Polar Shift (5 page)

Austin replied with a loud guffaw. “That's no mystery. They're smart, and they know that we're badass predators just like them.”

“The only difference is that they kill mainly for food.”

“Good point,” Austin said. He went to pour another shot, which Kurt waved off. He knew better than to try keeping up with his father.

“You know everyone in Seattle. Ever come across a bald guy with a spider tattoo on his head? Probably in his thirties. Dresses like a Hell's Angel, in black leather.”

“The only one who meets that description is Spiderman Barrett.”

“Didn't know you were into the comics, Pop.”

Austin's face crinkled in laughter. “Barrett's a whiz kid computer geek who made it big out here. Sort of a minor-league Bill Gates. Only worth three billion bucks, maybe. He's got a big house overlooking the sound.”

“I feel for him. Do you know him personally?”

“Only by sight. He was a fixture on the local nightclub circuit. Then he dropped out of circulation.”

“What's with the head art?”

“Story I heard is that when he was a kid, he was a big Spiderman fan. Cut his hair, had his scalp tattooed and let his hair grow back. As he got older and started to go bald, the tattoo showed, so he shaved his head. Hell, with the kind of money Barrett has he could decorate his body with the Sunday funnies and nobody would blink an eye.”

“Eccentric or not, he saved me from becoming whale bait. I'd like to thank him, and apologize for commandeering his boat.”

Austin was about to tell his father about the metal structure on Barrett's boat, but a crewman came into the cabin and announced, “Someone from Fish and Wildlife is here.”

A moment later, a petite, young, dark-haired woman dressed in the green uniform of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service entered the cabin. She was in her mid-twenties, although her black-rimmed glasses and serious expression made her look more mature. She identified herself as Sheila Rowland, and said she wanted to ask Kurt about his whale encounter.

“Sorry to barge in on you,” she said in apology. “We've closed off further kayak expeditions in Puget Sound until we can get to the bottom of this incident. Whale watching is a big part of the local economy, so we've put the investigation on the fast track. The vendors are starting to scream about the ban, but we can't take chances.”

Austin told her to take a seat, and Kurt went through his story for a second time.

“That's so strange,” she said with a shake of her head. “I've never known orcas to hurt anyone.”

“What about attacks in marine parks?” Kurt said.

“Those are whales that are held in captivity and put under pressure to perform. They get angry at being cooped up and overworked, and sometimes they take out their frustrations on the trainers. There have been a few cases in the wild where an orca has grabbed a surfboard, thinking it's a seal. Once they discover their mistake, they've spit the surfer out.”

“I guess the whale I encountered didn't like my face,” Austin said with dry humor.

Rowland smiled, thinking that with his bronzed features and intense, light blue eyes, Austin was one of the most attractive men she had ever met. “I don't think that's the case. If an orca didn't like your face, you wouldn't
have
one. I've seen a whale toss round a five-hundred-pound sea lion as if it were a rag doll. I'll see if there is any video coverage of the incident.”

“That shouldn't be a problem, with all the cameras focused on the race,” Kurt said, “Is there anything you could think of that would stir up the whales and make them more aggressive?”

She shook her head. “Orcas have extremely fine-tuned sensing systems. If something gets out of whack, they might want to take it out on the nearest object.”

“Like the overworked whales in the marine parks?”

“Maybe. I'll talk to some cetologists and see what they have to say.” She rose and thanked the two men for their time. After she left, Austin's father went to pour another round, but Kurt put his hand over the glass.

“I know what you're doing, you old fox. You're trying to shanghai me onto one of your salvage ships.”

Kurt Senior had made no secret of his desire to lure his son from NUMA and bring him back into the family business. Kurt's decision to stay with NUMA rather than take over the reins of the business had been a sore point between the two men. Through the years, what had been a bitter source of friction became a family joke.

“You're turning into a sissy,” Austin said with mock disgust. “You've got to admit that NUMA hasn't cornered the market on excitement.”

“I've told you before, Pop. It's not all about excitement.”

“Yeah, I know. Duty to country and all that. Worst thing is, I can't blame Sandecker anymore for keeping you in Washington now that he's vice president. What are your plans?”

“I'll stick around a couple more days. I've got to order a new kayak. What about you?”

“Got a big job raising a sunken fishing boat off Hanes, Alaska. Want to come along? I could use you.”

“Thanks, but I'm sure you can handle the project yourself.”

“Can't blame me for trying. Okay, then, I'll buy dinner.”

A
USTIN
was sawing through a manhole-sized slab of beef at his father's favorite steak house when he felt his cell phone vibrating. He excused himself and took the call in the lobby. Looking at Austin from the video phone's tiny display screen was a dark-complexioned man with thick black hair combed straight back. Joe Zavala was a member of Austin's Special Assignments Team who had been recruited by Sandecker right out of the New York Maritime College. He was a brilliant marine engineer whose expertise in designing submersibles had found a ready niche at NUMA.

