23

Free at Last

First light Wednesday morning revealed icebreaker channels just 400 yards from the two surviving whales. If anybody had questions as to how it happened, they could ask Steve Mongeau. He had the only footage. With cunning, poise, and talent, the twenty-year-old Canadian had more than proved he belonged in this business. He had the stuff. Morris never mentioned the violation to Reshetov. The Russian captain’s aggressive icebreaking brought the whales closer than ever to freedom and with no apparent damage.

The excitement sparked by the pre-dawn developments was palpable all over town. Barrow took on a festive air. The whales would soon be free, and Operation Breakout over. But before it ended, Barrowans wanted to savor their glory. Residents no longer seemed frightened or unsure of all the visitors. They became more friendly, grateful their forced hospitality was only a temporary condition. Businesses closed down. The North Slope Borough Government office, the biggest business of them all, took the afternoon off. For the first time since the rescue began, classes were dismissed early. Word spread that the whales would be free by nightfall.

Local teachers acquiesced when the students clambered for one last chance to see the creatures that helped put their tiny village on the map. By the hundreds, Barrowans, young and old, went to bid the whales farewell. But once they got there, they seemed more fascinated by the media than by the cetacean duo. After all, whales were much more common. They saw them all the time and ate their meat at every meal. By mid-afternoon, the line of parked vehicles along the ice looked like a misplaced crowd awaiting a space shuttle launch off Cape Canaveral. Dozens of pickup trucks, vans and cars sat with engines idling, Eskimos chattering animatedly in their native Inupiat. Suddenly and without warning, Siku, the larger of the two surviving whales, vanished.

Poutu, the other whale continued to surface normally in the last hole. Malik and Arnold were stumped. Unlike Bone, who vanished under the ice five days earlier, Siku was the strongest and most vibrant of the three whales. The instant Siku was discovered missing, Malik knew something significant was about to happen. Without explanation to others around him, his dark Eskimo face beamed with a new revelation. He dropped his seal pole and lumbered to the icebreaker’s channel just a few hundred yards away. Craig looked at Arnold as if pleading for an explanation. At the same instant, they dropped their poles and raced to Malik. They simultaneously figured out what he was doing. He was waiting for Siku to pop his head through the ice-littered channel.

If Siku did appear in the channel, he might not be so easy to see. The channel was six miles long and up to a quarter mile wide. But of one thing Malik was almost certain. Siku must be somewhere in the channel. Malik yanked down on the bill of his bright red baseball cap in a nervous habit acquired over five decades of whaling. As he scanned the water for a sign of the missing whale, he held up a thickly calloused hand to further shield his eyes against the blinding glare of the daylight bouncing off the Arctic ice. Through the sharp ice shards floating in the man-made channel, Siku’s head appeared.

Surfacing in the water’s wide expanse, the huge whale seemed suddenly small and frightened. Its vulnerability underscored the many traumas it had endured. Defying human logic, Siku reached the channel by swimming under nearly a quarter mile of ice. For the first time since it was found nineteen days earlier, the whale was swimming in broken ice. Despite Siku’s battered condition, the newly gathered crowd was elated. The whale was in the channel, the home stretch.

The Eskimos let out the cheer reserved for the most joyous of all occasions: the catching of a bowhead whale. Arnold embraced Malik as if he just returned from a successful whaling mission. Eleven days earlier, at the specially-convened whalers’ meeting, Malik convinced Arnold and other young whalers that the whole exercise might well be a mission for Inupiat survival. If the Eskimos could convince the world that they really did depend on an animal they revered for tens of thousands of years, then maybe the world might start to understand. As the whales were about to be freed, Malik’s theory could begin the test of time.

Locals, rescuers, and reporters frantically tried to reach the suddenly distant whale. While still within the purview of Operation Breakout, Siku, the lead whale, was finally alone, far from the gentle hand of a well-wisher and no longer dependent upon a tiny machine flown in from Minnesota. The lead whale experienced its first moments of liberation, trying to navigate its way through the dangers of the icy sharp waters, removed from its human protectors. Siku’s reunification with its natural environment must have been a difficult adjustment.

