Wired Kingdom

by Rick Chesler

  “Tie up the loose ends. You do that, and I’ll take care of Rosa.”

  Héctor hesitated, but then forced himself to respond. “Yes, jefe.” He terminated the call and placed another, to his office in Baja.

  WEST LOS ANGELES

  Tara had been asleep for less than four hours when her phone rang. She snatched it up off the floor. A young case assistant she’d assigned to watch the whale’s feed overnight apologized for waking her.

  “That’s okay. What have you got?”

  “The whale appears to be caught in a fishing net. Location unknown—still no GPS. I haven’t got an expert opinion yet, but in the chat rooms they’re saying the whale may drown if someone doesn’t cut it loose.”

  “Any signs of people in the vicinity?”

  “No. It appears she’s only just gotten tangled.”

  Tara thanked the assistant and hung up.

  THE CALIFORNIA CHANNEL ISLANDS

  The sound of an engine shattered the pre-dawn stillness, awakening Héctor from a vague nightmare starring his daughter. He cast a worried glance at his stricken diver, who stirred in fitful sleep, a line of drool snaking from his mouth to a puddle on the plane’s floor. Héctor exited the plane and walked out onto the beach in time to see a blue seaplane—another Cessna, identical to his except for the paint—make a perfect landing a hundred yards away.

  Consulting a pair of binoculars, he was pleased to count a total of three persons inside, including the pilot. Just enough personnel to get the job done, he thought. He would have liked more divers, perhaps even an inflatable boat, but that would mean involving more people. The less who knew of his expedition to U.S. coastal waters the better.

  Activating a secure channel on his handheld marine radio, Héctor rattled off a string of call-sign letters that would identify him to his contacts in the plane. Once the authentication was completed, he said, “You’ve made good time. I am glad you are here.”

  He instructed them to paddle the plane quietly to the beach while he prepared to depart, but the newcomer pilot ignored the command, rapidly eating up the distance to shore.

  “I said cut the engines!”

  “As you requested, we have a laptop with satellite Internet connection to view the whale’s transmission. We are watching it now, and the whale is in the trap. I repeat, it is caught in the trap now. We must hurry.”

  Cursing, Héctor dropped his cigarette and ran back to the beached plane. He parted the shroud of foliage at its doors and then entered. “Guillermo, we need to—” he began, but stopped in mid-sentence as it dawned on him how much the diver’s condition had deter-iorated in the last few hours.

  “You called . . . a plane . . . for me. Thank you,” Guillermo said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Héctor hung his head, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Guillermo, but that plane is here to take us to the whale. Your excellent work has trapped it. Can you walk?”

  “But, señor! . . . I—no. I cannot move my legs . . . my hand. I cannot feel the left . . . my face.”

  This confirmed the pilot’s worst fear. The only real treatment for the bends was to be placed in a recompression chamber, which would recreate the pressure of ocean depths, allowing nitrogen bubbles to return to the bloodstream. Anything he could do for him in the field was only a minor stopgap meant to serve as an emergency precaution until a chamber could be reached.

  “The chamber, señor. You promised. . . .”

  Recalling the sat-phone conversation with his boss, the pilot ran his fingers through his thick but graying hair, which was usually covered by a baseball cap. The newly arrived plane cut its engines as it reached the beach.

  “Okay, Guillermo, let me get ready.”

  The diver closed his eyes and sighed in relief as his boss started for the front seat. Héctor picked up the radio, staring at the transmitter. To use it was to save Guillermo and condemn his own daughter. He could hear the door opening on the other plane, the splashy footfalls as his reinforcements jumped out and waded onto the island. Héctor dropped the transmitter. He whirled back around, moving behind the diver’s head. He quickly reached over and covered the man’s mouth and nose with both hands and pressed, his forearms rippling with the effort.

  “Lo siento, amigo.”

  The diver struggled in the wake of the apology but, unable to fully command his limbs, he couldn’t lessen Héctor’s vice grip. Guillermo’s body twitched and jerked for want of air. Tears welled in Héctor's eyes as he tightened his grasp.

