White Death by Clive Cussler
The fish pier was deserted except for a ragged flock of sleeping gulls. Gamay spotted a restaurant/bar neon sign in a small square building overlooking the harbor. Paul suggested that she grab a table and order him fish and chips while he meandered around and tried to find someone who could tell him about the Oceanus plant.
Gamay stepped into the yeasty atmosphere of the restaurant and saw that the place was vacant except for a heavyset bartender and one customer. She took a table with a view of the harbor. The bartender came over for her order. Like the people she'd met in the general store, he proved to be a friendly type. He apologized for not having fish and chips, but said the grilled ham and cheese sandwich was pretty good. Gamay said that would be fine and ordered two sand- wiches along with a Molson. She liked the Canadian beer because it was stronger than the American brew.
Gamay was sipping her beer, admiring the fly-specked ceiling, the torn-fishnet-and-weathered-lobster-buoy decorations on the wall, when the man sitting at the bar slid off his stool. Apparently, he had taken the sight of an attractive woman drinking alone in a bar at mid- day as an invitation. He sidled over with a beer bottle in his hand and ran his eyes over Camay's red hair and lithe, athletic body. Unable to see her wedding ring because her left hand was resting on her knee, he figured Gamay was fair game.
“Good mornin', ” he said, with an amiable smile. "Mind if I join you.
Gamay wasn't put off by the direct approach. She moved well among men because she had a talent for thinking like they do. With her tall, slim figure and long, swirled-up hair, it was hard to believe that Gamay had been a tomboy, running with a gang of boys, build- ing tree houses, playing baseball in the streets of Racine. She was an expert marksman as well, thanks to her father, who'd taught her to shoot skeet.
'Be my guest,“ Gamay said casually, and waved him into a chair. 'My name's Mike Neal,” he said. Neal was in his forties. He was dressed in work clothes and wore shin-high black rubber boots. With his dark, rugged profile and thick, black hair, Neal would have had classic good looks if not for a weakness around the mouth and a ruby nose colored by too much booze. “You sound American.” “I am.” She extended her hand and introduced herself. “Pretty name,” Neal said, impressed by the firmness of Gamay's grip. Like the general store cashier, he said, “Just passing through?”
Gamay nodded. “I've always wanted to see the Maritime Provinces. Are you a fisherman?”
“Yep.” He pointed out the window and, with unrestrained pride, said, "That's my beauty over there at the boatyard dock. The Tiffany.
Named her after my old girlfriend. We broke up last year, but it's bad luck to change the name of a boat."
“Are you taking a day off from fishing?”
“Not exactly. Boat shop did some work on my engine. They won't release Tiffany until I pay them. Afraid I'd take off without paying.”
“Would you?”
He smirked. “I stung them for a few bucks before.” “Still, that seems shortsighted on their part. With your boat, you could go fishing and earn the money to pay them back.”
Neal's smile dissolved into a frown. “I could if there were fish to sell.”
“Someone at the general store mentioned that the fishing was bad.”
“Worse than bad. Rest of the fleet has moved up the coast. Some of the guys come home between trips to see family.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“ 'Bout six months.”
“Any idea what's causing the drought?”
He shrugged. “When we talked to the provincial fisheries people, they said the fish musta moved off, looking for better feeding. They didn't even send someone like we asked. Don't want to get their feet wet, I guess. The marine biologists all must be busy sitting on their fat asses looking at their computers.”
“Do you agree with what they said about the fish moving off?” He grinned. “For a tourist, you've got lots of questions.” “When I'm not a tourist, I'm a marine biologist.” Neal blushed. “Sorry. I wasn't, talking about your fat ass. Oh, hell-”
Gamay laughed. “I know exactly what you mean about computer biologists who never leave their lab. I think fishermen have more practical knowledge of the sea than any scientist. At the same time, professional expertise doesn't hurt. Maybe I can help you figure out why there are no fish to catch.”
A cloud passed over Neal's features. "I didn't say there are no fish.