Poutu, the lone whale remaining in the hand-cut opening, bobbed frantically up and down. Maybe Poutu was reacting to Siku’s underwater moans and squeaks. Perhaps through the gray whale’s highly sophisticated and poorly understood method of communication, Poutu knew where Siku was. Poutu took one last long breath and vanished deep beneath the water. Moments later, the smaller whale surfaced within yards of its leader. It, too, had swum under the quarter mile of ice and emerged in the icebreaker channel. At the rate the two whales were swimming, they would be gone by morning. If all went well, the two whales would arrive in California at the end of January 1989, just about the same time as the man who gave the rescue his official blessing: President Ronald Reagan.

Bonnie Mersinger insisted that Colonel Carroll contact her the moment it looked like the whales were free. The White House was anxious to make the announcement that the operation was finally over. The whales had become the comic obsession of the humor-starved White House press corps. Each morning at the daily briefing, the customarily stuffy and self-absorbed White House correspondents bombarded spokesman Marlin Fitzwater with tongue-in-cheek questions about the geopolitical implications of the latest earth-stopping developments emanating from the Barrow ice pack. Fitzwater reveled in the levity and promised to have the last laugh.

Late Wednesday morning, Alaska time, Carroll called Bonnie to relay the rescue’s latest intelligence. The whales were almost free. Bonnie ran excitedly through the corridors of the West Wing to tell Fitzwater the good news. The whales were free. So certain did the news seem, Fitzwater thought the time arrived to cash in on his promise. The amiable press secretary grinned mischievously. “The whales are free,” he exulted with outstretched arms.

The gathered press burst into spontaneous applause. Who says the cynical press are heartless? To those reporters assigned to cover the West Wing, Operation Breakout seemed over. The misconception was short lived. Colonel Carroll called Bonnie a few minutes later to tell her the bad news: The whales were not yet free. Close, but not yet.

“I don’t know if you’re religious,” he asked her, “but if you are, I suggest you pray to whichever god you believe in.” The next day, Fitzwater commented that humble pie was always his favorite.

Ever since the Russians announced they were on the way, the rescue command discussed what to do if it appeared the whales would survive. Should they tag or follow them, and if so, how? Now that the whales were in the channel, the rescuers had both their first and last opportunity to tag them to monitor their progress. Aside from the staggering problems of electronic tagging, which made tracking all but impossible, Ron Morris and the other rescuers faced an ethical problem even larger.

Was it “right” to tag the whales after all they had gone through just to satisfy the curiosity of an obsessed world? Ron Morris wanted to keep his options open. The two biologists he flew in from Seattle were experts at tagging marine mammals and always carried the tags with them in the event the decision was made to use them. After all that man had done for the whales, it was the least the whales could do in return, wasn’t it?

Tagging a marine mammal, particularly one that weighed 50,000 pounds, was no easy task. For the electronic device to work properly it had to be shot deep into the small of the whale’s back with a crossbow by an expert archer. But that opportunity never presented itself when the whales were in the holes. When confined to the small holes, the whales had only enough room to expose their heads. But even in the channel, where the whales started to surface normally, the chances were slim that the cumbersome devices could be properly implanted. It was also likely that the procedure could further stress the whales. Unlike radio transmitters attached to land animals, tagging marine mammals was extremely expensive and very unreliable. It was a new, unrefined technology. The waterproof radio transmitters only worked for about a month and required aircraft with special detection equipment to track them. In the ice-choked waters of the Arctic, tags probably wouldn’t have stayed on the whales for more than a few days.

But beneath all the rationalizations lay an unspoken explanation for not tagging the whales. The whales’ long-term prospects for survival were limited. It was very late in the season to be starting the migratory swim south. The whales were weakened by their ordeal. Ron Morris had to ask how the public would respond if the transmitters were found a week later in the belly of a polar bear? More importantly, what would that mean to NOAA, the agency that stood to gain so much from one of its greatest public achievements? What would happen to that fattened budget allocation about which NOAA bureaucrats were already licking their chops?

If the whales weren’t tagged, the world would never know what really happened to them. Since a long and arduous journey lay ahead, maybe it was a good thing no one would find out; just the stuff of which legends are made. It worked. What we didn’t know and would never learn didn’t spoil a great story.

