Free Meg: Origins by Steve Alten Page A

unit.”
    · · ·
    The rectangular-shaped ROV rose from the sea, weighed down by the collection basket. Gus Maren watched as his crew secured the tethered mini-sub, dragging it up on deck.
    “Danielson wants the catch basket hauled below decks to the lab. Beck, you and Wismer get the dolly, O’Brien alert the eggheads. I’ll wait here in case the captain decides to make another cameo.”
    Maren waited for his crew to leave before turning his attention to the catch basket. The lid was sealed, the rocks having been collected and stored inside the porous steel bin by way of the interior vacuum assembly.
    Lying on the swaying deck, Maren disconnected the vacuum and reached his hand up through the suction tube until his entire arm was inside the hose. He felt a nodule, the hard wet surface covered in slime. As a teen he had used a similar technique to steal sodas out of a vending machine, his crime spree ending when his arm had gotten caught.
    He momentarily panicked as the deck shifted and the weight of the basket pinned his wrist inside the housing; mercifully the ship rolled again and he was able to yank the pineapple-size rock free.
    He shoved it into his jacket as he crew returned.
    · · ·
    “A shark?”
    Frank Heller nodded at Danielson from behind his desk, his face red with anger. “He swears it was all white and as big as a house.”
    “Could this shark have damaged the sub?”
    “Wake up, Danielson, there was no shark. Taylor obviously imagined the whole thing. It’s called aberrations of the deep. Prestis said Jonas lost it down there.” Heller unlocked a desk drawer, removed a bottle of whisky and motioned to his friend.
    “No. And you shouldn’t either.”
    “Don’t pull rank on me now. We should have never allowed him to dive, he wasn’t fit for duty. The two scientists… they were friends. Prestis won’t make it through the night. What do I tell Shaffer’s wife and kids?”
    “What about Taylor? How’d he manage to survive?”
    “Seems he found a pony bottle before the air ran out.”
    “So he caused the accident, but managed to cheat death.”
    “I certified him fit for command.”
    “You also were an eyewitness to Prestis’s account of what happened down there. What did you call it? Aberrations of the deep? Taylor was trained to handle these things and he failed.”
    “We should have sent the back-up pilot.”
    “Taylor wouldn’t allow it, he said Royston wasn’t ready. That was his fault, not ours.” Danielson poured himself a shot and drained the liquid neat. “Frank, there will be an investigation. Taylor’s finished as a submersible pilot. He’s Navy, but he’s a flash-in-the-pan, destined for civilian life. You and me—we’re career servicemen, we’ve put in our time. You want to lose everything because some rock star choked under pressure?”
    “There’s blood on all our hands, captain.” Heller took a swig of whiskey, then resealed the bottle. “Prestis said he lost it down there. I’ll testify to that. I’ll also state that Taylor said he felt more qualified to handle the dive than his back-up. Will that do it for you?”
    “That, and one last detail. Recommend Taylor undergo a three month psychiatric evaluation following his discharge.”
    “What for?”
    “Credibility. Years from now, when he decides to write a book slamming the Navy, I want to make sure the world knows that Jonas Taylor was deemed a nutcase by the medical establishment.”
    · · ·
    The Maxine D was underway, her bow rising and falling as it met the onslaught of twenty-five foot waves, the boat racing Typhoon Marian back to Guam.
    Alone on deck, Captain Danielson made his way to the Sea Cliff , using his flashlight to inspect the damage before the ship’s engineers could get a look back at the naval base.
    The seas caused the submersible to teeter, its weight balanced awkwardly on its chassis. Danielson shone his light on the damaged sled, inspecting the back-up batteries and the