26

Westport Marina

Grays Harbor, Washington

The Cape Calvert arrives just after midnight, pushing slowly through Grays Harbor at three knots.

Terry paces nervously along the pier.  She spots Joshua standing in the bow.  He sees her, but doesn't wave.

Then she sees something else—the big male's tail fin, lifting lazily in and out of the water behind the boat.

The Canadian cutter glides past the pier, slowing as it reaches the location of the construction crane.

Terry looks down into the calm, dark waters.  The Megalodon is lying on its side, its jaws opening and closing in spasms.  No longer being towed, the thirty-two-ton fish begins to sink, its tail striking the murky bottom.

Joshua hastily loops the bowline to one of the pilings and jumps down to the pier.

"Josh . . . what took so long?"

"Don't talk to me, lady."  He pushes past her, approaching Sean Justus and his crew.  "Hey, Popeye, sorry to keep you.  Ran into some rough seas."

Sean Justus stares at the blotch of ivory hovering just below the surface.  "Dude, is that what I think it is?"

"Yes, and we need to get it into the flatbed as quickly as we can or it'll drown."

"Is this a Megalodon invasion or something?"

"What're you talking about?"

Terry steps into the conversation.  "Angel attacked a bunch of boaters in San Francisco Bay about six hours ago."

Sean nods.  "There was also some wild rumor about a Meg showing up on that Daredevils TV show, but tonight's episode was just a rerun."

Brian Olmstead calls out from the stern.  "Hey, Bunkofske, give me a hand!"

Joshua climbs back on board, Terry following him.  "Josh, listen to me, I know you're mad—"

"Mad doesn't begin to describe how I feel."

Well, you're going to be even madder.  I don't want the Meg."

Brian looks up from the heavy hydraulic spool, where he has detached the end of the steel cable.  "What's she talking about?"

"Ignore her."  Joshua takes the end of the thick cable from him and passes it overboard to Sean Justus.  "Attach this to the crane's line and start hauling my fish out of the water before it drowns."

"Josh, listen to me, this isn't about me and you, it's business.  Angel's back.  With that thumper, we can get her back into the lagoon."

"This is business, lady.  You committed to this voyage.  We accomplished what we set out to do, now you're going to keep your end of the bargain.  Popeye, where's that flatbed?"

"Hold your bowel, my boys are moving it into position."

Michael Villaire climbs up from below decks, the former transit cop looking ghostly pale.  "I hate boats.  I never want to see another damn boat again."

Terry pulls him aside.  "Mr. Villaire, where's your gun?"

"Locked up below."

"You need to get it.  I saw the Meg's tail moving."

"It was just an involuntary spasm," Joshua calls out.  "Marino, move the boat!"

The captain looks out from his pilothouse, then drives the Cape Calvert forward another thirty feet.

The double-wide flatbed truck beeps as it backs into place along the pier, water sloshing out the top of its steel tank.

With a belch of blue diesel smoke, the crane jumps to life, its towering arm rotating counterclockwise, its winch retracting steel cable from out of the sea.

The line goes taut, then slowly, inch by inch, the monster's snout rises out of the harbor.  Seawater pours from the creature's flaring gill slits as its triangular head continues elevating, the strain on the crane increasing, the pull of the five-foot titanium fishhook creating greater stress on the festering wound along the Meg's punctured lower jaw.

With a mighty spasm, the male Megalodon awakens, its eyes rolling forward as it jerks the line.

"Look out," Brian yells, as the enraged creature dances halfway out of the water, its lashing upper torso blasting waves in all directions.

Planks splinter along the pier.  Metal groans in protest as the crane fights to maintain its hold on the behemoth fish.

Cory Akins and Josh Jenkins are bounced around in the crane's cab as if they are on the losing end of a demolition derby.  With each powerful jolt, the seamen from Georgia can feel the tracks of the derrick lifting away from the pier.

"Drop it back ‘fore we get pulled in!"

"Can't!  Line's tangled!"

Terry is still on the boat, crouching behind the transom.  She is drenched and too afraid to move, the Megalodon thrashing wildly in the water behind her, the swaying crane towering over her, the support beams of its steel arm screeching and bending beneath the gargantuan weight.

The cutter's engines growl to life.  Get off the boat!

Leaping to her feet, she dashes through raining buckets of seawater, colliding with Michael Villaire, who has emerged from below, his hands wrapped around the barrel of his M79 grenade launcher.  Breaking open the breech, he inserts an M203 cartridge into the barrel and marches toward the end of the boat.  "Time to end this bullshit."

"No!"  Joshua heads him off, grabbing the weapon, as a rifle shot cracks overhead and the steel cable snaps.

The thick cord whistles past Villaire's ear and lashes his left kneecap, shattering his patella.  The former police officer howls as he crumples to the deck, writhing in agony.

Terry covers her mouth, then looks up as the crane buckles, its arm tumbling surreally toward her before smashing through the pilothouse, blasting it to kindling.

Terry opens her eyes, amazed to be alive and intact.  She crawls out from beneath the carnage of twisted steel, her eyes focusing on the slithering cable playing out across the crushed deck.

The line disappears overboard.

The big male is gone.

*        *        *        *        *

Northwest Pacific Ocean

16 Nautical Miles Southeast of The Ulithi Atoll

Sparkles of sunlight dance across the deep blue surface like fireflies.

Seven lifeboats and a Zodiac plod along a half-mile swath of ocean, spent passengers roasting beneath a noonday sun.  Captain Robertson commands the lead boat, using a handheld compass to plot their course.  Somewhere across this vast plain of sea is the Ulithi Atoll and its haven of tropical islands.  Somewhere below, following their boats in depths that run black, is their relentless stalker.

