6

Strait of Juan de Fuca, Pacific Ocean

18 Miles Southwest of Port Renfrew

Vancouver Island, British Columbia

The northwest coastline of British Columbia stretches nearly17,000 miles, incorporating countless islands, inlets and bays.  Marine life is abundant in these nutrient-rich waters, which serve as feeding grounds for local and migrating populations of Humpbacks, Orca, Greys, and Minke whales.  For saltwater fishermen, the deep waters off the Queen Charlotte Island (Haida Gwaii, to the Haida Aboriginals) and Vancouver Island are home to Chinook and coho salmon, rockfish, lingcod, and the giant halibut, the major carnivore fish of the Pacific northwest.  Found in the more open waters off Vancouver Island, halibut can weight upwards of two to three hundred pounds, with pregnant females pushing the scale over four hundred.

The fishing charter Bite Me-2  trolls north at three knots just off Sombrio Beach, a cobble-covered coastline rising to mountainous terrain, covered in heavy vegetation.  A dense fog drifts over the cedar-hemlock forest, becoming denser as it moves out to sea.

Heath Shelby tugs on the bill of his San Francisco 49ers baseball cap and buttons his waterproof parka as the morning mist turns to a steady drizzle.  An avid fisherman, the former Associate Vice President of Operations at Enron Corporation has chartered the Bite Me-2  for the week, hoping to land a prize halibut to adorn the office of his new summer getaway in Prince Rupert Sound.  The first two days of fishing have yielded seven forty-pound Chinook and a sixty-three-pound halibut, but the “big catch” had gotten away—a 330 pound beast that snapped his line after an exhausting hour-long struggle.

The rain gets heavier, convincing Shelby to seek shelter inside.

His wife's nephew, Mark Allen, greets him with a fresh cup of coffee.  "Nasty weather, huh?"

"Brilliant observation."

"Captain says it'll probably get worse before it gets better.  Maybe we should head in?  Rachael's getting a little seasick."

Shelby glances inside an adjoining cabin where a slim, green-eyed English beauty is lying on a sofa, nursing a headache.  Mark's fiancée had joined Shelby's excursion earlier that morning, hoping to get in some scuba diving, but after six hours at sea, the schoolteacher from Wolverhampton looks ready to fly back to the United Kingdom.

"Tell her to pop a few more Dramamine."

"Uncle Heath—"

"This is my charter, Mark, and I'm not heading in ‘til we haul in my fish."  Shelby ascends the ladder, climbing up to the flying bridge to speak with the skipper.

Matt Winegar has been fishing in these coastal waters for eight years, ever since retiring from a brief stint in the United States Navy.  Even-tempered and easygoing, it takes a lot to bother the fishing boat captain, but the arrogant Texas millionaire is clearly getting on his nerves.

"So?  Where's my fish?  With all this fancy equipment, I figured you'd have found him by now."

"Her, and I'm doing my best, Mr. Shelby.  A big female like the one you hooked prefers hanging out near piles of rock along the bottom.  We'll kept trolling the Swiftsure Bank between Port Renfrew and Sombrio Beach until we relocate her, but there are no guarantees."

"Damn fishing line . . . I need something heavier this time ‘round."

"I told Michael to switch to the heaviest test we have on board.  Hate to exceed seventy-pound, if we snag we'll never get it off the bottom."

"So we'll cut away and start again.  I don't care what it costs, Captain, I want my fish."

Winegar grits his teeth and grins.  "Yes, sir, we'll do our best."

The rain lightens.  Shelby heads back out on deck, where first mate Michael Rybel is securing a halibut rig to a braided Dracon line.

"Heavy line . . . good.  What bait are you using?"

"Squid lure.  Dogfish tend to stay away from them.  Saves time."

"Is that what you used before?"

"Yes, sir."

Shelby stares at the first mate's left pant leg, now riding up past his calf.  "What is that?  A prosthetic?  You get attacked by a shark or something?"

"Nothing so glamorous."  The electrical engineering major taps his plastic leg.  "I have neurofibromatosis—elephant man's disease.  It's congenital."

"Tough break for you."

"It's not as bad as it sounds, although the dialysis is a pain in the ass.  I have another brace on my—"

"Okay, I don’t need the full medical, let's just get that line back in the water before we lose my fish."

Rybel's retort is interrupted by Winegar, who is calling out from the flying bridge.  "You ready, Mike?  I think she's below."

"About time."  Shelby wipes excess water from the deck-mounted steel fishing chair.

Rybel finishes baiting the hook, then hobbles over to the transom.

