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  SWALLOWED BY A WHALE

  A Living Jonah Tells His Tale

  Strater hired a hall for the first show and had to turn away hundreds. For two hours, Caleb told his thrilling story, standing with harpoon in hand in front of a moving diorama.

  With Caleb's whaling earnings, Strater had hired an artist who had painted reasonably accurate pictures on a long strip of canvas several feet high. The backlit canvas was slowly unrolled to reveal pictures of Caleb in the whaleboat, the attack by the whale, and a fanciful depiction of his legs sticking out from between the mammal's jaws. There were images of exotic, palm-studded locales, and their inhabitants as well.

  The show played to enthralled audiences, especially in churches and halls in cities and towns along the eastern seaboard. Strater sold story booklets, adding pictures of half-nude dancing native girls to spice up the narrative. After a few years, Strater and Caleb retired from public life as rich as the wealthiest whaling captains.

  Strater bought a mansion in New Bedford, and Caleb built his wedding-cake house in the village of Fairhaven across the harbor from the whaling city. From the roof turret, he watched the whaling ships come and go. He rarely went out in daylight.

  When he did leave his mansion, he covered his head and shaded his face with a hood.

  He became known to his neighbors as the Ghost, and he became a generous benefactor who used his fortune to build schools and libraries for the community. In return, the townspeople protected the privacy of their homegrown Jonah.

  Caleb guided Strater into a large chamber that was empty except for a comfortable revolving chair in the center. The diorama from Caleb's show wrapped around the walls. Anyone sitting in the chair could pivot and see the "Living Jonah" story from beginning to end.

  "Well, what do you think?" Caleb asked his friend.

  Strater shook his head. "It almost makes me want to go on the road with the show again."

  "Let's talk about it over a glass of wine," Caleb said.

  "I'm afraid we don't have time," Strater said. "I carry a message to you from Nathan Dobbs."

  "The captain's oldest son?"

  "That's right. His father is dying and would like to see you."

  "Dying! That's not possible! You have told me yourself that the captain looks as hale and hearty as a young bull."

  "It's not an ailment that brought him down, Caleb. There was an accident at one of his mills. A loom fell over and crushed his ribs."

  Caleb's old man's face lost its last faint traces of color. "When can I see him?" he asked.

  "We must go now," Strater replied. "His time is short."

  Caleb rose from his chair. "I'll get my coat and hat."

  The road to the Dobbs mansion wound around New Bedford Harbor and climbed to County Street. Carriages lined the driveway and street in front of the Greek Revival mansion. Nathan Dobbs greeted Strater and Caleb at the door and thanked them profusely for coming. He was tall and lanky, the younger image of his father.

  "I'm sorry to hear about your father," Caleb said. "How is Captain Dobbs?"

  "Not long for this world, I'm afraid. I'll take you to him."

  The mansion's spacious parlor and adjoining hallways overflowed with the captain's ten children and countless grandchildren. There was a murmur as Nathan Dobbs entered the parlor with Strater and the strange hooded figure. Nathan asked Strater to make himself comfortable and escorted Caleb to the captain's room.

  Captain Dobbs lay in his bed, tended by his wife and family doctor. They had wanted to keep the sickroom dark, as was the medical practice then, but he insisted that the curtains be opened to let in sunlight.

  A shaft of honeyed autumn sunlight fell on the captain's craggy face. Although his leonine mane had gone silver-gray, his features were more youthful than would have been expected for a man in his sixties. But his eyes had a far-off look, as if he could see death creeping closer. The captain's wife and doctor withdrew, and Nathan lingered by the door.

  Dobbs saw Caleb and managed to crack a smile.

  "Thank you for coming, Caleb," the captain said. The voice that once boomed across a ship's decks was a hoarse whisper.

  Caleb pushed the hood back from his face. "You told me never to question the captain's orders."

  "Aye," Dobbs wheezed. "And I'll give you more good advice, green hand. Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong. Tried to fix a balky loom. Didn't move fast enough when it keeled over."

