Cradle, Page 2

  Far above the Earth, the last of the drone scouts returns to the giant cylinder. There is a momentary pause, as if some unknown checklist were being verified, and then the cylindrical space vehicle disappears.

  THURSDAY

  1

  They were there on the beach at sunrise. Sometime during the night seven whales had run aground at Deer Key, five miles east of Key West. The powerful leviathans of the deep, ten to fifteen feet long, looked helpless as they lay floundering on the sand. Another half-dozen members of this misguided pod of false killer whales were swimming in circles in the shallow lagoon just off the beach, obviously lost and confused.

  By seven o’clock on the clear March morning, whale experts from Key West had arrived and were already beginning to coordinate what would later become a concerted effort by local fishermen and boating enthusiasts to push the beached animals back into the lagoon. Once the whales were off the beach, the next task would be to coax the entire pod into the Gulf of Mexico. There was little or no chance that the animals would survive unless they could be returned to open water.

  Carol Dawson was the first reporter to arrive. She parked her sleek new Korean station wagon on the shoulder of the road, just off the beach, and jumped out to analyse the situation. The beach and lagoon at Deer Key formed a cove that was shaped like a half moon. An imaginary chord connecting the two points of land at the ends of the cove would extend almost half a mile across the water. Outside the chord was the Gulf of Mexico. The seven whales had penetrated the cove in the centre and were beached at the point farthest from the open sea. They were about thirty feet apart and perhaps twenty-five feet up on the sand. The rest of the whales were trapped in the shallows no more than a hundred feet offshore.

  Carol walked around to the back of her station wagon. Before pulling out a large photographic case, she stopped to adjust the strings on her slacks. (She had dressed quickly this morning when awakened in her Key West hotel room by the call from Miami. Her exercise sweat-suit was hardly her usual working attire. It hid the assets of a shapely, finely-tuned body that looked closer to twenty than thirty.) Inside the case was a collection of cameras, both still and video. She selected three of the cameras, popped a couple of sweets from an old packet into her mouth, and approached the beach. As she walked across the sand toward the people and the beached whales, Carol stopped occasionally to photograph the scene.

  Carol first approached a man wearing a uniform from the South Florida Marine Research Centre. He was facing the ocean and talking to two Naval officers from the Marine Patrol section of the US Naval Air Station in Key West. A dozen or so local volunteers were in close orbit around the speakers, keeping their distance but listening intently to the discussion. Carol walked up to the man from the research centre and took him by the arm.

  ‘Good morning, Jeff,’ she said.

  He turned to look at her. After a moment a vague smile of recognition crossed his face.

  ‘Carol Dawson, Miami Herald,’ she said quickly. ‘We met one night at MOI. I was with Dale Michaels.’

  ‘Sure, I remember you,’ he said. ‘How could I forget a gorgeous face like yours?’ After a moment he continued, ‘But what are you doing here? As far as I know, nobody in the world knew these whales were here until an hour ago. And Miami is over a hundred miles away.’

  Carol laughed, her eyes politely acknowledging and thanking Jeff for the compliment. She still didn’t like it but had grudgingly grown to accept the fact that people, men especially, remembered her for her looks.

  ‘I was already in Key West on another story. Dale called me this morning as soon as he heard about the whales. Can I interrupt you for just a minute and get some expert comments? For the record, of course.’

  As she was speaking, Carol reached down and picked up a video camera, one of the newest models, a 1993 Sony about the size of a small notebook, and began interviewing Dr. Jeff Marsden, ‘the leading authority on whales in the Florida Keys’. The interview was standard stuff, of course, and Carol herself could have supplied all the answers. But Ms. Dawson was a good reporter and knew the value of an expert in situations like this.

  Dr. Marsden explained that marine biologists still did not understand the reasons for whale beachings, although their increased frequency in the late eighties and early nineties had provided ample opportunities for research. Most experts blamed the beachings on infestations of parasites in the individual whales leading each of the unfortunate pods. According to the prevailing theory, these parasites confused the intricate navigation systems that told the whales where to go. In other words, the lead whale somehow thought his migration path led on to the beach and across the land; the others followed because of the rigorous hierarchy in the pod.

  ‘I’ve heard some people say, Dr. Marsden, that the increase in whale beachings is due to us and our pollution. Would you care to comment on the accusation that our wastes as well as our acoustic and electronic pollution have undermined the sensitive biosystems that the whales use to navigate?’

  Carol used the zoom on her tiny video camera to record the furrowing of Jeff Marsden’s brow. He was clearly not expecting such a leading question from her this early in the morning.

  After thinking for a moment, he answered. ‘There have been several attempts to explain why there are so many more beachings now than were recorded in the past. Most researchers come to the inescapable conclusion that something in the whales’ environment has changed in the last half-century. It is not too far-fetched to imagine that we may well have been responsible for the changes.’

  Carol knew she had the right quotes for a perfect short piece for television. She then quickly and professionally wrapped up the interview, thanked Dr. Marsden, and walked over to the onlookers. In a minute she had plenty of volunteers to take her out into the lagoon so that she could take some close-up photographs of the confused whales. Within five minutes not only had Carol finished several discs of still photographs, but she had also rigged up her video camera with a stabilizing tripod on one of the little boats and recorded a video clip of herself explaining the beachings.

