16.
San Francisco, California
Virgil Carmen fidgets on the violet sofa, the uncomfortable cushions unyielding, the armrest set at an awkward height. As if that were not annoying enough, there is no air conditioning in the loft, and the purple-haired woman’s cat keeps climbing on his lap, pawing at his groin as if giving him some kind of feline lap-dance.
He stands, dumping the cat to join the two women at the computer. “So, Sara? Did I do good?”
With her blonde hair and green eyes, R.A.W. co-founder Sara Toms possesses a classic girl-next-door look—until one sees her arms and back, which are covered in military tattoos. The former AWAC airborne surveillance instructor pauses the playback of the video-cam footage taken yesterday at the Meg Pen. “Virgil, this is great stuff . . . if our organization were filming an action movie. Where’s the cruelty you promised us?”
“Are you kidding? My boss drowned!”
“She means cruelty to the animals.” Jessica Thompson clicks off the program. “None of this is useful to our cause. If anything, it only reinforces Taylor’s point of not releasing the Megs back into the wild.”
“Agreed.” Sara spins around in her chair to face Virgil. “What I was hoping for was footage of the two runts who were confined to the Med Pool. That’s the kind of cruelty that gets us air time.”
Virgil suddenly feels naked. “The runts . . . I totally forgot. I meant to call you—”
“What happened? Was there another accident?”
“The runts are gone.”
Sara grabs his wrist, a Celtic cross visible on her right arm. “What do you mean they’re gone?”
“Jonas sold them to another aquarium.”
“Another aquarium?” Sara grips his arm tighter. “Virgil, which aquarium? Was it San Diego?”
“I don’t know. They kept it quiet. But there were a bunch of Arabs hanging around all last week. I’m guessing they’re the ones who bought Mary Kate and Ashley.”
“Dammit!” Jessica turns to her partner. “Sara, what am I supposed to do? I’ve got three private donors lined up—big donors! This diffuses the whole situation.”
Sara releases Virgil. “Take it easy. We pull back and refocus our attention on Angel.”
Jessica shakes her head. “Angel is way too big and way too scary. Even the most radical animal lover won’t take a public stance to set her free.”
“Then we focus on the two sisters. The Meg Pen’s still too small to hold two adult Megs; let’s make the push to release them now, while they’re still pups and can adapt to the wild.”
“You want to release Bela and Lizzy?” Virgil shakes his head. “I don’t think you want those two predators roaming free.”
“Elsa was a predator,” Jessica retorts. “Should they have denied her the right to live free?”
“Who the hell’s Elsa?”
“Go rent Born Free. You’ll cry your eyes out.”
“Do it later. We have other priorities.” Sara removes an envelope from her purse. She hands it to Virgil then leads him down the stairs. “I’m paying you, but you owe me big time. Look through the Institute’s archives. Find me footage of the two sisters ramming their heads against a tank wall, shots of them fighting over food . . . any erratic behavior that demonstrates how inadequate in size the Meg Pen really is.”
“Yeah . . . I can do that. How soon do you want it?” She opens the front door. “Yesterday works for me.”
Dubai Land
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
David opens his eyes. He is lying on the wraparound leather couch in his suite. Sitting up, he looks out the bay windows. The sun has already set, the Persian Gulf’s distant horizon alive with a twinkling night life. He checks the wall clock: 8:43 p.m.
Must’ve really dozed off. Kaylie has to be back from training by now . . . wonder why she didn’t come by?
He uses the toilet, brushes his teeth, then pockets his room key and exits the suite, heading for Kaylie’s door.
She answers on the third knock, dressed in baggy sweat pants and a tee-shirt. She looks tired, the lust from twelve hours earlier completely gone.
“Hey. When did you get back?”
She breaks eye contact. “A few hours ago.”
“Long day, huh? Are you hungry? I thought we could order up some dinner.”
“I already ate.”
“Oh . . . kay. Want some company? We could rent a movie.”
“I don’t think so. I have studying to do and—”
“Kaylie, did I do something wrong?”
Her blue eyes flash anger. “Why did you have to show up Brian like that?”
Brian? “I wasn’t—Kaylie, the guy’s an asshole. He’s on an ego trip. I know more about those Manta Rays than—”
“He’s on an ego trip? What about you? You think the rest of us were impressed by that little stunt? Yes, David, you certainly know how to pilot a submersible better than the rest of us, but Brian’s still heading this mission, not you!”
“I was hired as a trainer. He’s been dissing me from the moment we met.”