There are fish all right."
“Then what's the problem?”
“These aren't like any fish I've seen in all my years of fishing.” “I don't understand.”
Neal shrugged. Apparently this was one subject he didn't want to talk about.
“I've studied fish in and out of the water all over the world,” Gamay said. “There isn't much that would surprise me.” “Bet this would.”
Gamay stuck her hand out. “Okay, it's a bet. How much is your engine repair bill?”
“Seven hundred fifty dollars, Canadian.”
“I'll pay that if you show me what you're talking about. Let me buy you a beer to seal the deal.”
Neal's unshaven jaw dropped open. “You're serious?” “Very. Look Mike, there are no fences in the ocean. Fish go pretty much where they please. There may be something harmful in these waters that could affect American fishermen as well.”
“Okay,” he said, shaking her hand. “When can you go?” “How about today?”
Neal grinned like a Cheshire cat. The source of his happiness wasn't hard to figure out. A nice-looking and friendly American woman was paying his boatyard bill and going out on his boat, alone, where he could turn on his rugged charm. Just then, Paul Trout walked into the bar and came over to the table.
“Sorry I took so long,” Paul said. “Harbor's pretty deserted.”
“This is Mike Neal,” Gamay said. “Mike, I'd like you to meet my husband.”
Neal glanced up at Trout's nearly seven-foot-tall figure, and his fantasies about Gamay evaporated. But he was a practical man-a deal was a deal. “Pleased to meet you,” he said. They shook hands.
“Mike here has agreed to take us out on his boat to show us some unusual fish,” Gamay said.
“We can leave in an hour,” Neal said. “That'll give you time to eat your lunch. See you over at the boat.” He rose from his chair and started to leave.
“Do we need to bring anything?” Paul asked.
“Naw,” Neal said. He stopped and said: “Elephant gun, maybe?” He roared with laughter at the Trouts' puzzled expressions. They could still hear him laughing after he passed through the door.
NUMA 4 - White Death
12
WITH HIS LONG-STEMMED pipe, teeth like a broken picket fence and storm-beaten face. Old Eric looked like a grizzled character out of Captains Courageous. Pia said that the retired fisherman spoke English and knew the local waters better than the fish. Now too old to go fishing, he did odd jobs around the pier. De- spite his fierce expression, he was more than obliging when Austin mentioned Pia's name.
Austin had arrived at the fish pier early, looking for advice about local weather and sea conditions. A purple-blue pall from the throaty exhausts of the Skaalshavn fishing fleet hung in the damp air. Fish- ermen decked out in foul-weather gear and boots slogged through the drizzle as they loaded bait buckets and tubs of coiled trawl line on their boats in preparation for a day at sea. He told the old salt he was taking Professor Jorgensen's boat out to go fishing.
Old Eric squinted at the scudding gray clouds and pursed his lips in thought. “Rain should stop, and the fog will burn off soon.” He pointed to a tall pillar of rock guarding the harbor entrance. “Go to the starboard of that sea stack. You'll find good fishing after a mile. Wind comes up around midday, but the professor's boat is weatherly. I should know,” he said with a gap-toothed grin. “I built her. She'll get you home in one piece.”
“How's the fishing the other way along the coast?” The old fisherman wrinkled his nose. “Stinks around the
Austin thanked Eric for his advice, stowed his day pack and fish- ing gear in the boat, checked the fuel level and ventilated the bilge. The inboard engine started right away and soon settled down to a smooth rumble. Austin cast off the lines, pushed away from the dock and pointed the bow toward the two-hundred-foot-high chimney- shaped rock formation that stood like a stone waterspout at the har- bor entrance. He went to the left rather than to the right of the lofty column, hoping Old Eric wouldn't see him.
Soon, the boat was cruising past towering cliffs where thousands of nesting seabirds soared like wind-blown confetti. The motor purred like a milk-fed kitten. There was a slight chop to the water, but the double-ender sliced rather than slapped its way through the waves. Spray occasionally splashed over the bow. Austin stayed warm and dry in the yellow foul-weather gear and boots he'd found in the boat's storage compartment.
