Exodus 2022 (23 page)

Beck said nothing.

“Know how people figured that out?” Ring asked, as if he were revealing a fascinating bit of trivia at a cocktail party. “How they know transients won’t eat fish?”

Beck waited. Too benumbed by his headache to think of a reply.

“It’s unbelievable, really. Yet another example of the depth and breadth of human stupidity and arrogance.”

Beck said nothing. He knew that there was no use rushing the genius when he was in storytelling mode. Anyone else delaying Beck with such casual blather might face bodily harm. But Beck
needed
Ring, depended on him to solve problems others couldn’t manage. Ring knew this, and, consequently, feared Beck not at all.

“Back in the sixties,” said Ring, “when orcas were being nabbed for display in marine parks, this one group of captured whales refused to eat. Flat-out refused. The moron zookeepers kept giving these whales fish. For seventy-eight straight days, it was nothing but fish on the menu. Fat, juicy salmon. Tuna. Herring. Cod. You name it. They tried everything. And you know what?”

Beck shook his head.

“The whales wouldn’t touch any of it. Wouldn’t take a single bite. Finally, the orcas in this group start dying of starvation, and it dawns on someone that maybe, just maybe, these whales are different from the others.”

Beck sighed. “So Dieturlund studied transient orcas, and transient orcas only eat mammals. Who gives a shit? What does this have to do with Stanton?”

“Everything,” said Ring, as if the linkage was perfectly obvious.”

Beck squeezed the flesh between his eyes as his headache resumed with new ferocity.

“Our divers,” said Beck, “and the gillnetter dude from Yakutat, and Stanton all hallucinated about a little girl named Lorna Gwin.” He pointed at the boat. “What’s the connection?”

“Ah,” said Ring. “This is where it gets really interesting.”

He turned back to his computer and opened a folder. “I’ve read Dieturlund’s journals. They’re all online. Plus he published scores of scientific papers. Absolutely fascinating.”

“I’m sure,” said Beck.

“Dieturlund wrote extensively about individual transient whales,” said Ring. “But one particular whale got more ink than all the rest combined.”

Ring clicked on a thumbnail image and the sleek black-and-white form of a single orca whale filled the screen.

“This is T-197,” said Ring, “Dieturlund’s favorite subject…and the sole focus of his final white papers.”

“T-197?”

“‘T’ is for ‘transient,’” said Ring. “Scientists label the resident clans—the fish eaters—alphabetically. ‘A’ clan is the largest in British Columbia. And then there are pods within the clans. A1 is the best-known killer whale family in all of Canada, probably. ‘J’ pod lives around the San Juans, and is responsible for an entire whale watching industry in its own right. But ‘T’ is reserved for transients—the hunters of mammals. According to Dieturlund, he had eleven separate up-close encounters with T-197 in the wild.”

“What kind of encounters?” Beck asked. Despite himself, he was intrigued once again.

“Actual physical contact. Occasions when T-197 would purposely seek him out, come alongside his kayak or Zodiac and nuzzle against him. On three occasions Dieturlund swam with T-197 and her pod.

“Dieturlund was a by-the-book researcher, not prone to anthropomorphism or to giving his subjects names. But he named this whale. He called her ‘Mia’”.

Beck squinted at him. “Mia.”

“And it seems that while Dieturlund and crew were studying T-197—or Mia—she and a male orca from a different pod got pregnant. Had a baby.”

Beck leaned back in his chair. 

“Officially,” said Ring, “the baby was called T-204. But Dieturlund gave the baby another name, as well.”

A shiver traveled the length of Beck’s spine. “Lorna Gwin?”

“Precisely. He named Mia’s baby after his boat.” Ring shrugged. “Not the most creative choice in the world. But Dieturlund’s a scientist, after all, not a poet.”

Beck looked at the screen, which now displayed pictures of T-197 and T-204, taken from above. Probably from a helicopter. The baby was about one-fourth the size of her mother and appeared glued to the larger whale’s side.

Mother and child. Mia and Lorna Gwin. Together. Swimming in calm turquoise water.

“When was this? When was the baby born?”

“Five years ago last April,” said Ring. “These were taken near the mouth of Glacier Bay.”

