“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 whale. 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 re ally 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 some where 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 data base 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 room mate.”
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. ”
“1 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.”