The high ramparts along the coast dissolved into a series of craggy bluffs that dropped down to low hills and finally dipped to sea level as he neared the old harbor. He saw no other boats. The local fish- ermen were working more productive grounds in the other direction. Only when he rounded a point of land did he discover that he was not alone.
The blue-hulled Spanish yacht he had seen entering the harbor the day before lay at anchor in the inlet about a half mile from shore. The sleek boat was more than two hundred feet long. Its low, clean lines suggested that the yacht was built for speed as well as comfort. The name on the stern was Navarra. The decks were deserted. No one came out to wave, as was customary when one boat encountered an- other, particularly in such remote waters. Austin felt unseen eyes watching him from behind the dark-tinted windows as he continued past the yacht toward land. Sunlight shining through the clouds re- flected dully off the distant metal rooftops he had glimpsed from the high ridge the day before.
A dot rose in the sky from the general vicinity of the buildings. The speck rapidly grew in size and became a black helicopter with no markings. The chopper came in low and buzzed the boat like an angry hornet, circled twice, then hovered, facing Austin, a few hun- dred yards away. Rocket pods hung from the fuselage. More com- pany was on its way. A boat was bearing down on his position. It was moving fast, throwing up fountains of spray as it skimmed the wave- tops. The craft ate up the distance, and Austin saw that it was a low- slung Cigarette boat like the souped-up models favored by Florida drug smugglers.
The boat slowed and made a broadside pass close enough for Austin to get a good look at the three men on board. They were short and stocky and had round faces and swarthy complexions. Their black hair was cut in bangs over their almost Asian eyes. One man stayed at the wheel, while the others watched Austin with an unhealthy interest, their rifles raised to their shoulders.
The boat cut engines and slowed to a stop, and the man at the wheel raised an electronic bullhorn to his lips. He yelled something in what sounded like Faroese. Austin responded with a goofy smile and threw up his hands in the universal gesture of ignorance. The man tried again in Danish, then in English.
“Private property! Keep away.” Still playing Mickey the Dunce, Austin maintained the goofy grin.
He held his fishing pole over his head and pointed at it. The un- smiling riflemen did the same thing with their weapons. Austin waved as if to say he understood the silent message. He replaced the fishing pole in its rack, then he gunned the motor, waved a friendly good-bye and aimed the boat out of the harbor.
Glancing over his shoulder a minute later, Austin saw the Ciga- rette boat speeding back toward land. The helicopter sheared off and rapidly outpaced the boat. He passed the yacht again. The decks were still deserted. He continued along the coast toward a headland shaped like a parrot's beak. A few minutes later, he sighted the Mer- maid's Gate at the bottom of a vertical cliff. It was amazingly sym- metrical for a natural arch. The opening was about twenty feet high and slightly narrower in width. It looked like a mouse hole com- pared to the overpowering wall of rough, brownish-black rock.
Despite its lyrical name, the Mermaid's Gate was far from wel- coming. The sea was relatively calm, but waves pounded the fang- shaped rocks on either side and in front of the arch. Spray flew high in the air. The water in front of the opening boiled and swirled with vicious cross-currents, like a giant washing machine. Over the crash of the sea, Austin heard a hollow soughing issuing from the opening. The hair rose on the back of his neck. The mournful dirge was what he imagined the moans of drowned sailors would sound like. Re- gretfully, he didn't see a single mermaid.
Austin halted the boat a respectable distance from the gate. Any attempt to pass through now would be like trying to thread a needle in a jostling crowd. Austin checked his watch and settled back and munched on the bread and cheese Pia had thoughtfully packed for him. He was finishing his breakfast when he sensed a change in the sea conditions. It was as if King Neptune had waved his trident.
While the water in the immediate vicinity was still restless, the waves no longer exploded against the archway with artillery force. Pia had said that the gate was safely navigable only on either side of a slack current.
