by Debbie Kump
Doubtful, Simon thought. Beaked whales rarely survived that long in captivity. “What about the spinner dolphin?”
“Fortunately, we were able to save the spinner. Our rescuers set it on a stretcher and dragged it down the beach to the sea. It restranded once, but we managed to haul it out again. Thus far it hasn’t been sighted again.”
Simon shook his head. After the shock and stress of stranding twice, the spinner dolphin probably ended up dying at sea, its lifeless body sinking to rot on the ocean floor.
So what was the cause? Simon ran through a mental list of possibilities for the strandings. It was hurricane season, but he’d certainly know if a tropical storm had blown through the area. So that ruled out one possibility. “Any unusual fluxes in water temperature?”
Roy looked skeptical. It was the Caribbean after all.
“How about magnetic anomalies? Changing geography or fetch of the beach?” Simon asked. Roy shook his head.
Simon suspected as much. With so many different species involved–plus evidence of internal injury in the beaked whale–an unexpectedly loud noise was more likely the culprit. “What about offshore drilling? Or unusual ships in the area?”
“Now that you mention it, officials picked up a U.S. Navy submarine of undetermined class about thirty miles off the coast of Freeport on Grand Bahama Island shortly afterwards…” Roy’s voice trailed off as he studied Simon incredulously. “You don’t think the naval exercises have something to do with it, do you?”
“Actually, it might explain everything,” Simon said grimly.
The extremely loud pulses of active sonar from a submarine might have attributed to the strandings and subsequent deaths. Sound travels further and five times faster underwater than through air, echoing off underwater objects and formations. For many years, scientists warned that loud sounds from naval exercises can cause marine mammals to change their natural behaviors, increase the animals’ stress thereby leading to a decline in health, disrupt their communications with other members of the pod, and result in hearing damage. But he’d need more evidence to be certain.
“When can I see the pilot whales?”
“We’re headed there first.”
As Roy drove for miles down the road–past overgrown, faded pastel-colored shacks in various states of neglect–he and Simon fell silent, contemplating the fate of the whales.
With such a dismal future for these creatures, Simon felt compelled to break the ice. “So, how’re the wife and kids?”
Roy shrugged. “Can’t complain. And you?” He glanced at Simon meaningfully. “Find a potential ‘Mrs.’ yet?”
Simon shook his head and looked away. “Been too busy with work to even get out. With the upcoming conversion and all. I’m expecting this to be huge in understanding toothed whale communication.”
Truth was, Simon’s previous girlfriend griped about him becoming the classic workaholic, never committing to their relationship. That he spent more time with Allie than with her. Not that it mattered; bachelorhood suited him just fine. He didn’t have anyone telling him what to do. At home, he was his own boss.
At least he kept telling himself that. It was as good an excuse as any to devote more time to his research.
Roy turned to the left, crossing the bridge linking the capital of Nassau and Paradise Island. Simon gazed out the window as they passed, noticing a few stress fractures forming in the concrete supports. In the U.S., the current administration funneled billions of taxpayer’s dollars into defense to fuel its ongoing wars in the Middle East, while the nation’s infrastructure had begun to fail: bridges breaking, dams bursting, levees rupturing. Much-needed repairs were delayed for lack of funding.
Here in the Caribbean, the U.S.’s recession had widespread effects as well. Declining rates of tourism left countries like the Bahamas–that relied on American dollars to fund their economy–in shambles. Everything was put on hold in hopes it would last until they had the money for repairs. The upgrade to 7G promised to jumpstart the economy, ending this prolonged recession once and for all. A gaggle of start-ups, including the rising Dreamscape, heralded a promising future by spending millions on advertising their new website designed to explore the fascinating human subconscious of the dream world. Though excited about the research applications, Simon expected his program with whale communication to prove profitable as well. Yet he had little time to consider these possibilities at the moment.
Paradise Island was anything but.
