Big Miracle (45 page)

Late Wednesday morning, Alaska time, Carroll called Bonnie to relay the rescue's latest intelligence. The whales were almost free. Bonnie ran excitedly through the corridors of the West Wing to tell Fitzwater the good news. The whales were free. So certain did the news seem, Fitzwater thought the time arrived to cash in on his promise. The amiable press secretary grinned mischievously. “The whales are free,” he exulted with outstretched arms.

The gathered press burst into spontaneous applause. Who says the cynical press are heartless? To those reporters assigned to cover the West Wing, Operation Breakout seemed over. The misconception was short lived. Colonel Carroll called Bonnie a few minutes later to tell her the bad news: The whales were not yet free. Close, but not yet.

“I don't know if you're religious,” he asked her, “but if you are, I suggest you pray to whichever god you believe in.” The next day, Fitzwater commented that humble pie was always his favorite.

Ever since the Russians announced they were on the way, the rescue command discussed what to do if it appeared the whales would survive. Should they tag or follow them, and if so, how? Now that the whales were in the channel, the rescuers had both their first and last opportunity to tag them to monitor their progress. Aside from the staggering problems of electronic tagging, which made tracking all but impossible, Ron Morris and the other rescuers faced an ethical problem even larger.

Was it “right” to tag the whales after all they had gone through just to satisfy the curiosity of an obsessed world? Ron Morris wanted to keep his options open. The two biologists he flew in from Seattle were experts at tagging marine mammals and always carried the tags with them in the event the decision was made to use them. After all that man had done for the whales, it was the least the whales could do in return, wasn't it?

Tagging a marine mammal, particularly one that weighed 50,000 pounds, was no easy task. For the electronic device to work properly it had to be shot deep into the small of the whale's back with a crossbow by an expert archer. But that opportunity never presented itself when the whales were in the holes. When confined to the small holes, the whales had only enough room to expose their heads. But even in the channel, where the whales started to surface normally, the chances were slim that the cumbersome devices could be properly implanted. It was also likely that the procedure could further stress the whales. Unlike radio transmitters attached to land animals, tagging marine mammals was extremely expensive and very unreliable. It was a new, unrefined technology. The waterproof radio transmitters only worked for about a month and required aircraft with special detection equipment to track them. In the ice-choked waters of the Arctic, tags probably wouldn't have stayed on the whales for more than a few days.

But beneath all the rationalizations lay an unspoken explanation for not tagging the whales. The whales' long-term prospects for survival were limited. It was very late in the season to be starting the migratory swim south. The whales were weakened by their ordeal. Ron Morris had to ask how the public would respond if the transmitters were found a week later in the belly of a polar bear? More importantly, what would that mean to NOAA, the agency that stood to gain so much from one of its greatest public achievements? What would happen to that fattened budget allocation about which NOAA bureaucrats were already licking their chops?

If the whales weren't tagged, the world would never know what really happened to them. Since a long and arduous journey lay ahead, maybe it was a good thing no one would find out; just the stuff of which legends are made. It worked. What we didn't know and would never learn didn't spoil a great story.

Together again, the two whales swam toward the open lead some three miles through the channel. As quickly as the whales dashed through the ice littered water, news of the great escape engulfed the press corps. It sounded like the last chance to see the whales before they pounded unencumbered flukes in the open lead en route to California. The whales stopped dead in their tracks as the commotion on the ice mounted. It was as if they suddenly became aware that once they crossed into the open lead, they would leave the blanket which draped them with protection for nearly three weeks.

Ron Morris's concern grew with the number of well-wishers who crowded the ice for their last glimpse of the whales. His first step was the most drastic. Over his walkie-talkie, he instructed everyone to immediately evacuate the area. He ordered all air traffic to stay at least four miles away from the channel and to fly above one thousand feet. As darkness fell, a wave of anticipation swept across Barrow, catching up residents, reporters and rescuers alike. They all might well have seen the last of the whales. Nevertheless, Morris wanted Reshetov to stay overnight just in case.

