MEG: Nightstalkers (6 page)

“
The
Mogamigawa
? Then he’s not after the Lio?”

“Word is he has tae prove himself first before the Crown Prince will allow him tae go after the big girl. I don’t expect that tae last. Bin Rashidi’s crew hasn’t had a whiff of the
Liopleurodon
fer weeks and he’s losing it.”

“Good.”

“Not good. It means David’s going tae be on the
Tonga
sooner rather than later, so ye jist make sure those new air bags are workin’ properly so I can sleep at night.”

“When are you going to share this recurring dream with me?”

“When ye and yers stop chasing sea monsters. Which brings me tae the sisters. Many a night after my own near-death drama did I lay awake and question my actions, especially when the tourism industry shut down in Loch Ness and families were going hungry. My own father pointed the finger at me fer ruining his resort, and not his index finger if ye ken whit I mean. But we built our factory in Drumnadrochit and hired only Highlanders and now all is forgiven.

“So here’s my advice, J.T.: Kill those bloody Megalodons. And when I say kill, I don’t mean ye and Mac. Let the United States Coast Guard do the dirty work. Then go find yer son, sell the institute, and live out yer days happy, fat, and stupid.”

“Thanks for the advice, Brother Wallace. But I’m already getting fatter and stupider by the day; I just need to work on the happy.”

4

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Ibrahim Al Hashemi was standing outside the entrance of the Dubai Land Hilton, waiting by the stretch limousine when David and Monty exited the five-star hotel. “Good morning gentlemen. You look refreshed. It appears a day in Dubai Land did you some good.”

David handed his duffle bag to the driver. “Sun, pool, massages, and all the lobster and jumbo shrimp you can eat … yeah, I’d say it was just what the doctor ordered. Please be sure to tell the Prince thank you.”

“You can thank him by helping him fill the nine vacant tanks at the aquarium. The driver will take you to a private airport where the Crown Prince’s personal 747 jumbo jet is waiting. Flight time to Tokyo is ten hours.”

David and Monty looked at each another. “We’re flying out on the 747? I thought we were traveling with the cargo?”

“The nature of the cargo has changed. To promote the opening of the aquarium, the Crown Prince has agreed to an offer from the Discovery Channel for a new reality series that will document life on board the
Mogamigawa.
The two Manta subs have been equipped with night vision video cameras; you and your fellow pilots and crew members will be filmed while you attempt to capture these incredible prehistoric sea creatures.”

The aquarium director opened his attaché case on the hood of the limo. “The contracts are fairly straightforward; you’ll each receive three thousand U.S. dollars for every episode you appear on camera.”

Monty snatched the pen and contract from Dr. Al Hashemi and flipped to the last page, scribbling his signature. “I was born to play this role. Did you know the new Rolls-Royce Phantom takes two months to build and comes in a choice of forty-four thousand colors?”

“Monty, don’t you want to at least read the contract?”

“Why? Where else am I gonna earn forty-four thousand dollars for being myself?”

“It’s three thousand an episode and … never mind.” David glanced at the four-page document. “Can I read it on the plane?”

“Read it on the way to the airport, we begin filming on the plane. You’ll be flying over with your co-stars—ten of the most stunning actresses and models in all of Arabia. These women are competing to become the three finalists that you, David Taylor, will select to join you aboard the
Tonga
. Be fair warned—our contestants will do their best to influence your vote. I do envy you, my young friend.”

Monty punched David on the shoulder. “Women and a free Rolls-Royce … sign the contract, stupid!”

If it gets me aboard the Tonga …

Ignoring his father’s voice in his head, David signed the last page of the contract, then handed it back to the aquarium director and climbed inside the back of the limousine.

*   *   *

Monty propped his hiking boots up on the opposite seat, stretching out. “Dude, what’s with the sour face? Ten hot women, fighting to get inside your pants. Every guy watching the show will be wishing he was you … except for maybe the gay guys. Oh yeah, and when you’re being chased in your sub by some giant fish trying to eat you … Know what? Forget about what I said, no one will want to be you.”

