The Minke Connection

By Murray Kibblewhite

Why are the Japanese killing protected sperm whales???

From the high seas off New Zealand to the intricate demands in the city of Tokyo, The Minke Connection is a spellbinding saga. Matching business versus environmentalism, big organizations versus small and expectation versus experience.

Greenpeace discover that the Japanese research whaling fleet are killing more than the Minke whale. They send American born Canadian John Daroux, lecturer and adventurer, and Carrie Ardley, whale researcher, to investigate. Boarding the factory ship in mid ocean, John finds irrefutable evidence, almost loses his life and becomes Carrie’s lover. Together, John and Carrie go to Tokyo where they evade being poisoned, survive being frozen alive and endure being followed by the dreaded Yakusa. The arrival of Greenpeace chief, Mark Stafford, and his beautiful associate, Petra van de Roer, initiates a counter attack that requires John and Carrie to act as bait. Desperate measures are called for as they endeavour to outwit Takeshi Fujiwara, leader of the cult, League of Blood. John and Carrie are captured and tortured. Time is critical. John Daroux must use all his wits and knowledge to save the Sperm whales and himself. Can they succeed?

John Daroux......New Age intellectual, martial arts exponent and Reki master, he takes on the project unprepared for the tests he will experience. While he can handle the threats and challenges from the Japanese, can he handle the passion aroused by Carrie Ardley?

Carrie Ardley......young, attractive Greenpeace technician, committed to saving whales, takes on this task as an adventure. Fiercely attracted to John Daroux, she suffers torture and finds that he puts the project above her well being. Can she ever forgive him?

Mark Stafford......competent, urbane chief of Greenpeace, he takes on his biggest challenge when he confronts the League of Blood and tries to unravel the reason why the giant trading company, Mosaka Corporation, is killing the protected Sperm whales. Can he overcome the threats?

Takeshi Fujiwara......one of Japan’s most powerful businessmen, and chairman of Mosaka Corporation, he controls the lives of many. He holds a secret that dates back many centuries and the time for action is now. Can he succeed or will the persistent efforts of the foreign controlled environmental “do-gooder” Greenpeace upset his carefully prepared plans?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Murray Kibblewhite
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310959745

Murray Kibblewhite

Businessman, Teacher and Writer all in one package is unusual!And so is Murray Kibblewhite who enjoys filling all these roles at the same time. The link between then is now expressed in his writing a series of short stories based upon his students experiences.Born in Masterton, a small farming town, Murray left to attend Victoria University in Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, where he gained a B.Com. His working life has been mixed, starting in a Government owned finance company, moving to Auckland to work in the same field, then as General Manager of a trading company and then into his own service businesses.For over 40 years Murray has also been a part time tertiary teacher specializing in business papers and his most recent students were from Asia, mainly Chinese, Indian and Korean.He is divorced, has two adult children and five grandchildren and lives in Auckland, the largest city in New Zealand.Under the banner, “Now I Know”, Murray has published the first short story of a series under the heading, “Project L.E.L.” that deals with Living – Experience – Learning. There are strong themes of Self Discovery and Spiritual understanding in his writings. He has released his first adventure novel, The Minke Connection, that deals with the issue of Japanese killing whales in the Southern Ocean.

Book preview

The Minke Connection

Murray Kibblewhite

Copyright 2013 by Murray Kibblewhite

Smashwords Edition

Part I

Mizu (Water)

Chapter One

Quebec, Canada Tuesday, 9th March, 2.06 p.m.

FELIX Daroux led down the testing run. The younger of the two men, Felix skied through the epinette of sugar maple, birch and spruce. Windfalls, stumps and heavy timber reached out and grabbed at him. Inviting gullies, waterfalls and drainage’s were by-passed as he threw himself off a rock. Three turns and he was gone.

The other skier followed, letting his skis ride high up the far side of the gully before cranking them back down, spraying snow as he came off the lip. Then another on the near side. He worked hard to slow his speed, just in time to see an old windfall directly in his path. Planting his pole he jump-turned and edged to an abrupt stop. Looking down he saw Felix pushing his tall body up from the snow, laughing.

Hey Dad, that’s the best high-bum drag I’ve done in years! Gasping for breath and readjusting his goggles, Felix looked up. I told you this run would blow your socks off!

Yeah! John Daroux drew out his reply. "For you this zero run is more like the death flight of a Kamikaze pilot!" The skepticism of age toward youth was lost on Felix. Carefully circumventing the windfall, he joined his son.

"It still looks good, Mon ami." Felix grinned as he pulled his gloves back on.

