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  He formed a conglomerate of sponsors and used their economic clout to bring a major race to the States. Race promoters were eager for the opportunity to tap into the vast potential of the American audience, and before long the first SoCal Grand Prix had become a reality.

  NUMA director Admiral James Sandecker grumbled when Austin told him he wanted to work around assignments, whenever possible, so he could race in the qualifying runs. Sandecker said he was worried about Austin being injured in a race. Austin had politely pointed out that for all its dangers, racing was a canoe paddle compared with the hazardous jobs Sandecker assigned him to as leader of NUMA’s Special Assignments Team. As a trump card he played on the admiral’s fierce patriotic pride. Sandecker gave Austin his blessing and said it was about time the United States showed the rest of the world that they could compete with the best of them.

  Austin returned to the party after talking to his father. He quickly tired of the false hilarity and was happy to be invited aboard the Nepenthe to meet Gloria Ekhart, who wanted to thank him. The actress’s mature warmth and beauty enchanted him. When they shook hands she didn’t let go right away. They talked awhile and maintained eye contact that sent messages of mutual interest. Austin briefly entertained the fantasy of having a fling with someone he’d idolized on the big and little screens. It was not to be. Apologizing profusely, Ekhart was dragged off by the demands of her children.

  Figuring it just wasn’t his day Austin went back to the hotel and answered calls from NUMA colleagues and friends. He had dinner sent up and enjoyed filet mignon as he watched TV reruns of the race. The stations were running slow-motion replays again and again. Austin was more interested in the fate of the dead whales. One reporter mentioned that three whales were going to be examined at the naval station. Austin was curious as well as bored. From what he had heard and seen the whales didn’t have a mark to indicate what killed them. The incompleteness of the situation went beyond the loss of his father’s boat. It rankled his sense of orderliness.

  The autopsy seemed to be winding down. Austin asked the seaman to take his NUMA business card to someone in charge. The seaman returned with a sandy-haired man in his forties who stripped off his blood-soaked foul-weather gear and gloves but kept his surgical mask on.

  “Mr. Austin,” he said, extending his hand. “Jason Witherell, EPA. Pleasure to meet you. Glad to have NUMA interested. We might need to utilize your resources.”

  “We’re always ready to help the EPA,” Austin said. “My interest is more personal than official. I was in the race today when the whales made their appearance.”

  “I saw the news clips.” Witherell laughed. “That was one hell of a maneuver you pulled off. Sorry about your boat.”

  “Thanks. I was wondering, have you come up with a cause of death?”

  “Sure, they died of DORK.”

  “Pardon?”

  Witherell grinned. “DOn’t Really Know. DORK.”

  Austin smiled patiently. He knew pathologists sometimes cultivated a zany sense of humor to help maintain their sanity.

  “Any guesses?”

  Witherell said, “As far as we can determine for now, there was no evidence of trauma or toxin, and we’ve tested tissue for virus. Negative so far. One whale had become entangled in a monofilament fishing net, but it doesn’t seem to have prevented the animal from eating or harmed it in any fatal way.”

  “So at least for now you don’t have a clue how they died?”

  “Oh sure, we know how. They suffocated. There was heavy lung damage that caused pneumonia. The lungs seem to have been damaged by intense heat.”

  “Heat? I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “I’ll put it this way. They were partially cooked internally, and their skin was blistered as well.”

  “What could have done something like that?”

  “DORK,” Witherell said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Austin pondered the answer. “If you don’t know what, how about when?”

  “That’s tough to pinpoint. The initial exposure might not have been instantly fatal. The mammals could have become ill several days before their deaths but continued to make their way along the coast. The little ones would have been the sickest, and maybe the adults waited for them. You’d have to factor in the time it would take for the body to decompose and for the putrefaction gases to bloat them up where they’d surface in the race course.”

  “So if you backtracked you might be able to determine where they were when they died. You’d have to consider traveling and feeding time and currents of course.” He shook his head. “Too bad the whales can’t tell us where they’ve been.”

