Eye of the Whale

by Douglas Carlton Abrams

  The voice did what it always did. It got him thinking about how he was getting a raw deal. How his colleagues were keeping him down, preventing him from becoming the chair of the department, stopping him from serving on important scientific committees. They were just jealous that he was the famous Dr. Shark.

  Why did he always have to fight for everything? He had made it to where he was by fighting harder than everyone else. He wasn’t going to let some stupid graduate student and her husband ruin his career by telling people he was “supplementing his salary.” Jesus, how did they expect anyone to live on a professor’s salary? Did being a scientist mean he’d taken a vow of poverty? Hell, no. Why should people who sold toilet paper and toothpaste make millions while people who were furthering human knowledge make practically nothing?

  Above him, like the struts of a giant Erector Set, the Golden Gate Bridge emerged out of the fog. He could see only a small section of its enormous span, its two ends disappearing into the fog like a ghost bridge connecting one world with another.

  Beyond the bridge, the swells were even bigger than usual. It was going to be a rough crossing and take longer than he had anticipated. Elizabeth started to move again down in the open galley. He checked the radar and saw no targets in front of him, then went down to check on her. She seemed to have passed out again. When he came up, he saw on the radar that a large boat was moving toward him—on an interception course. Oh, shit. Who could it be? Who’s found out? How the hell did they find out?

  Skilling knew what he needed to do. He would tie something to Elizabeth quickly and dump her over the side. He found his anchor and rope, but there was no time. The boat was moving fast, impossibly fast. When he saw the boat, he realized it was worse than he’d thought.

  The diagonal stripe down the front of the forty-seven-foot motor lifeboat was drained of its red color in the night. But in the moonlight, he could read the words next to it: U.S. COAST GUARD. What the hell am I going to do now? Are they going to search for drugs? Skilling quickly covered Elizabeth with a blanket, but he knew if anyone boarded his boat, they would see her in the open galley below. The boat was slowing, but its large hull was still spraying water and leaving an enormous wake in the rolling swell.

  Skilling zipped up his black jacket and breathed deeply. The suspenders of his yellow foul-weather waders dug into his shoulders. He felt trapped. The muscles of his abdomen were tight as a knot, but Skilling smiled as the Coast Guard pulled alongside. The petty officer was dressed in a jumpsuit, covered by a parka, and crowned with a helmet. Everything had reflectors, and the helmet had a cross painted on top to ensure that anyone overboard had the greatest chance of being found and being found quickly. An hour in this fifty-four-degree water, and most people were as good as dead.

  The voice came through a bullhorn: “Turn on—mari—rad—” The words were clipped in the hissing wind.

  Skilling glanced down at Elizabeth and picked up the white plastic mouthpiece of his marine radio as he switched it on. “Go ahead.”

  The words were punctuated by static. “There is a small-craft advisory in effect—sea conditions forty-knot winds—fifteen-foot swell—and growing—return to the nearest safe harbor.”

  Skilling’s stomach and shoulders relaxed. Wind and waves he could handle. He had faced worse, and his boat was solid. In his most commanding voice, Skilling replied, “I’m a marine biologist. I have time-sensitive research out at the Farallon Islands. I will return to shore immediately after my research is complete.”

  Just then Elizabeth moaned from below. Skilling’s heart stopped. Elizabeth moaned again.

  “Roger. Proceed at your own risk.”

  After the Coast Guard retreated, Skilling kicked the throttle forward to get some speed. He wanted to go as fast as he could with the rolling swell, but the left engine was not giving its normal thrust. Had he bent the blades of the prop when he hit the rock? He needed to redline the engine to get it even with the other. Skilling knew he had to get there and get out quick. Maintop Bay was not somewhere you wanted to be when a storm struck. Heading into the waves, he had his engines trimmed down so the boat could hit the waves and cut through them like a knife.

