10
Arafura Sea
27 Nautical Miles Southwest of Papua, New Guinea
The Spanish galleon, Neptune, sails north through the Arafura Sea, a shallow body of water that lies between the Timor and Coral seas, separating Australia from the western territory of New Guinea.
Jonas Taylor is on the upper walkway, leaning against the rail, absorbed by the leaping antics of a pod of Dusky dolphins frolicking in the ship's bow wake. Breathing deeply, he inhales lungfuls of refreshing salt air. Closing his eyes, he listens to the soothing sound of heavy canvas flapping all around him.
A gust of wind whips his graying bangs away from his forehead. He opens his eyes again, gazing out to sea at the shrinking orange fireball that bleeds the western horizon a tapestry of reds and violets. He feels the wood as it creaks beneath his feet, he hears the ropes as they strain to hold the sails. He registers the power of the wind as it pushes against the sheets, luxuriating in the quiet roar of the ocean as it seeps into his restless soul.
God, I've missed this. All the stress, all the worries, all the bills and arguments and crap that consume my daily life . . . all so insignificant when compared to the sea.
"God, I hate this!"
His moment of zen shattered, Jonas turns to find his daughter staggering toward him, her face as pale as a ghost. "I'm sick. I wanna go home."
"You just haven't gotten you sea legs yet. Did you take the Dramamine like I told you to?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't feel like it, oaky? Stop asking me questions, I'm going to puke."
"Try focusing on the horizon."
"I can't." She sits by his feet, her head in her hands.
"Dani—"
"Dad, can you just leave me alone?"
Jonas bites his tongue, then closes his eyes. He inhales the mist. Listens to the sounds of heavy canvas and the groan of the planks. Feels the salty kiss of the ocean in his face—
—and the nauseating hot burst of bile as his daughter vomits all over his feet.
* * * * *
East Sooke Regional Park
Vancouver, British Columbia
East Sooke Regional Park, located twenty-one miles west of Victoria, encompasses more than 3,500 acres of preserved coastal landscape and wilderness. Once home to the T'Sou-kees Indians, the land itself is composed of Metchosin volcanic basalt rock dating back some 50 million years.
Manuel Quimper, a Spaniard, would become the first European to sail into Sooke Inlet, but by 1795 all the islands and lands north of the Strait of Juan de Fuca had fallen under British rule, with Vancouver Island being granted to the Hudson Bay Company.
* * * * *
Though he has spent most of his life in the States, Joshua Bunkofske knows all about East Sooke's history. His great-grandfather, William Bunkofske, was one of the first Europeans to seek work on the island's docks in Fort Victoria, back when the tall sailing ships ran supplies up and down the Strait. The sea is in the twenty-nine-year-old scientist's blood, at least that's the story he tells the female interns back at the Bamfield Marine Station.
The marine biologist slows his jeep Cherokee at the checkpoint and flashes his identification to a Park Ranger. Waved on, he continues west, following the access road to the Pike Road parking lot adjacent to the Sooke Inlet.
Three more weeks until my contract expires, and still no offers. Knew I should have never left the States to take the Bamfield gig. Too remote. Once they label you a Canuck, that's it, you'll always be the wilderness guy. Sorry Bunkofske, we were looking for someone with more hands-on animal experience, not a lab tech . . .
The normally occupied Pike Road lot is vacant, save for a dozen vehicles belonging to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and a Channel 7 news van. Joshua parks, then sees two police officers physically escort a female reporter and her cameraman back to their truck.
"Wait . . . Officer, at least tell us why the whale rescues have stopped."
"Again, no comment, now move along."
The woman turns, spotting Joshua as he exits the Jeep. "You . . . who are you? Some kind of cetacean expert?"
She's cute, get her number. "Well, miss, actually my—"
The police officer steps between them. "All right, lady, that's enough. Now you either follow our escort out of the park or we'll arrest you."
"Just tell me why he's allowed in the park but we're not? Okay, okay, I'm going!"
Joshua shows his identification to another officer, watching as the woman is herded back to her vehicle. God, I miss California. If I date one more woman with hairy legs, I think I'll—
"The lab guy, huh?"
"Marine biologist."
