It's January the 15th, 2014, approximately 40 miles off the coast of Virginia.

In the ashen skies above the Western Atlantic, a U.S. Navy Seahawk helicopter beats the midwinter air.

Rotar blades thrumming, the aircraft swoops, banks,

then circles, tilting 45 degrees in a wide arcing curve. In the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot

stare through the ice-flecked window, scouring the freezing expanse for an improbable sign of human life.

One hour ago, a fighter jet pilot ejected from his plane and is now believed to be located in the ocean somewhere below this airspace.

Every available military aircraft in the area has been scrambled as part of a search and rescue operation to save the missing pilot.

But first, they have to find him.

The Seahawk dives low until it's practically touching the crest of the waves.

It hovers in place as the crew desperately scours the

undulating seascape below. A minute goes by, then another. The helicopter pilot flashes a hand

signal. He's not here. With a stuttering roar, the tail lifts and the helicopter accelerates forward, up and away.

A nervous glance passes between the pilot and co-pilot.

If they don't find their man soon, there's a good chance the sharks will.

Meanwhile, about half a mile north, a large, pale shape stirs beneath the waves.

Great whites.

The cold coastal waters off the U.S. eastern seaboard are a migration route for the world's largest predatory fish.

And there is one particular beast known to roam these depths, a massive 16-foot, 3.5,000-pound shark

that trackers spotted only this morning, circling this very area.

As the roar of the helicopter grows fainter, the underwater shape spreads and

flattens against the face of the rising swell, until suddenly it breaches the surface.

It's a parachute, a billowy canvas twisting into waves, tangled paracords extending behind it like tentacles,

...