“Glad to see you're still in once piece,” Zavala said. “The orca attack on your kayak race is all over the news. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. In fact, you might say I had a
whale
of a time.”

Zavala cracked the tips of his lips in a slight smile. “I lead such a dull life. Who else but Kurt Austin could turn a charity kayak race into a life-and-death struggle with a bunch of loco killer whales?”

“The last time I looked you were well along in your goal of dating every eligible woman in Washington. I'd hardly call that dull.”

The gregarious Zavala was much in demand by many of the single women around Washington who were attracted by his charm, his soulful dark brown eyes and Latin good looks.

“I'll admit that life can get interesting when I run into an old date when I'm out with a new one, but that's nothing compared to your race. What happened?”

“I'm having dinner with my father, so I'll have to fill you in when I get back in a couple of days.”

“Looks like you'll be back in Washington sooner than that. We've been ordered to sail out of Norfolk tomorrow night. Do you know Joe Adler?”

“The name sounds familiar. Isn't he a wave guy out at Scripps?”

“He's one of the foremost ocean wave experts in the world. We're going to help him find the
Southern Belle
.”

“I remember reading about the
Belle.
She's the big containership that went down last March.”

“That's right. Rudi called me. Adler wants you on the project. Apparently, he's got some clout, because Rudi agreed to his request.” Rudi Gunn was in charge of NUMA's day-to-day operations.

“That's odd. I've never even met Adler. Sure he didn't make a mistake? There are a dozen guys at NUMA who've worked searches. Why me?”

“Rudi said he didn't have a clue. But Adler has an international reputation, so he went along with his request to help find the ship.”

“Interesting. The
Belle
went down off the mid-Atlantic coast. How close is the search area to where the Trouts are working?” Paul and Gamay Trout, the other members of the Special Assignments Team, were in the midst of an ocean survey.

“Close enough so that we can raft up and have a party,” Zavala said. “I've already packed the tequila.”

“While you line up a caterer, I'll change my plane reservations, and let you know when I'm coming in.”

“I'll meet you at the airport. We'll have a plane waiting to fly us to Norfolk.”

They discussed a few more details and hung up. Kurt pondered the request from Adler, then went back to his table to tell his father he would be leaving in the morning. If Austin was annoyed about his son's change in plans, he didn't show it. He thanked Kurt for coming to Seattle for the kayak race, and they vowed to get together again when they had more time.

Kurt caught an early flight out of Seattle the next morning. As the plane took off and headed east, he thought about his father's muted reaction to his change in plans. He wondered if Austin Senior really wanted him to join the family business. To the old man, it would be admitting that he was on the road to retirement. Both men tended to have strong opinions, and it would be like having two captains on a rowboat.

In any case, his father was plain wrong about Kurt's attachment to his NUMA work. It wasn't the excitement that kept him at the huge ocean science agency. Every opportunity for an adrenaline rush meant many long hours of reports, paperwork and meetings, which he tried to avoid by staying in the field. The siren call that lured him back again and again was the unfathomed
mystery
of the sea.

Mysteries like the strange encounter with the killer whales. He pondered the incident with the orcas. He wondered, too, about the man with the weird tattoo and the purpose of the electrical setup he'd seen on Barrett's boat. After a few minutes, he put his formless thoughts aside, picked up a pad and a ballpoint pen and began to sketch out specifications for a new kayak.

N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY

B
EFORE
F
RANK
M
ALLOY
had become a high-priced consultant to the nation's police departments, he'd been the quintessential cop. He loathed disorder of any kind. His uniforms were always pressed and sharply creased. In a holdover from his Marine Corps days, his salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to the scalp military style. Frequent workouts kept his compact body fit and muscular.

Unlike many police officers who found stakeout tedious, Malloy enjoyed sitting for hours in a car, watching the ebb and flow of traffic and pedestrians, ever alert for the slightest rent in the fabric of society. It also helped that he had an iron bladder.

Malloy was parked on Broadway, checking out the steady parade of fast-walking pedestrians and gawking tourists, when a man cut away from the crowd and made his way straight for the unmarked NYPD cruiser.

The man was tall and slim, and looked to be in his thirties. He wore a tan, lightweight suit, wrinkled at the knees, and scuffed New Balance running shoes. He had red hair and beard, and his goatee was cut to a point. His shirt collar was unbuttoned and his tie hung loose. Years as a beat cop had honed Malloy's ability to size up people at a quick glance. Malloy pegged the man as a reporter.

The man came over to the car, bent down so his face was level with the window and flashed his photo ID.

“My name is Lance Barnes. I'm a reporter with the
Times.
Are you Frank Malloy?”

The question spoiled Malloy's triumph.

“Yeah, I'm Malloy,” he said with a frown. “How did you make me, Mr. Barnes?”

