CONTINUED: Lurking Below

 The kayaker’s name was Lance Decker; one of those special breed of men who would rather struggle with hypothermia than rush hour traffic. Decker wasn’t trying to break any long distance paddle records this year, he was just test piloting a prototype replacement for the Quest X3. Nineteen feet long and twenty-two inches wide, the new Yak featured a Kevlar hull modification that wasn’t significantly different from the X3, but might add half a mile to an eight hour paddle.

 But on this partly cloudy day in July that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that something sixteen feet long was trailing behind him. He was reasonably certain that it had begun to shadow him shortly after he launched at Benton Harbor. That was twenty nerve wracking miles ago. Of course he could have paddled to shore but he wasn’t looking at this thing the way most people would have.

 He was a veteran of thousands of hours of paddling in shark inhabited waters. Never had he been attacked. Now the odds of finding a shark in Lake Michigan were next to impossible, therefore he was taking pictures of something that was merely shaped like a shark. A mutated catfish perhaps. But it was following him, and the longer it stayed with him the more colorful the occurrence as he continued to take pictures with his phone camera and send them out on the internet.

 His problem was time. He was in an area that was well developed and he could already hear the sounds of distant voices. But the witnesses would be useless to him if he allowed the sun to drop too close to the horizon. He needed to bring his little craft to shore some eight miles short of where he had planned to spend the night.

 There are two normal ways to alter course on a kayak: Paddle on one side only or drag the paddle on the side you wish to turn toward. The kayak rudder is not used for turning purposes. It is used to keep you on a straight course when dealing with prevailing winds abeam or cross currents. Decker stabbed the water on his port side and the long nose of the kayak veered over to point at a dock some eighty yards away.

 The man’s brows knitted with concern when he stole a glance over his shoulder and realized that his maneuver had prompted the big fish to sink deeper into the less than crystal clear water.

“Aw shit!” he thought to himself.

 He was twenty yards from the dock when he glumly perceived that an old man walking his dog had spotted the approaching craft and had decided to start up a little conversation. He was about to call to the old man and request that he scan the water for anything unusual while Decker closed with the dock. But before he could utter a word something caused his kayak to turn three-hundred and sixty degrees about. Decker’s whole body became one white knuckle as he realized that the big fish was finally making physical contact.

 His sense of logic told him that it couldn’t be a shark, but a catfish was no more likely to be messing with his boat. He had a mystery in the water below him, and it was whispering to that part of him that was primal.

 “Hey there young feller, I think you got a catfish under your boat!” the old man declared as he tromped noisily onto the dock.

 “Do you have a camera phone?” asked the kayaker.

 “Yea. I’ll try and get a picture for you. Now lets see….Gotta think this through every time I want to use it,” confessed the oldster as he examined his own property.

 The old man was focused on his mechanical task when he heard disturbance on the water. His mouth opened as he then beheld the grim sight of an overturned kayak. Crouching down slightly he squinted at the water, expecting to see a man flailing to escape the cramped cockpit that always appeared undersized to the uninformed. The paddle promptly rose to the surface and slowly drifted away from the kayak, but there was nothing else to notice.

 The old man gamely jumped into the water and was relieved to discover that the water only came up to his chin after he straightened out. The then quickly reached the boat and turned it to show an empty cockpit. For the better part of ten minutes he felt around the immediate area hoping to latch on to an arm or leg, but there was nothing. Then he cursed his stupidity and brought out the cell phone that had now been in the water for a long time.

 Naturally it didn’t. But the dog conveyed his disappointment at being the only one who didn’t get to go into the water. That in turn caught the attention of a cyclist. When the biker saw an old man in the water, he correctly assumed that some help would be appreciated. Three minutes later the police arrived and began the first part of a documentation that would be poorly received by investigators and media people alike.

 In one of the more historic sections of Chicago reporter Carl Kolchak was grinning at a little box that two years ago, he swore he would never use unless he needed a tow truck. He was being entertained by the text messages being sent by a cub reporter at the wet and windy end of town. The neophyte was relaying everything the old man with the dog had to say about how the kayaker was probably done in by something that escaped from the zoo.

 Kolchak’s instincts; finely honed by many years of experience told him that the kayak had probably snagged an underwater garbage bag and the kayaker would be found sometime the following morning. Kolchak’s theories tended to be fairly accurate, but his co-workers at the Independent News Service were loath to acknowledge his old fashioned horse sense. Carl Kolchak tended to be loud, tactless and insubordinate. He also dressed like Sydney Greenstreet in the 1942 classic, “Casablanca.”  (But only if Sydney had slept in his suit for several nights.)

 Kolchak’s own theory was that he wasn’t refined enough for the would be intellectuals around him. A more accurate statement would be that the staff was jealous of the strange relationship that existed between Kolchak and the boss. Editor Tony Vincenzo would bellow at Carl’s maverick reporter behavior but always stopped short of disciplining him. No one was allowed to know why. They all knew that Kolchak and Vincenzo used to work together back in Vegas. But why the two of them left town together was a secret that they would carry to their graves.

 In any case, Vincenzo never pampered anyone, especially when his heartburn was acting up. So Kolchak’s smile of amusement was promptly crushed by new marching orders. The man in the crumpled suit was ordered to take the place of the rookie, because Vincenzo had gotten word that the Feds were now looking for the missing kayaker, and that undoubtedly meant that the reporter in charge would be annoying someone higher up the bureaucratic food chain than Chicago’s Chief of Police Duane Crumbee.

 The latter’s tie waved like a flag in the night breeze as the chief waited impatiently for the police trolling boat to nudge up to a dock that was one-hundred yards from the last one to be visited by the constabulary. It would be a long night, but at least the body had been found. Damn strange that it disappeared the way it did, and damn strange that it returned in the dead of night.

 “Well?” barked the chief.

 “Half his right arm was bitten off,” reported one of the men on the boat.

 “Bull shit! You mean a prop took it off while he was floating just under the waterline. This ain’t no community on the Atlantic coast and don’t you forget it!”

 “Nobody’s talking about sharks here,” another boatman said defensively. “But he could have been attacked by a dog while he was trying to make it out of the water. Lots of private beach a few miles to the east.”

 “Didn’t you clowns read the initial report?” growled the chief. “An eye witness saw the victim holding a kayak paddle with two hands before he went under.”

 “Yea, and he mentioned a large dark object in the water that might account for the capsizing.”

 “But not the arm amputation,” stressed the chief. “Only a boat prop could have done that.”

 “Anyway Chief, we radioed the boat load of Feds and told them that we got the stiff. They’ll probably beat us to the morgue; they’re so hot on this whole thing.”

 “Don’t remind me,” grumbled the oldest man on the dock. “The only thing worse than having Federal agents on our turf is having them on our turf with a highly classified problem that needs to stay classified.”

 The corpse was transported to a waiting van and the chief finished off his cigar while the lake victim was being loaded.

 “There is one other theory we might explore,” said the first boat cop.

 “Well out with it man. Like Jenkins said: the Feds will probably be waiting for us at the morgue.”

 “An ex Navy Seal might have gone nuts and killed the guy.”

 The chief nodded slightly.

 “Yea, that would explain the Fed’s interest. But then we’ve have slit throat or a heart stab to look at. Not an arm amputated.”

 “Well, if the diver wants to make the killing look like a boat accident, he might take an arm off.”

 “Lung loads of water would be enough Dixon, but at least you’re coming up with original ideas.”

 The chief turned around in the semi darkness and almost collided with the reporter who had been standing behind him.

 “Kolchak, this is one case I don’t want you anywhere near!” the chief declared without prior thought.

