To Be a Champion Merciful and Brave

 

RICHARD OLIN

 

Some battles are important not because of who won or lost, but because they mark a turning point in the war.

 

The six Pacific gray whales plowed through the mounting waves ahead of oceanographic research vessel Ne­reid. A force-four wind gusted to five, sending riffles from the storm front blowing out of the northwest. Radar, sonar, and loran—the elec­tromagnetic antennae of the Nereid—kept the ship's officers and watch in­formed of the changing world around them.

Holt Broken Bull drew off a fresh cup of black coffee from the urn and, balancing nicely against the slight tilt and roll of the vessel, took a seat at one of the tables in the mess.

"What's the word on Sanford's project?" Clew Nordsen asked him before he'd finished spooning in his usual teaspoon of sugar.

Holt thought a moment. Shrug­ging, he said, "About the same. Un­derwater mikes are picking up too much noise from other sources to get a clear picture of what the whales are sending."

Clew stoked up his huge black briar, a curve-stem, and had sur­rounded them both with a halo of blue tobacco smoke before he nod­ded. "About what I thought." His big white teeth showed in a grin as he nodded again, adding, "Well, at least our friends up ahead are being well fed. I monitored the mike intake. Most of the noise on it is shrimp-clicks and noise from other small-fry. Must be upwelling around here."

Holt agreed. The strong, deep cur­rents rising from the lower ocean brought with them rich minerals that were nutrients for the plankton near the surface. When upwelling oc­curred, the surface turned into a rich, soupy broth. Whalefeed.

The four cows and two males the Nereid followed were members of a rapidly vanishing species. Holt was glad to hear they were making it so well. He blew into his mug of coffee.

"I was sorry to hear about Chadsworth," Holt said on an alto­gether new topic. Tye Chadsworth was a highly qualified marine zoolo­gist. He had not shipped on Nereid this trip. His research grant had been canceled.

"Same here," Clew acknowledged. He thumbed more shag into the pipe, relit it. "As usual, protection of threatened species comes bottom­most in the federal barrel." The big Dane belched. The belch itself was sufficient comment. "Since the new administration started its austerity program, cutbacks have been falling thick and fast. It makes you wonder whose project will get the chopping-block treatment next."

Holt shook his head. "I don't know."

"Well, you're safe," Clew re­marked with an ironic lift of his heavy blond eyebrows.

"Sure," Holt agreed sourly. "I can always go back to live on the reser­vation."

Clew snorted. "You know I didn't mean it like that! What I meant was we eggheads can get the ax any time. And it is damn seldom we are missed. But an expert electronics man, such as yourself, is too valu­able. With your skills, you'll always find your abilities in demand."

"Thanks, Clew, I knew what you meant. I guess I'm in a bum mood today." He reached into the pocket of his blue work shirt and pulled out a letter. "Here. You might like to read it. My sister wrote it. It was in the mail the seaplane brought yester­day."

The Dane picked up the envelope, read the postmark. "Pinehat, where's that?"

"In Arizona. My people asked her to write me. They want me back. It seems the loggers and bulldozer men are causing a load of trouble up around Pinehat."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Just fights right now. We hope it doesn't get worse. The loggers are on our land. They aren't welcome, and they know it."

"Why not throw them off in that case?"

"Can't. Bureau of Indian Affairs says the umpty-umpth clause in our treaty gives away our forestry rights. The logging companies can take ev­ery stick of wood off the mountain if they want. It's legal. Or so the Bu­reau says."

 

Clew swore. He read the letter. Laying down the pages, he drew fu­rious puffs from his pipe and began cursing again.

Holt smiled wryly. "Don't take it so hard. It's the same old story. 'For so long as the sun shines, the grass grows and the waters run,' et cetera, `this land shall he the land of the Apache.' Or the Sioux, or the Paiute, or Comanche, or Cherokee, or what­ever.

