Meg: Hell's Aquarium (25 page)

David opens his eyes. He is lying on the wraparound leather couch in his suite. Sitting up, he looks out the bay windows. The sun has already set, the Persian Gulf’s distant horizon alive with a twinkling night life. He checks the wall clock: 8:43 p.m.

Must’ve really dozed off. Kaylie has to be back from training by now . . . wonder why she didn’t come by?

He uses the toilet, brushes his teeth, then pockets his room key and exits the suite, heading for Kaylie’s door.

She answers on the third knock, dressed in baggy sweat pants and a tee-shirt. She looks tired, the lust from twelve hours earlier completely gone.

“Hey. When did you get back?”

She breaks eye contact. “A few hours ago.”

“Long day, huh? Are you hungry? I thought we could order up some dinner.”

“I already ate.”

“Oh . . . kay. Want some company? We could rent a movie.”

“I don’t think so. I have studying to do and—”

“Kaylie, did I do something wrong?”

Her blue eyes flash anger. “Why did you have to show up Brian like that?”

Brian?
“I wasn’t—Kaylie, the guy’s an asshole. He’s on an ego trip. I know more about those Manta Rays than—”

“He’s on an ego trip? What about you? You think the rest of us were impressed by that little stunt? Yes, David, you certainly know how to pilot a submersible better than the rest of us, but Brian’s still heading this mission, not you!”

“I was hired as a trainer. He’s been dissing me from the moment we met.”

“You want respect, try earning it. Most of the trainees are ex-military. They’ve been in combat. They’re not going to listen to some cocky, twenty-year-old college student. The maneuvers we’ll be doing, the depths will be working in . . . it’s dangerous stuff. Maybe not to you, but to us—to me.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“I’m sorry. Like I told you, I didn’t come to Dubai looking for a boyfriend. I need the job.”

“So that’s it? This morning meant nothing?”

“It was impulsive. I’m sorry if I misled you. I think it’s best if we just stayed friends.”

She closes the door quietly, ending the conversation.

Friends? Friends!
“Sure! Maybe we’ll catch a camel race . . . do lunch!” David kicks the door and storms off, his emotions caught in a maelstrom. Keying open his suite, he throws the key against the wall and paces the living room, cursing aloud, wishing he could somehow undo the entire day. “All you had to do was keep your mouth shut and everything would have been fine. But nooooo, you had to be a bigshot, didn’t you? You had to show him up!”

He flops down on the leather sofa, pounding the cushions with both fists until his anger’s spent.

Okay, asshole, now what? Think Suits’ll accept an apology? Doubtful. He’ll have you scrubbing toilets with your toothbrush before he let’s you back into his training. Better to let him cool off a day. The two runts arrive in the morning. That’ll help. Keep your mind
on your business and your ego in check, and maybe things’ll work themselves out.

Maybe
.

David picks up the room service menu, leafs through its thick pages, then tosses it aside, too upset with himself to eat.

Go for a walk . . . clear your head.

Locating the room key, he pockets it and leaves. He presses the elevator down button then glances across the hall to Suite 3612.

He debates internally, then ignores the arriving elevator and knocks on the double doors. After a few moments Monty answers, dressed in Army fatigues and white sweat socks. “Junior? You look pissed. Either someone broke your heart, or you’ve got a raging case of blue balls.”

“Both.”

“Hah! Come on in. You can watch me crash and burn another submersible.”

The Manta Ray simulator is set up on the Persian rug in front of the big plasma TV screen. The system, which consists of two foot pedals and two joysticks, is attached to a collapsible graphite frame. A control box is wired into the simulator and television.

Monty sits inside the contraption and pushes RESET.

The blank TV screen changes to a realistic ocean surface setting, the sky blue, the sea tranquil. “This is the beginner setting. I’ve yet to dive a hundred feet without losing control and dive-bombing like a pelican into the sea floor.”

David watches as Monty surface dives, descending at an awkward angle. “Drop your starboard wing! Now ease back on the port-side pedal. Port-side! Left!”

“I know port from starboard! I just can’t get the feel!”

The underwater image barrel rolls into a dizzying dive before smashing into a coral reef.

Monty lays his head back against the sofa in disgust. “Face it, I suck. It’s like trying to lick your elbow.”

David bends his arm, attempting the maneuver, his tongue coming up eight inches short.

“Should’ve seen me in the aquarium today after you left. Everyone got ten minutes in the sub. Me? I went down like an anchor. Captain Courageous had to take over or we’d still be lying on the bottom.”

“I can help you.”

“I doubt that.”

“At least let me try. What else am I going to do tonight?”

“She really did a number on you, huh?”

“It was my fault. I screwed up this morning by showing off.”

“Yeah, you did. Jumped on the hook like a horny blowfish.”

“Yeah. Huh? Wait. What are you talking about?”

“Wake up, Junior. He baited you. These Psy Ops guys are all about head games. I’ll bet my nutsack they moved that crane dead center of the tank just so you’d be tempted to jump it. Hell, I knew you’d go for it the moment you gunned the engines. But the dollar tip . . . that was inspired. I laughed my ass off.”

“He baited me?” David sits on the coffee table, his thoughts racing. “Am I really that stupid?”

“Stupid’s a relative term. To a Psy Ops officer, you’re easier to read than a billboard.”

“Why bait me? What do they want?”

“Not a clue. But be wary; they know you like the girl. If I’m bin Rashidi, I’m recruiting her just for that purpose. Hard to blame any man from jumping on that hook.”

