Wired Kingdom Page 11

  Anastasia ran down from the bridge, where her talent as a marine mammalogist was being put to work tracking whales. She was so good at it, the captain of the Resistance famously remarked, that he became concerned the Japanese were following them, since they always seemed to be first on the whales.

  “Don't do it, Eric,” Anastasia implored. “It's not worth it.”

  He shook his head. “I’m going.”

  She pulled him to her. “Please don't go. They'll only be able to take one whale, anyway. The pod will make it into the ice pack, south.”

  “It's always one more. One more whale. One more tuna. One more whaling season. I'm sick of it. No more.” He broke free from her embrace. In retrospect, Stein would later understand that this was the exact moment—with one gloved hand gripping the ice-covered rail of a protest ship in howling Antarctic seas, a coterie of men standing around nervously watching for his cue—that he had pulled away from her forever.

  While Anastasia marched back up to her station in the bridge, Eric clenched the hand straps in the boat as the winch operator lowered them to the shifting water. Eric untethered them from the winch cable just as the Zodiac hit the top of a swell, and the Zodiac captain—a former Alaska crab fisherman—gunned the outboard to get them a safe distance from the ship.

  The launch successful, they rocketed toward the Japanese whaler, a huge factory of a ship that could go about business as usual for months at a time in conditions like these. Stein white-knuckled the cargo netting to remain in the Zodiac as it skied down mountainous waves.

  Then the communications man received a spot from the Resistance over the radio. He pointed the way toward the pod of whales. The idea was to maneuver the Zodiac between the whaling ship and their intended targets so that the harpoon gunner would hesitate to fire long enough for the whales to leave the area.

  The whalers had grown increasingly tired of the interference with what they saw as their national right, however, and the conflicts had escalated to physical confrontations—which was fine with Eric Stein. Given the chance, he would personally board the whaling ship and choke the life out of the harpooner until somebody did the same to him. To Eric it was a personal affront to kill these whales, which belonged to everyone.

  But this time the Japanese were ready. Tired of the Americans endangering all who ventured into the Southern Ocean with their self-righteous antics and racking up huge financial losses, they took action. They aimed a water cannon at the small boat, blasting it with a torrent of icy seawater, ripping the radio out of the communication man's hands and flinging it into the sea.

  No longer able to receive reports from the Resistance, the men in the inflatable had to wait until a wave lifted them high enough to see what was happening around them. The whalers, from their perch towering above the decks of their factory-ship, could easily track the protestors. The activists carried no weapons, which were strictly forbidden by GreenAction, but Eric incited the harpoon gunner by buzzing the Zodiac around the whaler, shouting profanities and slogans, then stopping between it and the intended target.

  But Stein's use of force—even if largely symbolic—was more than the whalers would tolerate. A salvo of water hit the Zodiac's driver square in the gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending their boat into an uncontrolled spin. The next moments were a blur to Stein. Like some kind of sensory kaleidoscope, at once he recalled the odor of the captain's vomit, the shouts of a crewman, the sneer on the Japanese harpoon gunner's face, and lightning passing through his shoulder.

  The images ceased when Stein hit the polar water.

  The pain had been caused by a direct hit from the water cannon. His shoulder, dislocated when he slammed into the outboard before tumbling overboard, would bear a dark and deep bruise for over a month. When a wave lifted him, Stein could see the Zodiac, maybe ten yards away, catching air as a swell dropped out from under it, the two men inside flailing to stay aboard. No way he could move himself to it.

  The water temperature was like nothing Stein had experienced before. Cold didn't begin to describe the paralyzing force that began shutting down his physiology within seconds. Even with the life vest buoying him, he could barely muster the coordination to breathe. Peripherally, Eric saw the whaling ship's metal hull rising above him, then bearing down on him. He knew that he lacked the power to swim away from it, and even if they wanted to, the whalers wouldn't be able to move such a hulk of a ship quickly enough to avoid him. Eric faded in and out of consciousness as the swells took him. He heard the buzzing of the Zodiac as the crewman still on board took the driver’s place at the outboard.

