Save the Manatee!

(Tuesday, June 9, 2015)

8: All at Sea

Ford was lucky to have married an understanding woman. Lorena told him to do what had to be done, and that she would be fine until he wrapped everything up. He thanked her, and with an impish smile, she warned, "But don't forget—you'll owe me!"

And so, on that Tuesday he spent the whole day in his lab beneath the Shack, not even emerging for meals—and discovering, incidentally, that the tiny bathroom (sink and commode) still worked, even after Fiddleford's having transformed the Shack into an automaton that wrenched itself from the earth and stalked around like a robomajig of destruction.

Well, maybe he owed Bill thanks for that. Of course, the wave of normality that had gushed out of the closing Rift and restored most things to their proper conditions probably wasn't Bill's doing. And thinking of that, just where was Bill these days? Dipper had told Ford he couldn't contact the demon in the Mindscape, or at least that he had not been able to so far. Might need to research that. . ..

Ford made some calls and did a great deal of research, not only on manatees but also on the legends and lore of merpeople, sirens, Steller's sea cow, sightings of the Great Sea Serpent, the Bermuda Triangle, the theory of vortexes, and the possibility of teleportation between focal points in the world's oceans. Fascinating stuff.

Then in the late afternoon, at a few minutes past six, his secure telephone rang. He snatched the receiver up—the instrument, as the phone company called it, was vintage 1980, a bright-red rotary-dial thing. Except it had been updated and modified recently and no longer had to be dialed. "Balsam here," Ford said into the mouthpiece, using his old code name.

"Take this down." The voice on the other end of the line might or might not have been human. It was male, but sounded flat and uninflected, like a sophisticated computer-generated artificial voice.

Ford clicked a pen and pulled over a yellow legal pad. "Ready."

"Cargo confirmed, schedule M. Time of sighting 1531. Position positive 32.56001, negative 118.29938. Between 8 and 10k. Bearing NNW."

"Got it."

"Mundane cargo unlading Seven Franko, scheduled thirty-six hours. Custom covered."

"Thirty-six, got it."

"Clara Isabelle Yankee Nola Helen. Chester Elmo."

"All right. I mean Roger," Ford said.

The line went dead. No dial tone—there never was. And anyone who might blunder into the lab and try the phone would never hear one. The dial rotated, but did not work, so no one could place a call out. Any interloper would never suspect that calls were possible only when a six-fingered hand gripped the receiver in a way that let it read fingerprints and gave vocal commands. The voice-recognition software couldn't be fooled even by Stan's expert impression of his brother's voice. It was a very personal phone.

Ford rolled his chair across the room and pulled a greatly oversized book from a tall shelf. He spread it open beneath a gooseneck lamp and found the appropriate ocean chart. Carefully, with ruler and calipers, he found the position—about a hundred nautical miles, give or take, west of San Diego, nearly due south of San Clemente Island. The vessel was heading north by northwest, at a speed of about nine knots.

He could Clara Isabelle Yankee Nola Helen if he needed—or, more mundanely, Call If You Need Help. However, he'd been out of the game for a long, long time—heck, the last time he'd done work for the Agency, not counting informal cooperation, was back during the Reagan Administration, and that had left a bad taste in Ford's mouth. One thing he knew about his old friend the elderly Professor: Stodgy and stuffy and amiable he was, but a man who never forgot if you owed him a favor.

Ford wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be in his old friend's debt.

However, when he checked his electron mail (as he called it—to the Agency it was Chester Elmo, "check email"), he found what looked like a spam ad. Ford briefly wondered why the Internet seemed so preoccupied with canned meat—he had learned the term "spam" from Dipper—but then opened the "Twelve Wacky Ways You Can Grow a Greener Lawn" and discovered a set of aerial photos, obviously taken from a helicopter.

The first showed a harbor—maybe San Diego, but he wasn't sure. The next three zeroed in on a vessel sailing away from that harbor, the last one either taken from an ear-shattering distance of the deck or, more likely, with the aid of a powerful telescopic lens.

The rust-streaked ship was a medium-sized cargo vessel, between five hundred and six hundred feet long, its deck stacked with multicolored cargo containers that looked like railroad boxcars. Rust spattered the fading stencil-painted name, but a caption clarified it: Triton Trident (Liberia). Crew 22. Armament: Small-A only.

So—the ship's name was Triton Trident. It was registered in Liberia, but that meant nothing, because all over the world, commercial vessels routinely sailed under an F.O.C., or flag of convenience. Whole fleets of Japanese trading ships were nominally Liberian. The registry allowed ship owners to legally operate for lower costs—and under less onerous safety and sailing regulations, truth be told.

Say ten knots . . . the ship would reach Puget Sound—Ford assumed that would be the route—in about four and a half days of constant sailing. Except it would interrupt the trip for a stop in San Francisco that would last an estimated thirty-six hours, to unload cargo—but the San Francisco Customs officials were on the alert and would keep a sharp eye out for contraband.

So, factoring that in . . . they could expect the Triton Trident to arrive near Puget Sound in about a week.

Ford took out his cell phone—or computer phone as he persisted in calling it—and hit the speed-dial for Stanley.

"Yeah?" came his brother's half-growled greeting.

"Stanley, this is—"

"I know who it is, Poindexter. The phone identifies you, for cryin' out loud."

"Well, anyway, we're on. Can you get up to Vancouver and bring the Stan O'War II around by yourself?"

"Yeah, sure. Where to? Portland?"

"Yes. I'll arrange for docking there. Charter a plane, all right?"

After a shocked gasp, Stan bellowed, "You're outa your freakin' mind! Me, fly in one of them itty-bitty crates? I can catch an airline flight, if I have to, probably, I can barely stand that—"

"You have to get there by tonight and leave first thing in the morning," Ford insisted. "We need to be ready, and we haven't much time."

