White Death

by Clive Cussler

  “Hell, Therri, even a monk has to get out of the monastery and kick up his heels from time to time. But let's talk about your in- triguing relationship with Austin. Do you think he's smitten by your charms, enough to have him wrapped around your finger?”

  “From what I've seen, Kurt doesn't wrap around anyone s finger.” Her eyes narrowed. “What's going on in that tangle of plots and schemes that you call a mind?”

  “Just a thought. I'd like to get NUMA on our side. We need mus- cle if we're going to tackle Oceanus.”

  “And if we can't get NUMA to help us?”

  He shrugged. “Then we'll have to go it alone.”

  Therri shook her head. “We're not big enough to do that. This is not a street gang we're dealing with. They're too big and powerful. You saw how easily they sabotaged our ship. If someone like Kurt Austin is nervous, then we should pay attention. We can't risk any more lives.”

  “Don't underestimate SOS, Therri. Muscle isn't everything. Strength can come from knowledge.”

  “Don't talk in riddles, Marcus.”

  He smiled. “We may have a winning card. Josh Green called yes- terday. He has stumbled onto something big, and it concerns an Oceanus operation in Canada.”

  “What sort of operation?”

  “Josh wasn't sure. It came out of Ben Nighthawk.”

  “The college intern in our office?” Ryan nodded. "As you know, Nighthawk is a Canadian Indian.

  He's been getting these weird letters from his family in the North Woods. A corporation took over a big tract of land near their village. As a favor to Ben, Josh looked into the ownership. The land was purchased by a straw corporation set up by Oceanus."

  In her excitement, Therri put aside her fears. “This may be the lead we're looking for.”

  “Uh-huh. I thought the same thing. Which is why I told Josh to check it out.”

  “You sent him up there alone?”

  “He was on his way to Canada to meet Ben when he called. Night- hawk knows the lay of the land. Don't worry. They'll be careful.”

  Therri bit her lower lip as she thought back to the savage attack on a quiet Copenhagen street. She respected Ryan for a hundred dif- ferent reasons, but sometimes his zeal to attain a goal got in the way of his judgment.

  Fear clouded her eyes. “I hope so,” she murmured.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  19

  THE GIANT TREE trunks soared like columns in an ancient temple. Their intertwining branches blocked the sun's rays and created an artificial twilight on the forest floor. Far below the tree- tops, the dented old pickup lurched and dipped like a boat in a storm as it climbed over ropy tree roots and unyielding rocks.

  Joshua Green sat on the passenger side, jouncing on the hard seat. He kept one hand above his head to cushion the impact of his skull against the interior of the truck's roof. Green was an environmental law expert with the Sentinels of the Sea. He was a sandy-haired, thin-faced man whose large, round glasses and birdlike nose made him look like an emaciated owl. He had gamely toughed out the ride without a complaint until the truck hit a bump that practically bounced him through the overhead.

  “I'm feeling like a kernel in a popcorn machine,” he said to the driver. “How much longer do I have to endure this torture?”

  “About five minutes; then we'll start walking,” Ben Nighthawk replied. “Don't blame you for getting sick of the bumpy ride. Sorry about the transportation, too. It's the best my cousin could come up with.”

  Green nodded in resignation and turned his attention back to the deep woods that encroached on every side. Before being assigned to SOS headquarters, he'd been part of the field operations SWAT team. He had been rammed and shot at, and he'd spent short but un- forgettable times in jails no better than medieval dungeons. He had acquired a reputation for amazing aplomb under fire, and his pro- fessorial appearance disguised a tough interior. But the unnatural darkness of his surroundings unnerved Green more than anything or anybody he had ever encountered at sea.

  “The road doesn't bother me. It's these damned woodsy he said, staring out at the forest. ”Damned creepy! It's the middle of the day, the sun is shining, and it's dark as Hades out there. Like something out of a Tolkien novel. Wouldn't surprise me if an Ore or an ogre

  jumped out at us. Whoops, I think I just saw Shrek."