  Were it not for the orange streak of the life vest, Stein would have been invisible in the frothy sea. The last thing he would remember was being yanked aboard the Zodiac, and then bouncing painfully on the floorboards as the inflatable raced back to the Resistance.

  Upon reviving him, the crew told him that after five minutes in the Antarctic sea without an exposure suit, he should have been dead when they pulled him aboard. He spent the next hour wrapped in a blanket and sipping hot coffee in front of a window, where he watched as blood poured from the fin whale he’d tried to save.

  Once tensions had subsided, Stein was rebuked by his fellow GreenAction activists, who praised the gunner's restraint. The harpoon gunner had been tracking him with the grenade-tipped harpoon gun on its rotating turret, his finger on the trigger. Eric's response to the criticism was that floating idly nearby and filming the Japanese slaughter of whales was a sham; all it accomplished was to get GreenAction's name in the media so they could return next season and document more whaling.

  “I'm not interested in filming whales dying,” Stein spat at his colleagues. “I want to save them. That's what I tried to do out there today.”

  He was reminded in no uncertain terms that he had almost died doing it, endangering the crew in the process. Stein's acidic retort sealed his fate within the organization.

  “At least I tried. Out of a whole ship of so-called protestors who sailed to the bottom of the Earth, I'm the only one who actually did anything once we got there. I can see this is just a job for you people; you wouldn't want to jeopardize your precious funding by actually doing anything. Better to just cruise around and film the animals you pretend to protect while they go extinct. It beats working, right?”

  Stein was terminated from GreenAction, and from that point forward he had conducted his own brand of activism, his own way. He had surprised even himself when, two years later, he had 1,000 members of an organization that was defined to its very core by him and him alone. Without the checks and balances of a more traditional group like GreenAction, Stein's rancor compounded exponentially, made manifest in targeted protests that almost always ended in violent, newsworthy mayhem. By the time he had two full-time criminal defense attorneys on OLF's payroll, Stein had become an international pariah.

  Even so, he recalled the shock and surprise he'd felt the first time he saw the label “eco-terrorist” next to his name. Eco-terrorist Eric Stein . . . he'd read one day in the L.A. Times. Is that what I am? he'd thought. It didn't seem possible. He was just a guy who cared fervently about the environment, and who was willing to do things others considered beyond their reach in order to protect it. Terrorist?

  But with the notoriety came funding, some from surprising sources, including anonymous corporate donors who'd been snubbed by the same lobbyists Stein's organization battled on a routine basis. The infamy also brought more volunteers than ever, and OLF's ranks had soon swollen to proportions that demanded attention.

  As Stein learned how to manipulate the media through ever more reckless stunts, he became inured to the immorality of his actions. He knew only that the more outrageous his deeds and callous his attitude, the greater visibility and power his group attained. Underlying it all was a seething hatred, a genuine seed of mistrust sown that day in the Southern Ocean, thereafter to be watered, nourished, and pruned by every environmentally abrasive piece of legislation, eve
ry statistic depicting the irreversible loss of biodiversity at the hands of man, every Hummer-driving idiot who'd never rolled his leased wheels off the parking lot America had become.

  What was destructive by all outward appearances was, for Stein, his life's work, nothing less than an art form that would lead to his own amputated future. He pictured it sometimes, his life, cut short by some glorious demise in the line of duty, and the fact was that it energized him. His life might be short, but it would be the perfect picture of his vision. No one, not even Anastasia—especially not Anastasia—would get in the way. Since the GreenAction trip, he had had no personal interaction with her. They would occasionally find themselves in close proximity for professional reasons—at a conference, a protest or rally, a political function—but there was no longer a relationship. She had affected him, once, but she would not be allowed to interfere now.