 “You never want me near any of your cases,” the reporter pointed out.

 “And we all know why. Because you’re idea of Parliamentary Procedure would be going to England and telling the Prime Minister how to run that country.”

 “No doubt your very bad joke is supposed to be linked to my conduct at press conferences. Well I would be more than happy to keep my mouth shut on such occasions if the other reporters knew how to do their jobs.”

 “If they are all so incompetent and you are the alpha dog of the pack, then how come you are constantly being reprimanded while the others get promoted and end up in places like our nation’s capital?”

 “To do what---ask the President about his golf swing? There isn’t any news in Washington, there’s only hot air. The whole country knows it but everyone keeps playing the same tired old games. But when the Feds send their black helicopter boys to Chicago—“

 “There are no black helicopters flying over this city!” bellowed the chief.

 “You’re right. To be more precise, they are flying over Lake Michigan.”

 “How the hell did you find out about that?” snarled the chief.

 “Aw come on Crumbee, does Macy tell Gimbel?”

 The chief was old, but not that old. He shrugged off this latest quip and started his strategic retreat to his car.

 “Don’t show up at the morgue, Kolchak. Wait—let me put that another way—“

 “I know what you’re going to say and such sentiments are unworthy of a true professional.”

 “Let the records show that Carl Kolchak; defender of free speech is now delving in thought control,” cracked the chief just before slamming a car door on the reporter’s recording device.

  Kolchak’s number one asset was his sense of audacity. But his second greatest asset was his ability to recruit low level government workers who weren’t supposed to leak items to the Press. Fortunately for Carl, many bureaucrats see themselves as ordinary taxpayers who want common sense in their lives as much as anyone.

 One such person is Melvin Schneider; morgue attendant and occasional chump for anyone who is good at poker. As a government employee Melvin brought home a large enough paycheck, but his wife controlled the purse strings so when he would lose his gas allowance, Kolchak’s bribe money could save the card player from a night on the couch.

 The two men approached each other with the caution of a pair of veteran drug dealers. Kolchak was only afraid for poor Melvin, and Melvin was always afraid enough for the both of them.

 “Well, what have you got for me?” inquired the reporter while handing Melvin forty bucks.

 “You’re going to love this,” promised the attendant. “The cops have two theories to choose from: drowning followed by boat prop mutilation---or the guy was done in by a psycho scuba diver.”

 “So the Feds are here looking for a deranged ex Navy Seal?”  Kolchak prompted.

 “Nope.”

 “You think the diver wasn’t deranged?”

 “I don’t think there was a diver.”

 “How come?”

 “An arm was cut off at the bicep---but not by a knife.”

 “So somebody deliberately ran over the guy with a boat?”

 “Carl, I’ll be happy to tell you what I know if you’ll just remain quiet for a second,” the attendant softly scolded.

 The reporter raised a hand as if silently taking an oath.

 The amputation point was subjected to a great deal of pressure. I doubt that the victim lost must blood as a result of the amputation.”

 “But the old man with the dog had his facts straight didn’t he?”

 “I didn’t dare ask. Come on Carl, I talk to you about stiffs, not witnesses.”

 The reporter twisted his face up in thought and then asked, “Could a large shark or maybe a killer whale inflict the same kind of wound?”

 “Tiger sharks have teeth for that kind of job, but only a bull shark could swim through so much fresh water to get here. You won’t find a single marine biologist who would go near such a theory though.”

 “Why not?”

 “Two reasons: it’s never happened in this lake---and such thinking would really piss people off. Trust me Carl, you try and scare people with something spooky and the local authorities will come down on you hard.”

 “I think you’re right,” muttered the reporter, who would never forget what happened to him in Las Vegas.

 The reporter nodded his thanks and headed for the door. But before he reached it he turned and asked, “How come you know so much about sharks anyway?”

 “Nature programs. I’m sure as hell not going to entertain myself with movies about urban killings after working here all night.”

 “Yea, I wouldn’t waste time with any Hollywood crap about newspaper reporters either,” acknowledged Kolchak.

 Twenty minutes Kolchak was standing outside a condo entrance facing the two mile walking trail that lead to the lake shore. It was a nice area for older people. Semi high density residential that was gang free and the cyclists were mindful of the oldsters on the trails. The lake effects brought on merciless winters but if you no longer needed to commute to work, the occasional snow storm was just something or talk about with fellow dog walkers.

 But this was summer, when an old man can look at younger women and then stare at his own spindly legs with chagrin. Kolchak was lucky to catch Butch Crenshaw at home. The old man hated being cooped up almost as much as his hyper active toy terrier Max. Butch grinned at the reporter’s hat while the visitor made his introduction.

 “Well Mr. Kolchak, I can’t add anything to what I told the police,” the old man said while offering the reporter a chair and calming his agitated little dog.

 “Sir I just want to ask you a simple question. You said that you spotted a large dark form just under the surface of the water. Now if you had to choose between a scuba diver or a giant catfish, which of those choices would you go with?”

 “The catfish of course. That thing was bigger than a man, and a scuba diver wouldn’t have any call to drag off a drowning victim even if he was swimming nearby.”

 “True, but catfish don’t get bigger than a man do they?”

 “No, but size records keep getting broken Mr. Kolchak.”

 “Are you aware that the Federal government is investigating the kayaker’s death?”

 “No sir, I only talked to the local authorities,” the old man answered with a frown.

 Kolchak thanked the man, scratched the dog behind the ears and headed back to his car with the feeling that something bad was going to happen before the sun went down. Actually it happened in a co-worker’s parking stall just as the sun’s last golden rays crept over a garbage dumpster across the street from the I.N.S. suite.

 Two men in large windbreakers came up along Carl with practiced ease and quick marched him to a gas guzzling Chevy Suburban that didn’t need to get good mileage because it was government owned. There was only one man in the vehicle; seated in the back with a mild mannered look that would probably serve him well enough in a poker game. The reporter was ushered in beside him and they gazed out the front window in unison.

 “Mr. Kolchak, Chief Crumbee speaks very highly of you.”

 “He hates my guts,” stated the reporter.

 “Yes he does, but you could look upon that as a very high form of praise.”

 The reporter smiled at that.

 “Surely you are not about to say that Crumbee’s job is the opposite of mine? A fellow law enforcement official would never suggest that Crumbee’s job is to perpetrate cover ups, while I on the other hand must uncover them.”

 “Of course not---I am only saying that the reporters in this city are almost strangers to the chief---except for you.”

 “How could you know that? You’re not F.B.I. I know everyone at the Chicago office.”

 “Let’s not waste time protesting the facts alright? You are very good at what you do, but on this occasion it could possibly compromise the security of the nation.”

 Kolchak smiled at that. Every time a government official wanted to shut him up it was because the people’s welfare was at stake.

 “May I have a name sir, or is this one of those meetings that never took place?”

 “Bret Waverly of the Department of Homeland Security.”

 “Fatherland….Motherland…,” Kolchak thought to himself.

 “Mr. Kolchak, I’m going to give you a chance to be reasonable. It is in your nature to keep digging until you find a bone, so I’ll give you one, and then we’ll see if that will content you.”

 “And if it doesn’t you’ll stomp on me,” the reporter predicted.

 “With both feet,” promised the Federal agent.”

 “Then I’ll listen with both ears,” Kolchak responded.

 Waverly nodded slightly and said, “The kayaker was participating in a covert weapon’s project. There was a malfunction and he was killed. He was working for us and he understood the risks involved. No one else in the area was in the slightest danger from the experiment. Now you can walk away from this or find a new job at your age. It’s up to you.”

 “So the large dark shape in the water was some kind of underwater drone?”

