Rogue Justice (3 page)

Then more trouble... in the shape of a fourth pirate. He seemed to come from nowhere. This one looked like a madman, with maniacal eyes, the eyes of a dictator. He walked to within inches of Jia-li, stared at her menacingly, then, in one violent motion, ripped off her cotton tank top. She felt violated and vulnerable, fought to cover her bare breasts. But the hulking bruiser only tightened his vice-like grip, the inside of his elbow nearly crushing her windpipe.

Finally, overtaken by exhaustion and fear, Jia-li slumped to her knees. She had one final, coherent thought before darkness closed in.

Queen Anne's Revenge was the name of Blackbeard's boat.

Chapter 2

28 March, 3:20 PM PDT

Kingdom of the Sea Oceanarium,

Seattle, Washington

Twenty miles southeast of the
Lois Lane's
position, a very different tempest was brewing, and the anxious-looking man staring blankly out the smoked-glass window felt dangerously close to its epicenter. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other, squeezing the life out of a rubber exercise ball. His eyes were fixed on the dark, empty stadium below.

The office was large with stacks of folders neatly piled on the floor, clear evidence of a man juggling many things at once but staying one step ahead of the fray. He was average height, early forties, with short brown hair that matched the color of his wardrobe: brown suit, brown tie, brown shoes, brown everything. No one, in other words, would mistake him for a matinee idol.

In the world of theme parks, however, Colby Freeman was a marquee name.

Since taking over Kingdom of the Sea's flagship operation in Seattle five years earlier, his savvy marketing strategies and innovative guest relations programs had resulted in impressive revenue gains. Skeptics had warned that a "warm-weather" operation would never work in the sun-starved Northwest. But Freeman proved them all wrong, effectively tapping into a population base of more than seven million people who lived an easy drive away.

Still, it was his leadership role in rebranding all fifteen KOS oceanariums as places of "science and education" that had truly put the shine on Freeman's soaring corporate star. Private research, animal rescue, and species conservation had become the new buzz words at each of the company's parks, now spread across three continents and five countries.

The Seattle property occupied 160 lavishly landscaped acres of prime real estate ten miles northwest of the city on the shores of Puget Sound. The prized site had once been part of Golden Gardens Park, one of the area's most popular destinations. The shrewd land grab—negotiated nearly a decade earlier—had included an exclusive sales, marketing, and advertising deal with a private brewery owned by the city council president, a fact that had conveniently slipped under the radar where it had remained. Permits were granted and construction completed. In the end, fears by local conservationists that the wetlands would be destroyed turned out to be largely unfounded, and most area residents quickly embraced the beautifully conceived attraction.

Since then, annual attendance at the Seattle location had consistently topped the three million mark, surpassing even the Paris and Shanghai venues. Freeman's pride and joy generated nearly $400 million in annual revenues, about half of it from gate receipts. The other half came from parking, food, beverage, and merchandise sales—including posters, mugs, T-shirts, stuffed animals, and all manner of other premiums, all made in China, all marked up at least five hundred percent.

Together, attendance at all fifteen parks exceeded forty million customers annually—a $5.2 billion cash cow that made the Aquatic Theme Parks division the most profitable entity within the sprawling, multinational conglomerate known as Chandler Global Enterprises, or CGE.

As in each of its sister parks, guests in Seattle were treated to a lush, tropical-themed paradise with a unique, family-friendly face. Inside the gates, the lineup of shows, rides, and exhibits was also essentially the same, a cleverly conceived strategy designed to control costs and reduce overhead. It was a first-rate entertainment destination and the catchy tag line said it all.

COME TO ANOTHER WORLD—WHERE LAND AND SEA CONNECT.

The acrobatic dolphins, up-close shark encounters, and rollicking, thrill-a-second metal coasters were all part of the appeal. But the core attraction—the one that lured crowds and drove revenues—was the wildly entertaining killer whale act featuring a pair of magnificent orcas, Samson and Delilah. Kids of all ages delighted in the carefully choreographed routines of these powerful animals and their daredevil trainers. It was a form of staged magic designed to give the appearance the whales could practically fly, an extravaganza simply called...

BEYOND!

The devil, so the saying went, was in the details: hire a low-wage, non-union workforce, put a sound management team in place, bring in professional trainers, and exploit the hell out of the world's apex predator, a mega-star performer with no equal, animal or human.

And that, to the letter, was the KOS blueprint.

Freeman applied the formula with great energy and enthusiasm while looking past the fact that animal rights groups cried foul, declaring the company's wide-ranging public relations efforts were nothing more than elaborate smoke screens designed to disguise the truth. The parks, the activists claimed, generated obscene profits by exploiting the big mammals, primarily killer whales, turning them into cruel "circus acts." Freeman contended this reasoning was not only misguided, it was flat-out wrong. He and his staff were doing good work here, something important, something valuable. They were educating and entertaining the masses.

What could possibly be wrong with that?

The whales performed four times daily, six times on weekends, in the audience-friendly confines of Samson Stadium. And every show sold out. As Freeman surveyed the 6,500 empty seats, however, he felt his whole world crumbling around him—and with it his promotion to vice president of the division, a job that included a substantial salary increase and a lot more clout.

