In November of 2008, paleontologists excavating a dried lake bed in Peru had stumbled across the fossilized remains of an undiscovered sea monster that definitely ranked up there as one of Nature’s all-time killers. From the partially preserved skull, teeth, and mandible, they knew the creature had been enormous, as long as sixty feet. The cranium’s curved basin suggested it harbored a spermaceti organ—a series of oil and wax reservoirs separated by connective tissue, theorized to be a resonance chamber used by cetaceans for echolocation.

The owner appeared to be the ancestor of a sperm whale, with one major anatomical difference—the Miocene killer had possessed a lower jaw that was far wider than that of its modern-day cousin, giving it a bite that rivaled Carcharodon megalodon, its chief competitor.

After much debate the excited researchers settled on a name for their mammalian monster: Livyatan melvillei, combining the Hebrew spelling for the biblical Leviathan with the surname of Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick. It was a fitting title for an ocean predator that had not only owned one of the most vicious bites in history but also the largest teeth, some of which measured fifteen inches.

I had no doubt that the skull and jawbone lying twelve feet beneath our keel belonged to this Miocene monster. But why had these ocean-dwelling whales entered Vostok? Had something enticed them to venture upriver into a saltwater lake? Was it a survival instinct, a search for prey… or something else entirely?

The teeth were enormous, cone-shaped, and twice as long as an ear of corn. Ming quickly located a tooth that had belonged to the beast’s lower jaw and decided she could acquire it using the sub’s claw.

Ben disagreed. “The current will snap the claw like kindling.”

“Nonsense. It will hold.”

“It’s too risky. If it bends you won’t be able to dock the arm. And if you can’t dock it, it will interfere with our ascent. Tell her, Zach.”

But I was no longer listening to them, for the emptiness that had occupied our sonar monitor was no longer empty, the vacuum of space replaced by three distinct blips—

—and they were headed our way.

11

Blee-bloop… blee-bloop… blee-bloop …

It was a freakish sound, almost like a water jug expelling its contents, and when I heard it in my sonar earpiece I nearly passed out from the blood rushing from my head.

Imagine surviving a plane crash, only to find yourself on another commercial jetliner years later hearing the captain announce, “Sorry folks, we just lost one of our engines. Prepare for an emergency landing.” You’d feel your whole body go numb because you know what’s coming, and it’s seriously bad news as you ask yourself, “What the hell am I doing back on a goddamn plane?”