White Death by Clive Cussler
“The wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers,” said Paul. “The Trojans thought it was a gift, brought it inside their city walls-and that was the end of Troy.”
“An appropriate analogy in this case,” Throckmorton said.
He tapped his finger against the cover of a thick staple-bound re- port that was lying on the table. "This was published by English Na- ture, the group that advises the British government on conservation matters. It contains the results of two studies. As a result of the find- ings, English Nature is opposing release oftransgenic fish unless they are made infertile, and a House of Lords committee wants an out- right ban on GM fish. The first study was done at Purdue Univer- sity, where researchers found that transgenic male fish have a
fourfold advantage in breeding. Larger fish are preferred as mates by females."
“Who says size isn't important?” Paul said, with his usual dry humor.
"It happens to be very important in fish. The researchers looked at the Japanese medaka, whose transgenic offspring were twenty- two percent larger than their siblings. These big males made up
eighty percent of the breeding against twenty percent for the smaller males."
Gamay leaned forward with her brow furrowed. “It would even- tually be a disaster for the wild population.”
“Worse than a disaster. More like a catastrophe. If you had one transgenic fish in a population of 100,000, GM fish would become fifty percent of the population within sixteen generations.”
“Which isn't long in fish terms,” Gamay commented.
Throckmorton nodded. “You can cut that time even further. Com- puter models show that if you introduced sixty DNA-altered fish into a population of sixty thousand, it would take only forty genera- tions to pollute the gene pool to extinction.”
“You said there was a second study.” Throckmorton rubbed his hands together.
“Oh yes, it gets even better. The researchers at universities in Al- abama and California gave salmon growth-promoter genes to some Channel catfish. They found that these transgenic fish were better at avoiding predators than were their natural counterparts.”
“To put it succinctly, you think one of these superfish might get into the wild, where it would outbreed and outlive the natural species, quickly driving them to extinction.”
“That's it.” Paul shook his head in disbelief. “Given what you've just told us,” he said, “why would any government or company be fooling around with genetic dynamite like this?”
“I understand what you're saying, but in the hands of a profes- sional, dynamite can be extremely useful.” Throckmorton rose from his chair. “Come see, Dr. Frankenstein's workbench is right this way.”
He led them to the other side of the lab. The fish swimming in the tanks ranged in size from finger-length to a couple of feet long. He stopped in front of one of the larger tanks. A silver-scaled fish with a dark ridge along its spine was swimming slowly from one end of the tank to the other.
“Well, what do you think of our latest genetically modified mon- ster?”
Gamay leaned close so that her nose was inches from the glass. “Looks like any other well-fed salmon you might see swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe a little more girth around the middle than normal.”
“Appearances can be deceiving. How old would you say this hand- some fellow is?”
“I'd guess it's about a year old.”
“Actually, only a few weeks ago, it was a mere egg.”
“Impossible.” “I would agree with you if I hadn't played midwife at its birth. What you're looking at is an eating machine. We've managed to soup up its metabolism. If that creature were placed in the wild, it would quickly out-eat the native stocks. Its little brain shouts one message over and over. 'Feed me, I'm hungry!' Watch.”
Throckmorton opened a cooler, extracted a bucket of small bait fish and threw a handful into the tank. The salmon pounced on the fish, and within moments it had devoured its meal. Then it devoured the floating shreds.
“I practically grew up on a fishing boat,” Paul said with wide eyes. “I've seen shark go for a hooked cod and schools of blues drive bait fish onto the beach, but I've never come across anything like this. Are you sure you didn't insert some piranha genes into your little baby?”
“Nothing that complicated, although we did some physical engi- neering as well. Salmon have weak, brittle teeth, so we gave this model sharper, more durable dentures that allow it to eat more quickly.”
“Amazing,” Gamay said, equally impressed by the display. “This fish was only slightly modified. We've built some real mon- sters, true Frankenfish. We destroyed them immediately so that there was no chance they might escape into the wild. We found that we could control size, but I started to worry when I saw how aggressive our creations were, even though they looked fairly normal.”
Gamay said, "The fish we caught was aggressive and abnormal in size.
The worried look came back onto Throckmorton's face. “There's only one conclusion I can draw. Your devilfish was a mutant created in a lab. Someone is doing research that has gotten out of control. In- stead of destroying their mutants, they've allowed them into the wild. It's a shame the fish you caught was destroyed. I can only hope that it was sterile.”
“What would happen if genetically engineered fish like the one we may have seen start to propagate?”
“A biotech fish is basically an alien species. It's no different than an exotic life-form brought in from Mars and introduced into our en- vironment. I see environmental and economic damage on an un- precedented scale. They could destroy whole fishing fleets, causing huge economic hardship, like that experienced by Mr. Neal and his fellow fishermen. It would totally upset the balance of nature in the waters along our coasts, where the most productive areas are. I have no idea what the long-term consequences would be.”
“Let me play devil's advocate,” Gamay said after some thought. “Suppose these so-called superfish did supplant the natural popula- tion. The commercial fishermen would in effect become the preda- tors who keep the population within reasonable limits. You would still have fish that could be harvested and sold at market. They would just be bigger and meatier.”
