Killing Keiko (43 page)

As we stood ready on the docks of Heimaey’s harbor, we knew any chance we had of stopping
the intended assault on the wild whales had vanished, both by the hostility of the
first discussion and the limited time with which to redress the issue at this late
hour. Robin instructed Tom to simply observe and report. He couldn’t put the onus
on Tom now for an earlier failure to find compromise on the matter. Equally as discouraging,
Robin knew this was but another aspect of a suffocating agenda deeply rooted and expanding
rapidly. Literally and figuratively, we continued to fall back, retreating to the
only vestige we could control: the walk-boat and Keiko himself.

Viking II
was required to participate in the fateful introduction. Her role as tracking vessel
was to locate and identify the ideal pod that Keiko was to meet. In this capacity
she was first to put to sea, several hours in advance of the walk-formation. Captained
by Siti, the
Viking II
carried with her Robin Baird, the orca field researcher intending to biopsy the wild
whales. Also in her crew were Dr. Lanny Cornell and Tom. It was Tom’s duty to provide
guidance to Siti in following the protocols specific to the
Viking II
and her station during the encounter.

Our lone eye-in-the-sky, the sleek modern helicopter with call sign
Zero-Nine-Zulu
carried Charles, Jeff and the videographer. Their job was to keep perspective on
the field of play from far above. In the final agreed plan,
Zero-Nine-Zulu
had to remain at a minimum of 500 feet off the deck or above the water’s surface.
Viking II
, with the assistance of
Zero-Nine-Zulu
would locate a pod of whales, then track that pod communicating their position. Though
we knew more would be attempted,
Viking II’s
assigned duty was no more than to identify the make-up of the target pod and track
their calculated heading, thus allowing the
Draupnir
to assume an accurate position in the path of the wild pod and at the appropriate
time.

Shadowing
Viking II
at a minimum of one and a half nautical miles was another borrowed vessel. This was
the tour boat
Vikingur
, which had frequented the no-fly zone near the barrier net over the past many months,
always playing a game of cat and mouse with our patience.

Tour operators on Heimaey promised their patrons a peek at Keiko, the world’s most
famous whale. Although we pleaded with the owner to respect the distances we required,
he always pushed those boundaries, at times putting his bow almost on top of the barrier
net’s buoy line, thus giving his guests a front-row view of the release project. The
Vikingur
was our own private paparazzi, repentant after each offense and yet constantly duplicating
the affront for the benefit of paying onlookers. Of course we went to great lengths
to eliminate any form of unintended enrichment created by the intrusion. But there
were times that Keiko would sit just opposite the barrier net, looking up at the touring
spectators piled to one side, listing the boat and lending themselves to every form
of visual spectacle imaginable for the whale in training.

Now, on the inaugural introduction to wild whales, the pesky
Vikingur
was awarded the lofty position of VIP boat. She carried the bulk of project spectators,
favored appointees, agents, regulators and anyone to whom OFS and the FWKF owed favors.
To me, she was nothing but another unwanted vessel, tangible evidence of the lack
of understanding that ran fathoms deep. What should have been the most minimalist
venture to sea was by all accounts drastically upstaged with the presence of man and
man-made things.

Completing the flotilla were
Sili
and
Heppin
. In their usual roles, the two smaller vessels would surround the
Draupnir
and Keiko at a half-mile distance. Their duty, as always, was to shield our star
from third-party interference. On land, two teams of two traversed the island by vehicle
and relayed information when necessary from their land-based viewpoints. Often, the
island natives fulfilling these roving positions would be the first to spot nearby
pods, as they were well acquainted with the wild whales’ habitual routes around the
island chain.

Passing the better part of the early morning, the
Draupnir
and
Sili
were tied up to the bay pen while
Heppin
waited patiently in the harbor for her call to action. Time seemed to pass quickly
while our minds were full of speculation and constantly interrupted by the tedium
of final preparation.