Simon remembered coming out here for spring break in college. While Roy had tried his luck in the casinos, Simon spent most of his time underwater, reveling in the pristine clear water, the tropical fish swimming about the reef, and the vast stretches of white sand.
Now it had transformed into a totally different scene.
On the beach, rescuers had roped off a wide area surrounding the stranded pilot whales. Despite the wretched smell, a growing throng of people had gathered to watch. Tourists and locals alike–women with braided hair in skimpy string bikinis and guys in Hawaiian print surf shorts with young children clinging to their thighs, dark-skinned women in floral dresses and men in worn T-shirts and jeans–looked on with mixed curiosity and fear. “Excuse me, please,” Simon repeated as he squeezed his way through the packed crowd.
The once pleasant beach had become a nightmare of grisly proportions. Black pilot whales lay covered in assorted beach towels and blankets. A bucket brigade transported a steady stream of water to keep the whales cool and wet in the rising midday sun. Outside of their natural environment, whales easily sunburned and overheated; their thick blubber layer and dark hides essentially baked them from the inside.
After visually inspecting the survivors’ pale gums and foamy green fecal samples–sure signs of shock–Simon began a necropsy for the few specimens that had perished on the beach, cutting three-centimeter square samples of major organs to send to pathology.
He wasn’t certain which was worse: contending with the overwhelmingly putrid stench of roasting carcass here in the Caribbean’s blinding sun, or completing this entire process in the cold, driving rain like he’d done in Cape Cod. At least he wouldn’t end up in the emergency room like Barry Cohen who slipped off the back of the slick, rubbery skin of a beached right whale one summer at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute in Massachusetts. Cape Code is infamous for confounding deep-sea whales with its changing geography, especially after a severe storm like the hurricane that had barreled up the coast a few days before. The endangered North Atlantic right whale was too large to move to the lab, so they completed the necropsy in full on sight–despite the rain and storm surge remaining from the passing storm. Working up by the blowhole, Barry had slipped, falling right onto the rescuer below, who–unfortunately for Barry–wielded a sharp knife. Barry ended up in the ER with 20 stitches in his thigh.
Stitches were the least of Simon’s concerns at the moment. In fact, the sun was so merciless today, if he didn’t complete his task soon, all evidence would be lost. Then he’d lack the necessary data that might link accountability of this accident to the U.S. Navy, leaving the Bahamians with the full expense of disposal, pathology reports, care of the infant beaked whale, and clean up costs. These people didn’t have the resources to fund this project alone. Nor should they have to.
With dismay, Simon realized he should have brought his grad student, Kristen Weber, with him. Despite her inexperience in these matters, he could really use an extra hand right now.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Simon set to work, endeavoring to slice through the thick blubber as readily as cutting tenderloin with a butter knife. Simon stifled a gag as he finally broke through the layer of blubber. Unfortunately, he still had the length of its abdomen to open–no easy feat when the whale stretched fifteen feet in length. He wiped the perspiration from his face, wishing he had something to repel the vile smell.
At least the stench had thinned the crowd whose curiosity was eventually overcome by the widespread odor
of rot and decay. Hours passed while they worked on. And with the passing time, the tide rose to meet the beached whales once more.
Taking a break from the necropsies, Simon helped the rescuers push the surviving pilot whales out to sea. The remaining onlookers roared in jubilation. But Simon could only muster a forced smile. He knew the odds. Chances were slim for these rescued whales. Tomorrow, they’d probably wash ashore again.
This time, to die.
Chapter Twelve
Southern Florida State University off-campus housing
Kristen Weber perched on the edge of the toilet seat, her attention focused on the rising stream seeping up through the wand, leaving a pinkish trail. She’d read through the directions twice already, but still clutched them tightly in her hand while waiting for the appearance of a vertical line when the hormones in her urine reached the second window of the stick.