  Yet in this water, the boat was still pitching fore and aft. He switched his GPS chart plotter to the “roadway” view. It was as easy as driving down the highway—granted, a highway rolling in eight-foot swells. He knew the Coast Guard hated to make this crossing, even in their aluminum-hull boats that could roll completely over and stay afloat. If they had to go, they preferred to fly out by helicopter.

  On fair days, which were few, you could see several of the largest Farallon Islands from the Golden Gate Bridge. But even fair weather could turn foul quickly out here, and the dozens, perhaps hundreds, of shipwrecks lying on the sea floor around the islands were silent testament to those who had misjudged the seas. The whole marine sanctuary was littered with the corroding hulls of boats, leaking oil. But the greatest dangers in the sanctuary were, as always, manmade.

  Between 1946 and 1970, the military, in their postwar invincibility and shortsightedness, had dumped almost 50,000 drums of hazardous and radioactive waste near the Farallones. In another stroke of genius, a 10,000-ton aircraft carrier once used for nuclear target practice had also been dumped in these waters. It was amazing to Skilling that his sharks were not glowing. To him, it was all proof that humans would destroy themselves before long. The world was dying, so he might as well profit while it lasted. During a war, some people always made a killing.

  Skilling checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to high tide, which was always the most active time for shark attacks at the Farallones. No one knew for sure why. He always assumed that it was when the most seals were flushed out of the coves by the rising water and left helpless, like floating sausages. Whatever the reason, the timing would be perfect. He’d arrive with Elizabeth just at feeding time.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Midnight

  Liberty Slough

  LIEUTENANT JAMES still did not understand why there was such a rush to kill the whale, but he understood why they wanted to do it before sunrise, when it was too dark for the television cameras to get decent footage. Something did not smell right. But he had no evidence, and he could not disobey a direct order. He looked at the fax he had received, commanding him to harpoon the whale by 0600.

  He had spent many happy hours hunting quail, duck, and deer. But harpooning Apollo felt like shooting fish in a barrel and offended his instincts as a hunter.

  Scientists had recommended every reasonable possibility to rescue the whale, and many well-meaning people from around the world had suggested far less reasonable ones. His daughter Kayla had suggested trying to lure the whale back to sea by dripping salt water down the Sacramento River. He looked up at his daughter’s drawing, with teardrop-shaped circles leading the whale back to the ocean and two girls riding on its back.

  CONNIE’S CELL PHONE began to vibrate as the ring tone “Power to the People,” by John Lennon, began to play. She looked at the caller ID. It was the vet calling her back.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Mary Jane Williams?”

  “Ah, yes, it is,” Connie said, deepening her voice, trying to pretend that she was the assistant to the regional stranding coordinator for the National Marine Fisheries Service.

  “This is Bob Townshend again. I got your message, but I’m just watching the live coverage on CNN, and it looks like they’re planning to euthanize the whale. Are you sure they don’t need me?”

  “I assure you, Dr. Townshend, that the lieutenant governor has decided to pursue other means for the time being, but we will let you know if that changes.”

  “Well, no one likes to put a whale down, but call me if you need me.”

  “We certainly will.”

  THERE WAS A HEAVY KNOCK. The flimsy door rattled, and Lieutenant James opened it reluctantly.

  “Lieutenant, some men are here to see you.”

  Lieutenant Ja
mes adjusted his blue cap and stepped down the metal stairs. A spotlight above the door of the portable cast a circle of light.

  “Halvard Nilsen,” the man said in a Scandinavian accent, without holding out his hand. “I’ve got your gun.”

  “You got a form for me to sign?” Lieutenant James asked.

  “No.”

  “No paperwork?”

  “This is a gift.” The man smiled, gesturing to the large gray polymer case. “I’ll show you how to assemble and fire it.”

  “You a veterinarian?”

  “I’m a whaler,” Nilsen said.

  Instead of sending over a vet, they send over a whaler? The more James heard, the less he liked what he was hearing. He wanted to know what was going on. “You guys connected with the consortium that owns this land?”

  “No.”

  “Who called you in?”

  “Dr. Skilling. He thought we might be able to supply you with the harpoon gun. They are not so easy to come by these days.”