Among those details was the all-important fastening of the satellite tag to Keiko’s
dorsal fin. Jeff had become the informal master of ceremony in handling the sat-tag.
It was his responsibility to ensure that it was mounted properly and that the electronics
were active before Keiko could leave the bay enclosure.

Jeff had gone out earlier in the morning onboard
Zero-Nine-Zulu
and successfully located a nearby pod of whales. Once
Viking II
was in position to track the pod, Jeff returned to the bay pen to affix the sat-tag
to Keiko’s dorsal.
Sili
stood ready to spirit him back to the harbor on his return to the helicopter once
we completed the attachment.

Jeff and I called Keiko to the outside of the north pool of the bay pen, the calmest
waters that day in the lee of Klettsvik’s incoming tide. The procedure was well-practiced.
Keiko obligingly floated motionless while we toyed with his dorsal fin and the tag.
In only a few short minutes the tag was readied. At that, the last of the morning’s
details were completed. The team and Keiko were eager to get under way.

Nearly six miles away the
Viking II
trailed in the wake of a wild pod close to the western shore of Heimaey. The animals
were moving east-southeast, toward the southern point of the island, toward us.

We had begun the day just after dawn. It seemed like noon, yet it was barely eight
in the morning. Any sense of the clock was confused by the early arrival of the sun
on our horizon. It was time to get Keiko to sea.

Members of our team later filled us in on what was happening from their positions
during the debacle. Onboard the
Viking II
, Tom stood at the starboard gunwale near the forward pilothouse. He was taking in
the scene as Robin Baird prepared a suction-cup tag. Tom was conflicted. Throughout
the morning he watched as Siti was instructed repeatedly to get closer and closer
still to the wild whales. He knew they were violating the introduction protocols.
He also knew he was powerless to stop them. Lanny did what
Lanny wanted to do, and Robin Baird gave no heed whatsoever to Tom’s polite attempts
to dissuade the deliberate rebuff. Tom doubted that either of them had even reviewed
the introduction plan; much less would they bend to his authority.

Tom was part of my team, the Behavior Team. That association alone rendered him as
no more than a nuisance in Lanny’s view. More to the point, Lanny likely knew or suspected
that we had placed Tom on the
Viking II
for no other reason than to baby-sit the motley crew.

Time and again, Lanny demonstrated little to no regard for what had come before him.
It seemed that he cared nothing for the grand plan of introduction and even less for
the months of meticulous work implementing that plan. He was fond of mentioning Bobo
the pilot whale, a release he himself had orchestrated more than a decade earlier.
It was a release for which he alone claimed resounding success; this despite U.S.
Navy documents evidencing Bobo’s repeated aggression toward divers and the resulting
necessity of euthanizing the whale. By his estimation, he was the lone expert on release.

Thus it was, the
Viking II
relentlessly followed on the perimeter of the wild pod of whales, encroaching as
close as they could manage and making repeated attempts to place suction cup tags
on those within range. They succeeded on two accounts, mounting the tags on a larger
female and a younger animal, probably an adolescent, judging by its size. Throughout
the morning, when the wild pod surfaced, each animal in the small group took multiple
breaths to recharge their oxygen supply. Then the pod “sounded,” diving deep, abruptly
changing direction and running for a distance before another series of group breaths
betrayed their new heading. The
Viking II
continuously adjusted her course, rejoining the pod. Without realizing it, Tom was
grinding his teeth. The zigzag pattern and successive sounding of the wild whales
demonstrated clear avoidance of the
Viking II
and her pursuit. He couldn’t even radio the
Draupnir
to advise her crew of the situation. Lanny kept the only handheld radio on his person.
He could use Siti’s radio in the
pilothouse, but any form of report to the
Draupnir
would incite a riot if it had any meat. Tom did the best he could, waiting and watching.