 “Yes, but officially it was a bag of garbage that got snagged on his rudder.”

 “So I’m expected to sit on this very big story until it becomes a rocking chair in my old age?”

 “That’s right. Just like the vampire problem in Las Vegas.”

 A chill suddenly ran down Kolchak’s spin. (A very rare sensation for the veteran reporter.)

 “How do you know about that?”

 “Vegas would have become a ghost town if the truth had gotten out. Some people would have found a spiritual explanation for it; saying that Vegas is a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah fit for demons. Others would have blamed it on radiation. Either way, the town would have been given back to the desert.”

 “I’m still waiting for my answer.”

 “There’s always one or two local bureaucrats that believe that Big Brother should be brought into the loop. After all, who can safely assume that there is only one vampire?”

 “Is there more than one?” Kolchak asked tensely.

 “That is an on going question,” responded the agent. “But we can only address the question if responsible parties do the right thing and bring such matters to our attention. But on every level of government it is necessary to protect the citizenry without creating a panic.”

 “So now you’ll take your top secret work out of Lake Michigan, where it probably didn’t belong in the first place, and return it to the security of some underground swimming pool,” the reporter speculated.

 “Yes of course. But there might still be a boatman or two with outdated information for you. I trust you will ignore it and apply your efforts to the usual gang violence and what not.”

 “An occasional beheading does keep the job from getting stale,” quipped the reporter as he got back out of the car.

 “Then you’ll be happy to know they’re becoming the latest status thing amongst bad guys,” responded Waverly just before the door closed.

Kolchak then did what he always did: pretend to retreat while actually planning to regroup. If Waverly felt it necessary to warn him about other boatmen, it meant that the opera wasn’t over. Chicago being the large city that it is Kolchak’s first step was to go back to I.N.S. and have a talk with associate Ron Updyke. Ron’s beat or forte was all activities concerning the upper class. That included yacht ownership on the lake. Unfortunately Updyke was a member of that small but steadily increasing group of people who didn’t care much for Carl Kolchak. Updyke was a mousey little man who overdressed for every occasion and worshiped at the altar of propriety. He had learned to hate Carl fairly early in their association and so Kolchak would be skipping lunch while choking down helpings of crow and humble pie in front of Updyke’s desk.

 The little man with the mustache was already set to defend himself before Carl could even cross the office.

 “Oh relax Ron, I’m actually here to give you something, which I admit is late in coming.”

 “A ring side seat at your trial?” joked the little man.

 Updyke was referring to the fact that Carl had made his way into more than one secured records facility and with more and more video cameras going up, Ron was confident that sooner or later Carl would find himself wearing orange coveralls.

 “I’ve come to compensate you for the tow truck thing that happened last week.”

 The little man’s back stiffened at the memory. Carl had parked in his reserved spot, so Ron called a tow truck to have Kolchak’s car taken away. Unfortunately Carl had managed to put Ron’s car back where it belonged so the tow truck driver ended up removing the wrong vehicle. The fact that Carl had gotten a hold of a duplicate ignition key gave Ron and Vincenzo something to talk about, with the boss smoothing things over in a gentleman’s bar.

 (God bless St. Tony.)

 Kolchak took eighty dollars out of his wallet and handed the cash to the smaller man.

 “Alright Carl, what is it you want?” asked Ron while accepting the bills.

 “An unusually large fish has been reported in our end of the lake. I think there’s something to it because the police have been all over the Benton Harbor area.”

 “The police are searching for a fish?”

 “No, they’re investigating the death of a kayaker. But a large fish was seen shadowing the kayak when it capsized. The police think it was a bag of garbage but my theory is that a giant mutated catfish has become aggressive. You know---kind of like those bats that go crazy when they eat bugs that are full of DDT?”

 The little man blinked twice and said, “Well Carl, the yachting crowd doesn’t go in much for cat fish; mutated or otherwise. I rather doubt my sources in the area could help you.”

 “Ron, you’ve worked with me long enough to know that I don’t deal in probabilities, I deal in possibilities,” Kolchak lectured in a gentle tone. “My gut tells me I’m not looking for a bag of garbage, and only the yachters spend enough time on the water to really be of use to me. I know the odds are against me but then, they always are.”

 The smaller man’s smirk was straight forward, as was his dislike for the more seasoned reporter.

 “Actually, if you’re looking for someone who is truly one with the lake waters, I believe I have the man for you. Be warned however, he is one of those rich eccentric types. He’ll probably want to take you out for a spin in his watercraft.”

 “No problem. I don’t get seasick even when I’m looking at a corpse that’s been in the water for a week,” Kolchak said happily.

 “Whatever,” responded the little man while jotting down the name of the contact.

 “He’s in the book---with a name that is very easy to look up.” 

 “Dexter Runzpot,”  Carl read with a mild squint. “Yes, I suppose that will take less effort than Jim Anderson.”

 Suddenly Vincenzo shuffled into the office with a look that said, “I need to get some exercise---maybe sometime next week.”

 Carl stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket and said, “I have a phone book in my car. I better try and beat the east bound traffic rush.”

 Kolchak got about three steps when the editor boomed out, “Carl, one of Crumbee’s people called again. Were you poking around the morgue?”

 “So what if I was? The way he’s fretting over this whole thing I’m inclined to think that this is bigger than a Natalee Wood story.”

 “Well sure, Crumbee never complains about you when the stiff is a nobody, so we can safely assume that they fished a somebody out of the drink. So what’s the poop?”

 “A kayaker named Decker got separated from his boat. When they found him he had part of an arm missing.”

 “Never ceases to amaze me,” the editor said with a look of irony. “Those props might be six inches in diameter, and with thousands of square feet of water the corpse gets chopped up like it was stuffed in a blender. It’s like the laws of probability don’t count on the water. Go figure.”

 “Ah---yea Tony; go figure. Anyway I got some follow up leg work to do so I’ll see you later.”

 Without another word the boss shuffled into his office, leaving Ron slightly disappointed that no disciplinary action was required. Kolchak was out the door by the time Emily Cowles decided to stretch her seventy year old legs and exercise her prerogatives as office den mother.

 “Ron, that was very magnanimous of you. I appreciate the fact that Carl sometimes rubs his co workers the wrong way, but it only hurts him in the long run. He’s all alone with nothing but his work. This is the one place where he might experience some small gesture of friendship. Some form of comradery at least.”

 The man in the immaculately tailored suit shook his head firmly.

 “No Emily, we all make the same choices in our lives. If he wants to dress like a bum, cut out in front of other people at press conferences and trespass to the point of becoming an amateur burglar….well, he creates his own karma.”

 “It’s easy being nice to amiable people Ron, but when you’re nice to Carl Kolchak, you are deepening your sense of compassion for—“

 Suddenly the man cut loose with a chortle that was more like a sneeze.

 “Ron, am I misreading something?” the old woman asked with a sudden suspicion.

 “Well yes. You see that Runzpot fellow is an inventor. Quite intelligent but he doesn’t have both oars in the water so to speak. He’s very well acquainted with the lake but….”

 “But what Ron?”

 “I don’t know if Kolchak wants to get to know the lake---that well,” the man said with a grin that was one part humor and one part experience.

Dexter Runzpot was actually Doctor Runzpot, a man who held letters in mechanical science, physics and marine geography. He was thin and kind of reminded Kolchak of the actor Harold Ramis. The reporter took an instant liking to the fellow, since they seemed to have similar taste in clothing. (Minus one coat and add one pocket protector.)

 What was really impressive was the fact that the Runzpot residence was on a four acre section of beach front property and the house looked like it would sell for around two mil. Runzpot answered the door himself and was ushering the reporter through the house before he even knew what the stranger wanted exactly.