Together again, the two whales swam toward the open lead some three miles through the channel. As quickly as the whales dashed through the ice littered water, news of the great escape engulfed the press corps. It sounded like the last chance to see the whales before they pounded unencumbered flukes in the open lead en route to California. The whales stopped dead in their tracks as the commotion on the ice mounted. It was as if they suddenly became aware that once they crossed into the open lead, they would leave the blanket which draped them with protection for nearly three weeks.

Ron Morris’s concern grew with the number of well-wishers who crowded the ice for their last glimpse of the whales. His first step was the most drastic. Over his walkie-talkie, he instructed everyone to immediately evacuate the area. He ordered all air traffic to stay at least four miles away from the channel and to fly above one thousand feet. As darkness fell, a wave of anticipation swept across Barrow, catching up residents, reporters and rescuers alike. They all might well have seen the last of the whales. Nevertheless, Morris wanted Reshetov to stay overnight just in case.

After almost two sleepless weeks, the anxiety and irritability showed in the glassy eyes of almost everyone. The pressure fell hardest on Ron Morris, the coordinator and the man ultimately responsible for the rescue. When his order to evacuate the ice was openly flaunted, Morris lost his temper. In its final hour, he could do nothing but watch as his authority was yanked from under him. Ron Morris wasn’t the only one whose neck was on the chopping block. The same was true for us. Reporters came to Barrow to record the rescue. As it reached its climax, so too did our coverage. The United States Secret Service could not have kept us off the ice, let alone Ron Morris. Nevertheless, he fruitlessly sought to rein us in. He was at the end of his rope, his exasperation apparent to everyone.

Morris called for reinforcements. Mayor George Ahmaogak, back in town for Operation Breakout’s conclusion, agreed to a special deployment of the North Slope borough policemen to help National Guard units guard the common ice entry points. But it would take two divisions to properly patrol fifty miles of frozen coastline and interdict the dozens of ski machines and automobiles intent on running the blockade.

Morris’s edict extended to the rescuers themselves. But even his own underlings ignored him. Cindy, Geoff, and Craig had not worked so hard for so long to leave the whales at the rescue’s critical last juncture. For two weeks they had risked their lives to help the stranded creatures, and they certainly weren’t about to stop now. They were not out to humiliate Morris. All they cared about was the whales. The trapped animals would never have made it this far without their help. Greg and Rick with their deicers, Arnold Brower Jr. and a skeleton crew of Eskimos, joined them to keep the last few holes ice-free in case the whales were forced back by a frozen channel.

That night, around 10 P.M., Ron Morris was socializing at Media Central, the lobby of the Top of the World Hotel, when he learned the extent of his own emasculation. He overheard someone mention that Cindy and “the others” were still out with the whales. The lateness of the hour combined with exhaustion and one too many highballs triggered the penultimate tantrum. He stormed out of the Top of the World and into his running truck, crimson with fury. Gunning the sensitive engine, he drove to his nearest check point. En route, he shouted invectives over his radio to everyone assigned to listen.

Top members of the command monitored Operation Breakout’s frequency on a twenty-four-hour basis, but anyone working was supposed to have their radios turned on. Geoff, Craig, Arnold, and Cindy were no exception. Their radios were in perfect working order. They worked, perhaps too well.

“Get those damned Eskimos off the ice,” Morris shouted as he raced onto the darkened ice. Everyone heard it. Everywhere, the reaction was the same. The SAR hangar command center fell dead silent. Randy Crosby searched for a face that could tell him he didn’t hear what he knew he had. Instead, his eyes met Tom Carroll’s. The colonel shrugged his shoulders, and lowered his head in embarrassed disbelief. It was the Eskimos for whom these two white men felt the deepest regret.

There were only about twenty people authorized to use the frequencies assigned to Operation Breakout. But almost everyone listened. Curious locals and news hungry reporters tuned in around the clock to follow the latest developments. To both rescuers and reporters, the two-way radio was an indispensable tool. For many of the Operation’s key personnel, it was a lifeline. Malik, for instance, didn’t have a telephone. The radio was the only way for the command to reach him. He was sitting alone after another long day quietly drinking a cup of green tea at Sam & Lee’s Chinese restaurant on Nachick Street. He nearly choked when he heard the defamation blurted out over his radio.

