Jack’s jaws worked for a moment. “I know what this thing can do, and if I had any idea it was in these waters, I’d be first in line to do something about it. But there’s no proof.”

Vincent snatched up the picture of the Placoderm. “There’s your proof.”

“Calm down.” Cate got in between the two men, and pushed them apart. “This isn’t helping.”

Jack folded his arms. “Vince, you came here for help. No use trying to beat me up, because that isn’t the way to get it.” He sat down heavily.

Vincent Kelly paced for a moment but then plonked down in his seat. “We need get back out there, and we need to go public – issue a general alert.”

“Go public?” Cate snorted. “You’d have every recreational fisherman on the coast, no, worldwide, out on the water in everything from a destroyer to a dinghy. This is no ordinary shark, and what you need right now, is education. Jack…?”

Jack nodded. “She’s right, Vince. This is a hyper-predator of unprecedented magnitude. It is the biggest, meanest killer that has ever lived on land or sea. If it’s taking boats, it’s learned that’s where the food is. So, a lot more small boats on the water will be nothing more than a smorgasbord.”

Vincent sat forward “We restrict it to boats over fifty feet, sixty… I dunno, a hundred feet.”

“And made of pig iron?” Jack’s eyebrows went up. “An oversized Great White has a bite force of around thirty-eight hundred pounds per square inch. Your picture tells me that this thing is around sixty-five feet, and will have a comparative bite force of up to forty thousand pounds. Let me give you some context: the T-Rex could only bite down at around seven thousand pounds. Unless your fishermen are in a destroyer they’ll just be sailing on out to their deaths. Plus its territory will be hundreds of miles – it could be anywhere along the west coast.”

Cate looked over the side at the still, blue water. “I’m suddenly thinking I’m not going to go for that little sail around the bays after all.”

Jack reached out and grabbed her hand. He rubbed it.

Vincent’s eyes narrowed, as his vision had turned inward. “Fine, then we take the Bertholf out – she’s a National Security Cutter – four hundred and eighteen feet, two by 7.400 kilowatt diesel engines, plus one pumped up 22.000 kilowatt gas turbine engine, that can fire us up to twenty-eight knots.” He smiled grimly. “Plus, she’s got a fifty-seven millimeter deck cannon, and four fifty-cal machine guns – we’ll blow that fucking fish back to hell.”

“Yeah.” Regina turned to bump knuckles with him.