4
Moss Landing, Pacific Ocean
11 Nautical Miles Northwest
Of The Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey Bay, California
The Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary encompasses 5,300-square miles of protected waterways, stretching from the northern coastline of San Francisco clear south to the shores of Cambria. Centrally located within this nutrient-rich habitat is Monterey Bay, a half-moon-shaped body of water, twenty-three miles long, curving inland from Santa Cruz to Monterey.
A diversity of marine life inhabits Monterey Bay. Depending on the season, one can observe pods of Grey Whales, Humpbacks, Northern Right Whales, Orca, Minke, Beaked, and even the magnificent Blue, the largest creature in the sea. Dolphin and porpoise also proliferate these waters, along with elephant seals, the favorite cuisine of the Great White shark.
But look beyond this waterway made famous by John Steinbeck, beyond its eateries and shops and fishing boats and tourists, and one finds an anomaly of underwater geology that is unique in all the world. Hidden beneath the deep blue surface is a near-shore underwater chasm of immense proportions, possessing a complex system of tides, currents, and upwellings that provide nutrients to the entire Monterey Bay exosystem. This is the Monterey Submarine Canyon, a 15-million-year-old dynamic incision of geography that rivals the size and shape of the Grand Canyon.
Most of the planet's continents are bordered by gently sloping shelves whose depths, after several miles, may reach a few hundred feet. Not so the Monterey Canyon. Leap off the old pier at Moss Landing and you are treading water above a submerged gash of rock that can descend a half-mile, dropping as deep as 12,000 feet.
The Monterey Submarine Canyon is not merely a habitat for marine animals, it is a living gorge, oscillating with ebbs and flows. Originally located in the vicinity of Santa Barbara, the entire Monterey Bay region was pushed ninety miles northward over millions of years, carried along the San Andreas fault zone on a section of granite rock, known as the Salinian Block. The canyon itself is a confluence of varying formations; steep and narrow in some places, as wide as a Himalayan valley in others. Sheer vertical walls can drop two miles to a sediment-buried seafloor that dates back to the Pleistocene Age. Closer to shore, twisting chasms, some as deep as 6,000 feet, reach out from the main artery of the crevice like fingers of a groping hand.
While these deepwater channels can be found from Santa Cruz down the coastline to Cambria, nowhere are they closer to land than along a C-shaped section of ravine that begins just off the coastline of Moss Landing. It is at this point that a mere thirty feet of seafloor separates beach from submarine gorge, sunbathers from the nocturnal creatures of the deep.
* * * * *
The 32-foot Albemarle sport fishing boat, Angel-II, follows the Monterey Bay shoreline north, cruising at ten knots.
Former Naval pilot James “Mac” Mackreides cut his speed in half, then wraps two more ice cubes in a paper towel, pressing them against his throbbing left temple. More annoying than the whine and choking exhaust coming from the twin engines is the constant rise and fall of the two-foot swells.
Up and down, up and down . . .
Mac hunches his two-hundred pound frame over the wheel, grinding his teeth as he stares at his hawkish, pale reflection in the console's chrome finish. Gone is the boyish twinkle that usually animates his hazel-gray irises, replaced by dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes and a hangover the size of Mount Rushmore.
Look at you. Older than dirt and twice as ugly.
Mac groans as the dreaded rumbling builds again in his belly.
"Oh, Christ—"
Mac shuts down the engines and hurries below to the head. Dropping down on his knees, he leans over the toilet and retches.
The boat drifts, the swells rocking the vessel beneath him. His equilibrium swimming, he vomits more lava, his inflamed throat on fire, the pain intensifying behind his pounding eyes.
Just take me, God. Stomp out this miserable existence and take me . . .
He gags out the last bit of refuse. Flushes. Reaches over to the sink. Manages to cup a handful of water. Spits, swallows, then lays his aching head against the cool porcelain and passes out.
* * * * *
Angel moves through the pitch-black mid-waters of the Monterey Submarine Canyon, following the steep walls of the C-shaped crevasse.
Millions of years ago, this same California coastline had been a favorite habitat of the Megalodon's ancestors . . . until the seas had turned cold and the whales had altered their migration pattern. Having lost the staple of their diet, the apex predators eventually disappeared, “starved into extinction,” according to the so-called experts.