“And meaner,” Paul noted. “There are too many unknowns to take the risk,” Throckmorton
said. “In Norway, hybrid salmon escaped into the sea and bred suc- cessfully with the native fish, but were less able to survive in the wild. So you could have a case where the superfish that replaces the wild stock dies out as a species, eliminating itself as well as the natural pop- ulation.”
A sardonic voice said, “My dear Throckmorton, are you trying to frighten these poor people with your dire warnings?”
A man wearing a lab coat had quietly slipped into the lab and was observing them, a wide smile on his face. “Frederick!” Professor Throckmorton said, beaming. Turning to the Trouts, he said, “This is my esteemed colleague, Dr. Barker. Frederick, these are the Doc- tors Trout from NUMA.” In an audible aside, Throckmorton said, They may call me Frankenstein, but this is Dr. Strangelove."
Both men laughed over the shared joke. Barker came over and shook hands. He was in his early fifties, with an imposing physique, a shaved head and sunglasses that hid his eyes. His skin had a bleached-out look to it.
“It's a great pleasure to meet someone from NUMA. Please don't let Throckmorton frighten you. You'll never eat a salmon amandine again after listening to him. What brings you to McGill?”
“We were on vacation and heard about Dr. Throckmorton's work/' Gamay said. ”As a marine biologist, I thought there might be something in it NUMA would be interested in."
“A busman's holiday! Well, let me defend myself against this slan- der. I am a strong proponent oftransgenic fish, which makes me sus- pect in the eyes of my friend here.”
“The doctor is more than a proponent. He is affiliated with some of the biotech companies that are pushing to bring these creatures to market.”
“You make
“Dr. Barker would like to create a designer salmon, so that peo- ple could have a different flavor every day of the week.”
"That's not a bad idea, Throckmorton. Do you mind if I bor- row it.
“Only if you claim full responsibility for creating such a monster.”
“The professor worries too much.” He gestured toward the fish tank. “That fine fellow is proof there is no need to create a transgenic fish of monstrous size. And as he said, biotech fish are less able to sur- vive in the wild. It's easy enough to sterilize the fish so they won't replicate themselves.”
“Yes, but sterilization techniques are less than one hundred per- cent reliable. You might not be so casual after you hear the news that the Trouts have brought me.”
Throckmorton asked the Trouts to tell their story and run the video again. When they were finished, he said, “What do you make of it, Frederick?”
Barker shook his head. “I'm afraid I share some blame. I got the message from Neal when he called. But I never called him back.”
“And what do you think?”
Barker's smile had disappeared. “I would say that it was impossi- ble, if it had not been witnessed by two qualified observers and video- taped. This has all the earmarks of a transgenic experiment gone wrong.”
“Who would be so irresponsible as to let a fish like this escape into the wild? Apparently, there are others, if we are to believe the fish- ermen. We must get someone in the field immediately.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. It's evident that this white devilfish is al- ready competing with the wild species for food. Whether it can pass along its genes is another question.”
“That's what has bothered me all along about this whole issue, its unpredictability,” Throckmorton said.
Barker glanced at his watch. “What is not unpredictable is my next class, which meets in a few minutes.” He bowed slightly and shook hands with Paul and Gamay. “I'm sorry that I have to run. A pleasure meeting you.”
“Your colleague is fascinating,” Gamay said. “He looks more like a professional wrestler than a geneticist.”
"Oh yes, Frederick is one of a kind. The female students love him.
He rides a motorcycle around the city, which they think is very cool."
“Is there something wrong with his eyes?”
"You noticed the sunglasses, of course. Frederick tends toward al- binism. As you can see from his lack of complexion, he avoids the sun, and his eyes are very sensitive to light. His handicap hasn't hindered his accomplishments, though. Everything I said about his brilliance is true, though, unlike me, he is putting his expertise to work in the private sector. He'll probably become a millionaire. Anyway, we must both thank you for alerting us. I'll start immediately to put a field team together/'
“We've taken enough of your time/' Gamay said. ”Not at all. It's been a treat to talk to you. I hope we'll meet again.“ Throckmorton asked if he could copy the video. Minutes later Paul and Gamay were in a cab headed down the hill to the hotel. ”Interesting afternoon/' Paul said.
“More so than you think. While Throckmorton and I were copy- ing the tape, I asked him who Barker's employers were. I thought it wouldn't hurt to have another lead to chase down. He said the com- pany was named Aurora.”
“Pretty name,” Paul said with a yawn. “What did he say about it?” Gamay smiled mysteriously. “He said Aurora is a subsidiary of a larger company.”
Paul blinked. “Don't tell me-” She nodded. “Oceanus.”
He thought about it for a moment, then said, “I tried to look at this as if I were creating a computer graphic, but the problem is more like a kid's picture puzzle. Barker is one dot, the guys who tried to drive us off the road are another dot. If we connect the two, we can start to sketch out a picture. So our course of action is very clear.” “And what might that be?” Gamay said with skepticism. Paul gave her a lopsided grin. “We have to come up with more dots.”
