The Whiteness of the Whale: A Novel

by David Poyer

  Perrault rose, flinging water off like a wet Labrador. He staggered, then shifted his grip on the wheel he’d never released, even when the fire hoses had fixed him to it. He shouted to Quill in a thick voice, “Jibing!”

  “Jibing, aye. All hands, heads down.” The bearlike mate was staggering aft, bent over his belly, which he clutched with both hands. When he reached the coach house he rolled over it like a child in the snow, landing on the starboard side. He reeled, almost went overboard, but yanked the safety line taut to brake his frictionless slide. He spun lightly as a ballerina and his wrists blurred as he slacked the genoa.

  “Helm’s over,” Perrault yelled, bending to spin the wheel so fast the spokes became invisible, just as the massive blade of the oncoming ship passed through the space where their stern had been a moment before.

  The heavy aluminum boom hesitated, then slammed from one side to the other as a curve passed from the trailing edge of the great mainsail up toward the masttop, twisting, then yanking the sail over as the wind shifted from one side to the other. The women shouted and slid, grabbing at each other and at the lifeline that was all that barriered them from the roaring sea. Anemone kept heeling, port lifeline submerged in the freezing froth, a clamor as of a collapsing mine coming from below as everything not lashed down freed itself and made for the downhill side. Quill remained bent over the winch, elbows pumping as he cranked. As Anemone’s stern passed through the wind the captain, hanging like Ixion to the wheel, advanced the throttle. The engines howled. Sea the color of limes shot from beneath the stern. Quill scrambled to the mainsheet and hauled in hand over hand. The boom quivered as it drew slowly toward centerline.

  Sara shuddered, looking aft. Her soaked clothing was stiff, freezing on her. Their bubbled wake formed a bright green hairpin turn in the darker jostling waves. The whaler had started to follow them around, but its captain must have seen he couldn’t turn sharply enough to avoid the berg. Instead she steamed on, leaving a rolling mass of spume and white ice between her and the sailboat. Faces lined the rail, staring down at them, deadpan as robots.

  Then one hand lifted, farther aft. Sara squinted. A single figure aft of the smokestack was giving them a slow, cautious wave. She couldn’t make out his face—too far away—but she too lifted a hand.

  Quill rose from his kneel by the mainsheet. Then slumped, gripping his belly again. When he lifted a glove Sara saw the bright crimson smear. “Jamie! Jamie’s hurt,” she yelled.

  “Take the wheel,” Perrault snapped. She halted short, and obeyed. The captain dropped to his knees. “Jamie. You all right?”

  “Something sharp,” the mate grunted, chewing his beard. He lifted the other hand, which was bloody too. “That fire hose tumbled me ass over teacups. Poked me right in the fooking gut.”

  “Can you walk? Best get below, if you can. Have Bodine take a look.”

  Quill hesitated, cradling his midriff. Then lumbered up, wincing, and staggered to the companionway. “Watch those wet steps,” Georgie called after him.

  Eyeing their much larger opponent, Perrault spun the wheel again as soon as they cleared the berg. This put the wind on their beam and they gathered velocity once more as the kill ship came right too. Only its track now led far wide of theirs. He shaded his eyes to where round yellow floats bobbed on a dark olive sea. “Mick, Sara: grab the boat hooks. Let’s pick up that line and try again.”

  “Fuck that! They almost ran us down,” Dorée shouted, crouched beside the inflatable. She got up and felt her way forward, plumped down in the cockpit. Ice crackled off her suit. She tore off her mask, exposing flushed hectic cheeks. “Do we really want to try that again?”

  He ignored her. Sara, after a moment’s glance back, went forward as ordered. She clipped her safety line midships and grabbed the boat hook.

  Before they could pick the float line up, though, the whaler came about. It headed off past the berg, bounding ahead like a whistled-up collie. Away from them. Perrault cursed and looked from it to the floats. “Headed for the factory ship?” Madsen said.

  “Possibly. Possibly.”

  “We found the fleet. Can’t lose them now.”