  Witherell chuckled. “Who says they can’t tell us? C’mon, I’ll show you.”

  The EPA man led the way past the flatbeds around the puddles of bloody water being hosed into drains. The smell was like a sledgehammer this close to the dead whales, but Witherell didn’t seem to be bothered.

  “This is the male,” he said, stopping by the first carcass. “You can see why they’re called gray whales. The skin is naturally dark, but it’s blotched from barnacle scars and whale lice. He’s a bit chopped up now. When we first measured him he was forty-one feet.” They walked to the next flatbed which held a miniaturized version of the first whale. “This calf is also a male, born just a few months ago. There were other calves so we don’t know if it belonged to the female.” They had paused before the last flatbed. “She’s bigger than the male. Like the others, she’s got no outward signs of any bruise or laceration that might be fatal. This is what might interest you.” He borrowed a knife from a colleague, climbed onto the flatbed, and bent over the whale’s fin. After a minute he hopped down and handed Austin a flat square packet of metal and plastic.

  “A transponder?” Austin said.

  Witherell pointed up. “This old girl’s every move was being tracked by satellite. Find out who’s been keeping an eye on her, and that person should be able to tell you where she has been and when.”

  “You’re a genius, Mr. Witherell.”

  “Only a humble government servant like you, trying to do my job.” He hefted the transponder. “I’ll have to hold on to this thing, but there’s a number to call on the back.”

  Austin jotted the number down in a small notebook and thanked the pathologist for his help.

  As Witherell escorted him back to the door, Austin said, “By the way, how’d you choose these particular whales?”

  “It was done pretty much by chance. I asked the Navy to cut three representative animals out of the batch. I guess there was somebody on board who actually listened to my request.”

  “Do you think you would have been more likely to find a cause of death if you had a chance to autopsy the other corpses?”

  “I doubt it,” Witherell said flatly. “What killed these whales killed the others that were towed away. It’s a bit late for that anyhow. From what I understand, after the Navy got through with them there wasn’t enough left of the other animals for a plate of sushi.”

  More autopsy humor. Tossing his surgical mask into a barrel, Austin took a last look at the butchered carcasses that were the sad remains of once magnificent sea creatures. He thanked Witherell and Seaman Cummings and stepped out into the fresh night air. He gulped in several deep breaths, as if he could purge his memory as well as his lungs of the rank smell. Across the harbor sparkled the city-like lights of an aircraft carrier. He drove back to the hotel and walked quickly through the lobby, but not fast enough to avoid a few nose wrinkles from the staff and guests who had picked up the stench of death.

  Back in his room Austin threw the khakis and dress shirt he’d been wearing into a laundry bag. He took a long, hot shower, shampooed twice, and changed into slacks and a golf shirt. Then he settled into a comfortable chair, picked up the phone, and dialed the number marked on the transponder. As he expected he was connected to voice mail. The government wouldn’t pay someone to sit around and wait for news of a meandering wh
ale. It might take days before someone answered his call. He left no message and instead called a twenty-four-hour desk at NUMA headquarters outside Washington and put in a request. The phone rang about a half hour later.

  “Mr. Austin? My name is Wanda Perelli. I’m with the Interior Department. Someone called from NUMA and said you were looking for me. They said it was important.”

  “Yes, thanks for calling. I’m sorry to bother you at home. You heard about the gray whales off California?”

  “Yes. I was wondering how you got my number.”

  “It was on a transponder attached to the fin of a female whale.”

  “Oh dear, that was Daisy. It was her pod. I’ve been tracking her for three years. She’s almost like a relative.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. There were fourteen whales in all. She was one of those picked at random.”

  She sighed loudly. “This is terrible news. We’ve tried so hard to protect the grays, and they’ve really been making a comeback. We’re waiting for a forensics report on cause of death.”