 “Um, Mr. Runzpot, I was told you are very familiar with this section of the lake. You’re probably unaware of the fact that a kayaker lost his life some three miles up the coast. In the Benton Harbor area to be precise. Now I have reason to believe that the cause of that young man’s death is newsworthy in the extreme and I am looking for anyone who has seen anything fairly large swimming in the water that would be difficult to account for.”

 The man of letters turned around in the middle of a spacious study and regarded Kolchak with a look that was all too familiar.

 “Are you operating sir, on the premise that this large thing in the water actually collided with a kayak?”

 “More like, sliding underneath it.”

 “When exactly?”

 “Around eight in the evening. 

 “Well, I suppose that is both good news and bad.”

 “Why do you say that sir?”

 “I never cruise that late in the day. For maximum visibility I only go out between 10:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. So that means I didn’t accidentally kill that man. Unfortunately people might come to the conclusion that I am guilty because the facts fit the circumstances.”

 “Um, what facts and circumstances?”

 The egghead made a split second decision and said, “Mr. Kolchak, would you like to see something interesting?”

 “Is that a rhetorical question?” asked the reporter.

 “Yes, I suppose it is. Since you’re here, I’m thinking that it might be a good idea to establish a favorable rapport with the Fourth Estate.”

 “I’m always willing,” declared the reporter, “it’s the government employees who seem to think that investigations need to age like wine or something.”

 Runzpot didn’t seem to hear the joke but briskly escorted his guest to a small backyard that was one with the lakeshore.

 “The winds must be terrible in the winter time,” commented the reporter as they approached the entrance to a boathouse.

 “Actually my sister and I only life here six months out of the year. The rest of the time we’re down in Florida where I study marine life forms.”

 “You mean like giant alligators?” Kolchak asked with an impish smile.

 “If I’m fortunate enough to find any,” responded the egghead.

 The reporter mulled that over until he gained access to the boathouse. Then he was given something bigger to focus on. The watercraft was twenty-six feet long and cylindrical. It had an aircraft type cockpit with a transparent dome bubble that suggested something that most people could consider bizarre. The cockpit contained a single seat but there was room enough behind it for a second passenger. That would prove significant further into the interview.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Kolchak asked immediately.

 “Yes Mr. Kolchak, it is a submarine. Well, to be honest it’s little more than a toy really. The dome is made of high quality material; worth more than the rest of the sub actually, but the hull is a glorified beer can. I never operate below twenty feet. Until I get the flood light installed there isn’t any point in wanting to go deeper. The sun only penetrates so far even in July.”

 “Wouldn’t make more sense to use an open cockpit and where scuba gear?” asked the reporter.

 “Yes but this gives me the opportunity to test my sealing material. Besides which with a dry cabin I can operate even when the water gets colder.”

 “So---why aren’t you playing with this thing in the Caribbean?”

 “Because our home is here, and my sister won’t pay to have a base of operations set up anywhere else.”

 “Your sister holds the purse strings huh?”

 “Er, yes---quite understandable really. You see our parents left us with approximately three million dollars but I must admit that if I had been left with half of it, I probably would have squandered it on---well---my projects.”

 “So who paid for this little baby?”

 “My sister scrounged up a Federal grant or something. I don’t really pay much attention to financial matters since Jane doesn’t encourage that sort of thing.”

 “And what does your sister do when she’s not paying the electric bill?”

 “She’s a professor of history. Sadly she minored in psychology back in college and consequently she’s always analyzing everything that I do.”

 “Yes, I’ve known people like that,” Carl said with a polite smile.

 “Mr. Kolchak, I’ve been working on a new type of high pressure seal that will prove invaluable to companies that manufacture submersible components. I was going to take you into the study and show you a dizzying collection of charts and graphs pertaining to that project. I’ve found that the best way to get rid of a reporter is by boring him silly. However, because you are interested in something that could get me into a great deal of trouble, I’ve decided to enter into a symbiotic relationship with you.”

 “Uh—what does that entail exactly?”

 “We shall be searching for the same thing. You desire a story and I need to exonerate myself. So we will go hunting for whatever it was that really caused that kayaker’s death.”

 “Why don’t you team up with the lake police?”

 “The very second those bureaucrats enter this boat house they will take away my freedom to use this vehicle. I would like to find out how that kayaker died before the city wraps my little toy up in red tape.”

 The reporter grinned and said, “Professor, your sister maybe the most practical member of the family, but I think you understand the authorities well enough.”

 “Does that mean you’ll launch with me, Mr. Kolchak?”

 The reporter frowned at the tear drop shaped vessel.

 “Gee I don’t know Professor; it’s a big lake. What are the odds of us finding what we want on the first try?”

 “Well, we know that we need to be in the Benton Harbor area, and I’ve got what you might call an ace in the hole.”

 “What would that be sir?”

 “You see that rudder cable?”

 The reporter glanced at a long thin cable that extended over the tail section of the sub and said, “Yea?”

 “When I reach flank speed with my little toy that cable begins to strum slightly. It produces a vibration that attracts fish. One of these days I’m going to measure the rate of vibration and market my own fish caller. Then perhaps I’ll be able to afford that base in the Caribbean that we spoke of earlier.”

 “What about the sealing material you’re working on? Don’t you intend to make money developing that?”

 “Yes, but I fear that will take me at least ten years, and I don’t relish the thought that it will become a top secret project if the material meets all my expectations.”

 “Yea, that could take some of the fun out of it,” Carl muttered dryly.

 “Well Mr. Kolchak, are you game?”

 The reporter mustered his courage and said, “Alright, but I hope you have some contingency plan for an underwater breakdown.”

 “Oh yes; here, climb into the back and I’ll brief you.”

 Kolchak suddenly felt his age as he awkwardly climbed up and into the semi cramped space behind the pilot’s seat. He could recall similar experiences riding in small aircraft, except on those occasions he didn’t have to worry about drowning because the pilot was an amateur sub builder.

 Runzpot hastily pushed a button on the wall and then vaulted into the cockpit with practiced grace. The sub was perched on a miniature railway carriage that was set on some railway track that had been purchased when a kiddie ride went out of business at the local fair ground. The bay door facing the lake rolled up and over them with a bit of rattling and Carl noted with interest that the sub carriage was taking the sub down the track, out of the boat house and toward the very edge of the lake shore. Since the sub was backing out of the shed, the reporter had to strain his neck to observe the unique launching process.

 “Must have been a nuisance putting down track,” commented the reporter.

 “Yes, but this set up is preferable to a semi tractor trailer. My motor carriage is much like the electric train set most children use, except much larger of course. My sister’s idea really. She’s something of an environmentalist.”

 “Even when she looks at the electric bill?”

 “Actually I have a wave motion generator set up a few feet to our right. It takes a while but it largely compensates us for most of the electric power that we are using in this launch. I would also point out that if a neighbor hears the rumbling of a diesel he might make enquiries that would be unwelcome at this time.”

 “Then why was I so well received?” asked the reporter.

 “Oh I could never slam the door in someone’s face, Mr. Kolchak. Besides which I fully intended to bore you to death with my research papers. That way I would have gotten rid of you with feeling guilty.”

 By that time the sub had been slowly wheeled into the shallows of the lake and Kolchak scanned the water for powerboats..

 “How many times have you launched this thing?”

 “Twenty-three times not counting the time I nearly ruptured myself pulling it out by hand.”

 “And you’ve never been spotted?”

 “My neighbors are not boaters, and to someone a few hundred yards out on the water, I present the profile of a kayak once I’m immersed.”