"Whatever. Follow the foot trail south, it'll lead you to the beach at Pike Point. You're looking for Commander Steve Sutera. He's with the West Coast Marine Detachment."
"The Marine Detachment? Exactly what's going on here?"
The Staff Sergeant shoots him an aggravated look. "Sir, I'm a non-commissioned officer, which means they don't pay me enough to know. Now do you need an escort too?"
"I'll manage." Joshua double-times it down the trail, wondering what he has gotten himself into.
The footpath is actually an old logging road. Twenty minutes of level ground leads to a short downhill stretch, the blue waters of Iron Mine Bay peeking between the upper branches of trees. Stepping out of the woods, Joshua finds himself on a beach more pebble than sand, the Juan de Fuca Strait glistening before him.
Stretched out like logs along the shoreline are dozens of dead whales, their stench overwhelming.
Two men in orange bodysuits and masks are taking samples from what appears to be an open wound along one of the whale's flanks. Others cover carcasses using sheets of heavy gray tarpaulin. The rest of the men, all members of the elite Marine Detachment, huddle in small groups.
Joshua targets Commander Sutera, a tall man with brown curly hair who is giving orders over a walkie-talkie. "I don't care if it's the goddamn prime minister, no one enters this park unless it's cleared with me. And have Justin Lahey secure the airspace over Delta site; Unit Six reports seeing another news chopper heading their way. "Who the hell are you?"
"Bunkofske. Bamfield sent me."
"Don't need a lab tech, I need someone who knows something about marine life."
"Just tell me what the problem is."
Sutera heads toward the beach. "You're familiar with these recent whale strandings?"
"Sure. We had a few in Barclay Sound. It happens."
"Not like this."
"Guess it must be bad if you had to shut down the entire park."
"Not just the park. We've shut down all diving, water sports, and boat traffic in this section of the strait. Announced two hours ago that we've got a bad algae bloom. You familiar with domoic acid?"
"It's a by-product of a phytoplanktom bloom. Originates from the interaction with the eddy at the mouth of the Strait and the Juan de Fuca Submarine Canyon. Nasty stuff. It's destroyed clam and crab revenues, I never imagined it could kill something as large as a whale."
"Pay attention. I never said it was killing the whales, I said that's what we're telling the public. The whales aren't beaching because of a phytoplankton bloom, the damn things are doing it because they're scared out of their skulls . . . at least that's my opinion."
"Scared?" Josh smirks. What is this guy, a cetacean psychiatrist?
"You think I'm joking? What would you call it when you tow an Orca into deep water and the damn thing beats your boat back to the shallows? Know what I call it? A waste of taxpayers' money. Now we just euthanize 'em. Quicker and cleaner. I've got a crane and two dump trucks working 'round the clock removing carcasses."
"How many animals are we talking about?"
"Thirty a day, give or take a few."
"Jesus. I had no idea it was this bad."
"And that's the way we want to keep it. All these strandings are bad for tourism."
"The carcasses, where have you been transporting them to?"
"You don't want to know. Lets just say nothing's going to waste."
"Commander, if you destroy the evidence, how can I possibly find the cause?"
"The cause?" Sutera grimaces. "Oh, we know the cause."
They approach a Humpback whale carcass, its upper torso covered by a tarp, the lower body and fluke stretching out into the bay.
Sutera signals. Two of his men drag away a section of damp canvas.
Joshua shudders.
It is a massive, gushing wound, eight and a half feet high, six feet wide, four to five feet deep. A bloody ring of teeth marks encircle the mortal bite.
"How did this, I mean what on God's Earth could have . . . I mean, yeah, I know what could have done it, but—"
"But nothing. She's back. That damn monster's back, and she's panicking the resident whale populations."
"Incredible." Joshua fights back the nausea, unable to take his eyes from the bleeding wound. "Has anyone actually seen the Megalodon?"
"Not yet. We're keeping a tight lid on everything. If the public learns the monster's returned to these waters, we'd lose half our tourism industry."
Joshua turns away, the smell finally getting to him. Looking past the dead beast's lower torso, he notices the shallows are tinged reddish-brown with whale blood, the surface crisscrossed by a dozen dark dorsal fins.
Finally, a project that might actually get me out of this wilderness. "Okay, Commander, exactly why am I here?"