  “Is that so?”

  “This is a Norwegian model,” Nilsen said. “It’s smaller and lighter and more suitable for your boat.”

  Lieutenant James looked up at the sky and saw more clouds covering the moon quickly. The air was thick and smelled like rain. The barometer had been plummeting all day. A storm was definitely coming.

  Nilsen pointed at the gray metal gun within the case. It looked like a miniature cannon. “The harpoon fits in the bore of the gun and attaches to the rope. This is the explosive head.” The harpoon flared out into four large, hinged barbs and then narrowed into a torpedolike point. “When the tip strikes, a time-fused charge will explode in three seconds, driving the harpoon into the whale’s side. As the whale wrestles with the line, the barbs will snap open, anchoring the whale and detonating the grenade.” Like any professional, Nilsen obviously enjoyed the details of his craft. Lieutenant James listened, thankful that the veterinarian would be firing this thing and not him. “The explosion will cut into the lungs and other organs, if you’re lucky, so it’ll die quick. Sometimes they go fast, but it can take ten, even thirty, minutes or more. This is a big whale you got here. It helps if you aim between the shoulder blades.”

  Where the hell are the shoulder blades on a whale? Lieutenant James wondered. He asked the next question, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “What happens to the whale after it’s struck?”

  “The whale’s rib muscles weaken, and when the air valves collapse, the water will rush in, suffocating the whale. She’ll roll over when she’s dead.”

  “He. The whale’s a he.”

  Nilsen stared at him, then pointed to a crude metal rod on top. “This is the sight, and over here is the trigger.” It was a little lever that one squeezed against the handle.

  “If the vet doesn’t show, are you going to fire this thing?”

  “Oh, no, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Nilsen. “It must be the U.S. government that compassionately puts the whale out of its misery.”

  Lieutenant James prayed that the vet would get there by sunrise. Otherwise, he’d have to shoot the whale himself.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  1:00 A.M.

  Farallon Islands

  ALL SKILLING COULD SEE in the moonlight was gray fog, so thick it eclipsed any possible line of sight. He slowed the engine, knowing he was close. Moments later the islands appeared out of the mist, granite icebergs jutting from the water, sharp and menacing. As he threw the throttle into reverse, the engines snarled and backed away. The landscape looked prehistoric, unfinished and barren. To Skilling, the shape of the islands had always resembled sharks’ teeth, although superstitious sailors had long called them the Devil’s Teeth for the many ships they had devoured. The Coast Miwok knew them as the Islands of the Dead, the place where bad Indians were condemned to live forever, like some spectral Alcatraz.

  Skilling shook away a shiver and told himself that death was an inevitable part of life. He did feel a pang of guilt when he remembered that Elizabeth was pregnant. But the planet was already overrun with people. It wouldn’t miss yet another child. Humans were like locusts. The only hope was that increasing infertility might someday end the plague they had become on the planet.

  Skilling steered the boat skillfully around the gray-brown outcroppings, spattered white by the hundreds of thousands of birds that lived and defecated here. The sharp smell that blew off the island and filled his nostrils was a mixture of ammonia, rotting anchovies, decomposing salt water, and decades of accumulated fecal matter. The odor was so strong it was almost mind-numbing, and it often made first-timers wince or gag reflexively. Even Skilling had to get used to it each time he came out. Fortunately, the wind also helped to keep down the kelp flies that often covered one’s skin and were particularly drawn to mucous membranes—mouths, noses, and in the case of seals, anuses.

  Despite the Farallones’ infernal number of torments, he found a strange charm in the place, and spending time with the white sharks made up for any discomfort. He looked at the shark-tagging pole resting in the metal hooks on the side of the boat. If he was lucky, he would accomplish two goals: getting rid of Elizabeth and tagging the largest shark ever recorded.

