White Death

by Clive Cussler

  “Thanks, Professor. Unfortunately, Ms. Weld will be busy the next few days.”

  “That is unfortunate.” Austin nodded absentmindedly. He was intrigued by Jorgensen's mention of the tight security at Oceanus. Where some might see this as an obstacle, Austin saw an invitation to probe the connection be- tween Oceanus and the disastrous collision of the SOS ship and the cruiser. “I might take you up on your cottage offer. I'd like to see a little more of the Faroes before I leave.”

  “Wonderful! Stay as long as you want. The islands are spectacu- lar. I'll call the landlord to say you'll be coming. His name is Gunnar Jepsen, and he lives in a house behind the cottage. You can use my rental car. There's a small boat that goes along with the cottage and plenty to keep you busy. Incredible birding on the cliffs, the hiking is superb, and there are some fascinating archeological ruins nearby.” Austin smiled and said, “I'm sure I'll find something to do.”

  After dinner, they had a nightcap in the hotel bar, then bid each other good-bye with a promise to hook up in Copenhagen. The pro- fessor was staying with a friend that night and would leave the is- lands in the morning. Austin went up to his hotel room. He wanted to get an early start the next day. He went over to the window and stood awhile in thought as he looked out over the quaint town and harbor, then he snatched up his cell phone and punched out a familiar number.

  Gamay Morgan-Trout was in her office at NUMA headquarters in Washington, D.C., staring intently at the computer monitor, when the telephone rang. Without moving her eyes from the screen, she picked up the telephone and mumbled an absentminded hello. At the sound of Austin's voice, she broke into a dazzling smile that was made distinctive by the slight space between her front teeth.

  “Kurt!” she said with obvious delight. “It's wonderful to hear from you.”

  “Same here. How are things back at NUMA?”

  Still smiling, Gamay brushed a strand of long, dark-red hair away from her forehead and said, “We've been treading water here since you and Joe left. I'm reading a new abstract on toadfish nerve re- search that could help cure balance problems in humans. Paul's at his computer working on a model of the Java Trench. I don't know when I've had so much excitement. I feel sorry for you and Joe. That daring rescue must have bored you to tears.”

  Paul Trout's computer was back-to-back with his wife's. Trout was staring at the screen in typical pose, with head dipped low, par- tially in thought, but also to accommodate his six-foot-eight height. He had light-brown hair parted down the middle in Jazz Age style and combed back at the temples. As always, he was dressed impec- cably, wearing a lightweight olive tan suit from Italy, and one of the colorful matching bow ties that were his addiction. He peered up- ward with hazel eyes, as if over glasses, although he wore contacts.

  “Please ask our fearless leader when he's coming home,” Paul said. “NUMA headquarters has been as quiet as a tomb while he and Joe have been making headlines.”

  Austin overheard Trout's question. “Tell Paul I'll be back at my desk in a few days. Joe's due later in the week, after he wraps up tests on his latest toy. I wanted to let you know where I'd be. I'm driving up the Faroe coast tomorrow to a little village called Skaalshavn.”

  “What's going on?” Gamay said.

  “I want to look into a fish-farm operation run by a company called Oceanus. There may be a connection between Oceanus and the sink- ing of those two ships here in the Faroes. While I'm poking around, could you see what you can learn about this outfit? I don't have much to go on. Maybe Hiram can help out.” Hiram Yeager was the com- puter whiz who rode herd on NUMA's vast database.

  They chatted a few more minutes, with Austin filling Gamay in on the rescue of the Danish sailors, then hung up, with Gamay prom- ising to get right on the Oceanus request. She related the gist of her conversation with Austin.

  “Kurt can whistle up a wind better than anyone I know,” Paul said with a chuckle, alluding to the ancient belief that whistling on a ship can attract a storm. “What did he want to know about fish-farming, how to run your tractor underwater?”

  “No, a grain binder,” Gamay said with exaggerated primness. “How could I forget that you practically grew up on a fishing boat?”

