OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

 

The lifeless form of the female Megalodon descended tail-first, her glow disappearing into the black waters of the Monterey Bay Canyon.  Trapped between its jaws, the AG I's seven-foot-long escape pod remained wedged in triangular prison bars, its condemned man losing sight of the surface.  Jonas glanced quickly at his depth gauge.  Eleven hundred feet and sinking fast.

He had to free up the pod.  Assuming a push-up situation, Jonas launched his frame upward, slamming his back against the interior of the sub.   The pod shuddered against the fangs of the monster, the vessel sliding a good six inches farther out of the jaws of death.  Encouraged, Jonas smashed upward again, and again, each time slipping the pod a little bit closer to freedom.

At last, with a terrible scrape of bone on bulletproof plastic, the escape pod popped free from the death grip of the Megalodon and rose like a helium balloon toward the surface.

Jonas breathed an enormous sigh of relief.  The pod would rise at a rate of sixty feet per minute, allowing for proper decompression.

Then he saw the cracks begin to spread, water seeping through the damaged shell of the escape pod.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

Mac could swim no farther.  Unable to catch his breath, his legs numb, he sensed the creature circling, felt the current generated by its mass before actually spotting the three-foot triangular dorsal fin.

"Get the hell out of here, you midget," he yelled at the thirteen-foot predator.  The caudal fin slashed back and forth along the surface even as the harness dropped upon Mac's head from above.

Startled, Mac looked up to see the Navy helicopter.  He slipped one arm into the harness and frantically signaled the crew to pull him out of the water.  The conical head of the shark rose out of the sea just as the pilot was yanked upward.

Mac looked at his rescuers, a smile on his face, tears welling in his eyes.  "Well, what do you know—the good ol' U.S. Navy.  I can't believe it!"  Saving my sorry ass after all these years."  He shook his head.  "Lord, you do have a sense of humor after all."

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

The Lexan torpedo continued rising, the integrity of the escape pod in serious jeopardy.  At five hundred and thirty-eight feet, what had been a tiny crack suddenly lengthened above Jonas's head.  Physically and mentally drained, he could only watch as the six-inch-long crack began circling the circumference of the cylinder.

The satanical face of the Megalodon continued sinking into the canyon below.  Jonas watched as the glow diminished, then disappeared entirely into darkness.  He had escaped certain death twice.  But to survive this day, he needed one more miracle.

Pressure.  Oxygen.  Pressure and oxygen.  The all-consuming mantra entered his mind.  For some reason the pod was rising at too fast a pace.  Within his bloodstream, Jonas knew, nitrogen bubbles were beginning to form.

Four hundred feet.  The seven-foot-long Lexan tube continued to hurtle upward like a glass missile.  The cracks within the plastic had branched out into several different sections.  A fine spray of water soaked the interior of the pod.  Jonas knew that when the crack completely encircled the escape pod, the integrity of the structure would collapse under the tremendous pressures.

CRAAAACK.  Only three feet separated the ends of the fissure.  Anxious, Jonas began calculating.  How deep was my last dive?  What was the maximum depth he could tolerate?  One hundred and twenty feet?  One-thirty?  He checked the oxygen tank still strapped around his chest.  Not good news:  less than three minutes of air remained.

At three hundred feet, the torpedo-shaped pod began vibrating.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

"Terry, get out of the damn water now!" screamed DeMarco.

Terry ignored him, her face down in the water, breathing through the snorkel.  The Megalodon was dead, that she knew.  But her heart told her that Jonas had survived.  She watched as the white glow disappeared.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

André Dupont sat on the transom as Leon Barre and the trawler's captain disassembled one of the engines.  André felt dazed and depressed.  All his efforts to save the creature—the lobbying, the expense—all for naught.  The greatest predator of all time . . . lost.

"I could have died today," he whispered to himself.  "For what?  To save my killer?  What would the Society tell my wife and children?  'Ah, Marie, you should be a proud widow.  André died in the most noble of fashions, giving his life to feed an endangered species'."

Dupont stood, stretching his sore back.  The setting sun still shone strong enough to warm his skin.  He watched the golden-yellow beam blaze a path from the horizon across the dark Pacific to the trawler.  That was when he sighted the fin.

"Hey!  Hey . . .  Shark!  SHARK!"

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

The bone-chilling water of the Pacific continued to fill the escape pod, the additional weight slowing the ascent significantly.  Jonas shivered in his wet suit.  He was afraid to move.  He glanced at the depth gauge:  two hundred feet.  The fissure had completed its journey around the circumference of the vessel.  The vibrations were reaching a fever pitch, exterior pressures encouraging cracks in the damaged chamber.  He looked up, still unable to see the surface.  At this depth, if the escape pod split open he would not survive.

Carefully, he donned his mask and prepared the regularor.  He strapped the oxygen tank across his chest with the Velcro fasteners.  Slow movements, he reminded himself.  Don't panic.  Force yourself to relax.  Slow-kick to the surface.  The empty tank will tow you topside.  Use as little energy as possible.  Don't close your eyes.  Don't fall asleep, or you'll never wake up.

CRAAAACK.

I'm too deep . . .

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

He three-foot fin circled the fishing trawler.  Eleven men as one screamed for Terry to get out of the water.

"That's a great white, no doubt," said Steve Tabor.  "Looks like a female, maybe thirteen feet.  She's attracted by all that blood.  We gotta get Terry out of the water fast."