Beck thought about it. “Five years? So why are our divers, and the gillnetter, and Stanton hearing from this whale now—if that’s really what’s happening? Why the crazy hallucinations
now
?”

“I have a theory,” said Ring. “But before we examine what happened to our divers and the others, it’s important to know the rest of Will Dieturlund’s story.”

“The CliffsNotes version is fine,” said Beck. “I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

Ring nodded, “The fact is, Professor Dieturlund started to lose it. His methodical, dispassionate observations on
Orcinus
orca
became infused with emotion. His careful white papers on cetacean behavior became more emotional. He began making fanciful claims.”

“What kinds of claims?”

“Extravagant proclamations concerning cetacean intelligence and speech. Radical notions having to do with telepathy.

“Other scientists ridiculed Dieturlund’s findings. Colleagues shunned him. Grant money evaporated. And the students who had always lined up to work with him went elsewhere. He was forced to sell his boat. His health suffered.

“He continued to write, however, generating white papers that read more like science fiction than critical fact-based analysis.

“He published treatises on the rich inner lives of whales and their astonishing cognitive and psychic abilities. There’s a lengthy paper about a place Dieturlund calls ‘The Dream Realm,’ a region of ocean where whales of different species focus their collective mental energy to generate fields, or, distortions for purposes unknown.”

Beck raised an eyebrow.

“That paper was the final nail in the coffin for the professor’s scientific career,” said Ring. “He became a laughingstock.

“During this phase, as he was losing everything, he began to suffer horrific nightmares and ultimately, hallucinations.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Beck.

“Yes, although Dieturlund’s hallucinations never involved a little girl. His were more general, about death and loss and grief. It was about this time that Dieturlund’s wife left him.”

“Can’t imagine why,” said Beck. “So what happened? Why did he wig out?”

Ring leaned back. “This is where I’m guessing,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

“I believe that T-197, or, Mia, was reaching out to Dieturlund— communicating with him—and he didn’t even know it. Or maybe deep down he did know it. But as a scientist, he couldn’t acknowledge it outright.”

“In other words?”

“In other words, the whale was talking to Dieturlund, but her communication manifested itself as changes in Dieturlund’s mental state: new, colorful writing. Vivid, fantastical dreams.”

Beck was struggling to follow. “So this whale—T-197—is filling Dieturlund’s head with information, talking to him, only he doesn’t even realize it. Just thinks he’s losing his mind?”

“Right. And in the process, he loses his boat and his career. And Mia and Lorna Gwin and the rest of the pod go their merry way.”

Beck scratched his head. “What? Then what? Nothing for five years and then Mia decides to pop out of obscurity and start mind-fucking more humans? Is she sadistic?”

“No. If I’m right, there was a pivotal event.”

“What event?”

“Lorna Gwin—T-204—died.”

Beck said nothing.

“There are other researchers tracking this pod. T-204 was reported missing two months ago.”

“How’d she die?”

“Unknown.”

“So what are you saying? An angry mother—enraged over the death of her child—blames people and seeks out our divers so she can touch them and blow the circuits in their brains? Is this about revenge?”

Ring turned to his computer and called up images of the strange, delicate, veil-like chambers.

“I might think that,” said Ring. “Were it not for these.” He enlarged the chamber images from Stanton’s thoughts on-screen.

“No. It’s not revenge. Mia has an agenda. And I’m convinced it has to do with these…structures.”

Beck put his head in his hands. “But shit, Ring. If it’s really about the chambers or tunnels—why did all these guys hallucinate about a kid?”

“Because. The communication isn’t direct. It’s between different species. This isn’t English to French. Or even English to ancient Chinese. This is whale to human. And—in this case at least—the communication is occurring in images and feelings.”

“But—”

“And because the dead baby is the overriding thought in this creature’s mind, when she reaches out, that is what comes through first. And loudest. We need to look past that.

“Mia is reaching out to people because of
these
.” Ring pointed at the chamber hovering on screen. “Structures that we know really exist.”

“Collins told me that Stanton’s thought-capture hardware is disabled,” said Beck.

“Yes, but his final thought capture is still compiling. More will be revealed. Soon.”

Beck looked at the monitors. “What will it show?”

Ring shrugged. “It’s an immense amount of data. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“When will it be ready?”