  "I'm sorry for your misfortune, Captain."

  "Don't be. I have a faithful wife, handsome children, and grandchildren who will carry on my name."

  "I wish I could say the same," Caleb said in a wounded voice.

  "You've done well, Caleb. I know all about your generosity."

  "Generosity is easy when there's no one to share your fortune with."

  "You have shared it with your neighbors. And I have heard of your wonderful library of books on the old trade."

  "I don't smoke or drink. Books are my only vice. Whaling gave me the life I have. I collect every volume I can on the old trade."

  The captain closed his eyes and seemed to drift away, but after a moment his eyelids fluttered open. "I have something I want to share with you."

  The captain's son stepped forward and presented Caleb with a mahogany box. Caleb opened the lid. Inside the box was a book. Caleb recognized the worn blue binding.

  "The log of the Princess, Captain?"

  "Aye, and it's yours," the captain said. "For your great library."

  Caleb drew back. "I can't take this from you, sir."

  "You'll do as your captain says," Dobbs growled. "My family agrees that you should have it. Isn't that right, Nathan?"

  The captain's son nodded. "It's the family's wish as well, Mr. Nye. We can think of no person more worthy."

  Unexpectedly, the captain raised his hand and placed it on the log. "A strange business," he said. "Something happened on that island of wild men. To this day, I don't know if it was God's work or the Devil's."

  The captain closed his eyes. His breathing became labored, and a rattling sound came from his throat. He called his wife's name.

  Nathan gently took Caleb's arm and escorted him from the room. He thanked him again for coming, and then told his mother that the captain's time had come. The loyal family streamed into the bedroom and adjacent hallway, leaving Strater and Caleb alone in the parlor.

  "Gone?" Strater said.

  "Not yet but soon." Caleb showed Strater the logbook.

  "I'd prefer some of the Dobbs fortune," Strater snorted.

  "This is a treasure to me," Caleb said. "Besides, you have more money than you could spend in a lifetime, my friend."

  "Then I'll have to live longer," Strater said with a glance toward the bedroom.

  They left the house and climbed into Strater's carriage. Caleb clutched the logbook closer and his mind went back to the remote island and its savage inhabitants, his masquerade as an 'atua, the sickness, and the strange blue lights. He turned around for a last look at the mansion and recalled the captain's dying words.

  Dobbs was right. It had been a strange business indeed.

  CHAPTER 1

  Murmansk, Russia, Present Day

  As the commander of one of the most fearsome killing machines ever devised, Andrei Vasilevich once held in his hands the power to wipe out entire cities and millions of people. If war had ever broken out between the Soviet Union and the United States, the Typhoon-class submarine Vasilevich had commanded would have launched twenty long-range ballistic missiles at the U.S. and sent two hundred nuclear warheads raining down on American soil.

  In the years since he had retired from the navy, Vasilevich had often breathed a sigh of relief that he had never been told to unleash a salvo of nuclear death and destruction. As a captain second rank, he would have carried out the orders of his government without question. An order was an order, no matter how evil it was. A nuclear sub commander was an instrument of the state and could have no room fo
r emotions. But as the tough old undersea Cold Warrior said good-bye to his former command, the submarine unofficially known as Bear, he could not hold back the sentimental tears that rolled down his plump cheeks.

  He stood on the dock overlooking the port of Murmansk, his eyes following the sub as it glided toward the harbor entrance. He raised a silver flask of vodka high in the air in toast before taking a slug, and his thoughts drifted back to those years prowling the North Atlantic in the monster vessel.

  With a length of five hundred seventy feet and a seventy-five-foot beam, the Typhoon was the biggest submarine ever built. The long forward deck stretched out from the massive, forty-two-foot-tall conning tower, or sail, to make room for twenty large missile tubes arranged in two rows. The design gave the Typhoon a distinctive profile.

