Clive Cussler - KA04 - White Death

by White Death(lit)

  "I'm so sorry. Perhaps when we get back to the States." Her eyes darkened a shade. "I've been thinking about your theory about the possibility that the Sea Sentinel was controlled from the outside. What would be the range involved in controlling a ship?"

  "It could be done from quite a distance, but whoever did it would stay close by to see if the ship were responding to command. Any ideas?"

  "There were a number of boats carrying press in the area. Even a helicopter."

  "The controls could have been worked from the sea or the air. It wouldn't have required much in the way of equipment. A transmit- ter with a joystick, maybe, like you see for video games. Assuming we know the how, let's talk about the why. Who would benefit by neutralizing Ryan?"

  "Do you have all day? The list could go on forever. Marcus has made enemies all over the world."

  "For a start, let's confine ourselves to the Faroe Islands." "The whalers would top the enemy list. Passions run high over the issue, but they're basically decent people, in spite of their odd customs. I can't see them attacking the navy ship that's been sent to protect them." She paused in thought. "There's another possibility, but it's probably too farfetched to consider."

  Try me.

  She furrowed her brow in concentration. "After thegrindarap op- eration, Marcus and his crew planned to make a showing at a fish farm owned by the Oceanus Corporation. The Sentinels are also against large-scale aquaculture, because of the harm to the environ- ment."

  "What do you know about Oceanus?"

  "Not much. It's a multinational distributor of seafood products. Traditionally, they've bought fish from fleets around the world, but in the last few years they've gotten into aquaculture in a huge way. Their fish farms are on the same scale as some of the land farms op- erated by the agribusiness outfits in the States."

  "You think Oceanus could have arranged this whole thing?"

  "Oh, I don't know, Kurt. They would have the resources, though. And, just maybe, the motive."

  "Where was their fish farm located?"

  "Not far from here, near a place called Skaalshavn. Marcus planned to run the Sea Sentinel back and forth in front of the farm for the benefit of the cameras." Therri glanced at her watch. "That reminds me... I should be going. I've got a lot of work to do."

  They shook hands, vowing to get together again. Therri made her way across the dining room and stopped briefly to throw him a coquettish glance over her shoulder. The gesture was probably meant to be reassuring, but it only made Austin sadder.

  9

  PROFESSOR JORGENSEN HAD politely watched for sev- eral minutes as Austin tried to navigate his way through the in- comprehensible courses listed on the menu, but finally he could bear it no longer. He leaned across the table and said, "If you'd like to try a Faroese specialty, I'd recommend the fried puffin or the pilot-whale steak."

  Austin pictured himself gnawing on a drumstick from one of the stubby little birds with the parrot beak and passed on the puffin. After hearing the bloody way in which pilot whales met their demise in the Faroes, he decided he would rather eat shark snout, but he set- tled for thes/yrpily'ot, well-aged mutton. After one bite, he wished he had gone for the puffin.

  "How's your mutton?" Jorgensen said.

  "Not quite as tough as shoe leather," Austin replied, working his jaw.

  94

  CLIVE CUSSLER

  "Oh my, I should have advised you to get the boiled mutton, as I did. They dry slerpifyot in the wind. It's usually prepared at Christ- mas and served the rest of the year. It's a bit over the hill, as they say." He brightened at a new thought. "The life expectancy in the Faroes is quite high, so it must be good for you."

  Austin sawed off a small bite and managed to swallow it. Then he put his knife and fork down while he gave his jaw muscles a rest. "What brings you to the Faroes, Dr. Jorgensen? It can't be the food."

  The professor's eyes danced with amusement. "I've been looking into reports of diminishing fish stocks in the islands. It's a real mys- tery!

  "In what way?"

  "I thought at first that the cause of the vanishing fish might be pol- lution, but the waters are amazingly pure around the Faroes. I can only do so much testing on-site, so I'm heading back to Copenhagen tomorrow to run some water samples through the computer. There may be small traces of chemicals that might have a bearing on the problem."

  "Any theories as to the source of the chemicals?" "It's strange," he said, tugging at one of his tufts of hair. "I'm sure

  the problem has something to do with a nearby fish farm, but so far there is no discernible link between the two."

  Austin had been eyeing the mutton, wondering where he could get a burger, but his ears perked up at the professor's words. "Did you say you were testing the water near a fish farm?"

  "Yes. There are several aquaculture facilities in the islands that produce trout, salmon and the like. I collected samples from the wa- ters around a farming operation in Skaalshavn, a few hours' drive up the coast from Torshavn on Sundini, the long sound that separates Streymoy from the island ofEysturoy. Used to be a whaling station there in the old days. The farm is owned by a big fisheries conglom- erate."

  Austin took a long shot. "Oceanus?"

  "Yes, you've heard of it?" "Only recently. As I understand what you're saying, Professor, the fish levels near this farm are lower than they should be."

  "That's right," Jorgensen replied with furrowed brow. "A real puzzle."

  "I've heard fish farms can be harmful to the environment," Austin said, recalling his conversation with Therri Weld.

  "True. The waste products from a fish farm can be toxic. They feed the fish a special chemical diet so they'll grow faster, but Oceanus claims it has a state-of-the-art water purification system. So far I haven't found any evidence to dispute that claim."

  "Have you visited this fish farm?"

  Jorgensen bared his big teeth in a grin. "No visitors allowed. They've got the placed locked up tighter than the crown jewels. I managed to speak off-premises with someone from the law firm that represents the company in Denmark. He assured me that no chem- icals were used at the farm and that it has the finest in water-cleaning facilities. Always the skeptical scientist, I rented a little house not far from the Oceanus operation and went as close as I could by boat to take the water samples. As I said, I'm leaving for Copenhagen to- morrow, but you and your young lady friend are welcome to go up to the cottage. It's a pretty ride."

  "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 mind 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.

  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 prof
essor'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.