“Five hours. Maybe a little less. In the meantime, there’s someone we should see.” 

He brought up the picture of Dieturlund once more.

“He’s alive? I assumed—”

“He’s alive. In an assisted-living facility in Bellingham. I called…pretended I was a nephew. The receptionist wouldn’t say much but told me he slips between periods of clarity and confusion.”

Beck appeared skeptical. “Could be a waste of time.”

“Possible. Or it could reveal a great many things.” Ring looked at Beck. “Mr. Collins is tracking Stanton and the girl. And it will be hours before the final thought capture is in. It’s a short flight to Bellingham, and it could be well worth our while.”

Beck nodded. Sighed. “Let’s go see him.”

JOE AND ELLA STOOD
in the sunshine on the massive flight deck of the USS
Nimitz
at the end of a long row of gleaming, perfectly aligned F/A-18F Super Hornet fighter jets. Hordes of T-shirt-and-shorts-wearing tourists mingled with crisply attired Navy personnel.

The warm summer air smelled of sweat and sunscreen, hot aircraft aluminum and jet fuel, and every surface shone, from the fighter-jet cockpits to the shoes on the smartly dressed sailors.

At one end of the thousand-foot-long flight deck, a crowd had gathered to hear the prepared remarks of Rear Admiral Wesley Houghton. The presentation was nearly through.

Houghton stood behind a lectern, praising the organizers of Seafair and the people of Seattle for their hospitality.

The audience applauded. The admiral offered to stay and chat one-on-one. Most of the crowd dispersed, but thirty or so people queued up, including Joe and Ella.

It took a while.

Houghton was a war hero. A fighter pilot and decorated veteran of conflicts stretching back to Desert Storm. Several people wanted to reminisce and swap war stories.

Other tourists joined the line, and Joe let them go ahead. He was determined to go last. What he had to say to the admiral needed to be said quietly. Privately.

By the time it was his turn, the folding chairs and lectern had been put away and a first-class petty officer was coiling the velvet ropes surrounding the portable stage. Houghton’s handlers were looking at their watches.

For a moment, Joe feared the admiral might just call it a day. But then the last of the other visitors walked off and the admiral turned toward them. Ella smiled, and Joe saw his chance.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” he said. “We enjoyed your remarks.”

“Well, I appreciate you folks coming out,” said the admiral, barely taking his eyes off Ella. “And showing your support for the military.”

“My name is Joe Stanton. And this is my friend Ella Tollefson. We live in Bremerton.”

The admiral nodded, taking in the young man’s long hair, beard, and earring while maintaining his warm smile. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.

“I’m an Episcopal priest,” said Joe, wishing now that he had shaved, removed his earring, and worn a long-sleeved shirt to cover his tattoos. “And I’m proud to say that we have quite a few Navy families in our congregation.”

The admiral gave Joe another look. “I’m glad to hear that. A strong faith community can make all the difference to a military family. All the difference. I commend you for your work.”

“It’s a privilege,” said Joe. 

The conversation stalled.

Joe wasn’t sure how to proceed, and it was clear from the admiral’s body language that he was about to exit the scene. The handlers were moving in.

Ella smiled her warmest, sweetest smile and said, “There was one thing we wanted to ask you about, sir. If you can spare another moment.”

“Happy to. What’s on your mind?”

Joe met the admiral’s eyes. Coughed. “Well, sir. In addition to the Navy families I mentioned, we also have a number of other people in our congregation, with different interests.”

The admiral nodded. “I see.”

“And,” said Joe, “we actually have a pretty strong environmental contingent within our church, with a keen interest in marine mammal protection.”

Houghton never dropped his pleasant demeanor, never lost his warm PR smile. But one of the admiral’s escort, a burly lieutenant in perfect, crisp whites, was watching them now.

Joe said, “Living in the Puget Sound like we do—such an incredible marine environment—there’s a strong desire to protect the rich habitat.”

“Well, that is certainly a goal we share,” said the admiral.

“And there’s growing concern that some of the Navy’s sonar practices are harming marine mammals. Particularly whales.”

The admiral relaxed. This was an issue he knew inside out. One he’d been asked about at countless press conferences. He had his boilerplate answer ready.