  Before leaving the beach at Deer Key, Carol Dawson opened up the back of her station wagon. It served her well as a portable photo laboratory. She first rewound and checked the video tape that she had taken, listening particularly to hear if the splashing of the whales could be heard behind her while she was in the boat. Then she popped the discs from the still cameras into readers to see if she liked all the photographs. They were good. She smiled to herself, closed the back of the station wagon, and drove back to Key West.

  2

  Carol finished the redundant transfer of the videotape through the modem to Joey Hernandez in Miami and then called another number. She was sitting in one of the private cubicles inside the large new communications room at the Key West Marriott. The screen in front of Carol indicated that the connection for her new number had been made, but there was not yet any picture. She heard a woman’s voice say, ‘Good morning, Dr. Michaels’s office.’

  ‘Good morning, Bernice, it’s Carol. I’m on video.’

  The monitor cleared in a second and a pleasant, middle-aged woman appeared. ‘Oh, hi, Carol. I’ll tell Dale you’re on the line.’

  Carol smiled as she watched Bernice swivel her chair and roll over to a panel of buttons on her left. Bernice was almost surrounded by her desk. In front of her were a couple of keyboards connected to two large screens, a variety of disc drives, and what looked like a phone embedded in another monitor. Apparently there had been no room for the communications panel adjacent to the phone, so Bernice had to roll three to four feet in her chair to signal to Dr. Dale Michaels that he had a call, that it was on video, that it was Carol, and that it was coming from Key West. Dr. Dale, as he was known by everyone except Carol, liked to have plenty of information before he answered the phone.

  To each side of Bernice were perpendicular extensions to the desk, upon which were arrayed stacks of floppy disks of different sizes
(the stacks were labelled ‘read’ or ‘file’ or ‘outgoing correspondence’), interleaved with groups of magazines and manilla folders containing hard copy print-out from the computers. Bernice pushed a button on the panel but nothing happened. She looked apologetically at Carol on the screen above the phone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Carol.’ Bernice was a little flustered. ‘Maybe I didn’t do it right. Dr. Dale had a new system installed this week again and I’m not certain….’

  One of the two large monitors flashed a message. ‘Oh good,’ Bernice continued, now smiling. ‘I did it right. He’ll be with you in a minute. He has someone in there with him and will finish quickly so he can see you and speak with you. I hope you don’t mind if I put you on hold.’

  Carol nodded and Bernice’s image faded away from the screen. On the monitor Carol now watched the beginning of a short tutorial documentary on oyster farming. The piece was beautifully filmed underwater using the most advanced photographic equipment. The narration featured the mellifluous voice of Dr. Dale and the video pointed out the connection between the inventions at MOI (the Miami Oceanographic Institute, of which Dr. Dale Michaels was the founder and chief executive officer) and the rapid rise of sea farming of all kinds. But Carol had to laugh. Playing quietly behind the narration, and increasing in volume during periods of narrative silence, was Pachelbel’s ‘Canon’. It was Dale’s favourite piece of mood music (he was so predictable—Carol always knew what was coming next when Dale put Pachelbel on the CD player in his apartment), but it seemed strange to her to listen to the lilting strings as the cameras moved in for close-ups of growing oysters.

  The oyster story was abruptly discontinued and the screen dissolved to the interior of a large executive office. Dale Michaels was sitting on a couch, across the room from his modern desk, looking at one of three video monitors that could be seen in the room. ‘Good morning again, Carol,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘So how did it go? And where are you? I didn’t know that they had videos in the Marriott rooms yet.’

  Dr. Michaels was tall and slim. Blond, his hair was slightly curly and receding just a trace at the temples. He flashed a ready smile that was too quick, almost practised, but his green eyes were warm and open.

  ‘I’m down in the comm room here at the hotel,’ Carol answered. ‘I just sent the whale beaching story off to the Herald on disk. Jesus, Dale, I felt so sorry for those poor animals. How can they be so smart and still get their directions so fouled up?’

  ‘We don’t know, Carol,’ Dale replied. ‘But remember that our definition of intelligence and the whales’ definition are almost certainly completely different. Besides, it’s not that surprising that they trust their internal navigation system even when it leads them to disaster. Can you imagine a situation in which you would essentially disregard information that your eyes were giving you? It’s the same thing. We’re talking here about a malfunction in their primary sensor.’

  Carol was quiet for a moment. ‘I guess I can see what you’re saying,’ she said finally, ‘but it hurt to see them so helpless. Oh, well, anyway, I got the story on video too. Incidentally, the new integrated video technology is superb. The Marriott here just installed a new higher data rate modem for video. I transferred the entire eight-minute piece to Joey Hernandez at Channel 44 in only two minutes. He loved it. He does the noon news, you know. Catch it if you can and tell me what you think.’

  Carol paused just a beat. ‘And by the way, Dale, thanks again for the tip.’