Pity there’s so much cloud around, John Daroux commented, looking up as it began to snow heavily, his large frame matching his son’s. I must say I prefer Mont. St. Anne on fine days.

Come on! Where’s that young, fit father I used to know? Without pausing, he added, Hey this is the best run on the mountain and there’s no one else here. Fantastic! With that he pushed off.

Still catching his breath, John Daroux shook his head at his eighteen-year-old son’s impetuosity. ‘If we keep going at this rate I could have trouble surviving to the end of the Spring Break.’ Pausing a little longer, he smiled. It had been hard to drag Felix away from the slopes of Lake Louise. But he had won this time. Jeanne, his ex-wife, had taken both children with her when she had remarried and moved to Calgary in Alberta over three years ago. Having Felix with him now, as well as for the summer break, was a big concession on her part.

What the hell, his lips whispered to himself, enjoy it while you can. Propping himself up, he pushed off. His skis floated in the powder as he focused his attention on following his son’s tracks.

Southern Ocean Early March

SUCKING in a final breath, the whale dived. Reflexes snapped shut the sphincter muscle around his nostrils, blocking out the probing tendrils of the searching sea. A rainbow of droplets swept skywards as his great tail lifted high into the air. A continuous motion of grace and power rolled forward. Cutting into the gray flecked wave, his great weight plunged him down away from the latent power of the high swells. Away from the white wave tops, flicking and curling. Away from the heaving and rolling rhythm of the great mass of water known as the Southern Ocean.

He felt safe now.

Six meters below the surface, it was quiet. The movement of the swell had dissipated to stillness. The sunlight’s intensity deteriorated rapidly as the whale pressed on downwards. Deeper and deeper through the twilight zone at thirty meters. Down and down into the blackness at four hundred meters. No sound. No movement. No swell. Nothing could be seen.

Descending further and further he ignored the schools of fish. Sensing the slight decrease in temperature, he felt the incredible increase in pressure. It would become a crushing one hundred and thirty seven times greater on the bottom, twelve hundred meters below.

He sensed the activity on the sea floor. Shellfish, crustaceans, sea lice, fish, eels, squid and octopus working at great depths. Unique, special, remarkable adaptations allowed each to survive the incredible conditions. Some used phosphorescence to provide light, others had sensitive feelers to feel and select, while others withdrew into protective shells to hide. The whale’s favorite food, the squid, and its near cousin, the octopus, had, over the eons, evolved to not only survive but also to use the conditions to their benefit. Soft, pliant and flexible, the squid’s boneless body of eight sucker-soled tentacles attached to a central bulbous head allowed it to cross the ocean floor quickly and silently. Growing to more than sixteen meters in length, it was the monster of the deep. In their domain they had no peers. Their only fear, was their sole enemy, the sperm whale.

Driving relentlessly down, the whale felt an involuntary twinge of anticipation quiver through his body.

Amsterdam Monday 8th March, 11.46 a.m.

A SIGNIFICANT report thanks Jacques. Drift-net fishing unfortunately is still a continuing problem. Looks like you’ll have to make some major decisions soon. Mark Stafford, executive director of Greenpeace International, smiled briefly towards Jacques Philippe, international coordinator—marine.

Turning right to the executive secretary, Jill Evans, he asked, Have you got all that down?

Her reply was not distinguishable. But Graham Williams, sitting at the end of the left-hand arm of the U-shaped board table, carefully noted the nod of her head. Leaning back, he reflected on his first weekly meeting of the executive committee of the International Environmental Protection Organization. The fine old five-story building beside the Western Kerk at 176 Keizersgracht had impressed him. Held under a preservation order to protect its special features, the rambling office was an example of their aims.

His gaze once again took in the atmosphere of the room. The full-length windows opening three stories above the canal. The walls covered with photographs of Greenpeace in action. He felt his pulse quicken at the sight of a giant sunfish caught in drift-nets, Greenpeace staff releasing weather balloons, dramatic pictures of capsized inflatables being hit by barrels of toxic wastes dumped into the sea. And many more. The room was a montage of Greenpeace’s history.

A late morning burst of sunlight silhouetted the four International Campaign coordinators sitting opposite. Their features, soft in their own shadows, were still new to him.

How is it going?

Graham turned to the speaker opposite. Slim, attractive and fair, Petra van de Roer, from the Netherlands, was the youngest International Campaign coordinator. Perhaps, Graham thought, she was too aware of her youth and over-compensated by being very professional in her manner. Responsible for ocean ecology and recognized as a leader in her field, she had a very confident manner, almost to the point of arrogance.