The captain shifts the boat into neutral.  The twin engines putter, spewing clouds of blue-gray carbon monoxide.

Shelby covers his mouth, choking on the fumes.  "Come on, before she gets away."

"Big halibut are territorial, bullying the rest away.  She's probably the biggest fish in the area, so she won't be so quick to run."  The first mate releases the tackle over the side, the rig's two-pound lead ball dragging the heavy line below.  "I scented the squid jig, the females tend to like that."  He turns back to the captain.  "Hey skipper, how deep?"

"About one-ninety."

Rybel feels the sinker hit bottom, then reels in five quick turns before anchoring the pole.  "We're set here."

Winegar puts the boat in reverse, trolling backwards to kept the line directly beneath the boat, a maneuver necessary to compensate against the fast-moving waters of the Swiftsure Bank.  "Okay, Mr. Shelby, saddle up.  Let's see if we can't rehook your monster."

*        *        *        *        *

The currents along the Pacific northwest coastline move like powerful rivers as they channel south past the Welker and Bowie Seamounts, driving the deep waters of British Columbia toward the San Juan de Fuca Ridge.

The male carcharodon Megalodon zigzags in and out of the Swiftsure Bank current, tasting its new surroundings.  For weeks the adolescent giant has followed the Alaskan stream, its senses guided by the lingering chemical traces of the female's estrus.  Then, upon entering the nutrient-rich waters of the Gulf of Alaska, the male's testosterone-driven lust had turned to hunger.

Whales, sea elephants, seals, dolphin . . . the Gulf was a thriving ecosystem of marine mammals—a veritable banquet for a hungry Megalodon.  But the young adult had never hunted in surface waters before, and never against such large prey.

The male's first hunting lesson came during a night attack.  Stalking a pod of Grey whales, the Megalodon had attempted to pluck a defenseless calf from the adults.  Instead of feasting, the Meg was forced to flee after being buffeted by the flukes of tow 60,000 pound bulls.

Several more frenzied attempts yielded more failures, forcing the big male to devise a new strategy.

Moving along the western coast of Banks Island, the predator had detected the presence of an elephant seal swimming along the surface.  Instead of a direct assault, the male remained deep, circling its prey from below . . . before launching a stealthy, vertical attack.

Like the Great Whites that stalk the waters off the coast of South Africa, the Megalodon drove straight out of the sea, propelling its entire girth out of the water as it snatched the half-ton elephant seal in one explosive shake-and-toss bite.  Swallowing the mammal's upper torso, the overly cautious male continued to circle the gushing lower torso before finally moving in to finish off its meal.

Lesson learned:  blind attacks were more effective than bull-rushing prey along the surface.

With its newfound knowledge, the male continued its southerly trek along the Pacific northwest coast—a lone wolf picking its way among nervous flocks of sheep.

*        *        *        *        *

The squid dances against the current—a marionette enticing its 330-pound suitor.

The six-foot halibut, a pregnant female, carries over four million fertilized eggs within its bloated ovum.  Hungry, she inhales the bait's scent and eyeballs the lure, growing more and more agitated.

She circles the bait, watching . . . waiting—

*        *        *        *        *

Heath Shelby's heart leaps as the heavy Dacron line sings on the spinning reel.  "Got her—ha!  And this time, she won't get away."

Michael Rybel secures Shelby's harness to the deck-mounted chair.  "Okay, nice and easy.  Just let her run a bit along the bottom, probably doesn't even know she's hooked."

The tension on the rod eases.

Shelby clips the end of the rod to the steel chair, giving his arms a moment's reprieve.

"Okay, Mr. Shelby, let's take her in a bit, slow and steady.  We gotta knock some of the fight out of her."

"We?  You mean me, this is my fish."  Shelby takes up the slack, then leans back with all his weight,  pulling against the immovable object.  Leaning forward again, he rewinds several feet of line, then repeats the maneuver, his entire body shaking from the effort.

"God, what a monster!"

"Stay with her, wear her down a bit, then reel her in again."

"Wear her down?  She's wearing me down!  We need to cleat the line."

"Can't, she's too big.  She'll rip the cleats right out of the boat."

Shelby grimaces, beads of perspiration pouring down his face.  "I can barely hold her."

The skipper shifts out of reverse, moving the boat forward at two knots.

Mark Allen joins them.  "You caught her again, excellent.  Hey, Uncle Heath, you okay?  Your face is purple.  Want me to take—"

"Stay . . . back!"  Shelby tightens his grip on the rod, the veins in his neck popping out like rope.

