LEVIATHAN RISING.

by Jonathan Green.

For Lou, who enjoyed the first one.

And for Clare, always.

Canst thou draw out leviathan with an hook?

(Job, ch.41 v.1).

PROLOGUE.

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

The Venture - a tramp steamer, six days out from Shanghai - chugged on across the oceanic wilderness, smoke and steam belching from its stack, fighting the swell and chop of the sea. All rusting gunwales and weather-warped boards, the filthy, noisy craft pressed on against the surges of the sea. The entirety of the firmament was fogged with cloud from horizon to horizon: the Pacific a roiling ma.s.s of churning darkness beneath. Seabirds, flickers of white against the grey pall of the heavens, soared high above the lonely Venture, their discordant cries lost to the howls of the wind and the crash of waves against the lancing prow of the boat. The vessel appeared as nothing more than a rusty speck amidst the torpid rise and fall of the black waters.

The ship slammed into another wave-crest, the resounding clang of impact shuddering through the vessel, shaking it to its bilges. Captain Engelhard - Bavarian-German by extraction - peered out of the brine-spotted gla.s.s in front of him at the undulating mountains of water surrounding the Venture. With no land in any direction as far as the eye could see, the wild waters of the South China Seas were some of the roughest and most unpredictable in all the world, from Engelhard's experience - not unlike the hard-bitten captain himself. Lean as a sea snake and potentially twice as venomous, Engelhard demanded both the respect of the men of his crew, and their fear. It had been the same as old Runcorn under whom he had first worked the trade routes between the empires of Magna Britannia and China as a cabin boy, and on whom he had modelled his own style of leadership when he took command of the Venture on Runcorn's untimely death.

From his experience, it had always been the way: a sailor who respected his captain, who trusted his judgement and honoured his decisions, would follow you across the seven seas to the four corners of the globe. But a man who feared you, him you could lead down to Davy Jones's locker or into the jaws of h.e.l.l itself. That was the kind of man Engelhard wanted aboard his ship, in his line of business.

One such man was his first mate, Mr Hayes. The crew of the Venture was a cosmopolitan group, Hayes himself hailing from Rhodesia. The cream wool Arran sweater he wore was in sharp contrast with the polished ebony of his skin. He was a brute of a man, taller and broader than Engelhard, made loyal by the promise of great rewards and made cruel by whatever it was that had happened to him in his youth before he escaped his homeland for the open sea.

With a hold full of the finest opium, from the poppy fields of Sichuan Province, bound for the smoking dens of Magna Britannia, h.e.l.l and high water came as part of the deal. Engelhard needed a crew that he knew he could trust in a tight spot. He knew all too well the kind of hazards one could face on such a venture, the risks you ran in the quest for increased profit and the future promise of an easy life - a procession of ladies of easy virtue and a limitless supply of rum. And so he looked for men who would not falter when faced with an officer of Her Imperial Majesty's revenue office, and who knew the business end of a cudgel. And then there was always the risk of meeting a rival out on these wild seas, another captain hoping to make it big with a shipment of opium bound for the West.

There had long been old sea dog's tales connected to these waters. They mainly concerned the mysterious disappearances of ships over the centuries. It was said that the fathomless depths beneath them were some of the very deepest waters in the world. The ocean floor was said to be riven with trenches so deep that no one, not even unmanned probes, had ever been able to reach the bottom. And when one considered some of the monsters that dwelt within the trackless seas as it was, it was not hard to find oneself wondering what might be dwelling within such abyssal chasms.

But then there were such tales told about every ocean on the planet, tales first told to explain the inexplicable, to account for the unaccountable, to explain away the effects of freakish weather, killer tidal waves and abductions carried out by those who still perpetrated the slave trade in certain corners of the world. The fact that reports of unaccountable disappearances had apparently increased over the last twenty years or so meant nothing to Captain Engelhard other than that the opium trade, and compet.i.tion between those captains and crews a.s.sociated with it, had increased in the intervening period to lethal effect.

Not that Engelhard often found himself in such a predicament. He was too careful to let that happen to him if he could help it. But it paid to take precautions. The old whaler's harpoon gun bolted to the prow of the Venture was just one such precaution.