 Kolchak nervously watched the water rise up to where the hull joined with the observation bubble. Only about forty-five seconds had elapsed since leaving the boat house. All in all it was certainly a discreet enough set up. But was it also a save one? If anything went wrong they would have plenty of privacy---in which to drown.

 The water rose swiftly over the bubble, reminding the reporter of a very important matter.

 “You said you were going to brief me on what to do in the event of a breakdown.”

 “Ah yes; well, you see that plastic wrapping leaning against the back of my seat?”

 “I could I miss it? My toes are up against it.”

 “There is a compressed air cartridge attached to it on your left side. If we have to bail out, we allow the cockpit to fill with water so that we can open the bubble. Then we inflate the package which is in fact a small raft and away we go. There are handles on both sides so the raft would carry us swiftly to the surface as it inflates.”

 “Wouldn’t that give us the bends?”

 The reporter was referring to a condition that divers fear in which nitrogen bubbles in the bloodstream.

 “As I said before, I don’t intend to patrol in deep water. Just twenty feet or so.”

 “Well---the G Men were searching in deeper water,” Carl pointed out.

 “But the kayaker disappeared right at a dock,” countered the inventor, “and my little fish calling cable could get the attention of creatures many miles away. Don’t forget that sound travels a very great distance underwater. Whales communicate while miles away from each other.”

  The sub was leveled off at eighteen feet with another ten to twelve feet between the craft and the lake bottom. When the reporter gazed down all he saw was a collection of sand and small rocks. A few miles later they began to see manmade objects such as bait buckets, cooler chests and sheets of plastic.

 “Well, at least there aren’t any coral reefs to ruin,” the reporter said glumly.

 “Coral wins out in the long run,” commented the pilot.

 “What’s that?”

 “Coral prevails against manmade discards that settle down on the bottom. Coral will grow on anything and in the case of open containers they actually help form new coral formations that give shelter to the smaller marine life forms.”

 “Ah, well then I can stop feeling guilty about the time I threw a beer can overboard off the coast of Australia.”

 The inventor didn’t respond and Carl continued to scan a watery world that was sparsely populated. Not once did he spot a school of fish; only various specimens swimming alone that appeared out of the murky distance to pass by and then disappear. They were bass, bowfin and catfish for the most part, but only the catfish tended to catch and briefly hold the reporter’s interest. The bottom feeder was the only lake fish that resembled a creature commonly found along the Australians coasts.

 “There’s something of interest,” reported Runzpot.

 “What?”

 “A compressed air tank I think. I’m taking us down for a closer look.”

 Kolchak tensed slightly as the cockpit issued soft moaning sounds. They were only going down an additional ten feet but that was enough to remind the two men that their vehicle was homemade and not built for the U.S. Navy.

 “Definitely an aqua lung tank and some sort of reinforced back brace,” the pilot assessed.

 “No…..that’s not a back brace. That’s…..half a human torso,” corrected the reporter. “Kind of hard to identify because its still covered with part of a wet suit.”

 “Are you certain?” the pilot asked while squinting extra hard through the transparency.

 “Look down at 6 o’clock. See the single vertebrae?”

 “That could be a stone.”

 “Nope, its bone.”

 “Only a ship’s screw could do that much damage, and they never pass through this area,” Runzpot stated emphatically.

 “Cannon fire from a gunship could account for it.”

 “We’re only a mile out. That much noise would have been noticed.”

 “Not if they got him with the first few rounds.”

 “Who would they be?” the pilot asked rhetorically.

 The reporter let out a sigh of resignation and said, “We should surface and call in Chicago’s Finest.”

 “Out of the question. I will not have three years of work taken away from me just because I don’t have license plates on my vehicle.”

 “Alright then, lets compromise: we surface and get a rough idea where we are. Then we return to your home and make an anonymous phone claiming to be a diver who came upon some grizzly remains.”

 “But why would a diver remain anonymous?” asked the sub builder.

 “Uh---because he’s an un-certified diver. If the cops can’t find the left overs without our help, I’ll tell them I borrowed some scuba gear from an anonymous friend and found the remains by myself.”

 “That’s a great deal of lying,” muttered Runzpot.

 “Not for me it isn’t,” responded the reporter.

 With that the pilot commenced a lazy upward spiral toward the surface. Kolchak had noted that the visiting fish had stopped their coming and going just about the same time the scuba tank came into view. An old feeling was now creeping over him; a feeling he had gotten in more than one remote and dismal local.

 The sub broke through the surface with the nose angled some twenty degrees skyward. Both pilot and passenger waited for the craft to settle down onto an even keel but it didn’t happen. The pilot frowned at this odd development and Kolchak glance back over his shoulder because, after all, the problem was as much in the stern as it was in the bow.

 Then the reporter did a double take and his eyes grew larger than they had been in a long time. The professional observer had discovered the source of their nautical abnormality. There was a shark gnawing diligently on the rudder section of the mini sub’s tail. Carl couldn’t calculate the monster’s length, but there wasn’t much doubt that it weighed at least as much as the sub.

 “Uh---Runzpot, I found out what’s wrong with the boat.”

 The pilot struggled to look past the reporter and then seemed to enter into a hypnotic trance. The reporter brought up his trusty camera and began to fire off one snap shot after another. The construction of the sub placed the bizarre monster in full view. Runzpot had built a rudder similar to what is found on airplanes. It was located above the prop, and therefore on a level that displayed the creature in its massive entirety. Kolchak saved the last two shots for whatever might occur next. (Hopefully nothing of a terminal nature.)

 “Does this thing have a reverse speed?”

 In response to the question the pilot throttled down and then altered the position of a secondary control stick. The lack of forward propulsion was very much to the monster’s liking. It enabled the predator to release its grip on the rudder and then take a bigger bite. Any other shark under the present circumstances would have immediately deduced that the sheet metal did not constitute any form of nourishment. Any other shark would have taken a single, brief bite and then abandoned this thing that was harder than a tortoise’s shell.

 But this predator was not only out of place, it was also out or character. It gnawed away on the rudder with the singular determination of a big dog chewing away on a large bone. But then the prop began rotating again and this time it brought the sub’s tail section under the shark and managed to graze the creature’s belly. Kolchak’s eyes grew even wider as the ugly mouth relinquished the rudder and drew nearer to the observation bubble; but only for an instant. When the animal’s primitive brain registered the unaccustomed sensation of pain it sheared off to the right and temporarily vanished.

 The sub was now on an even keel and pointing toward the middle of the enormous lake.

 “Get this thing turned around and headed for shore!” Kolchak demanded.

 The pilot tilted the joy stick to starboard after slipping back into forward gear. The sub began to plow along on the surface but was just barely turning.

 “Rudder damage,” reported the pilot.

 “Can’t say I’m surprised,” answered Kolchak. “That thing seemed to know just how to cripple a watercraft.”

 Runzpot almost laughed. Almost, but not quite.

 “The tail is everything to a fish. Every predator instinctively knows that if you can disable the tail, the prey is yours.”

 “Yea but are sharks so dumb that it takes them half a minute to figure out that solid steel isn’t very nutritious?”

 “Tortoise shells aren’t all that yummy but the Tiger Shark takes the trouble to saw through them to get at what’s inside.”

 “So what kind of shark are we dealing with?”

 “Almost definitely a Bull Shark. They can live in fresh water and have been known to swim many hundreds of miles up rivers such as the Amazon.”

 “Have any been spotted this far west before?”

 “Never. It would be easier for me to believe that the specimen was actually deposited into the lake.”

 “Something that big? It must weigh a thousand pounds.”