“You want respect, try earning it. Most of the trainees are ex-military. They’ve been in combat. They’re not going to listen to some cocky, twenty-year-old college student. The maneuvers we’ll be doing, the depths will be working in . . . it’s dangerous stuff. Maybe not to you, but to us—to me.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“I’m sorry. Like I told you, I didn’t come to Dubai looking for a boyfriend. I need the job.”
“So that’s it? This morning meant nothing?”
“It was impulsive. I’m sorry if I misled you. I think it’s best if we just stayed friends.”
She closes the door quietly, ending the conversation.
Friends? Friends! “Sure! Maybe we’ll catch a camel race . . . do lunch!” David kicks the door and storms off, his emotions caught in a maelstrom. Keying open his suite, he throws the key against the wall and paces the living room, cursing aloud, wishing he could somehow undo the entire day. “All you had to do was keep your mouth shut and everything would have been fine. But nooooo, you had to be a bigshot, didn’t you? You had to show him up!”
He flops down on the leather sofa, pounding the cushions with both fists until his anger’s spent.
Okay, asshole, now what? Think Suits’ll accept an apology? Doubtful. He’ll have you scrubbing toilets with your toothbrush before he let’s you back into his training. Better to let him cool off a day. The two runts arrive in the morning. That’ll help. Keep your mind on your business and your ego in check, and maybe things’ll work themselves out.
Maybe.
David picks up the room service menu, leafs through its thick pages, then tosses it aside, too upset with himself to eat.
Go for a walk . . . clear your head.
Locating the room key, he pockets it and leaves. He presses the elevator down button then glances across the hall to Suite 3612.
He debates internally, then ignores the arriving elevator and knocks on the double doors. After a few moments Monty answers, dressed in Army fatigues and white sweat socks. “Junior? You look pissed. Either someone broke your heart, or you’ve got a raging case of blue balls.”
“Both.”
“Hah! Come on in. You can watch me crash and burn another submersible.”
The Manta Ray simulator is set up on the Persian rug in front of the big plasma TV screen. The system, which consists of two foot pedals and two joysticks, is attached to a collapsible graphite frame. A control box is wired into the simulator and television.
Monty sits inside the contraption and pushes RESET.
The blank TV screen changes to a realistic ocean surface setting, the sky blue, the sea tranquil. “This is the beginner setting. I’ve yet to dive a hundred feet without losing control and dive-bombing like a pelican into the sea floor.”
David watches as Monty surface dives, descending at an awkward angle. “Drop your starboard wing! Now ease back on the port-side pedal. Port-side! Left!”
“I know port from starboard! I just can’t get the feel!”
The underwater image barrel rolls into a dizzying dive before smashing into a coral reef.
Monty lays his head back against the sofa in disgust. “Face it, I suck. It’s like trying to lick your elbow.”
David bends his arm, attempting the maneuver, his tongue coming up eight inches short.
“Should’ve seen me in the aquarium today after you left. Everyone got ten minutes in the sub. Me? I went down like an anchor. Captain Courageous had to take over or we’d still be lying on the bottom.”
“I can help you.”
“I doubt that.”
“At least let me try. What else am I going to do tonight?”
“She really did a number on you, huh?”
“It was my fault. I screwed up this morning by showing off.”
“Yeah, you did. Jumped on the hook like a horny blowfish.”
“Yeah. Huh? Wait. What are you talking about?”
“Wake up, Junior. He baited you. These Psy Ops guys are all about head games. I’ll bet my nutsack they moved that crane dead center of the tank just so you’d be tempted to jump it. Hell, I knew you’d go for it the moment you gunned the engines. But the dollar tip . . . that was inspired. I laughed my ass off.”
“He baited me?” David sits on the coffee table, his thoughts racing. “Am I really that stupid?”
“Stupid’s a relative term. To a Psy Ops officer, you’re easier to read than a billboard.”
“Why bait me? What do they want?”
“Not a clue. But be wary; they know you like the girl. If I’m bin Rashidi, I’m recruiting her just for that purpose. Hard to blame any man from jumping on that hook.”
“Ahh, God-dammit!” David grabs a throw pillow and flings it across the living room. “Am I that shallow?”
“I believe the medical term is pussy-whipped.”
“What now? What should I do?”
“I recommend heavy masturbation.”
“I’m being serious.”
“You really want my advice? Whatever your twenty-year-old instincts tell you to do, do the opposite. Next time they push you, don’t push back. That’ll force them to come to you at some point with whatever proposal they have in mind.”
“Don’t push back? Yeah, that makes sense. What about Kaylie?”
