White Death

by Clive Cussler

  The bush pilot used to be a drug smuggler and was known to work with no questions asked, if the money was right. He hadn't even blinked when Marcus had spun a cock-and-bull tale about doing a documentary film on native culture and wanting to observe Ben's village without being seen.

  Bear was usually discreet, but he had become careless living in a community where everyone was aware of his past. He'd let a few Words slip about his job for SOS while he was fueling up the plane. He could not have known that sharp ears were listening, or that un- friendly eyes were watching as his plane took off and headed into the interior.

  The lake loomed up suddenly. Therri glimpsed water shimmer- ing in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. Seconds later, the plane dropped as if it had hit a downdraft. She felt her heart in her mouth, then the plane bottomed out and slid into a gradually angled trajectory. The floats skimmed the lake's surface a short distance be- fore the plane settled into the water and slowed.

  Bear taxied close to shore. When the plane neared a sharply banked beach a few yards wide, he climbed out of the cockpit onto a float and jumped feetfirst into water up to his waist. He tied an an- chor line onto a strut, pulled the other end over his shoulder and towed the plane closer to shore. He tied up to a stump, then helped the others unload a large package and several smaller ones. They untied the largest bundle, and with the help of a CO capsule, quickly pumped up an inflatable boat about eight feet long. Bear watched with interest, hands on hips, as Ryan tested a quiet, battery-operated outboard motor.

  “I'll be back tomorrow/' he said. ”You've got the radio if you need me. Watch your ass."

  The plane taxied to one end of the lake, took off and headed back the way it had come. Therri went over to where Ryan and Mercer were checking through the pack. Mercer unwrapped a block ofC-4 explosives and examined the detonators.

  He smiled and said, “Just like the old days.”

  “Sure you're up for this, Chuck?”

  “You're talking to the guy who sank an Icelandic whaling ship practically single-handed.”

  “That was a few years ago. We're a lot older now.”

  Mercer fingered a detonator. “Doesn't take much energy to push a button,” he said. “I owe these bastards for our ship.” Mercer had been steaming since he'd learned that Oceanus's ships were serviced at the same Shetlands boatyard where the Sea Sentinel could have been sabotaged.

  “We can't forget Josh, either,” Ryan said. “I haven't forgotten Josh. But are you sure there's no other way?” Therri said.

  “I wish there were,” Ryan said. “We've got to play hardball.”

  “I'm not arguing with the need to do something, but the means. What about Ben's people? You're risking their lives.”

  “We can't be diverted from our prime goal. We know from our contacts on Senator Graham's staff that Oceanus continued the trans- gendered fish experiments that were halted in New Zealand. We've got to stop this abomination before it is unleashed.”

  Abomination? You're scaring me, Marcus. You're talking like a Biblical prophet."

  Ryan's face flushed, but he held his temper. “I have no intention of making Ben's people collateral damage. Oceanus will be too busy dealing with our little gifts to do anything. In any case, we'll call the authorities as soon as we're finished here.”

  "It would only take a few bursts from an automatic weapon to kill

  Ben's people. Why not call in outside help now?"

  “Because it would take time we don't have. We're talking search warrants and legal process. The villagers could be dead by the time the Mounties decide to investigate.” He paused. “Remember, I tried to bring NUMA in on this, and Austin refused.”

  Therri bit her lower lip in frustration. Her loyalty toward Ryan was intense but not uncritical.

  “Don't turn your sights on Kurt. If it weren't for him, you'd be eat- ing sardines in a Danish prison cell.”

  Ryan beamed his lighthouse smile. "You're right. I'm out of line.

  But there's still time to call Bear and have him take you out of here."

  “Not on your life, Ryan.”

  Mercer had finished organizing their backpacks. He strapped on a pistol belt and handed one to Ryan. Therri refused a weapon. They piled their supplies into the inflatable, shoved it off the beach and started the engine. It ran with a low hum and pushed them through the water at a slow but respectable speed. They hugged the shoreline even after they had passed through the channel into the larger lake.