Like their modern-day cousins, the Great White, Megalodon inhabited all the oceans of the world, proliferating in all depths and in a wide range of temperatures. As big-bodied animals, the monstrous sharks were endowed with the metabolism of a warm-blooded fish. Possessing six gills, the creatures could also ventilate at slower speeds or function in even the most poorly oxygenated waters. A reduction of calcification in the Meg's cartilage and the addition of more water in their muscles allowed for a more positive buoyancy, further reducing energy expenditures.
If ever there was a species designed to adapt and survive, it was carcharodon Megalodon.
Angel follows the contours of the Monterey Canyon's vertical walls, her torpedo-shaped body gliding with slow, snake-like movements. This distinct rhythm is perpetrated by the shark's powerful swimming muscles, attached internally to her cartilaginous vertebral column and externally to her thick skin, the latter providing a firm sheath to compress against. As these flank muscles contract, the Megalodon's caudal fin and aft portion pulls in rhythmic, undulating motions, propelling the shark forward. The immense half-moon-shaped tail provides maximum thrust with minimal drag, the fin's caudal notch, located in the upper lobe, further streamlining water flow.
Stabilizing the Megalodon's forward thrust are her fins, the enormous dorsal, situated atop her back like a seven-foot sail, and her pair of broad pectoral fins, which provide lift and balance like the wings of a passenger airliner. A smaller pair of pelvic fins, a second dorsal, and a tiny anal fin round out the complement.
Moving effortlessly more than a mile below the surface, Angel maneuvers along the contours of a canyon wall otherwise invisible to he naked eye. And yet the predator can “see” everything, her primordial senses tuned to the magnetic variations in the geography, the currents moving along the seabed, and the minute vibrations coming from above. Although she has no external ears, the big female can “hear” sound waves as they strike groups of sensory hair cells located in her inner ear. Carried by the auditory nerve, these “signals” not only allow her to track the precise direction the disturbance originates from.
To the south, Angel “feels” low, percussion-like thumpa-thumpas and a whisper of swishes—the reverberations marking the beating hearts and moving muscles of a distancing pod of Grey whales. Farther inland, a cacophony of surface disturbances magnify into the distinct splashing sounds of dozens of Pacific White-sided dolphins. The alien hum of an outboard motor passes overhead, its electrical field momentarily drawing her attention before she refocuses on the high-pitched clicks coming from a family of Orca.
But it is a series of rapid vibrations—moving closer—that captures her attention.
Hitching a ride on an upwelling of cold nutrient-rich water, the gargantuan female ascends, her hunger building.
Darkness yields to gray. Shadows of movement dance along the edge of her field of vision. Reverberations and the scent of feces taunt her appetite.
Leveling out, she glides over the canyon wall and enters the shallows of the kelp forest—a tiger stalking prey in high grassland.
Harbor seals dart in and out of the kelp curtains, unaware of the female's presence.
Angel accelerates, her crescent tail lashing strands of vegetation in a flurry of movement, shredding them like a weed-whacker. Gray-blue eyes roll back, her humongous jaws spreading open—
—slamming shut upon curtains of plants . . . and a fleeing adult mother seal and her pup.
A dull pop—the adult's skull exploding inside her crushing jowls. Lower teeth buzz-saw the blubbery torso into a sweet fleshy pulp, even as the squealing pup, still alive, slides backward down her tightening gullet like a watermelon seed.
Suddenly alert, the rest of the seals race inland, skimming through the sea toward land like miniature torpedoes.
Angel swallows the morsel of fat, then pushes through the kelp forest in pursuit.
* * * * *
Moss Landing is more blue-collar fishing village than tourist attraction, cluttered with piers and boats, crowded parking lots and warehouses.
Thirty-nine-year-old Patricia Pedrazzoli walks along the shoreline, squinting against the late afternoon haze as she scans the gray horizon. The blue-eyed mortgage broker with the dirty-blond hair checks her watch for the sixth time in the last hour, cursing under her breath. Dammit, Mac, are you ever on time?
Her cousin, Kenneth Hoefer, joins her at the water's edge, handing her a Styrofoam cup of tea. "Diner was out of coffee, can you believe that." He pulls the collar of his windbreaker up past his cheeks. "Face it, cuz, he blew you off again. Why do you put up with this guy?"