“Easy,” the reporter said with a shrug of his shoulders. “You're sitting alone in a dark blue Ford in a neighborhood where it's practically impossible to get parking.”

“I must be losing my touch,” Malloy said dolefully. “Either that or I've still got cop written all over me.”

“Naw, I cheated,” Barnes said with a grin. “They told me at the MACC that you'd be here.”

MACC was shorthand for the Multi-Agency Control Center, the entity in charge of security for the international economic conference that was being held in New York City. Political and business leaders were converging on the Big Apple from all over the world.

“I cheated too,” Malloy said with a chuckle. “MACC called and said you were coming over.” He studied the reporter's face and decided he looked familiar. “We met before, Mr. Barnes?”

“I think you gave me a jaywalking ticket.”

Malloy laughed. He never forgot a face. It would come to him. “What can I do for you?”

“I'm doing a story on the conference. I've heard you're the top consultant in the field when it comes to dealing with sophisticated techniques of disruption. I wondered if I could interview you about how you plan to deal with the planned protests.”

Malloy owned a firm in Arlington, Virginia, that advised police departments around the country on crowd control. He was on the boards of a number of companies that made riot-control equipment, and his business and political connections had made him relatively rich. A favorable story in
The New York Times
could mean even bigger bucks for his consulting business.

“Slide in,” he said and reached over to open the passenger door. Barnes got in the car, and they shook hands. The reporter shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing intense green eyes and sharply angled eyebrows that formed a
V
similar to the shape of his mouth and chin. He pulled a notebook and a miniature digital recorder from his pocket. “Hope you don't mind if I record this. It's insurance, to make sure my quotes are right.”

“No problem,” Malloy said. “You can say anything you want about me, but just spell my name right.” Since he'd left law enforcement and started his consulting company, Malloy had become a pro at handling reporters. “You were at the press conference?”

“Oh yeah,” Barnes said. “Quite the arsenal! The Long Range Acoustic Devices you've got mounted on the Humvees just blow my mind. Is it true those things were used in Iraq?”

“They're considered nonlethal weapons. They can let out an earsplitting screech that drowns out even the loudest demonstrators.”

“If someone blasted one hundred and fifty decibels in my ear, I'd stop chanting about peace and justice.”

“We'll only use the screamers to communicate with large crowds. We tested them the other day. Good for four blocks at least.”

“Uh-huh,” the reporter said, jotting down a few notes. “The anarchists will get the message, all right.”

“My guess is that we won't need the big artillery. It's the little stuff that counts, like the scooter patrols and mechanical barriers.”

“I've heard you've got a lot of high-tech stuff too.”

“True,” Malloy said. “The most effective way to control the crazies is with
software
, not hardware.”

“How so?”

“Let's take a ride.” Malloy turned the key in the ignition. As the car pulled away from the curb, he got on the radio. “This is Nomad. Heading north on Broadway.”

“Nomad?”
Barnes said after Malloy had signed off.

“I wander around a lot. Keeping an eye on things. The crazies know I'm on the move, but they don't know where I am. Keeps them on edge.” He turned east, drove a short distance on Park, then made his way back to Broadway.

“Who are these ‘crazies,' as you call them?”

“When it comes to anarchists, you never know who or what you're dealing with. Back in Seattle, we had enviro nuts and peace nuts. We had Wiccans and feminist neo-pagans, yelling about the WTO and the Goddess, whoever
she
is. Most of your mainstream anarchists are against the world economic order. They're nonviolent when it comes to people, but some of them say corporate property is fair game. Chaos is their main weapon. They're usually organized in autonomous collectives or affinity groups. They act by consensus and avoid any kind of hierarchy.”

“Given their lack of organization, what exactly are you looking for?”

“Hard to describe,” Malloy said. “Pretty much the same stuff I did when I was on the street. The crazies will split up into small groups. Pairs or singles. I just look for patterns of behavior.”

“I've read about the Seattle protests. Sounds like that was a nightmare.”

Malloy let out a low whistle. “I've still got the scars to prove it. What a
mess
!”

“What went wrong?”

“The crazies targeted the World Trade Organization. What they call the ‘power elite.' I was a district supervisor in charge of crowd control. We got caught with our pants around our ankles. Ended up with a hundred thousand demonstrators pissed off at what they said was an oppressive world trade system. There was looting, curfews, cops and National Guard running around shooting rubber bullets or tear gas at the nonviolent as well as violent protesters. The city ended up with an international black eye and a pile of lawsuits. Some people said the police overreacted. Others said they didn't do enough. Go figure.”

“As you said, a major mess.”

Malloy nodded. “But the Battle of Seattle was the turning point.”

“In what way?”

“The protesters learned that marching down the street wasn't enough to get attention. Only
direct
action worked. You had to break things up, inconvenience people, disrupt the focus of the people in your bull's-eye.”

