White Death

by Clive Cussler

  The Basque's sharp ears picked up the sound of Austin swearing under his breath. Aguirrez raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “I think I know who those people are,” Austin said by way of ex- planation. “And if I'm right, it could complicate things. How soon can we jump off?”

  “We're heading up the coast to a point that will enable you to go the shortest straight-line distance. Two hours maybe. In the mean- time, I can show you what I have to offer.”

  With his sons taking up the rear, Aguirrez escorted the others down a companionway to a large, brightly lit below-decks helicop- ter hangar. “We have two helicopters,” he said. “The civilian one on the stern we use for getting about. This SeaCobra is held in reserve should the occasion arise. The Spanish Navy ordered a number of these aircraft. Through my connections, I was able to sidetrack one of them. It carries the standard armament.” Aguirrez sounded like a car salesman touting the extras for a Buick.

  Austin swept his eyes over the naval version of the army Huey, the rocket and Minigun pods slung under the stubby wings. “The stan- dard armament will do just fine.”

  “Very good,” Aguirrez said. “My sons will accompany you and your friend in the Eurocopter, and the SeaCobra will go along with you in case you need backup.” He furrowed his brow. “I'm concerned that someone smart enough to use such clever camouflage would have the best detection technology. You could be greeted by a wel- coming party, and even a heavily armed helicopter would be vul- nerable.”

  “I agree,” Austin said. “That's why we're going in by land. We'll put down at an abandoned logging camp, and Ben will guide us through the forest to our target. We think they will expect any in- trusion to come across the lake, as Ben did before, so we'll come in from behind. We'll escape the same way-hopefully, with Ben's fam- ily and friends.”

  “I like it. Simple in planning and execution. What do you do when you get to your target?” Aguirrez asked.

  “That's the hard part,” Austin replied. “We don't have much other than Ben's account and the aerial photos. We'll have to improvise, but it wouldn't be the first time.”

  Aguirrez didn't seem worried.

  “Well, then, I suggest we get started.” He signaled Diego, who went over to a phone next to a battery of switches. He spoke a few words, then began to punch buttons. There was the hum of motors an alarm horn sounded, and doors in the ceiling slid slowly apart. Next, the floor started to move upward, and moments later, they and the helicopter were lifted up to the deck, where crewmen, alerted by the call, hurried in to prepare the SeaCobra for action.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  32

  THE VESSEL THAT Dr. Throckmorton had commandeered for his survey was a stubby converted stern-trawler used by the Canadian Fisheries Service. The one-hundred-foot-long Cormorant was docked near where Mike Neal's boat had been tied up on the Trouts' first visit to the harbor.

  “To quote the great Yogi Berra, This is like deja vu, all over again,' ” Trout said, as he and Gamay walked up the gangplank onto the deck of the survey vessel.

  She gazed out at the sleepy harbor. “Strange being back here. This place is so peaceful.”

  “So is a graveyard,” Paul said.

  Throckmorton bustled over and greeted them with his usual ef- fusiveness. “The Doctors Trout! What a pleasure it is to have you aboard. I'm so glad you called. I had no idea after our discussion in Montreal that we'd be seeing each other so soon.”

  “Neither did we,” Gamay said. “Your findings created quite a stir with the people at NUMA. Thanks for having us aboard on such short notice.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” He lowered his voice. "I recruited a couple of my students to help out. A young man and woman. Brilliant kids. But I'm pleased to have adult scientific colleagues aboard, if you

  know what I mean. I see you're still wearing your cast. How's the arm.

  “It's fine,” Paul said. He glanced around. “I don't see Dr. Barker on board.”

  “He couldn't make it,” Throckmorton said. “Personal commit- ment of some sort. He may try to join us later. I hope he shows up. I could use his genetic expertise.”

  “Then the research hasn't been going well?” Gamay said.

  “On the contrary, it's been going fine, but I'm more of a mechanic in this field, if I may use an analogy. I can bolt the frame and chassis together, but it's Frederick who designs the sports car.”