“You don’t get it, Monty. The Prince is manipulating me; he thinks he can cure my depression by dangling a bunch of beautiful women in front of me. It’s not about sex. I hurt because I
loved
Kaylie. I wanted to marry her! My heart aches whenever I think about her. You just don’t shut that down. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Monty glanced at the thick sweatbands covering the freshly scarred wounds on the inside of his friend’s wrists. “Yeah, man, I feel you. Kaylie was a thunderbolt, a girl so incredibly beautiful the closest you probably figured you’d get to being with her was inside your own head. And she really liked you. When you piloted her sub during the last day of competition … capturing a sea turtle on the hood of your Manta when your net malfunctioned—dude, you were her hero. Hearing you cry at night … I hurt for you. But David, you gotta move on, you gotta let her go. Look at me. When I left for Iraq I had a steady girl and a good job. Two tours of duty later my brains were scrambled, my boss lets me go, and the woman I loved was with another guy. You think there weren’t nights when I didn’t seriously think about swallowing the barrel of my gun?”

“What stopped you?”

“Two things. The first was God. I was raised to believe the man upstairs has His own game plan for each one of us and He isn’t a big fan of suicide.”

“And the second reason?”

“What second reason?”

“The second reason you didn’t try to kill yourself.”

“I didn’t try to kill myself; an I.E.D. did this to me.”

“Not the explosive … never mind.” David watched as Monty grabbed a bottle of scotch from the limo’s bar and crammed it into his duffle bag. “Really, dude?”

“Hey, it’s not for me. That’s for you, in case you want to sleep on the plane. The last thing we need is for you to go off into la-la land and wake up screaming from one of your night terrors.”

“The new meds my shrink gave me seem to be working. Besides, I’m not tired.”

“And what if you end up in the Prince’s bedroom suite? Trust me, after you get lost between the sheets with three or four of those Arabian beauties you’ll be nodding off like a newborn. Of course, if you can’t handle it you can always call your old pal, Monty. The last woman I was with had to be inflated.”

David smiled. “I have a better idea.”

*   *   *

The driver stopped at two airport security checkpoints before following a private road onto the tarmac where the Crown Prince’s 747-300 jumbo jet was in position to taxi onto the runway.

Standing on either side of a red carpet leading up the mobile staircase were ten women in their mid to late twenties. Each Arabian beauty wore a crème-colored Dubai Land blouse and a short gray skirt with matching stiletto pumps. Name tags written in English and Arabic identified the participants’ first names.

David climbed out of the back of the limousine, only to be rushed by an American sporting a video camera and a familiar face. “David? James Gelet. We’ve never officially met, but I worked for your father aboard the hopper-dredge
McFarland
, when we transported Angel out to the Panthalassa Sea.”

“Dude, I think you have me confused with the guy in the limo. I’m Monty, James Mackreides’s nephew.”

The documentary director looked confused. “But you look just like Jonas and Terry—”

David grabbed his arm, leaning in. “I’m Monty. Just go with it.”

Monty climbed out of the back of the limo. “Hello, hello! David Taylor is in the house. Who’s hosting this freak show?”

A petite woman in her early thirties with dark blond hair and a Texas accent hurried to Monty’s side. “Amanda Silvernail, I’m the executive producer of the show. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Of course it is. Introduce me to the ladies, Anita; I’ve got an important announcement to make.” He whispered in her ear, motioning at David. “That’s Monty. Don’t waste a lot of air time on him, he’s a little
meshugganah
.”

They approached the reality show contestants. “Ladies, this is David Taylor, the submersible pilot who will be selecting three of you as finalists over the coming weeks.”

“You mean hours. I’ll be rendering my decision the moment we land in Tokyo. Ten hour flight; ten ladies. Do the math, Wanita.”

“It’s
Amanda
, and this isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Hey sweet thing, that’s the way David Taylor rolls. Every time I go down in my sub, there’s no guarantee I’m coming back. Life’s like that for us adrenaline junkies. Speaking of going down, I’ll be conducting one-on-one interviews in the Crown Prince’s private suite. Each of you lovely ladies will have an hour to persuade me to vote for you. So, who wants to be first? How about you?”

Monty approached the first woman on the right side of the red carpet, a Lebanese model. “And what’s your name?”

“Hoda.”

“Well, Hoda, I’d love to check under
your
hood-a.” He winked, then turned to the dark-haired Egyptian actress on his left. “Zeina … how would you like to play my warrior princess?”

