The Beast of Cretacea (42 page)

“At that point your jobs will change,” Starbuck tells the chase-boat crews. “You can be certain that once the big-tooths sense the trapped creature in their midst, they’ll be on her. Your job’ll be to fire on those big-tooths — kill ’em, herd ’em away, do whatever you can to keep ’em off the terrafin.”

He goes on to say that because the creature is far too large to get up the slipway whole, they’ll need to winch the beast as close to the stern as they can and get its head out of the water, at which point they’ll kill it. Once it’s dead, they can begin cleaving and dragging the parts up the slipway for processing.

“As for how you attack it,” Starbuck continues from the bridge, “you’ll come at it in pairs, one boat on each side of the beast, and fire your harpoons at the same time. That should confuse it and, hopefully, keep it from going after one boat or the other. After you fire, you’ll circle about a quarter mile out to give the next boats room to move in. Got it?”

The crews reply in the affirmative.

Starbuck consults a tablet. “Chase Boats Two and Four will be on the beast’s port side, with Boats One and Three on its starboard. One and Four will go in first, followed by Two and Three. Go in, fire, and get out fast. No dawdling. Everyone got that? Now prepare to launch.”

Three of the four chase-boat teams hurry off, but the crew of Chase Boat Four remain in place, Ishmael’s gloom over Archie so great that he is almost unable to process the activity around him.

For several long moments, Gwen and Queequeg stand near him, waiting to see what he’ll do.

Finally, Gwen breaks the shroud of sorrow. “Listen, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but if we don’t get to our boat, Starbuck’ll probably throw all three of us in the brig.”

Queequeg snorts scornfully. He’s shaved off the scraggly beard but kept his hair long and now ties it back. “Considering what Ahab wants us to do, it’s likely the safest place to be.”

“What makes you think there’s room?” Ishmael asks bitterly. “Aren’t Fleece, Marion, and Stubb already down there?”

Starbuck comes out of a hatch and approaches them. “You’re short a lineman. You need to choose someone now.” He goes off.

“What do you want to do?” Gwen asks Ishmael.

“We’re with you, friend, whatever you decide,” Queequeg adds. Ishmael takes a steadying breath. Standing before him are two of the most loyal allies a person could hope for. He shouldn’t care about the Great Terrafin, but he feels like the three of them have come so far . . . like it’s their destiny to see this to the end. And with Archie gone, does anything really matter anyway?

“Who’s left that we can —” Ishmael begins, then sees something unexpected: Tarnmoor is up on deck in the bright sun, feeling his way uncertainly toward them along the bulwark, unnoticed in the commotion.

Ishmael takes a few steps and places a hand on the old man’s arm. “What are you doing up here?”

“Ah, Ishmael, the one I beens searchin’ for,” the old blind swabbie replies. “I heared yer shorts a lineman. Takes me with ya, lad. I promises I won’t get in yer way.”

Ishmael doesn’t know what to say. “You can’t —”

“Takes me along, lad!” Tarnmoor begs. “For land’s sake, I’ve followed this beast for more’n a lifetime, I haved. The sames as Ahab and Starbuck. Just ’cause I can’t sees no more don’t means I don’t burn with revenge as strong as thems two.”

“Whipped acrost the eyes, I were. Left floatin’ on a piece a’ deckin’ whiles all around me mens screamed and cried as the big-tooths moved in and mades a feast a’ them.”

Ishmael stares at the bent old swabbie. “All right, Tarnmoor, welcome aboard.”

Gwen blanches. “Are you crazy?”

Probably,
Ishmael thinks. “We don’t need a second lineman. The plan is to stick the terrafin, then throw the line and float overboard. The three of us can do that ourselves.”

Gwen and Queequeg exchange a long look, then Queequeg says, “If that’s what you want, Ish.”

Ishmael guides the old man across the deck. Surprisingly, when Starbuck sees them, he doesn’t interfere.
He knows that the old man needs to be out there,
Ishmael concludes.

They’re almost to the chase boat when Ishmael sees Fedallah sitting in the shade of one of the huge winches, carefully sharpening the point of the same long, spearlike harpoon he’d given Ishmael to use the time he saved Daggoo — the stick that must be jabbed by hand into the vulnerable spot behind the terrafin’s head. Amid the frantic preparations, the white-haired harpooner calmly concentrates on this single chore.

Ishmael hands Tarnmoor off to Queequeg and stops a few feet from Fedallah. “You’re serious?”

“The smallest insect can kill a man many times its size.” Fedallah holds the spear up, the tip gleaming in the sun. “It is ready.”

Ishmael squats. “Why, Fedallah?”

The man runs a finger along the stick’s slim metal shaft. “To give meaning and purpose to that which lacks both. For some, it is a choice. For others, it is as deep in the genes as the will to survive itself. It is not important which you are. What is important is that, whichever you are, you are true to yourself.”

Chase Boat Four bobs beside the hull of the
Pequod.
Tarnmoor is sitting on the bench seat, white-knuckling the gunwales, but with a grin as big as the crescent orb.

“Bless ya, my friends.” He takes a deep sniff. “Feels good to be close to the sea again.”

Gwen and Queequeg share a wary look. Ishmael knows what they’re thinking: Old Tarnmoor may feel good now, but how will it be once they encounter the Great Terrafin?

At the console, Ishmael brushes his hair out of his eyes and hits the starter . . . the RTG sputters and cuts out. He tries again. This time the engine starts — though Ishmael can’t shake a deep sense of foreboding. It will be treacherous enough to pursue the beast with a functioning chase boat. What chance will they have with an engine that isn’t reliable?