"You're the closest thing to a Meg expert we could drum up on short notice. We need you to track and kill this monster before she drives all the whales from our coast."
"Kill a magnificent creature like Angel? Not a chance."
"Then just chase her off. I don't give a damn what you do, as long as you get her out of these waters."
"Assuming I'm even interested, how am I supposed to do that?"
"We're dealing with a fish, sonny, albeit a big one. We know where she likes to hunt, we know she feeds at night . . . figure the rest out for yourself."
* * * * *
Arafura Sea
52 Nautical Miles Southwest of Papua New Guinea
The Neptune's galley, located aft of the crew's quarters, takes up most of the forward gundeck. Rows of long wooden tables and their accompanying benches are bolted to the floorboards behind the anchor cable which runs up to the capstan. Electrical replicas of old-fashioned oil lamps hang from posts. Aluminum buffet tables line the far wall next to a serving window connected to the kitchen. Gun port hatches have been propped open, allowing a cool ocean breeze to enter the otherwise claustrophobic environment.
Jonas and his daughter are seated with Erik Hollander and his production staff at one row of tables, the rest of the film crew at another, the Neptune 's hands at a third.
Jonas watches Danielle pick at her plate of chicken and rice. "You still feeling sick?"
"I'm fine."
"Then what's wrong?"
"It's just not what I expected. When you said sailing yacht, I was hoping for something with a Jacuzzi."
"What? You don’t like my ship?"
Dani and Jonas turn, surprised to find the ship's captain standing behind them. "Robert Robertson, captain of the Neptune." The short, rugged looking man with the blond crew cut extends his free hand to Jonas, balancing his dinner tray in the other. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Taylor."
"You too. This is my daughter, Danielle."
"Dani. I hate Danielle."
"I gather the Neptune 's rocking has soured your trip."
"It's giving me a headache."
"It'll get better."
"What if it doesn't?"
"Well, I suppose we can always let you ride out the rest of the voyage on board the Coelacanth."
"What's the Coelacanth? "
"She's the super yacht we'll be rendezvousing with tomorrow, a vessel more to your liking, I'm sure. Whirlpool, sauna, luxury staterooms, king-size beds, even a helo-pad. Best of all, smooth sailing."
"No—" Erik half-gags on a mouthful of food, chasing it quickly with several gulps of juice. "Sorry Dani, the yacht is strictly off-limits. We, uh, use it to film establishing shots of the Neptune, coordinate stunts, that sort of thing. Chopper's reserved for VIPs and emergencies only, you understand. Besides, hey, all the Daredevils'll be on board the Neptune by tomorrow evening, and that is why you came, right?"
Dani looks disappointed. "I guess."
"She'll be fine," Jonas says.
"Course she will." Captain Robertson takes his place at his reserved seat at the head of the table. "Anyway, luxury yachts get boring quick, but how many people get to say they've sailed on a Spanish galleon?"
"I thought this was a replica?"
"From the masts down to her keel, she's identical to the warships that sailed these same waters hundreds of years ago. What you don't realize, what you need to appreciate is the Spanish galleon's unique role in our history of ocean travel."
Danielle wipes her mouth, barely concealing a yawn.
"For two hundred and fifty years, ships like the Neptune sailed the Pacific on year-long voyages, hauling Chinese ivory, gold, and precious jewels back and forth between Acapulco and Manila. Salvage operators are still finding treasure troves from sunken galleons all along the Mariana island chain."
"The Marianas?" Jonas perks up. "Why the Marianas?"
"This islands became a necessary stopover to replenish the ship's fresh water and food supplies, but the area earned a reputation as the graveyard of the galleons. More than forty ships were lost in the Marianas over the centuries, and they only sailed one ship a year, so you can imagine how costly these disasters became. I remember reading about the worst accident, a sinking that took place off Saipan in September 1638. Ship was called the Nuestra Señora de la Concepcion."
"How'd she sink?"
"According to the accident report, there was a mutiny on board. Amid the confusion, the ship foundered in bad weather and was hurled onto a reef. Four hundred people died when she went down, no survivors. Lost cargo must have been valued in the millions."
"If there were no survivors, then how do they know what really caused the accident?"