The pod consisted of at least one unmistakable bull, formidable in size. He easily
dwarfed Keiko in physique and prominence, verified by his towering dorsal fin methodically
cutting the water as if a giant dark blade. Fulfilling his protective role, the male
repeatedly placed himself between the
Viking II
and the rest of his pod. Two or three others appeared to be adult females. At least
two were mothers, made abundantly obvious by the very small calves glued to their
side and riding in the larger animal’s slipstream. The would-be white patches on one
of the calves were a dark mottled orange, a pigmentation common only on the most recently
birthed. This calf
is no more than a month old at best
, Tom guessed. The troublesome dance between the wild pod and the
Viking II
went on for hours. Their jagged and disjointed course led the entourage in a general
eastward heading, toward the southern tip of Heimaey.

From his broad perspective aboard
Zero-Nine-Zulo
Jeff examined the scene below. In company with Charles, he watched as the
Viking II
traveled nearly on top of the wild pod. Looking out over the expanse closing between
the
Draupnir
and
Viking II
, he said, “This is not the right group to introduce … too many moms and babies.”

Although the comment was made over the helicopter’s VOX system, Charles stared down
at the unfolding introduction without response. Jeff’s trepidation still resonating
in his mind, his foreboding words faded in the noise of the helicopter as if they
had never been given voice.

On the distant side of the island,
Draupnir
, Keiko and those of us on the walk-formation worked our way south paralleling the
island’s eastern shore. We beat into the small chop and made for the open area at
the southern point. Following coordinates relayed from
Zero-Nine-Zulu
, now back in the air, and the occasional sighting report from Siti, we hoped to reach
a site in the path of the wild pod and clear of the island. It seemed the ideal spot
was in open waters to the south of Heimaey. We didn’t know how fast the
group of wild whales was moving, and we knew nothing of their aggravated posture.
Onboard
Draupnir
, most of our information came from our aerial scout. But at altitude, they could
not discern the telltale signs of frustration among the wild ones rising to a threatening
crescendo.

Below and on the decks of
Viking II
, the evidence was all but written in stone. To this point, the
Viking II
had trailed the pod of unsuspecting whales for nearly five hours. They were not entirely
unaccustomed to curious stalking boats, though this one was overly persistent. On
this occasion their wariness intensified not only by the duration of the pursuit and
the presence of newly born young, but also by the odd feeling suction cups placed
on two of their members and the loud strange bird now frequently passing above.

This was anything but normal.

But their struggle to evade the
Viking II
had been fruitless. Either from helplessness or fatigue or something of both, the
pod largely gave way to the needs of the young among them and adopted a slower pace
allowing more visits to the surface for air. Hours into the progression, they held
a more consistent east-southeast heading. The pod and the
Viking II
were now only two nautical miles apart from Keiko and the walk-formation. In the
distance,
Draupnir
and Keiko were just rounding the southern point of the island. The convergence of
the two paths became more apparent. The meeting would take place somewhere just south
of Heimaey within sight of shore.

The agreed protocol called for
Draupnir
to stop and hold position approximately one nautical mile from the wild pod. This
was a programmed pause in the countdown to introduction intended to ensure that both
Keiko and the wild whales were aware of each other. It goes without saying that nothing
good would come of a surprise encounter. Caution was in order; we had no real way
of knowing when either Keiko or the wild whales would each become aware of the other’s
presence.

Per the staged plan of approach, all boats were scheduled to stop and observe. If
nothing obvious presented itself, we could continue forward in half-nautical mile
increments, repeating the same
check and balance at each interval as the distance between them closed. Somehow that
first programmed stop never happened. Without warning we could now see the
Viking II
on the horizon and she us. Only a half-nautical mile remained between.

Radio chatter picked up. The closing gap between the two flotillas shrouded the human
orchestra with intoxicating excitement. This was to be expected, but also lent to
a quickening where protocol and communication can be altogether lost. Michael’s experience
and wisdom prompted him to suppress the chatter, and that he did, with measured authority.