But they are committed to this thing now. With a drone following overhead, Ishmael’s and Fedallah’s boats set out side by side from the
Pequod.
Daggoo’s and Tashtego’s boats follow a quarter mile behind. A slight breeze ripples the ocean’s surface. The sky is a patchwork of blue and gray, shafts of the sun’s rays breaking through the clouds. The chase boats pass in and out of sunlight and shadow. Tarnmoor clings to the gunwale and faces forward, the rushing air and sea spray on his pasty, wrinkled face.

Ahead Ishmael can make out three specks circling low in the sky, converging like airborne scavengers over wounded prey. Not flyers — drones. Queequeg points at the ocean below the drones, where the red-tipped fins of big-tooths cut back and forth in agitation.

Beyond the big-tooths a splash on the surface reveals what looks like the tip of one of the Great Terrafin’s white wings. The enormous creature is surfacing, and soon its vast back is visible, looking from a distance like an island of white sand. Ancient, rusted harpoons jut from its torso, mere splinters to a creature its size. Ishmael’s blood tingles with equal amounts of excitement and fear.

As the first two chase boats close in on the target, they spread out. Ishmael keeps expecting the Great Terrafin to sense their approach and dive, but it remains floating on the surface, making him wonder if it is unable to muster the energy to escape.

Ishmael and Fedallah are running two hundred yards apart, and in a few moments the creature will be between them. Drones whir and dart overhead.

Starbuck’s voice comes over the two-way: “Boats One and Four, prepare to fire your bow guns on my count. Three . . . two . . . one!”

“Now!” Ishmael shouts.

BOOM!
Queequeg fires.

Boom!
From across the way comes the blast of Fedallah’s gun. Both harpoons strike the great beast in the back, where they stick out like pins. And yet the huge creature remains unmoving on the surface. Is it sick? Exhausted? Has it lost the will to live?

Gwen heaves the green steel-reinforced line and the big orange float over the side, and both chase boats peel away to make room for the next two.

Chase Boats Two and Three race in.
Boom! Boom!
The thunder of harpoon guns rings in the air. Lines and floats are thrown overboard and the boats speed away. Still, the giant terrafin doesn’t react.

Over the two-way comes the first mate’s voice again: “Boats One and Four, ready your shoulder launchers.”

Ishmael signals Queequeg, who knows what to do. The chase boat cants while they circle back around on their second approach. “Boats One and Four, prepare to fire again on my count,” Starbuck orders. “Three . . . two . . . one!”

BANG! Bang!
The harpooners fire their shoulder-mounted sticks, and then the chase boats veer off. Ishmael steers away, watching over his shoulder as Gwen throws out another line and float. Finally, the great beast appears to rouse at the onslaught of harpoons, but only by slowly raising its vast left wing out of the water, then letting it drop with a huge splash.

“Cease fire!” Starbuck shouts over the two-way. “Boats Two and Three, stand clear!”

Tashtego’s skipper obeys the command and turns away, but Daggoo’s chase boat, on the left side of the terrafin, continues toward the target.

“Stand clear, Boat Two!” the first mate repeats. “Do not fire! Do you copy? Stand clear!”

But Chase Boat Two continues to close in, Daggoo standing in the bow with the shoulder launcher while the Great Terrafin again raises its left wing.

“What’s happening?” Tarnmoor asks, his blind eyes turned toward the beast.

“Chase Boat Two’s going in,” Queequeg says. “Looks like Daggoo wants a shot at the underside of the wing.”

“Daggoo!” Starbuck shouts over the two-way. “Back off !”

But now Daggoo is close enough to fire the shoulder stick.

Bang!
With a puff of white smoke, the stick bursts from the shoulder launcher.

“The fool!” Tarnmoor cries.

The Great Terrafin’s wing plunges down.

Crash!

Chase Boat Two disappears.

A strange quiet fills the air. The three remaining boats rock in the waves spreading away from the beast. Using binoculars, Ishmael scans the surface near the terrafin, looking for a sign that someone from Daggoo’s boat has survived. Debris floats near the creature’s left wing, and the crumpled remnants of Chase Boat Two’s hull drift upside down. The red-tipped fins of big-tooths slice frantic, jagged paths through the water.

“That Daggoo were always a brash one,” Tarnmoor laments. “Long on nerves but short on sense.”

Over the two-way, Starbuck curses and orders the chase boats to give the terrafin wide berth. Ishmael tries to start his engine, but once again it sputters and stalls. He holds his breath and tries again. This time the engine starts, and he motors a safe distance away to await his next orders.

Were things going according to plan, the next step would be to collect the ends of the harpoon lines and bring them back to the
Pequod.
But after what happened to Daggoo and his crew, Ishmael is in no hurry to go anywhere near the beast.

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Gwen says. “If the terrafin has the strength to raise its wing and crush a chase boat, why’s it sitting there? Why doesn’t it swim away? Or dive? It could easily drag the floats down with it.”

“Maybe that was its last bit of strength,” Queequeg speculates. “They’ve been chasing it for weeks, never giving it time to rest or feed.”

Ishmael studies Tarnmoor’s face. Is it a trick of the light, or does he detect tension in the set of the old man’s jaw? What does this blind sailor see that the others don’t?

Gwen points behind them. The
Pequod
has appeared on the horizon. At the same time, the Great Terrafin starts to swim slowly, towing the green lines and orange floats behind it like long tendrils.

Starbuck orders the chase boats to follow, but at a distance. While the floats and lines extend far enough from the terrafin to be collected out of harm’s way, should the beast suddenly turn and attack, there would be little the crews in the chase boats could do to defend themselves. Reason enough for Starbuck to have them keep far behind.

When they pass the spot where Daggoo’s boat was destroyed, Gwen gasps. Amid the debris, the mauled remains of a body float facedown on the surface, the bright-yellow hair unmistakable. Ishmael radios in the discovery.