Fine thank you Petra. Just fine. Graham’s reply was non-committal as he smiled across at her.

Ladies and Gentleman, The firm voice of the chairman, Mark Stafford, drew the meeting’s attention. The next item on the agenda is a report on international treaties and conventions from Graham Williams. You all will have met Graham and I would just like to take this opportunity to welcome him to his first meeting of the executive committee of Greenpeace International. Graham, as you know, is an Australian . . .

Bravo, interrupted Raul Gonzalez, coordinator for energy and atmosphere. Born in Argentina, his appointment reflected the growing strength of Greenpeace in Latin America. Smiling broadly he continued it is good to have another from the Southern Hemisphere to help me keep these Northerners at bay.

His mocking eyes swept around the other members to meet Graham’s, as he waved in a gesture of companionship.

Thank you Raul, I didn’t think lack of numbers was ever a problem for you! Mark Stafford, also grinning, continued. As I was saying, Graham is an Australian lawyer who has had considerable experience in environmental issues at state and government levels in his own country . . .

Graham smiled wryly to himself. It was no picnic working in foreign affairs representing Australia in the formation of the Antarctic Treaties System three years ago, or as a Southern Hemisphere member of the Rishworth Committee that set the standards and practices of the last up-date of the London Dumping Convention.

. . . like many of us, he has seen both sides of these major issues and has decided, wisely I’m sure, to support environmental projects from outside his government through Greenpeace. Graham, we welcome you as the international coordinator for treaties and conventions and look forward to your contribution and support. Mark finished with a nod.

Southern Ocean Early March

CAPTAIN Nisso Sasaki lifted his head slowly from the sonar screen. Giving his eyes time to adjust, he squinted out through the thick plate glass at the gray,-heaving swell. Turning his head without seeing, but knowing the helmsman’s place, he grunted, Nothing there.

Still holding onto the sonar cover, he reached into the pocket of his trousers for his cigarettes. He stood up, swaying to maintain his balance, and exchanged the cigarette packet for a lighter. Inhaling deeply, he thought to himself ‘damn, after three days it’s always nothing there.’

Stepping carefully behind the helmsman and adjusting his walk to match the moving bridge floor, he crossed to the chart table on the port side. Glancing down at the chart, Sasaki traced the track of his vessel, the whale catcher Shishi Maru Four. They had left the Antarctic whaling grounds three days previously on their journey back to Yokohama. Breathing out a fine stream of smoke, he contemplated the enormous whaling grounds, the feeding area for the baleen whales. In his mind he pictured their dramatic feeding frenzies. Skimmers and gulpers, they propelled themselves powerfully through the ocean, spreading their jaws, catching phenomenal amounts of water, krill and small fish in their dilatable mouths. Then they shut their jaws, lifting their enormous tongues to push the water out through the baleen plates to trap scores of wriggling organisms ready to be swallowed.

Looking down again, he pinpointed the position of the factory ship twenty miles to the southwest and astern. With his right index finger, he traced their proposed course along the edge of the Southern Pacific-Antarctic Ridge on the 1,200-meter depth line. The track of the mighty bull sperm whales. He checked the dial of the depth meter. ‘Still no change. We must be too far west,’ he thought to himself.

Starboard five degrees, he ordered tight-lipped.

Starboard five degrees, repeated the helmsman turning the wheel slightly. He recognized his captain’s frustration.

After a few minutes spent checking the various read-outs of the instruments at the control panel, Sasaki stalked back to the sonar. Gripping the light shield around the dial, he placed his head on the edge of the cover to view the screen. Waiting for his eyes to re-adjust to the darkness, he concentrated on the black background with the green shapes. The signal from the short burst of sonic energy showed clearly a bottom level of one thousand, two hundred and eighty meters. In between were only scattered groups of color indicating schools of fish close to the surface. Squinting, he peered closer. He was looking for a single light ascending or descending slowly over a ten to fifteen minute period. The unique signature of the deep dive of the large male sperm whale. ‘What was that . . .’ A speck of light moving down. He blinked his eyes and strained again, his instincts tightening his gut in anticipation. It was still there . . . ‘Yes . . .’ at the outer limit of the sonar’s range. ‘Yes, it is still there, descending at a regular rate’.

"Makko kujira, he breathed to himself, as if not believing what he saw. Makko kujira, MAKKO KUJIRA, he shouted, drawing out the last word as he slapped the sonar case in delight. Makko kujira at seven thousand meters, he crowed, lifting his head from the screen. Turning to the helmsman, his face contorted by the grin of success, he shouted, New course bearing oh-five-oh."