  Perrault glanced upwind again, then nodded. Anemone hauled around again and steadied several points off the wind. Madsen bent to the winch; the captain, to the mainsheets. The boat climbed up on plane again, scalpeling smoothly through the seas. Sara crouched as a sheet of spray doused her, freezing another layer on her suit like another skin on an onion. The salt trickled down under her eyepatch, itching and burning, and she couldn’t help rubbing it.

  “What’re we doing? Chasing them? How about picking up the float line?”

  “We’ll have to let it go,” Madsen said. “We’ve got to stick with the fleet.” He grinned at her. “Isn’t this great? Did you see those whales swimming away, free? That pitch Jamie made?”

  “But I saw him get hurt, too. And I saw us almost get run down, Lars.”

  “That’s just a scrape. He’ll be back on deck in a minute.” The Dane chafed his gloves together briskly. “And now they’re running. Not a bad day’s work, I’d say. What’re we logging, Dru?”

  “Nineteen.” The captain was hunched over the wheel, frowning ahead. They were catching up to the whaler. Slowly, overtaking from behind, but gaining, surging over bigger seas, slicing through the smaller ones.

  “This was worth everything. All we went through.” Madsen seized her shoulder. “The storm. Everything. We spoiled their hunt. Saved whales. We’ve got them on the run!”

  Sara studied him, wiping tears from her weeping eye. He looked manic, and she felt suddenly afraid. She pulled free. “Lars, that’s all great. But we almost got killed, too. That asshole captain tried to crowd us into that berg. And those water cannons—they could’ve knocked someone overboard.”

  “We have to take risks, Sara. Understand? You accept danger, in battle. This is our war, for the whales.” He hammered a gloved fist on the cockpit coaming.

  “You are so committed, Lars,” Dorée purred, sliding both arms around his waist from behind. She smiled at Sara over his shoulder. “It’s what I love about you.”

  “I’m going below,” Georgita said, and pushed past, cradling her arm. Sara almost asked if she’d hurt it again, but one look at the assistant’s closed face stopped her question dead.

  “What’s with her?” Dorée shrugged dismissively. “Better yet, who cares.—Eddi. Eddi! Did you get all that? Were you filming?”

  Auer crawled from behind the inflatable, still clutching her camera. She half rose, then sank back. “My gosh—I don’t think we’ve ever gone this fast before.”

  Sara realized she was gripping a stanchion so tightly her hand was cramping. Anemone was trembling all along her length, as if approaching some transition speed where she would leap free of the sea entirely, like a flying fish, and take to the air. How much power the wind had. Enough to lift whole icebergs. Frightened, exhilarated, she opened her mouth wide to the gale and laughed.

  “Sara,” Perrault said, craning around. “Oh, there you are. Take the wheel while I check on Jamie. Aim for her stern. Watch for ice. I shall not be long.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” She dashed him a mock salute and untangled herself from the stanchion. From the salt spray and maybe the fire hoses too the sole was nearly free of ice now, though chunks of crust still made the footing treacherous. She braced her boots and fought the helm with all her strength as the boat took great leaps across the sea. The stern of the whaler rose ahead, trailing a smoke of birds. Brown exhaust stained the blue sky. She could just make out a lone figure in yellow slicker and red helmet, gazing back from the stern rail.

  But something was wrong. Something was changing. She could see the Japanese ship’s bow again. She glanced at the compass, then back at the whaler.

  “Dru! Captain! He’s turning.”

  Perrault’s hawklike face reappeared at the bottom of the companionway. “What?”

  “The whaler—it’s turning.
”

  “Which way?”

  “Right. To starboard.”

  “Into the wind? Caulisse.” He climbed the ladder. Braced himself and stared forward, then bent to the mainsheet again, hauling it in until the boom was nearly centered. Anemone faltered. Sara brought her back on course, but the compass kept ticking over. The boat’s head sought the wind, wavered, then fell away.

  “Can’t keep my course,” she shouted.

  “He’s trying to shake us off.” Madsen lowered binoculars. “Speeded up, and turned into the wind.”

  The sails flapped as the racer coasted forward ever more slowly. Perrault cursed and reached for the throttle. He yelled to Madsen to furl the genoa. Sara made as if to step away, but he grunted, “Stay there. You’re doing fine.”