  Through the walls of his ship he could distinguish Anastasia's voice on the megaphone shouting instructions, attempting to carry out her own vision, her idea of convincing the masses through academic work, interlaced with extravagant infotainment, that natural ecosystems were worth saving. But she was making it worse, Stein thought as he stood again and started to pace. Her actions reinforced the notion that nature was nothing more than a “resource” to be exploited on every possible level, from sustenance to entertainment. Her vision was incompatible with his own, and he determined, opening the cabin door, not to allow her TV show to become any more successful.

  His moment of weakness passed, his resolve steeled, Eric sprung down the companionway toward the ladder that would lead him topside.

  CHAPTER 17

  ABOARD THE WIRED KINGDOM SCARAB

  Anastasia threw the megaphone down. “Damn it! They're not moving.” She looked over at Tara, who stood on the side of the dock. The detective waved her cell phone. Anastasia called.

  “Special Agent Shores, how may I help you?” It was Tara’s turn to be annoying.

  “Can’t you do something about these punks? It’s illegal to willfully block a public waterway.”

  Tara shrugged. “I’m not a traffic cop. Besides, it sounds like you know the guy. What’s the problem?”

  “Old college fling gone bad. I’ll tell you about it later. Can you just get them to move, please?”

  “Two minutes ago you wouldn’t stop the boat even long enough for me to get on. Now you want my help so you can leave without me?”

  “Okay. Get those troublemakers to let us pass and you’ve earned your ticket.”

  Tara saw Anastasia nod her head at a crewman, and a small tender launched toward the dock. A black guy in a Wired Kingdom T-shirt pulled up to Tara and steadied the launch while she stepped in.

  Minutes later Tara approached the OLF schooner. Gilded lettering on the stern read Pandora’s Box. As she drew nearer, Tara recognized the dreadlocked guy as the man in charge of the extremist environmental group. Although never convicted himself, he was widely believed to be responsible for influencing his members to commit a litany of serious offenses, always in the name of the marine environment. He was said to have a charismatic hold on his followers, not unlike a cult leader. Tara knew the FBI had an extensive file on him and his organization, and she found herself tensing as she drew near the schooner, trying to recall his name.

  “Morning.” She smiled. He stared back. “My name is Special Agent Tara Shores,” she said, flashing her credentials. The sailor’s eyes followed her movements, but he seemed disinterested at the same time. This guy is cold, Tara thought. Reptilian. She found herself almost subconsciously easing a hand near the pistol she wore in a hip holster.

  “These guys gimme the creeps,” the dinghy operator said, loud enough for the dreadlocked enviro-zealot to hear. “Maybe we should just call the harbor patrol.”

  “I’m hoping that won’t be necessary,” Tara said, also loud enough to be overheard. Then, turning back, she said, “Listen, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Stein. Eric Stein.”

  It was the first time Tara had heard him speak. She was surprised to hear a rather thin, whiny voice.

  “Mr. Stein, that vessel you’re blocking is assisting the FBI in a murder investigation. Is there some reason you refuse to move?”

  “Our organization believes that they’ve screwed around enough with the so-called wired whale, and that the animal is better off without them anywhere near it.”

  The Scarab drifted toward the schooner. Anastasia stood on the expansive bow deck, craning her neck to hear. “What’s that lowlife idiot saying?” she called out. “Never mind. Just arrest him and get him out of the way.”

  “I’m not going to arrest him for—”

  “Last summer you slaughtered a canoe full of Eskimos who were only hunting for food, retaining their cultural heritage,” she said, pointing at him dramatically, “Remember that, Eric Slime? You didn’t see our plane up there, did you? I know what you did last summer!”

  This elicited a few chuckles from Stein’s motley crew, but they did nothing more than maintain their casual state of readiness.

  “Only one of them was an Eskimo,” Stein replied slowly, “and that only on paper, as I understand it, due to some courthouse finagling to take advantage of Native American government benefits. He was as much an Eskimo hunting for food as you are a scientist studying whales with your ridiculous spectacle of a show. He collected cash from wealthy businessmen who flew into Alaska for the weekend to hunt walrus and whales the old-fashioned way for kicks: in a paddled boat, using hand-thrown spears. This ‘Eskimo’ didn’t have any problem using protected, endangered animals as feel-good trophies for old men who wanted to believe they were young again.”