"But one day the sun doesn't shine. It's behind the clouds. And grass won't grow. It's been trampled flat. And that's what's happening at Pinehat. The water in the streams has to he boiled now. When I was a kid, you could drink it right from the stream. In another ten years or so, when they've destroyed the water­shed, there won't be any water at all. So, one day, not even the waters run. And that's the day any Indian knows too damn well. He should. He's had days like it often enough before."

Clew Nordsen crashed one heavy fist down on the mess table. "Your people should fight!"

"We did. Remember? Besides, it's the wrong century for an Indian up­rising."

"Then take it to court! You have rights—"

"Against who? The Federal Gov­ernment? Minimum time for a suit that big to go through the courts is five years. It could last ten. By that time, the damage will be done and the loggers will he off doing the same thing somewhere else."

The Dane swore one last time. Then, angry and silent, he knocked loose the dottle from his pipe. With a gloomy expression, he methodically refilled it.

"As a matter of fact," Holt said, "I once thought of going to law school. Too tough. For me at least. Some of my cousins went. One made it. He's a practicing lawyer today."

Nordsen shook his head. "No. For you, it is obvious that electronics is the thing. You are good at it." He lit the black briar. His next words sur­prised Holt. Never before had he heard Nordsen apologize for any­thing.

"I am sorry I lost my temper," said the Dane. "I grow furious hearing about situations I cannot help make better. You and your people at home. Chadsworth's project—which was a good one. The whales. These things make me feel helpless. And because I do not like to feel helpless, I lost my temper."

Holt smiled. "It's all right, Clew. At least you aren't indifferent." He finished his coffee, held out his hand. "Got some work to do. See you on the next shift."

"Yes. When we take the samples." Nordsen brightened, gave Holt's hand a hard answering grip. "Do you think you will fly back to Arizona? If you tell the skipper, I am sure he'll give you an emergency leave. I will say a word to him about it, if you wish."

"Thanks. But I just don't know yet, Clew. Maybe I'll ask you to do that—when I've made up my mind."

"Don't worry. I know you. You'll make the right decision."

"I guess I will. As soon as I figure out what that right decision is."

Down on B-deck's bay, Holt worked on the monitor bombs that would be used tomorrow. The "bombs" were miracles of compact design. A little over a meter long, they were rugged enough to be dropped from the seaplane, sensitive enough to pick up or broadcast over a wide area. Ahead of the tubular power pack, nestled to either side of the racks of printed circuits, were son­ic and thermal pickup units that reg­istered and recorded the surrounding marine environment to a fine degree. Each unit was self-propelled and could navigate either from a pre­programmed group of course set­tings or steer itself in response to di­rect radio command.

Needless to say, the monitors were expensive. The research vessel took care to retrieve them as she ran across them in her day's haul.

There were thirty monitor bombs in the bay. Less than half that num­ber would be used tomorrow. But Holt checked all of them. He but­toned the last access plate as Sanford entered the bay.

"Bad news," said the little wispy-haired oceanologist.

"Oh?" Holt tightened a final nut and straightened. "What's happen­ing?"

"Sparks reports transmission from two sources. One is in Japanese. The other is Russian. Both ships are ap­parently in the area our whales cross the day after tomorrow."

"So why panic? Being Russian or Japanese doesn't necessarily make them whalers." Though Holt did not exactly like the news—he was aware, as were they all, that these two na­tions had consistently ignored the United Nations' repeated pleas to suspend their whaling activities be­fore every cetacean on the globe was exterminated—he refused to get ex­cited until he knew what was hap­pening.

"They could be commercial freight­ers," he said.

"They could be. But I don't think so. Neither one of them is close to a shipping lane. Besides, Sparks' wife lives in Kyoto. He knows enough Japanese to understand part of what they're saying. He's positive at least one of them is a whaler."

"Maybe both are, then, and they are following a herd. Though God knows, there are few enough herds around. Think it will mean trouble for our friends?"

"I don't know," Sanford admitted. "But I don't mind telling you I'm worried."

 

There was nothing anyone aboard Nereid could do. At Holt's request, backed up by Sanford, the seaplane was asked to do a flyover inspection of the two vessels before it rendez­voused with Nereid in the morning.

