Read Online MEG: Nightstalkers by Steve Alten - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steve Alten
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sector commander out of Port Angeles tapped Jonas on the shoulder, then pointed to Mac, who was dozing in his seat. “War vet?”
Jonas nodded. “And a new father. His wife has him pulling three a.m. feedings.”
“Poor bastard.”
Jonas shrugged off the attempt at conversation, struggling to shift his weight in the jump seat. They had been circling the western coastal waters of San Juan Island for three straight hours. He was tired and hungry; his lower back ached and his knees were cramped. This is a waste of time.… an exercise in futility aimed solely at appeasing the public. Bela and Lizzy could be a hundred miles from here or be swimming two hundred feet directly below us—either way we’d never know it. And shooting at them with a machine gun …
The co-pilot signaled to starboard. “Sir, we sighted another pod of gray whales. Should we stay with them?”
Captain Royston glanced at Jonas, reading his pained expression. “How are we on fuel?”
“We can remain on this course and speed another twenty minutes before … stand by, Captain. We’re receiving a report from one of the auxiliary units. A sighting … a white dorsal fin … three miles southwest of Obstruction Island.”
Obstruction Pass
The Lebofilms cut a V-shaped wake of white water across the glassy emerald green surface, its captain maintaining a southern heading through the narrows of East Sound. On their port side was Obstruction State Park, its public boat launch closed. The channel ended up ahead, emptying into open water.
Steven Lebowitz called down from the helm to the lanky man in the dry suit. “Hey, shark bait, see those whitecaps? That’s your destination.”
Lucas Heitman waved, his eyes focused on his iPhone and the GPS map.
Obstruction Island came into view on their left, its forest-covered landmass concealing a private residential community. Donna Johnston observed the landmass from the bow, just as she had four days earlier in her lover’s yacht. Alexi Alexandrovich Lundgard owned one of the island’s seaside properties. She had met the Russian immigrant two years earlier in the United Kingdom where he ran a black market import-export company. One of Alexi’s hottest commodities was pinto abalone, a San Juan Island seafood delicacy contained in a six-inch-flat, ear-shaped shell, the interior of which was an iridescent pearl coating set in swirling patterns of color that shifted with the light. Commercial demand for abalone was high, the polished shell pieces used in guitar inlays and saxophone keys as well as women’s jewelry.
Abalone diving in the Salish Sea had been banned since 1994.
An avid SCUBA diver, Alexi had come across a large patch of abalone a week earlier while investigating a twelve-foot ridge hidden among a kelp forest along the bottom. While Donna kept vigil topside, he and Lucas had collected over two hundred live specimens, but could not risk hauling the heavy burlap bags on board as a Coast Guard chopper had been circling overhead. Instead they tied the bags and hid them beneath a shelf of rock in Obstruction Pass.
Alexi’s movements were being watched. That left it up to Donna to secure the haul.
Lucas signaled the captain to stop. The boat listed beneath its own wake, its engines chortling blue-gray exhaust fumes. Lebowitz checked the depth gauge and dropped anchor, the line going taught in the currents.
Donna intercepted him as he climbed down from the helm. “You have a winch, yes?”
“A winch? Yeah, I have a winch. What do you need a winch for?”
She led him to the five-foot-long, four-foot-wide rectangular wooden crate Lucas had hauled onboard. Through gaps in the wooden slates Lebowitz could see a burlap sack held shut by a padlock. “What’s in the bag? A dead body?”
“You are a funny man. These are props we need in the shot. One is a bust of Poseidon; the other is a statue of his rival, Hades. Best to leave them in the crate; Lucas will position them along the
Jonas nodded. “And a new father. His wife has him pulling three a.m. feedings.”
“Poor bastard.”
Jonas shrugged off the attempt at conversation, struggling to shift his weight in the jump seat. They had been circling the western coastal waters of San Juan Island for three straight hours. He was tired and hungry; his lower back ached and his knees were cramped. This is a waste of time.… an exercise in futility aimed solely at appeasing the public. Bela and Lizzy could be a hundred miles from here or be swimming two hundred feet directly below us—either way we’d never know it. And shooting at them with a machine gun …
The co-pilot signaled to starboard. “Sir, we sighted another pod of gray whales. Should we stay with them?”
Captain Royston glanced at Jonas, reading his pained expression. “How are we on fuel?”
“We can remain on this course and speed another twenty minutes before … stand by, Captain. We’re receiving a report from one of the auxiliary units. A sighting … a white dorsal fin … three miles southwest of Obstruction Island.”
Obstruction Pass
The Lebofilms cut a V-shaped wake of white water across the glassy emerald green surface, its captain maintaining a southern heading through the narrows of East Sound. On their port side was Obstruction State Park, its public boat launch closed. The channel ended up ahead, emptying into open water.
Steven Lebowitz called down from the helm to the lanky man in the dry suit. “Hey, shark bait, see those whitecaps? That’s your destination.”
Lucas Heitman waved, his eyes focused on his iPhone and the GPS map.
Obstruction Island came into view on their left, its forest-covered landmass concealing a private residential community. Donna Johnston observed the landmass from the bow, just as she had four days earlier in her lover’s yacht. Alexi Alexandrovich Lundgard owned one of the island’s seaside properties. She had met the Russian immigrant two years earlier in the United Kingdom where he ran a black market import-export company. One of Alexi’s hottest commodities was pinto abalone, a San Juan Island seafood delicacy contained in a six-inch-flat, ear-shaped shell, the interior of which was an iridescent pearl coating set in swirling patterns of color that shifted with the light. Commercial demand for abalone was high, the polished shell pieces used in guitar inlays and saxophone keys as well as women’s jewelry.
Abalone diving in the Salish Sea had been banned since 1994.
An avid SCUBA diver, Alexi had come across a large patch of abalone a week earlier while investigating a twelve-foot ridge hidden among a kelp forest along the bottom. While Donna kept vigil topside, he and Lucas had collected over two hundred live specimens, but could not risk hauling the heavy burlap bags on board as a Coast Guard chopper had been circling overhead. Instead they tied the bags and hid them beneath a shelf of rock in Obstruction Pass.
Alexi’s movements were being watched. That left it up to Donna to secure the haul.
Lucas signaled the captain to stop. The boat listed beneath its own wake, its engines chortling blue-gray exhaust fumes. Lebowitz checked the depth gauge and dropped anchor, the line going taught in the currents.
Donna intercepted him as he climbed down from the helm. “You have a winch, yes?”
“A winch? Yeah, I have a winch. What do you need a winch for?”
She led him to the five-foot-long, four-foot-wide rectangular wooden crate Lucas had hauled onboard. Through gaps in the wooden slates Lebowitz could see a burlap sack held shut by a padlock. “What’s in the bag? A dead body?”
“You are a funny man. These are props we need in the shot. One is a bust of Poseidon; the other is a statue of his rival, Hades. Best to leave them in the crate; Lucas will position them along the
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