“Not exactly brain surgery, is it?” Austin observed as he listened to the buzz of power saws echoing off the metal walls of the warehouse.
“No, sir,” the sailor said. “And I’ll be glad when it’s over.”
“Let’s hope it’s soon, sailor.”
Austin pondered why he had left his comfortable hotel room for this ghoulish watch. If the race hadn’t been a flop, win or lose he would have been guzzling champagne in celebration with the other racers and the coterie of lovely women who hovered around the race circuit like beautiful butterflies. A respectable number of bottles were popped, but the festivities had been dampened for Kurt and Ali and their crews.
Ali showed up with an Italian model on one arm and a French mademoiselle on the other. Even so, he didn’t look particularly happy. Austin elicited a smile when he told the Arab he looked forward to competing against him again soon. Zavala upheld his reputation as a ladies’ man by carving a chestnut-haired beauty from the field of groupies on hand for the race finale. They were going out for dinner, where Zavala promised to regale his date with the details of his narrow escape.
Austin stayed long enough to be polite, then left the party to phone the owner of the Red Ink. Austin’s father was expecting his call. He had watched the race finale on TV and knew Austin was safe and the boat lay at the bottom of the ocean.
The elder Austin was the wealthy owner of a marine salvage company based in Seattle. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’ll build another one, even better. Maybe with a periscope next time.” Chuckling evilly, he recounted in loving and unnecessary detail the night a teenage Austin had brought his father’s Mustang convertible home with a crumpled fender.
Most grand prix races were held in and around Europe, but Austin’s father wanted an American-built boat to win in American waters. He paid for the design and construction of a fast new boat he called the Red Ink because of the money it cost him and put together a top-notch pit crew and support team. His father put it with his typical bluntness: “Time we kick ass. We’re gonna build a boat that shows these guys that we can win with American parts, American know-how, and an American driver. You.”
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, whenever 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 assigned 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 reruns 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 monofilament 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?”
“DORK,” Witherell said with a shrug of his shoulders.