Page 42 of The Captain
18
CAMILLE
The Kogia watched me the way the ocean does when it plans to keep its secrets. No blinking. No flinch. Just that coin-dark eye and the faint lift of skin at her blowhole when a breath chose her.
I adjusted the sling again, checked the line on the IV, touched two fingers to the soft spot behind her eye. My pulse slowed to meet hers. Numbers stacked in my head. Respiration. Pup response. Tone. The litany steadied me the way prayer steadies other people.
History.
That’s what I didn’t have for her. Where she’d been the last forty-eight hours before coming ashore. What noise she’d swum through. What scraped her flank. When I don’t have history on an animal, I go find it—fishermen, docks, AIS tracks, somebody’s uncle with a GoPro. Tamika had been doing exactly that. We never treat a case blind if we can help it.
The thought lifted its head and looked at me.
I didn’t have history for Jacob either.
I heard my father again:a conclusion faster than the facts is a superstition. The wordsuperstitionmade me bristle. It also made me reach for my phone.
“Keep her blowhole clean,” I told Becca, even though she was already doing it. “Call out any rate change. Two ticks, not one.”
“Copy.”
I stepped to the end of the aisle where the fans didn’t whine and thumbed McGuire’s number. She picked up on the second ring like she’d been holding the phone.
“Allard.”
“I know we don’t know each other well, Lieutenant,” I said, keeping my voice even, “but I need a quiet check.”
A measured inhale. “What do you need, Doctor?”
“There’s a Marine working through Dominion Hall—Marcus called him a liaison. First name Jacob.” I hated how thin that sounded. “He was with me last night and this morning. He broke up an incident at a bar. This morning, a woman on the beach accused him of something serious. I don’t have a last name. I need to confirm who he is before I decide anything. Discreetly. If I’m wrong about him, I don’t want my mistake to make it worse.”
Silence followed—professional, not punitive—like she was weighing the ask rather than the asker.
“I can deconflict with Dominion Hall,” she said. “They’ll know exactly who you mean if I ask about your assigned liaison. No paper trail. You’ll get a yes/no and a service history headline. No gossip.”
“Yes.” My chest loosened a hair. “And Leanne?—”
“I know,” she said. “Discreet.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re not the only one asking me for favors today,” she said, voice going dry. “I’m en route for 1100 with your permit packet and something you’re going to want. It won’t make you love the Navy, but it should keep you from lighting us up. Thepattern points off our books—outside any U.S. authorization—and it doesn’t match the usual contractors.”
“Names?” I asked.
“Not over the phone,” she replied. “But it isn’t the ones you raised yesterday—or anything on your father’s ledger. We’ll talk at eleven.”
I looked at the clock. 10:24. I could feel the minutes like warm coins in my palm.
The radio on my belt crackled. It was our stranding network channel, not the private 7–Delta. The air around me changed the way it does before lightning.
“Charleston Network, this is Sullivan’s Island Fire. We’ve got a small cetacean in the swash at Station Twelve. Alive. Rolling in the break. Crowd gathering.”
I was already moving. “Network copy. This is Allard. Size? Color? Head shape?”
Static, wind, a man who sounded like he’d rather be fighting a kitchen fire. “Small. Gray. Blunt face. No beak. Maybe a baby?”
Kogia again. I felt my stomach drop and level. “Do not roll the animal. Do not put water in the blowhole. Keep dogs back. Keep people back. I’m outbound. Fifteen minutes if traffic behaves.”
