Rogue Justice (6 page)

"Roger that,
Polar Seas
. Over."

Then... an unsettling
bang
.

Seconds later, Cassidy and McCabe burst through the wheelhouse door, scrambling to maintain balance in their clumsy survival suits. "What the hell's going on down there?" Zora shouted.

Cassidy coughed hard, caught his breath, and gave her the news. "Overhead cable, Skip. The damn thing snapped, nearly took my head off. And that last wave sheared off the bolts on the galley porthole. Fuckety-fucked-shit-eating-weather."

"Take it easy, man, you'll blow a gasket," Zora shouted. "What else?"

McCabe said, "The anchor tore loose from the roller. We got ourselves two hundred pounds of forged steel jumping around out there like a wounded tiger."

"Jesus, that's all we need. Got any more good news, McCabe?"

"The engine room, Skip, it's flooding. We've been checking it every five minutes like you said, but—"

"You pumped out the bilges?"

"Yeah, it's no use. Water just keeps on coming. It's rockin' so bad down there, I can't find the goddamn leak. "

Zora glanced at the oil pressure and engine temperature gauges. Both were low, heightening the danger of fire or an explosion. Just then, the
Dawn Quixote
ploughed into the base of an immense wave. The force blew out a window panel on the port side, assaulting the crew with shards of glass and raging seawater, the smell of brine overwhelming. The pilothouse was now in shambles. Seconds later, the bilge alarm sounded, extremely loud and menacing.

The bottom of the boat was rapidly filling with water.

"I'll grab some plywood," Cassidy yelled.

Zora yanked him by the arm, her eyes burning from the spray. "Forget it. We go now or we go down." She cranked the helm hard to port, pushed the throttle full ahead.

Lapenda, Cassidy, and McCabe braced themselves against the bulkhead.

Zora took another deep breath, thinking what the others had to be thinking...

The margin of error here is zero
.

She gritted her teeth, gave it heavy throttle, and held her breath. "Sweet Mary, here we go."

Up, up, up the vessel went, drifting broadside as she ascended the immense dark wall, creaking and moaning like some prehistoric monster that had just been awakened from a deep sleep. At the height of the swell, Zora wheeled harder to port and eased off on the throttle. Seconds later, the boat plunged down the backside of the big comber, propellers out of the water and spinning wildly. Then, at the precise moment the bow caught the base of the wave, she completed the impossibly difficult turn. The
Dawn Quixote
was now on the port side of the big ship, shielded from the ear-splitting winds.

Lapenda let loose a wild yelp, knuckle-smacking Cassidy and McCabe. "Halle-fucking-lujah, I don't believe it."

Zora froze them with a look. "Hold the bubbly, boys, now the fun
really
begins."

She slowly pushed the throttle forward again, inching the boat closer to the soaring dark hull of the tanker, one hundred feet of cold steel looming directly in front of her face. Finally, several agonizing minutes later, Zora brought the vessel bow-to-port, midship. The
Dawn Quixote
was now running parallel with the tanker, lying safely off the hull, matching her course and speed. The challenge now became staying close without getting crushed like an ant under a steamroller.

For the next half hour, Zora held her position, the smaller boat laying to the lee of the immense steel hull. It was exhausting just to keep her balance. Pain stabbed at every joint. Then, without so much as a hint of warning, she was blinded by a brilliant flash of light. The sun had broken through heavy layers of steel gray clouds, like a lightning bolt shot from heaven.

Next the sky opened up, the winds subsided, and the giant waves stopped cresting. So sudden was the change that captain and crew looked at one another with blank stares.

Lapenda shook his head in disbelief. "How weird is that? I've never seen waves spread out so fast in my life."

"Ten thousand cocksuckers!" Cassidy shouted.

Lapenda and McCabe looked at him sideways.

"My old man," Cassidy exclaimed. "He'd say that when there was nothing else to say."

Zora flashed a quick smile and continued holding firm to the wheel. Moments later, she backed off the throttle, slowly drifting away from the massive tanker. Before turning for home she instructed the crew to board-up the wheelhouse and inspect for leaks and hazards. They fixed the main leak, found a few other trouble spots and general seepage, but nothing the bilge pumps couldn't handle.

She then checked the radar. The front had turned sharply northeast.

There would be no more killer waves, not this day. Zora had brought boat and crew to the brink and back again. It wasn't pretty, but they were alive. Still, something gnawed at her gut, a sense of foreboding that seeped in like a poison. She'd dodged two bullets in less than six months—first the marauding sharks and now this wretched storm—and didn't bad things always come in threes? Shaking off the feeling, she reached for the mike, so bleary-eyed with exhaustion she could barely speak. "Captain, I owe you one. This is the
Dawn Quixote
. Clear and standing by on 16."

Chapter 5

28 March, 5:50 PM PDT

Kingdom of the Sea Oceanarium,

Seattle, Washington

After a lengthy meeting with Leanne Bucaro and Big Boy Medlin, Katrina checked on the dying whale again. No change. He didn't have long to live, maybe a few days if that. She then returned to Colby Freeman's office. They sat in the same seats as before, only this time there were no pleasantries exchanged.

Katrina spoke first. "All due respect, sir, but your senior vet's a little past his prime. In my opinion, he found what he wanted to find... a viral infection. And the heavy-duty antibiotics he's administering are probably doing more harm than good right now."

"I'm sure that's true," Freeman said, slumping down in his chair. He looked like he'd just been hit with a load of buckshot. "But what I don't understand is how fast all this came on. I mean, Samson seemed perfectly fine up until a few weeks ago."

