CHAPTER
 
1
 
 
TAMPA BAY, FLORIDA
PRESENT DAY
* * *
The engine powered off and I knew I was in trouble. I kicked at the battery…nothing. The heavy Lexan nose cone of the Abyss Glider sank, bobbing upside-down along the surface like a cork. Staring into the depths of the Monterey Bay Canyon, I saw the female's conical head appear from the shadows, her ghostly albino glow paralyzing me in fear as she charged.
Her hideous mouth yawned open, anticipating her next meal--me!
The thought of this enraged me. Reaching forward, I grabbed the emergency lever and turned it counterclockwise, then yanked it back, igniting the mini-sub's fuel. Instantly, my body was slammed backward within the pod's safety harness as the mini-sub rocketed downward like a torpedo into the awaiting gullet of my worst nightmare--
* * *
The telephone rings, shattering his concentration. Jonas Taylor grabs the cursed instrument off its cradle, strangling the receiver in his grip. "What?"
"Uh…Mr. Taylor?"
"Speaking."
"Sir, this is Ross Colombo."
"I don't know any Ross Colombo."
"With American Express. We spoke last week."
Christ…
"Sir, we still haven't received the payment, the one you assured me you had mailed."
Jonas's blood pressure ticks a few notches higher. "Look, Russ--"
"Ross. Sir, did you send the check?"
"Sure, I sent it. Can't believe you haven't gotten it yet. Tell you what, call me next week if it still hasn't arrived."
"Could you tell me the check number?"
"My wife handles all that stuff and she's not home. Why don't you call her next week."
Jonas slams the phone on its receiver, causing the taser-like star pattern of his screen saver to evaporate back into text. Damn bill collectors…
He takes a deep breath. Stares at his computer monitor.
Writing his memoirs had been Terry's idea. To Jonas, it seemed like a waste of time, a last desperate attempt to regain lost years of fame. Still, he had to make a living, and his once overflowing well of requests for speaking engagements had run dry long ago.
Face it, Jonas, you're a has-been--yesterday's news. You were never a real scientist and you're way too old to be a submersible pilot. At your age, with your limited background, you'd be lucky to get a job as an assistant manager in a fast-food joint.
"Shut-up!"
He commands himself to reread the last passage on screen, but the text refuses to sink in.
Reviewing his life on paper had forced Jonas to come to grips with the shortcomings of his existence. Almost sixty-four, he was at an age when most men were thinking about retirement, yet here he was, still struggling to make ends meet.
He glances at the stack of bills, becoming more depressed.
Snap out of it, you big baby. So you're over the hill, at least you're still near the summit. So what if you've grayed a bit, so what if your lower back feels like somebody ran over it with a pickup truck and every joint is wracked with arthritis. And who really cares if you can't run or keep up with the younger guys on the basketball court or pump as much iron? Hey, at least you're still active. Most guys my age would--
He stops himself.
You're not old, Jonas…you're just not young anymore.
The truth was, the more Jonas wrote, the older he felt, and the more he came to realize how much of his life was based on illusions.
The illusion of fame, of being important.<