Page 75 of The Breaking Point
“Explain,” he said a second time.
“The presence of operatives from the American organization NUMA affects the data. Several of their more decorated members were on the island and were active during the stranding. My study of their database confirms that they’re now launching an investigation into the cause.”
“NUMA,” Vaughn said. Now, that was a surprise. Or a coincidence…Or something more. Certainly Vaughn knew enough about the organization to want them removed from the equation. “Recommendation?”
TAU answered immediately. Its hyper-speed processors were already preloaded with a solution. “Biological decay and the effect of natural scavengers will hide any evidence of the cause within thirty-six hours. But samples taken before this period may result in indirect exposure. The preferred solution is complete destruction of any and all samples prior to laboratory analysis. Full eradication of any recordeddata. Permanent elimination of any human individuals who may have done preliminary studies.”
Vaughn had expected no less. “By what means do you suggest accomplishing this task?”
“This task is best performed by trained human operatives.”
As usual, Vaughn and his machine agreed. “Have the Overseer report to me. This will be a chance for him to redeem himself.”
Chapter 6
Reunion Island
Gamay Trout crouched beside a bloated pilot whale that had died during the night. Running her rubber-gloved hand across the whale’s skin, she noticed small pockmarks on the upper half of the animal. They clustered near the dorsal fin and around the blowhole, parts of the whale that would break the surface the most.
Her first impression was that they were bites of some type, though she couldn’t be sure. Stranger still, they oozed with secretions that should have dried and coagulated by now, even though the whale itself would take weeks to decompose.
She broke open a sample kit and began collecting tissue, blood, and a healthy amount of the secretion running from the wounds. As she worked, the wind kicked up, blowing sand across the beach and pulling strands of her wine-colored hair free from the ponytail she’d done it up in. They whipped around, tickling the front of her face. She wrinkled her nose. “A little help, please?”
A pair of strong but gentle hands deftly gathered the hair, pulled it back, and reclipped it into her ponytail. Gamay glanced back to see her husband, Paul, his six-foot-eight frame blocking out the sun.
“You managed that quite nicely,” she said with a smile. “You might have a future in the salon business.”
“You’re the only woman whose hair I desire to touch,” he replied.
“The only correct answer,” she joked.
Gamay was a marine biologist with NUMA. She and Paul had joined the organization years before after graduating from Scripps Institute. They often worked together, though Paul was a geologist and more interested in rocks than soft-bodied animals and slime molds teeming with bacteria.
They’d been in South Africa working on a project to breed modified mosquitoes that wouldn’t be able to carry malaria or other diseases. The project was a controversial one, and Gamay was glad to be off it, even if it meant examining dead whales.
An early-morning flight had brought them to Reunion. By midafternoon they were on the beach, examining the dead and dying animals.
Gamay worked with Chantel and the other volunteers from the university, setting up a makeshift lab and beginning the collection process for samples and data.
With no rocks to examine, Paul did the heavy lifting and was apparently also in charge of Gamay’s hair. “I expect a full credit in the group photo later. ‘Gamay Trout’s hair byLe Paul.’ ”
She laughed lightly. “I promise to assist the next time we have a geological emergency.”
“Be careful,” he said. “A geological emergency usually means a large earthquake or dodging molten lava from an active volcano.”
“That doesn’t sound fun,” she replied.
“And plucking goo from smelly sea creatures is?”
“Better than working with mosquitoes in Africa,” she said.
It had been meant as a joke, but they shared a knowing look. Thatproject had ended with a dark secret being buried and hopefully destroyed.
“It’s okay,” Paul whispered. “Pandora’s box is not only closed; it’s been deleted and destroyed.”
She pointed to her head. “It’s up here.”
“Keep it there.”