  Ryan was using a topographic map with notations based on Ben's information. He stopped the boat at one point and peered through his binoculars at the opposite side of the lake. He could make out a pier and several boats, but no structure matching Nighthawk's de- scription.

  "That's funny, I don't see any dome. Ben said it rose above the trees.

  “What should we do?” Therri said.

  “We'll go to Ben's village and wait there. Then we'll head across the lake, leave our calling cards where they will do the most good and set the timers for late morning, when we'll be well on our way out of here.”

  They got underway again. The sun was falling behind the trees when they saw the clearing and the dozen or so houses that made up Ben's village. It was deathly quiet, with only a faint soughing in the trees and the lap of the waves against shore breaking the silence. They stopped about fifty yards offshore while Ryan, then the others, checked out the village with light-gathering glasses. Seeing nothing, they cruised straight on in, beached the boat and came ashore.

  Ryan was careful, insisting that they check out the houses and store. The village was deserted, as Ben had described. They had something to eat. By the time they finished, darkness was complete, except for a blue-black sheen on the lake and pinpoints of light on the opposite shore. They took turns standing watch while the others slept. Around midnight they were all awake and preparing to move out. They slid the boat into the water and pushed off.

  Halfway across the lake, Ryan peered through his glasses, and said, “Jesus!”

  The sky across the lake was lit up. He handed the binocs to Therri, but even with her naked eye she could see the dully lit greenish-blue structure that mounded above the trees. It seemed to have dropped from space.

  Ryan directed Mercer to steer off to one side, away from the pier. They beached a few minutes later, pulled the inflatable onshore and piled brush around it. Then they made their way along the beach to- ward the pier. When they were a few hundred feet away, they cut in- land and came upon the road that Ben and Josh Green had used to get to the airship hangar. The muddy ruts Ben had described had since been graded and blacktopped.

  They were looking for a particular type of building, and found what they were looking for in a structure that hummed with the sound of pumps. Mercer made short work of the padlocks with a tiny cutting torch.

  Large glass tanks stretched from one side of the building to the other, and the air inside was heavy with the smell offish and the hum of motors. The room was in semi-darkness, but large pale shapes could be seen moving behind the glass. Mercer got right to work. He placed packets of C-4 in strategic places, molding the putty-like explosive around pumps and electrical conduits where explosions would do the most damage. What was left, he placed on the outside of the tanks.

  They worked fast, arming the charges and setting the timers, and were done within thirty minutes. The only people they had seen were those moving in the distance, but Ryan wasn't going to press their luck. They made their way back toward the lakeshore, again with- out encountering anyone. Ryan was beginning to feel uneasy, but he pressed on. If all went as planned, Bear would be picking them up just before the big bang.

  Unfortunately, all did not go as planned. Their boat was missing to begin with. Thinking that they may have misjudged the distance in the dark, Ryan sent the others down the beach to look for the boat while he stood watch. When five minutes had passed and they hadn't returned, he struck out after them, and he found Therri and Mercer standing s
ide by side looking out toward the lake.

  “Did you find it?” he said.

  No answer. They remained motionless. When he moved in closer, he saw why. Their wrists were bound behind their backs with wire, and they had tape across their mouths. Before he could free his friends, the bushes behind the beach erupted and they were sur- rounded by a dozen burly figures.

  One man took Ryan's gun away and another came closer and flicked on a flashlight, its beam illuminating the man's hand. Dan- gling in his fingers was one of the charges Ryan had set in the fish house. The man threw the explosives into the lake and put the beam on his own face so that Ryan could be sure to see the pockmarked jack-o'-lantern features and the fierce grin.

  He drew a white-bladed knife from his belt and put it under Ryan's chin so that the point dimpled his skin and drew a droplet of blood. Then he uttered something in a strange language and re- turned the knife to its scabbard. Together, they began to march back toward the airship hangar.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  31

  AUSTIN EXAMINED THE satellite photograph through the magnifying glass and shook his head. He slid the picture and magnifier across his desk to Zavala. After studying the photo for a moment, Zavala said, “I can see a lake with a clearing on one side and some houses. Could be Nighthawk's village. There's a pier and some boats on the other side, but no airship hangar. Maybe it's hidden.” “Maybe we're setting off on a fool's mission, old chum.” “Wouldn't be the first time. Look at it this way: Max said this is the place, and I'd trust Max with my life.”

