Gus Openshaw's Whale-Killing Journal (17 page)

According to Thesaurus, the following item is largely my fault
because I asked how things could get worse without praying to
the right god that they wouldn’t:
U.S. NAVY SENDS 2ND FLEET TO CARIBBEAN
(from wire services)
NORFOLK, VA.—The United States Navy this afternoon sent
much of the 2nd Fleet’s Caribbean Contingency Force to Bill’s
Triangle in pursuit of the dangerous outlaw Gus Openshaw.
Openshaw, 44, of Oakland, California, is wanted for numerous
crimes including two counts of cetaceanicide in Mendocino,
California. Should he be convicted on all counts, he faces 332
years in prison. He also owes several months back rent on his
apartment in Oakland.
Openshaw is believed to have at his disposal sufficient
weaponry—purchased from the notorious illegal munitions
dealer Dan Vepple using drug money—to make short work
of any battleship or destroyer. Accordingly, the 2nd Fleet has
deployed two complete carrier battle groups, including the
Nimitz class USS Paul Revere and USS James Polk, as well
as an anti-submarine task force. “Operation Bludgeon,” as it
has been officially dubbed, is being led by Captain James J.
Knucz, 51, of Cleveland, Ohio, from the command ship, HSV
Millard Fillmore. Said Capt. Knucz of Openshaw, “We’ll get the
bastard.”
P.S. Knucz by Flarq.

“The Tortolan navy ho!” cried Moses from the bow.
Having been waiting on line for the head, Flarq,
Thesaurus, Nelson, George and I clambered up the stairs and
found Moses pointing, arm like a fixed bayonet, at the western
horizon.
“The big white craft?” Nelson asked him.
“Yeah. Motherhumping monster brigs, aren’t they?”
“Those are clouds, smoke-for-brains.”
“Oh.”
Relieved (mentally, that is), we turned back to the head.
We know from the Caribbean Naval Enthusiasts Online Chat
Room that the Tortolans would track us down eventually
though.
It’s our hope that help will get here first. It’s a big sea and
Vurman doesn’t have our precise position—unlike Dealer Dan.
I sent Dan the following e-hello last night:
Date: Thursday, August 19, 2004
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Drinks
Dan, let’s bury the hatchet and have us a drink. As my brig is
dry, if you could bring the beverage to me, along with a fully-
loaded F-15, I’d be most appreciative. G.O.
Dan e-mailed me right back:
Dear Gus:
The only way I’d bury the hatchet is into your face. Best,
Dan
I replied as follows:
Dan, I was thinking of writing a story about you and submitting
it to the Tortolan Daily Ahoy, but first I just want to make sure
I’ve got your latitude and longitude right. Are they [omitted]?
GO
A minute later, Dan IM’ed me:
Dear Gus:
You know of course, old friend, that I was just jesting about the
hatchet. I’m stocking the wet bar on my Nycroft cruiser with
some excellent rum as we speak (or whatever you call talking
over computers) and will speed your way at once with the F-15
overhead. I’m looking forward to having that drink with you.
Best,
Dan
I realize Dealer Dan is a criminal, deservedly on Most
Wanted Lists everywhere, who has tried to kill me before. But
right now he’s effectively my best friend. So I sent him our
precise L & L. The risk of course is that he’ll come and use
his illegal munitions on us and the only drink we’ll have is the
big salty one we’ll drown in. However, the crew thought it was
worth taking the chance to get the F-15—with which we could
take apart the Tortolans. Moses thought it was worth taking the
chance just to get the rum.
As the rest of us were returning below deck to the head,
Moses shouted, “Tortolan navy ho, plus thar he blows!”
At this, everyone exchanged rolled eyes and such. Being
that Duq was the one in the head, no one was in much of hurry
to get back down there though. So we all turned around once
more. We found Moses pointing from the stern this time. There
on the western horizon indeed were the silhouettes of six big gun
ships.
And swimming in between them and us, was Dickhead.
He’d come to watch the hanging.