  Nighthawk laughed. “I suppose the woods are a little spooky if you're not used to them.” He gazed through the windshield, but in- stead of apprehension, a look of reverence bathed his round, apple- brown features. “It's different when you grow up around here. The forest and the darkness are your friends because they provide pro- tection.” He paused and said wistfully, “Most of the time.”

  A few minutes later, Nighthawk brought the truck to a halt, and they got out and stood in the cathedral gloom. Clouds of tiny flies whirled around their heads. The powerful scent of pine was almost suffocating, but to Nighthawk it was like the finest perfume. He ab- sorbed the sights and smells with a beatific expression on his face, then he and Green donned the backpacks that carried cameras and film, survival tools, water and snacks.

  Without consulting a compass, Nighthawk started walking. "This way/' he said, as confident as if he were following a dotted line on the ground.

  They moved in silence across the thick carpet made up of decades of fallen pine needles, weaving their way through the tree trunks. The air was hot and oppressive, and sweat soaked their shirts within minutes. Except for clusters of ferns and moss hills, no underbrush grew beneath the trees. They made good time without bushes and briars to slow them down. As he loped after Nighthawk, Green re- flected on the path that had led him from the comfort of his air- conditioned office to this murky weald.

  In addition to his duties with SOS, Green taught part-time at Georgetown University in Washington, which was where he'd met Ben Nighthawk, who was attending his class. The young Indian was in college on scholarship. He wanted to use his education to save the North Woods environment, which was threatened by development. Struck by Ben's intelligence and enthusiasm, Green had asked him to be a research assistant in the SOS office.

  The lanky environmentalist and the stocky young Indian were only a few years apart in age, and they had soon become good friends as well as colleagues. Nighthawk was glad for the friendship because he infrequently made it home. His family lived on the shores of a big lake in a remote and almost inaccessible part of eastern Canada. A seaplane owned jointly by the villagers made weekly trips to the near- est town for supplies and emergencies and also carried mail back and forth.

  His mother had been keeping Nighthawk up to date about a major construction project on the lake. Someone was probably build- ing a trophy lodge, Nighthawk had assumed with resignation. It was the sort of project he was determined to wage war against when he got out of college. Then, the week before, his mother had written an upsetting letter hinting at dark goings-on, and asking her son to come home as soon as he could.

  Green told Nighthawk to take as much time off as he needed. A few days after Nighthawk had left for Canada, he called the SOS of- fice. He sounded desperate. “I need your help,” he implored.

  “Of course,” Green replied, thinking his young friend had run out of money. “How much do you need?”

  "I don't need any money. I'm worried about my familyV9 Nighthawk explained that he had gone to the town nearest to the village and learned that the seaplane hadn't come in for two weeks. The townspeople assumed that the plane had mechanical problems and that someone would eventually come out of the woods by land looking for replacement parts.

  He borrowed a truck from a relative who lived in town and fol- lowed the crude road that led to the village. He found the road fenced off and guarded by hard-looking men who said that the property was now private. When he said he wanted to get to his village, they waved him off with their weapons and warned him not to come back.

  “I don't understand,” Green had said on the phone. “Didn't your family live on res
ervation land ?”

  “There were only a handful of our people left. A big paper con- glomerate owned the land. We were squatters, technically, but the company tolerated us. They even used the tribe in ads to show what nice people they were. They sold the land, and the new owners have been working on a big project on the other side of the lake.” 'It's their land; they can do what they want to.“ 'I know, but that doesn't explain what happened to my people.”

  'Good point. Have you gone to the authorities?"

  “It was the first thing I did. I talked to the provincial police. They said they were contacted by a city lawyer who told them that the vil- lagers had been evicted.”

  “But where did they go?”

  “The police asked the same question. The lawyer said they moved on. Probably squatting on someone else's property, he said. You have to understand, my people are considered eccentric anachronisms. The police here say there is nothing they can do. I need help.”

