Free Meg: Origins by Steve Alten

consequences of his actions. “What happened down there? Why the emergency ascent?”
    “Sir, we don’t know. Commander Taylor hasn’t responded, but they’re coming up very fast… too fast, sir.”
    “Alert Dr. Heller and make sure he has the recompression chamber ready. What’s the sub’s surface ETA?”
    “Ten minutes.”
    “Get a dive team standing by on deck.”
    · · ·
    Petty Officer Second Class Gustave Maren hooked his harness to the aft rail and held on as the twenty foot swells tossed the Maxine D like an amusement park ride. It had been six weeks since Maren’s secret rendezvous with Benedict Singer, five weeks since the billionaire’s money arrived by wire into his Swiss bank account. The ten thousand was only an advance of course, the real money would come when he delivered the rock.
    Not rock. Manganese nodule.
    Gustave Maren had little interest in rocks or manganese or anything to do with the ocean, but he took great pride in the fact that his fourteen-year-old son was an expert on all these things. First in his class and an I.Q. that could not be traced to any genetic branch on the Maren family tree.
    Gus was doing this for Michael.
    Thoughts of money danced in Gustave’s head. Yes, he was doing this for Michael, but the truth was that his son was already receiving offers to attend Ivy League schools. A scholarship meant Gus could save on his only child’s tuition, using the profits from this minor theft to pay off the mortgage, perhaps even buy a new car.
    The divers in the wild sea beckoned. The sub was rising. A belch of bubbles and foam and there it was, swaying on the surface like a drunken whale, the divers fighting with Typhoon Marian to capture it.
    Harnesses in place, the A frame kicked back, hoisting the Sea Cliff out of the Pacific just as the swirling gray storm clouds opened-up and the drenching began. Danielson appeared on deck, a fool playing to his men, his face ashen. The Sea Cliff ’s pilot, Taylor, was well-liked. This accident—or whatever they were witnessing—had been foreseen by everyone.
    The captured sub swayed in the grayness of an angry dusk, the ship’s converging deck lights revealing the rain… and one other item.
    Trailing the dripping Sea Cliff was a cable, taut with a weight still submerged.
    Danielson pounded on Gustave’s rain gear with his open palm. “Once the Sea Cliff is secure, I want your crew to retrieve that ROV! See to it, sailor.”
    “Aye, sir.”
    Gustave waited for the fiberglass hull to touch down, then he traced the ROV’s cable to its docking station situated in the bow of the Sea Cliff ’s sled. Using his flashlight, he located the exterior controls and attempted to reverse the winch, but the power was out.
    “Wismer, Beck! We’ll need a portable generator and some cables.” Maren looked up as the sub’s hatch was opened. Seconds later, a body was pulled from the submersible—a white-haired scientist. Dr. Prestis was followed by a corpse, pale except for the dead man’s head wound splattered dark with blood.
    The third man out was Taylor. He was rushed with the first man to the infirmary below decks—leaving Gustave and his crew alone to tend to the ROV.
    · · ·
    Jonas opened his eyes to a bright light that shifted from pupil to pupil, accompanied by waves of needle-like pain in his joints and the condescending voice of Frank Heller.
    “Shaffer’s dead. Prestis suffered what appears to be a major stroke about ten minutes ago. Before it hit he told me you lost it down there, that your actions endangered the mission and the crew. He said you put the sub into an emergency ascent which blew out the pressurization system.”
    Jonas shook his head, the pain becoming unbearable. “Shark attacked us. Big as a house, ghostly white. Bit the sled.”
    “A shark? That’s your excuse? There are no sharks in the trench, Taylor. You imagined it.” He signaled to the two orderlies. “Get him inside the recompression