Save the Manatee!
16: Here, There, Anywhere?
(June 14, 2015)
Latitude 28.69 N, Longitude 84.95 W, Time 0722.
Mermando held Sirenia's flipper. They spun as though caught in a terrific waterspout, and everything became dark and cold, and then . . . light! They broke the surface in warm water, at a place where the sun was already up, and Sirenia breathed, then nuzzled Mermando.
"You are welcome, my queen," he said. "But you are very, very thirsty! Let us find you a place to drink."
Early as it was on a Sunday morning, people were already out on Apalachicola Bay, puttering around in worn old boats. Most of them were fishing, net-shrimping, or crabbing. Some were tourists, more were locals just getting the materials for dinner. This was not a normal haunt of merfolk, because the water was shallow and clear. They preferred the more remote and lightly-populated stretches—hard to find in Florida.
Mermando popped his head up and took his bearings. To the east, the Bryant Patton Bridge, more than four lines long, arched over the water, holding St. George Island to the mainland; straight ahead, to the north, lay the John Gorrie Bridge, over the mouth of the Apalachicola River and, incidentally, named for the man who invented air-conditioning and made it possible for tourists and developers to take over the state of Florida.
Mermando led Sirenia and they swam that way. At times the bay was so shallow that their backs showed above the surface. Mermando took care to keep his head and torso as submerged as possible. If people saw the fish tail, no big deal. People expected big fish around here.
He found the scoured channel, where the water was deeper, and they followed that. He could tell that the salt content was diminishing—he felt heavier in the water, since fresh water offers less buoyancy. Sirenia became more alert. This was the kind of environment where manatees thrived.
At the juncture of the Jackson and Apalachicola Rivers, within the boundary of a wildlife preserve, the water was brackish but drinkable, and in a cluster of reeds, Sirenia began to drink greedily. Though the men on the ship had known that manatees required fresh water, they had been stingy with it, letting her drink foul-tasting water from a hose only once a day.
A fishing guide in a bay skiff pointed out the manatee to a tourist father and son. "See it over there in the weeds? That's a protected species," he told them. "They hang out in coastal water and get chopped up by outboard propellers sometimes, so we're gonna go through this stretch nice and slow so as not to bump into one."
"Is it a fish?" the little boy asked, shading his eyes as he stared.
"No, it's a mammal," the guide said. "Like porpoises and dogs and human people."
"Look! Look! A mermaid!" the boy exclaimed.
The guide laughed indulgently. "Yeah, that's what old-timey sailors thought sometimes when they saw manatees. But manatees are real, and mermaids ain't. They're just made-up imaginary, like dragons. You get a close-up look at a manatee's face, you'd know for sure it ain't a beautiful mermaid like what's her name in that cartoon. We're in the bay, so we can go a little faster. Now, what we're gonna fish for out in the bay. . ."
The skiff buzzed on out of the area, its electric trolling motor barely humming. Mermando surfaced again. "That was a close call. I did not know the little boy would be spying on us. He called me a chica! Is he blind? I am muy macho!"
Sirenia nuzzled him. He patted her. "Oh, darling, we have had this discussion. I do not want a haircut! My luxurious, manly hair is one of my best features!"
Another nuzzle. "No, of course I do not regret marrying you instead of a mermaid! What a question, novia! Would I have traveled halfway around the world to bring you home again if I did not love you? Drink, pretty one. Then you can graze."
As again Sirenia began to gulp fresh water, Mermando hovered in the shallows, taking care not to bob very much above the surface—too many boats with too many human eyes aboard them in this part of the river.
And, keeping his thoughts private from his wife, he worried and wondered: Was Mabel safe? He had done all he could, he had left instructions with the Pacific sea mammals, but—
Was Mabel safe?
Somewhere off the Oregon coast, Time 0430.
"Get us out of here!" Voilelli barked as the chopper peeled away into the dark sky and the machine gun fell silent.
Grandham, at the wheel himself, ordered full power. "Boss, they're gonna send in the Coast Guard."
Voillelli stepped out of the bridge and went to the rail, staring out sternward. In the distance the burning diesel fuel still flickered red, but it had dwindled to what looked like shimmering coals. The helicopter had descended to only a hundred feet or so, and it was shining its lights down at the surface. Probably looking for survivors, Voillelli decided.
He stepped back into the bridge and cursed. "What a crew I got workin' for me! Idiots can't even hit a helicopter at point-blank range! I oughta get rid of all of them."
"Boss, I'm telling you, we're gonna see more choppers and Coast Guard boats. That one must've sent the alarm. We aint' got a chance."
"Get the speed launch ready."
Grandham stared at him as if he'd ordered him to break out the party hats and kazoos. "What?"
"You heard me."
"We're gonna abandon ship?"
Voillelli's face was red. "No, dummy! The crew's gonna take the Cutwater due west. The Coast Guard's got no jurisdiction in the open sea."
"Where they gonna take it to?"
"They're gonna run until they're low on fuel, and then I'll have one of the commercial ships meet her and fuel her up. I can get her as far as Asia if we do it in stages. I got people in Russia owin' me. I had this planned all along if things went bad."
"That's crazy. How about water and food?"
"Handle it the same way as fuel. Where can we get in the speed launch?"
"Uh—Goin' straight east, maybe Winchester Bay, Waldport, Newport? One of them."
"They'll do Once I get ashore, I got ways of getting back to the island. And the speed launch will make it easier to sneak ashore. Get it ready."