Malik was stunned. He had argued for cooperating with the charade. He convinced others to approve rescuing the whales rather than harvesting them. He argued that Barrow stood to gain by helping free the whales. Morris’s eight unforgettable words ran the risk of undoing everything Malik had worked for. Malik didn’t know how to express his frustration, but he was hardly so fragile as to be undone by intemperate words. Malik took a deep drag from his stale cigarette and turned his radio off.

On the ice, it was Arnold Brower Jr., the probable target of the unfortunate slur, who took to calming Geoff, Craig, and Cindy. His reaction was the same as Malik’s. Did non-Inuit’s really think that Eskimo’s were so brittle as to be broken by some stupid sentence? The anger was less toward Morris than the condescending and patronizing reaction of the self designated sensitive types.

Just how weak did the white man think Inupiats were, Brower wondered. He calmly walked over to Geoff and Craig and turned off their radios. Then he pulled his own walkie-talkie out of his parka pocket, depressed the transmit button to respond to Morris: “It’s out of your hands now.” Without waiting for a response, he clicked off the radio. Getting back to work, Arnold wouldn’t let the others even discuss the thoughtless remark.

They had a job to do, he reminded them. If he could hum along to the tune of the indignity, then so could they. The three worked silently on, none discussing what they all were thinking. A faint beam of light caught their attention. The closer it got, the angrier they became. They were watching the headlights of a vehicle driven by the man who had just offended them so deeply, a man who at that moment had no idea of the extent of damage he inflicted upon himself. The beam caught the four transfixed figures standing against a backdrop of the brightly lit deck of Vladimir Arseniev. Morris jumped out and slammed the door behind him. As he walked toward the defiant rescuers he could make out their expressions of feigned disinterest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I said no one is to be on this ice.” He ducked his head slightly before realizing his vulnerability.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Arnold asked Morris, in an earnest attempt to embarrass him. Craig and Geoff pretended to ignore the presence of the man who was clouding them in such shame. Cindy fought to contain her tears. By betraying the others, Morris had betrayed her. Knowing he had lost Brower, Morris turned to Craig to see if the biologist would still obey him. Nothing aggravated his insecurity more than being ignored. It wasn’t revenge that dictated Craig’s reaction. It was fear, fear that he couldn’t control his anger, that he would lash out with his fists at his small, rakishly bearded adversary. His emotion would have propelled a blow with potentially dangerous force. He had to restrain himself, but it wasn’t easy. Morris kept pushing, looking for the reaction that would vindicate his own outburst.

“It’s them, isn’t it,” Morris asked, pointing an accusing finger at the stoic figure of Arnold Brower. “That’s all you care about.” Morris had stumbled upon a theme he was determined to pound home as best he could.

“That’s the only reason you’re here. It’s all this ‘Inupiat power’ crap, isn’t it? ‘Hooray for the Eskimo’ You can admit it. All you care about is making sure they look good,” he shouted, his finger still pointing at Brower. “You’ve been on their side since the beginning.”

“Shut up,” Cindy shrieked. Cindy thought of Geoff, Craig, and Arnold as the indispensable triad that kept the whales alive. More than that, what she refrained from saying, she didn’t refrain from thinking. They were heroes and she loved them. Cindy was appalled by Morris’s attacks.

Even after all the anger Morris aroused in him, Craig put aside his anger when he saw Cindy in tears. First it was Arnold calming Craig and Geoff who were furious at the slight of their Eskimo friend. Now Craig did the same for Cindy who was devastated by Morris’s confrontation. Using an English translation of an Eskimo expression Cindy didn’t understand at first, Arnold instructed the two of them to “feel light.” He wanted them to release a mystical weight that held down the human spirit. Cindy’s empathy released an energy of warmth connecting the four together as one. Their unity had been immeasurably enhanced by the adversity thrust upon them. In the minds of those he thought he ruled, Ron Morris no longer existed.