 “I was merely assessing the laws of probability, Mr. Kolchak.”

 “Well don’t let your assessing interfere with your steering. You’re overshooting your mark,” said the reporter as the bow of the sub began to turn away from the land both men thought they would be returning to.

 “Drat. The rudder is more damaged than I realized. We’re sailing in a circle,” said Runzpot.

 “But will the circular course carry us to land eventually?” asked the reporter.

 “It would, except that we will run out of battery power before that happens.”

 “So what do we do?”

 “You’ll have to crawl out on the tail section and hammer the rudder straight.”

 “Well there’s just one thing wrong with that idea Runzpot: the bubble doesn’t slide back, it pivots up from the back of the cockpit.”

 “I know Mr. Kolchak, I built the sub after all.”

 “My point is that I’ll have to get into the water in order to mount the tail section.”

 “Only for a few seconds.”

 “And how far, pray tell, can a shark swim in a few seconds?”

 Suddenly something bumped against the bottom of the sub.

 “I believe this topic has just been nullified,” the pilot said evenly.

 “But Lady Luck has not forsaken us completely. Look to your left,” the reporter crowed with renewed optimism.

 A small boat was motoring towards them while on a parallel course with the shore. After closing to three-hundred yards it turned away from shore and headed out to greet what was presumed to be a custom made surface boat.

 “Wow!! That thing really looks cool!” boomed the middle aged man in the fourteen foot runabout.

 “We’ve got a problem!” Kolchak shouted back. “Our rudder has been damaged and we could use a tow to shore!”

 “Hell, I’ll tow you all the way back to your dock if you promise to give me a ride in that thing someday!” responded the boater while killing his engine and drifting in closer to the disabled sub.

 “I don’t want him visiting my dock,” Runzpot said under his breath.

 Kolchak rolled his eyes at the inventor’s ingratitude and said, “This thing is heavier than it looks my friend. You’ll be lucky to do much more than a crawl with us behind you. Just take us to shore and I’ll see to it that you get you picture in the local paper.”

 “You’re a newspaper reporter?” asked the Good Samaritan.

 “Yup—went out for a spin in this thing against my better judgment. It’s kind of cool looking but it can’t submerge and it’s powered by a wimpy electric motor so it’s really nothing to get all excited about…”

 The inventor kept a straight face, pleased that the reporter was salvaging the situation properly.

 “Well, I don’t see anything we can tie my line to so I’m afraid you guys are going to have to hold on to your end. Maybe if you both brace your feet good an strong you’ll be able to keep from being pulled out of the cockpit.”

 “We’ll have to try it. I should have welded a cleat to the nose of this toy but I never really thought that I’d need a tow someday,” confessed the inventor.

 “This is a big lake,” responded the boater as he tossed his boat line to Runzpot. “You really need to be prepared for any possibility. Anyway, we’ll first get you turned toward shore, then I’ll—“

 The boater’s train of thought ended right there. Blind, mind numbing fear took the place of reason and a set of jaws closed over an outstretched arm. The man in the little boat was able to identify the monster that was now using gravity to return to it’s heavier environment. But there were no questions of how or why. Logic would insist that the man was not being pulled out of his boat and dragged down into the depths by a shark.

 Runzpot saw that it was in fact happening, but even his intellectual vantage point was compromised for an instant by a phycology that was a million years in the making. The vertically positioned creature slipped back down with it’s prey, and the tow rope somehow went down as well. Runzpot was holding on because his hand muscles didn’t know what else to do. Kolchak grabbed the back of the man’s collar but was forced to let go when the inventor dropped into the same water that had just swallowed a monster and man who had gone boating on a beautiful summer day.

 All this horror in an instant, and the rope was not yet finished with its mischief. A thousand and more pounds of muscle was now tethered to the side or the roundabout, and the boat flipped over before the monster realized that it needed to spit out the line that had become one with the digestible food.

 Runzpot, who was a bit closer to the overturned boat, hastily climbed onto its snowy white keel.

 “What the hell are you doing on that thing?!” Kolchak demanded to know.

 “I---I just wanted to get out of the water,” the man confessed with a sad shake of his head.

 “Well you better get back on this motorized beer can before Jaws returns to the buffet table.”

 “No wait—I have an idea,” declared the inventor just as he was about to slip back into the dangerous water. “Our rudder turns slightly to starboard, but this light weight boat is on the sub’s port side. If we were to drag it, it might keep us on course toward the shore.”

 “No, my guess is it will just sink on us,” responded the reporter. “With a man dead, I think it’s time to call in the lake police.”

“No—please let me try my idea first. The inflatable life raft has a section of tow cord with it. Break it out and throw one end to me.”

 The reporter complied and a moment later the overturned boat was up along side the sub. Kolchak almost threw his back out helping Runzpot regain the cockpit but anything was preferable to staying in the sub alone.

 “Alright---your job is to hold the boat line. Feel free to let go if the boat does in fact begin to sink. I’ll just creep along at a trolling speed.”

 The sub began to move forward at a speed that was frustrating but not detrimental to the overturned boat. They remained pointed at the shore and a stiff breeze suddenly came up from astern. Even if they were to run out of battery power at this crucial point , the wind would eventually blow them to shore.

 (If it continued.)

 “I still think I should call for help,” pressed the reporter. “Your secret is out, Runzpot. This section of the shoreline is quite a ways from your private dock. You’re going to need to hire someone to tow this thing from our landing point. Then the police will be mad as hell because you didn’t call them when the boatman was killed.”

 The inventor struggled briefly with his feelings. He had become obsessed with the idea of maintaining control over his unusual property. But at least he could take consolation in the fact that his invention would not be blamed for the kayaker’s death. The real culprit had been found, and could be dealt with as soon as the sub was beached.

 “Alright Mr. Kolchak, call 911. We should mobilize the appropriate forces before that monster takes another life. Can you handle your phone and the boat line at the same time or would you like me to make the call for you?”

 The reporter stared suspiciously at the pilot’s back for an instant. His personal experiences had made him a cautious man and it occurred to him that the inventor might still be harboring some foolish idea about getting his precious submarine back under wraps.

 “No, I’ll do it. Just power down for a moment while I make the call.”

 The sub dropped from a snail’s pace to one that matched their tail wind. Then it became possible for Kolchak to hold the boat line with only one hand and prepare to make the emergency call. Carl could easily imagine the sound of Police Chief Duane Crumbee bellowing into his ear. It would be unpleasant---but at least it wouldn’t involve giant teeth dragging a man into the depths to be eaten. Would a predator that size need more than one full sized human to satisfy it? Kolchak had this monster down as a compulsive eater. He could still vividly recall how it relentlessly chewed away on the sub’s tail section. The reporter pressed the green phone receiver icon and listened to the ring tone on the other end. His lie would be kept simple and easy to believe. No mentioning of a shark, just a short, easy to understand report of a man overboard.

 It was a brief, glorious moment in which both men were allowed to believe that technology safeguards modern men where their forefathers would have met a grizzly death. For Carl it was just another “almost,” that would add to his collection of bad dreams that were quite different from what most men tended to experience.

 The play wasn’t over with. The fat lady had yet to sing.

 The man in the cheap suit was too focused to let go of the line when it snaked out of the cockpit in the blink of an eye. The boat, even though belly up was abruptly shoved eight feet straight back and then began to lazily drift away from the sub with no tether to hold it in place. Carl didn’t notice much less care at that moment. The abrupt jerk of the line pulled his upper torso over the port side of the cockpit but his legs kept him inside.

 Sadly, the same could not be said about his cell phone. It went into the water, and no one ever regretted becoming a litter bug more.