“I already gave you that advice. Look, it’s not her fault. Maybe she’s a helluva pilot. Who knows? More likely she’s a tool. Don’t feel bad; it’s simply the way these arrogant assholes operate. They have more money than they can spend, so they amuse themselves by playing Allah.”
“Screw ‘em. We should quit.”
“Good idea. You quit. I need the money. When you’re disabled and poor, pride takes a backseat to putting food on the table. Right now, I just need to make it through training.”
“Then I’d better teach your poor, disabled ass how to fly. Here, give me a hand.” David moves to the large plasma TV, lifting one end of its frame off its support hooks, Monty lifting the other end. “What are we doing? Pawn shop?”
They lower the TV, balancing it on its six-inch-wide frame. David repositions the simulator so the big screen is directly in front of the trainee.
“There. That should give you a more realistic view. Have a seat.”
Monty sits down on the simulator cushion. “Not sure how this helps.”
“Just watch and learn.” David kicks off his shoes then scoots up close behind Monty, placing his longer legs next to his, his stocking feet atop Monty’s shoes. His hands rest on top of the war vet’s hands, which are poised around the two joysticks.
“Hey now . . .”
“This is how my dad taught me to get the feel.”
“If you ask me, it feels a little too much like Broke-back Mountain. Do you have to spoon me from behind? In your present state of mind you’re liable to—”
“Shut up and pay attention. Unlace your sneakers and tie them around my feet.”
“Now you’re scaring me.” Monty complies, re-lacing his shoes, binding his feet atop David’s.
David restarts the simulator. The image on-screen returns again to the surface, only this time the view encompasses Monty’s entire visual perspective.
“Hey . . . that really does make a difference.”
“Let me control the joysticks and pedals. Just keep your hands and feet over mine so you can feel how I maneuver the sub. Ready? Here we go.”
David descends in a long shallow dive, keeping the view before them on an even keel.
“Okay, left pedal down, right leg up, joysticks compensate like so. Feel how the wings catch the water instead of slicing through?”
Monty grins, his limbs shaking with adrenaline. “Yeah, I can feel it now. Sort of like a bird.”
“We shift back the other way, compensating with speed until the wings re-catch the sea. Now back again as we change to a steeper angle of descent, always keeping an eye on our sonar. The green blip is us, geology outlined in red, life forms in blue. Sonar auto sets distances according to visibility, but you can set it to manual and adjust it as you see fit. Again. Left pedal down, right foot up. Adjust the pitch and yaw. Then right pedal down, left foot up. Feel the pattern? It’s just a matter of getting the coordination.”
“Yeah, I can feel it now.”
“Now we add speed. Speeds places torque on the wings, allowing us to make rapid turns. Ready? We turn and lean . . .”
The view moves into a dizzying 180-degree turn.
It is just after midnight when David leaves Monty’s suite. He heads down the hall, pausing at Kaylie’s door, debating whether to offer her the same instruction he gave to Monty.
No, let it go. Tomorrow she’ll see Monty piloting the sub like a pro and she’ll be practically begging you for help. Order room service, rent a movie, get some sleep.
He continues on to his own room and keys open the suite—
—shocked to find Fiesal bin Rashidi and Brian Suits seated at the conference table.
The Arab smiles. “There he is, our young rebel. Still, a pilot with potential, don’t you think, Captain?”
“Mustangs are useless unless they can be bridled. He’ll never be a team player. Let him go. I don’t need him.”
Are they baiting me? “Look, I was out of line this morning. I apologize.”
Brian Suits raises an eyebrow. “Humility from a Taylor? I don’t buy it.”
“I apologized. What else do you want from me?”
“Nothing. You’re going home.”
David’s flesh prickles with alarm. “You’re letting me go? What about the Megs?”
“The staff can handle them.”
“Give me another chance! Let me prove to you I can train these pilots. You should see Monty. I worked with him all night.”
“I don’t give a—”
Bin Rashidi turns to the captain, speaking to him rapidly in Arabic.
Brian Suits argues, then relents. “Mr. bin Rashidi thinks you deserve another chance. I don’t agree, but he’s the boss. Grab Candidate Montgomery and be in the lobby in ten minutes.”
“You mean now? Where are we going?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
The peninsula is situated on the Persian Gulf—a half million acres of leveled ground with no avenues or habitats, just several dozen waterside projects in the beginning stages of development.
A ten minute drive over sandy roads brings them to the bridge.
When completed in two years, the structure will be eight lanes of concrete and steel that will connect Dubai with its neighboring emirate. For now, the bridge is an elevated expanse of construction, an island of support beams and rebar that stretches from its inception point two thousand feet inland to concrete pilings that abruptly end a quarter mile out in the swirling, heavily trafficked waters of the Gulf.