  “Even the most expensive sports car wouldn't run forever without the mechanic to make the engine go,” Gamay said with a smile.

  “You're very kind. But this is a complex matter, and I've run into a few aspects that have me puzzled.” He frowned. “I've always found fishermen to be superb observers of what's going on at sea. The local fishing fleet has moved on to more productive grounds, as you know. But I talked to a few old-timers, shore captains who watched the fish stocks vanish and be replaced by these so-called devilfish. Now the devilfish have dribbled down to nothing. They're dying, and I don't know why.”

  “Too bad you haven't been able to catch any.”

  “Oh, I never said that. Come, I'll show you.”

  Throckmorton led the way through the “dry lab,” where the com- puters and other electrical equipment were kept high and dry, and into the “wet lab,” basically a small space with sinks, running water, tanks and table space used for the damp pursuits such as carving up speci- rnens for investigation. He donned a pair of gloves and reached into an oversized cooler. With a hand from the Trouts, he pulled out the frozen carcass of a salmon about four feet long and placed it on a table. “That's similar to the fish we caught,” Paul said, bending low to inspect the pale-white scales.

  “We would have liked to keep this specimen alive, but it was im- possible. He tore the net apart and would have devoured the rest of the ship if he lived long enough.”

  “Now that you've seen one of these things up close, what are your conclusions?” Gamay said.

  Throckmorton took a deep breath and puffed out his plump cheeks. “It's as I feared. Judging from his unusual physical size, I'd say he's definitely a genetically modified salmon. A lab-produced mutant, in other words. It's the same species as the one I showed you in my lab.”

  “But your fish was smaller and more normal-looking.”

  Throckmorton nodded. “They were both programmed with growth genes, I'd venture, but where my experiment was kept under control, there seems to have been no effort to restrain size with this fellow. It's almost as if someone wanted to see what would happen. But size and ferociousness led to its downfall. Once these creatures destroyed and replaced the natural stocks, they turned on each other.” “They were too hungry to breed, in other words?”

  “That's possible. Or this design may simply have had a problem adapting to the wild, in the same way a big tree would be uprooted in a storm while a straggly little scrub pine survives. Nature tends to cull out mutants that don't fit into the scheme of things.”

  “There's another possibility,” Gamay said. “I think Dr. Barker said something about producing neutered biofish so they couldn't breed.”

  “Yes, that's entirely possible, but it would involve some sophisti- cated bioengineering.”

  “What's next for your survey?” Paul said.

  "We'll see what we can catch over the next few days, then I'll bring this specimen and anything else I catch back to Montreal, where we can map the genes. I may be able to match it up with some of the stuff

  I have in the computers. Maybe we can figure out who designed it.“ ”Is that possible?"

  “Oh, sure. A genetic program is almost as good as a signature. I sent Dr. Barker a message telling him what I found. Frederick is a whiz at this sort of thing.”

  “You speak very highly of him,” Paul said.

  “He's brilliant, as I said before. I only wish that he weren't affili- ated with a commercial venture.”

  “Speaking of commercial ventures, we heard there's a fish- processing plant of some sort up the coast. Cou
ld they have had any- thing to do with this?”

  “In what way?”

  “I don't know. Pollution, maybe. Like those two-headed frogs they sometimes find in contaminated waters.”

  “Interesting premise, but unlikely. You might see some deformed fish or fish kills, but this monster is no accident. And we would have seen deformities in other species, which doesn't seem to have been the case. Tell you what, though. We'll motor out and anchor for the night near the fish plant and make a few sets with the net in the morning. How long can you stay on board?”

  “As long as you can stand us,” Paul said. “We don't want to im- pose.”

  “No imposition at all.” He put the salmon back into the cooler. “You may decide to cut your stay short after you see your cabin.”

  The cabin was slightly bigger than the two up-and-down bunks it contained. After Throckmorton left them to get settled, Paul tried to ease his six-foot-eight length into the lower bunk, but his legs hung over the side.