  “I came from the necropsy a little while ago. Apparently there was no sign of a virus or pollutant. The whales died from lung damage caused by intense heat. Have you ever heard of such a thing happening?”

  “No. Never. Does anyone know the source of this heat?”

  “Not yet. I thought it might shed some light on the incident if we knew where the whales had been recently.”

  “I’m pretty familiar with Daisy’s pod. Their migration is really quite remarkable. They make a ten-thousand-mile round trip. They feed all summer in the Arctic seas, then head south along the Pacific Coast to the breeding lagoons in Baja California, Mexico. They start moving around November and December and get there early the following year. The pregnant females lead the way, then the mature adults and the juveniles, in single file or in pairs. They go pretty close to the shoreline. They start back north in March. The whales with calves may wait until April. Again they follow the coastline closely on the way north. They go real slow, about ten miles an hour on the average.”

  “There was a briefing before the boat race. We were told to keep a watch for whales, but the race had been scheduled after the last pod had passed. As far as anyone knew there were no whales in the vicinity.”

  “The only thing I can think of is that they were stragglers. Maybe one of the calves became sick and they dallied somewhere until the calves were well.”

  “The pathologist had the same theory. Would you have kept track of their migration?”

  “Yes. Do you have access to a laptop computer?”

  “Wouldn’t be without it.”

  “Good. Give me your e-mail address. I’ll tap into the database and get the information to you at light speed.”

  “Thank you. Can’t ask for better service than that.”

  “You might get the chance to pay me back if we call on NUMA for help.”

  “Call me personally, and we’ll do what we can.”

  “Thanks. Oh, God, I still can’t believe it about Daisy.”

  Austin hung up, opened his IBM laptop computer, and hooked it up to the telephone. After fifteen minutes passed he opened his e-mail file. A map of the western U.S., Canada, and Alaska appeared. A dotted line ran down from the Chukchi Sea, through the Bering Sea, then along the coast of North America to the tip of the fingerlike Baja Peninsula. The map was labeled “General Whale Migration Route.”

  Attached to the map was specific information on actual pods. Austin scrolled down until he found the file name “Daisy.” The file linked to a map showing the exact route of the Daisy pod. The pod had made steady progress, then had stopped off the Baja coast south of Tijuana. After a pause they started north again, moving slower than before. At one point they looped around as if they were disoriented. He followed their tortuous path until it stopped off San Diego.

  Austin exited the whale file and called up several other sites. After a few minutes he sat back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. The whales were migrating normally until they reached a certain area. Then something changed. He was pondering what he should do when he heard somebody at the door. Zavala.

  “Home from your date so soon?”

  “Yeah, I told her I had to get back to check on my sick roommate.”

  Austin looked alarmed. “You didn’t bump your head today, did you?”

  “I must admit going under a boat was a unique experience. I’ll never look at the nautical rules of the road in the same light again.”

  “Well, for your information I feel fine, so you can go back and pick up where you left off.”

  Zavala flopped down onto the sofa. “You know something, Kurt, there are times when one has to show some restraint.”

  Austin wondered if a Zavala clone, stripped of its sexual drive, had walked into the room. “I agree wholeheartedly,” he said with caution. “Now tell me the real reason.”

  “She broke Zavala’s rule. I don’t go out with married women.”

  “How did you know she was married?”

  “Her husband told me so.”

  “Oh. Was he big?”

  “Slightly smaller than a cement truck.”

  “Well, restraint was an especially wise decision in that case.”

  Joe nodded, unconvinced. “God, she was beautiful,” he said with a sigh. “What have you been up to?”

  “I went to a whale necropsy.”

  “And I thought I was having a bad time. There must be more fun things to do in San Diego.”

  “I’m sure there are, but I was curious about what killed those whales.”

  “Did they find a cause?”

  “Their lungs were damaged by heat, and they died of pneumonia.”

  “Strange,” Zavala said.