It was a clear night, the storm hav­ing blown off to the east, and Holt took several hundred turns around the boat deck before turning in. Un­sure of what prompted him, he asked the watch to call him at 0600 the next morning.

Holt was breakfasting on eggs when Clew banged his way into the mess. From the way the man stomp­ed through the serving line, Holt knew he had heard the news. Nord­sen set down his tray with a loud clang and took the seat opposite.

"Good morning," the big man grunted. Moodily he added, "Not that there is anything good about it."

"Sleep badly?"

"No. But I dreamed Nereid had fourteen-inch guns. We were hunt­ing whaling ships. Bang. Bang. Simple as that." He stuffed a piece of toast, whole, into his mouth. Around it, he said, "I understand dreams are sometimes a form of wish fulfillment."

Holt did not reply until he had thoroughly studied the gray paint on the bulkheads. "We're well out into international waters," he said at last. "Do you want to start a war, Clew?"

"No. I want to end one! Man's been at war with himself, with other species and with nature since he first inhabited caves. He's too good at it. Much too good. If we win many more 'victories' over nature, all of us are going to have to pack up and find a new home."

Holt sopped up the last of his egg yolk with toast. "You know the word for eggs in Apache? It's tashabega­nabegesh. The reason it's so long is that, loosely translated, it means, `eggs that don't come from a tur­key.'

Clew looked startled. "Why that?"

"Simple. Before the white man came, the only eggs available were turkey eggs. Wild turkey lived up in the hills. Tasha means 'turkey' and the rest of it is the qualifier. 'Eggs not gotten from' or something close to that.

"An old chief I knew as a boy was called 'Tree-that-grows-tall.' It's really a simple, descriptive language. Chief Tree-that-grows-tall had a say­ing in Apache. Loosely translated, it said, 'There's lots of ways to outwit the U.S. Cavalry.' "

Frowning, Clew said, "I don't be­lieve I follow that."

"Don't worry. You will."

Whistling, Holt got up from the table and went down to work in B­ deck bay.

 

Sitting on a workbench in Sanford's lab, Holt listened to a series of grumps, whistles and squeals.

"Essentially, what we do is cata­log," the little oceanologist told him. "We find a signal that occurs over and over again, and we try to match it to the animal's behavior. For ex­ample, this one is pretty well-known."

A high, yammering whistle broke over the speaker. 'That's a mother calling in her calf. And this," he said, turning a knob, "is a calf's distress call." Even Holt's untrained ears could pick out the high pitch of ter­ror behind the call.

"That one," the oceanologist said proudly, "will bring cows and even a bull to investigate for miles around." Engrossed in his subject, Sanford was smiling broadly.

"This one means, 'The food is good around here.' And now this is, `I feel skittish, let's play.' Another could mean, 'I feel nervous; there's bad weather approaching.' But one or two signals have stumped us cold. The problem is we don't know how intelligent these creatures really are. For all we actually know, some of what we pick up could be a cetacean Socrates discoursing on philosophy."

Holt asked, "Do you have any­thing that means, 'I don't like it here—let's move on'?"

"Several. Here is a bull signaling his cows that the herd is going to change course."

Holt shook his head negatively. "Not what I had in mind. Do you have any more?"

Sanford had many more, and—af­ter a particular taped signal played—Holt asked the oceanologist to re-record it on a length of tape. He took the tape spool down to B-deck and cut it into lengths, which he then spliced and installed as endless loops in the underwater speaker units in­side each monitor's nose cone.

After that, he set to work on the propellant systems and the program­ming for each monitor bomb.

 

The seaplane arrived within five minutes of its scheduled time, de­spite the detour to the north. Both ships were whaling vessels, the pilot reported, and—in addition—a herd of eight with several calves was in the east ahead of the advancing ships.

"We're taking all thirty sticks," Holt called down to the pilot as soon as the plane was in position and the bay's doors were open. He lowered the canvas cargo chute. As soon as it was attached he began sliding down the monitor bombs.

