Clive Cussler - Blue Gold

He formed a conglomerate of sponsors and used their economic clout to bring a major race to the States. Race promoters were eager for the opportunity to tap into the vast potential of

the American audience, and before long the first SoCal Grand Prix had become a reality.

NUMA director Admiral James Sandecker grumbled when Austin told him he wanted to work around assignments, when ever possible, so he could race in the qualifying runs. Sandecker said he was worried about Austin being injured in a race. Austin had politely pointed out that for all its dangers, racing was a canoe paddle compared with the hazardous jobs Sandecker as signed him to as leader of NUMA's Special Assignments Team. As a trump card he played on the admiral's fierce patriotic pride. Sandecker gave Austin his blessing and said it was about time the United States showed the rest of the world that they could compete with the best of them.

Austin returned to the party after talking to his father. He quickly tired of the false hilarity and was happy to be invited aboard the Nepenthe to meet Gloria Ekhart, who wanted to thank him. The actress's mature warmth and beauty enchanted him. When they shook hands she didn't let go right away. They talked awhile and maintained eye contact that sent messages of mutual interest. Austin briefly entertained the fantasy of having a fling with someone he'd idolized on the big and little screens. It was not to be. Apologizing profusely, Ekhart was dragged off by the demands of her children.

Figuring it just wasn't his day Austin went back to the hotel and answered calls from NUMA colleagues and friends. He had dinner sent up and enjoyed filet mignon as he watched TV re runs of the race. The stations were running slow-motion replays again and again. Austin was more interested in the fate of the dead whales. One reporter mentioned that three whales were going to be examined at the naval station. Austin was curious as well as bored. From what he had heard and seen the whales didn't have a mark to indicate what killed them. The incompleteness of the situation went beyond the loss of his father's boat. It rankled his sense of orderliness.

The autopsy seemed to be winding down. Austin asked the seaman to take his NUMA business card to someone in charge.

The seaman returned with a sandy-haired man in his forties who stripped off his blood-soaked foul-weather gear and gloves but kept his surgical mask on.

"Mr. Austin," he said, extending his hand. "Jason Witherell EPA. Pleasure to meet you. Glad to have NUMA interested. We might need to utilize your resources."

"We're always ready to help the EPA," Austin said. "My interest is more personal than official. I was in the race today when the whales made their appearance."

"I saw the news clips." Witherell laughed. "That was one hell of a maneuver you pulled off. Sorry about your boat."

"Thanks. I was wondering, have you come up with a cause of death?"

"Sure, they died of DORK."

"Pardon?"

Witherell grinned. "Don't Really Know. DORK."

Austin smiled patiently. He knew pathologists sometimes cultivated a zany sense of humor to help maintain their sanity.

"Any guesses?"

Witherell said, 'As far as we can determine for now, there was no evidence of trauma or toxin, and we've tested tissue for virus. Negative so far. One whale had become entangled in a monfilament fishing net, but it doesn't seem to have prevented the animal from eating or harmed it in any fatal way."

"So at least for now you don't have a clue how they died?"

"Oh sure, we know how. They suffocated. There was heavy lung damage that caused pneumonia. The lungs seem to have been damaged by intense heat."

"Heat? I'm not sure I follow you."

"I'll put it this way. They were partially cooked internally, and their skin was blistered as well."

"What could have done something like that?"

"DORIC," Witherell said with a shrug of his shoulders.

Austin pondered the answer. "If you don't know what, how about when?"

"That's tough to pinpoint. The initial exposure might not

have been instantly fatal. The mammals could have become ill several days before their deaths but continued to make their way along the coast. The little ones would have been the sickest, and maybe the adults waited for them. You'd have to factor in the time it would take for the body to decompose and for the putrefaction gases to bloat them up where they'd surface in the race course."

"So if you backtracked you might be able to determine where they were when they died. You'd have to consider traveling and feeding time and currents of course." He shook his head. "Too bad the whales can't tell us where they've been."

Witherell chuckled. "Who says they can't tell us? C'mon, I'll show you."

The EPA man led the way past the flatbeds around the puddles of bloody water being hosed into drains. The smell was like a sledgehammer this close to the dead whales, but Witherell didn't seem to be bothered.

"This is the male," he said, stopping by the first carcass. "You can see why they're called gray whales. The skin is naturally dark, but it's blotched from barnacle scars and whale lice. He's a bit chopped up now. When we first measured him he was forty one feet." They walked to the next flatbed which held a miniaturized version of the first whale. "This calf is also a male, born just a few months ago. There were other calves so we don't know if it belonged to the female." They had paused before the last flatbed. "She's bigger than the male. Like the others, she's got no outward signs of any bruise or laceration that might be fatal. This is what might interest you." He borrowed a knife from a colleague, climbed onto the flatbed, and bent over the whale's fin. After a minute he hopped down and handed Austin a flat square packet of metal and plastic.

"A transponder?" Austin said.

Witherell pointed up. "This old girl's every move was being tracked by satellite. Find out who's been keeping an eye on her, and that person should be able to tell you where she has been and when."

"You're a genius, Mr. Witherell."

"Only a humble government servant like you, trying to do my job." He hefted the transponder. "I'll have to hold on to this thing, but there's a number to call on the back."

Austin jotted the number down in a small notebook and thanked the pathologist for his help.

As Witherell escorted him back to the door, Austin said, "By the way, how'd you choose these particular whales?"

"It was done pretty much by chance. I asked the Navy to cut three representative animals out of the batch. I guess there was somebody on board who actually listened to my request."

"Do you think you would have been more likely to find a cause of death if you had a chance to autopsy the other corpses?"

"I doubt it," Witherell said flatly. "What killed these whales killed the others that were towed away. It's a bit late for that anyhow. From what I understand, after the Navy got through with them there wasn't enough left of the other animals for a plate of sushi."

More autopsy humor. Tossing his surgical mask into a barrel, Austin took a last look at the butchered carcasses that were the sad remains of once magnificent sea creatures. He thanked Witherell and Seaman Cummings and stepped out into the fresh night air. He gulped in several deep breaths, as if he could purge his memory as well as his lungs of the rank smell. Across the harbor sparkled the city-like lights of an aircraft carrier. He drove back to the hotel and walked quickly through the lobby, but not fast enough to avoid a few nose wrinkles from the staff and guests who had picked up the stench of death.

Back in his room Austin threw the khakis and dress shirt he'd been wearing into a laundry bag. He took a long, hot shower, shampooed twice, and changed into slacks and a golf shirt. Then he settled into a comfortable chair, picked up the phone, and dialed the number marked on the transponder. As he expected he was connected to voice mail. The government wouldn't pay someone to sit around and wait for news of a meandering whale. It might take days before someone answered his call. He left no message and instead called a twenty-four-hour desk at NUMA headquarters outside Washington and put in a request. The phone rang about a half hour later.