  “I've been thinking about what Dr. Throckmorton told us,” Gamay said, trying the mattress on top. “Suppose you were Dr. Barker and you were working for Oceanus on this biofish thing. Would you want anyone testing genetic material that could be traced to your doorstep?”

  “Nope. Judging from our own experience, Oceanus is ruthless when it comes to snoops.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  "Sure. We could suggest that Throckmorton find another location to anchor for the night. Fake a toothache, or make some other ex- cuse.

  “You don't really want to do that, do you?”

  “As you recall, I whined the whole trip up here because I couldn't go play with Kurt and Joe.”

  “You don't have to remind me. You sounded as if you hadn't been picked for the Little League team.”

  “Dr. Throckmorton is a fine fellow, but I wasn't prepared to baby- sit him away from the action.”

  “And now you think the action may have moved to our doorstep.”

  Paul nodded and said, “Got a Loony?” Gamay dug out a Cana- dian dollar coin with the picture of a loon on one side.

  Paul tossed it in the air and caught it on the back of his cast. Heads. I lose. You get to choose which watch you want."

  “Okay, you can take the first two-hour shift, starting as soon as the fest of the crew turns in.”

  “Fine with me.” He extracted himself from the bunk. “I wouldn't get much sleep in this torture rack.” He lifted his injured arm in the air. “Maybe I can use this cast as a weapon.”

  “No need,” Gamay said with a smile. She dug into her duffel bap- and pulled out a holster that held a.22 caliber target pistol. “I brought this along in case I wanted to brush up on my target shooting.”

  Paul smiled. As a girl, his wife had been taught by her father to shoot skeet, and she was an expert marksman. He took the pistol and found that he could aim it if he propped up the cast with his other hand.

  Gamay looked at his shaky aim. “Maybe we should both stand watch.”

  The ship dropped anchor about a mile from shore. The silhouettes of rooflines and a communication tower marked the Oceanus facil- ity, which was located on a rocky hill overlooking the water. The Trouts had dinner in the small galley with Throckmorton, his stu- dents and some crew. Time went by quickly, hastened by talk about Throckmorton's work and the Trouts5 NUMA experiences. Around eleven, they called it a night.

  Paul and Gamay went to their cabin and waited until the ship was quiet. Then they crept up onto the deck and took a position on the side facing land. The night was cool. They stayed warm with the heavy sweaters under their windbreakers and blankets borrowed from their bunks. The water was flat calm, except for a lazy swell. Paul sat with his back to the cabin housing, and Gamay lay on the deck beside him.

  The first two hours went quickly. Then Gamay took over and Paul stretched out on the deck. It seemed he was asleep only a few minutes before Gamay was shaking him by the shoulder. He came awake quickly and said, “What's up?”

  “I need your eyes. I've been watching that dark smudge on the water. I thought it might be a patch of floating seaweed, but it's come closer.”

  Paul rubbed his eyes and followed the pointing finger. At first, he saw nothing but the blue-blackness of the sea. After a moment, he saw a darker mass, and it seemed to be moving in their direction. There was something else, the soft murmur of voices. “That's the first time I ever heard a patch of kelp talking. How about firing a shot across their bow.”

  They crawled forward, and Gamay assumed a prone firing position with her elbows resting on the deck, the pistol clasped in two hands. Paul fiddled with a flashlight, but finally got it into position. When Gamay gave him the go-ahead, he flicked the light on. The powerful beam fell upon the swarthy faces of four men. They were dressed in black and were sitting in two kayaks, their wooden paddles frozen in mid-stroke. Their almond eyes blinked with surprise in the light.

  Crack!

  The first shot shattered the paddle held by the lead man in one boat. There was a second shot, and a paddle in the second boat flew into pieces. The men in the rear of the kayaks back-paddled furiously, and the others dug their hands into the water to help. They got the boats turned around and headed back toward land, but Gamay wasn't about to let them off so easily. The boats were almost out of range of the light when she shot out the other two paddles.