“Ahh, God-dammit!” David grabs a throw pillow and flings it across the living room. “Am I that shallow?”

“I believe the medical term is pussy-whipped.”

“What now? What should I do?”

“I recommend heavy masturbation.”

“I’m being serious.”

“You really want my advice? Whatever your twenty-year-old instincts tell you to do, do the opposite. Next time they push you, don’t push back. That’ll force them to come to you at some point with whatever proposal they have in mind.”

“Don’t push back? Yeah, that makes sense. What about Kaylie?”

“I already gave you that advice. Look, it’s not her fault. Maybe she’s a helluva pilot. Who knows? More likely she’s a tool. Don’t feel bad; it’s simply the way these arrogant assholes operate. They have more money than they can spend, so they amuse themselves by playing Allah.”

“Screw ‘em. We should quit.”

“Good idea. You quit. I need the money. When you’re disabled and poor, pride takes a backseat to putting food on the table. Right now, I just need to make it through training.”

“Then I’d better teach your poor, disabled ass how to fly. Here, give me a hand.” David moves to the large plasma TV, lifting one end of its frame off its support hooks, Monty lifting the other end. “What are we doing? Pawn shop?”

“Set it on the coffee table.”

They lower the TV, balancing it on its six-inch-wide frame. David repositions the simulator so the big screen is directly in front of the trainee.

“There. That should give you a more realistic view. Have a seat.”

Monty sits down on the simulator cushion. “Not sure how this helps.”

“Just watch and learn.” David kicks off his shoes then scoots up close behind Monty, placing his longer legs next to his, his stocking feet atop Monty’s shoes. His hands rest on top of the war vet’s hands, which are poised around the two joysticks.

“Hey now . . .”

“This is how my dad taught me to get the feel.”

“If you ask me, it feels a little too much like
Broke-back Mountain
. Do you have to spoon me from behind? In your present state of mind you’re liable to—”

“Shut up and pay attention. Unlace your sneakers and tie them around my feet.”

“Now you’re scaring me.” Monty complies, re-lacing his shoes, binding his feet atop David’s.

David restarts the simulator. The image on-screen returns again to the surface, only this time the view encompasses Monty’s entire visual perspective.

“Hey . . . that really does make a difference.”

“Let me control the joysticks and pedals. Just keep your hands and feet over mine so you can feel how I maneuver the sub. Ready? Here we go.”

David descends in a long shallow dive, keeping the view before them on an even keel.

“Okay, left pedal down, right leg up, joysticks compensate like so. Feel how the wings catch the water instead of slicing through?”

Monty grins, his limbs shaking with adrenaline. “Yeah, I can feel it now. Sort of like a bird.”

“We shift back the other way, compensating with speed until the wings re-catch the sea. Now back again as we change to a steeper angle of descent, always keeping an eye on our sonar. The green blip is us, geology outlined in red, life forms in blue. Sonar auto sets distances according to visibility, but you can set it to manual and adjust it as you see fit. Again. Left pedal down, right foot up. Adjust the pitch and yaw. Then right pedal down, left foot up. Feel the pattern? It’s just a matter of getting the coordination.”

“Yeah, I can feel it now.”

“Now we add speed. Speeds places torque on the wings, allowing us to make rapid turns. Ready? We turn and lean . . .”

The view moves into a dizzying 180-degree turn.

It is just after midnight when David leaves Monty’s suite. He heads down the hall, pausing at Kaylie’s door, debating whether to offer her the same instruction he gave to Monty.

No, let it go. Tomorrow she’ll see Monty piloting the sub like a pro and she’ll be practically begging you for help. Order room service, rent a movie, get some sleep.

He continues on to his own room and keys open the suite—

—shocked to find Fiesal bin Rashidi and Brian Suits seated at the conference table.

The Arab smiles. “There he is, our young rebel. Still, a pilot with potential, don’t you think, Captain?”

“Mustangs are useless unless they can be bridled. He’ll never be a team player. Let him go. I don’t need him.”

Are they baiting me?
“Look, I was out of line this morning. I apologize.”

Brian Suits raises an eyebrow. “Humility from a Taylor? I don’t buy it.”

“I apologized. What else do you want from me?”

“Nothing. You’re going home.”

David’s flesh prickles with alarm. “You’re letting me go? What about the Megs?”

“The staff can handle them.”

“Give me another chance! Let me prove to you I can train these pilots. You should see Monty. I worked with him all night.”

“I don’t give a—”

Bin Rashidi turns to the captain, speaking to him rapidly in Arabic.

Brian Suits argues, then relents. “Mr. bin Rashidi thinks you deserve another chance. I don’t agree, but he’s the boss. Grab Candidate Montgomery and be in the lobby in ten minutes.”

“You mean now? Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

The peninsula is situated on the Persian Gulf—a half million acres of leveled ground with no avenues or habitats, just several dozen waterside projects in the beginning stages of development.

A ten minute drive over sandy roads brings them to the bridge.

When completed in two years, the structure will be eight lanes of concrete and steel that will connect Dubai with its neighboring emirate. For now, the bridge is an elevated expanse of construction, an island of support beams and rebar that stretches from its inception point two thousand feet inland to concrete pilings that abruptly end a quarter mile out in the swirling, heavily trafficked waters of the Gulf.

Construction crews are working under powerful lights. Towering cranes are moving expanse beams into place. Barges, located a half mile out to sea, are pounding new pilings into the Gulf bedrock.