"I'm afraid he
wasn't
fine. Besides, most sick mammals don't linger for long, not when they lose the will to live. And I suspect that's the case here."

"So how long does he have?"

Katrina told him.

Freeman removed his glasses and began massaging his temples.
"This can't be, doctor. Our entire operation's built around that animal. Hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake here, not to mention Samson's value as a stud. I can't even begin to estimate
that
number. He's fathered six calves already and he's still young. It's not like you just go out and buy another killer whale. They must be bred."

Katrina knew all about so-called breeding program, and it was fatally flawed. Females that typically did not produce calves until age fifteen or so in the wild were forced to conceive much younger than that in captivity. The result was a lot more miscarriages and higher rates of infant mortality. "Look," she said. "Why breed an animal that has demonstrated aggressive behavior, especially when you know its offspring will interact with humans? You're producing more whales, true, but without regard to their health, or the safety of those who work with them. That's exactly what happened in Japan three months ago."

The story had made headlines around the world. A veteran trainer at the KOS park in Osaka had been feeding an orca when the four-ton whale turned on her. She was repeatedly assaulted by the powerful animal, then dragged under water. She drowned before help arrived. The official report, crafted by attorneys and tweaked by publicists, tactfully implied the trainer had been "careless." In fact, three eyewitnesses claimed the whale attacked with aggression and purpose.

Freeman shook his head. "A terrible accident, that's what it was. I can assure you, the safety of our employees and guests is job one here in Seattle. Same goes for all of our parks. And you're completely overlooking the other benefits we offer."

Katrina had heard the arguments before, ad nauseum, about how the parks promote education, conservation, and protection. She didn't buy any of it. KOS was all about the bottom line, and much of what went on here she found morally reprehensible. "Orcas are unbelievably ill-suited to live their lives in captivity," she said. "It strips them of their heart and soul, turns them into nothing more than circus performers. As you well know, sir, these are social animals, acoustic animals, but, if all they get to do is stare at concrete walls all day, why use their echolocation, right? Not when there's no variety, no texture. So what happens? In a year or two they become completely bored, or neurotic, or both. And that makes them dangerous,
extremely
dangerous."

"So you're suggesting we let all the whales go, is that it? Okay, then how do we make people care if they never get to experience these animals up close? It all boils down to education. The more we learn about these animals, the better off they'll be. I know because I see the faces of the kids. They light up like it's Christmas morning when the orcas perform." Freeman paused, took a shallow breath. "And one more thing you need to understand..."

Katrina had heard enough. She stood up, but Freeman grabbed her arm, tugged it gently.

"Hear me out, doctor. Please."

Katrina hesitated, then gave a short nod and sat back down on the edge of the couch.

"Thank you," Freeman said. "Look, as you know, our organization spends well over a million dollars a year rehabilitating and releasing injured and stranded marine mammals. And where do you think that money comes from? Gate receipts! A one-day pass for a family of four is two hundred fifty bucks, plus parking, food, and premiums. Do you really think mom and dad shell out that kind of dough so their kids can look at some ugly old walrus? No! They want them to see dolphins and sharks, but most of all they want them to experience
Samson
."

"I get the attraction, sir, believe me I do. But that doesn't make it right."

"There's something else you need to understand," Freeman shot back. "There are people out there who will stop at nothing to shut us down, people with very liberal agendas. Certain animal rights groups, misguided members of the media, and the like. They'll make Samson their poster boy, use him to bring down an entire industry, everything we've built. And if you think I'm exaggerating here, doctor, I assure you that I am not."

Katrina held his gaze, but said nothing.

"Let me show you what I mean," Freeman added. He stood, retrieved a laptop from his desk, set it on the glass table. After punching in several keys, he turned the computer toward Katrina. The grainy video showed a rag-tag collection of men and women carrying protest signs and chanting,
"Free the Whales!"
"This is an outfit down in Portland, a loony bunch of aging hippies, trust-fund radicals, and Echo Boomers. Call themselves the Orca Crusaders and they're intolerant of anyone who disagrees with their far-left agenda."

Katrina nodded. "I'm aware of who they are."

"Then you know it's impossible to have a reasonable debate with these people, not when their battle cry is
'Attack! Attack! Never Defend!'
Here, take a look at their web site." Freeman punched a few more keys on his computer. The image cut to an emaciated couple wearing black and white wet suits, lying in a partially-filled bathtub, arms chained to the wall. There was a caption scrawled in large blood-red letters at the bottom of the page.

IMAGINE LIVING YOUR LIFE IN A BATHTUB!

"I'm telling you, doctor, these extremists are serious, focused, and quite literally insane—and that makes them very, very dangerous."

"We both know the Orca Crusaders is a fringe group," Katrina said. "Most activists aren't like that, not at all. They care deeply for the animals, only want what's best for them. In any case, what's your point?"

"My point, doctor, is this. We employ a lot of people here. Jobs are on the line,
lots
of jobs." Freeman pressed his case like a seasoned defense attorney seeking acquittal for a guilty client. The extremists, he said, had been camping outside the park in Osaka since the accident, driving down attendance by more than forty percent. He claimed the numbers had also fallen sharply in Seattle, despite aggressive marketing efforts to keep the turnstiles turning, absent the park's star performer. "Look," he added, his lower lip trembling. "If these lunatics show up on
my
door, the game's over. I need to put 8,000 people through these turnstiles every day on average to make budget. And without the whales, there's no way in hell I do that.
The rest of the animals are bit players. So it's not just about the money."