She was terrified someone would find out. So as a precaution, she’d paid extra to travel the light rail–Miami’s latest effort to comply with U.S. Clean Air Bill and reduce traffic congestion–two towns past her normal grocery shopping stop, hoping she wouldn’t bump into anyone she knew at the store. As it was, she felt like arrows in brilliant neon lights trained upon her, advertising UNMARRIED AND KNOCKED-UP to the cashier and every customer in the store. Not like they cared. She wasn’t the first. Besides, most seemed preoccupied as their eyes darted back and forth, texting mundane messages to their spouses back home as to what items they should purchase for dinner tonight. Should I get the angel hair pasta or thin spaghetti? Roma or vine-ripened tomatoes? Kristen rolled her eyes. For crying out loud, make a decision on your own already!
Kristen had clandestinely searched out the pregnancy test section, draping her long blonde curls over the sides of her face and cramming her naked left hand into her front jeans pocket while she examined the different products. Their boxes pledged faster, more accurate results. Wouldn’t you think with all of the recent technological advances, they could at least make a pregnancy test that yielded instantaneous results?
This was going to be the longest three minutes of her life.
There were probably a thousand things Kristen could’ve done to pass those three minutes, but all she could focus on was the lime green digital clock in the upper corner of her right periphery of the eye DOTS, its colon blinking with each passing second as she waited for the results to appear. What would Dane think now? Their relationship took a turn for the worst right before he left for his internship in D.C. His farewell kiss seemed forced, lacking passion. And their subsequent long-distance relationship had proven tenuous at best. Would this news improve his feelings toward her? Or was it the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back, enough for him to end things once and for all, leaving her to raise their child alone. She’d have to dump the kid in day care while she finished her doctorate. Or drop out of the program altogether–after how hard she’d worked to get accepted in the first place.
No, Kristen thought with fresh determination. She’d only resent her unborn baby for cutting short her dreams. She’d find a way to make it work. Even if she had to take a year off.
And her family? Her parents would certainly not condone this course of action. But would they support her? Erik, yes. He was always there for her when she needed him. Though Kristen wasn’t sure she was ready to tell him yet (or anyone else for that matter).
The timer hadn’t gone off on her eye DOTS, but Kristen already knew the result. The second line appeared in bold magenta, almost mocking in its intensity.
Positive.
Dane couldn’t possibly reject her now…not when she was carrying his child.
Could he?
Kristen instinctively lifted her shirt, slowly spinning from side to side as she studied her belly in the mirror. There was a very slight bulge, which could easily pass for bloating. She still had some time before she’d start to show.
Time to figure things out before the rumors started to fly.
Chapter Thirteen
Quarantine Room, U.S.S. Siren
Seaman Apprentice Alyssa Kensington lay on the thin mattress, staring up at the metallic ceiling. The past few hours proved a hazy recollection of painful memories–and a test of perseverance to resist clawing her itchy eyes.
Without her eye and ear DOTS, Alyssa’s period of quarantine had quickly become unbearably dull. After scouring the room’s concealed storage compartments, unable to find a single archaic paperback or magazine to peruse, she’d flopped on the bed, frustrated with her state of ennui. Why would anyone bother to stow printed books when they had a wealth of information–ebooks, movies, and music–instantly accessible through the DOTS’ uplink with the Internet or the Siren’s database?
And with the latest upgrade occurring tomorrow, information would arrive at an even faster speed, without the hassle of transporting the pocket-sized Mobile Uplink Digital Equipment around. The new MUDEs would be wafer thin, the size of her dog tags, and designed to be as inconspicuous as a gold charm worn around one’s neck or wrist. Not only would the United States’ telecommunications industry be at the pinnacle of the world with the new DOTS’ recording capabilities, but the general populace would no longer need to physically carry anything in their pockets or purses. Credit card numbers, driver’s licenses, and other personal forms of identification could easily be installed upon the new MUDEs, making the old handheld versions and any remaining cellular or Smartphones obsolete.