  The unique hull design extended past its metal exterior. Instead of one pressure hull, as in most submarines, the Typhoon had two parallel ones. This arrangement gave the Typhoon a cargo capacity of fifteen thousand tons and room in the starboard hull for a small gym and a sauna. Escape chambers were located above each hull. The submarine's control room and attack center were both in compartments located under the sail.

  The Bear was one of six 941 Typhoons commissioned in the 1980s and introduced into the Northern fleet as part of the first flotilla of nuclear submarines based at Nerpichya. Leonid Brezhnev called the new model "the Typhoon" in a speech, and the name stuck. They were deployed as the Russian Akula class, meaning "shark," which was the name the U.S. Navy used for them.

  Despite its huge size, the Typhoon clipped along at more than twenty-five knots underwater and around half that speed on the surface. It could turn on a ruble, dive to the ocean depths, and stay down a hundred eighty days, accomplishing these maneuvers with one of the quietest power systems ever designed. The sub carried a crew of more than one hundred sixty. Each hull had a reactor plant that powered a steam turbine which produced fifty thousand horsepower to drive the two huge propellers. Two propulsion pods allowed the sub to hover and maneuver.

  The Typhoon subs eventually outlived their military and political usefulness and were taken out of service in the late 1990s. Someone had suggested that they might be converted to carry cargo under the arctic ice by replacing the missile tubes with cargo space. The word went out that the Typhoons were for sale to the highest bidder.

  The captain would have preferred to see the subs scrapped rather than have them turned into undersea cargo scows. What an ignoble end for a fine war machine! In its day, the terrible Typhoon was the subject of books and movies. He had forgotten how many times he had seen The Hunt for Red October.

  Vasilevich had been hired by the Central Design Bureau for Marine Engineering to oversee the conversion. The nuclear missiles had long been removed as part of a joint treaty with the U.S., which had agreed to scrap its own city busters.

  Vasilevich had supervised the removal of the missile silos to create a vast cargo hold. The silos were plugged and modifications were made that would allow easier loading and off-loading of cargo. A crew half the size of the original would deliver the sub to its new owners.

  The captain took another shot of vodka and tucked his flask into a pocket. Before leaving the dock, he couldn't resist turning back for one last look. The submarine had cleared the harbor and was on the open sea headed to its unknown fate. The captain pulled his coat closer around him to ward off the damp breeze coming off the water and headed back to his car.

  Vasilevich had been around too long to accept things at face value. The submarine supposedly had been sold to an international freight company based in Hong Kong, but the details were vague, and the deal was structured like a set of matryoshka nesting dolls.

  The captain had his own theories about the sub's future. An undersea vessel with the long range and huge cargo capacity of the Typhoon would be perfect for smuggling goods of every kind. But Vasilevich kept his thoughts to himself. Modern-day Russia could be dangerous for those who knew too much. What the new owners did after taking possession of the Cold War relic was none of his business. This deal had warning signs posted all over it, but the captain knew it was wise not to ask about such things, and even wiser not to know.

  CHAPTER 2

  Anhui Province

  People's Republic Of China

  The helicopter darted in from nowhere and circled above the village like a noisy dragonfly. Dr. Song Lee looked up from the bandage she was applying to a cut on the young boy's arm and watched as the helicopter hovered and then started its vertical descent to a field at the edge of the settlement.

  The doctor gave the boy a pat on the head and accepted her payment of half a dozen fresh eggs from his grateful parents. She had treated the wound with soap, hot water, and an herbal poultice, and it was healing nicely. With little in the way of medicine and equipment, the young doctor did the best she could with what she had.

  Dr. Lee brought the eggs into the hut and then joined the noisy throng rushing to the field. Excited villagers, including many who had never seen an aircraft up close, completely surrounded the helicopter. Lee saw the government markings on the fuselage and wondered who from the Ministry of Health would be coming to her remote village.