  “Just a simple son of a son of a fisherman, as Jimmy Buffett would say.” Trout had been born on Cape Cod, into a fishing family. His an- cestral path had diverged when, as a youngster, he hung around the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. Some of the scientists at the Institution had encouraged him to study oceanography. He'd re- ceived his Ph.D. in ocean science at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, specializing in deep-ocean geology, and was profi- cient in using computer graphics in his various undersea projects.

  “I happen to know that despite your display of ignorance, you know a lot more about aquaculture than you let on.”

  “Fish-farming is nothing new. Back home, folks have been seeding and harvesting the clam and oyster flats for a hundred years or more.”

  “Then you know it's essentially the same principle, only extended to fin fish. The fish are bred in tanks and raised in open net cages that float in the ocean. The farms can produce fish in a fraction of the time it takes to catch them in the wild.”

  Paul frowned. “With the government clamping down on the wild fishery because of stock depletion, competition like that is the last thing a fisherman needs.”

  “The fish farmers would disagree. They say aquaculture produces cheaper food, provides employment and pours money into the econ- omy.”

  “As a marine biologist, where do you stand on the issue?” Gamay had received a degree in marine archaeology before chang- ing her field of interest and enrolling at Scripps, where she'd attained a doctorate in marine biology, and in the process met and married Paul.

  “I guess I stand smack in the middle,” she said. “Fish-farming does have benefits, but I'm a little worried that with big companies running the farms, things could get out of control.”

  “Which way is the wind blowing?”

  “Hard to tell, but I can give you an example of what's happening. Imagine you're a politician running for office and the fish-farm in- dustry says it will invest hundreds of millions of dollars in the coastal communities, and that investment will generate jobs and billions of dollars each year in economic activity in your district. Which side would you back ?”

  Trout let out a low whistle. “Billions? I had no idea there was that kind of money involved.”

  “I'm talking about a fraction of the world business. There are fish farms all over the world. If you've had salmon or shrimp or scallops lately, the fish you ate could have been raised in Canada or Thailand or Colombia.”

  “The farms must have incredible capacity to pump out fish in those quantities.”

  “It's phenomenal. In British Columbia, they've got seventy million farm-raised salmon compared to fifty-five thousand wild caught.”

  “How can the wild fishermen compete with production like that?”

  “They cant” Gamay said, with a shrug. “Kurt was interested in a company called Oceanus. Let's see what I can find.”

  Her hands played over the computer keyboard. “Strange. Usually the biggest problem with the Internet is too much information. There's almost nothing on Oceanus. All I could find is this one- paragraph article saying that a salmon-processing plant in Canada had been sold to Oceanus. I'll peck around some more.”

  It took another fifteen minutes of hunting, and Paul was deep in the Java Trench again, when he heard Gamay finally say, “Aha!” “Pay dirt?”

  Gamay scrolled down. “I found a few sentences about the acqui- sition buried in an industry newsletter story. Oceanus apparently owns companies around the world that are expected to produce more than five hundred million pounds a year. The merger gives market access in this country through an American subsidiary. The seller figures the U.S. will buy a quarter of what they produce.”

  “Five hundred million pounds! I'm turning in my fishing rod. I wouldn't min
d seeing one of these plants. Where's the nearest one?” “The Canadian operation I just mentioned. I'd like to see it, too.” “So what's stopping us? We're twiddling our thumbs while Kurt and Joe are away. The world isn't in need of saving, and if it is, Dirk and Al are always available.”

  She squinted at the screen. “The plant is in Cape Breton, which is more than a skip and a jump from the shores of the Potomac.”

  “When will you learn to trust my Yankee ingenuity?” Paul said with a fake sigh.

  While Gamay watched with a bemused smile, Paul picked up the phone and punched out a number. After a brief conversation, he hung up with a triumphant grin on his boyish face. “That was a pal in NUMA's travel department. There's a NUMA plane leaving for Boston in a few hours. They have two seats available. Maybe you can charm the pilot into an add-on to Cape Breton.”

  “It's worth a try,” Gamay said, pushing the OFF button on her computer.