"Don't start."
"How long have you and Mac been dating? Two years?"
"Drop it."
"All I'm saying is you deserve better. Unless you're afraid to break up with him."
"Meaning?"
"Knowing Rodney Cotner, I figured he must have threatened you not to upset any applecarts with the Tanaka clan until after Jericho closes the Dietsch Brothers' deal."
"You're sick, you now that. Give me a little credit."
"Fine, shoot the messenger, but I'm not the one who was supposed to meet you here two hours ago."
"Mac probably just got hung up at the Institute."
"More like hung over. Wake up and smell the vodka, Patricia, the guy's a loser."
"Not that it's any of your business, Kenneth, but Mac's had a rough childhood."
"Who hasn't?"
"Mac's father committed suicide on his tenth birthday. Uncle Johnny ever pull that number on you?"
Ken half-shrugs an apology. "Look, it's not like I don't like the guy, I'm just looking out for your best . . ." He pauses, his eyes searching the horizon. "Hey, isn't that Mac's boat?"
"The Angel-II drifts north, seventy-five yards off shore.
"Mac!"
"He'll never hear you with his head in the toilet."
"Shut up." Patricia strips off her seat suit, revealing her black string bikini.
"What are you doing? You're not swimming out to him?"
"The boat's drifting, he could be in trouble."
"Relax. He's probably just drunk."
Ignoring him, she wades in up to her knees, acclimating to the cool water.
Ken calls after her, "While you're at it, why don't you bring him lunch too?"
She washes handsful of water over her shoulders. "Hey, Mackreides, get your ass on deck!"
Still no response.
Maybe he really is hurt? Making up her mind, she dives beneath an incoming wave, then pauses in chest-deep water to reposition her bikini top. Head out of the water, she begins swimming.
Ken watches her, shaking his head. "I really have to fix her up with someone." He collects her clothes and heads back to the pier.
A strong swimmer, Patricia is now beyond the breaking waves, a good forty yards off shore. Halfway there . . . keep going—
A dark object passes beneath her, then another. She stops swimming and looks down, her heart racing.
Seals? Wow, I must be out pretty deep.
A wave of adrenaline courses through her body, followed by a cold shudder.
Maybe you should go back?
She looks up at the Angel-II. The boat has drifted inland, its bobbing transom tantalizingly close.
She starts swimming again.
A dozen more seals dart past her underwater and surface, their honking calls of warning fading behind her back.
Plunging her head beneath the surf, she sprints the last thirty yards, then, huffing and puffing, treads water by the dormant twin engines, pausing to urinate.
* * * * *
Attracted by Patricia's churning legs and rapid pulse, Angel breaks off from the seals and circles back. Two hundred feet below the surface, the Meg glides silently beneath the hull of the boat, inhaling the pungent scent of urine, her senses locking on to her intended prey.
* * * * *
Patricia lets out an “ohh” as a swirling undercurrent spins her away from the stern. Stroking back toward the boat, she pulls herself up the aluminum ladder—
—as the Angel II 's stern suddenly lifts three feet out of the water, sending Tricia sprawling face first across the tilting deck.
The boat slams back against the sea with a resounding splat.
"What the hell?" Patricia regains her feet and looks out over the rail.
A fishing trawler chugs past the Angel-II, unleashing its six-foot wakes. "Damn fishermen."
She pulls her hair back, squeezes out the excess water, then heads inside to find Mac—
—never seeing the surfacing ivory-white glow, or the mouth that briefly wraps around the outboard motor, tasting its faint electrical field.
* * * * *
Chemical detectors within the Megalodon's mouth confirm the surfaced animal is not edible. Sensory-cell hairs embedded in Angel's lateral line report the seals have fled the killing field.
With no other prey close by, the big female moves into deeper water, but continues to circle back at the strange yet familiar object . . . her hunger building.
* * * * *
Tanaka Lagoon
Monterey Bay, California
The aquarium's subterranean viewing area is a dark, enclosed chamber located two stories below the main level at the southernmost end of the tank.
