Big Miracle (41 page)

*   *   *

While Cindy, Geoff, Craig, and Arnold were getting ready to go back on the ice to continue to search for the missing whale, Ron Morris was trying to find out when the Russian ships would arrive. According to the State Department, the Soviet vessels were due in Barrow the next night, Sunday, October 23, a week to the day after Operation Breakout began, sixteen days after the whales were found. When the two Soviet vessels finished their work on the Northern Pole 31 float station, they faced a three-hundred-mile journey to the southwest.

When the announcement was first made the day before, on Friday, October 21, Captain Sergei Reshetov's best analysis indicated that it would take two days to reach Barrow. However, soon after their departure from the floating ice station, he found conditions much worse than expected. The shifting ice pack made navigation treacherous. His artful dodges and traverses would add hours to the trip. Reshetov was worried. Rarely had he seen such dangerous ice conditions so early in the year. He could only imagine what kind of winter lay in store. He sent a cable to Vladivostok asking officials for aerial ice reconnaissance. Having spent a career in the Soviet Merchant Marine, Reshetov knew not to get his hopes up. U.S. reconnaissance capabilities were light-years ahead of his own country's, and Reshetov knew it. If ever there was time to demand quid pro quo, this was it.

It was the Americans who asked the Soviets for help. Now the Soviets could ask the Americans for help of their own. The Soviet Merchant Marine forwarded their request to the U.S. State Department. Saturday morning, the State Department passed it on to Glenn Rutledge at the Navy/NOAA Joint Ice Center in Suitland, Maryland. Rutledge assembled Arctic ice data compiled daily by the National Ocean Service, an arm of NOAA. He put together large maps detailing ice thickness and openings in the polar pack. The data proved invaluable to Master Reshetov and the Soviet icebreakers. But as good as the data proved to be, Rutledge knew it could be better. Aside from stranding themselves in the first place, the whales had been carried by an uncanny streak of luck since the very beginning. It was luck that led Roy Ahmaogak to find them in a tiny hole in the ice, and luck that caused the whole world to pull for them and spend millions to free them. Now, as that same luck would have it, American satellite imaging was on the verge of a major leap forward.

On September 24, 1988, just two weeks before the whales were discovered, the U.S. Air Force deployed the most sophisticated weather satellite ever built, launched into orbit aboard an unmanned Atlas rocket. The state-of-the-art $100-million satellite, called NOAA-11, could produce much more sharply defined images than earlier U.S. satellites. But NOAA-11 was not scheduled to start operating until December 1988—too late to help the whales. The media firestorm over the whales proved as much a NOAA emergency as any life-threatening hurricane. The agency had received more publicity in Operation Breakout's first week than it had in the eighteen years of its existence. The previously obscure federal agency, unknown to most Americans, was on the front page of every newspaper in the country. That included the
Washington Post,
the newspaper read by the people who approved NOAA's annual budget. For people inside the Beltway, it was NOAA's coming of age. For the agency, the whole affair was a godsend. NOAA ordered its special satellite turned on immediately.

By Monday, October 24, eight days after Operation Breakout began, the newest and most sophisticated weather satellite ever deployed would have its first assignment. Suddenly, the two whales sputtering in the waters off Barrow had entered the space age. But while a $100-million geosynchronous satellite compiled ice analysis, Eskimo crews under the direction of Arnold Brower continued the task of cutting open holes so the whales could breathe. When Cindy returned to the ice Saturday morning, the whales were energetically popping in and out of the last of the fifty-five holes. They swam under more than a mile of frozen sea in one night. Now, there was no doubt, the whales were on their way. If the Russians could cut through the pressure ridge, they would soon be free.

After a week's practice, the Eskimos were cutting new holes at a furious pace. That Friday night, Ron Morris had pushed them all to work even faster. “The Russians will be here in two days,” he told Brower. “They told us they can work only one day. I want the whales as close to that damned ridge as we can get them.” Brower took his order and ran. Saturday, Brower's men cut fifteen new holes before noon. The two whales were keeping right up with them. Morris wanted all his guns firing. He pressed Colonel Carroll to get his concrete bullet into the arsenal.