  “What about your toadfish research?” Paul said.

  Gamay replied with a bad imitation of a toad's croak. “What about the Java Trench?”

  “It's been there for millions of years. I think it can wait a few more days.”

  His computer monitor went blank as well. Relieved that their boredom, at last, had come to an end, they raced each other to their office door.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  10

  THE MORNING GLOOM had burned off, and the Faroes were enjoying a rare moment of sunshine that revealed the splendor of the island scenery. The countryside seemed to be covered in bright-green billiard table baize. The rugged terrain was barren of trees, dotted by grass-roofed houses and an occasional church steeple, and laced by crooked stone walls and foot trails.

  Austin drove the professor's Volvo along a twisting coastal road that offered inland views of distant mountains. Jagged gray out- croppings rose from the cold blue sea like huge, petrified whale fins. Birds swirled around the lofty vertical cliffs where the sea had sculpted the irregular shoreline.

  Around midday, Austin emerged from a mountain tunnel and saw a doll-like village clustered on a gently sloping hill at the edge of a fjord. The serpentine road followed a series of descending switchbacks, dropping thousands of feet in a few miles. The Volvo's wheels skirted the edge of hairpin turns with no guardrails along the berm. Austin was happy when he reached the level road that ran be- tween the foam-flecked surf and the colorfully painted houses built on the slope of the hillside like spectators at an amphitheater.

  A woman was planting flowers in front of a tiny church, whose grassy roof was surmounted by a short, rectangular steeple. Austin danced at his Faroese phrasebook and got out of the car.

  He said: “Orsaa. Hvar er Gunnar Jepsen?” Excuse me, where could

  I find Gunnar Jepsen?

  She put her trowel down and came over. Austin saw that she was a handsome woman who could have been between fifty and sixty. Her silvery hair was tied in a bun, and she was tanned except for the sun blush on her high cheekbones. Her eyes were as gray as the nearby sea. A bright smile crossed her narrow face, and she pointed toward a side road that led to the outskirts of town.

  “Gott taaf” he said. Thank you.

  “EingisJt?”

  “No, I'm American.”

  “We don't see many Americans here in Skaalshavn,” she said, speaking English with a Scandinavian lilt. “Welcome.”

  “I hope I'm not the last.”

  “Gunnar lives up there on the hill. Just follow that little road.” She smiled again. “I hope you have a good visit.”

  Austin thanked her once more, got back in the car and followed a pair of gravel ruts for about a quarter of a mile. The road ended at a large grass-roofed house built of vertical, dark chocolate-colored planking. A pickup truck was parked in the drive. A hundred yards down the slope was a smaller twin of the main house. Austin climbed the porch stairs and knocked.

  The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the portly side. He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head. “Ja,” he said with a pleasant smile.

  “Mr. Jepsen?” Austin said. “My name is Kurt Austin. I'm a friend of Professor Jorgensen's.”

  “Mr. Austin. Come in.” He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car salesman greeting a prospect. Then he ushered him into a rustic liv- ing room. “Dr. Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming. It's a long drive from Torshavn,” Jepsen said. “Would you like a drink?” “Not now, thanks. Maybe later.”

  Jepsen nodded and said, “You're here to do a little fishing?” “I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes.” “Not quite,” Jepsen said with a grin, “but almost as good.”

  “I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing would be a good way to relax.”

  “Ship salvage? Austin.” He swore in Faroese. “I should have known. You're the American who saved the Danish sailors. I saw it on the television. Miraculous! Wait 'til the people in the village learn I am entertaining a celebrity.”

  “I was hoping I wouldn't be bothered.”

  “Of course, but it will be impossible to keep your visit a secret from the townspeople.”

  “I met one of them outside the church. She seemed nice enough.”

  “That would be the minister's widow. She's the postmistress and head gossip. Everyone will know you're here by now.”

  “Is that the professor's cottage down the hill?”