 “I can’t believe it. I just lost the damn phone,” Carl growled half to himself.

 “It’s alright. The wind is pushing us toward shore. If it keeps up we should beach in perhaps two or three hours,” the pilot assured his passenger.

 The reporter didn’t respond, he just maintained a dour expression meant for a shoreline that was pathetically secluded. The expression seemed chiseled in granite until a strange sound began to compete with the lapping of the waves against the diving planes.

 “What do you make of that?” asked the reporter.

 “Scraping sound. I would guess a steel cable but there’s no reason for encountering one around here.”

 After a pause Kolchak said, “It could also be gnawing.”

 The pilot glanced past the reporter and shook his head.

 “If the shark was having another go at the tail section we’d see a fin.”

 “Not if it was nibbling from below.”

 “At what? My rudder fin is above the prop. Below the prop there’s nothing but heavy belly fuselage.

 “Well, I just hope it doesn’t get any ideas about tipping us over,” grumbled the reporter.

 Another hour passed and the shoreline grew larger. But then Carl happened to glance down and notice something that nibbled at his optimism the way the shark was nibbling at their sub.

 “There’s some water on the floor.”

 The inventor twisted around and peered at the section of the deck that he knew was a bit lower than the forward most portion. Sure enough, there was a quarter of an inch pooling.

 “Hmm. There is plate seam located on the aft belly section that might have been subjected to an abnormal amount of pressure when the shark was gripping the tail section. Perhaps dragging that overturned boat aggravated the break in the seal. But it just seems so very unlikely.”

  The two men listened to the scraping sounds a while longer. Then Kolchak decided it was time to offer a suggestion.

 “Let’s gun the motor for a couple of seconds. Maybe we’ll get lucky and cut it more severely than the last time.”

 “We could also damage the prop in the process,” pointed out the inventor.

 “Well, if all we can do is perform turning maneuvers, what good is it except as a weapon?”

 Runzpot heaved a sigh of resignation.

 “Why not? It will give us a bit more of a push toward shore and the turning effect is very gradual. Alright, here goes…”

 The pilot brought the electric motor back to life and was immediately startled by the results. The two men were denied visual confirmation, but in fact, the reactivation of the propellers did work to their benefit. The shark’s primitive brain could not maintain a healthy fear of the sub’s screw. After much poking and snooping about, it decided to roll over on its back so that its mouth could probe that which the creature was obsessed with.

 When the prop reactivated, it sliced into an unsuspecting belly, and the predator unwittingly then snapped at the prop as it advanced along the front half of the creature while propelling the sub forward. The shark moved off in pain and primitive rage. A section of entrails protruded from its abdomen and several of its teeth had been lost along with a piece of its lower jaw. But its brain issued not command for its body to flee. This creature only understood attack. Self-preservation was not part of its natural programing. It’s retreat was nothing more than a large circle that brought the giant fish back on a deliberate interception course.

 “Drat,” said Runzpot when the evolutionary marvel turned itself into a torpedo and streaked in to ram amidships.

 “Jez,” exclaimed the reporter when the sub lurched forty degrees to starboard.

 A generous helping of lake water flowed in before the inventor could close the cockpit bubble. Then once they were back on an even keel the bubble was raised so that they could bail out water with Carl’s hat.

 “That creature is defies all logic,” said the pilot while the shark disappeared briefly. It then reappeared and showed them its tail as it swam in a shark like huff before turning with malicious intent.

 “I’ve heard of dolphins ramming like that but not sharks,” said Kolchak. “You don’t suppose it was made crazy by too much polluted water?”

 “Well, the hull seems to be holding up alright---and we’re getting closer to the shore.”

 “I’m not so sure about the hull. I keep bailing but I’m not making as much headway as I would expect to make,” pointed out the reporter, who’s running shoes were still submerged.

 “We’ll make it. We only need to be patient.”

 The shark rammed the sub a second time from the other side and in the process realigned the nose of the sub with the shore. The blow was lighter this time and no water spilled in. The cockpit rocked for an instant and then Runzpot once again brought the propeller back to life. The sub was allowed to stray twenty degrees before the prop was once again brought to dead stop. Now they were only one-hundred and fifty yards from shore.

 “You know I’ve heard a million people complain about how crowded the lake shore is. Right now I’d give my right arm to see a volley ball tournament on the beach,” complained Carl.

 Runzpot nodded grimly. He had always hoped for foul weather so that the lake rowdies as he called them, would remain in the bars and pool halls and leave the lake shore empty. Now he’d give half his inheritance for just one old man walking his dog. The shark chose to discontinue ramming but instead came up with a new form of aggression. The big fish swung in from the front and got hold of the starboard diving plane with its bleeding mouth.

  “Uh oh,” said the inventor while hastily closing the cockpit bubble.

  The sub listed to the shark’s side and both men stared in dismay as the big fish gnawed away at the diving plane like a bull dog on a bone.

 “Any chance of that fin coming out of the hull?” asked Kolchak.

 An instant later the reporter got his answer as the sheet metal construct was worked free.

 “Well I wasn’t expecting anything like that when I installed the bloody thing,” Runzpot muttered apologetically.

 “If I were a critic of marine engineering, my only complaint would be your aversion to communications devices,” the reporter responded.

 “I muddled along just fine when this was a shark free lake,” countered the inventor.

 Kolchak let out a sigh and then craned his neck in search of their metal munching nemesis.

 After a few nervous minutes the reporter said, “Maybe that diving plane used up the last of the critter’s teeth. Do you suppose a shark could gum a man to death?”

 Suddenly the inventor’s index finger went up as he was blessed with an inspiration. Working the joystick he was elated to discover that the remaining diving plane still worked.

 “I’m done pretending to be a piece of drift wood,” announced Runzpot. “We’re heading for shore under power.”

 “So what’s going to keep us from turning in a circle?” asked Kolchak.

  “The diving plane,” the inventor responded happily. “It will create drag on the opposite side that the rudder is favoring.”

 “You sure?”

 “There is only one way to find out,” said the pilot as he brought the electric motor back to life for the last time.

 The sub proceeded toward the beach in earnest and Kolchak chose not to mention that the water in the cockpit was getting deeper. Then with only sixty yards of water remaining the shark reappeared and did the one thing that could spoil their perfect set up. The lake monster pushed on the side of the bow section until the nose of the sub had swung around one-hundred and forty degrees. Then it slipped back into the depths and left its opponents to contemplate this latest development.

 “Looks like we’re driftwood again,” muttered Carl, who suddenly recalled a childhood experience at another smaller lake.

 Carl remembered picking up five pound rocks and dropping them on pieces of driftwood while pretending that the driftwood was a Japanese warship. That gave him an uneasy feeling; the kind that had an unfortunate tendency to precede danger.

 “Simplest way to sink a piece of driftwood is to drop a heavy object on it,” Kolchak said out loud.

 The inventor twisted around to frown at his passenger. There was something in the man’s tone that was very suggestive. Runzpot was about to make a comment when the lake water to their right exploded into a solid geyser of determined marine life. Nearly a thousand pounds of dead weight rose and then fell on the nose section of the sub. Fortunately the bubble had been in the down position when the shark made its incredible leap or the attack certainly would have separated the two men from their beer can like shelter.

 The crash dive only took them down twelve feet to a relatively sandy bottom. The bubble was cracked in the front of the dome, but it remained intact, and after a cloud of sand finally dissipated the two humans were treated to an amazing sight.

 The shark was now lying across the nose section of the grounded submarine. By now Runzpot had gotten over the shock of the crash dive and was waiting tensely for the predator to rise up off the hull and commence an victory lap. But the creature remained draped over the steel and didn’t move a muscle.