  The helicopter door opened and a short, portly man wearing a business suit and tie stepped out. He took one look at the chattering crowd of villagers and an expression of terror crossed his broad face. He would have retreated into the helicopter if Lee had not eased her way through the mob to greet him.

  "Good afternoon, Dr. Huang," she called out in a strong enough voice to be heard above the babble. "This is quite the surprise."

  The man cast a wary eye over the crowd. "I hadn't expected such a large reception."

  Dr. Lee laughed. "Don't worry, Doctor. Most of these people are related to me." She pointed to a couple whose weathered brown faces were wreathed in smiles. "Those are my parents. As you can see, they're quite harmless."

  She took Dr. Huang by the hand and led him through the swarm of onlookers. The villagers started to follow, but she waved them off and gently explained that she wished to speak to the gentleman alone.

  Back at her hut, she offered her visitor the battered folding chair she sat in to treat patients. Huang mopped the sweat off his bald pate with a handkerchief and scraped the mud from his polished leather shoes. She boiled water for tea on a camp stove and poured a cup for her visitor. Huang took a tentative sip, as if he were unsure it was sanitary.

  Lee sat down in the patched-up old dining-room chair that the patients used. "How do you like my open-air treatment room? I see my more modest patients inside the hut. Farm animals, I treat on their own territory."

  "This is a far cry from Harvard Medical School," Huang said, gazing in fascination at the hut, with its walls of mud and thatched roof.

  "This is a far cry from anywhere," Lee said. "There are some advantages. My patients pay me in vegetables and eggs, so I never go hungry. The traffic is not as bad as in Harvard Square, but it's next to impossible to find a good caramel caffe latte."

  Huang and Lee had met years before at a mixer for Asian students and faculty at Harvard University. He was a visiting professor from China's National Laboratory of Medical Molecular Biology. She was finishing her graduate studies in virology. The young woman's quick wit and intelligence had impressed Huang immediately, and they had continued their friendship after returning to China, where he had risen to a high position in the ministry.

  "It has been a long time since we talked. You must be wondering why I'm here," Huang said.

  Dr. Lee liked and respected Huang, but he had been among a number of highly placed colleagues who were conspicuously absent when she needed someone to speak out on her behalf.

  "Not at all," Lee said with a note of haughtiness. "I expect that you are probably carrying the apology of the authorities for their heavy-handed treatment of me."

  "The state will never admit that it is wrong, Dr. Lee, but you have no idea how many times I have regrett
ed not standing up in your defense."

  "I understand the government's tendency to blame everyone but itself, Dr. Huang, but you have no idea how many times I have regretted that my colleagues failed to come to my defense."

  Huang wrung his hands.

  "I don't blame you," he said. "My silence was a clear act of cowardice. I cannot speak for my colleagues. I can only offer my most humble apologies for not defending you in public. At the same time, I did work behind the scenes to keep you out of jail."

  Dr. Lee resisted the temptation to show the doctor the harsh conditions in the impoverished village. He would soon learn that a jail didn't need bars. She decided that it would be unfair to pick on Huang. Nothing he could have done would have changed the outcome.

  She forced a smile.

  "Your apology is accepted, Dr. Huang. I am truly pleased to see you. Since you do not bear the thanks of a grateful nation for my service, what are you doing here?"

  "I come as the bearer of bad news, I'm afraid." Although they were alone, he lowered his voice. "It has returned," he said in a near whisper.

  Lee felt an icy coldness in the pit of her stomach.

  "Where?" she asked.

  "To the north of here." He rattled off the name of a remote province.

  "Have there been any other outbreaks?"

  "None so far. It is an isolated area, thank goodness."

  "Have you isolated the virus to confirm its identity?"

  He nodded. "It's a coronavirus, as before."

  "When was it first detected? And have you found its source?"

  "About three weeks ago. No source yet. The government immediately isolated the victims and quarantined the villages to prevent its spread. They are taking no chances this time. We are working with the World Health Organization and the U.S. Centers for Disease Control."

  "That's quite different from the last response."