  “Yes,” Jepsen said, removing a key ring from a nail in the wall. “Come, I'll show you.” Austin got his duffel from the car. As they walked down the hard-packed path, Jepsen said, “You're a good friend of Dr. Jorgensen?”

  “I met him a few years ago. His reputation as a fish scientist is world-known.”

  “Yes, I know. I was very honored to have him here. Now you.”

  They stopped in front of the cottage, whose porch offered a view of the harbor, where a picturesque fleet of fishing boats was anchored.

  “Are you a fisherman, Mr. Jepsen?”

  “In a little place like this, you survive by doing many things. I rent out my cottage. My expenses aren't great.”

  They climbed onto the cottage porch and went inside. The inte- rior was basically one room with a single bed, bathroom, kitchen area, a small table and a couple of chairs, but it looked comfortable.

  Jepsen said, “There's fishing gear in the closet. Let me know if you need a guide for fishing or hiking. My roots go back to the Vikings, and no one knows this place better.”

  “Thanks for your offer, but I've been around a lot of people lately. I'd like to spend some time on my own. I understand that a boat goes with the cottage.”

  “Third one from the end of the pier,” Jepsen said. “A double- ender. The keys are in it.”

  “Thank you for your help. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack, then I'll go into the village and stretch my legs,” Austin said.

  Jepsen told Austin to let him know if he needed anything. “Dress warm,” he said as he went out the door. “The weather changes quickly around here.”

  Heeding Jepsen's advice, Austin pulled a windbreaker over his sweater. He went outside and stood on the cottage porch, sucking in the cool air. The land sloped gradually down to the sea. From his van- tage, he had a clear view of the harbor, the fish pier and the boats. He walked back up the path to the Volvo and drove into the village.

  Austin's first stop was the bustling fish pier, where a procession of trawlers unloaded their catches under an umbrella of squalling seabirds. He found the boat tied up as Jepsen had described. It was a well-built wooden inboard about twenty feet long, turned up dory- fashion at both ends. He checked the motor and found it relatively clean and new. The key was in the ignition, as Jepsen had said. Austin started the engine and listened to it for a few minutes. Satisfied that it was running smoothly, he switched it off and headed back to his car. On the way, he encountered the minister's widow coming out of a loading bay.

&nb
sp; “Hallo, American,” she said with a friendly grin. “Did you find Gunnar?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She was holding a fish wrapped in newspaper. “I came down here to get some supper. My name is Pia Knutsen.”

  They shook hands. Pia's grip was warm and firm. "Nice to meet you. I'm Kurt Austin. I've been enjoying the sights.

  Skaalshavn is a beautiful village. I've been wondering what the name means in English."

  “You are talking to the unofficial village historian. Skaalshavn means 'Skull Harbor.' ”

  Austin glanced out at the water. “Is the bay shaped like a skull?” “Oh no. It goes way back. The Vikings discovered skulls in some caves when they founded the settlement.” “People were here before the Vikings?”

  “Irish monks, perhaps, or maybe even earlier. The caves were on the other side of the headland at what was the original harbor for the old whaling station. It became too small as fishing grew, so the fish- ermen moved their boats and settled here.”

  “I'd like to do some hiking. Would you recommend any routes where I can get a good view of the town and its surroundings?” “From the bird cliffs, you can see for miles. Take that path behind the village,” she said, pointing. "You will go through the moors by some beautiful waterfalls and streams, past a big lake. The trail climbs sharply after you pass the old farm ruins, and you will be at the cliffs. Don't go too close to the edge, especially if it's foggy, un- less you have wings. The ledges are nearly five hundred meters tall. Follow the cairns back and keep them on your left. The trail is steep and goes down fast. Don't walk too close to the edge along the sea, because sometimes the waves crash over the rocks and can catch you.

  “I'll be careful.” “One more thing. Dress warm. The weather changes quickly sometimes.”

  “Gunnar gave me the same advice. He seems quite knowledge- able. Is he a native?”

  “Gunnar would like people to think he goes back to Erik the Red,” she sniffed. “He's from Copenhagen. Moved into the village a year or two ago.”