Masao Tanaka enters the watertight area, his face illuminated green as he gazes out the fifteen-foot-high, six-inch-thick Lexan bay windows. In this private viewing room he has entertained two U.S. presidents, a Chinese premier, dozens of senators, six California congressmen, a governor, countless Hollywood stars, and reporters and photographers from almost every major publication in the United States and abroad. All had experienced the same shortness of breath, tingling bladders, racing pulses, and wide-eyed expressions of fright and delight as they witnessed his captive thirty-five-ton monster devour her daily sides of beef.
Masao gazes into the underwater pen, the chamber's air heavy with mildew, its silence interrupted by the occasional echo of dripping. The once azure-clear tank is tinged olive-green, the viewing window is heavily blotched with algae.
Drains must be clogged again.
Masao checks the clock on his beeper. The Operations Manager at the Monterey Bay Aquarium will arrive for a preliminary visit in twelve hours, and the place looks like Hell.
Of all time for Mac to be off. He contemplates calling him on his cell phone, then decides against it. Haven't paid the man in three months. Better handle this myself.
Masao leaves the viewing area, then follows the subterranean corridor a quarter of the way around until he reaches the Mechanical Room. Keying the bolt, he tugs open the rusted steel door with both hands and enters, his senses immediately greeted by the heavy scent of chlorine and the ear-throbbing hum pulsating from several giant generators tucked behind a maze of corroded pipes.
Been years since I've been in here . . . what a mess. Should have never relied on Mac to maintain things. Be lucky to sell this equipment for scrap.
He locates the control panel and searches for the switches that power the lagoon's filtration system. Flips a switch.
Nothing.
His memory failing, he tries a half-dozen more switches until he happens upon the right one. The twin generators chortle as they shut down, choking off the filtration system.
The deep humming stops, replaced by a chorus of drips.
Masao leaves the Mechanical Room and heads for the equipment shack. He strips down, then removes a medium-size wet suit from a hook and pulls it on. Selects an air tank from a rack. Verifies it is full. Secures the tank within a buoyancy control vest, then grabs fins, a mask, weight belt, and an underwater catch-bag, which resembles a tightly meshed fishnet.
He hoists the tank and vest over his shoulder—
"—ughhh . . ." The stabbing chest pain forces him down on one knee.
Reaching for his pile of clothing, he fumbles inside a pant pocket, retrieving the bottle of white pills.
Struggles to free the child-proof cap. Hurriedly slips a saccharine-sized nitroglycerine tablet beneath his tongue.
The chest pain eases.
Stay calm. Probably just indigestion.
He rests another ten minutes, then feeling better, grabs his gear, unaware the a blood clot has formed on top of the plaque lining one of his coronary arteries.
The old man lumbers up two flights of concrete steps to the arena . . . and that's when he hears it, the unmistakable sound of voodoo drums, the baritone pounding coming from a dozen of the lagoon's underwater speakers.
Old fool. Must've hit Angel's dinner bells by mistake.
Annoyed at himself, he scans the gray, late afternoon horizon, contemplating his next move. Ah, just leave it on. Have to go back downstairs to turn the filters on again later anyway.
He twists open the air tank valve, checks his regulator, then begins pulling on gear.
* * * * *
"Mac?"
Patricia heads below, bypassing the guest quarters for Mac's cabin. She finds him inside, leaning over the sink, pale and unshaven. The room reeks of vomited alcohol.
"Mac?"
"Tricia . . . Christ, how did you—"
"I've been waiting for you for two hours. What the hell happened to you?"
"Don't know. Long night, I guess. Give me a few minutes, okay."
"I'll make some coffee."
"Yeah, coffee. Just pour it into my eyes."
She leaves him. Heads to the tiny galley—"
—and confronts the girl.
Drop-dead gorgeous. Long, wavy, peroxide-blond hair down to her tailbone. Pierced belly button. Tattoo of a hammerhead shark around her ankle.
Stark naked.
"Hi. I bet you're Tricia. Mac mumbled your name last night. I thought it was sweet."
Patricia stares at her, openmouthed, the blood draining from her face. "And who the hell are you?"
"Tameka Miller. Mac and I met last night at a surfing competition. Don't worry, I'm not into that whole dating thing. It was just casual sex."
"How lucky for me."
Mac stumbles into the corridor, dead-man-walking. "Oh . . . shit—"
"Yeah, oh shit." Patricia's right fist strikes his left eye in mid-sentence.