  “Good shootin', Annie Oakley,” Paul said.

  “Good spottin', Dead-Eye Dick. That should keep them busy for a while.”

  The gunfire wasn't loud by itself, but in the stillness of the night it must have sounded like cannon barrages, because Dr. Throck- morton and some of the crew came on deck.

  “Oh, hullo,” he said, when he saw the Trouts. “We heard a noise. My goodness-” he said, spying the pistol in Camay's hand.

  “Just thought I'd do some target practice.”

  They could hear voices out on the water. One of the crew went to the ship's rail and cocked his ear. “Sounds as if someone needs help. We'd better get a boat over the side.”

  “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Paul said, in his usual soft- spoken manner but with an unmistakable steeliness in his voice. “The folks out there are doing fine on their own.”

  Throckmorton hesitated, then said to the crewman: “It's all right. I want to talk to the Trouts for a moment.”

  After the others had shuffled back to their cabins, Throckmorton said, “Now if you wouldn't mind telling me, my friends, exactly what is going on?”

  Gamay said to her husband, “I'll go get some coffee. It could be a long night.” Minutes later, she returned with three steaming mugs. “I found a bottle of whiskey and poured in a few shots,” she said. “I thought we might need it.”

  Taking turns, they laid out their suspicions of the Oceanus plot, backing them up with evidence gleaned from several sources.

  “These are grave charges,” Throckmorton said. “Do you have solid proof of this outrageous plan?”

  “I'd say the proof is that thing in your lab cooler,” Gamay said. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “Yes,” Throckmorton said after a moment. “Do you have any more whiskey?”

  Gamay had thoughtfully stuck the pint in her pocket. After they refreshed his coffee and he had taken a sip, Throckmorton said, “Frederick's affiliations have always bothered me, but I had assumed, optimistically I suppose, that scientific reason would overrule his commercial interests in time.”

  “Let me ask you a question about the premise we're operating under,” Gamay said. “Would it be possible to destroy the native fish populations and substitute these Frankenfish?”

  “Entirely possible, and if anyone could do it, it would be Dr. Barker. This explains so much. It's still hard to believe Dr. Barker is with this bunch. But he has acted strangely.” He blinked like some- one coming out of a dream. “Those gunshots I heard. Someone tried to board our ship!”

  “It would seem so,” Gamay said.

  “
Perhaps it would be better if we moved on and informed the au- thorities!”

  “We don't know where that shore facility fits into the picture,” Gamay said, with a combination of feminine firmness and reassur- ance. “Kurt thinks it may be important and wants us to keep an eye on it until his mission is completed.”

  “Isn't that dangerous to the people on board this ship?”

  “Not necessarily,” Paul said. “Just as long as we keep watch. I'd suggest that you have the captain get the ship ready for a quick de- parture. But I doubt our friends will come back, now that we've spoiled the element of surprise.”

  “All right,” Throckmorton said. He set his jaw in determination. “But is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. He took the whiskey from Gamay and poured Throckmorton another shot to calm the professor's nerves. “You can wait.”

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  33

  THE SOS CREW stumbled blindly through deep woods, with the guards showing no mercy. Therri tried to get a better look at their tormentors, but a guard jammed a gun into her back with such force that it broke the skin. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks. She bit her lip, stifling the urge to cry out.

  The forest was dark, except for lights glowing here and there through the trees. Then the trees thinned, and they were standing in front of a building whose large door was illuminated by an outside floodlight. They were shoved inside the building, the guards cut the wire binding their wrists, and the sliding door was slammed shut and locked behind them.

  The air inside smelled of gasoline and there were oil stains on the floor, evidence that the structure had been built as an oversized garage. No vehicles were parked inside, but the garage was far from empty. More than three dozen people-men, women and a few chil- dren-huddled like frightened puppies against the far wall. Their misery was etched into their tired faces, and there was no mistaking the terror in their eyes at the sudden appearance of strangers.