They were far enough away that the Tortolan navy might not
have identified us. In any case, it’s only a matter of time until
they do, and with nothing stronger than Duq’s bean porridge to
defend ourselves, our only chance against them is Dealer Dan
showing up. For this reason, the crew was willing to take a crack
at the whale—fortunate, as this’ll likely be the last crack we ever
get. I personally would’ve been eager to go after the bastard even
had Dan notified us he’d decided instead to go on holiday and
had the Tortolan navy been close enough that we could smell
Vurman’s cologne (in other words, within a league).
Faster than you can convert leagues to miles, the crew had
the whaleboat into the water and was ready to row—the oarsmen
were me, Nelson, and Duq, as before, and Stupid George. I
decided it was time to give Moses leave when he claimed that one
of the paddles had been coming onto him. It was a tough choice
between George and Bob the rat to replace Moses. Ultimately,
much as everyone loves Bob, he is just a tiny rodent. His little
pink rat feet were dangling from the bench. He wouldn’t’ve been
able to put any oomph into the strokes.
In the stern, Thesaurus clutched a pair of gleaming
harpoons—overnight, him, Duq and Flarq had turned the
Georgette’s engine room into a veritable forge and fashioned
weapons from the wreckage of the other motor launch. The two
harpoon shafts that we’ve got now were the launch’s port and
starboard rails. The toggles are the mechanisms from an egg
timer and a can opener, and the darts a pair of Duq’s sharpest
carving knives. We still have got plenty of Manila line left over
(Flarq’s got two bucketfuls of it in the stern). And if we’re lucky
enough to harpoon the bastard for once, we’ve got plenty of
lances the boys fashioned from other segments of steel railing.
We shoved off from the Georgette then thrashed at the
water with oars and paddles the extra-furious way that men do
when taking out frustration that a wacked-out whales’ rights
organization has exploited arcane loopholes in the laws of a tiny
island nation to send entire navies to kill them. We were within
harpooning range in seconds.
In my whale-killing dreams it goes like this: We come
upon Dickhead. He stares at us defiantly. Then Flarq and
Thesaurus fire harpoons with such power that Neptune missiles
seem like plain old barroom darts. The irons disappear into the
bastard’s flank and toggle with a pleasant click. Shocked, he
recoils, and the lines between the harpoons and the whaleboat
suddenly spring out of the sea taut as high wires.
That’s exactly how it went down in real life today.
And the next thing we knew, the bastard bolted—right
out of Whale Killing 101. Then it was like we were sitting in the
middle of the Indy 500 oval as the harpoon lines zoomed from
the buckets and around the whaleboat. Once half of it (which is
to say a half-mile of line) had left the boat, Thesaurus grabbed
hold of the prow. He was readying for it to leap up like a bronco.
“The sleigh ride begins any minute, shipmates,” he said.
His face shone with an excitement I hadn’t seen from him
before. It was primal. He smelled blood.
Flarq too. The corners of his mouth were upturned—that’s
downright giddy by his standards. The rest of us in the boat took
a cue from these more experienced whalemen and our hearts
beat high. Except George. It took him a little while to catch on.
Then his heart beat high too.
Suddenly the corners of Flarq’s mouth fell—a small detail
when you’re in the middle of chasing a whale. Still, the crew and
me reacted to it like we were soldiers whose foxhole an enemy
grenade had just plopped into.
By way of explanation, Flarq pointed toward the horizon,
where, on the decks of the Tortolan brigs, big puffs of white
smoke had formed. An instant later they’d grown to white
highways headed skyward. At their peaks, giant darts of fire.
“Neptune missiles,” said Flarq. Many lines creased his brow—a
sight nearly as unnerving as the missiles.
Evidently, the Tortolans had identified us. They’d fired
eight Neptunes in total—each capable of smashing the Georgette
into pieces compared to which a grain of sand at the ocean
bottom would be a mountain.
The missiles have now begun their descent, screaming like
banshees, directly (the operators can adjust their course mid-
flight) toward our little whaleboat.
Thesaurus looked heavenward and said something to
Sunoco in his native tongue. I’ve got a feeling it didn’t translate
as, “Everything down here is peachy.”

Sunuco, the god of peace and water. My guess is he keeps adherents peaceful cause they’re afraid he’s going to show up if they’re not and drown them in the water.

The Neptunes roared down from the sky with such might the
air seemed to scatter, with hot jet fuel fumes taking its place. As
the missiles’ shadows fell on us, it was like dusk. Even if Death
approaching in this manner hadn’t frozen us, it would’ve been
impossible for the crew and me to say good-bye to one other—the
rocket engines were simply too loud. Plus there was no time.
We simply grabbed onto the gunwales and braced for impact, in
hope, I suppose, that the whaleboat’d be taking us into the next
life.
A second before impact, the Neptunes suddenly ground to
a halt in mid-air. Then they turned around and shot back in the
direction they’d come from.
The boys and me watched, stunned beyond words, as
the eight missiles converged on the Tortolan naval fleet. Four
disappeared into the smaller ships, and two missiles apiece struck
the biggest brigs. They exploded into pillars of flame so huge
that if you saw them in a movie you’d think the special effects
guy had got carried away.
“We’re dead for sure,” Nelson said. “That sorta shit
doesn’t happen on Earth.”

The rest of us had yet to regain the power of speech. Except George, who suggested, “Maybe the missiles were defective.” As the horizon absorbed the

Tortolan navy, and the rumble of the explosions dulled, I heard
the chime of an incoming e-mail on my computer:
Date: Friday, August 20, 2004
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: change of heart
gus:
i’m sorry i married Vurman. i had talked to my mother and
for some reason listened to her advice. stupid stupid stupid of
me. after all, one of the reasons i exiled her is she’s insane. i
reprogrammed the Neptune guidance systems in hope you’ll
forgive me. whatever happens now, know always that i lo
That was all she wrote.
“‘Always know that that I lo...’” Nelson reflected. “What?
‘...looked fat in that scrimshaw because Vurman’d knocked me
up’?”