Page 13 of Clive Cussler Desolation Code

Gamay took a deep breath and turned back to the whale. Finding a fresh scab, she retrieved, capped, and labeled one more sample. “Mark this one for burial or removal. I’m going to get more sample jars.”

Paul took a can of spray paint and marked a large redXon the whale’s side, then motioned to a group of island officials who wanted to discuss how best to dispose of the animal.

Gamay knew there was some controversy going already, as some people on the island wanted the dead creatures dragged out to sea, while others wanted them burned and buried. The burn group had won and were now bringing in jugs of kerosene and other flammable liquids.

Carrying the samples across the beach, she and Paul came to a large canopy that had been set up to provide shade for the operational command center and the makeshift lab. Stepping inside, they found Kurt, Joe, and Lacourt. The men looked a little haggard after a night of strenuous effort trying to save as many animals as possible, but neither of the three gave the slightest indication that they were ready to slow down or take a break.

“Find anything yet?” Kurt asked.

“Nothing to hang my hat on,” Gamay replied. “We’ll run a few tests on the blood and tissue samples here, but we’ll have to send them to the university lab for a deeper analysis. I wouldn’t hold your breath, though. Plenty of whale strandings happen without the slightest clue as to what caused them. A few years ago, nearly five hundred pilotwhales beached themselves on various islands around New Zealand over a span of two weeks. Despite extensive research, a cause was never found.”

“This is different,” Kurt noted. “It’s not just whales.”

“That’s true.”

Lacourt spoke up next. “Have you found anything to suggest what might be going on here?”

Gamay slid a pencil behind her ear. “A fair number of the whales have clusters of small bites on the upper half of their bodies and around their blowholes, like something took dozens of marble-sized chunks out of their hides. I’d say they resemble piranha bites, but since piranhas don’t swim in salt water, we’ll have to look for another explanation.”

“Any chance the bites are postmortem?” Joe asked. “We’ve been chasing birds, crabs, and rodents away from the beached animals all morning.”

“I don’t think so,” Gamay said. “They appear to be infected, which suggests a longer time frame. Plus they’re too widespread. Unless this beach looked like a scene from a Hitchcock movie this morning, it would be impossible to record so many bites in such a short time. It’s more like something was chewing on them in the water. Or, considering where the bites are located, perhaps attacked them when they were on the surface.”

Kurt gazed off toward the water. Gamay had a sense of him being far away, perhaps visualizing the whales under attack. But whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself. “I don’t remember seeing anything like that on the big sperm whale or any of the other animals in the first wave of strandings.”

“It was kind of dark,” Joe said, “and the rest of the night is kind of a blur, but I don’t remember seeing them, either.”

“Noted,” Gamay said. “Though I have no idea if that tells us anything.”

Paul spoke next. He’d studied the marks up close while Gamay took her samples. “Do you really think these bites could have affected the health of these whales? They’re quite small. More like nibbles.”

“True,” she said. “They barely penetrate the epidermis. And most of these animals have seven to eight inches of blubber underneath that. I’d call the bites an irritation more than anything else. Like ant bites at a picnic. Then again, if enough ants start chewing on you, you might end up running for the hills. Maybe the whales were dealing with some kind of parasitic infestation that drove them mad and onto the shore. The same thing could be said for that poor leatherback turtle you found.”

Lacourt rubbed his chin. “It would be good if you could give us something more concrete. Or perhaps rule out any form of disease. The crowds at the top of the beach are growing and becoming restless. This incident has gone viral on the internet and there are hundreds if not thousands of posts flying back and forth on social media, many of them suggesting the animals carry a virus, others insisting that you and the other biologists are harvesting it for your government.”

“Ah, the internet,” Joe said disdainfully. “Letting couch potatoes stir up mobs since 2003.”

Gamay laughed. “Careful, Joe. You sound like an old man with a hose warning all the kids to get off his lawn.”

“No need to,” Joe said. “They’re all locked inside, staring at their phones and becoming deficient in vitamin D.”

Kurt offered a sly grin, suggesting he agreed with Joe’s assessment, but he said nothing. Instead, he glanced up the slope of the beach to the crowd in the parking lot. The numbers had been growing since morning. Some held signs. Others were taking video with theirphones. One man with a megaphone had been shouting something in French until the police took his instrument away.

Gamay watched Kurt’s eyes. He was counting, estimating, studying the postures of the people he could see. She knew him to be the type of leader who put his crew first. And she could see concern in his face.

“Might want to bring in some additional policemen,” Kurt said. “Your guys are outnumbered like Custer at the Little Big Horn.”

“The police chief fears that will only agitate them further,” Lacourt replied. “The heavy hand of government and all. We have no history of riots here. Let them make their statements. They’ll probably go home for dinner.”

Gamay hoped he was right. She moved to a laptop that was sitting up on a crate. Tapping away for a moment, she entered the data regarding the blood and tissue she’d just taken, tapped save, and then picked up a new test kit. “We should get more samples.”

Kurt nodded slowly. He had a grave look on his face. He’d been watching the gathering of protesters like a sailor eyeing dark clouds on the horizon. He spoke like a man who figured a storm was about to hit. “Do it quickly,” he said. “The sooner we get off this beach, the better.”

Chapter 7

The Overseer stood at the top of the beach, milling about in the crowd of protesters, which was growing by the minute. He wore an oversized black hoodie and olive-colored pants that looked as if they’d come from an army surplus store. He had a ball cap pulled down tight on his head, keeping it low enough to shield his face from any cameras that might be filming the scene. Easing through the group, he put his foot up on a short wall made of coral and mortar. From there he could see the carnage below.

The dead animals were spread out along the dry sand, stranded high on the beach like boats waiting for the tide. Scientists, volunteers from the university, and various do-gooders were scattered here and there, but the effort to save the animals had ceased. The retreating tide had made it impossible to get any more animals off the beach, while the heat, the sun, and the effect of gravity had caused those that remained to succumb.

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