"Don't know, that's all that was ever filed. We'll actually be retracing the Concepcion' s voyage once we pass Halmahera Island."
Dani grimaces. "Like that's supposed to make me feel better?"
Robertson grins between mouthfuls of food. "No worries. Weather should hold, we've got an experienced crew on board, and I don't anticipate any mutinies."
* * * * *
Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California
The executive suites of the Tanaka Oceanographic Institute are located on the second floor of the three-story office building, situated along the western end of the lagoon's 10,000-seat arena.
The venetian blinds in Masao Tanaka's office have been raised, revealing the sun-drenched waters of the three-quarter-mile-long man-made lagoon. Terry Tanaka is seated behind her father's cherrywood desk, staring at the once Mediterranean-blue waters, now more the color of pond scum.
She presses the phone tighter against her ear as the man's voice comes back on the line.
"Okay, Mrs. Taylor, I've got that estimate for you."
"I'm listening." Terry reaches for a pen.
"To purge the filtration system, replace the leaking generator, and scrub the bottom of the main tank will run you just under twenty-two thousand dollars."
"Twenty-two thousand?" The pen slips from Terry's hand.
"Yes, ma'am. Now that price does not include replacing rusted pipes, gaskets, or other replacement parts. Shall I go ahead and book the lagoon for service?"
"I'll get back to you." She hangs up, on the verge of tears. Can't field any serious offers from aquariums unless the tank's clean, but I can't afford to clean the tank. No wonder Dad was forced to deal with the Dietsch Brothers.
She reaches for the two-way radio. "David, can you hear me?"
David Taylor is one floor up in the control room, testing the circuit board of the master control panel that operates the canal's giant automated steel doors. He raises the radio to his face. "What?"
"Any luck?"
"Yeah, and it's all bad. The control panel's getting juice, but the canal doors still aren't closing. The problem has to be in the underwater relay. I'll grab some scuba gear and check it out."
"No you won't."
"Mother—"
"No diving, David, it's too dangerous."
"It's only eighty feet. Dad and I explored wrecks way deeper than that."
"I said no."
"You're being overprotective again."
"Find another solution."
She clicks off the radio and sits back in her father's chair, curling her knees to her chest.
A dozen photos, framed in white pine, adorn the paneled wall to her right. A grainy black-and-white photo of her mother. A candid shot of Terry, age ten, with her brother, D.J., brother and sister hamming it up on the deck of a research vessel. A photo of Terry in the cockpit of a Cessna. A shot of her scuba diving with a Grey whale.
Terry stares at the last picture, confronted by her own reflection in the glass.
Who was that person? What happened to her?
If one's life is a series of moments, then it is the random ones, the events we never see coming, that often forge the most lasting impressions. A winning lottery ticket, the loss of a child, a huge career break, being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time . . .
The wrong place . . .
Eighteen years have passed since Jonas had rescued Terry from the Benthos, a mobile deep-sea laboratory owned and operated by Geo-Tech founder Benedict Singer. Benedict has designed the massive abyssal habitat in his quest to locate manganese nodules that contained Helium-3, a rare element he believed would allow him to break through the fusion barrier. Tricked into boarding the Benthos, Terry found herself at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, trapped like a rat in a maze, 16,000 pounds of water pressure pressing against the ship's hull, seven miles of ocean above her head. Within this stress-filled environment she had become Benedict's plaything, her psyche his to abuse, her body left to the disposal of a murderous Russian thug named Sergei.
Against all odds she had managed to keep herself alive long enough to be rescued, but the experience had left an enduring impression. Night terrors haunted her sleep as her tortured mind dreamed claustrophobic images bathed in inescapable violence. Therapy and medication were prescribed, but things eventually grew worse, forcing Jonas to allow her doctors to commit her to a sanitarium.
Sixty days in the facility were needed to vanquish the nightmares, but the person who emerged was not the same spirit Jonas had fallen in love with years earlier. The lasting paranoia inflicted by Benedict Singer required severe lifestyle changes in order to cope. No more scuba diving, no more plane trips, no more risks. All activities would become vanilla. Vanilla was safe. Vanilla avoided potential conflicts.