Despite the damp cold of the sea-spray and the chilling effects of the wind, the cabin still felt uncomfortably warm, thanks to the excess heat pumping from the smoky engine room below. The air was close and redolent with c.o.ke fumes. There was another shuddering crash as the steel hull of the steamer collided head-on with another wall of black water. The tramp steamer pushed on through and then the prow was rising again, the great surge breaking into a curtain of white spray. Water splashed across the smeared pane in front of Engelhard and then skittered away in the face of the wind. the Venture dipped again, plunging onwards into the waves.

The force of the collision stopped the boat in its tracks, the hull-shuddering crash booming through the cabins and holds of the old steamer. Engelhard flew forwards over the wheel as the ship lurched, into the window panel in front of him. He gasped as the wind was knocked from him, the handle of the wheel in his gut, and cursed with his next breath at the blow he received to the forehead.

The surging sea continued to tug and pull at the Venture but, after more time spent onboard ship than on land, Engelhard knew that the steamer wasn't going anywhere. Incredibly, somehow, it had come to a complete stop: he could barely feel the ever-present heave and yaw of the ship as the depthless ocean moved beneath it and on which the ship should be bobbing like a cork.

Then his mind was full of questions. What had they hit? He hadn't seen anything out here with them. the Venture's instruments hadn't warned him of the approach of another vessel. What could possibly have brought the steamer to such an abrupt halt out here, miles from land, with nothing beneath them but the unsounded depths of the Marianas Trench? Had they collided with some submersible, either belonging to a rival or commandeered by a more ingenious member of Her Majesty's revenue office? But if that were the case, again, how could it have brought them to a complete stop? The engines were still chugging away, the propeller turning, but the Venture wasn't going anywhere. It was just as if they had run aground, only that was impossible.

The cabin was suddenly full of excitedly questioning crewmen, all coming up top to find out what was going on.

"What is it, Captain?" Hayes asked.

The ship lurched again. Engelhard grabbed for the wheel to stop himself losing his footing as others lunged for handrails or ended up on their knees on the floor of the cabin.

"We're on top of something," he hissed. "Mr Hayes, take the wheel!"

Engelhard threw himself out of the cabin, into the wind and lashing spray, half his crew tumbling through the door after him. Grabbing the starboard gunwale, Engelhard peered over the edge of the ship. At first all he could see was black waves and white breakers, a torment of churning water pummelling the hull of the ship. And then he saw it; something grey and indistinct, a pockmarked surface beneath the ship, the keel caught within it, something huge.

The ship pitched suddenly, yawing dangerously to port, throwing the gaggle of sailors and their captain back from the edge of the boat and slamming them into the side of the cabin. Engelhard pulled himself back to the side and saw the grey shape slip away beneath them. Vast as it was, it was still moving past several moments later.

And now the Venture was moving again. Hayes tensed as the wheel became suddenly responsive, straining to bring the whirling tramp steamer back to its original heading. Whatever the thing was, it was moving away from the ship now. Captain Engelhard simply stood and stared as the vast, streamlined shape slid away beneath the waves, the steamer chugging on through the surge as if nothing untoward had happened. This would be a tale to tell back at The Smuggler's Rest in Plymouth.

His gaze remaining locked on the... whatever it was... it still took Engelhard's startled brain a moment or two to realise that the something had turned and was now moving back towards the Venture, at speed. The vast form was rising from the stygian depths. Grey-green flesh broke the surface, the telltale V of white water showing how close it was already and how quickly it was closing.

"Mein gott!" Engelhard gasped. A shudder of fear rippled through him. In the next moment fear and disbelief turned to instinctive, unthinking reaction. "All of you, to your stations!"

With Mr Hayes at the wheel, and the rest of the crew running to obey his command, Captain Josef Engelhard sprinted for the prow of the steamer, expertly avoiding the myriad hazards awaiting the unwary on the deck plates of the working ship - coils of steel cable, tie-off stanchions, raised hatch covers - and the whaler's harpoon gun positioned there like a furious, war-mongering figurehead.

With the submerged creature, or whatever it was, torpedoing back towards the Venture, he reached the swivel-mounted weapon and, both calloused hands grasping its lever-handles, spun its muzzle round, bringing the closing grey ma.s.s within its sights.

