White Death nf-4

by Clive Cussler

  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.

  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 bu
ilt 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.

  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.

  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 s
omeone 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. Could 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?"