Oh-five-oh, repeated the helmsman, smiling as he turned the wheel. What’ll be our ETA?

Sasaki’s excitement subsided, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He resented the helmsman questioning him. Not answering, he turned back and peered into the sonar screen again. Eyes adjusting again to the darkened screen, he held his breath expectantly. Would the small dot appear. Yes there it was, slightly larger and further down. It must be making a deep dive, he thought. At this depth the bull whale could be down for say an hour. ‘It’s probably over fifteen meters in length, a real monster. Maybe the biggest of the season.’ His mind raced in speculation. Realism returned as he calculated. ‘Ten minutes minimum on the surface—more than enough time for a kill.’ He smiled confidently to himself. ‘We’ll be there on time!’

He checked the screen again. The dot was almost at the bottom. Mentally he allowed fifteen minutes for the dive, half an hour for the feeding and ten minutes to surface. Estimated time of arrival fifty-five minutes. Standing up, he reached for the hand microphone.

"Taiji Maru! Taiji Maru! Taiji Maru! This is Shishi Maru Four. Do you read me? Over."

Impatient for the acknowledgment, Sasaki wondered to himself if the Taiji crew had slackened off now the main whaling season was over. ‘Probably on automatic pilot with no one on the bridge or monitoring the radio. Lazy Taiji crew . . .’

"Shishi Maru Four, Shishi Maru Four, we read you loud and clear, over."

‘Sounds like Yasuguro Dan, the old Taiji bastard,’ Sasaki said to himself. ‘I almost caught you out.

"Taiji Maru this is Shishi Maru Four, makko kujira, makko kujira diving oh-five-oh, depth twelve hundred, say again, twelve hundred meters. ETA fifty-five minutes, sixteen-oh-five. Preparing for kill! Over."

Amsterdam Monday 8th March, 12.18 p.m.

MARK Stafford, his dark hair slightly thinning, a round jovial face settled on a plump body, looked carefully around the boardroom. Seeing Graham Williams standing alone, he excused himself and with croissant and mineral water in hand walked over to him.

Well Graham, how are you finding the morning so far? Mark’s question was open and objective behind his smile.

Most impressive, thanks Mark. A thoughtful expression on his face, Graham continued. Bruce Harrison’s report on membership and fund-raising was revealing. I’d no idea that Greenpeace’s membership now exceeded three million. Obviously increasing the number of branches by opening of new ones in South America and Asia has brought a great influx of new members!

Yes, you’re right Graham, the growth of our membership is mainly due to the strength of our branches.

What then would you say are the basics for the success of the organization now?

Hmm. Mark paused for a moment, taking a bite of his croissant while he assembled his thoughts. Well there are probably four ingredients. First, I would say it’s the quality of our research. We are always well prepared with good solid research before we tackle any problem. Then . . . His shoulders straightened as his pride in the organization’s achievements showed through in his voice. . . . I would say our next strength is in our lobbying power. At political, corporate and especially national levels in most places in the world we have the power to lobby effectively. Now warmed to his subject, he continued. Then we have a great ability in finding the weakest link in our adversaries and going for that. You’d remember how we went for Bayer about polluting the North Sea. Maintaining their squeaky clean image made them very sensitive to bad publicity. And we won, he added with a chuckle. Finally, I think we have tremendous strength in our flexibility. We are able to initiate, quickly, international pressure through demonstrations, protests, lobbying and direct contact with groups everywhere in the world. Our excellent communications and electronic mail network connecting all our branches and vessels has been one pillar of our success. Of course you know that already. Mark paused and took a sip of water. Well there you have it. A strong, growing, effective organization with a mission to save the world from killing itself. There was a slight pause, Hey, and it’s fun too! He smiled at Graham. You’ll really enjoy it here. We all work hard but we play hard. It’s a marvelous sense of achievement. I could carry on and on . . . but you know what I mean.

Yes I know what you mean. Thanks Mark. Now I understand the saying I’ve been hearing around Headquarters since I’ve been here.

What’s that? interrupted Mark.

Oh, probably a play on Lawrence’s ‘Seven Pillars of Wisdom.’ They call the mission the ‘Four Pillars of Pressure’. Seems to sum up what you’ve just said.

Yes you’re right, chuckled Mark. Don’t know where the saying came from. Probably from our esteemed Chairman David McTaggart. He likes creating sayings and events that have great PR value. For example, look at this photograph on the wall. He smiled as he motioned Graham to turn around.