Without a moment's hesitation, Engelhard fired. Six feet of jagged-tipped harpoon blasted out of the mouth of the cannon, high-tensile steel cable spiralling after it, uncoiling from its winch-pulley, as the hardened steel bolt entered the sea in a rush of white bubbles. The cable pulled taut and, prow dipping fiercely, the Venture was pulled sharply round on itself, as the harpoon found its mark. The drug-smuggling sailors clung on as the boat was pulled around and Hayes cut the engines to lessen the resistance. Then all was still, other than the rise and fall of the ocean around the steamer, and the steel line slackened.

"We got it," Engelhard said, hardly believing what he was saying himself. "We got it!"

Leaving the harpoon he staggered back to the cabin house, grinning at the bewildered faces of his crew. "We got it! Haul it in, then we'll see what it is we've caught and what we think it will fetch on the black market."

There was a violent jolt as the cable went taut again, the tensed steel tw.a.n.ging like a guitar string, and the prow dipped once more.

"What in h.e.l.l's name!" was all Engelhard could manage before his world flipped on its axis and the deck disappeared from beneath him. His fall was abruptly halted by the harpoon gun.

The gun's solid bolted mounting buckled as the Venture upended, the bows of the vessel disappearing beneath the bubbling surface of the ocean. At the same moment the sea exploded around the ship. Writhing shapes, silhouetted against the grey pall of the heavens, obscured by the vertical deluge thrown up on all sides of the ship, crashed down on the steamer, seizing the boat within cruelly crushing coils. The smokestack crumpled, the roof of the cabin splintered like so much matchwood and the creaking hull protested as it buckled, rupturing in a dozen places.

With a sudden whoomph, the Venture was pulled violently beneath the waves, churning black and white water closing over it, rushing in to fill the hole in the sea where it had just been. In moments nothing was left of the opium, the tramp steamer or its crew.

Relative calm returned to the ocean surface. The only sign of there ever having been a ship there at all were a few broken boards and bobbing oil drums, and amongst the drifting flotsam a single, battered rubber life-ring that bore the name Venture. And the clinging, barely conscious Captain Engelhard.

ACT ONE.

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

July 1997.

Below the thunders of the upper deep, Far far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth...

(Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Kraken).

CHAPTER ONE.

Around the World in Eighty Days.

LUXURY LINER SETS SAIL ON MAIDEN VOYAGE.

By our reporter 'on board' Miss Glenda Finch.

"Around the world in eighty days - in style!"

This is the proud boast of the Carcharodon Shipping Company, owners of the new luxury pa.s.senger sub-liner the Neptune, that sets sail from Southampton docks on 5th July. It is the company's claim that those who can afford the small-fortune-a-berth price tag will enjoy an unprecedented luxury cruise across the oceans of the globe, taking in many of its most remarkable and celebrated sights along the way.

Jonah Carcharodon repeated this bold claim - one of his own devising - during the festivities surrounding the launch of the Neptune, when His Royal Highness the Duke of Cornwall broke the traditional bottle of Cristal champagne - as served on board the Neptune in its many bars and restaurants. Rumour has it that Carcharodon has placed a hefty bet on his pride-and-joy's inaugural voyage running to time.

As well as an estimated three thousand paying guests, a number of dignitaries and VIPs are on board at the invitation of Jonah Carcharodon himself, to add glamour and media interest to the maiden voyage of the newest member of the Great White Shipping Line's fleet of high-end luxury pa.s.senger vessels. Amongst the invited elite is rumoured to be Hero of the Empire, Ulysses Quicksilver himself who, as regular readers of The Times will know, was instrumental in thwarting the recent plot against Her Majesty's life. But whether he is here for a little rest and recuperation, to find himself a new female companion from amongst the socialites and well-to-do heiresses on board, or for some other clandestine reason, only time will tell.

"Your cognac, sir," the aquiline gentleman's valet said, bending at the hip to proffer his master the gla.s.s positioned precisely dead centre on the tray in his hand.

"Why, thank you, Nimrod," the younger man said with a smile, taking the balloon gla.s.s in his left hand. He gently swirled its contents before putting it to his mouth. There he paused, savouring the heady aroma of the brandy before taking a sip. He held the tingling mouthful on his tongue for a moment, taste buds excited at its touch, before luxuriating in the sensation of the cognac slipping like molten honey down his throat.