Granted, most people onboard the sub used the new devices almost constantly. Compulsive gamers somehow managed to multi-task, completing their assigned duties while interacting with other Siren personnel in battle games. Alyssa easily spotted them at the Mess Hall–the seamen whose fingers twitched sporadically, their eyes darting from side to side as they inhaled their food. Some of the new recruits were so obsessed with gaming that their eyes began to get the shakes: involuntary spasms even when they weren’t using their eye DOTS. Alyssa couldn’t look at them for long; she found their incessant twitching unnerving.
Of course Alyssa enjoyed her DOTS, too, having the opportunity to listen to her favorite songs and movies in stereo while she ate. Yet the convenience came with a price. Everyone else on board seemed so preoccupied in their virtual worlds that she rarely engaged in personal interaction with her colleagues over meals. It was almost as if the advanced technology actually distanced humans from one another, instead of bringing them closer together as was the original intent of mobile communication.
Alyssa avoided utilizing the equipment while on duty, however. Ever wary of the wrath of her superiors, she feared she wouldn’t successfully complete her assigned duties if tempted by the wealth of resources and entertainment options available through the blink of an eye. On the virtual keyboard suspended in front of her face, she merely directed her attention toward a specific button to upload one of thousands of free movies or song choices from the sub’s database. Or she could access her uploaded files of digital photos–a luxury when forbidden many personal items on board
Her DOTS also provided the flexibility of “visiting” the nearby Caribbean Islands, even though she remained below the surface. Using their current latitude and longitude coordinates, Alyssa virtually toured nearby islands on the sub’s database, pretending she lounged on white sandy beaches or shopped for souvenirs in the local markets. She’d read up on the island’s culture and history, particularly enjoying the old pirate tales from each port.
Of course it wasn’t the same as a vacation, missing out on the local flavor and scents, the fresh breeze rustling her hair, the sun beating down on her face, and lounging on the beach to work on her tan…but it was a huge improvement from the monotonous scenery she had on board.
Though the monotonous scenery seemed preferable to her current situation.
Guilt consumed Alyssa for the probable epidemic she created. (How long would it be before Rosemary and the others began to develop symptoms of conjunctivitis?) And for the untimely deaths of
those stranded whales and dolphins, possibly linked to her actions aboard the U.S.S. Siren. Of course, she wasn’t the only one responsible–she was following orders, after all. But Alyssa had actually pushed the button, thereby initiating the active sonar test. If she hadn’t done so, those defenseless animals would probably still be alive.
Shortly after the test, the Siren had risen to periscope depth to resume communications with their satellite link and report the results to the Naval Research Officials, Alyssa suspected. Whatever the reason, the submariners found themselves with unexpected access to the World Wide Web before the Siren dove deep again. A source of much excitement, word quickly spread throughout the Mess Hall. After checking her email and sending a few texts, Alyssa surfed the net while she ate, eager for more information on the nearby Caribbean ports of call.
That’s when she’d stumbled across several articles and blogs posted by local scientists and marine mammal rescuers following the Siren’s test. Two beaked whales, eleven pilot whales, and a spinner dolphin all reportedly stranded onshore in the Bahamas. Apparently, the scientists found the whales had no prior health problems. The reports did mention, however, that the whales were bleeding from their ears and brain, possibly linked to intense sound waves like those generated during active sonar tests.
Alyssa gasped, making the connection. Her sub had been near the Bahamas at the time of their test. The reports were talking about the Siren.
She was a murderer.
Granted, the Siren’s commanding officers and the XO had reassured her that the data collected during these tests would save thousands of submariners in the future. If the Navy were to implement this advanced prototype of active sonar for the entire Hydra class of submarines, they would gain the enhanced ability to scan the ocean floor and identify enemy subs at a much greater range. What did it matter if a few animals died in the process of this new discovery? Their deaths were not necessarily triggered by the test. All over the world, whales beach themselves for a variety of reasons: illness, changing shoreline contours, storms…