 “You think maybe the shark is trying to hold us down so we won’t surface?” asked the reporter in awe.

 “A few hours ago I would have laughed at you for suggesting such a thing,” said the inventor. “But now---I don’t know what to think.”

 “Well, the water leak has gotten worse,” reported Kolchak. “We got maybe five minutes before we’ll be forced out into the lake.”

 Runzpot nodded while staring hard at the giant fish.

   “I’m thinking that it’s been injured to some extent. Sharks have to keep moving in order to breath. But I don’t know how long they can remain immobile before they actually succumb to a lack of oxygen.” 

 “Well---we are going to succumb to the same thing pretty soon unless we swim for it. What I need to know is, do we inflate the raft and ride it to shore or simply hold on to it and swim alongside?”

 “Climbing into it would take precious seconds that could be used swimming to shore. Besides which the floatation device has no paddle. I think we should just use it to gain the surface quickly and then abandon the raft for a quick swim.”

 Then after a brief pause the inventor asked, “You can swim unaided can’t you?”

 “Yes, but if that critter gets aroused by us swimming in the water, one of us might need the raft when a leg gets chomped off.”

 “I think we should guard against becoming too analytical,” Runzpot cautioned as the water approached his chest.

 “I’m just mindful of the fact that the shark would probably reach our legs first,” responded Kolchak.

 “I take it you swim slowly.”

 “I’m pretty good as climbing stairs and even fences, but I haven’t been in a pool in a long time.”

 “Well Mr. Kolchak, from a purely survivalist point of view, that might be good news for me, but I wish you luck anyway.”

 The reporter grinned at that as the water approached his chin.

  “Are you ready to inflate the bag?” asked the sub driver.

 “Yea.”

 “Alright---inflate three seconds after the water covers your face.”

 When the cockpit was all but filled Runzpot lifted the dome and managed to get hold of Kolchak’s sleeve as the inflated raft lifted the reporter swiftly to the surface. He stole a downward glance just before his head broke the surface and he was almost positive that the big shark had not abandoned its resting place on the bottom of the lake. The two men then set out for shore as if a large fin were right behind them. When they reached the shore their chests were heaving and they were oblivious to everything except the earth they were now crawling on.

 “Why is it always me?” thought the exhausted reporter as he sat up on the rocks.

 “Have to---mark this spot,” the inventor said between gulps of air.

 The sun was down by the time they reached Runzpot’s driveway. They didn’t even think about thumbing a ride since they were still wet. Besides which it felt so damn good to be alive that they rather enjoyed the feel of the good earth under their feet. In fact they felt little trepidation when they entered the driveway and saw three government vehicle parked around Kolchak’s convertible.

 Bret Waverly wasted no time announcing that the two emotionally exhausted men had meddled in a top secret government project. That meant that they probably found the sub with a metal detector. But did they also know about the other big thing lying on the lake’s bottom?

 “Mr. Waverly, I will happily state, while under the scrutiny of a polygraph mind you, that I have not encountered any hint of a government operation while using my submersible. What we have encountered however, is a marine abnormality that I am certain will exonerate me, regarding any local safety ordinances I may have overlooked…”

 “Yes, the marine abnormality. I tell you what we’re going to do Mr. Runzpot. We’re going to let you retire to your bedroom and change into some dry clothes and then we’ll have a nice long chat about the marine life in your study.”

 “The sort of chat that members of the Fourth Estate must not be privy to?” inquired the reporter.

 “Your question is misdirected Mr. Kolchak, since you are about to be transported to the University of Chicago Medical Center.”

 “Why, pray tell?”

 “You’ve had a traumatic experience and we want to make sure that doesn’t leave you emotionally scarred for life.”

 The reporter was still wearing a suspicious look when he was ordered into the passenger seat of his own Mustang. Kolchak wondered if he was truly heading for a medical facility, or someplace where muscular amateurs sometimes play with hypodermic needles. Runzpot was now on his own, but that had pretty much always been the case with the exception of his sister who was currently somewhere in Europe. The inventor was not happy when he entered the study and found Waverly with his nose in some of the research papers.

 “I suppose I should have gotten in the habit of locked my data up when not in use. But it’s not the sort of thing that tempts cat burglars and the like.”

 “Oh you haven’t had anything to fear from prowlers for quite some time now. You’ve been under surveillance ever since the first sub parts were secreted onto your property. At first the components were thought to be some sort of terrorist weapon, but then we found out about the research grant and realized that you’re just a red blooded American inventor like Edison.”

 “So are you interested in my high pressure sealing technology, my efforts with submersibles, or the shark carcass lying on top of my sub?” asked Runzpot with a slight smile.

 “You truly are an over achiever Mr. Runzpot, but your recent nightmare like experience was entirely of your own making. Your sub attracted something that was programed to seek out mechanical operations taking place under the water. Sadly, the people watching you were quite unaware of another  project taking place in another part of the lake.”

 “You placed that shark in the lake,” the inventor speculated.

 “Yes. Some very interesting hardware was implanted into the shark’s brain about six months ago. The idea was to turn the fish into a sort of robot.”

 “Why did you have to experiment with such a huge specimen?”

 “It simplified certain surgical challenges. Besides, the whole idea is to use a shark as a weapon. A two foot sand shark just wouldn’t cut it.”

 “But why the lake? You belong in the Atlantic with such a project.”

 “I won’t get technical with you, but we were having a bit of trouble related to salt water. I’m sure we’ll solve that problem in time.”

 The inventor flew into an unaccustomed rage and yelled, “You killed two men and almost killed two more you incompetent buffoon!”

 Waverly displayed a measure of guilt. (Which for him was also an unaccustomed emotion.)

 “There was a pilot program that utilized young whale sharks. It went on for nearly four years without a hitch. We really thought we had a handle on everything except the salt water problem.”

 “And now you’ll do what---bribe me to keep quiet about all this?”

 “You were destined to work for the government sooner or later. We’re going to triple your research grant and of course you’re in no hot water with local government.”

 The inventor shook his head in dismay.

 “I just can’t believe you could be so irresponsible.”

 “We had a plastic explosive planted in the shark’s brain as well. All we had to do was keep the detonation transmitter within a quarter mile of the animal and we could turn it off like a light switch. But your submarine triggered a programed response we weren’t expecting. Anyway, its time for you to look forward.”

 “What about Kolchak?”

 “He needs a good night’s sleep. He’s going to get one. Then he’ll be ready to resume his life. Something no one should ever take for granted.”

 Carl Kochak woke up in his own bed, feeling like he had really hung one on just a few hours earlier. He couldn’t remember a thing; just the crazy dreams that made no sense at all. He made himself some instant coffee, but kept mulling over the dream memories because somehow he knew that they were important. Dreams of thrashing about in deep water. Dreams of something threatening him from behind. He tried to focus on it all for over an hour. Then he decided to write it down on paper, so that he wouldn’t forget any of it.

 He took out his lucky pen; the one he had managed to hold on to all these years. It and his pot pie hat had managed to stay with him for more years than he cared to remember. He had replaced the ink cartridge many times and held on to the writing implement because it had been given to him by his journalistic mentor. But when he pressed down on the familiar button nothing happened, and he wondered if perhaps the spring had finally broken.

 He disassembled the pen and was surprised to discover that the ink cartridge wasn’t there. Instead there was a rolled up fragment of paper with words written in his own hand.

 “It simply read:

 “Killer shark in the lake. Find Runzpot.”

 Kolchak had himself a mystery. It made him smile slightly. For him, it was the perfect way to start a day.

copyright 2014, Kevin Schmitt