"Very nice," he said, easing himself back on the sunlounger.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, I think that will be all for now," Ulysses Quicksilver replied, running a hand through his mane of dark blond hair and adjusting the dark-tinted spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.

"Very good, sir. Then if you would not mind I shall retire and see to some matters of house-keeping demanding my attention back at the suite."

"Very well, Nimrod. Whatever floats your boat I suppose," Ulysses said, flashing his faithful manservant a wicked grin. Nimrod responded by arching an eyebrow, before he turned on his heel and strode rigidly from the sundeck, tray in hand.

Ulysses Quicksilver stretched his body out on the wicker lounger, adjusting his suit of cream linen for comfort and loosening the azure rough silk cravat at his neck, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on his face.

A twinge of pain from his right shoulder took him momentarily by surprise and reminded him, at least in part, why he had accepted Jonah Carcharodon's invitation to join the maiden voyage of the Neptune. More than a month on from the debacle surrounding Queen Victoria's 160th jubilee his left arm was healed and out of its sling - although it still hurt to over-flex it - but his shoulder was a more substantial, recurring injury, one he had received in his near-fatal crash on Mount Manaslu in the Himalayan range. He had been lucky to walk away from that one at all; not that he had walked away of course. He had crawled from the crash-site, managing to get as far as a precipitous icy ledge before the effects of hypothermia had set in. And then the monks of Shangri-La had found him.

He stretched again, testing his body this time, wondering what other aches and pains would reveal themselves, trying to put the memory of an event to every twinge, every dull ache, every agony remembered, each a physical remembrance of one of a whole host of injuries received in the line of duty.

There was the rumour of cramp in his left leg, and the still-present dull ache in his side. Such sensations were almost rea.s.suring in their familiarity. Easing his right shoulder into a more comfortable position he felt the skin under his shirt. There were still four distinct traces of scar tissue where the pterodactyl had - bizarrely - saved his life.

But that was all in the past now. All that featured in his immediate future was a few weeks R & R and a jolly jaunt in warmer climes, while Barty remained in London overseeing the renovation of the Mayfair residence, his brother himself under the ever-watchful eye of Mrs Prufrock, Ulysses' cook and housekeeper.

A sudden shadow came between Ulysses and the burning white disc of the sun blazing in the cloudless azure expanse of sky above the cruising liner. Ulysses removed his sungla.s.ses and, narrowing his eyes, focused on the not uncomely figure in front of him.

"It's Mr Quicksilver, isn't it? Or can I call you Ulysses?"

Ulysses smiled and deliberately looked the svelte young woman up and down, taking in the cla.s.sic yet subtle curves of her body, accentuated by the way the sea-green gown she had chosen to wear hung from and clung to her body to greatest effect. It was a bold statement - the colour in sharp contrast to the blue of her eyes and the over-coiffeured curls of her golden-blonde hair. The dress would have been more appropriate as evening wear - exposed shoulders, arms and cleavage not really being the done thing, at least not on the sundeck or the watertight promenade deck. The boa of pink flamingo feathers really set it off a treat.

Worn here and now, it was an outfit that said that this was a young woman who was independent, determined to make her own way in the world, apparently regardless of what others might think of her. And yet, at the same time, all too self-aware, desperate to make a lasting impression, fearful of being forgotten or, worse, overlooked in the first place.

"I'm sorry, you seem to have me at a disadvantage, Miss -"

"Glenda Finch, social commentator for The Times."

"Ah, the gossip columnist."

For a moment the woman's mouth puckered in disdain but then her brilliant white smile returned like the sun emerging from behind a pa.s.sing cloud. "You know of my work then?"

"I've read your column in the past, as no more than an amusing distraction you understand. And I believe I've been the subject of it on a number of occasions."

"So you'll know that I'm aware of your work as well."

"Well, it's hard to hide one's light under a bushel when you save the Queen herself from certain death at the hands of a psychotic megalomaniac at the most public event of the decade in front of the world's press. But I rather suspect I'll get over it. Today's front page, tomorrow's fish and chip paper and all that."

"Oh, you do yourself down, Ulysses," the reporter returned. "But as you were the one to mention the part you played in saving Her Majesty's life would you care to give me a quote? In fact, why don't you offer to buy me a drink and then you can tell me all about it."