  “Relax, Guillermo. Relax. You are going to be with God. Your net captured the whale. Your share of the money will go to your family. It will take care of them for the rest of their lives. I promise you. I promise you that.”

  Guillermo’s eyes flickered with recognition, and gratitude, before his body went limp.

  CHAPTER 15

  33° 36’ 25.8” N AND 119° 69’ 78.4” W

  Sport fisherman Joe Roberts cursed the misfortune that had befallen him. After motoring nearly forty miles offshore through most of the night, he had cast his first line with the sunrise, hoping for a prize tuna. What he got was a hopeless snag.

  Jerking the line yet again, Joe asked his fishing buddy, Dean Farley, to confirm their position. The two were construction contractors in their forties who had been fishing together for years.

  “We’re right over the seamount,” Dean said after consulting a chart. He picked up a pair of binoculars. “You got yourself a net.”

  “Crap. Another eighty-dollar lure. Maybe we can drift over and cut it loose.”

  “Not worth it. We get that crap wrapped around the prop . . .”

  “Hell, you’re right. You know, every year we go farther out and catch less fish. I think I’ve about had it. You think Mike would buy my half of the boat?” Reluctantly, Joe produced a knife. He was about to cut the line when Dean told him to wait.

  “Hang on. I saw something. In the net, I think. Something big.”

  “A commercial net, just my damn luck.”

  “Don’t see any marker buoys.”

  “Maybe they broke off.”

  “Maybe.”

  A series of frenzied splashes disrupted the glassy surface. A mammoth, dark shape tore through the water. Dean picked up the glasses.

  “Shark?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t think so. It’s . . . it’s too big.”

  Then a colossal fluke scratched at the sky, a web of glistening nylon mesh enveloping the appendage like a shroud.

  “Whale!” Dean shouted. “It’s a whale!”

  Joe stared in awe as the enormous creature slapped its tail against the surface, producing a tremendous spattering of foamy water. Dean stared wide-eyed at the taut fishing line stretching in the direction of the netted giant.

  “Cut your line,” he said.

  Joe pulled the line toward him with a finger.

  “Wait, never mind,” Dean said.

  Joe looked at his friend, knife poised over the rigid line. “What is it?”

  “I think if you come across a whale in distress like this, you’re supposed to call it in so rescuers can find it. We can give our GPS coordinates, but if we cut the line they might not be able to find it later.

  “Look, if I hooked a damn whale I don’t want anyone to know about it, okay? We report the thing in trouble, we’re heroes; we say we hooked it, we’re animal killers. I’m cutting my line.”

  “I can see it now,” Dean said, eyes glued to the binoculars. “You didn’t hook the whale. Your lure’s in the net. I’m looking at it.”

  “I’m still cuttin’ loose. Call the Coast Guard. Tell ’em we found a trapped whale. We’ll follow it if we can, until they get here, but I don’t wanna be hooked to it.”

  As soon as he finished his sentence the whale attempted to breach, pulling the net with it and ripping the fishing rod from Joe’s hands. He swore as rod and reel flew over the transom into the water and out of sight.

  The blue seaplane banked sharply as it approache
d the ensnared whale.

  “These are the coordinates where the trap was set,” Héctor González, now riding co-pilot, announced.

  The pilot of the new plane pointed toward the trap site. “What is that?”

  “A fishing vessel,” Héctor said. “Land us as planned.”

  He picked up the radio while scoping the boat through binoculars. He said into the transmitter, “Fishing vessel . . . Beeracuda . . . this is the seaplane overhead. Acknowledge, please.” He repeated the message. Thirty seconds passed as their plane descended into a landing pattern, and then a response crackled through the cockpit.

  “Seaplane, this is Beeracuda. What’s up?”

  “How’s the fishing?”

  “Not good so far. There’s a gill net or something with what looks like a whale stuck in it. We just called the coordinates in to the Coast Guard. You with the park services?”