Construction crews are working under powerful lights. Towering cranes are moving expanse beams into place. Barges, located a half mile out to sea, are pounding new pilings into the Gulf bedrock.
Bin Rashidi’s limo is flagged to a stop by a police officer. An exchange with the driver and they are allowed to proceed to the shoreline.
Red and blue lights revolve atop police cars. An ambulance is parked off to the side next to a massive pick-up truck. Resting in the rear cargo bed is one of the Manta Rays.
Brian Suits exits the back of the limo, followed by David and Monty. Bin Rashidi remains in the car. The captain points to the end of the bridge a half mile away. “They lost a man tonight. Chinese, in his late thirties. Had a wife and kids. They want the body back.”
“Geez . . .”
“All this construction has churned up the bottom. Visibility’s near zero. Currents are some of the worst in the region. The worker was weighted down with a riveting gun and assorted tools. He went in where the two causeways divide, so you got a little break. Locate the body, and we’ll send down the divers.”
David and Monty look at one another.
“You two have a problem with the mission?”
“Not at all.” Monty smiles nervously. “I was just wondering why we’re doing it in the middle of the night.”
“Because the sun’s not up.” The captain’s eyes flash anger. “The worker went in less than two hours ago.”
“I see. And he’ll be less dead if we fish him out now, as opposed to six hours from now, when we can actually see him?”
“Candidate, you’ll be operating in less than two hundred feet of water, as opposed to the seven-thousand-foot depths required for the aquarium’s mission. If two hundred feet scares you, I suggest you resign now and saves us the time in cutting you later.”
“We’re good to go, Captain,” David interjects.
Ten minutes later the sub is in waist-deep water, six workers positioned along its wings, keeping it steady against the incoming tide. David and Monty, both wearing wetsuits, wade out, hoisting themselves into the open cockpit.
Brian Suits approaches as they strap in. “Activate your homing signal, Taylor, just in case we lose you.”
“Yes, sir.” David lowers the Lexan top and locks it into place, sealing them within the emergency pod. He offers a thumbs-up then accelerates forward, keeping the sub along the surface.
Monty grips the dashboard in front of him as they bounce along the chop, cutting across open water on an intercept course with the uncompleted bridge. “They’re testing you. You know that, right?”
“I know. You nervous?”
“After four deployments in Iraq? Please. This is Disney World.”
They reach the last pilings, the night reverberating with the sound of heavy machinery. David descends, enveloping the submersible in brown, murky space, the sub’s exterior lights illuminating a swath of brown, flaky particles.
“Man, he wasn’t kidding about the zero visibility. Monty, grab those headphones and listen in on sonar. Go active and listen for a return ping that registers the bottom, or anything else in our path.”
Monty flips a toggle switch on the sonar controls, pinging their surroundings with sound waves. “It’s hard to hear anything. Sounds like I’m in a toilet bowl. Is that it?”
David steals a quick glance. “Those are pilings. The sub’s diving on a forty-degree plane. You have to chart objects based on the horizon in yellow or you’ll never know up from down. What’s our depth?”
“Depth . . . depth . . . uh, one hundred thirty-seven feet. One forty—”
Crunnnnnch!
The Manta Ray heaves hard to starboard as David overcompensates for the sudden port-side impact. “I told you to watch the sonar!”
“I am watching! I just don’t know what the hell I’m watching for!”
David levels out. The sub’s exterior lights illuminate a cement mixer, barely visible along the bottom.
“Guess we’ve arrived.”
“How can you tell?”
“Cement mixers don’t float.” David guides them along a parallel course to the bridge, remaining a good twenty feet from the unseen pilings. “This sucks. I can’t see shit.”
“Funny. All I see is shit. This is a fool’s errand, you know. We might as well be searching for Jimmy Hoffa. In fact, I think we just—”
—the port-side wing suddenly heaves up and over their heads, the current flipping the Manta Ray upside-down, driving the craft into a jungle of unseen concrete bridge supports. The unrelenting river of muck pushes them deeper. David is unsure how to react, afraid to muster the propulsion necessary to roll the sub right-side up lest he end up burying them nose-first in the mud.
As quickly as the thought passes they are slammed sideways, the Manta Ray’s port-side wing driven into the muddy bottom, the vessel pushed backwards until its belly is bashed against an immovable object, wedged in by the current.
For several terrifying moments they say nothing, suspended sideways and nearly upside down in the cockpit, David below Monty, both men held in their seats by their harnesses.
