gus Maren watched as his crew secured the tethered mini-sub, dragging it up on deck.

“Danielson wants the catch basket hauled below decks to the lab. Beck, you and Wismer get the dolly, O’Brien alert the eggheads. I’ll wait here in case the captain decides to make another cameo.”

Maren waited for his crew to leave before turning his attention to the catch basket. The lid was sealed, the rocks having been collected and stored inside the porous steel bin by way of the interior vacuum assembly.

Lying on the swaying deck, Maren disconnected the vacuum and reached his hand up through the suction tube until his entire arm was inside the hose. He felt a nodule, the hard wet surface covered in slime. As a teen he had used a similar technique to steal sodas out of a vending machine, his crime spree ending when his arm had gotten caught.

He momentarily panicked as the deck shifted and the weight of the basket pinned his wrist inside the housing; mercifully the ship rolled again and he was able to yank the pineapple-size rock free.

He shoved it into his jacket as he crew returned.

· · ·

“A shark?”

Frank Heller nodded at Danielson from behind his desk, his face red with anger. “He swears it was all white and as big as a house.”

“Could this shark have damaged the sub?”

“Wake up, Danielson, there was no shark. Taylor obviously imagined the whole thing. It’s called aberrations of the deep. Prestis said Jonas lost it down there.” Heller unlocked a desk drawer, removed a bottle of whisky and motioned to his friend.

“No. And you shouldn’t either.”

“Don’t pull rank on me now. We should have never allowed him to dive, he wasn’t fit for duty. The two scientists… they were friends. Prestis won’t make it through the night. What do I tell Shaffer’s wife and kids?”

“What about Taylor? How’d he manage to survive?”

“Seems he found a pony bottle before the air ran out.”

“So he caused the accident, but managed to cheat death.”

“I certified him fit for command.”

“You also were an eyewitness to Prestis’s account of what happened down there. What did you call it? Aberrations of the deep? Taylor was trained to handle these things and he failed.”

“We should have sent the back-up pilot.”

“Taylor wouldn’t allow it, he said Royston wasn’t ready. That was his fault, not ours.” Danielson poured himself a shot and drained the liquid neat. “Frank, there will be an investigation. Taylor’s finished as a submersible pilot. He’s Navy, but he’s a flash-in-the-pan, destined for civilian life. You and me—we’re career servicemen, we’ve put in our time. You want to lose everything because some rock star choked under pressure?”

“There’s blood on all our hands, captain.” Heller took a swig of whiskey, then resealed the bottle. “Prestis said he lost it down there. I’ll testify to that. I’ll also state that Taylor said he felt more qualified to handle the dive than his back-up. Will that do it for you?”

“That, and one last detail. Recommend Taylor undergo a three month psychiatric evaluation following his discharge.”

“What for?”

“Credibility. Years from now, when he decides to write a book slamming the Navy, I want to make sure the world knows that Jonas Taylor was deemed a nutcase by the medical establishment.”

· · ·

The
Maxine D
was underway, her bow rising and falling as it met the onslaught of twenty-five foot waves, the boat racing Typhoon Marian back to Guam.

Alone on deck, Captain Danielson made his way to the
Sea Cliff
, using his flashlight to inspect the damage before the ship’s engineers could get a look back at the naval base.

The seas caused the submersible to teeter, its weight balanced awkwardly on its chassis. Danielson shone his light on the damaged sled, inspecting the back-up batteries and the air tanks.

A fourteen inch section of the reinforced fiberglass housing had been peeled back, leaving a gaping hole.

What the hell could have done that?

He knelt by the assembly, his light revealing a triangular white shape lodged in the tank—an object that clearly didn't belong there. Danielson gripped and twisted it free, sharp serrated edges tearing the flesh of his right palm.

Sweet Jesus…

For a long moment he stared at the object, his bleeding hand cleansed by the rain. Concealing the six inch weapon under his jacket, he walked toward the stern rail.

The ship’s twin propellers churned the dark waters into a trail of foam. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Danielson tossed the white
Megalodon
tooth into the Pacific Ocean, returning it to its rightful owner.

Naval Medical Center
San Diego, California
Two months later…

“THE HEARING WAS A JOKE.
My JAG officer essentially told me my career was over, that the best deal I could make was to accept the dishonorable discharge and complete a three month psychiatric evaluation. I actually felt relieved this morning when I got the note that you finally wanted to see me. Guess I was lucky the hospital was in San Diego. At least my wife can visit.”

“And does she?”

“Does she what?”

“Visit you. It’s been a month. Has she been back since the men in the white suits brought you in?”

“She’s been busy. She just started working weekends at a local television station.”

“Which leaves Monday through Friday.”

“What are you implying?” Lying on the leather sofa, Jonas Taylor sat up and gazed at the psychiatrist. The man had his bare feet propped up on the oak desk, the drab white wall at his back harboring framed diplomas and a few naval photos.

“Implying? Nothing. In fact, it’s common for spouses of dishonorably discharged officers to distance themselves at first. Same thing happens with drunk drivers who kill innocent bystanders. Forgiveness takes time.”

“Now that I think about it, Maggie seemed more upset about me losing my commission than killing those two scientists.”

“Women… Actually though, I was talking about you. I’ve been watching you since you got here. You’re angry. You feel used. Abandoned by the Navy, your brothers-in-arms. You also feel guilty about what happened on the dive. You’re a moral guy. We need to work on that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“For starters, Bo Peep, if you can’t deal with death then don’t herd sheep and for Jesus freakin’ Christ’s sake don’t join the military. No sane person dives the Mariana Trench; those two eggheads knew the risks just as every soldier knows the risk when he enlists. Two guys died on your watch. Deal with it. I’ve been in combat and I’ve killed other human beings. It’s a sucky, clouds-of-doom feeling, and even though it’s true, the whole ‘doing it for God and country’ business still doesn’t heal the wound.”