After almost two sleepless weeks, the anxiety and irritability showed in the glassy eyes of almost everyone. The pressure fell hardest on Ron Morris, the coordinator and the man ultimately responsible for the rescue. When his order to evacuate the ice was openly flaunted, Morris lost his temper. In its final hour, he could do nothing but watch as his authority was yanked from under him. Ron Morris wasn't the only one whose neck was on the chopping block. The same was true for us. Reporters came to Barrow to record the rescue. As it reached its climax, so too did our coverage. The United States Secret Service could not have kept us off the ice, let alone Ron Morris. Nevertheless, he fruitlessly sought to rein us in. He was at the end of his rope, his exasperation apparent to everyone.

Morris called for reinforcements. Mayor George Ahmaogak, back in town for Operation Breakout's conclusion, agreed to a special deployment of the North Slope borough policemen to help National Guard units guard the common ice entry points. But it would take two divisions to properly patrol fifty miles of frozen coastline and interdict the dozens of ski machines and automobiles intent on running the blockade.

Morris's edict extended to the rescuers themselves. But even his own underlings ignored him. Cindy, Geoff, and Craig had not worked so hard for so long to leave the whales at the rescue's critical last juncture. For two weeks they had risked their lives to help the stranded creatures, and they certainly weren't about to stop now. They were not out to humiliate Morris. All they cared about was the whales. The trapped animals would never have made it this far without their help. Greg and Rick with their deicers, Arnold Brower Jr. and a skeleton crew of Eskimos, joined them to keep the last few holes ice-free in case the whales were forced back by a frozen channel.

That night, around 10
P.M.
, Ron Morris was socializing at Media Central, the lobby of the Top of the World Hotel, when he learned the extent of his own emasculation. He overheard someone mention that Cindy and “the others” were still out with the whales. The lateness of the hour combined with exhaustion and one too many highballs triggered the penultimate tantrum. He stormed out of the Top of the World and into his running truck, crimson with fury. Gunning the sensitive engine, he drove to his nearest check point. En route, he shouted invectives over his radio to everyone assigned to listen.

Top members of the command monitored Operation Breakout's frequency on a twenty-four-hour basis, but anyone working was supposed to have their radios turned on. Geoff, Craig, Arnold, and Cindy were no exception. Their radios were in perfect working order. They worked, perhaps too well.

“Get those damned Eskimos off the ice,” Morris shouted as he raced onto the darkened ice. Everyone heard it. Everywhere, the reaction was the same. The SAR hangar command center fell dead silent. Randy Crosby searched for a face that could tell him he didn't hear what he knew he had. Instead, his eyes met Tom Carroll's. The colonel shrugged his shoulders, and lowered his head in embarrassed disbelief. It was the Eskimos for whom these two white men felt the deepest regret.

There were only about twenty people authorized to use the frequencies assigned to Operation Breakout. But almost everyone listened. Curious locals and news hungry reporters tuned in around the clock to follow the latest developments. To both rescuers and reporters, the two-way radio was an indispensable tool. For many of the Operation's key personnel, it was a lifeline. Malik, for instance, didn't have a telephone. The radio was the only way for the command to reach him. He was sitting alone after another long day quietly drinking a cup of green tea at Sam & Lee's Chinese restaurant on Nachick Street. He nearly choked when he heard the defamation blurted out over his radio.

Malik was stunned. He had argued for cooperating with the charade. He convinced others to approve rescuing the whales rather than harvesting them. He argued that Barrow stood to gain by helping free the whales. Morris's eight unforgettable words ran the risk of undoing everything Malik had worked for. Malik didn't know how to express his frustration, but he was hardly so fragile as to be undone by intemperate words. Malik took a deep drag from his stale cigarette and turned his radio off.

On the ice, it was Arnold Brower Jr., the probable target of the unfortunate slur, who took to calming Geoff, Craig, and Cindy. His reaction was the same as Malik's. Did non-Inuit's really think that Eskimo's were so brittle as to be broken by some stupid sentence? The anger was less toward Morris than the condescending and patronizing reaction of the self designated sensitive types.

