by Rick Chesler
On screen, only a commotion of flailing limbs could be seen as the two women battled each other in the liquid realm.
“Underwater team tells me three men are on the way to the ketch now in an inflatable, sir,” a headphone-wearing assistant said. He held up a finger, as if receiving new information. “The rest of the underwater unit has entered the sub. The hijacker has barricaded himself and the pilot inside the control cabin, but they’re evacuating the passengers and a crew now.”
“Tell that inflatable unit that Special Agent Tara Shores is in the water near the ketch. Depth twenty feet,” he said, eyes glued to the video feed.
The pressure in Tara’s ears grew more painful by the foot. Somewhere around twenty feet, Tara began to want for air. She did not panic; she simply recognized a biological need and acted accordingly. She would not be able to drag Anastasia back to the surface. Her situation now was a matter of releasing herself from the killer’s reversed grip, to avoid being hauled into the deep forever.
Tara let go of the tank valve with her left hand, her right hand still clutched in both of Anastasia’s hands. She yanked violently to free it, but without success. Then, at a depth of twenty-five feet, she used her free hand to find the rubbery texture of Anastasia’s face mask. She pulled on it, trying to rip it away. She was unable to do so, but the attempt had scared Anastasia enough that she pushed Tara off.
Tara swam for the light while the lone diver continued on into the depths.
Tara gulped air the second her mouth broke the surface. She treaded water for a minute, grateful to be breathing again. She spotted the white ketch adrift a few yards away and swam for it, wondering if Anastasia would come up and grab her from below. She didn’t look down. She just swam her clumsy crawl stroke to the boat.
Tara knew there was a step ladder on the stern. She went to it. She climbed the ladder, now seeing the boat’s name on the transom—Ketch Me If You Can—in a whole new light. She stepped onto the sailboat’s deck and looked out over the water where Anastasia had been and a smile materialized. She had not panicked. She had dived into the ocean, made a serious attempt at apprehending a murder suspect (on streaming video for the whole world to see), and come back to the boat again. She stood there dripping water onto the deck, amazed.
I’m not afraid of the water! I am not afraid!
She felt like jumping back in again just to prove the point, but she knew that this would be tough to explain. And besides, here was the underwater team.
Tara waved both hands at the approaching inflatable. Then she remembered the last thing Anastasia had said before submerging—something about a communications unit.
CHAPTER 47
ABOARD KETCH ME IF YOU CAN
In the cabin, next to the standard marine radio, Tara found a small electronic unit with a receiver attached. She flipped its switch to the ON position and turned its volume knob to the right.
“Hellooooooooo, can anybody heeeear me?”
Anastasia’s voice startled the detective. She picked up the transmitter, pressed the button, and spoke. “I hear you Dr. Reed. Special Agent Shores here.”
Laughter emanated from the unit’s speaker. “Like I don’t know who you are. How could I forget the woman who tagged me with a whale-cam?”
“Where are you, Dr. Reed?”
“Well, let’s see, I’m about . . . 100 feet below you.” The sound of Anastasia’s raspy scuba breathing punctuated her sentences. Tara felt like she was talking to a ghost.
“There’s nowhere for you to go, Dr. Reed. We’ve got divers ready to follow you. We’ve got boats to follow you. And the submarine is under FBI control, in case you’re planning to team up with your hired help to make your escape.”
This was met with a cascade of laughter. “Oh my, that’s a good one, Detective. That really is priceless.” She giggled some more. “I’m not sure if it’s the nitrogen narcosis setting in, but that really cracks me up.”
“Why don’t you come back up now? You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
Another labored breath.
Tara saw Anastasia’s laptop sitting on the galley table where she’d last used it to monitor the whale-cam and woke it up.
“Oh, but there is, Tara. There is.”
Tara heard the rasp of the regulator again and went back to the comm unit. Suddenly she heard heavy footsteps on the ketch’s deck.
“Special Agent Shores—FBI underwater team on board. Are you okay?” a man called out.