Mac falls backward, knocking over the coffeepot. "Oww, dammit Trish, if you'd let me explain—"
"Bastard! I've wasted two years of my life on you."
He rubs his eye, his brain still clicking on half-cylinders. "Look, I'm sorry. You deserve better, okay. It's just . . . I'm not ready to get hitched."
"So you slept with Miss Teenage California?"
"For your information, I'll be twenty-two in March."
"Shut up." Patricia leaves, stalking out on deck.
"Trish, wait!" Mac pulls himself up the steps into the blinding daylight. "Can we please talk about this?"
"Go to hell." She steps onto the transom and dives overboard, the beach a quarter mile away.
* * * * *
Masao climbs over the five foot concrete seawall and down a portable aluminum ladder into the lagoon, balancing against the lower rungs while he secures the diving mask to his face. Fixing the regulator in his mouth, he sucks in a few breaths, grabs the handle of the fishnet garbage bag in his left hand, then kicks away.
Filled with air, the buoyancy vest keeps him bobbing along the surface. Looking up, he sees Atti hosing down the ten-foot-high Plexiglas panels positioned above the lagoon's southern seawall. Despite poor wages and the challenges of cerebral palsy, the girl dutifully washes the glass every Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday, sweeping sand out of the arena on Mondays and Thursdays. Wednesdays and Saturdays are reserved for physical therapy, or Atti would be at the Institute all week long.
Masao returns her wave, then reaches for the length of hose running out of the BC vest, feeling for the exhaust valve. Pressing the deflator button, he releases a burst of air, the action sending him sinking feet-first into the olive green waters of the man-made lagoon.
The sound of drums pulsates in his ears. Ignoring the impulse to climb out and shut off the speakers, he continues sinking, pinching his nose to pressurize as he plummets seventy feet to the murky bottom.
The steel grating that marks the main drain is twenty feet wide, running the entire width of the tank. Masao hovers above the grate, now choked with kelp, dead fish, and garbage. The carcass of a sea turtle floats in the periphery, one of its claws caught in the drain.
The baritone thumping pounds his bones, his pulse dancing in rhythm to the beat. He looks around nervously, then smiles at his own paranoia. She's long gone, old man. Ghosts can't hurt you.
Holding the refuse bag in his left hand, he begins pulling clumps of kelp away from the grating with his right, shoving the debris deep into the netting.
* * * * *
Maintaining her head above water, Patricia Pedrazzoli strokes harder, her seething anger powering her muscles through the surf, the cold Pacific no longer a second thought.
Bastard . . . Kenneth was right. I should've dumped his ass long ago—
She never notices the glow that shadows her eighty feet beneath the surface, a glow that turns the royal blue sea jade green, but she does register the annoying disturbance to her right.
"Tricia—shark! Shark, Trish . . . it's a Meg!"
She stops swimming, her heart pounding in her chest. Panting, she treads water as she looks around.
The Angel-II putters in neutral twenty feet to her right. Mac leans over the rail, shielding his eyes against the water's reflective glare, failing to hide his boyish smile. "Sorry, I, uh, I just needed to get your attention."
"Asshole."
"I am an asshole, but hey, I'm a sorry asshole. At least let me take you in. You can blacken my other eye if you'd like."
"I'd rather swim with the Megs." She ducks her head and continues swimming.
* * * * *
Angel circles below, inhaling the sea, her brain processing detailed chemical information about the amino acids in Patricia's urine, the oil on her skin, the scent of her recent menstrual cycle . . .
The fish rises to feed.
And then the Megalodon detects another stimulus, a distinct baritone pulsating reverberation that tantalizes the female's primordial senses and stabs at her brain.
Thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . .
Angel shakes her head from side to side, unable to block out the vibrations.
Unlike most fish, large predatory sharks like carcharodon Megalodon possess complex brains—control centers for the most elaborate sensory system Nature ever devised. Auditory, visual, olfactory, chemical, and electro-sensory input are processed by the animal's midbrain, cerebellum, and hindbrain, as well as ten percent of the forebrain. The rest of the enormous cerebrum is devoted to learning and memory.
It was memory that guided Angel back to the waters of her birth. Now, it is the memory of a behavior learned long ago that forces her to refocus her senses.
Thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . .
Ignoring Patricia, Angel returns to the depths of the canyon, the vibrations intensifying as she glides closer to the face of the canyon. She follows the deepwater ravine to the south, chasing after the familiar stimulus like a 40-ton Pavlovian dog.
Thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . . thumpa . . .
A branch of the gorge twists to the east. The monster follows it, her pulse pounding in rhythm to the voodoo drums, the dinner bells of her youth delivering her through the submerged concrete walls and into the Tanaka Lagoon's ocean-access canal.
* * * * *
Masao avoids touching the dead sea turtle as he shoves another handful of kelp into the net-bag, now filled to capacity. He checks his air gauge, then looks back at the thin trail he has cleared through the muck. This could take all night. Tightening the bag's ties, he reaches for the buoyancy control device to surface—
—then freezes, his chest suddenly constricting, his breath cut short as his eyes focus on the ghostly conical head moving toward him from out of the olive mist.
The awful peppered snout.
The mouth, parted in a devil's slit of a smile.
The streamline form. The incredible girth—so massive it creates its own current as it moves.
Angel . . .
Masao's skin itches until it burns, his muscles tensing as if electrified. He bites through his regulator and squeezes his tingling bladder tighter but does not move, despite the internal vise rapidly tightening around his chest cavity.
Angel looks through him with her gray hole of a right eye, then moves effortlessly past him, dwarfing him like a blimp. Enormous gill slits flutter in Masao's vision, followed by the right pectoral fin, which sweeps by like the wing of a 737 airliner.
The flow of water generated by the creature's mass lifts Masao away from the bottom, flipping him head over fins and around again. The monster's caudal fin, two stories high, swats him sideways and out of its wake like a bug.
The turtle drifts free, its shell smacking him in the face mask. He pushes the dead animal aside and stares, wide-eyed and petrified, as Angel approaches the southern end of the tank and the underwater viewing area.
The Meg rises, poking her colossal head topside to look around.
The drums . . . she thinks it's feeding time.
Another wave of pain grips his chest, doubling him over.
* * * * *
Atti Holman hoses down another salt-stained section of Plexiglas, then squeegees the surface using her good left hand, guiding it with her helper right.
And suddenly she is stumbling backward, falling against the concrete base of the rusted steel A-frame as an abominable alabaster head rises from out of the olive green water on the other side of the partition.
Her body rigid in fear, Atti can only gasp at the brute, its parted lower jaw opening and closing as if talking, revealing the tips of its gruesome seven-inch teeth.
The girl stays on her back, too petrified to move.
* * * * *
Masao remains curled up in a ball, fifty feet from the surface, a million miles from safety. Intense pain rakes his body, his chest feeling as if an elephant is sitting on it. The ache radiates into his back and neck, down his arms and into his jaw. He struggles to gasp air form his regulator as his ischemic heart, deprived of oxygen from the clot, stifles the flow of blood through his coronary artery. The rhythm of the organ has become irregular, the ventricular fibrillation causing his heart to quiver, preventing the muscle from pumping blood to his brain.
Through his agony he sees the behemoth prehistoric Great White sink beneath the surface and turn, her immense nostrils inspecting the waters of the tank.
The Megalodon's sensory array feeds her information. The fish moves slowly toward Masao, seeing him as if for the first time.
A thousand daggers seem to prick the old man's flesh, his wounded heart convulsing in agony as he prays to die faster.
Angel's lower jaw unhinges as she moves closer . . . closer—
Splash!
The metal bucket skims past Angel's snout, generating no interest.
The predator turns back to her prey.
Her senses search the south end of the tank, but the electrical stimulus has ceased.
Confused, the leviathan circles twice—
—then visually relocates her prey, her meal floating just above the murky tank bottom.
The devil's vacuous mouth opens, its gums and upper rows of teeth lurching forward—
Chomp!
Angel engulfs the rancid turtle, crushing its shell like a walnut—
—never noticing the old man's body, hovering facedown along the debris-covered grating.
Still hungry, the creature makes her way out of the lagoon and through the ocean-access canal. Pushing past the open doors, she returns to the sanctuary of the Monterey Submarine Canyon.
The old man's body convulses one last time within the entanglement of kelp.
Masao Tanaka is dead.