And on it went, Monty working his way from one Arab beauty to the next. There was Rana, a well-endowed Iranian actress and Jihan, a Dubai brunette with the legs of a swimsuit model. Nesrin was a Syrian university student with bedroom eyes; Ghada was born in Libya to a Syrian father and Lebanese mother. Saba was a Jordanian actress with a Botox lower lip. Ayisha was a model from the United Arab Emirates, sporting a knockout figure and western attitude. A sultry Moroccan with raven-black hair … a Qatar beauty with waist-length wavy brown hair.

Monty flirted and cracked inane jokes like a bad game show host, then led the procession of women up the stairs and onto the jumbo jet. The ten contestants dutifully followed him and a protesting Amanda Silvernail onto the upper level where they took seats outside the Prince’s bedroom suite; a stewardess directed David down a circular staircase to the lower level.

Six rows of first-class seats were situated up front, followed by a cherrywood conference table, several private work stations, bathrooms, a dining area, and in back, a home theater, complete with padded lounge chairs and a fifty-two-inch screen.

Tears clouded David’s vision. It was in this very cabin, six months earlier, that he had met the stunning blue-eyed woman who had captured his heart. She was a few years his senior, her brunette hair long and wavy and tinged with red highlights, her features resembling those of a young Stefanie Powers. She was wearing white shorts and a navy hooded sweatshirt, the name
K. Szeifert
embroidered in white beneath a Scripps Institute insignia. Her long tan legs bore the calf muscles of a sprinter. A pair of thongs dangled from her bare feet, which were propped up on the polished wood table top he was now staring at.

“It’s pronounced ‘See-furt.’ Kaylie Szeifert.”

“Hey … you okay?”

David turned to his right to find an apple-pie American girl in her early twenties in the window seat, her tan complexion unusual considering her strawberry-blond hair. It was shoulder length and pulled into a conservative ponytail, her blue eyes framed behind reading glasses.
Brown University Field Hockey
was printed across her gray T-shirt. Her knees poked through holes in her worn jeans, her bare feet were propped on the duffle bag beneath the seat ahead of her.

David casually wiped away the evidence of his tears. “Allergies. All this dry heat.”

“Those looked like real tears to me.”

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs auditioning for the show?”

“Do I look like I just got plucked out of a harem, David?”

“No, David’s upstairs. I’m Monty.”

“And this Brown T-shirt came with my degree. You want to get your friend laid—go for it. But don’t spray your can of bullshit my way and try to call it a fragrance. Ignorance can be worked with, stupid is forever and I have zero tolerance for either.”

The
Fasten Your Seat Belt
sign lit up. “Good morning. This is Captain Michael Schallhorn in the flight deck. As you can see, I’ve just turned on the seat belt sign in preparation for takeoff. Kindly refrain from moving about the cabin until we’ve reached our cruising altitude. That would include any unscheduled activities apparently going in the Crown Prince’s romp room.”

The strawberry-blonde removed her backpack from the aisle seat and tossed it on the floor. “Sit.”

Sit? What am I? A dog?

The 747 lurched forward, causing David to fall into the aisle seat. “Thanks. So, um … who are you and what are you doing here?”

She held out her hand. “Jacqueline Buchwald, my friends call me Jackie. My degree is in marine biology with certificates in shark awareness, SCUBA, underwater photography, and advanced open water diving. I was recruited for the hell’s aquarium gig by Barbara Becker and promoted from associate to assistant director after she was transferred to a DOD facility in Miami. I’ve personally overseen the diets and care of every aquatic animal in the exhibit. Dr. Al Hashemi felt my expertise was needed in the field, where the mortality rates of captured specimens have been so high. You net ’em; I’ll vet ’em.”

“And how do you intend on vetting a hundred-ton monster nearly half the size of a football field?”

“The Lio is the
Tonga
’s mission, not ours. Focus on the task ahead and maybe we’ll end up together on the big hunt. For now, we’re after three pretty nasty prehistoric fish.”

Jackie removed a manila folder from her backpack and handed David an artist’s rendition of a sea creature with a dolphin-shaped mouth, a whalelike torso, narrow front and rear flippers, and a double-pronged tail. “
Shonisaurus
. A massive species of ichthyosaur or fish-lizard which dominated the late Triassic seas approximately two hundred and eight million years ago.”