  Héctor held up a hand to silence the grumbling of his crew as they digested the news. He pressed the transmit button. “Copy that,” he said. “We will be landing to rescue the whale. Thank you for your help, but now we need you to please keep your vessel clear of the site.”

  A tense moment passed in the plane while they waited for a reaction. Would the fishermen be cooperative, or pesky hangers-on? Were they really even fishermen? All speculation ceased as the radio came to life.

  “Roger that, seaplane. We’re outta here. Good luck.”

  The first diver hit the water while the airplane still bounced across the surface. Although he was highly experienced and outfitted with state-of-the-art gear, he could not have faced more hazardous diving conditions.

  Weak early-morning light struggled to pierce the murky water—a krill-laden maelstrom of converging currents and upwelling that swirled around the undersea mountain like a whiteout atop Mount Everest. The seamount’s twin peaks lay two hundred feet below, but they were a deceptive target, rapidly succumbing to thousands of feet of inky blackness. Somewhere in this unforgiving realm, nearly a square mile of invisible nylon mesh was being thrashed about by a petrified, ninety-seven-foot beast fighting for its life.

  The diver tested his communications unit. “Visibility poor. Following compass heading toward the trap.”

  Then he kicked off into the gloom.

  MARINA DEL REY

  Tara eased her Crown Victoria off the 405 toward the same marina she’d left from only hours earlier with Trevor. Caught up in a heated argument on her cell phone, she earned a nasty glance and creative gesture from a motorist attempting an aggressive merge. He was talking on a cell and shaving with an electric razor, Tara wasn’t surprised to notice.

  After learning of the Blue’s predicament, she had phoned Anastasia to see if the marine mammal expert was aware of the situation. She was.

  “We can’t wait,” Anastasia declared as Tara switched lanes to avoid a collision. Tara heard her giving terse orders to a boat crew as they prepared to leave the dock. “If you’re here, fine, we’ll take you. But we can’t afford to wait—the whale can’t afford to wait.”

  “I’ll be there.” Deciding she’d better concentrate on her driving, Tara dropped her cell and punched the gas. She plowed through the rapidly filling streets of Venice and Marina del Rey until she hit a string of stubborn red lights on Lincoln.

  Less than a mile from the boat slip, she called Anastasia again. The scientist picked up, and this time Tara heard the throaty sound of engines revving.

  “Dr. Reed, have you left yet?” She pulled up to another red light and sat.

  “Not yet, but they’re casting off the lines. What’s your twenty, girl? I told you, we can’t wait.”

  Girl? She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had referred to her as girl. She was about to remind Anastasia that she was not some production assistant she could boss around, when she realized she’d better be nice if she didn’t want to literally miss the boat.

  She could just make out the tops of masts bobbing in the distance. “I can see the boats, but still have to turn into the marina.”

  “I don’t know what to say. If you’re here, you’re here. If you miss us you can—Hey buddy, what’re you thinking leaving that tank standing up there!—catch a ride with one of the hundred other boats gearing up to save the whale.”

  “That many?” She did her best to ignore the driver still gesturing wildly next to her.

  “Looks that way. A couple of fishermen broadcast the whale’s GPS coordinates to the Coast Guard on an open frequency. Look, I gotta go. Ciao, girl!”

  The call went dead. Tara fumed at the next red light, the last one standing between her and the marina entrance. Between her and the whale.

  The guy she’d almost hit pulled up next to her and was rolling down his passenger-side window to have a little chat about the finer points of driving etiquette when he saw her point something that looked like a garage-door opener at the traffic signal. The light changed from red to green and Tara shot across the intersection into the marina. The other driver calmly rolled his window back up.

  Tara parked her car and ran toward the dock. Anastasia’s boat was hard to miss. The Scarab racer was already prowling its way from its berth toward the main marina channel. Anastasia stood at the wheel. TV cameras, dive gear and a crew of half a dozen men busied themselves securing things on the rear deck. Pressed for time as she was, Tara couldn’t help but marvel at the glitzy watercraft. Plastered along the hull were the logos of various corporate sponsors, the largest of which was Wired Kingdom featuring an airbrushed blue whale, complete with enlarged web-cam tag, wrapping around the stern.

