Steve Alten - Vostok

And that’s when all hell broke loose.

Before the hunters stationed behind their deck-mounted harpoon guns could aim their drug-filled steel lances below, the enraged pliosaur twisted its one hundred tons of fury beneath the starboard keel of the tanker.

Having been refitted as a mobile aquarium, the Tonga lacked the ballast of an ocean-bound tanker filled with crude. The unstable ship was pulled hard to starboard, flinging its harpooners and winch crew seven stories into the bay. Anything not bolted down — equipment, crates, and humans — was hurtled across the tanker’s plunging deck.

Aboard the Dubai-Land , the winch that had been holding the net open was bent sideways, making it impossible for the trawler’s crew to release control of the captured pliosaur over to the Tonga . Instead of being hauled out of the water, the Liopleurodon was left to twist and turn in the net, caught in a tug-of-war between both ships.

Jonas tried to reach his son by our sub-comm link, but David didn’t reply. Accelerating to thirty knots, he raced for the tanker. “Zachary, start pinging. Find me David’s Manta.”

I switched my headphones to sonar, my ears assaulted by a cacophony of sound.

A minute later we arrived on the scene.

Jonas slowed our approach, in order to sort through the chaos. On our right was the Tonga , its towering superstructure surreally swaying east to west and back again like a giant steel buoy. On our left was the trawler — at least what was left of it. The vessel had been flipped completely over, its barnacle-encrusted keel now an island of survival for its crew, who were hanging on for dear life, the inverted boat dropping and rising beneath them.

Ahead of us was the center of the maelstrom.

One hundred sixty million years ago, Liopleurodon had ruled the ocean as a carnivorous marine reptile, all except for the subspecies that had evolved gills to inhabit the Panthalassa Sea. Caught in the net, the creature before us couldn’t swim. And if it couldn’t swim, it couldn’t breathe.

By swaying the two ships, the monster managed to channel just enough water into its mouth to keep from drowning. It had flipped the Dubai-Land , but the steel cables connecting the trawler to the net had remained in place, keeping the trap sealed.

“Zach, where’s David’s sub?”

“There… by the trawler’s bow. Those crewmen are using it as a flotation device.”

The water was a frigid thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit. The paralyzing temperatures had already claimed at least a dozen lives. I was about to radio Mac to send the hopper-dredge when we heard the unmistakable snap of steel.

It was the last cable connecting the trawler to the net.

The Liopleurodon felt its bonds loosen. With renewed vigor, the trapped beast began to worm itself free.

“Zach, it’s getting free!”

“Kill it.”

“How?”

“Use the Valkyries. Aim for its neck.”

Jonas dove the sub to avoid a swirl of lifeless bodies, moving us steadily toward the opening net, the lasers heating up. The inverted trawler appeared on our left, along with David’s Manta. The disabled vessel bobbed upright along the surface, surrounded by seven pairs of kicking legs.

Jonas would not allow the creature to escape.

“Its head is free. Here it comes!”

The monster lurched forward, catching its left hind flipper in the net.

That was all Jonas needed.

I ducked as the Manta’s bow forcibly struck the Liopleurodon just above its chest cavity, the twin lasers burning matching holes three feet deep into the creature’s flesh. Blood spurted across our cockpit glass as the insane beast flung us to and fro until we were tossed free.

Mortally wounded, the animal propelled itself away in obvious pain.

The hopper-dredge arrived ten minutes later. Jonas maneuvered the sub into its berth, impatiently waiting for the chamber to drain and pressurize before he could open the cockpit and make his way up five flights of stairs to board a waiting lifeboat.

Waiting inside the craft were Mac and the ship’s physician.

I watched from the starboard rail as Jonas used a reach pole to pop open David’s hatch. The physician climbed inside the cockpit to work on him.

After a few minutes Jonas climbed in.

The captain of the hopper-dredge approached and handed me his radio.

“Mac? How is he?”

“The impact broke his neck. David’s dead.”

When a loved one dies, we grieve. And through that process we are offered words of comfort. “ They are out of pain. They are in a better place — the soul immortal, an eternal spark of perfection. One day we’ll be reunited in the ever-after.”

There are no words of comfort for a parent who loses a child. Children are simply not supposed to die before their parents. It’s unnatural. It defies universal law. The loss of a child is a loss of innocence, a promised future stolen. Hopes and dreams shattered.

A child’s passing affects a community. But from the parent, it takes a piece of the heart, and in its place it leaves a hole that can never be healed. A hole infected with depression and often filled with anger. Anger aimed at God. Anger that targets a spouse or a physician, a stranger at fault, a path crossed by evil… or oneself.

When you play with fire, you risk getting burned. Skydiving, surfing big waves, cliff diving, drugs… That’s the problem with addictions: you never know when you’ve crossed the line until you cross it. Adrenaline junkies know the risks. They shrug them off. “ Hey, everybody dies. You could die crossing the street. At least I have a choice in how I go.”

That choice, that philosophy, that line of reasoning changes when you have children. And when your child dies participating in an activity that you taught him to do…

Part of Jonas was in shock, the other part of him detached so he could function. He made sure his son’s remains and the remains of the other crewmen were placed in body bags and stored in a freezer. He spoke to the captain of the Tonga and saw to the survivors of the trawler. And when he was done, he went into his stateroom to speak by Skype to his wife, Terry.

I gave him an hour and forty minutes before knocking on his door.

Mac answered, red-eyed and more than a little inebriated. “Doctor E.T.?”

“Mac, I need to speak with Jonas.”

“Not now. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s too late. I need to speak with him now .”

“Yeah, well, that ain’t going to happen. Oh, and the mission you had planned? Forget about it.”

“Mac, I’m geared up. The Manta’s being prepped—”

“No more Mantas. No more missions. Boss’s orders.”

“Then let the boss tell me himself.” I pushed past my fellow Scot and entered the cabin.

Jonas was propped up in bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his night table. He looked up at me with sullen eyes and shook his head. “He was such a good kid. As a father, you want your son to be better than you. He was better. A lot better.”

His words made my eyes burn. “Jonas, back in the Manta, you asked me how returning to Vostok could save my son. The answer is complicated but—”

“The answer is no. As my soon-to-be ex-wife so aptly pointed out, my choices have led to enough loss of life.”

“As have mine. And I need that sub to rectify things.”

Mac grabbed me by the biceps. “You heard the man.”

“Let him go, Mac.” Jonas stood, staggering close enough for me to smell the alcohol on his breath. “All right, Dr. Wallace, I’m listening. Tell me how returning to Vostok gets your son outta whatever trouble he’s in.”