  Although still on the lee side of the island, he could feel the gathering storm coming from the west. The swells made the boat buck like a horse as he motored past the Gap, and raindrops, heavy and swollen, started to pelt the boat. The moon freed itself from a smothering cloud, and he could see the black cormorants, black-and-white murres, and brown pelicans huddling together, preparing for the worst. The sea lions with their dexterous flippers had climbed high above the surf zone and were ominously silent, not barking as usual. The seals, who could not climb like the sea lions, were being pelted by waves in the coves. Some had already been dragged into the surf.

  This “zone of death,” just around the perimeter of the island, was where white sharks picked off many seals. Several looked up at him questioningly. Their black doll eyes always had the fearful stare of prey, but now they rocked their heads nervously, perhaps concerned about the squall that was quickly approaching. One rode a wave onto the black rocks and squirmed desperately up the shore.

  Skilling could read the animals and the conditions and didn’t like what he was seeing. But he had no choice—he had to steer around Sugarloaf and into Maintop Bay. This was never a completely safe proposition even in the best of weather, as the swells on the windward side of the island were always unpredictable, and conditions changed quickly. But that was where the shark was.

  He reconsidered simply tying the anchor to Elizabeth’s feet and letting it drag her to the bottom. The sharks would eventually find her—but what if someone else found her first? No, it was safer if he knew for sure that the evidence of her demise had been digested in the stomach of the shark.

  As he passed the Gap, he heard the islands whistling, as they often did in a storm. This time the sound was shrill, like a woman shrieking.

  ELIZABETH BLINKED her blurry eyes as she came around. She saw something black scurrying across her face and felt the legs of a kelp fly as it brushed up against the hairs inside her nose. With her hands immobilized, she could not wave it away, and repeatedly tried to twitch her nose. It flew away at last but then landed on her lip and crawled back up the other nostril. She tried desperately to puff it out.

  No luck. This kelp fly was used to stronger gusts than she could manage.

  Elizabeth’s eyes began to adjust to the dim light, and she realized she was in the galley of a boat. Skilling. Above her, she could see him steering, the side of his chiseled face like stone in the silvery light. He was standing, trying to balance as the waves battered the boat. Her body rocked precariously on the thin vinyl bench cushions. She tried to remember what had happened to her, and then the memories started to flood back: the stun gun, the injection, the struggle.

  A wave of pain and nausea traveled from the side of her head down to her stomach. He’s going to drown me. Then, with an even stro
nger wave of nausea, she realized, No, he’s going to feed me to his sharks. She had heard the stories circulating in the department about the camera-shy monster shark that he had almost tagged underwater and had named Mother. She felt like she might vomit.

  The boat slapped against a wave. She started to feel her arm against the cushion—her body was regaining sensation. Stretching her legs slowly, she made sure not to attract Skilling’s attention. The boat lurched, and she swallowed the sharp bile in her throat, willing her stomach not to give her away.

  Elizabeth looked at her hands. They were bound several times with hemp rope, which was part of a longer stretch of line that snaked up the stairs to the deck.

  Skilling seemed to be preoccupied topside driving through the storm, so she was free to work on her hands. She began pulling them apart as the rope dug into her wrists. Breathing through the pain, she was able to bring her wrists a few inches apart but still couldn’t pull them out of the rope handcuffs. In the galley light, she saw the skin of her wrists, chafed raw.

  THE BOAT STAGGERED against the wind as Skilling entered Maintop Bay. The storm was arriving fast. Perhaps this is not such a good plan, he thought. But it was too late to stop now. He couldn’t exactly call it off and decide to kill her on another day.

  His legs absorbed the roll of the boat, buffeted by the ever-growing whitecaps. From a cooler, he pulled out the lower half of a newborn elephant seal. It had been crushed—no doubt by the bulls fighting for dominance—and he had kept it for a special occasion. The blood and entrails were seeping out. These dissections were always the perfect chum for baiting sharks. The deep, almost ferrous odor made him wince. He put the bloody mess in a burlap bag and threw it overboard after tying it off so that it hung at the surface and dunked like a tea bag with each swell. An oily chum slick began to spread out behind the boat.