“What does?”

“Instead of moping around, try doing something nice for a stranger. Help others who are less fortunate than you. You’re staying in a hospital, how about visiting some sick people? There’s an entire ward of kids with cancer here—teach ‘em how to play poker. God will judge you when He’s ready; use the time you have left to give Him as many positives on your resume as you can. At the same time, stop being such an all-American hero patsy. You should have told Danielson and his piss boy, Heller, to take that last dive order and shove it up their asses.”

“Dude, you don’t sound like any shrink I’ve ever met.”

James Mackreides grinned. “That’s because I’m more of a life coach.”

“Hey coach, how come you’re not in any of the family photos on your desk?”

“We’ll discuss that in the EVAC chopper.”

“EVAC chopper?”

“The one on the roof. We’re taking it to tonight’s 49ers-Cowboys game.”

“You have tickets?”

“Hell, no. I figured we’d worry about that after we stole the chopper.”

“Makes sense.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jonas Taylor smiled. Then he followed his new friend and fellow inmate out the door to steal a helicopter.

Now that you've read
Origins
, you're ready to sink your teeth into the first course:

THE BLEEDING WHALE CARCASS
bobbed along the calm surface, its stench overpowering. There were no wounds appearing along its dorsal side, so Jonas grabbed an oar, using it to manipulate the bloated carcass, bobbing it up and down in an attempt to flip it over.

“Lose that oar, it cost you another twenty dollar!”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Okay, Jonas, now what?”

“I need to see the underside of this whale.”

“Yeah? You planning on getting in?” Mac shined his light on the carcass. “Lots of blood in the water, you’d think there’d be sharks.”

Jonas stopped to think about that when something illuminated in Mac’s flashlight beam. “Mac, shine your light near that bleeding wound, that’s it, right there.”

The beacon settled on a triangular white object jammed in between an exposed section of the whale’s ribcage just below the waterline.

“Christ,” said Jonas, “I think that’s a tooth!”

“A tooth? How big did you say this megala thingy was?

“Sixty feet.” Jonas looked around the boat. “Mac, I need something to pry it out with.”

“What am I? Mr. Goodwrench?” Mac opened a toolbox. Removed a hammer and handed it to Jonas. “And don’t drop it, or Happy Harry here will charge me another twenty dollars.”

Jonas leaned over the side, attempting to pry the tooth from the whale’s rib using the back end of the hammer.

Mac grabbed the oar, assisting him.

The tooth flipped high into the air, Jonas leaning out and catching it—

—as an ivory-white jaw, as large as a double garage, gracefully broke the surface along either side of the whale’s remains. Massive teeth, the uppers as wide as dinner plates, clamped down upon the dead humpback… and submerged, taking the entire bloated carcass with it! Mac and Jonas stared at the surface, pie-eyed. Felipe crossed himself.

Seconds later, the whale carcass burst to the surface again, bobbing free.

“Okey dokey,” Mac said, “That’s all the proof I’ll be needing.”

Felipe backed toward the motor and gunned the engine. It flooded, coughing blue smoke, then died. Grabbing the hammer from Jonas, the Philippine native tore off the engine’s hood and proceeded to whack the motor with the hammer, the blows reverberating across the deck.

Jonas yelled, “Felipe… no!”

“Too late.” Mac pointed to starboard where a stark-white dorsal fin was rising as it surfaced, slowly circling the boat.

Jonas felt his throat constrict. “Leaving now would be a really good thing.”

Mac moved toward the engine, pushing Felipe aside as he hurriedly checked the spark plugs. He tried the engine again. It spewed more smoke and died.

The dorsal fin changed course, moving slowly toward the boat. Underwater, the
Meg
’s albino snout grazed the boat’s keel, tasting it—

—jolting it with enough force to knock Jonas and Mac off their feet. Felipe tripped over his crab trap and fell into the water.

Jonas grabbed the oar. Searched for Felipe—

—whose scream was suddenly cut off by an enormous splash.

For a long moment, Mac and Jonas just stared at the surface, waiting. Then Mac hurried back to the engine, grabbed Felipe’s hammer, and started smashing it against the motor as he tried to turn it over—

Miraculously, it started! Grabbing the wheel, he gunned the engine, veering them away from the carcass, steering them toward land.

The shoreline beckoned two miles away.

Mac looked at Jonas, visibly shaken. “Christ, that poor bastard—”

“Uh, Mac?” Jonas pointed behind them.

A twenty-foot-high wake was racing after the boat, an unseen luminous mass pushing it.

· · ·

Get
Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror
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Meg
is part of the Adopt-an-Author Program, an innovative, nationwide, non-profit program gaining attention among educators for its success in motivating tens of thousands of reluctant secondary school students to read.

The program combines fast-paced thrillers with an interactive website and direct contact with the author. All teachers receive curriculum materials and posters for their classrooms. The program is FREE to all secondary school teachers and librarians.

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Go to
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Steve Alten grew up in Philadelphia and holds several degrees, including a Doctorate of Education from Temple University.

His first novel—
Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror
—was written over many late nights and weekends while Steve worked a “real job” to support his family. On Friday the 13th, he lost his “real job,” but four days later landed a two-book publishing deal.