On Saturday morning, the colonel managed to stave off yet another near disaster, potentially the worst one yet. Just hours before, Colonel Carroll's National Guard contingent had completed the last of its redeployment from Prudhoe. All twelve guardsmen landed safely in Barrow aboard two Bell Huey helicopters, the workhorse of the Alaska National Guard. The Guard unit prided itself on its ability to operate in America's most hostile weather.

But that Friday night, Colonel Carroll's unit displayed just the opposite foresight. After shutting down their engines, the guardsmen left the expensive helicopters outside the hangar. Moments later, the helicopters were frozen solid. Discovering the lapse, Colonel Carroll was outraged. He opened the huge bay doors to roll the helicopters inside. Thankfully, Randy Crosby was there to stop him. Crosby was shocked to see the Guard about to break one of the first rules of Arctic aviation: never let frozen equipment thaw too quickly.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Crosby shouted in disbelief. He explained that if the frozen helicopters were brought inside, vital parts of the aircraft would crack. Crosby told Carroll and his men that his helicopters had to be defrosted slowly. If he wanted the Hueys to fly again, Carroll would have to leave them outside wrapped in nylon parachutes and let the feeble Arctic sun do the rest. Saturday, October 22, was the warmest day yet of the rescue.

While it was still fifteen degrees below zero out on the ice, the temperature in town almost reached the double digits. Scantily clad locals made the conditions seem almost balmy. The heaviest garb to be seen was a light, unbuttoned windbreaker. Even they were scarce. Few wore hats and almost no one wore gloves. Teenagers strutted through the frozen streets in sneakers and T-shirts.

I saw one child dressed in nothing more than a brightly colored bathing suit and T-shirt. He was riding through the icy streets on a bicycle. Reporters stuck out plainly among the locals. To us it was more than cold: it was downright bitter, even in our expensive designer ski clothes. Eskimos never donned hats and gloves in weather warmer than twenty degrees or thirty degrees below, whereas we always wore them.

Later that Saturday morning, the Colonel unveiled the ARCO ice crusher, his latest scheme for Operation Breakout's next media spectacular. For the insatiable press and their whale-crazed audience, the sixth and seventh days of Operation Breakout, Friday and Saturday, October 21 and 22, were a news bonanza. The Russian icebreakers, Bone's death, and now the ice smasher being added to the rescue's climax: this was the Super Bowl of whale-saving.

After traveling to the top of the world to cover what started as a nature story, reporters soon found themselves facing the same inveterate media manipulation they dealt with every day down in the Lower 48. Early Saturday morning, Mike Haller, Tom Carroll's media relations officer, posted a schedule for the day's events at the entrance to Pepe's, in the Top of the World Hotel, and at NARL, where the international and late-arriving press stayed. Activities began at 8
A.M.
, several hours before daybreak, at the old Navy hangar south of NARL. Colonel Carroll's men hitched ARCO's five-ton concrete block to the CH-54 Skycrane helicopter.

Some reporters faced a dilemma. They could go to the ice with Cindy or watch the bullet. Having each invested up to $10,000 a day in covering the event, the competitive American television networks weren't going to take the chance of being beaten. By Saturday morning, each network had at least two camera crews, enabling them to cover more than one event at a time. While one crew could film ARCO's bullet, the other could be on the ice with Cindy and the two whales.

Amid a modicum of fanfare, half a dozen cameras watched the Skycrane lift the five-ton battering ram off the frozen tarmac. Since the event was designed with the media in mind, Gary Quarles landed the helicopter after a quick circle around the hangar. He took off again to give the cameras a second chance. On the ground, cameramen ran around the helipad to photograph the Skycrane from different angles. The helicopter flew slowly so the camera crews would have plenty of time to board the three SAR helicopters and film the Skycrane while still in flight. Haller knew that the longer the Skycrane flew, the more chance every cameraman would have to take the perfect picture of it.

Carroll agreed with Morris's order not to frighten the whales. He would test the bullet several miles from the Eskimo holes. But by Saturday morning, it seemed that nothing could startle the freedom-starved leviathans. The deafening clatter of the helicopters didn't appear to have any effect. The chances of the five-ton concrete block spooking them seemed remote. While the three press helicopters formed a mile-wide triangle around it, the Skycrane hovered fifty feet above the frozen sea awaiting final orders from Colonel Carroll.