  “You may have to,” Austin said. He checked his watch. “Our plane will be ready in a couple of hours. We'd better get packed.”

  “I never packed from my last trip,” Zavala said. “See you at the airport.”

  Austin did a quick turnaround at his boathouse and was heading out the door, when he saw the light blinking on his telephone an- swering machine. He debated whether to listen to the message, but when he pushed the button, he was glad he did. Ben Nighthawk had called and left a phone number.

  Austin dropped his duffel bag and quickly punched out the num- ber. “Man, am I glad to hear from you,” Nighthawk said. “I've been waiting by the phone hoping you'd call.”

  “I tried to get in touch with you a couple of times.”

  “Sorry for being such a jerk. That guy would have killed me if you hadn't stepped in. I wandered around and hung out with some pals feeling sorry for myself. When I got back to my apartment, there was a message from Therri. She said that SOS was going off on its own. Ryan talked her into it, I guess.”

  “Damned fools. They'll get themselves killed.”

  “I feel the same way. I'm worried about my family, too. We've got to stop them.”

  “I'm willing to try, but I need your help.”

  You ve got it.

  “How soon can you leave?” “Whenever you want me to.”

  “How about now? I'll pick you up on the way to the airport.' ”I'll be ready."

  After Zavala left the NUMA building, he drove his 1961 Corvette convertible to his home in Arlington, Virginia. While the upstairs was spotless, as would be expected of someone who routinely dealt in microscopic tolerances, Zavala's basement looked like a cross be- tween Captain Nemo's workshop and a redneck gas station. It was crammed with models of undersea craft, metal-cutting tools and piles of diagrams marked with greasy fingerprints.

  The one exception to the jumble was a locked metal cabinet where Zavala kept his collection of weaponry. Technically, Zavala was a marine engineer, but his duties on the Special Assignments Team sometimes required firepower. Unlike Austin, who favored a custom-made Bowen revolver, Zavala employed whatever weapon was handy, usually with deadly efficiency. He eyed the collection of firearms in the cabinet-wondering what, short of a neutron bomb, would be effective against a ruthless multinational organization with its own private army-and reached for an Ithaca Model 37 repeat- ins shotgun, the primary weapon used by the SEALs in Vietnam. He liked the idea that the shotgun could be fired almost like an automatic weapon.

  Zavala carefully packed the shotgun and an ample supply of am- munition into a case, and before long he was on his way to Dulles Air- port. He drove with the top down, savoring the ride because he knew it would be his last in the 'Vette until his assignment was over. He pulled up to a hangar in an out-of-the-way corner of the airport where a crew of mechanics was doing last-minute checks on a NUMA executive jet. He kissed the Corvette's fender and said a sad good-bye, then climbed aboard the plane.

  Zavala was going over his flight plan when Austin arrived a short time later with Ben Nighthawk in tow. Austin introduced the young Indian to Zavala. Nighthawk glanced around as if he were looking for something.

  “Don't worry,” Austin said, noting the expression of consternation on Nighthawk's face. “Joe just looks like a bandit. He really does know how to fly a plane.”

  “That's right,” Zavala said, looking up from his clipboard. “I've passed a correspondence course, all except for the part about the landing.”

  The last thing Austin wanted was to have Ben bolt from the plane in fright. “Joe likes to kid around,” he said.

  “I wasn't worried about that, it's-well, is this all there is? I mean just?”

  Zavala's lips turned up in a smile. “We hear a lot of that sort of thing,” he said, recalling Becker's skepticism when he and Austin had

  arrived to rescue the Danish sailors. “I'm starting to get an inferior- ity complex.”

  “This isn't a suicide squadron,” Austin said. “We'll pick up some extra muscle on the way. In the meantime, make yourself comfort- able. There's coffee in that carafe. I'll assist Joe in the cockpit.”