“From what I've seen around the city today, the power elite have come a long way since Seattle.”

“Hundred percent,” Malloy said. “I was in Philly for the GOP convention when the anarchists made us look silly again. They'd raise hell, then run down the streets with a bunch of overweight cops chasing them. Created chaos and confusion. They stirred up the pot at the WTO conference in Miami too. We finally began to get a handle on things at the World Economic Forum here in 2002, and pretty much had our strategy in place for the Republican Convention in 2004.”

“You kept disruptions to a minimum, but there were complaints about civil rights being violated.”

“That's part of the protest strategy. These guys are sophisticated. It's mostly a small group of hard-core instigators that moves from city to city. They provoke authority hoping we'll overreact. Whoops!”

Malloy pulled off to the side, double-parking near a group of people carrying musical instruments, and barked into his hand radio.

“Nomad to MACC. Guerrilla musicians gathering for an unpermitted march from Union Square to Madison Square Garden.”

Barnes scanned the sidewalk on both sides of the street. “I don't see anyone marching.”

“They're walking in two-by-twos now. Nothing illegal about that. They'll start coming together in a minute—no, wait, there they go now.”

The musicians were coalescing into larger groups, stepping off the curb into the street to form a procession. But before the parade began, police officers on bicycles and scooters swooped in from both sides and began to make arrests.

Barnes furiously scribbled notes.

“I'm impressed,” he said. “That went off like clockwork.”

“It should. That little maneuver was the result of years of experience. We're only dealing with an in-between economic conference, but there are hundreds of guests and protesters, so there's the potential of big trouble. The crazies are always trying to stay one step ahead of us.”

“How do you tell the real fanatics from people who simply want to protest?”

“Pretty hard. We just arrest anyone who's a troublemaker and sort things out later.” He took a ringing cell phone from its dashboard cradle and handed it to Barnes. “Check this out.”

The reporter read the text on the phone's message screen. “It says that the scooter goon squad is wrapped around the guerrilla musicians. Telling people to avoid this neighborhood. Calling for cameras. Medics and legal observers. Says to blockade cops from arresting demonstrators harassing people in the Theater District. Who's this from?”

“The
crazies.
The cops aren't the
only
ones who learned from Seattle. The anarchists have their own MACC-type media center. They tell the activists what routes to take to stay away from the cops. While we shut down one operation, they're starting another.” He laughed. “We're spending multimillions each year on security measures, and they use technology that's practically free.”

“Don't they know you can read the same messages?”

“Sure. But the demonstrations are more spontaneous, so we're always playing cat-and-mouse games with each other.
Intel
is the name of the game. They're fast, but it comes down to numbers. We've got thirty-seven thousand cops, a blimp, helicopters, video cameras and two hundred of our guys have helmet video cameras connected to the security nerve center.”

“Can't they monitor the police scanners?”

“We
know
that they do. Rapid response is the key. You know what they say in a fight, a good big guy can beat a good little guy any day. On a level playing field, we're going to win.”

Barnes handed the phone to Malloy. “This appears to be for you.”

The text printed on the message screen had changed.

GOOD MORNING, NOMAD. OR SHOULD WE CALL YOU FRANK, MR. MALLOY?

“Huh?” Malloy said. He looked at the phone in his hand as if it had turned to a snake.

“How the hell are they doing this?” he said, turning to Barnes. The reporter shrugged and made some notes. Malloy tried to clear the screen, but a new message came on.

PLAY TIME.

The screen went blank. Malloy snatched up the radio and tried to call MACC, but the call wouldn't go through. The cell phone rang again. Malloy listened a few moments, and said, “I'll get right on it.” He turned to Barnes, his face pale. “That was MACC. They say that the air-conditioning broke down in the nerve center. The communications are going haywire. No one knows where the squads are. Traffic lights have gone red all over town.”

They were approaching Times Square. Hundreds of demonstrators, apparently unimpeded by the police, were pouring into the square from the side streets. The square was as crowded as New Year's Eve.

Malloy's cruiser moved slowly through the mob that surged around it. As they approached the old New York Times Building, the huge video screen stopped showing a Disney character and went black.

“Hey, look at that,” Barnes said, pointing at the screen.

Big letters had appeared in white, streaming across the ABC News Spectacular sign.

GREETINGS, NEO-ANARCHISTS, FELLOW TRAVELERS AND TOURISTS. WE HAVE SHUT DOWN THE OPPRESSIVE ARMIES OF THE POWER ELITE. THIS IS A SMALL TASTE OF THE FUTURE. TODAY IT'S NEW YORK. NEXT WE'LL SHUT DOWN THE WORLD. CONVENE A SUMMIT CONFERENCE TO DISMANTLE THE FRAMEWORK OF GLOBALIZATION OR WE'LL DISMANTLE IT FOR YOU.