  “I thought so. Look at this map on my computer. I got it through a NOAA weather satellite. It shows the water temperature of the ocean. See that little red bump in the water off the Baja? Sudden temperature change.”

  “You’re saying our whales became sick shortly after they passed this area of warm temperature?”

  “Maybe. But I’m more interested in what caused that change.”

  “I think you’re about to suggest a trip south of the border.”

  “I could use an interpreter. Paul and Gamay won’t be back in Arlington for a few days.”

  “No problemo. It’s important for me to stay in touch with my Mexican roots.”

  He got up and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Austin said.

  Zavala looked at the clock. “The night is young. Two devilishly handsome and eligible bachelors sitting in their room talking about dead whales and hot water. Not healthy, amigo. I saw a beautiful woman in the lounge as I passed by. She looks as if she could use company.”

  “I thought you were giving women up.”

  “A momentary delusion caused by my injuries. Besides, I think she had a friend,” Zavala said. “And there’s a good jazz band playing in the lounge.”

  Austin’s appreciation for cool jazz came right after his love of beautiful women and fast boats. A tequila and lime juice nightcap would taste mighty good. To say nothing about female companionship. He grinned and closed the cover on his laptop computer.

  5

  “HOW DO YOU LIKE your meal?” Dr. Ramirez inquired.

  Paul and Gamay exchanged glances. “It’s wonderful,” Gamay said. Indeed it was, she thought, surprisingly so. She would have to tell St. Julien Perlmutter, naval historian and gourmet, about this exotic dinner. The thin, tender slices of white meat were spiced with local herbs, accompanied by rich, dark gravy and fresh sweet potatoes. Dinner was served with a respectable Chilean white wine. Oh God! She’d been in the jungle so long she had developed a taste for roast tapir. Next she’d be craving howler monkeys.

  Paul displayed his Yankee bluntness. “I agree. It’s terrific. We’d never guess it would be so good after seeing the men carry that odd-looking beast in from the forest.”
r />   Ramirez put his fork down, a puzzled expression on his face. “Beast? The forest—I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “The tapir,” Gamay volunteered hesitantly as she glanced down at her plate.

  Ramirez looked stunned, then his mustache twitched and he broke out into a deep laugh. He brought his napkin to his lips. “You thought . . . ” He started to laugh again. “Excuse me. I am a poor host. Amusing myself at the expense of my guests. But I must assure you that this is not the animal you saw being trundled in from the hunt. I bought a pig from a neighboring village for this feast.” He made a sour face. “Tapir. I can’t imagine what it is like. Perhaps it’s quite tasty.”

  Ramirez poured more wine and raised his glass in a toast. “I will miss you, my friends. Your company has been most enjoyable, and we have had many delightful conversations around this table.”

  “Thank you,” Gamay said. “It has been a fascinating experience for us. Today may have been our most exciting day, however.”

  “Ah, yes, the poor Indian.”

  Paul shook his head. “I can’t get over the sophisticated nature of all those gadgets he had with him.”

  Ramirez spread his palms apart. “The People of the Mists are a mysterious tribe.”

  “What do you know about them?” Gamay said, her scientific curiosity aroused. Before she attained a doctorate in marine biology from Scripps Institute of Oceanography, she had been a marine archaeologist and had taken many anthropology courses during her studies at the University of North Carolina.

  Ramirez took a sip of wine, nodded with appreciation, and stared off into space as he ordered his thoughts. The buzzing and chirping of millions of tropical insects came through the screened windows, and the concert provided a fitting background for tales of the rain forest.

  After a moment’s reflection, he said, “First you must realize as we sit here in this island of civilization, with our propane gas stove and our electrical generator, that only a few years ago we would have been dead within minutes had we strayed into this part of the forest. Fierce Indians inhabited the area. Head-hunting and cannibalism were commonplace. Anyone, whether you were a missionary bringing in the word of God or a hunter searching for animal skins, was regarded as an intruder who must be killed. Only recently have these people been domesticated.”