“Yes, I’m okay. In the cabin. I’m in communication with a fleeing murder suspect.” While the FBI men made their way through the boat, clearing each compartment, Tara turned back to the underwater communications unit. “What are you talking about, Dr. Reed?”
The comm unit crackled to life. “There’s one direction where I can go a long, long way, babe. That would be down.”
Tara couldn’t suppress a chill as she grasped the scientist’s meaning. “Hold on, Dr. Reed.” She picked up the laptop and brought it to the radio area. At a depth of 175 feet, the available light was scant enough that the camera’s night-vision had been auto-enabled. Tara was startled to see Anastasia looking down at her on screen, her smiling face cast in an unearthly greenish glow. The numbers on the video’s depth readout continued to increase.
“Dr. Reed . . . Anastasia, don’t do this. Please come back up now.”
Two FBI men eased into the cabin, pistols drawn. “Special Agent Shores?”
Tara didn’t move but motioned to the badge at her hip. They asked if she was all right. She assured them that she was and explained the situation with Anastasia.
One of the FBI men announced that he would take over the job of sailing the ketch, and left the cabin. The remaining agent extended a hand. “Michael Rietti, FBI underwater specialist,” he said. Tara shook his hand, taking comfort in the firm grip. He explained that a third team member was with their inflatable and would remain near the ketch, should they need it.
“We could go down after her,” he suggested.
Tara showed him the depth readout: 200 feet and gaining. “She doesn’t intend to come back,” she said. “How deep is it here, anyway?”
Michael found a fish finder next to the radio and flipped it on. He frowned. “Deeper than 800 feet,” he said. “That’s the max depth on this thing. But I know that the Catalina Channel hits depths of 4,000 feet. Besides, if she’s breathing regular air, anything beyond 200 is suicidal. If she’s got a gas mixture of some kind, like maybe Nitrox, she could go deeper, but not for very long.”
Tara pressed the TALK button. “Dr. Reed, are you breathing air or something else?”
She heard a long hissssss in reply. “Pure air, baby, all the way.”
The depth readout now displayed 225 feet.
The FBI man shook his head. “She trying to kill herself?”
“Unless she's grown gills.”
“She might be trying to get us to believe that and then head for the surface somewhere else.”
Tara nodded at the video feed. “Kinda hard to do that when you’ve got a web-cam and GPS unit pegged to your chest, isn’t it?” He had no way of knowing she wasn’t using a figure of speech.
“Hey, let me take a look at those cuts,” he said, moving closer to Tara. She had sustained a bloody nose and a cut over one eye during her brawl with Anastasia, as well as a nasty gouge on the back of her right hand. Agent Rietti rummaged around the cabin’s cupboards until he found a first aid kit. He tenderly cleaned and disinfected Tara’s wounds before bandaging what he could while she monitored Anastasia’s descent.
Suddenly a shadow of movement on the laptop caught their eyes. Because of the upward angle of the web-cam, there was still sufficient light at this depth to see things in the background beyond Anastasia’s masked face. A tremendous form made its way across the field of view, becoming larger as it approached the lens. With a start, Tara realized they were watching the Blue.
The great whale soared above Anastasia’s head,
free of the camera that she was now burdened with. Tara couldn’t help but think that although things had gone badly for Eric Stein he would be most pleased with this turn of events. The special agent was saddened, though, by these former classmates drawn together by a shared love of the sea, and now destroyed by it.
The two FBI personnel could only stare in awe at the remarkable spectacle playing out on screen, as did the millions of web and television viewers watching worldwide. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the Blue was gone, vanished into its own wireless kingdom. And it occurred to Tara that this time it really was gone. Free.
“So what do you want us to do?” Rietti asked, pulling her back into the reality of the moment. “I could have a couple of divers down at 100 feet, in case she decides to come back up again. If she does, she’ll probably need help. I don’t know how much air she has left, but at those depths you’re talking mere minutes. We can bring her extra air tanks so that she can decompress.”
They both glanced at the depth readout: 300 feet now. Her rate of descent was increasing.