"This was taken from Warrior, the vessel we had in 1981 off the British coast when we were trying to stop nuclear waste being dumped in the Atlantic. Our crews had just developed the tactic of racing in on inflatables alongside ships, under bows, sterns and hoists to impede the dumping of barrels overboard. As you can see, it didn’t stop them and some containers fell onto the inflatables, capsizing them and sending them flying . . ."

Mark, I’m sorry to interrupt but I have an urgent e-mail message from San Francisco Branch which I need to discuss with you immediately. Mark looked around to the speaker Petra van de Roer.

Right. Please excuse me Graham. I enjoyed our discussion but I’d better see what Petra wants. I’ll catch up with you later. Mark’s manner was brisk and alert as he and Petra hurried into his office off the boardroom.

Well, what do we have Petra? Mark asked as he closed his office door.

Let me show you Mark, said Petra as she reached over his desk and switched on the computer terminal. She punched in the code that brought the report onto the screen. There, read that, she demanded.

Mark, now settled in his chair, quickly scanned the one page report, then read it through again carefully. Well, he said, what do you make of it?

I think the conclusions are correct. They have gone too far. We must investigate immediately. Hands on the desk, her body leaning forward, eyes blazing, Petra demanded Mark’s consent.

Yes it looks that way, he replied noncommittally, looking up at her. Let’s discuss it, first thing after lunch. I’ll tell Jill to amend the agenda. By the way, who should carry out the investigation? he queried.

Well not me. I’m too busy with the drift-net matter off the South American coast. I’d like Carrie Ardley, who prepared the report, to work with our nearest branch. This is her specialist subject and while she has not had much field experience it would be good for her to follow this through, don’t you think?

Yes I agree. Why don’t you check it out with her now and make an oral report to the meeting. We’ll be starting in five or six minutes and I’ll think about whom else should go. OK? Mark’s voice was calm.

Petra heard the quiet order and accepted the compromise. "Ja. I will see to it immediately," she replied as she walked out of the room.

Southern Ocean Early March

DRIVING headfirst straight down into the inky blackness, the whale continued his dive to the bottom. Torpedo shaped with an enormous box-like head, his fifty tons of locomotive power relentlessly aimed for the sea floor. At six hundred meters he felt his body crinkle under the immense pressure.

In twenty minutes he was almost at the sea floor. Slowing his rate of descent, he settled into a hovering position just above the seabed. Drawing in seawater through his blowhole, the temperature of the spermaceti oil in his enormous head began to reduce. As it congealed it occupied less volume, making him less buoyant. A position of suspension had been attained.

Automatically, his hunting strategy took over. Using his complex sonar system, he emitted bursts of rapid clicks from his head. The returning sounds pieced together a sonic landscape of the surrounding rocks, cavities, ridges of the seabed, shells and prey.

Motionless. Soundless. A submarine waiting in ambush, he watched the advance of his quarry. The giant squid architeuthis. This colossal invertebrate, measuring over fourteen meters, would be no pushover for him. Apart from its daunting size, it wielded huge tentacles bristling with suckers as big as saucepans, powerful beak-like jaws, poisonous saliva, an ink sac to create camouflage, and above all a highly developed brain.

Watching, sensing, visualizing, two tentative tentacle tips explored towards him. No movement. Deathly still. Spring coiled. Tension controlled.

Attack. Sudden. Swift. Calculated.

On the tremendous up-sweep of his powerful tail he surged forward. Lower jaw dropped, teeth bared. A deadly scoop. Timed to perfection at the precise instant, two enormous tentacles reached out. Feeling. Exploring. Extending tentatively.

Open jaws seized. Encompassed mouth and head of the squid. Lock tight. Crippling pressure. Intense pressure. Building on the attack, he gave a tremendous sweep of his flukes. Tail lifted upwards. Body arched through ninety degrees to a vertical position. The lid of a trap door opening ready to crash shut. Twisting violently, he wrenched free two further tentacles from the seabed. Body groaned as they lock themselves around him. Another violent flick of his tail brutally screwed his body to rip the remaining tentacles free.

Rolling. Twisting. Moving. Always moving. He is locked in deadly conflict.

Enlacing his body, the squid’s interminable tentacles strained to hold him in his mouth. Beak-like jaws began their deadly work. Encircled by the writhing arms his huge jaws tighten. Sixty lance-like ivory teeth set in a narrow lower jaw clamp the slippery writhing squid firmly in place. Huge teeth apply immense pressure, crushing and grinding. Vital organs at the squid’s narrow neck where its head is attached to its body are cut and severed. Unable to escape, its strength rapidly diminishes. The grip of its suckers began to wane. Tentacles relaxed. Beak-like jaws cease chewing. Severed head parts from its body.