NUMA 4 - White Death
23
THE LOCATION RYAN had suggested for a rendezvous was
only a few minutes from NUMA headquarters. Austin drove along the George Washington Parkway to a sign that said THEODORE ROOSEVELT ISLAND. He parked his car, walked over the footbridge that spanned a narrow waterway called Little River and followed a path to the Roosevelt Memorial, a wide plaza edged by low benches. Ryan was standing with his back to the bronze statue of the president, apparently keeping an eye out for Austin.
Ryan waved him over. “Thanks for coming, Kurt.” Ryan turned and gazed up at the statue. TR stood with legs wide apart, fist raised high in the air. “01' Teddy up there got me into this crazy business. He put millions of acres under federal protection, saved endangered birds from the plume hunters and made the Grand Canyon a national park. He wasn't afraid to push the law to its lim- its when he thought he was acting in the public good. Whenever I have doubts about what I'm doing, I think of this guy staring down the fat cats.”
Austin couldn't help feeling that Ryan was posing for a photo op. “It's hard to believe you have doubts about anything, Marcus.”
“Oh I do, believe me. Especially when I think of the task I've carved out for myself: Protecting the world's oceans and the critters that live in them.”
“If I recall my mythology, the sea-god position has been filled for the last few thousand years.”
Ryan smirked like a guilty child. “Yeah, I guess I do sound god- like at times. But mythology also tells us that gods commonly appoint themselves to their positions.”
“I'll remember that if I ever lose my job at NUMA. Therri said you wanted to talk to me about something important.”
“Yes,” Ryan said, looking past Austin's shoulder. “There she is now, as a matter of fact.”
Therri was walking across the plaza with a young man Austin guessed to be in his early twenties. He had reddish-brown skin, a broad face and high cheekbones.
“Good to see you again, Kurt,” Therri said, extending her hand. Her manner was businesslike in front of the other men, but her eyes told Austin she hadn't forgotten the goodnight kiss in Copenhagen; or at least that's what he hoped they said. “This is Ben Nighthawk. Ben is a research assistant in our office.”
Ryan suggested that they move off to the side of the memorial. When he was sure they could talk out of the earshot of any wander- ing tourists, he wasted no time. “Ben has uncovered some important information on Oceanus,” he said.
With a nod from Ryan, the young Indian began to tell his story.
“I come from a tiny village in northern Canada. It's pretty remote, on a big lake, and usually it's pretty quiet up there. A few months ago, my mother wrote me a letter saying someone had bought a huge tract of land across the lake from the village. Big corporation, she thought. I hope to work against overdevelopment of the Canadian wilds when I get out of college, so I got really interested when she said they were building night and day on the lake. Helicopters and float- planes were coming in at all hours. I asked my mother to keep me up to date, and the last time I heard from her was more than two weeks ago. She was really worried.” “About what?” Austin said.
“She didn't say, only that it had something to do with the stuff going on across the lake. So I got worried and went home to take a look-and my family was gone.”
“You're saying they disappeared?” Austin said. Nighthawk nodded. “Everyone in the village had vanished.” “Canada's a big place, Ben. Where was your village located?” Nighthawk glanced at Ryan. “In good time, Kurt,” Ryan said.
“Tell Mr. Austin what happened next, Ben.”
“I went looking for my family,” Nighthawk continued. “I found them being kept prisoner on the other side of the lake. Guys with guns were forcing the men from my village to work, clearing land around a big building.”
“Do you know w
“I never saw them before. They were dressed in black uniforms.” He looked at Ryan for encouragement, then went on. “It's crazy, but when we got there-”
“We?” Ryan said, "Josh Green, my next in command, went along with
Ben. Don't be afraid to tell Mr. Austin everything you saw, no mat- ter how wild it seems."
Nighthawk shrugged. “Okay, then. When we first got there, we didn't see anything but forest, except for where they were clearing. Then this huge building suddenly appeared out of nowhere.” He paused, waiting for Austin to reply with disbelieving laughter.
Austin kept his blue-green eyes leveled. “Go on,” he said, his face impassive.
“That's it. Instead of trees, we were looking at a giant dome. Josh and I thought it looked like an Eskimo igloo, only hundreds of times bigger. While we were watching, the top of the thing opened like this.” He cupped his hands to form an open clamshell. “Turned out it was a hangar for a blimp.”
Austin said, “Something like the Goodyear blimp?” Nighthawk screwed up his mouth in thought. "Naw. Bigger and longer. More like a rocket ship. It even had a name on the fin. Niet- zsche. )
“Like the German philosopher?”
“I guess so,” Ben said. “We saw the thing land in the hangar, and the roof closed again, and then a bunch of guys came out the front door. My cousin was in a work gang, and he tried to run for it, and one of those bastards killed him.” Nighthawk's voice became choked with emotion.
Ryan put his hand on Nighthawk's shoulder. “That's enough for now, Ben.”
Austin said, “I'd like to help. But I'm going to need more details.”
Ryan said, “We'll be glad to fill you in, but the information comes with a price.”
Austin raised an eyebrow. “I'm a little short of change today, Marcus.”
“We're not interested in money. We want SOS and NUMA to work together to bring Oceanus down. We share the information. You include us in any mission.”