  ‘Just glad to help.’ Dale was beaming. He loved it when he could help Carol with her career. He had been pursuing her single-mindedly, in his left-brain scientific way, for almost a year and a half. But he had been unable to convince her that a permanent relationship would be mutually beneficial. Or at least, he thought that was the problem.

  ‘I think this whale thing could be a great cover,’ Carol was saying. ‘You know I was worried about attracting too much attention with your telescope. And the “treasure hunter” bit just doesn’t fit if someone down here recognizes me. But I think I can use a whale follow-up story as the pretext. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ Dale answered. ‘Incidentally, there have been a couple of other whale irregularities reported as well this morning—a partial pod beaching up at Sanibel and a supposed attack on a fishing boat north of Marathon. The owner was Vietnamese and highly excitable. Of course it’s almost unheard of that false killers attack anything related to humans. But maybe you can use the whole thing somehow.’

  Carol saw that he was already up from the couch and walking around his office. Dr. Dale Michaels had so much energy it was almost impossible for him to sit still or relax. He was just a few months away from his fortieth birthday but he still had the zest and enthusiasm of a teenager.

  ‘Just try not to let anyone from the Navy know that you have the telescope,’ he continued. ‘They called again this morning and asked for a third set of equipment. I told them the third telescope was loaned out and being used for research. Whatever it is that they’re looking for must be very important.’ He turned and looked at the camera. ‘And very secret. This guy Lieutenant Todd reminded me again this morning, as soon as I made a normal scientific inquiry, that it was Navy business and he couldn’t tell me anything about it.’

  Carol made some notes on a small spiral pad. ‘You know, Dale,’ she began again, ‘I thought this story had tremendous potential as soon as you mentioned it to me yesterday. Everything indicates that something unusual and secret is going on with the Navy. It was amusing the amateur way Todd stonewalled me on the phone yesterday and then demanded to know who had given me his name. I told him that a source in the Pentagon had suggested that there was some “high priority” activity at the Naval Air Station in Key West and that he, Todd, was associated with it. He seemed to buy it. And I’m convinced that the bozo Navy public affairs guy here knows nothing at all about anything that might be happening.’

  Carol yawned and quickly put her hand over her mouth. ‘Well, it’s too late to go back to bed. I guess I’ll exercise and then go find that boat we talked about. I feel as if I’m looking for a needle in a haystack, but your guess could be right. Anyway, I’ll start with the map you gave me. And if they really have lost a cruise missile somewhere down here and are trying to cover it up, it would certainly be a great scoop for me. Talk to you later.’

  Dale waved goodbye and hung up. Carol left the communications area and walked out to the end of the hotel. She had an oceanfront room on the first floor. The Herald wouldn’t pay for that kind of luxury, but she had decided to splash out anyway this time and pamper herself. As she was changing into her swimsuit, she mused to herself about her conversation with Dale. Nobody would ever guess, she thought, that Dale and I are lovers. Or at least sex partners. It’s all so businesslike. As if we’re teammates or something. She paused for a moment and then completed her thought. Did I make it that way? she wondered.

  It was almost nine o’clock and the resort was in the process of waking up when Carol walked out of her room and into the hotel grounds. On the beach, the staff had just arrived and were setting out the loungers and umbrellas on the sand for the early-risers. Carol walked over to the self-admiring young man in charge and informed him that she was going for a long exercise swim. Twice at hotels previously she had forgotten to tell the guardians of the beach that she was going to swim half a mile away from the shore. Both times she had been rescued, much to her dismay, and had created an untoward scene.

  As Carol worked into her freestyle rhythm, she began to feel the release of tension, the loosening of the knots that bound her most of the time. Although she told most other people that she exercised regularly to stay fit, the real reason Carol spent at least forty-five minutes each morning running, swimming, or walking briskly was that she needed the exercise to deal with her fast-paced life. Only after hard exercise could she really feel calm and at peace with her world.

  It was normal for Carol to let her min
d drift idly from subject to subject while she was swimming long distances. This morning she remembered swimming long ago in the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean near Laguna Beach in California. Carol had been eight years old at the time and had gone to a birthday party given by a friend—Jessica was her name—whom she had met at soccer camp during the summer. Jessica was rich. Her house had cost more than a million dollars and Jessica had more toys and dolls than Carol could possibly imagine.

  Hmm. Carol was thinking as she recalled Jessica’s party and the clowns and the ponies. That was when I still believed in fairy tales. That was before the separation and divorce….

  Her watch alarm sounded, breaking her reverie, and Carol turned around in the water and headed back to shore. As she did so, she saw something strange out of the corner of her eye. No more than twenty yards from her a great whale broke the water, sending chills down her spine and adrenaline rushing into her system. The whale disappeared underwater and, although Carol trod water for a couple of minutes and scanned the horizon, she did not see it again.

  At length Carol began swimming back toward shore. Her heart rate had started to return to normal after the bizarre encounter and now she was thinking about her lifelong fascination with whales. She remembered having a toy whale from Sea World, in San Diego, when she was seven. What was his name? Shammy. Shamu. Something like that. Then Carol remembered an earlier experience, one she had not thought about for twenty-five years.