In some ways, Danielle's birth made things worse. Terry transferred her overprotectiveness to her child, attempting to shield her from the seemingly increasing random acts of violence that infected society. School shootings. Kidnappings. Acts of terrorism. Snipers.
How was one expected to have faith when there was so much senseless violence? The world had become a dangerous place, too dangerous to venture out into and enjoy.
Terry knew that her phobias affected Jonas's career choices, but she didn't care. It was only money, after all, they would find a way to get by. She home-schooled Dani, then insisted Jonas sell their heavily-mortgaged estate so they could afford to send their daughter to a private academy.
To make it up to her husband, she agreed to have a second child.
It only takes one random moment to change a life, but it often takes a lifetime to accept the lie. After nearly two decades, Terry had finally grown accustomed to "wearing her new skin." Deep down she knew it was a shaky foundation at best, like building a home on a geological fault line. At some point, the house always collapses.
Staring at her reflection, she feels the tremors of her father's death wearing on her fragile psyche.
Masao's phone rings, causing her to jump. "Terry Taylor."
"Mrs. Taylor, wow, this is a real honor, I can't believe I actually found you."
"Who is this?"
"Sorry. My name's Joshua Bunkofske. I'm an ichthyologist and I—"
"We're not hiring." She hangs up, returning her attention to the next item on her daily "To-Do" list.
The phone rings again. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Taylor, it's Joshua Bunkofske again, please don't hang up."
"Josh, the Institute's not hiring. If you want, you can send us a—"
"Angel's back, Mrs. Taylor. We need your husband's help."
No tremors. She has heard this line dozens of times over the last twenty years.
"Ma'am?"
"Okay, Joshua, I'll play along. Where are you calling from?"
"Vancouver Island. I work at the Marine Station in Bamfield. You know, maybe I should speak with your husband."
"Jonas is out of the country on business. He won't be back for several months."
"Damn."
"Josh, I don't mean to rain on your parade, but the Institute gets hundreds of these so-called Angel sightings. Every one of them turns out to be false."
"This one's real. You've heard about all the whale strandings in the Juan de Fuca Strait?"
"I may have caught a blurb on the news."
"There have been over a hundred just in the last few weeks. What you won't hear is that several of the beached whales had been attacked. We've documented bite marks that could only have been made by an adult Megalodon."
"Joshua, have you ever seen a Megalodon bite mark?"
"Uh, technically no, but—"
"And has anyone actually seen Angel?"
"No, ma'am, but I promise you, it's your shark."
Terry's face flushes with anger. "For the record, Joshua, she's not my shark, and I seriously doubt Angel's returned from the Mariana Trench. The attack could have come from a pod of Orca. They do feed on whales, too, you know."
"But, not on each other. We found several Orca among the dead. Look, Mrs. Taylor, I'll admit Megalodon attacks aren't exactly my line of expertise, heck, I was only eleven when Angel escaped. But since you're familiar with a Megalodon's bite print, maybe I could get you to fly up here and give us your opinion on the wounds we've already documented."
"I don't know . . ."
"Mrs. Taylor, if this is Angel, then we have to do something quickly, before she attacks a boater, or worse. The Marine Detachment needs you. Tell us what it'll cost to fly you up for the day and it's yours."
"How about twenty-two thousand dollars?"
Nervous laughter. "You're kidding, right?"
"Three thousand a day, plus expenses, that's the Institute's standard fee for a job like this. And that's American dollars, Joshua, cash up front."
"Hold the line."
Terry waits, her impatience growing. This is where they always separated the pranksters from the serious inquiries, or, as her father used to say, the buyers from the liars.
Joshua gets back on the line. "Okay, Mrs. Taylor, you have a deal. There'll be an open ticket in your name waiting for you at the American Airlines counter in San Francisco. Next flight out leaves in three hours. You'll fly into Seattle, then we'll have a private plane waiting to take you on to Victoria."
Terry's pulse quickens. "Who else knows about this?"
"No one, and the CO in charge wants to keep it that way."
She taps her fingers nervously on the desktop.
"Ma'am?"
She stares at the photograph of herself scuba diving. Time to choose. Which Terry do you want to be?
"Mrs. Taylor, you still there?"
"Yes, I'm here. I'll be on the next flight up."