Did they sense the human drama unfolding around them? The whales pushed on. Suddenly, they no longer seemed subject to the limitations of their own species. The whales followed the powerful beam of light from the deck of the Soviet icebreaker. To the astonishment of the whale biologists, the animals swam through water littered with jagged chunks of ice. Remaining doubts about the whales’ willingness to take risks to achieve their freedom were shattered.

On Thursday morning, the whales were paying the price for their unexpected boldness. Arnold Brower was the first to discover them gasping for breath in a small hole kept open by butting their heads through the ice debris. They were bleeding. The ocean water steamed from the pools of warm blood gushing in it. They could barely manage to push their red, battered snouts through the ice that had formed overnight. The skin around their sensitive breathing holes was tender and sore. The whales seemed so close to freedom just hours before. Now they listed on the verge of death.

Before he could radio the news back to SAR headquarters, Brower noticed that a small piece of ice was stuck in Siku’s blowhole. The more deeply the whale breathed, the wider the blowhole opened. But that only made the problem worse. The wider the blowhole opened, the more firmly lodged the piece of ice became.

Arnold jumped off his parked ski machine and ran out toward the edge of the ice. Looking across the wide channel, he knew the whale would die if it wasn’t helped. He immediately probed the ice covering the newly refrozen channel. It was already thick enough to support not only him but his snowmobile. He turned off his radio the instant he heard the voice of Ron Morris exhorting him to get off the ice. Neither Morris nor anyone else had the slightest idea what was going on out on the ice and Arnold didn’t have the time to explain it.

When he reached the struggling whales, Arnold scrambled on his belly to the edge of the hole, pulled off his gloves, and extended his outstretched hand toward the whale’s obstructed blowholes.

He gently stroked the tender area to reassure the whale that he meant no harm. Apparently reassured by the Eskimo hunter’s touch, the whale remained long enough for Brower to dislodge the ice. He reached his bare hand into the tender cavity and grabbed the chunk of ice. The whale writhed in pain as he pulled it out of its raw, bleeding orifice. In the intensity of his efforts to aid the choking whale, Brower didn’t even notice that Malik was right beside him, caught up in a breathless race to enlarge the small hole. Malik fished chunks of floating ice from the frigid water with his gloveless hands and pitched them over his head. Malik skated across the refrozen channel to retrieve a shovel and seal pole from the back of his ski machine. The two Eskimo whalers expanded the hole until both animals could breathe safely again.

Less than a mile from the open lead and freedom, the whales were once again confined to a tiny, frightful hole. Nonetheless, the two whales made remarkable progress through the lead before they got stuck in the frozen water. Overnight, the whales swam through almost two miles of the channel. Arnold and Malik knew that if new holes weren’t opened soon, the crisis their bare hands just alleviated would soon recur. Arnold switched on his walkie-talkie and radioed an urgent appeal for five chain saw crews to get on the ice as soon as possible. He and Malik decided to fall back on the only tactic that worked. Now that the pressure ridge was sliced away, the native crews could easily cut holes parallel to the channel, protecting the whales from its brutal conditions. If everyone were mobilized for a total and final push, the holes could be dug in a few hours.

Brower went right over Ron Morris’s head to summon his own crews. He made his own decision without bothering to consult the man who was ostensibly his boss. Morris didn’t overlook the insubordination. By early that morning, everyone had heard the horrible tale of the previous night’s debacle. But that event appeared to have little effect. Morris lost his temper. He was willing to admit that much. But that changed nothing. He was still coordinator, and in his mind, his word was law. He reached for his radio and repeated his unenforceable declaration that no one was allowed on the ice. Only when his orders were flagrantly countermanded by his own subordinates did the nightmare sink in. His authority had been completely emasculated in the eyes of those he commanded.

Just minutes after their arrival, the first crew sawed open a new hole. Brower wasted no time waiting for the whales to make the discovery on their own. He flipped around the ends of his seal pole and shoved the blunt end in the water. He gently poked the whales so as to annoy them enough to leave the hole. After a few less than comfortable jolts to the mid-section, the whales got the message and headed toward the only haven they saw: the new Eskimo hole. For the time being at least, the whales were safe.