"There's a change in the drop pat­tern this morning," Holt told the pi­lot, climbing into the seat next to him. "Just take off. I'll show you where to go."

Twenty minutes later, the pilot said, "I hope you know what you are doing."

"I've never been more sure," Holt told him. He was wearing a wide grin.

When the last monitoring device had been dropped in the area ahead of the advancing whaling ships, Holt radioed back to Nereid and informed the bridge of the situation. He got the ship's captain after a pause, who coldly informed him he was wanted in the captain's quarters as soon as he was back aboard.

"Yes, sir," Holt replied. Thumbing off the mike, he said to the pilot, "You better stick around after we land. I have a hunch I might be fly­ing hack with you to the mainland."

The pilot merely shook his head.

Clew Nordsen caught up with him as he left the captain's cabin. "Holt, you crazy Indian! I just heard about it! What—"

"Come on," Holt said, "I'll tell you all about it while I pack."

"Pack?"

That's right. I'm suspended from all duties while the skipper refers the mat­ter to the Institute. Since I can't do any useful work around here, I asked him for my emergency leave." He grinned cheerfully. "I'll probably get fired."

"But—!"

"Walk with me, and I'll explain it. I'm in a hurry. That seaplane isn't going to wait forever."

It took him ten minutes to clean out his quarters.

Accompanying him back on deck, the Dane pleaded, "Just tell me one thing. There're rumors going all over the ship. Is it true you lost us all thirty of the monitor bombs?"

"Nope. They're running under­water, set to broadcast every few minutes. They've got maximum fuel in their tanks, so they won't come up until they run out. And they can't be countermanded by radio control. I disconnected that part before the drop. Don't worry," he told the as­tounded Dane cheerily. "You'll get them all back. In about two days."

"Two days? But what are they doing?"

Holt grinned widely. "They are sending out the whale language ver­sion of: 'Run! Murder! Destruction! Everybody clear out! ' " He laughed. "And they are all set to run directly in front of those whalers! By the time they finish, there won't be a fluke or a spout within a hundred miles!"

Flabbergasted for a moment, Clew could do nothing but stand there. Then, the enormity of the idea struck the big Dane. He threw back his head and howled. At last, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, he clapped Holt on the shoulder.

"What a brilliant idea! If the Insti­tute doesn't fire you, I'll see if the Danish government can't strike you a special medal. In fact, I'll see they give you a medal whether they fire you or not!" He sobered. "No, I'm serious. I'll do better than that. I'll write a detailed account of your method and suggest the Institute and every other oceanographic research center in the world copy it!"

"Thanks, Clew. I appreciate that. If you are ever out in Arizona, look me up."

"You think you will stay there, then?"

"Probably. Got things to do. You know, I wonder if you realize how much I got out of our shipboard phi­losophy discussions. One thing they made me realize is that the times change, and with them weapons, but the battle is always the same. There's always something a man can do. He just has to think of it.

"See you around."

 

The westering sun gleamed through the windows of the sea­plane's cabin as it banked over the drop area. Holt had requested the pi­lot to fly there one last time. He saw the wakes of the unsuspecting whal­ing vessels far below. He could not see the invisible monitors that kept pace in front of them, running in a broad arrowhead below the surface. Every cetacean was swimming hard out of the area.

He was satisfied.

Continuing its wide circle, the plane climbed and then leveled off. The pilot said, "I'm heading for base now."

Holt nodded. He was deep in thought.

The times and the weapons changed. The fight, he knew now, would always he the same. Whether it was for a tribe's hunting rights, or the freedom of life to go unmolested at sea, it was no more than two faces of the same battle.

His people had always been war­riors. Champions who were brave and audacious. Perhaps it was time to take up battle again. No "per­haps" at all. It was time.

He didn't realize he'd spoken some of these thoughts aloud until he glanced up and saw the pilot looking at him.

"What?" asked the pilot.

"Oh, never mind. Let's get on home."