He secured all loose objects on the boat, donned his life jacket, spread his legs wide for stability, throttled up and pointed the boat at the gate. Even at slack current, the water around the opening was dimpled by swirling vortexes. He clenched his teeth and prayed that Pia's childhood memory other father's words was accurate. When he was only yards away from the lethal reach of the rocks, he gunned the throttle, aiming slightly to the right, as instructed, although it was dangerously close to the rocks. With inches to spare, the boat slith- ered through the tight opening as easily as an eel.
Making a quick left-hand turn in the domed chamber, he headed toward a narrow cleft in the rocks and entered a canal inches wider than the double-ender. The boat banged against the kelp-covered ledges as it followed the channel in a rough S-course that widened into a circular lagoon the size of a backyard pool. The water's sur- face was black with seaweed, and the smell of the ocean was almost overpowering in the confined space.
Austin pulled the double-ender alongside a ledge and wrapped the mooring line around a rocky knob. He slipped off his life jacket and foul-weather gear, climbed a short flight of natural steps and stepped into an opening shaped like an upside-down keyhole. He was im- mediately buffeted by a musty wind. The air was amplified like a trumpeter's breath as it flowed from the cleft, producing the haunt- ing moan of the dead mariners.
He clicked his flashlight on and followed a tunnel that eventually widened into a large cave. Three smaller caverns branched off from the main chamber. Painted on the wall next to each opening was a picture of a fish. Remembering Pia's instructions, he entered the cave marked by a sea bream. He soon found himself in a bewildering maze of caves and tunnels. Without the crude markers, he would have become hopelessly lost. After walking a few minutes, he en- tered a high-ceilinged chamber whose walls had been smoothed down and were covered with colorful renderings. He recognized the bison and deer from the drawings Pia's father had made. The ochre and red colors were still vibrant.
The pictures unfolded into a hunting scene that included antelope, wild horses and even a woolly mammoth. Hunters dressed in short kilts were shown attacking their prey with spears and bows and ar- rows. The mural encompassed vignettes of everyday life. There were scenes with people regally dressed in flowing robes, sleek sailing ships, two- and three-story houses of sophisticated architecture. The depiction of mammoths suggested that the drawings went back to Neolithic times, but this was a civilization of the highest order.
Austin followed the sea bream into a series of smaller caves and saw the remains of old fire-pits. He was more concerned with evi- dence of recent human occupation. The murmur of voices came from just ahead. He edged cautiously forward with his back plastered against a wall and peered around a corner into a cave the size of a small warehouse. The space looked like a natural c
From the shadows, Austin watched a work crew of a dozen men dressed in black coveralls unload boxes from a forklift and place them on a conveyor belt. The workers were swarthy and dark- skinned, like the men he had seen in the patrol boat. They had straight, jet-black hair cut in bangs, high cheekbones and almond- shaped eyes. They were finishing their task, and after a while, half the work crew drifted out the door and the rest remained a few min- utes to clean up. At a word from a man whose air of authority tabbed him as the boss, they, too, straggled out through a door.
Austin stepped from his hiding place and inspected the writing on the boxes. The words stenciled in several languages identified the contents as refined fish food. He continued past a large freight door set into one wall, probably used to bring the fish food into the ware- house, and made his way toward the door that the work crew had gone through.
The next room was a nexus for dozens of pipes and pumps that extended from a huge, round bin. Chutes ran up the side of the con- tainer. Austin concluded that the food was poured into chutes, mixed in the tank and conveyed throughout the fish farm by the network of pipes.
He borrowed a pry bar from a tool room next to the mixing area. He hefted the flat metal bar in his hand, thinking it would be about as effective as a feather against automatic weapons, but tucked it in his belt anyhow. Then he followed the feed pipes from the mixing area. The pipes ran through a passageway and ended at a wall with a door in it. Austin cracked open the door, and cold air blew against his face. He listened. Hearing nothing, he stepped into the open. The fresh air felt good after the mustiness of the caverns.