Morris raced out to the whales yet again in another mistaken attempt to confront Brower. When he arrived, he found the Eskimo and his crew working frantically to open new holes for the whales. No matter how he ranted and raved, Morris couldn’t seem to get Brower’s attention. Brower just kept digging while trying to ignore the sounds as though they came from an errant pest.

Finally, as if to swat it away, he lifted his eyes from the holes on which they were focused. He glared piercingly into Morris’s eyes before he quietly uttered the same words he used only hours before. “It’s out of your hands.” He withdrew his gaze and returned to his task. The message was clear. If he knew what was good for him, Morris would not challenge Brower or his men again. Morris got the message and withdrew to safer terrain, the SAR hangar.

From there he contacted Sergei Reshetov aboard the Vladimir Arseniev. The Russian captain didn’t need to remind Morris how anxious the Soviets were to get home. Reshetov also did not have to be told about what was happening on the ice. All he had to do was peer down from his perch eight stories above it. Surprising even to him, the channels his ship plowed through just twelve hours before had frozen over solid. He knew his ship’s job wasn’t done. There were more passes to be made before he could get home.

By noon, the Arseniev wasn’t alone. Bill Allen had climbed in the cockpit of his oddly named screw tractor and planted a huge American flag atop the cab. Amid cheers, Allen’s versatile tractor plowed through the Soviet paths, spitting out smaller chunks of ice. Wrapped in the mantle of Old Glory, Allen was determined to prove his country was still the key force in the rescue. Billy Bob Allen was stealing the show.

“Oh, me,” he exulted as he spun his way through the channels. A camera crew captured radiant shots of Billy Bob Allen driving the tractor like a child in his first bumper car at an amusement park.

Finally, after almost two weeks, Bill Allen himself was out. He was so excited as he twisted and turned he forgot to check his fuel gauge. When he did, it was too late. The screw tractor had run out of gas. By late afternoon, standing atop his idled tractor, Allen exulted ebulliently as he watched the whales swimming freely in the channel he helped cut.

“Just get a load of that Archie Bowers,” he said to Pete Leathard. “Mercy, that son of a bitch sure can work, can’t he?” It was the highest compliment Allen could bestow on the Eskimo leader. Now, there was no turning back. The whales were only a few hundred yards from the lead.

Operation Breakout, cum Operation Breakthrough was a success. More than two weeks and $5.5 million later, there was nothing more to do. Eskimos, their Caucasian countrymen, and Russians had cut a ten-mile path through thick Arctic ice. All they could do was wait for the whales to do the rest. As the sun set on Thursday, October 27—twenty days after the whales were first found off Point Barrow—a wave of relief swept over everyone. Rescuers were delighted that the whales could now swim free. Billy Bob was delighted at the prospect of finally closing his hemorrhaging checkbook, and reporters were anxious to go home.

Thursday night, Morris gave what he promised would be his final press conference. While not absolutely sure, Geoff, Craig, and the other biologists were reasonably certain that shortly after dark, the whales would slip through the last vestiges of the channel and enter the unfettered waters of the open lead. Their Barrow misadventure behind them, the whales were almost surely free. At first light, Friday morning, Randy Crosby flew the final mission. Flying twenty miles up and down the lead, he saw not a trace. The whales were gone.

Fittingly, Malik was the last American to see the two whales before darkness. Petting Siku good-bye, he wished the two creatures the luck he knew they would need to survive on their long voyage. Ordinary gray whales would be hard pressed to make it through the multiple dangers that lay ahead. Treacherous ice floes extended for several hundred miles along Alaska’s northern and western rims. Next, there were pods of killer whales waiting for weak and wounded prey. And finally, if they made it that far, the whales would have to dance through minefields of great white sharks lurking off the coast of the Pacific Northwest in search of weakened prey.

But these whales had proven themselves anything but ordinary. These whales touched hundreds of millions of hearts and captivated the fickle attention of a self-obsessed world. They brought together people, industries, and nations in a way man himself never could. If only for a fortnight, the three whales were at the center of the world. They were history’s most fortunate creatures.

Lucky whales.