Smiling, his gaze lingering on the shadow of the young woman's cleavage - how could what was effectively little more than the empty s.p.a.ce between two b.r.e.a.s.t.s be so appealing? - Ulysses pointedly returned his sungla.s.ses to his nose.

"Good day, Miss Finch."

The Neptune boasts five-star hotel accommodation married to the most advanced steam-driven technology in the Empire. Four ma.s.sive Rolls Royce engines - each, I am told, as big as a London townhouse - will move the huge vessel at an average of twenty knots across open stretches of water, when the weather, the sea and the opportunity permit. The vessel itself is 1,020 feet long and fifteen storeys tall.

But all of this technological magnificence and industrial maritime creativity is all to serve one purpose - ultimately that of entertainment. People want to sail the seven seas, to relax, see the world, advance their own realms of experience, and be entertained in the process. And there are all manner of entertainments available on board.

As well as three kinemas, a vaudeville theatre, numerous restaurants, bistros and bars, and the infamous Casino Royale, there are also indoor squash courts and outdoor tennis courts, a gymnasium, solarium and three swimming pools. But possibly the most magnificent exercise alternative is the Promenade Deck itself. Running two thirds the length of the ship, the Promenade is nearly a quarter of a mile long, meaning that two complete laps is the equivalent to a walk of a mile. This might not sound so special until you learn that the entirety of the Promenade is covered by a reinforced gla.s.s and steel structure capable of withstanding the same pressures as that of the ship's hull, so that pa.s.sengers may still enjoy a stroll along the Promenade, and all that might be revealed beyond it, even when the Neptune makes one of its scheduled dives to the undersea cities found along its route during the course of its voyage. And as well as walks along the Promenade, of course, one may also partake in any number of traditional deck sports such as quoits.

One of the appealing features of a cruise is not only what the ship itself has to offer, but also the places one can visit along the way. Destinations on the Neptune's maiden voyage include the renowned Atlantis City, and the fully-restored Temple of Jupiter, a shopping stop at America's first city of New York, the prehistoric game parks of the Costa Rican island chain, the incredible sculpted coral gardens of Pacifica, and even a brief sojourn on the Cairo Express across the Sinai peninsula to visit the pyramids of Giza.

The thunderous retort of the elephant gun echoed through the primeval jungle, sending a flock of white egrets squawking and flapping from the canopy. The parasaurolophus bellowed, throwing back its crested head as the four-bore sh.e.l.l found its mark, hitting the creature in its flank, punching through the rhino-like hide and sending a spray of blood and meat from the wound. The bipedal herbivore faltered in its graceful run, its thick tail swinging to maintain the injured creature's balance. The dashing pachycephalosauruses accompanying the larger dinosaur's flight scattered across the clearing.

Ulysses Quicksilver took another sip of Earl Grey from the fine bone china teacup in his hands. He savoured the taste for a moment, as well as the sunlight on his face. It was good to be off ship for a short sojourn, hunting dinosaurs, although with the howdah gently rolling beneath him, he felt like he might as well still be on board.

"Good shot, Major!" he called.

"Thank you, sah!" the bristle-whiskered and portly Major Marmaduke Horsley called back, reloading the gun almost automatically as he did so. "One more shot should bring the blighter down."

The parasaurolophus trumpeted again. Its injury was causing it to limp badly and it was moving for the natural protection of the trees at the edge of the jungle clearing.

"Oh no you don't!" the Major shouted and then to the imported Indian beast-wrangler attempting to steer the triceratops on which their howdah was being carried: "You! Dino-waller! Chop chop, what-ho? Dashed blighter's getting away! Come on, man. We can't lose it now."

With a shout from the beast's handler, perched on a saddle across the creature's broad shoulders behind the frill of its crest, and judicious use of a crackling electro-goad, the ceratopsid pounded forward. Ulysses tried to avoid spilling any of the tea slopping from the cup onto his trousers.

Horsley put the gun to his shoulder again, swiftly capturing the distinctive profile of his quarry's head within the crosshairs of its sights. The elephant gun boomed once more. There was something like a grunt of satisfaction from the major and the parasaurolophus crashed to the ground, as every muscle in its body relaxed with the pulverisation of the creature's tiny brain.

"Good shooting, Major!" called Miss Birkin, waving at the ex-army officer enthusiastically from the back of a brontosaur, parasol in hand to keep the equatorial sun from her milk-white sensitive skin.