Dismemberment.

The conflict ceased. The seabed resumed its placid calm. The fight was over. He shook himself free.

Conqueror triumphant, he consumed his victory meal.

Chapter Two

Quebec, Canada Tuesday 9th March, 2.13 p.m.

FELIX was working hard. Timber cruising for him was as pure a form of skiing as you could find. Cranking hard, he made two high-speed survival turns to drop into a little meadow. Flattening out for a moment, the small area gave him a chance to collect himself. Then it fell away into dense forest. Ducking under the branches of a snow-laden birch, he bounced off an old stump. A quick turn in the air, just enough to get his heart pumping. And then down again. He felt a stream of sweat starting to trickle down his back. ‘Outrageous!’ He let out a howl of delight.

Further back, at a slower rate, John Daroux was experiencing the true essence of skiing trees. Nobody was witnessing the highly personal relationship between skier, mountain, snow and epinette.

John wondered how Felix was going. He’d been impressed by the improvement in his technique. Obviously the result of much practice. ‘The sign of a committed student,’ he smiled. Still he had learnt from Felix to exaggerate his unweighting motion and keep his speed up and to use the snow more as a natural brake.

Braking to a stop, he recalled what a ski instructor had once said. You can’t fake it in the trees. Either you’re good enough to make it down in one piece or you bite it big. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘that’s right. It’s a real test.’

Further down the mountain Felix, trying hard to slow his speed spotted an old windfall directly ahead of him. ‘Jump, damn it . . . too fast . . . slow down.’ More survival turns as he scrambled to get back on line. Sharp branches poked at his goggles. ‘Left! Left!’ he screamed to himself. Cranking hard, he forced his skis across the hill. Suddenly there was nowhere to go. WHOOMP! Arms clutched at a birch trunk. ‘Hold on, oh God.’ Air expelled from his lungs in an explosive gasp as his head slammed against the tree trunk. The impact caused his body to rebound and collapse onto the snow. He lost consciousness.

Observing the deep ruts beside the old windfall, John Daroux braked quickly. Sensing the beginning of a steep pitch, he slowed to a stop to check his run. Peering down through the lifting cloud, he scanned the gully. His gaze was attracted to a red blob to his left. Uncertain, he raised his goggles and stared again. ‘My God, that looks like Felix’s jacket.’ His mind raced. ‘What’s happened?’ Lowering his goggles, he pushed off around the windfall and down into the gully towards his son. ‘He’s not moving, God. What’s happened?’

Braking to a stop, John stepped off his skis jabbing his poles upright in the snow. Goggles pushed up onto his forehead, he kneeled down. Reaching out under his son’s arms, he lifted him away from the tree. Gently lowering him to the ground, John, his voice urgent, cried, Felix! Felix can you hear me! Are you all right?

A shudder of awakening as Felix returned to consciousness. Ohhh Jesus, expelled from his clenched mouth as his eyelids opened.

Felix, it’s all right. You’ve had an accident. Where does it hurt?

An anguished cry mixed with blood and spit escaped from his clenched mouth. My face! JESUS my face!

He turned exposing a bloody gaping hole in his right cheek. John caught his breath at the sight of the puncture from the jagged edge of a snapped branch. Shocking. Hideous.

Blood from the disfigurement soiled the purity of the white snow.

Southern Ocean Early March

STEADY as she goes.

On the bridge of his whale chaser, Shishi Maru Four, Captain Nisso Sasaki gave his final order to the helmsman. He had timed his vessel’s arrival to coincide with the surfacing of the bull sperm whale. Knowing that the animal frequently surfaced within a few hundred feet of the point where it began its dive, he checked the sonar dial again. The green dot indicated the whale was now rising from the sea floor.

Reaching with his left hand for the radio telephone, staring past the helmsman, he called "Taiji Maru, Taiji Maru, do you read me?" The bridge was silent, the noises of the sea and boat but a background murmur to the scene of expectancy.

Number four, Number four, we read you, over, broke the stillness of the three waiting men. The vessel’s first officer had joined Sasaki and the helmsman as preparations began for the start of the end of the chase.

"Taiji Maru, I wish to speak with Captain Dan, over," replied Sasaki, emotionless in front of his crew, his request formal, detached and objective.

Captain Dan, Captain Dan, repeated the voice, will do, over. The radio crackle ceased abruptly. Tense silence returned.