  Meter by meter, the flapping expanse of high-tech fabric twisted itself into its housing. The engines rose to a howl, to an ear-stabbing whine. “Turbine superchargers,” the Frenchman muttered. He rubbed his mouth with the back of a hand and looked from the instrument panel to the ship ahead. Hesitated, then pushed the twin levers all the way forward.

  Anemone snarled. Water blasted from her stern, and she shot ahead, skipping across the waves like an eighty-foot Jet Ski. “We’re catching up again,” Eddi yelled.

  They craned forward, squinting in the port-wine rays of the low sun. The distant bergs were scarlet and pink and ruby and gold. A soft-drink can bobbed past jauntily in the clean cold water, spinning to show a colorful manga schoolgirl with skirt flying up to reveal white panties. Madsen spat over the side.

  For several minutes it did seem they would overtake. But more smoke shot from the killer’s stack. The distance held for five minutes. Ten. Then Perrault straightened from the radar, and shook his head. “She has found another knot somewhere. I think we could overtake downwind. Or on a beam reach.” He glanced whalerward, defeat shadowing his eyes. “We thought Anemone would be fast. And she is. But that killer … he’s just the littlest bit faster.”

  “Ice ahead,” Dorée screeched. Perrault flinched and shaded his eyes, then snapped orders. The stern skated around, but the dark-green-stained chunk, so low in the water no one else had seen it, approached inexorably. Sara grabbed for a handhold, flashing on the thin taut wires that alone kept the keel from parting company with the hull. Envisioning them snapping, the boat going end over end … but they skated past mere yards from the sullen, slowly rolling menace.

  “Launch the inflatable?” Lars shouted.

  The captain shook his head. “Too rough. You’ll never catch her.”

  “I’m willing to take a chance.”

  “So am I,” Dorée said, but Perrault shook his head again, firmly.

  The gray ship shrank. Perrault pulled the throttles back. The whine dropped to a murmur. He shut the engines down and tacked away, still heading in the general direction of the kill ship, but at an angle that let the wind resume driving them.

  Madsen came to stand behind him, expression grim. “We can’t lose them.”

  The captain said, “We won’t. They cannot maintain that speed for long. They have fuel limits too. He’ll get out of sight, then reduce power. And go back to hunting. We must just … press on.”

  The Dane tipped his mask back, and Sara traced the bitter set of his lips. Then they quirked upward, and he threw her a chapped smile. “Well … we saved whales today. Anyway. Those minkes … I mean, piked whales. Alive. Free. Because of us.”

  “That’s right. We did that,” Dorée agreed. She rubbed her eyes, and looked around. “Eddi?”

  “I got some good footage,” Auer called from up forward. “When we were alongside.”

  “While they were trying to run us down?”

  “Yes, Tehiyah,” Eddi said patiently. “I got it all. Wide angle. It’s going to be terrific.”

  Sara sagged against the steering pedestal and tugged off her mask. Her eye still burned from the gas, as if she’d rubbed pepper into it. Eddi peered down at her. “Uh, Sara? Your nose is all white.”

  “My nose?” She put her fingers over it. It felt like rubbing a stone.

  “Oh my God,” said Dorée. “Here, let me.”

  Tehiyah leaned close. Her lips parted, and suddenly warmth engulfed Sara’s face. She went rigid, blinking. After thirty seconds the actress straightened, wiping her mouth. “It’s frostbite. Had to warm it up.” Eyes veined with tawny gold twinkled down at her. “Better? Put your mask back on. Right now. Hear?”

  She couldn’t think of a thing to say, other than to mutter, “Thanks.”

  “Okay, let’s get below,” the captain said. “Next time, we’ll do even better. I am proud of everyone.”

  * * *

  They were standing at the companionway, in line to go below, when Sara happened to glance forward. The departing whaler had changed course to avoid another berg. Just as it turned back, though, a spot of bright color hung suspended for a moment from the stern, then dropped into the wake.

  She blinked, hardly believing what she’d just seen, and pointed. “On the ship. I think … I think I just saw someone fall overboard.”

  “Probably just dumping trash,” Madsen said, but reached for the binoculars.