  Tara stopped ogling the vessel long enough to raise Anastasia’s phone once again.

  “Sorry, not enough time to turn this beast around.”

  “I was told the FBI could expect your full cooperation.”

  “This is cooperation. I want the whale; you want the whale. But if I wait for you, neither of us will get what we want. The whale needs to be freed now or it will die. I’m doing you a favor.”

  Tara stopped running as it became clear she wouldn’t catch up with the boat. “Some favor . . .”

  “It’s not like you can’t find another ride,” Anastasia continued. Tara saw her wave an arm at the small armada of watercraft readying to set sail. “Can’t you commandeer one?” she added, laughing. “They just won’t be as fast as us, that’s all.”

  “Is this because I wouldn’t go home with you yesterday?” Tara asked.

  Before Anastasia could answer, a black wooden schooner under power turned itself broadside in the narrow waterway, obstructing the entrance to the main channel. Anastasia stared at Tara for a moment and then picked up a megaphone and directed it at the vessel blocking her path.

  “Move that old scow!”

  A tanned young man wearing only a pair of surfer board shorts and long dreadlocks appeared on deck. He ambled to the port side of his vessel and sat facing the idling Scarab, his legs dangling over the side of the ship.

  “Well, if it isn’t the environmental rebel himself. Long time no see—but not long enough. Move out of the way, Eric!” Anastasia’s megaphone boomed.

  The sailor lifted a hand, middle finger extended, and remained seated, idly swinging his feet. Another young man appeared on deck and hoisted a flag up the mainmast. Everyone aboard the Scarab muttered some kind of epithet when they read the letters OLF stenciled on the hull. Two more OLF crewmembers appeared on deck and anchors dropped from the bow and stern, locking the schooner in position.

  CHAPTER 16

  ABOARD PANDORA’S BOX

  Eric Stein ordered his crew not to move the schooner while he went below decks. He made his way through the well-worn passageway to the captain's quarters, shut his door and sat on his bunk. He massaged his temples while he grappled with a tempest of memories dredged up upon seeing Anastasia. Their relationship had spanned the course of three years while both studied marine biology at the same university, but it was one recollection in particular which plagued
him now: their time together in the environmental awareness group GreenAction.

  For Anastasia, the GreenAction experience had been a summer stint between graduating college and beginning a PhD program. For Eric, it marked the end of his collegiate career, without earning a degree, and the true beginning of his own rival environmental organization.

  The ship R/V Green Resistance was as unforgettable for him as the place: Antarctica. They had been searching for a Japanese whaling vessel. Stein still flashed on the experience like it was yesterday. . . .

  “Eric, you want to kill yourself? Put this on!” a fellow crewmember demanded, thrusting a life vest into his chest.

  Stein fended him off. “Screw it, man. No time.” He started for the Zodiac. He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.

  “I don't think so, Eric. You wear it or you don't take the Zodiac. You know the regulations.”

  Eric’s eyes blazed, but he donned the life vest. He ran over to the rail where several crew balked as they looked out on a rough sea. “Gotta be fifteen-, maybe twenty-foot swells. I don't think we should launch it,” one of them said, eyeing the Zodiac as it dangled from the crane.

  The very act of launching the small boat was treacherous. The launch procedure, on which they ran drills during calm weather when there were no whaling ships in the vicinity, called for the Zodiac's passengers to sit in the boat while it was lowered into the water by winch.

  Simple in concept, but not in practice. A crewmember had died once because the boat had blown into the side of the ship on the way down and flipped over. The person who had fallen out simply disappeared under the ship's hull. End of story. This was why running interference with the small boat in conditions such as these was strictly optional.

  But Stein had a gift for rallying the troops, and sitting in the galley around hot coffee, he had ten men willing to put their lives on the line. By the time they walked outside into the freezing wind, huddled around the Zodiac while it swayed under the crane like a kite in the breeze, six had changed their minds. One more backed out when it came time to actually board the Zodiac dangling over the angry sea.