  As they talked, Green checked his calendar. “I'll have the company plane run me up there tomorrow morning,” he said. SOS leased an executive jet that was on standby.

  Are you sure.

  “Why not? With Marcus tied up in Denmark, I'm nominally in command, and to be honest, having to deal with all the egos and turf wars in this office is driving me bonkers. Tell me where you are.”

  True to his word, Green had flown into Quebec the following day. He caught a connector flight on a small plane that took him to the town Nighthawk had called from. Ben was waiting at the tiny air- port, the truck packed with camping supplies and ready to go. They drove several hours along back roads and camped overnight.

  Looking at the map by the light of the camp lantern, Green saw that the forest covered a huge area, pockmarked with large bodies of fresh water. Ben's family lived off the land, fished and hunted for a living and brought in hard cash revenue from the sport fishermen and hunters.

  Green had suggested hiring a floatplane to take them in, but Nighthawk said that the heavily armed guards he encountered had made it clear that trespassers would be shot. The access road they guarded wasn't the only way to get to the village, Nighthawk said. The next morning, they'd driven a few more hours, never encoun- tering another vehicle, until they'd come to the track that led into the deep woods.

  After leaving the truck, they walked now for about an hour, mov- ing like shadows in the silence of the tall trees, until Nighthawk stopped and raised his hand. He froze in place, eyes half-closed, mov- ing his head slightly back and forth like a radar antenna focusing on an incoming target. He seemed to have forsaken the ordinary senses of sight and hearing and was using some inner direction-finder.

  As Green watched, fascinated, he thought, You can take the In- dian out of the forest, but you can't take the forest out of the Indian. At last, Nighthawk relaxed, reached into his pack and unscrewed a canteen. He handed it to Green.

  “I hate to be a pest,” Green said, taking a swig of warm water, "but

  how much farther do we have to walk?“ Nighthawk pointed toward the line of trees. ”About a hundred yards that way is a hunter's trail that will take us to the lake."

  “How do you know?” Ben tapped his nose. “No big deal. I've been following the water smell. Try it.”

  After a sniff or two, Green found to his surprise that he could pick up the faint scent of rotting vegetation and fish mixed with the fragrance of pine. Nighthawk took some water and tucked the can- teen back into his pack. Lowering his voice, he said, “We'll have to be very careful from here on in. I'll communicate with hand signals.”

  Green gave him the okay sign, and they set off again. Almost im- mediately, the scenery began to change. The trees grew shorter and slimmer as the soil under their feet became sandier. The under- growth thickened, and they had to push their way through thorns that ripped at their clothes.

  Shafts of light streamed in from breaks in the trees overhead.

  Then, quite suddenly, they could see the sparkle of water. At a sig- nal from Nighthawk, they got down on their hands and knees and made their way to the edge of the lake.

  After a moment, Nighthawk stood and walked to the water's edge, with Green following. An elderly Cessna floatplane was tied up at a rickety dock. Nighthawk inspected the plane, finding nothing out of

  place. He removed the cowling and gasped when he saw the engine. “Josh, look at this!”

  Green peered at the engine. “Looks like someone took an ax to it.” The hoses and connections hung loose where they had been cut.

  The engine was scarred in a dozen places where it had been hit with something hard.

  “This is why no one could fly out of here,” Nighthawk said. He pointed to a foot-worn trail that led away from the floatplane dock. “That path leads to the village.”

  Within minutes, they were making their way to the edge of a clearing. Nighthawk held out his hand for them to stop. Then he squatted on his haunches and peered with sharp eyes through the bushes. “There's no one here,” he said finally.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Nighthawk said. He walked unafraid into the open, with Green hesitantly taking up the rear.

  The village consisted of a dozen or so sturdy-looking log houses, most with porches. They were built on both sides of a swath of packed-down dirt in a rough approximation of a small town's Main Street, complete with one structure that had a general-store sign on it. Green expected someone to burst out the front door at any mo- ment, but the store and every other house in the village were as still as tombs.