Once again, the colonel was on the line. He was getting used to it. During that time his world underwent a remarkable transformation, from quiet anonymity to the turbulent center of an absurd operation. Whatever Tom Carroll said or did was reported around the world. Tom Carroll was headline news, a key figure in one of the decade's biggest media events. But the height of his great adventure wasn't played out on the ice or in the air; instead, it took place each night on the telephone with a woman 7,000 miles away. Her name was Bonnie Mersinger, and his bond with her was instant. This faceless woman in Washington was suddenly the constant center of his frazzled life. Carroll became convinced that the three whales he was summoned to rescue stranded themselves so that he could meet the woman of his dreams. They spoke every day. Officially, it was a chance for the colonel to brief the White House on the progress of the rescue. But unofficially, it was the chance for Tom and Bonnie to grow closer. With each conversation, their relationship intensified.

After wishing Bonnie the “top of the morning,” the colonel gave the order for Quarles to “drop the bomb.” Just as it had two days earlier, the free-falling battering ram easily broke through the ice. Quarles punched ten more holes before Arnold Brower and his Eskimo scouts arrived to examine the results. The Eskimos immediately saw a problem. The bullet broke the ice, but it didn't remove it. The heavily broken blocks still floated in place. Brower knew that the only way the gray whales would use a hole was if it had been meticulously combed free of even the smallest pieces of ice.

The bullet was retired after just one run. Operation Breakout had taken yet another of its many ironic twists. The distinguished colonel met with more logistical setbacks in the first week of the whales rescue than he had in twenty years. Yet, Tom Carroll was a national figure. Next to a forty-one-year-old junior senator from Indiana who was about to become vice president, Tom Carroll was the person most Americans associated with the National Guard but for better reasons.

Colonel Carroll learned of the next crisis with the whales when he returned to the Navy hangar. The high-priced NOAA biologists flown in from Seattle were baffled. The two whales had stopped dead in their tracks. They seemed stuck, as if something was preventing them from moving on. The whales' eagerness to forge ahead was as strong as ever. The walkie-talkies crackled with activity. Anybody with suggestions was urged to help.

But the sophisticated technology was of little use. Malik went to the Eskimo warm-up shack without his radio. The rescuers were eager for him to return so Craig raced to fetch him. He waited while Malik finished chewing a piece of smoked walrus meat. On his way out the door, he picked up a chunk of muktuk from the whale he and his crew killed a few weeks earlier and popped it into his mouth. They jumped on the back of Craig's waiting ski machine. The loud roar of the fast machine made conversation en route impossible. Instead, Malik savored the particularly tasty piece of whale blubber. As the crowded holes came into view, Malik wiped his mouth with satisfaction and prepared to get back to the task of saving the dead bowhead's two stranded cousins.

“Little Big Man” jumped off the machine and lifted up his red baseball cap, now a trademark. It was emblazoned with an oval black-and-white patch bearing the name of the trade group to which every subsistence whaler belonged: “Alaska Eskimo Whaling Commission.” Malik knew the contours of the frozen ocean he was standing atop better than anyone. Before he even saw them, Malik had a strong suspicion what held the whales back. The instant he peered into the hole they wouldn't enter, his suspicions were confirmed.

Unlike the other seventy holes the whales used in the past twenty-four hours, this one wasn't black. Light reflected from the ocean bottom cast a distinctly gray hue. The whales were stuck at the edge of an underwater sand shoal only twelve feet deep. That was dangerously shallow, even for shore-dwelling grays. The whales had hit a roadblock and, like their rescuers, were unsure how to proceed. Saving whales was new to Malik. Normally, he killed them.

Suddenly, the answer hit him. “A detour,” Malik exclaimed. “Would a whale swim if he thought he might get stuck?” he asked no one in particular. “Let's cut holes around the shoal.” During the hour the whales were blocked by the sand bar, Arnold Brower and his Eskimos cut fourteen new holes.

Bill Allen was impressed. “Well, look at that Archie Bowers work,” he said, mistakenly referring to Brower. But the holes would never be used. Malik and Arnold Jr. turned their back on the errant path and probed the area for deeper water. As soon as an alternate path was marked and new holes cut, the whales followed. The fourteen misdirected holes froze without a trace.