For the past two weeks Samson had been lethargic and irritable. Delilah seemed to sense his distress and she too had become temperamental, forcing the cancellation of more than sixty performances. And there was no end in sight. The whales were simply too unpredictable, threatening the safety of everyone around them. Worse, attendance had taken a precarious nosedive. Freeman was losing the turnstile game, the only game that mattered in this business.

His other major quandary? The park's senior vet, James "Big Boy" Medlin, a good ole boy from Odessa, Texas. Big Boy was a likeable enough guy, but the recent death of his wife after a prolonged illness had sent him into a tailspin. He became deeply depressed and often missed work. When he did show up, he was usually strung out on Valium, Johnny Walker Red, or both. Mitchell Chandler—CGE's enigmatic founder and CEO—had made it clear, however, that firing Big Boy was not an option. The two had served together in Vietnam where Big Boy reportedly saved the boss's life by dragging him off a booby-trapped bridge. An instant later, it blew sky-high, killing five of their comrades.

Big Boy's diagnosis of Samson's condition—an acute viral infection—appeared sound in the beginning. So did the heavy-duty antibiotics he'd prescribed. But as the whale's condition deteriorated, Freeman was left with little choice. He needed a second opinion. After all, they were dealing with the company's most valuable asset here. Turned out Samson's head trainer, Leanne Bucaro, didn't agree with Big Boy's findings either. She suggested Freeman speak with a friend of hers, a marine biologist who lived in the area. It was risky going out of house—he knew that—but, after reviewing the woman's bio, he'd reluctantly agreed.

Freeman picked up the two-page document off his desk, stared at the glossy photo paper-clipped to it.

She's really quite pretty,
he thought.
In a natural sort of way
.

He then read through her credentials again.

Dr. Katrina Kincaid was a graduate of the Marine Science program at the University of California, Santa Barbara, specializing in Evolution and Marine Biology. She had gained renown in her field as the youngest member of "Mission Blue," an ambitious three-year project designed to protect large mammals and save the world's oceans. Leading scientists from around the world lauded the group's findings and sensible approach to problem solving. After completing the assignment, she'd accepted the position of executive director at Orca Network, a mostly volunteer organization dedicated to connecting whales and people in the Pacific Northwest.

Dr. Kincaid was expected any moment now and Freeman hoped the pounding in his head would shut down first. It had been a long time since he'd craved a cigarette, but he sure as hell could use one now.

Yes, maybe just one... to calm his nerves.

* * *

Katrina Kincaid arrived a few minutes later. She entered Freeman's office with the easy swinging gait of an athlete, her dancing brown eyes clear and direct. Her honeyed hair had been pulled into a tight ponytail. She wore little makeup, making no attempt to hide the spray of freckles across her nose. Extending her hand she said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Freeman."

They shook.

"Please, it's Colby," Freeman replied. "Thank you for coming, doctor. I really appreciate it. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks," Katrina said, all business.

He gestured toward a beige couch in the corner. She sat down. He took a seat across from her in a matching chair. A glass table separated them, several colorful KOS brochures stacked neatly on top. Samson was prominently featured on the covers.

"I read your bio," Freeman said. "Very impressive. You're quite the adventurer."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Good for you. Most of the marine biologists
I
know seem to spend their time in windowless labs, their eyes glued to a microscope."

Katrina nodded. "Charting the habits of microbes in a Petri dish, no doubt. It's important work too, but just not for me." She glanced down at the brochure, wondering if Samson had ever experienced the same wanderlust she'd been blessed with. Even as a young girl, she was bitten by the travel bug, meticulously mapping out journeys to exotic, far-off places. And the world's great oceans had always captured her imagination. After a long, awkward silence, she said, "I'm sure you're busy, so I'll get right to the point. As you know, I performed a blowhole exam on Samson yesterday and took some blood samples. The test results came back a few hours ago. I had a friend of mine review them for me, a vet over at the CRC in Olympia."

Cascadia Research Collective was a non-profit scientific and education organization involved in a variety of research initiatives, many focused on killer whales. Katrina had worked with the scientists there many times before and trusted them implicitly.

"Talented group," Freeman said. "They know their stuff. But I have a feeling the news isn't good."

"No, sir, it's not. Samson is sick,
very
sick. He has Hodgkin's disease."

Freeman reacted as if she'd just pulled a gun on him. "Hodgkin's disease! I had no idea whales could come down with such a thing."

"It's rare, but it happens. We're not sure why. One thing we do know is that, over the past two decades, there's been an alarming increase in the number of large mammals dying from metastatic cancer, sea lions mostly. We haven't identified all the causes, but industrial contaminants are clearly one of the main culprits."

"Pollution," Freeman said matter-of-factly.

"Yes, pollution. The oceans are overdosing on toxic compounds. Millions of tons are being washed into the sea every day from factories, fertilized crops, sewer pipes, you name it.
Fish become contaminated, and the sea lions eat the fish. That means high concentrations of PCBs and DDTs in their blubber. These poisons get passed on from mothers to babies in the mothers' milk."

Freeman shook his head. "I had no idea it was this bad. What are the other causes, besides pollution, I mean?"

"One is related to the contaminants. Studies suggest PCBs can suppress the immune system. In the case of sea lions, it may increase their vulnerability to the herpes virus infection, a close relative of
human
herpes virus, the one that fosters Kaposi's skin cancer lesions in AIDS patients."