  They were quickly cleared for takeoff, and the plane headed north. At a cruising speed of five hundred miles an hour, they were over the waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence in a little over three hours. They touched down at a small coastal airport. Rudi Gunn had checked earlier and found that there was a NUMA survey ship working in the gulf. The way had been smooth through Canadian customs, and before long Austin, Zavala and Ben were climbing aboard the ship, which had come into port. By previous arrangement, the Navarra was waiting ten miles offshore.

  As they approached the yacht, Zavala eyed the long, sleek vessel with appreciation. “Pretty,” he said. “And from her lines, I'd say she's fast, too, but she doesn't look tough enough to take on Oceanus.”

  “Wait,” Austin said, with a knowing smile.

  The Navarra sent over a launch to pick them up. Aguirrez was waiting on deck, his black beret, as usual, perched at a jaunty angle on his head. By his side were the two brawny men who had escorted

  Austin after he was plucked from the waters outside the Mermaid's Gate.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Austin,” Aguirrez said, pumping Kurt's hand. “Glad you and your friends could make it aboard. These are my two sons, Diego and Pablo.”

  It was the first time Austin had seen the two men smile, and he noted the resemblance to their father. He introduced Zavala and Nighthawk. The yacht was already underway by that time, and he and the others followed Aguirrez to his grand salon. Aguirrez mo- tioned for the men to take a seat, and a steward appeared with hot drinks and sandwiches. Aguirrez asked them about their trip and waited patiently for them to finish their lunch before he picked up a remote control. At a click of a button, a section of wall slid up to re- veal a giant screen. Another click, and an aerial photograph filled the space. The photograph showed forest and water.

  Nighthawk sucked in his breath. “That's my lake, and my vil- lage.”

  “I used the coordinates Mr. Austin gave me and fed them into a commercial satellite,” Aguirrez said. “I'm puzzled, however. As you can see, there is no sign of this airship building that you mentioned.”

  “We had the same problem with the satellite photos we looked at,” Austin said. “But our computer model indicates that this is the place.”

  Nighthawk rose and walked over to
the screen. He pointed to a section of forest bordering the lake. “It's here, I fnow it is. Look, you can see where the woods have been cleared, and there's the pier.” His confusion was evident. “But there's nothing but trees here where the blimp hangar should be.”

  “Tell us again what you saw that night,” Austin said.

  “The dome was huge, but we didn't see it until the airship ap- peared. The surface was covered with panels.”

  “Panels?” Zavala said.

  “Yes, what you see on a geodesic dome, like the one they built for the Olympics in Montreal. Hundreds of sections.”

  Zavala nodded. “I didn't think that adaptive camouflage technol- ogy was that far advanced.”

  “Sounds more like invisibility we're talking about,” Austin said, gesturing toward the screen.

  “Not a bad guess. Adaptive camouflage is a new technique. The surface that you want to hide is blanketed with flat panels, which sense the scenery and changing light. Then what the sensors see is dis- played on the panels. If you were standing at ground level looking at this thing, all you would see is trees, so the dome would blend into the local forest. Someone obviously took satellite imaging into account. It would be a simple matter to project treetops on the roof panels.”

  Austin shook his head. “Joe, you never cease to amaze me with your supply of arcane knowledge.”

  “I think I read about it in Popular Mechanics”

  “Nonetheless, you may have solved the mystery,” Aguirrez said. “At night, the panels Mr. Zavala talked about could be programmed for the ambient darkness. Mr. Nighthawk saw more than was in- tended when the dome opened for the zeppelin. There's something else that might interest you. I saved photos taken earlier.” Aguirrez went back through the memory bank, and projected another aerial photo. “This picture was taken of the area yesterday. There in the corner, you see the outline of a small plane. I'll zoom in on that sec- tion.”

  The picture of a floatplane filled the entire screen. Four figures could be seen standing on the shore of the lake. “The plane disap- peared a short time after the photo was taken, but look here.” An- other image appeared, showing a small boat with three people in it. One of them, a woman, was looking skyward as if she knew they were under surveillance from space.