“Leave me one agent to sail the ketch, please. Then you can tether the inflatable to us. That leaves two of you to dive.”
“Roger that, Agent Shores. Mind if I talk to her before we go?”
Tara handed him the transmitter. She didn’t see how it could hurt.
“Hello, Dr. Reed, my name is Michael Rietti, underwater specialist with the FBI. Do you copy? Over.”
“I do,” came the reply.
“You’ve gotten yourself into an extremely dangerous situation, Dr. Reed. You need to ascend immediately.”
“No can do, Michael, Mikety-Mikey,” she said in a sing-song voice.
Rietti turned to Tara. “She’s narced. Nitrogen narcosis—it’s like she’s had four or five martinis by now.” He went back to the transmitter. “Okay, Dr. Reed. Listen, please. Try and understand what I’m saying. I want you to know that myself and another diver will be going down to 100 feet and standing by to render assistance. All you need to do is ascend to 100 feet and know that we’ll be there—we’ll find you.”
“Alrighty then, Mikey. Over and out.”
Rietti looked at Tara, shaking his head. “Keep talking with her, but don’t be surprised if she passes out. We’ll do our best.” With that the underwater specialist turned and strode from the cabin, already calling to his men outside.
Tara picked up the transmitter, wondering what to say. She glanced at the laptop. Anastasia’s depth was an astounding 400 feet. The monitor showed dark water surrounding the wanted woman’s moonlit face.
“Anastasia, it’s Tara again.” This time there was no sassy reply about knowing who she was.
“T-T-T-Tara. Hi, Tara.” Anastasia’s teeth were chattering, and Tara realized how cold she must be at that depth without a wetsuit.
“Please come back up. Our divers will help you.”
“N-N-N-No.” Her breathing was shallower and more rapid now, Tara noticed. She looked at the laptop. Anastasia’s eyes remained alert. “Are you w-w-w-watching me?”
Tara found this disquieting, but it was her job to bring the suspect into custody alive, if possible, so she kept talking. “Yes, I can see you.” She glanced at the depth: almost 500 feet. “How much air do you have left, Anastasia?” Maybe a jolt of reality would knock some sense into her.
Raaaaaaaaaaaaaasp. “N-n-n-not enough . . . for a round trip, babe.”
Tara began to give up. It was true, after all, that Anastasia faced life in prison—perhaps even the death penalty, since her evil deed seemed to have been carefully pre-meditated—were she to return to the world above. She tried a different tack.
“Dr. Reed, is there anything you would like to say to anybody—any last words? This is being broadcast live on the web, you know.” Maybe that would get to her, Tara thought.
“The d-d-d-deep sea,” came Anastasia’s voice over the speaker, “is the most common environment on our p-p-planet, yet is also the l-l-l-least understood.”
She’s gone now, Tara thought. Like a malfunctioning computer program, her brain was spewing random bits of stored information according to broken lines of code somewhere deep within.
“For years . . . s-s-s-scientists have had only tanta . . . rassssssp . . . lizingly short glimpses . . . into this m-m-m-mysterious realm. . . .”
Tara could stand it no longer. She screamed into the transmitter, “DOCTOR REED, STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!”
Another breath whispered its way through the communications system.
No more words came.
Tara looked at the computer screen. Depth was a staggering 700 feet. There were mini-subs that weren’t rated to that depth. Even the water above her was dark now—not enough photons reached the camera’s optics for it to see beyond the self-illumination of its night vision.
Anastasia’s eyelids began to flutter. Tara ran her hands through her hair, rubbing her temples. There was nothing she could do. Anastasia may as well be on the surface of the moon. She repeated Anastasia’s name into the transmitter.
No reply.
800 feet came and went.
On screen, Anastasia’s eyes were open, but she said nothing. Her breathing came in shallow, rapid pants. The sound of her continually chattering teeth could be clearly heard over the sound system.