The current rocks the sub like a brown churning snowstorm.
“Monty, you alright?”
“Can’t breathe! Gonna be sick.”
“No! Don’t be sick!” David strains to reach the temperature controls, blasting them both with waves of cold air. “Better?”
“No.” Monty leans forward and retches, the vomit barely missing David as it splatters the sonar controls with chunks of tortillas and refried beans.
“Ugh!” David pulls his wetsuit collar up over his nose, gaging at the overpowering stench. “What is wrong with you?”
Monty spits out remnants. “I’m hanging upside down, buried alive in an underwater shit-storm. Do something quick before I really wig out.”
Pressing down on his right foot, David eases back on the left joystick, rocking the sub forward as he fights to level them out, and succeeding, only to smash the sub nose-first into a concrete piling.
“What the hell was that?”
“A piling. I can’t see where the hell we are. Your damn dinner’s covering my sonar.”
Monty wipes it clean with his rubber sleeve. “Here. Take the headphones and get us topside.”
“I can’t. We’re somewhere beneath the bridge. Sonar can’t distinguish the muddy current from the pilings.”
“Then jettison the chassis, the escape pod will float us to the surface.”
“No way. Even if I did, we’d still be lucky to make it out alive.”
Monty begins hyperventilating. “David, I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I’m not doing real well in my skin right now. Do something soon, or I’m gone.”
“Shut up and let me think!” David peers outside, his lights reflecting the mud blizzard, his depth gauge steady at 139 feet. He shuts off the lights, casting them in pitch darkness, the orange glow of the controls all that is visible.
David can hear Monty’s labored breaths. The claustrophobia becomes contagious, the smell in the cockpit nauseating, tempting him to pop open the cockpit and simply wash their lives into oblivion—
—and then his eyes adjust and he can see out the night vision glass, discerning a faint pattern before him.
Gently, he presses down with both feet, adjusting his course to starboard, the current still pushing him to port. No matter, the Manta Ray is moving forward, slipping between two sets of pilings one row at a time, the current increasing, forcing him to adjust his pitch. Keep your nose down, don’t let it flip you over again . . .
And then they’re free!
David punches both feet to the pedals and ascends in a long arching turn—
—plowing the sub upside down into the muddy sea floor.
The suddenness of the unexpected impact releases waves of panic. David struggles to breathe, his body bathed in sweat. He rips open the wetsuit zipper, fighting to reason.
Asshole, you were upside down! You never checked your horizon.
“Monty? Dude, you alright?”
Jason Montgomery hangs suspended from his harness, unconscious.
Okay . . . remember what dad always told you to do when you’re in trouble . . . stop and think. Take a breath and analyze the situation. You’re buried upside down in mud. Pull up on the joysticks and you go deeper. Push down and—
David taps the right foot pedal and pushes down on his joysticks, rolling the sub right-side up. He checks the sonar again, verifies he’s indeed right-side up and level, then he slowly ascends the sub.
Seconds later, he is rewarded by a tapestry of stars and a symphony of construction noises. Looking around, is surprised to find they are on the opposite side of the bridge from where they started. Remaining on the surface, he accelerates around the structure then races back to shore, nudging Monty awake.
“You okay?”
Monty nods, grateful to be on the surface. “I’ve had worse first dates. Did you find the Chinese guy?”
“Yeah. He’s on his way back to Beijing by way of the EAC.”
“EAC?”
“Eastern Australian Current. It was a joke. The corpse can rot on the bottom for all I care.”
David beaches the craft then pops the cockpit, the brisk fresh air invigorating. They climb out, washing off as Captain Suits watches from the shoreline, observing everything.
“Sorry, Captain. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find the body.”
“There was no body. This was a test to see if you could navigate in zero visibility under difficult circumstances. I was tracking you the entire time and you failed miserably, hotshot. You and your protégé here couldn’t coordinate your tasks or find your way in a hundred feet of water. If this had been the abyss, you’d be dead. Maybe now you know what I mean by pleasure cruising.”
He’s right. Guess I’m the real asshole. David looks up at the crewcut veteran with a newfound respect. “I owe you an apology. I became disoriented and panicked. It won’t happen again . . . sir.”
Brian Suits nods. “The two of you stink like a Mexican banquet. Get your asses in the back of the pick-up truck. You can ride back to the aquarium with the sub.”
They head for the vehicle, the staff positioning the Manta Ray in the cab.
“Taylor!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Be at training at ten o’clock sharp. And so help me God, if you ever challenge me again, I’ll rip your head off and shit down your neck.”