Fluke, Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings by Christopher Moore Page A

the slow kick to the surface.
    At a hundred and fifty feet she made the mistake of looking up. The surface might have been a mile away. Then she checked her watch and pulled up Clay's arm so she could see the dive computer on his wrist. Already the liquid-crystal readout was blinking, telling her that Clay needed two decompression stops on the way up. One at fifty feet and one at twenty, from ten to fifteen minutes each. With his rebreather he'd have plenty of air. Amy wasn't wearing a dive computer, but by ball-parking it from her pressure gauge, she figured she had between five and ten minutes of air left. She was about half an hour short.
    Well, this is going to be awkward,
she thought.
    * * *
    The whale cops wore light blue uniform shirts with shorts and aviator-style mirrored sunglasses that looked as if they'd been surgically set into their faces. They were both in their thirties and had spent some time in the gym, although one was heavier and had rolled up his short sleeves to let his grapefruit biceps breathe. The other was thin and wiry. They brought their boat alongside Nate's and threw over a bumper to keep the boats from rubbing together in the waves.
    "Howzit, bruddahs!" Kona said.
    "Not now," Nate whispered.
    "I need to see your permit," said the heavier cop.
    Nate had pulled a plastic envelope out from under the console as they approached. They went through this several times a year. He handed it over to the cop, who took out the document and unfolded it.
    "I'll need both of your IDs."
    "Come on," Nate said, handing over his driver's license. "You guys know me. Look, we've sheared a pin and there's a diver emergency on our other boat."
    "You want us to call the Coast Guard?"
    "No, I want you to take us over there."
    "That's not what we do, Dr. Quinn," said the thin cop, looking up from the permit. "The Coast Guard is equipped for emergencies. We are not."
    "Dis haole, lolo pela, him," said Kona. (Meaning, he's just a dumb white guy.)
    "Don't talk that shit to me," said the heavier cop. "You want to speak Hawaiian, I'll talk to you in Hawaiian, but don't talk that pidgin shit to me. Now, where's your ID?"
    "Back at my cabin."
    "Dr. Quinn, your people need to have ID at all times on a research vessel, you know that."
    "He's new."
    "What's your name, kid?"
    "Pelekekona Keohokalole," said Kona.
    The cop took off his sunglasses — for the first time ever, Nate thought. He looked at Kona.
    "You're not on the permit."
    "Try Preston Applebaum," said Kona.
    "Are you trying to fuck with me?"
    "He is," said Nate. "Just take him in, and on the way take me to our other boat."
    "I think we'll tow both of you in and deal with the permit issues when we get into harbor."
    Suddenly, amid the static of the marine radio on in the background, Clair's voice: "Nate, are you there? I lost Amy's bubbles. I can't see her bubbles. I need help here! Nate! Anyone!"
    Nate looked at the whale cop, who looked at his partner, who looked away.
    Kona jumped up on the gunwale of the police boat and leaned into the wiry cop's face. "Can we do the territorial macho power trip after we get our divers out of the water, or do you have to kill two people to show us how big your fucking dicks are?"
    * * *
    Clair ran around the boat searching for Amy's bubble trail, hoping she was just missing it, had lost it in the waves — hoping that it was still there. She looked at the hang tank sitting in the floor of the boat, still unattached to the regulator, then ran back to the radios, keying both the marine radio and the cell-phone radio and trying not to scream.
    "SOS here. Please, I'm a couple of miles off the dump, I have divers down, in trouble."
    The harbormaster at Lahaina came back, said he'd send someone, and then a dive boat who was out at the lava cathedrals at Lanai said they had to get their divers out of the water but could be there in thirty minutes. Then Nathan Quinn came back.
    "Clair, this is Nate. I'm on the way. How long ago did the