  Perrault frowned, shading his eyes. “Yes, perhaps it is someone overboard,” he said slowly. “In the water, to the left.”

  “Oh my God,” Dorée said.

  Dru snapped to Lars, “We’re coming about. Tend the sheets.” He brought the prow around smartly. The sails snapped, then filled again. Anemone leaped forward, making up on a bright yellow object that floated, spinning slowly, in the jade-foamed wake of the killer. It had vanished behind the berg, only pilothouse and stack and antennas visible now, and continuing to shrink.

  “Is it a man?” Georgita whispered from the companionway.

  Madsen held the binoculars for several seconds. “Yeah.”

  “Sara, boat hook, to starboard. Tehiyah, Eddi, hand me that sheet.” The captain spun the wheel lock on, and with a complex motion of both hands dropped a knotted loop into Dorée’s gloves. “Use this. Sara will get it around him, with the boat hook. And all four of you will pull him aboard. C’est clair?”

  It seemed clear enough. She went forward and clipped her safety line and reeved the slack out of it. She braced her boots and aimed the boat hook over the side like a lance. The others ranged themselves behind her. The man was now clearly visible a hundred yards ahead. He floated low in the sea, heaved upward and then down by the swells. A sallow oval yearned toward them. Dark hair crowned a bullet head. An arm lifted, waved weakly, then sank back.

  “One pass,” Perrault called. “One chance. If we must take time to come around again, he will be dead.”

  Sara kicked ice overboard. She didn’t want to slip at the crucial moment. The captain said something to Madsen, who bent to the sheets. Anemone began to slow, the big mainsail luffing and cracking above them. When she glanced aft the captain was the picture of concentration, gloves welded to the wheel.

  “Now,” he shouted, and Anemone headed up into the wind, shedding speed, her sharp prow swinging toward the castaway. He stared helplessly up, then sank back into what she saw was a life preserver, eyelids sagging closed.

  “Now,” Perrault shouted. Sara scampered forward, lowered the pole, and for a heart-stopping moment thought she’d missed him. But at the second jab the curved hook snagged a strap and she gaffed him in. A surge of the boat nearly dragged the hook from her hands, but she held on grimly and a loop sailed out and over the floating man’s head.

  He stirred, but didn’t open his eyes. “Pull,” Georgie yelled, at the same time Madsen shouted, “Don’t! It’s not under his arms yet.” She braced herself as the boat continued forward. Then suddenly was pinned against the lifeline, the body dragging through green water at the end of her boat hook, her shoulders nearly dislocated from their sockets each time a wave rolled past.

  Then Madsen was beside her, strong arms joined hers on the wooden pole, and hand over hand they hois
ted the resistless and lolling weight up to where the others, reaching under the lifeline, were able to get gloves on slicker and arms and life vest. “All together, heave,” Dorée grunted, and the body, smaller than she’d expected, though sodden-heavy, emerged from the green and was pulled over the hastily-dropped lifelines onto the deck.

  Sara cradled his head in her lap. He was young, full-cheeked, with dark lashes and close-cropped black hair. His skin was oyster-flesh pale, and when she laid her palm against a cheek it was icy.

  “Below, get those clothes off him,” Perrault snapped. “Blankets. Something hot to drink. And somebody, bundle up with him.”

  Eddi said she would; they were about the same size. Sara wasn’t sure what that had to do with it, but didn’t object. She and Madsen and Dorée improvised a makeshift carry. They maneuvered him into the cockpit, then lowered him, very carefully, into Auer’s upstretched arms. Perrault, meanwhile, was speaking urgently into the VHF remote. “Siryu Maru Number Three, Siryu Maru Number Three. This is Cetacean Protection League ship Black Anemone. I have recovered a man overboard from your crew. Please respond, Siryu Maru Number Three. Over.” The radio crackled, clicked with what might have been a microphone triggering, but did not reply.

  Sara leaned against the coach house, shaking, breathing hard. She stared to where the whaler had disappeared behind the tabular iceberg. But the ship was out of sight, out of mind, and did not answer them. All that remained was her smoke, the faintest stain of tea on a horizon of fading rose.