Ford heard Stanley sigh. "Ford, I'd do nearly anything—but not that. I'm sorry. Call me a chicken if you want to, but—"

"No, no, I understand phobias." Ford thought for a moment. "I suppose I can do it myself. I'll leave immediately. I'm pretty sure Creighton will fly me up this evening."

"Creighton? He the guy owns the sight-seeing company?"

"Yes, up in Hood River."

"For cryin' out loud!" Stanley wailed. "You're goin' by helicopter?"

"No, no, Creighton also has a Citation."

Dripping with sarcasm, Stanley's voice came back: "Well, hooray for him!"

Ford pushed up his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "That's a small passenger jet, Stanley. He does charter flights. I'll call him and let you know the plans."

"Wait, wait—first tell me, how much time we got?"

"I estimate the ship will be off Cape Flattery about one week from today."

Silence, and then, "Ford—you're nuts. It ain't that big of a crisis! Look, let's you and me fly up tomorrow morning. Hang on, let me see, let me get this cockamamie computer runnin'. All right, here we go. Air Canada flight at, sheesh, 6:25, we can get to Vancouver by 7:30. That puts us in the boat around 9:00. We cast off and sail steady, we can be in Portland by, like, noon Thursday at the latest. If the ship ain't gonna be in the vicinity until the following Tuesday—"

Grudgingly, Ford said, "You're right, Stanley. That makes more sense. And with both of us to sail the boat, we can travel all night. Very well. I'll make a call to the marina for them to get the Stan O' War II ready and stocked for travel, you pack, and I'll return to McGucket's house right away. Don't forget, you'll need your passport. Oh, and I'll call Mason to let him know what we're planning."

"What are we planning?" Stan asked. "What, we gonna set off in the Stan O'War to force a big cargo ship to drop anchor?"

"Well," Ford said, "that was sort of my first idea, yes."

"Sounds like we got long odds," Stanley said. "Like, the ship's what, a great big cargo vessel?"

"Yes. Well, a moderate-sized one, anyway."

"Big crew, though?"

"My information says twenty-two, probably armed with rifles."

"Twenty-two armed men against us two, huh? One of us that fights with his fists and the other one a nerd with, what, a magnet gun?"

"Um, that's about right. As far as I can tell."

Stan laughed. "I like it! We'll take off tomorrow morning around three-thirty, Ford. My car or your car, I don't care which, but I'll do the driving."

"Thank you, Stanley."

"You're welcome, Brainiac. Only let's don't get killed."

"It's a deal," Ford said.

That evening, responding to Ford's summons, Wendy drove Dipper and Mabel over to the McGucket mansion, where they met Ford and Stanley in the library. Ford briefly explained that they had a lead on the ship, and Stan said, "OK, the ship's comin' toward Puget Sound, but we got like until next Tuesday noon before it shows up. Me and Ford are gonna give it a reception party in the Stan O'War II—"

Dipper cut in: "No. Call the Coast Guard."

"—but there might be gunplay, so you can't—wait, what?"

"Listen to him, Stanley," Ford said.

"Call the Coast Guard," Dipper repeated calmly. "They're hauling contraband cargo. Manatees are under federal protection. As soon as the ship's inside the twelve-mile limit, the Coast Guard can board and search it."

Stan frowned. "You sure about that?"

Wendy put her arm around Dipper's shoulders. "Stan, if Dipper says it, he's sure of it."

"All you have to do," Dipper said, "is give them reasonable cause to believe the ship may be carrying contraband."

"What would that be, though?" Ford asked.

"Mermando's notes!" Mabel said.

Stan shook his head. "Uh, Sweetie, I'm not sure that the U.S. Coast Guard's gonna take the word of a half-man, half-fish seriously."

"Or," Dipper said, "if we can get the name of the guy in the Gulf who trapped Sirenia, he probably has a criminal record. That would do it. Alternately, if we can nail down the buyer, that might be enough, too."

Stan frowned. "How would we nail—oh, yeah, your list of suspects!"

"That's right!" Ford said. "I got so wrapped up in finding which was the most likely ship that I let that slide."

"Sounds to me like it's time to pick up that thread again," Wendy said. "OK, Mystery Team, we have until Thursday noon!"

"Thursday? Why that deadline?" Ford asked.

Wendy reached out to hug Mabel with her free arm. "'Cause, dude, me and Mabel are gonna have to be in the rehearsal for Tambry and Robbie's wedding!"

"Rehearsal's Thursday evening, and the wedding's at nine o'clock on Friday night!" Mabel added.

Ford and Stanley looked at each other. Stan said, "Pumpkin, I know that's a big thing with you gals, but isn't this manatee thing more important?"

"No!" Mabel said, her expression fierce. "I planned this wedding! The bride wears black! Instead of doves, we release bats! I wanted it at midnight, but—"

"Yeesh!" Stan said. "Is it a wedding or a haunted house?"

"It's a Goth thing," Dipper told him. "OK, I'm not in the wedding party, but I am invited, so I'll do what I can to help up until Friday night. Let's see if in the time we have until the ship gets in range we can zero in on who caught Sirenia—and who she's being delivered to."

"And I," Mabel said, "will alert Mermando!"

"You want us to put the werewolf thing on the back burner?" Wendy asked her.

"Ulva is being protected by the Gleefuls," Mabel said. "Gideon's not wolfing out any more. How much harm could a little delay do?"

"I somewhat reluctantly agree," Ford said. "All right, ladies. Do what you must do."

"We'll take care of the rest," Stan added.

"It looks," Dipper said, "like it's shaping up to be a busy summer."