"Civitas Island - The Birth of Hope"
Prologue
The curious shark circled, contemplating the possibilities. Twenty feet below, an oblivious diver wedged his rubber finned-foot against a twisted steel cable for leverage and strained to crank open a valve, swearing to himself when it remained stubbornly uncooperative.
The shark dove closer. As he glided by, eleven feet of graceful, lethal power, his tail brushed against the man’s leg.
The contact startled the diver, and his eyes followed the dark shadow as it disappeared into the murky distance, turned, and approached again - gaining speed. A few feet away thousands of nervous super-salmon, most over four feet long, darted to the far side of the immense pen that held them captive. The man felt no fear, just annoyance at the interruption. It was a sixgill shark; they don’t eat people. Still…
The creature charged, maw widening to display rows of razors, fluorescent blue green eyes flashing, a fish on a mission. This was unexpected. The diver’s heart raced along with his mind and he plunged his hand into his utility belt, extracted a small canister, and flicked the tab. An inky liquid filled the narrowing space between man and attacking shark with a noxious broth made from the predator’s dead cousins. The response was instantaneous. The offended shark veered off, and with an angry flick of its tail, disappeared.
On the top floor of a distant high rise office tower, the diver’s anonymous sponsors impatiently watched the undersea attack. The project had a tight execution schedule and there was no time for distractions. The diver had been hired as a professional, he certainly was being well compensated, he needed to get the job done and disappear - fast.
The diver sighed an effervescent gurgle of relief that rose like the dancing bubbles in a flute of Dom Perignon. He turned, gave a quick thumbs-up to the tiny submarine whose camera was transmitting his mission, set his hands on the wheel once again, braced himself, and pulled. Perhaps it was the extra rush of shark-fed adrenaline, or just the physics of the repeated application of pressure, but the valve finally complied.
The diver wasn’t greedy. He only needed a sliver of an opening, just enough to free a thin brook of reddish goop. Like a serpent carried on invisible currents, the toxic slime slithered toward the nearby mountain of fishy feces and dove in. Nature would do the rest.
The diver took a last look at the gyrating flow he had unleashed, a carefully engineered dervish mindlessly whirling its destructive dance, and marveled at the simplicity of its power. Then he returned to the waiting sub. His work was done.
Prologue
The curious shark circled, contemplating the possibilities. Twenty feet below, an oblivious diver wedged his rubber finned-foot against a twisted steel cable for leverage and strained to crank open a valve, swearing to himself when it remained stubbornly uncooperative.
The shark dove closer. As he glided by, eleven feet of graceful, lethal power, his tail brushed against the man’s leg.
The contact startled the diver, and his eyes followed the dark shadow as it disappeared into the murky distance, turned, and approached again - gaining speed. A few feet away thousands of nervous super-salmon, most over four feet long, darted to the far side of the immense pen that held them captive. The man felt no fear, just annoyance at the interruption. It was a sixgill shark; they don’t eat people. Still…
The creature charged, maw widening to display rows of razors, fluorescent blue green eyes flashing, a fish on a mission. This was unexpected. The diver’s heart raced along with his mind and he plunged his hand into his utility belt, extracted a small canister, and flicked the tab. An inky liquid filled the narrowing space between man and attacking shark with a noxious broth made from the predator’s dead cousins. The response was instantaneous. The offended shark veered off, and with an angry flick of its tail, disappeared.
On the top floor of a distant high rise office tower, the diver’s anonymous sponsors impatiently watched the undersea attack. The project had a tight execution schedule and there was no time for distractions. The diver had been hired as a professional, he certainly was being well compensated, he needed to get the job done and disappear - fast.
The diver sighed an effervescent gurgle of relief that rose like the dancing bubbles in a flute of Dom Perignon. He turned, gave a quick thumbs-up to the tiny submarine whose camera was transmitting his mission, set his hands on the wheel once again, braced himself, and pulled. Perhaps it was the extra rush of shark-fed adrenaline, or just the physics of the repeated application of pressure, but the valve finally complied.
The diver wasn’t greedy. He only needed a sliver of an opening, just enough to free a thin brook of reddish goop. Like a serpent carried on invisible currents, the toxic slime slithered toward the nearby mountain of fishy feces and dove in. Nature would do the rest.
The diver took a last look at the gyrating flow he had unleashed, a carefully engineered dervish mindlessly whirling its destructive dance, and marveled at the simplicity of its power. Then he returned to the waiting sub. His work was done.