Puttering behind Robertson's boat is the Zodiac.  With a final triple belch, the engine inhales the last ounce of gasoline and shuts down, returning the sounds of Nature to its two irate passengers.

Susan Ferraris grabs an oar and tosses it at Erik.  "You got us into this mess, now get us out."

Erik dunks the torn sleeve of his sweatshirt in the water, wrings it out, then repositions the rag across the pink skin of his receding hairline.  Without saying a word, he begins paddling, cursing the day he left med school to become a television producer.

Danielle Taylor slouches uncomfortably in the bow of her lifeboat, gazing absentmindedly at the sweaty sunburned backs of her father and Andrew Fox.  The two men have been rowing at a steady pace for what seems like forever, her inner voice chanting with each downward stroke.

Ninety-one bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-one bottles of beer . . . if we manage to find the Atoll, ninety bottles of beer on the wall.

Dani is hungry and thirsty and scared and sunburned and her butt hurts from having sat on bare wood for seven hours and twenty-three minutes.  If not for the constant pain, she'd swear she was dreaming.

Stuck in his own head, Jonas feels blood from his blisters soak the cloth wrapped around his palms.  Still, he refuses to stop rowing, the last five-minute break having lasted over an hour when he and Andrew had passed out from exhaustion.  With Dani asleep and no one else on board to relieve them, they had quickly fallen behind.

Erik Hollander had finally turned back for them, towing them back to the pack.

Jonas steals a quick glance at the sun, continuing his equations.

 . . .fifteen feet with each stroke, figure ten strokes a minute . . . that's one hundred and fifty feet every minute . . . nine thousand feet an hour . . . one point seven miles an hour . . . with only six hours left until the sun sets.

Christ, we're moving too slow, we'll never make it to the atoll before dark . . .

*        *        *        *        *

Palau Pacific Resort

Koror, Palau

4:45 P.M.

Michael Maren opens the door of his hotel suite, allowing James Gelet to enter.  Twenty minutes later, the Daredevils co-producer stares open-mouthed at the raw footage playing on the laptop monitor before him.  "Jesus, Maren . . . do you have the Neptune going down, too?"

"Allison managed to capture a few minutes on her video camera before the Coelacanth sank.  It's rough and a bit jumpy, but you can see the cannon shot that cost me my ship and quite possibly the lives of your crew.  Uh . . . speaking of which, any word from the Coast Guard?"

"Nothing yet, and I'm worried as hell.  Wish you could have given them some decent coordinates."

"Hey, it was chaos out there.  I was lucky just to make it back alive."

"Maren, we're dealing with a third world island nation.  It could take them weeks just to organize a search party."

"Which is why I'll be heading out again in my chopper.  I'll find them."

"And I'll be going with you."

"Sorry, Gelet, there's no room. Allison and I will radio you as soon as we locate them."  Maren stares at the producer.  "Now what's wrong?"

"There's still something I don't get.  Why would Jonas Taylor open fire on your boat?"

"As I've explained, Taylor lost it out there."

"But to interfere with a rescue at sea?"

"Who knows why a man does the things he does?  I'll tell you this:  Jonas Taylor was desperate.  Why else would he accept Hollander's offer to get in the water with that Meg?"

"That's just it.  Erik radioed me days ago, telling me Taylor refused the deal."

"Refused the—"  Maren wipes sweat from his brow.  "Well, he changed his mind, didn't he?  Just look at the tape.  Taylor's in the water, his daughter rescues him, then he flips out and sinks my boat.  Man's a lunatic."

"Maybe.  All I know is that I've got over ninety people lost at sea—"

"And I said I'll find them!  Just make sure my money gets wired and this footage airs as soon as possible."

*        *        *        *        *

Westport Marina

Grays Harbor, Washington

7:12 A.M.

The marina is overrun with members of the media, local officials, and insurance men, all of whom seem to be snapping pictures of the 65-foot hunk of mangled metal embedded in the roof of the cutter's collapsed pilothouse.

Terry Taylor finishes giving her statement to the Grays Harbor police, then locates the salvage operator.  "Excuse me, there's something of mine I need to claim.  It's a sound device attached to that buoy."  She points to the bobbing object, still anchored to the Cape Calvert 's transom by steel cable.

"Sure, lady.  Give me half an hour."

Avoiding two local newsmen, she ducks beneath police tape and loses herself if the crowd, finding her way to a donut shop.

"Large coffee and a cream donut."  She pays the woman, then locates an empty booth.

Joshua Bunkofske slips in beside her.

"Josh, go away, I have nothing more to say to you."

"You think you can just walk away from this mess, leaving me holding the bag?  You owe my crew money."

"Use the money you owe me."

"And what about the damage to the cutter?  And that crane?"

"That's not my problem.  I warned you the big male was conscious, but you didn't listen.  You lost the Meg, not me."

"Yes, but now Angel's back in California waters.  I can help recapture her."

"Angel's not your concern.  Our arrangement's over."

"What arrangement?"

Terry turns, caught off-guard by her son, now standing next to her booth.  "David!"  Terry pushes the table away, slips past Joshua, and hugs her son.

"Mother, who is this guy?"

"He's the marine biologist who captured that big male."

David smirks.  "You mean the one that got away?"

"Never mind that.  Where's Mac?"

"Waiting by the chopper.  Where's the thumper?"

"Someone's getting it for me."

"Thumper's gone," Joshua states.  "Removed it from the buoy last night."

"Give it back," David demands.

"Sorry, kid.  The thumper covers the loss of my Zodiac, which your mom stole from me yesterday."  Joshua winks at Terry.  "Like I said, this is far from over."