Gazing out at the long gray swells Sasaki’s mind filled with memories of the traditional rivalry between whalers from Ayukawa, his homeport, and those from Taiji. Yasuguro Dan was from Taiji. A fishing town on the southeast coast of Honshu, Japan’s main island, it lay one hundred and fifty kilometers due south of Osaka. His own hometown, Ayukawa, was nine hundred kilometers further north in a northeast bay on the same island. Both areas had whaling histories, extending back hundreds of years. Musing further, he marveled at how the whale catching methods had developed over that period. Shore based fleets now replaced by whale chasers hunting in packs, roving the feeding grounds of the oceans. The old style cumbersome netting of these leviathans, replaced by modern cannons firing harpoons with exploding heads. The shore based processing factories now superseded by the efficient whaling fleets consisting of a whaling factory ship, a refrigeration vessel, an oil tanker, catcher boats, scouting boats and meat carriers. The factory ships, twenty five thousand tons of floating abattoir, were designed to process sixty thousand kilogram mammals—cutting, gutting, slicing, stripping, rendering them down to oil, bone powder and meat. Their industry was efficient, more efficient than the Soviets and right up there with the Norwegians.

Sasaki allowed a smug smile to form, rivalry forgotten for the moment. Japanese whaling was the best in the world. And, he Nisso Sasaki from Ayukawa was the best whale catcher in the fleet. Eighteen years difference in age—Yasuguro Dan is an old man. Why should I be waiting for an answer from the master of the factory ship? The old man from Taiji. When I get back to Yokohama, I’ll report this delay. He’s too old for this. It’s time he was replaced with a younger, more able skipper--one from Ayukawa.’ His smile broadened in anticipation . . .

Number four, this is Captain Dan. Do you read me. The brisk clipped voice that broke the silence brought Sasaki back to the present.

Sasaki’s quick reply matched that of the inquirer. "Makko kujira ETA for surfacing sixteen minutes from now. Estimated length fifteen meters, weight forty thousand kilograms. Reading from the dials, he continued, Wind north-north-east eighteen knots and rising, sea moderate, eighteen meters between swells and regular, barometer steady at one thousand and twelve millibars. All stations ready. Message ends, over." Sasaki released the button on the handset.

There was a brief pause before Yasuguro Dan replied. Message received. Our ETA your co-ordinates in thirty-five minutes. Carry on. Good luck. Over.

Replacing the handset, Sasaki reached for his jacket and lifted it over his head. Protected from water and the cold, he felt warm in his waterproof jacket, trousers and rubber sea boots. Picking up earphones, he fitted them over his head and clicked the cord into the radio receiver strapped to his chest. The throat microphone allowed him to communicate directly with the helmsman and first officer on the bridge. Adjusting the jacket hood, he turned to the others. You know what to do. Let’s make this a good one, he said. Tone flat. A command not a statement.

Opening the bridge door, he stepped out on to the sloping catwalk linking the bridge to the bow. Gripping the rails tightly with his hands, he walked to the harpoon firing position, carefully matching his steps to the ship’s roll. The wind pulled at his hood and cuffs.

Arriving at the firing platform atop the high, flared bows of Shishi Maru Four, he looked down the eight meters to the water below. Behind him, between the platform and the bridge, was the forward mast. Positioned twenty-two meters above sea level in the crow’s nest a sharp-eyed crewmember was already in place, scanning the sea with binoculars. Like Sasaki, he communicated with the bridge by radio.

Attaching the safety harness to his waist, Sasaki took up his position, feet astride behind the cannon. He swiveled it around on its bases so that its ninety millimeter barrel faced towards him. Carefully, he checked that the seventy kilogram, one-point-eight meter long, steel harpoon was correctly loaded, noting the wire loop through the shaft connected to one hundred and thirty meters of nylon forerunner. Attached to a two hundred meter length of manila, the line ran down under the firing platform then rose high to a sheave under the crow’s nest. Then down around a drum winch into the hold between the mast and deckhouse. His hands fondled the four ten centimeter barbed flukes tied in against the shaft. They would pivot on hinges and fly out after the harpoon was embedded in the whale. He smiled in anticipation.

Finally, he checked the grenade containing one hundred and seventy grams of explosive powder. This was screwed into the tip of the harpoon. It had a fuse set to detonate the grenade three seconds after the harpoon had entered the whale’s body. Swinging the gun back into its firing position, he took hold of the pistol-like grip, finger on the trigger. As he locked his body in with the movement of the boat, he spoke into the throat microphone gun ready. Time before it blows?

Two minutes to first surfacing. The first officer’s voice, loud with tension, filled his ears.