  “So you murdered them,” Anastasia called across the water.

  “They had a boating accident,” Stein said, making no effort to conceal his visual appraisal of the sleek Scarab.

  “That sounds like a threat!” Anastasia yelled.

  It was the closest Tara had seen her come to being upset. And with OLF’s rap sheet, Tara quickly reflected, she couldn’t blame her. The group had grown progressively violent in recent years, and was on the verge of being formally classified as a terrorist organization by the U.S. government.

  “Mr. Stein, as I was saying,” Tara intervened, “I’m not here to investigate you or your organization. But if you refuse to let that boat pass, you’ll be obstructing justice, and then I’ll have no choice but to arrest you. I’m pretty sure you’d rather be out on the water saving the whales for the TV cameras than calling your attorneys for bail money and wasting precious time getting your vessel out of impound.”

  “So you don’t care if we go out there?” Stein asked.

  “Why should we?” Anastasia cut in with a taunt. “We’ll be there and back by the time you get halfway to my whale in that old tub.”

  Tara frowned in her direction, then turned back to the schooner. “No, Mr. Stein. I can’t stop you from sailing the ocean . . . as long as you stay peaceful. But you need to move. Now.” It was a direct order, a challenge. She hoped he would move. If he disobeyed her, she’d have to call for backup. Then there would be some kind of action, which would mean reports to write up, not to mention jeopardizing attempts to rescue the whale, and she had no time for either.

  Stein sat motionless for a long moment, but it was as if he was studying her, not considering what to do. Finally, he said, “You know, you’ve done something I’ve always wanted to do.”

  Here we go, Tara thought. He’s going to resist. “What’s that?”

  “You swam in the ocean with wild Orca. I’ve been around the planet by water . . . what, seven times now?” He turned to consult with one of his crew, who ticked a count off on his fingers before shaking his head. “Okay, six and a half times. And I’ve never been able to do that, ever. None of us have. What was it like?”

  “You can pay to see it on my damn web site, loser,” Anastasia shouted. Tara cast her a sideways glance, surprised at the harsh language used so c
asually from such a well-educated professional.

  “I’m not asking you, Doctor. You weren’t even in the water, as I recall,” Stein said.

  Anastasia’s face burned while Tara’s mind lighted on the powerful black-and-white mammals . . . the terror she felt . . . and yes, she thought, maybe even a fleeting moment of sheer child-like wonder that had found its way into her horrified mind when her bare hand brushed over one of their sleek hides. So smooth, like velvet, yet so brutal at the same time.

  “The Shamu experience is definitely not for everyone. Seriously, it wasn’t something I chose to do, or would want to do again,” she said honestly. A few of the OLF crew were stepping forward to hear her, listening with interest. “I felt like I was in their way, like I didn’t belong there.”

  Stein’s eyes locked on hers for a second. No one said anything. Then he simply raised a hand, and two deckhands retrieved the anchors. Nothing more was said as the quiet hum of an electric trolling motor started and the sailing boat edged its way to one side of the channel.

  The dinghy turned a one-eighty and motored back to the Scarab. Tara felt Stein’s eyes on the back of her neck as a Wired Kingdom crewman helped her aboard the million-dollar racing craft.

  CHAPTER 18

  33° 36’ 25.8” N AND 119° 69’ 78.4” W

  When problems happen underwater they tend to start small. As experienced divers know, little problems left unattended have a way of becoming big ones, in a kind of snowball effect. For diver Carlos Mendonca, the snowball was already rolling downhill.

  His first problem was simply seeing where he was going. The water was murky, visibility less than five feet. Hardly passable conditions in which to dive, let alone approach a hundred-ton monster. But thoughts of wealth propelled Carlos away from his better judgment and through the pea soup over the seamount. Just as the whale had been attracted to the baited net, he too was lured by what it now promised.