7.

Tanaka Oceanographic Institute
Monterey, California

Retired United States Air Force pilot Jerry L. Bobo II stands before the two MLST (Megalodon Life Support Transits), dwarfed by the sheer size of the rectangular objects now situated on the lagoon loading dock. “Mac, exactly how big are these things?”

“Thirty-one feet high, sixty-two feet long, fifteen feet wide . . . that’s including the motorized carts they’ll sit on when we drive them into the cargo hold.”

“And these will be filled with water?”

“And one heavily medicated Megalodon. Each. We were thinking of having the Arabs lease one of Boeing’s Dreamlifters—the converted 747-400s they were using to ship components of their 787s.”

“The Dreamliner’s are big enough, but the cargo hold isn’t pressurized. Unless you want your monsters arriving dead-on-arrival, we’re looking at a C-5 Galaxy.”

“You think the Pentagon would let us use one?”

“No. But they might allow the crown prince.” Jerry walks halfway around the container. “I’m no shark expert, but how do you plan on keeping your fish breathing in a steel box for a twelve-to fifteen-hour flight?”

“First, these contraptions aren’t steel. They’re acrylic. Six inches thick. You can’t have any metal in the tank; it upsets the Meg’s senses. As far as breathing, these MLST are rigged with built-in head currents similar in design to the ones used to train Olympic swimmers. It’s sort of like being on an underwater tread mill. The Meg has to swim to breathe. This allows them to swim in a stationary position.”

“You said the fish will be medicated?”

“With oxygen and Tricaine Methanesulfonate. They’ll be acclimated to the MLSTs days before we move them. We calculated a combined weight of the two tanks at 275,000 pounds.”

“How many in your flight party?”

“Seven. Four marine biologists and three engineers.”

“With the cargo weight—” Jerry Bobo makes a few quick calculations “—it’s seven thousand nautical miles and change from San Francisco to Dubai International. That puts us about seven hundred miles short on fuel. Looks like we’re stopping over in London.”

Mac frowns. “It’s a major hassle to add an additional stop. Customs can be a bitch; everyone and their mother wants to see what’s in the hold. Plus, it’s more added stress on Mary Kate and Ashley.”

“Well, I suppose we can arrange to refuel in-flight, but it’ll cost you.”

“Won’t cost me a dime, pal. It’s all on the crown prince.”

“Dad, what’s your problem?” David pushes himself away from the conference table in disgust. “This is a great opportunity. Why do you want to blow it for me?”

Jonas rubs the tension from the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to ruin your life, David, but I worry. Your mother worries. It’s what parents do. Keeping these monsters penned, allowing you and Dani to work with them . . . it’s like playing with fire. And this whole Dubai venture . . . it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Seventy-five grand for keeping an eye on the two runts and training a bunch of submersible pilots doesn’t feel right to you? Dad, come on. I’d practically do this for free!”

“If you’re just training these pilots in Dubai, I don’t have a problem. If it’s something else—”

“What else? Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

Jonas debates on what he should reveal to his son. Tell him about Maren’s discovery and he’ll jump at the chance to go. There’ll be no stopping him.

“Dad.”

“Okay. I’ll sell the crown prince the Manta Rays as agreed, but only under one condition—that you promise me you’ll remain in Dubai for the summer.”

“Where else would I go?”

“David, I can’t go into details, but one of the reasons the crown prince came here was to recruit me to help them capture different deepwater species for their aquarium.”

“What kind of species?” David’s eyes widen. “Wait. I know. They wanted your help to capture a kronosaur. That’s it, isn’t it? Dad, no worries. I’d never go down to the Mariana Trench—not after what you and mom went through. No way.”

“Then promise me you’ll stay in Dubai.”

“You have my word.”

“And you’ll be careful with the runts?”

“Dad—”

“I worry, David. You’ve got that cocky swagger that leads to mistakes. I had it, your mother had it, and it contributed to your Uncle D.J.’s death. If anything ever happened to you . . . well—”

“Dad, I’m not D.J. And I’m not out to prove something to the world. I’m a marine biologist, and I love what I do. Please, for once, just let me do it.”

Jonas stares at his son, his heart swollen with pride. Wasn’t it yesterday when I held my newborn son in my arms? Coached his little league team? Taught him how to scuba? To pilot a mini-sub? Where did all those years go?

“Dad?”

“Better make sure your passport’s in order. The prince leaves in the morning.”

David pumps his fists and gives his father a quick hug before dashing out of his office . . . leaving Jonas to wonder how he’s going to explain this to his wife.

The taxi cab turns into Masao Tanaka Way, inching its way through a throng of protestors. The lone passenger stretched out in the backseat shakes his head in amazement. A million people a day are starving to death or dying of AIDS, and these assholes have their underwear knotted in a ball because one big shark was killed by another bigger shark.

The cab double parks as close as it can to the main entrance. Brent Nichols struggles to pull his heavy-set, 6 foot 3 inch, 290-pound frame out of the cramped backseat and waits for the driver to unload the two metal trunks on wheels. The scientist pays the cabby, grabs a trunk handle in each thick palm, and trudges toward the nearest set of glass doors.

A sign reads: CLOSED FOR RENOVATION.

A security guard approaches. “We’re closed, big fella. Can’t you read?”

“Far better than you, my friend. Does that walkie-talkie work?”

“Yeah.”

“Then do us both a favor and let Mr. David Taylor know his shark trainer has arrived.”

“Ricardo told me you were the best,” David says, leading the marine biologist down an access corridor to the main gallery.

“Were? I am the best, kid, and don’t let this spare tire fool you. In the water I’m a seal. Okay, maybe a sea elephant.” Dr. Nichols wipes sweat from his reddish-brown goatee. “I’m a field scientist by nature; not much escapes my eye. After I graduated with my masters, the Sea Lab in Mobile hired me to condition their aquatic animals to feed. Using flashes of light, we were able to teach lemon sharks to congregate in assigned areas of their tanks, segregating the population to ensure they were all being properly fed. Amazingly, sharks were able to learn these tasks ten times faster than cats or rabbits.”

“And that led you to be recruited by the Pentagon?”

“DARPA, actually. The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. They’re the evil Frankensteins who dream up our future weapons systems. Some pencil pusher decided sharks would make great spies. Of course, using animals to complete military missions is nothing new; the Navy’s been using dolphins and sea lions for decades to patrol harbors and locate sea mines. When it comes to stealth and spying, sharks provide far more advantages than marine mammals.”

“Only they’re not as smart.”

“Not true, my friend, not true. If you look at the relationship between brain size and body weight, sharks are right up there with mammals.”

“Body weight, huh? Tell me, Dr. Nichols, what do you think of these geniuses?” David pushes open the double metal doors at the end of the corridor—

—revealing the main gallery tank and the two sisters cruising the aquarium in formation—Lizzy on top and Belle below, slightly behind her albino sibling.

“Good God . . .”

“Elizabeth’s the albino. Bela’s the dark one. There are two smaller albinos in the hospital pen. We’re readying them for transfer to another facility.”

“And you expect me to train these monsters?”

“Heck, no. These are the juvees. We want you to train their mother.”