Tell look-out I want its size and position within its first three breaths. And he is to count aloud the breaths after each surfacing, over. Sasaki’s command was brief, compelling and controlled.

Start the count-down to surfacing now. The first officer relayed the instruction to the lookout.

Fifty-four, fifty-three, fifty-two, the first officer’s voice intoned through his headphones.

Alone on the platform, like an actor on the stage, Sasaki mentally ran through the procedure that would evolve as the hunt went through its various stages. It was critical that they assessed the whale’s length accurately. The rule of thumb was that for every third of a meter of a sperm whale’s length, it would spout once at the surface and spend one minute submerged during the subsequent dive. At fifteen meters this bull would remain on the surface for less than ten minutes. This had to be extended by chasing him to exhaustion.

He reflected that the manila rope could not stand the strain of being stretched between the wounded and dying whale fighting its last fight, and the whale catcher bouncing over the waves. The whale had to be played as a rainbow trout is played on the finest tackle. The line had to be let out or taken in, as the pull on it varied. To prevent sudden tugs from snapping it, the line ran through a sheave that was attached to a rope. The rope ran to the masthead, and then down through a series of accumulation springs in the hold. As tension in the whale-line increased, the sheave was pulled down, the springs stretched, and the strain on the whale-line decreased. The movements of whale and the catcher would be continually moderated by the play in the accumulated springs.

Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen. The first officer’s voice stabbed through Sasaki’s thoughts as he made his last minute check. Everything was in order.

Four, three, two, one, BLOOOWS, came as a high pitched shout.

"Sixty meters straight ahead—Makko kujira fifteen meters," the first officer relayed, now calm.

"Makko kujira where are you? Sasaki whispered to himself. Lifted by the swell, the range of his view opened to reveal the tell tale sign of the sperm whale. The fine mist of its spout rising seven meters to the left at forty five degrees, indicated that the whale catcher was coming up fast behind the leviathan. Now I’ve got you," Sasaki said to himself. The engine noise would frighten the whale into a series of shallow and short dives until, exhausted, it would lie panting on the surface, unable to escape.

"Tsukamaeru zo! Sasaki shouted to himself as the frightened whale dived early before full recovery, I’ll get you soon!"

Eight minutes passed before the catcher began to slow down and maneuver into the final killing position. Sasaki, waving with his left hand, directed the chaser’s course.

Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, the counting of the breaths continued, in his ear, as he sighted along the rod above the gun barrel.

Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, the voice over the microphone continued, like a death chant. The whale’s back began to hump out of the water. Sasaki felt his mouth become dry as his concentration increased with the approach to the ideal position. The area behind the head became exposed. He tightened his finger on the trigger.

Now! Now!

A cloud of smoke signaled the WHOOMP of the explosion as the harpoon fired out at fifty kilometers per hour into its prey.

Amsterdam Monday 8th March, 12.42 p.m.

AN urgent report has been received that requires this committee’s immediate attention. I would like to raise it now. Any objections? Mark Stafford’s quiet voice made the question a command at the resumption of the executive committee. He paused briefly, That being the case, I will ask Petra to carry on. Petra?

Thank you Mr Chairman. There was excitement in her voice.

Graham Williams felt the level of interest of the other eight members’ rise in expectation. ‘What can this special report be about?’ he wondered as Margrethe Rasmussen, International Campaign coordinator, nuclear, sitting on his right, leant forward.

We have received a special report from the Whale Division of our Research Center in San Francisco, Petra announced, her manner intense and determined. Briefly, it explains that this month’s regular STROW, which you’ll recall is an abbreviation of Satellite Transmission Report on Whales, reveals the grave possibility that some nine or more bull sperm whales have been slaughtered.

"Mon dieu! Jacques Phillippe’s exclamation exploded across the room, NINE bull sperm whales. NINE. How can that be?"

Graham felt the tension of pent-up anticipation become anger as the committee members expressed their shock at the announcement. Before it could develop into a general outcry, Mark Stafford intervened.

I realize this is a great blow to you all, especially since the killing of sperm whales was banned by the International Whaling Commission in 1976. However, please hear Petra out.

"Most of you will recall that over the past six months our Whale Division has carried out a test identification program on two hundred bull sperm whales. Each of them has been fitted with their own small transmitter-receiver identification monitor. Fired in behind its head under the blubber, each dart contains a microchip that has a unique number for each whale by which we can identify it. The transmitter-receiver can be tracked by GPS, sector by sector or all at once, right around the world. The individual numbers are received back at our Research Center where they are