For the next two minutes Tara spoke Anastasia’s name into the transmitter. She even said a few things, some of which she would never remember except in her darkest nightmares. When she had exhausted her repertoire of one-sided dialogue, Tara looked again at the telemetry feed.
Anastasia’s eyes were closed. Her breaths were very few and far between now. Tara checked the depth: 1,100 feet. The water beyond the reach of the web-cam’s night vision was utterly black in all directions; a complete absence of light. And then, under immense pressures it was never designed to withstand (only the sperm whale could dive to such depths), the telemetry device began to fail.
Tara cringed as a crack snaked its way across the video feed.
1,250 feet.
Tara’s hand went to her mouth. Seawater still dripped from her hair and body onto the floor around her.
1,300.
The single crack spiderwebbed across the entire field of vision.
1,350.
Anastasia’s eyes opened. One was obscured by a thick fracture in the lens, but the other orb could be seen staring out through a maze of fissures. Tara could swear the eye winked at her.
Then a piercing pop was heard, and the screen, like the sea that swallowed Anastasia, went black.
EPILOGUE
FBI FIELD OFFICE, LOS ANGELES
A Saturday morning not long after her eventful day at sea found Tara Shores in her office at the Bureau. There was one piece of business she wanted to take care of.
The days following her ordeal had been a whirlwind of briefings and media interviews. There were reams of reports to fill out. There were medical and counseling appointments to make sure that she was still the same Special Agent Tara Shores she had been prior to her involvement in the case.
She wasn’t, of course, she had been forever changed. But she knew it was for the better. She had received many heartfelt congratulations from friends and colleagues, and had even received a commendation from the FBI director himself. Even better than that, Will Branson announced that he would be retiring soon, and there was serious talk of naming her as the new special agent in charge of the Los Angeles field office.
Tara shuffled various papers on her desk, looking for something. A post-incident briefing on the OLF whaling-ship fiasco reminded her of Stein’s fate. The environmental extremist had been killed by automatic-weapons fire when the Coast Guard had attempted to take the combative captain into custody. Pineapple had been taken alive and now awaited a lengthy prison sentence.
Another briefing, this one on the tourist submarine hijacking, caught her eye. She had contributed to it, but had not been the sole author, since the underwater team had handled most of that
nightmare. In the end though, she noted as she skimmed the report, it had worked out okay. All of the passengers had survived, as she was told by Michael Rietti on the ketch, and so had the pilot, Walter Johnson. Even the hijacker had survived, she had been surprised to find out. He now awaited trial in federal custody, and was cooperating with authorities to help bring his employer, the sea-plane pilot, to justice, although he had been unable to produce the pilot's name or address.
Michael.
A smile crossed her face as she read his name in the report. She had spent some time with him after their work together; he had taken her out for dinner and drinks. Almost every night this week, in fact. You could even say we’re dating, Tara thought happily.
Ah, there it is. She located a flash-drive taped to a note from Imaging Lab director Herb Shock, which read:
Tara, Huntress of Whales:
This video file contains the original images, recovered from the telemetry device’s hard disc drive, corresponding to the timecodes you requested. Glad to be of assistance,
Herb
P.S. Audio analysis I promised from the broadcast video: the sound that can be heard from timecode 070709:14 - 070709:21 has been confirmed to be that of Dacron sailcloth commensurate with those usually found on boats approximately 32’-42’ in length.
Tara inserted the drive into her computer. She had come into work early on a Saturday for this. She recalled how badly she had wanted to see through all that static. Here was her chance.
She never expected to have this opportunity. But although Anastasia’s body had not been recovered, the tag had worked its way loose from her remains, perhaps by currents on the seafloor, where her weighted corpse would have ended up. The tag was designed to float, so that if it ever came loose from the whale, it could be recovered.
After Anastasia had disappeared and the tag’s video and data transmission ceased, it was thought that the device had been completely ruined, but miraculously, when it reached the surface the GPS started signaling again. It was found floating halfway between Catalina and Long Beach by a day sailor, who turned it in to Anastasia’s university, who in turn handed it over to the FBI.