Rybel moves to the transom, carrying a harpoon with a rope attached to a fluorescent-orange float.  "Get her close to the surface and I'll gaff her."

Shelby pulls and reels, pulls and reels, the weight of the unseen fish actually turning the boat, dragging it backward.  "She's coming up a bit . . . I can feel her weakening!"

*        *        *        *        *

The halibut swims in great looping arcs, twisting and rolling against the invisible force stabbing into its gill, its frenzied fight for survival broadcast across the deep, fast-moving waters of the Swiftsure Bank.

Two miles to the north, the big male changes course, its sensory system drawn to the low-frequency random reverberations like a magnet to steel.

*        *        *        *        *

A cloudburst of rain pelts the deck and sea, the splatter of a trillion droplets rising to cloak all other sound.

Water pours off the soaked bill of the 49ers baseball cap.  Shelby shakes his head, trying to see.  His arms burn from lactic acid, his back and legs tremble from muscular exhaustion.  Still he refuses to give an inch.

The line plays out, the slick pole slipping within his aching grip.

Exhausted but too stubborn to quit, Shelby locks down the tackle and holds on, relying on the strength of the deck-mounted chair to tire his catch.

The line goes taut, the fish unable to run.

Shelby grits his teeth.  Okay, time to haul this bitch in.  Wrapping his elbows around the rod, threading the slack of heavy line around his forearms, Shelby allows the tackle to tighten around the insulated waterproof material of his parka as he leans back, drawing in line with his entire body.

"Got you now, you're not getting away this—"

CRACKKKK!

The line is snagged by a runaway freight train, a titanic force that causes the deck boards to splinter and rupture, spitting free the base of the mounted fishing chair, catapulting the entire assembly, harness, fishing rod, and Heath Shelby, over the transom and into the sea.

*        *        *        *        *

The halibut bursts inside the Megalodon's mouth like a ripe strawberry.

The fishing line threads out a gap between two teeth in the Meg's upper jaw.

The big male swims off, dragging an annoying weight behind it.

*        *        *        *        *

Mark Allen stares dumbfounded at the hole in the deck that, an eye-blink ago, had been his Uncle Heath.

Captain Winegar kills the engines, then half-stumbles, half-jumps down to the splintered deck and leans out over the transom.  For a split-second he sees a wake racing away from the boat before it disappears behind the endless sheets of rain.  Then he remembers his first mate.

"Michael!  Mi-chael!"

Michael Rybel surfaces, blood gushing from a head wound.  "What happened?"

"You were knocked overboard."  Winegar grabs a reach pole and hooks his first mate around the waist, dragging him back to the boat.  With his skipper's help, Rybel pulls himself on board, his body shivering from the cold, then his eyes turn to saucers as he sees the massive hole in the splintered deck.  "Jesus, what could have done that?"

*        *        *        *        *

His reality shattered, Heath Shelby twists and turns within the heavy steel chair as he torpedoes purple-face-first into the bone-numbing blue depths, his bursting lungs screaming at him to release the harness.

Prying his fingers free from the fishing pole, he struggles in vain to loosen the vice-like grip of the line, still entangled around his forearms and clipped to the chair.

Seventy feet . . . eighty . . . the pressure squeezes his ears, his heart pounds in his brain as he continues the rapid 30-degree descent to his grave.

And then he stops moving forward, the pressure on his arms suddenly easing as the fishing line snaps—

—and the weight of the chair takes over, plunging him straight for the bottom.

Shelby gurgles out his last bits of air as he tears at the seat belt, freeing himself from the anchor.

He kicks away the chair, which drops below, disappearing out of sight.

Shelby ascends, the flotation device secured beneath his rain gear guiding him toward an unseen surface.  The former power industry executive pinches his nose, willing himself to hang on.  You're alive . . . it's okay.

He focuses upon the undulating surface, counting the seconds before he can breathe.

Damn charter . . . by the time my lawyers are through with them . . .

The heavenly light rising from below startles him.

A whale . . . you hooked a goddamn Belukha whale . . . sonuvabitch—

The male Megalodon closes to within ten feet of the strange fish, staring at it with its right eye.

Oh, sweet Jesus . . . A burst of adrenaline ignites Heath Shelby's arms and legs, sending him stroking and kicking to the surface like a madman.

The message of distress is universal, the predator's response primordial.

Closed jaws animate open as the great head lurches forward, engulfing a swimming pool of sea, along with the body of Heath Shelby.

Dragged backward into an insanity of blackness, Shelby's tortured mind is too shattered to recognize his own anguished screams as his mangled body is compressed by a puncturing, existence-crushing embrace.