“Divers?”

“Sonar hits are too small. Little or no movement.”

Austin strained his eyes in an attempt to pierce the gauzy blue.

Thinking ahead, he said, “What's the Brogan's top speed if we have to get out of here in a hurry?”

“Seven knots, pedal to the metal. She was made more for vertical travel than horizontal, and we're carrying a couple of hundred extra pounds of beef.”

“I'll join Weight Watchers when we get back,” Austin said. “Move in real slow, but be prepared to make a dash for it.”

They crawled ahead at half speed. Within moments dozens of dark objects materialized, stretching from the surface to the bottom and rolling off both directions in a great wall.

Fish.

“Looks like a net,” Austin advised. “Stop before we get snagged.”

The Brogan slowed to a complete halt and hovered in place.

Austin ducked his head in reflex as a streamlined silhouette glided in from above and behind him. The shark was only there for an instant, long enough for Austin to see its round white eye and to estimate the hungry predator's length at more than six feet. Its toothy jaws opened then clamped shut to grab half a struggling fish in one bite before disappearing from sight with a flick of its high tail fin.

Zavala had seen the same thing. “Kurt, are you okay?” he shouted.

Austin laughed. “Yeah. Don't worry. That guy doesn't want a tough old human to chew on when he's got a whole seafood buffet.”

“Glad to hear you say that, because he invited some of his friends for dinner.”

Several more sharks swooped in, grabbed a bite, then, wary of the sub, quickly left. It was less a wild feeding frenzy than a gathering of discriminating gourmands picking from the choicest items on the menu. Hundreds of fish were caught in the fine mesh. They came in all sizes, shapes, and species. Some, still alive, were making fruitless attempts to free themselves, only to attract the attention of the sharks. Others had only their heads left, and bones marked the remains of many more.

“No one has been tending the net,” Austin said.

“Maybe someone hung it here to keep nosy guys like us out.”

“I don't think so,” Austin said after a moment's reflection. “That net is made of monofilament. You could cut your way through it with a nail clipper. No electrical wiring, so it doesn't seem to have an alarm signal attached.”

“I don't get it.”

“Let's think about it. Whatever's in that lagoon killed a pod of whales. The locals would begin asking questions if they started seeing hundreds of dead fish. The folks who bring you Baja Tortillas don't like attention. So they stick the net here to keep the fish out and any dead ones in.”

“Makes sense,” Zavala agreed. “What next?”

“Keep on going.”

Zavala's fingers danced over the computer screen that controlled the sub's functions. Two mechanical arms on the front of the Brogan unfolded and extended like a telescope to within inches of the net. The claws at the end of each arm grabbed the mesh and tore it open like an actor parting a curtain. Pieces of fish in various states of decomposition drifted off in every direction.