The trawler's captain went below and returned with a shotgun.  The dorsal fin circled the girl.  The captain took aim.

Terry disappeared below the waves.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

At one hundred and forty-two feet, the escape pod cracked open, showering Jonas with freezing seawater and crushing him with the pressure of more than four atmospheres.  His nose began bleeding as he pushed his way out of the hatch.  His faceplate cracked.

His legs began scissors-kicking.  The air tank was pulling him up rapidly . . . too fast!  He wasn't decompressing properly.  Jonas stopped kicking.

Eighty feet.  His body was like lead, no longer moving.  The oxygen tank, barely strapped to his chest, had expelled nearly all of its air.  Now its extreme buoyancy accelerated him upward at a dangerous pace.  Jonas gazed through heavy eyes at the Velcro strap straining to hold the tank to his chest.  Watched as it began tearing away.  He tried to reattach it, but his arms were no longer his to control.

At fifty-eight feet, Jonas ran out of air.  The two ends of the Velcro separated.  The empty tank rocketed away from his chest, sailing high above his head.  Jonas closed his eyes and bit hard into the regulator.  Since he could not reach the tank with his hands, he struggled to maintain the connection to the buoyant canister with his teeth.  He felt drunk.

At thirty-three feet, Jonas blacked out.  The regulator slipped from his mouth.  The tank escaped to the surface.

Jonas felt nothing, no pain, no fear.  I'm dreaming.  He looked up and saw a bright light.  He was flying, moving toward the light without his body, no more pain, no more fear.

I'm in heaven.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

Terry Tanaka grabbed Jonas's wrist just as his body began slipping back into the abyss.  She kicked hard, pulling water with her left hand.  To her right, the shark circled above her.  She swam harder.

As her face broke the surface, Terry pulled Jonas's head out of the ocean.  He was blue, no sign of breathing.  She saw the dorsal fin eight feet away, accelerating toward her as the triangular snout broke water.

The fishing net arced through the air, its lead weights dropping it around and beneath the predator.  The creature twisted, attempting to escape, but the big fisherman had pulled the net taut.  The shark was trapped.

Terry pulled Jonas to the boat.  A dozen hands dragged them on board.  David Adashek began resuscitating him.  DeMarco wrapped him in blankets, feeling for a pulse.  Yes, but very weak.

Jonas coughed up water.  Adashek rolled him onto his side, allowing him to expel the seawater and vomit.  Terry bent over him, massaging his neck.  Exhausted, Jonas squinted against the golden sunlight of dusk.

"Try not to move," she said, stroking his hair.  "The Coast Guard's on the way.  They're going to tow us into the lagoon.  We have a recompression chamber on site at the Institute."  She smiled at him, tears in her eyes.

Jonas looked at her beautiful face, smiling through the pain.  I am in heaven, he thought.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

The shark thrashed back and forth within the fishing net, five feet below the surface, unable to free itself.  André Dupont followed the captain throughout the boat, attempting to reason with him.

"Captain, you can't kill it," yelled Dupont.  "It's a protected species!"

"Look at my boat.  She's busted up.  I'll kill this fish, stuff it, and sell it to some tourist from New York for twenty thousand.  You gonna give me that much, Frenchy?"

Dupont rolled his eyes.  "Harm that shark, and you're going to prison!"

The captain's response was interrupted by the Coast Guard.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

The 110-foot Coast Guard patrol boat Manitou arrived and tossed a towline to the disabled fishing trawler.  Leon Barre attached it to the ship's bow.   Within seconds, the line went taut, and the trawler was in tow behind the ship, heading into the Tanaka Lagoon.  The two-thousand-pound predator continued thrashing within the net.

The massive doors separating the Monterey Bay Sanctuary from the lagoon had been left open for the Kiku.  The Manitou entered the entrance to the canal.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

Jonas was leaning against the transom when the sharp pains began in his elbows.  Within seconds, every joing was on fire, stabbing pains running throughout his body.

Terry grabbed him.  "Jonas, what is it?"

"Bends.  How far?"

They had entered the lagoon, the Coast Guard towing the fishing trawler toward the dock, situated at the north side of the artificial lake.

"A few minutes.  Lean against the transom.  I'm going to make sure they have an ambulance at the dock."

Jonas nodded.

The pain began increasing; he felt dizzy, nauseous.  His joints felt as if the Megalodon's teeth were biting down.  Opening his eyes, he focused on the great white being towed along the left side of the stern.

Masao Tanaka was waiting at the dock in a wheelchair, his head heavily bandaged, an orderly by his side.  Mac was there, along with a team of paramedics standing ready to rush Jonas into the recompression chamber.

Terry saw her father and ran to the bow.  She waved.  Tears of joy flowed down Masao's cheeks.

 

*        *        *        *        *

 

Jonas leaned back against the transom, doubling again in pain.  He could feel himself beginning to lose consciousness.  He tried to focus on the predator in the water.  She was struggling fiercely, twisting within the confines of the fishing net.  Her white hide cast a soft glow in the growing dusk.

For a brief moment, man and beast made eye contact.  The creature's eyes were blue-gray.  Jonas stared incredulously at the baby Megalodon.  He closed his eyes and smiled.  And then the pain became overwhelming and the paleontologist lost consciousness as the two paramedics loaded him into the ambulance.