Grandham gave the order. "Just you?"
"No, you'll come along to drive the boat. Who's most reliable to take the Cutwater out to sea?"
"Uh, Provis, I guess."
"Go ahead, I want to shove off in fifteen minutes."
And while Grandham was busy doing that, Voillelli opened a compartment and took out what looked like a compact walkie-talkie. He opened it, changed the battery inside for a freshly-unwrapped one, and tucked the device into an inside pocket.
It was always good to be prepared.
Same time, near the site of the sinking.
"Anything?" Stan demanded. His already raspy voice had grown hoarse with the repeated question.
"Not yet," Ford said. "Circle again, a little wider."
"We're runnin' out of gas here."
"I'll go pump in whatever's left."
In the deckhouse, Ford checked on Mabel. She lay stretched out on the bunk that he and Stan normally used, her eyes open but glazed. Ford had given her a strong sedative—reluctantly, but she had seemed ready to throw herself into the ocean.
He spoke softly to her, and she looked at him with a dazed expression but did not reply. He spread a blanket over her, then went down into the bilge, which reeked of fuel and stale bilge water. The pumps had been off while the sea creatures had hauled the boat, and water always seeped in.
We should have refueled and filled up all the emergency containers. I should have thought of that and had Stan do it at the marina while we were driving to meet him.
Ford had rarely felt so angry at himself for a failure of judgment. He began to pump the last of the reserve fuel. Slow work, and at most, it would buy them maybe an hour. When that was up, they'd raise sail and hope they could make it back to land in one piece. The weather report didn't look promising—a low-pressure area sweeping in from the Arctic, sure to bring gales and storms.
How long did they have before the winds kicked up? Hard to say. Maybe half a day, maybe less.
He and Stan had survived one blinding squall on their trip to investigate the Pacific Anomaly. It had been terrifying, and it had left the Stan O'War II battered and leaking. He didn't want to get into another situation like that, not with Mabel aboard. Not with Wendy and Dipper still—perhaps—out somewhere in the dark water.
The pump sucked air, and Ford closed and sealed the tank and the reserve container. Despite the chill of the Pacific, he was sweating as he backed clumsily out of the cramped space. He heard the whirr as the automatic bilge pump started up.
Pausing, his head lowered, Ford thought, Dammit, Mermando, send us some help!
Then he hoisted himself up through the hatch, closed and secured it, and checked on Mabel again. She lay in the same position, but she had closed her eyes.
Before returning to the deck, Ford paused to take some deep breaths. He would pretend to Stan that hope was not lost. Stan would do the same for him.
But—his head told him that time had probably run out already. It was a big, cold ocean.
He felt tears stinging his eyes.
Dammit! If Bill Cipher were here right now, I'd even make a deal with him!
A little later and farther north:
Grandham and Voillelli got into the bucking launch in the shelter of the yacht. "Get out of here!" Voillelli snarled. "Due west until you get the signal from an oil tanker, then meet it and refuel!"
"Gotcha," Provis, a dark, eternally scowling man, said. "There gonna be a bonus-?"
"Count on it. Take off, Provis! Get going, Grandham!"
The yacht went west, the launch turned east. Ahead dawn already paled the sky, a pink glow, not beautiful, but ugly-looking, blotted with low scudding clouds.
Red sky at morning, sailor take warning . . ..
Somewhere just over the horizon lay North America, a big continent, room enough for a smart man to go to ground and stay concealed indefinitely if he had enough nerve and a good head on his shoulders.
Grandham drove the boat. Voillelli kept looking back at the Clearwater. It was sailing into the dark, into the retreating edges of night. Just before it glimmered out of sight, Voillelli took the remote control from his pocket, switched it on, waited for the green LED to signal that it was operational and in contact with the detonator, and then he pressed the button.
An instant later, the Cutwater blew up. You couldn't really say it sank; it vanished in an incredible billowing fireball, and only the scattered fragments and components sank.
It was more than three miles distant at that point. It took over fifteen seconds for the sound, now more an extended rumble than a sharp burst, to reach them.
"What the hell?" Grandham asked.
Voillelli settled back into the passenger seat. "Never mind. Keep going."
The launch could hit 100 mph in smooth water. This was not smooth water, but they were still doing better than a spine-pounding fifty. Forty minutes to shore. Not bad. By the time the Coast Guard was out looking for the Cutwater, off to the south, he'd be on dry land.
The instant he was sure that ahead he could see the gray line of land, Voillelli elbowed Grandham and yelled, "Cut the engine! Quick!"
Startled, Grandham did. "What's the matter?"
"Floating, on your side, close to the boat. What is it? Take a look?"
"Huh?" But Grandham half-stood and leaned out.
One shot, to the head, clean and quick. Take time to rip the life jacket off. Shoot it up so the kapok inside would soak in the water. Need a weight. The gun would do—he had another aboard the launch. Leave Grandham floating. The sharks and scavengers would take care of him.
Grinning, Voillelli took the wheel and prepared to re-start the motor. Just a few minutes now—
He didn't have time to start the ignition.
Voillelli cursed, thinking he'd drifted and grounded on a sandbar.
But sandbars didn't keep rising and rising.
Not the way blue whales did.
Voillelli screamed more in anger than in fear as the boat tilted and capsized. Not for one second did he believe this was the end for him.
Not even as the eager killer whales came racing in. They were smart creatures.
They could even herd sharks.