  “This is my house, where my parents and my sister lived,” Nighthawk said, stopping in front of one of the larger structures.

  He went up on the porch and went inside. After a few minutes, he came out, shaking his head. “No one. Everything is in place. Like they just stepped out for a minute.”

  “I poked my head in a couple of the other places,” Green said.

  “Same thing. How many people lived here?”

  “Forty or so.”

  “Where could they have gone?”

  Nighthawk walked to the edge of the lake a few yards away. He

  stood, listening to the quiet lap of the waves. After a moment, he pointed to the opposite shore and said, “Maybe over there?” Green squinted across the lake. “How can you be sure?” “My mother wrote that there was funny stuff going on across the lake. We've got to check it out.”

  “What kind of funny stuff?” "She said big helicopters were coming in and unloading material

  night and day. When the village men went over to investigate, they were run off by guards. Then one day, some guys with guns came over to the village and looked around. They didn't hurt anyone, but my mother figured they'd be back."

  “Wouldn't it be better to go tell the authorities? They could send someone in by plane.”

  “I don't think there's time,” Nighthawk said. “Her letter is more than two weeks old. Besides, I can feel danger and death in the air.” Green shuddered. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere, and the only person who could get him out was raving like a medicine man in a B movie.

  Sensing his friend's nervousness, Nighthawk smiled and said,

  'Don't worry, I'm not going native. That's a good suggestion about the cops. I'd feel better if we checked things out first. C'mon," he said, and they headed back to the knoll they had climbed a few minutes before. They came to a natural overhang of rock. Nighthawk pulled away some branches that covered the opening. Lying upside-down on a crude rack was a birch-bark canoe. Nighthawk ran his hand lov- ingly over the shiny surface.

  “I made this myself. Used only traditional materials and tech- niques.”

  “It's beautiful,” Green said. “Straight out of Last of the Mohicans.” Better. I've gone all over the lake in it."

  They dragged the canoe to the beach, dined on beef jerky and rested as they waited for the sun to go down.

  With the approach of dusk, they threw their packs into the canoe, pushed it in
to the water and started paddling. Night had fallen by the time they drew close to the shore. They had to stop when the canoe hit something solid in the water.

  Nighthawk reached down, thinking they had hit a rock. “It's some kind of metal cage. Like a bait box.” He scanned the water with his sharp eyes. “The water is filled with them. I smell fish, lots of them. It must be some sort of hatchery operation.”

  They found a breach in the floating barricade and pointed the canoe toward land. Something stirred and splashed in the metal cages, confirming Nighthawk's theory of a fish hatchery. Eventually they came to the outer end of a floating dock lit by dim ankle-high lights they had seen from the water. Tied up to a series of finger piers were several Jet Skis and powerboats. Next to the smaller watercraft was a large catamaran. It had a conveyor belt running down the middle, and Nighthawk guessed that it was used in the hatchery operation.

  “I've got an idea,” Green said. Working systematically, he pulled the ignition keys from the Jet Skis and the boats and threw them into the water. Then they tucked the canoe in between the other craft, covered it with a borrowed tarp and climbed onto the pier.

  Where the dock joined the shore, it continued as a blacktop walk- way that led inland. Nighthawk and Green decided to keep to the woods. After walking a few minutes, they encountered a wide dirt track, as if a big bulldozer had plowed its way through the forest. They followed the swath and came up on a row of trucks and earth- moving machinery arranged in neat rows behind a huge storage building. Using the shed as a shield, they peered around the corner and saw that they were at the edge of an open area carved out of the woods. It was brightly illuminated by a ring of portable halogen lights. Mechanized shovels were flattening down the dirt, and great road-building machines were laying down swathes of blacktop. Work crews armed with shovels were smoothing out the hot asphalt in preparation for it to be flattened down by the steamrollers.

  Nighthawk said, “What do we do next, Professor?”