Just how weak did the white man think Inupiats were, Brower wondered. He calmly walked over to Geoff and Craig and turned off their radios. Then he pulled his own walkie-talkie out of his parka pocket, depressed the transmit button to respond to Morris: “It's out of your hands now.” Without waiting for a response, he clicked off the radio. Getting back to work, Arnold wouldn't let the others even discuss the thoughtless remark.

They had a job to do, he reminded them. If he could hum along to the tune of the indignity, then so could they. The three worked silently on, none discussing what they all were thinking. A faint beam of light caught their attention. The closer it got, the angrier they became. They were watching the headlights of a vehicle driven by the man who had just offended them so deeply, a man who at that moment had no idea of the extent of damage he inflicted upon himself. The beam caught the four transfixed figures standing against a backdrop of the brightly lit deck of
Vladimir Arseniev
. Morris jumped out and slammed the door behind him. As he walked toward the defiant rescuers he could make out their expressions of feigned disinterest.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he shouted. “I said no one is to be on this ice.” He ducked his head slightly before realizing his vulnerability.

“You just don't get it, do you?” Arnold asked Morris, in an earnest attempt to embarrass him. Craig and Geoff pretended to ignore the presence of the man who was clouding them in such shame. Cindy fought to contain her tears. By betraying the others, Morris had betrayed her. Knowing he had lost Brower, Morris turned to Craig to see if the biologist would still obey him. Nothing aggravated his insecurity more than being ignored. It wasn't revenge that dictated Craig's reaction. It was fear, fear that he couldn't control his anger, that he would lash out with his fists at his small, rakishly bearded adversary. His emotion would have propelled a blow with potentially dangerous force. He had to restrain himself, but it wasn't easy. Morris kept pushing, looking for the reaction that would vindicate his own outburst.

“It's them, isn't it,” Morris asked, pointing an accusing finger at the stoic figure of Arnold Brower. “That's all you care about.” Morris had stumbled upon a theme he was determined to pound home as best he could.

“That's the only reason you're here. It's all this ‘Inupiat power' crap, isn't it? ‘Hooray for the Eskimo' You can admit it. All you care about is making sure they look good,” he shouted, his finger still pointing at Brower. “You've been on their side since the beginning.”

“Shut up,” Cindy shrieked. Cindy thought of Geoff, Craig, and Arnold as the indispensable triad that kept the whales alive. More than that, what she refrained from saying, she didn't refrain from thinking. They were heroes and she loved them. Cindy was appalled by Morris's attacks.

Even after all the anger Morris aroused in him, Craig put aside his anger when he saw Cindy in tears. First it was Arnold calming Craig and Geoff who were furious at the slight of their Eskimo friend. Now Craig did the same for Cindy who was devastated by Morris's confrontation. Using an English translation of an Eskimo expression Cindy didn't understand at first, Arnold instructed the two of them to “feel light.” He wanted them to release a mystical weight that held down the human spirit. Cindy's empathy released an energy of warmth connecting the four together as one. Their unity had been immeasurably enhanced by the adversity thrust upon them. In the minds of those he thought he ruled, Ron Morris no longer existed.

Did they sense the human drama unfolding around them? The whales pushed on. Suddenly, they no longer seemed subject to the limitations of their own species. The whales followed the powerful beam of light from the deck of the Soviet icebreaker. To the astonishment of the whale biologists, the animals swam through water littered with jagged chunks of ice. Remaining doubts about the whales' willingness to take risks to achieve their freedom were shattered.

On Thursday morning, the whales were paying the price for their unexpected boldness. Arnold Brower was the first to discover them gasping for breath in a small hole kept open by butting their heads through the ice debris. They were bleeding. The ocean water steamed from the pools of warm blood gushing in it. They could barely manage to push their red, battered snouts through the ice that had formed overnight. The skin around their sensitive breathing holes was tender and sore. The whales seemed so close to freedom just hours before. Now they listed on the verge of death.