White Death by Clive Cussler
Intrigued, he sat forward, and ordered another round of coffees.
“Okay, then,” Austin said. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
NUMA 4 - White Death
8
A FEW HOURS LATER, Austin was a world away from the
warmth of the coffee shop, encased in the bulbous protective armor of his aluminum Hardsuit, sinking once more into the cold Faroese sea. As he dropped into the deep, he smiled as he pictured how Becker would react if he knew that a Danish vessel was being used to help Marcus Ryan and the SOS. It would serve the conniv- ing little bureaucrat right, Austin thought, his chuckle echoing inside the helmet.
After taking leave of Them Weld, he had gone back to the hotel, called Captain Larsen and asked permission to make another dive from the Thor. He said he wanted to shoot pictures of the rescue scene for a report, which was partially true. Larsen didn't hesitate to say yes and even sent a shuttle boat in to bring Austin back to the ship.
Since Becker had asked Austin to leave the Hardsuit, it was all ready for him.
Austin's fathometer told him he was nearing bottom. He slowed his descent with short bursts of the vertical thrusters and came to a hummingbird hover about fifty feet above the bow section of the cruiser. The sea had wasted no time gathering the ship to its bosom. A shaggy coat of marine growth covered the hull and superstructure like an alpaca blanket. Schools ofdeepwater fish nosed in and out of the portholes, drawn by sea life that had made its home in the shad- owed nooks and crannies of the vessel.
Using a digital still camera, Austin shot pictures of the hole that the Sea Lamprey had made during the rescue mission and of the three-sided gash where the Sea Sentinel had punctured the hull. Austin had quizzed Captain Larsen about the last known position of the Sea Sentinel, relative to the cruiser. Using an undersea dead reck- oning, he headed in the general area of the sinking.
He used a standard search pattern, running a series of roughly parallel courses until his lights picked out the psychedelic paint job on the ship's hull. Like the cruiser, the SOS ship was already grow- ing a fur coat of marine growth. The combination of sea grass and tie-dye effect was startling. The Sea Sentinel had landed right-side- up on the bottom, and except for its smashed pug nose, the ship ap- peared to be in sound condition.
Austin surveyed the crushed bow and recalled Ryan's testimony. The engines had gone haywire, Ryan said, and failed to respond to controls. There was no way to check out the engines without going inside the wreck, but the steering system might more easily be in- vestigated, because part of it was external. The steering of a modern ship is done with a combination of electronics and hydraulics. But even with computers, GPS positioning and autopilot, the concept is no different than it was when Columbus set sail to look for India. At one end is a wheel or a tiller. At the other is a rudder. Turn the wheel, and the rudder pivots, sending the vessel in the appropriate direction.
Austin soared above the stern, executed a hairpin turn, then dropped several yards until he was facing the man-tail rudder. Curious.
The rudder was intact, but something was out of sync. Bolted to the rudder were two cables that led forward from the blade to each side of the hull. Austin followed the starboard cable to a steel box about the size of a large suitcase that was welded to the hull. An elec- trical conduit led from the box through the hull.
Even more curious.
The welds around the boxes and conduit were shiny and looked new. He backed off and followed the cable to an identical box on the other side. He raised the camera and made a couple of shots. A rubber-coated line as thick as a man's thumb connected the two boxes. Another line ran from the port-side box along the curve of the hull to a point that would have been above the waterline when the ship was afloat. At its end was a flat plastic disk about six inches in diameter. The significance of what he was seeing dawned on Austin.
Loofs lie someone owes you an apology, Mr. Ryan. Austin took some pictures, then pried the disk off with his ma- nipulators and placed it in a carrying case attached to the outside of the Hardsuit. He stayed down another twenty minutes, exploring every square inch of the hull. Finding nothing more out of the ordi- nary, he tapped his vertical thruster control and began the trip to the surface. Once out of his Hardsuit, he thanked Captain Larsen for the use of the Thor and caught a boat ride into Torshavn.
Back in his hotel room, he slipped the cassette out of the digital camera and into his laptop computer and brought the underwater pictures onto the screen. He studied the enlarged and enhanced pic- tures until he practically had them committed to memory, then he called Therri and asked to meet her again at the coffee shop. He got there early and had the computer set up on the table when she arrived a few minutes later.
“Good news or bad?” she said.
“Both.” Austin pushed the laptop across the table. “I've solved one mystery, but uncovered another.”
She sat down and stared at the picture on the screen. “What ex- actly am I looking at?”
“I think it's a mechanism to override or bypass the steering con- trols from the bridge.”
“You're sure of this?”
“Reasonably certain.”
He clicked the computer mouse through a series of pictures that showed the boxes welded to the hull from different angles. “These housings could cover winches that can pull the rudder in either di- rection or lock it in place. Look here. This electrical connection runs up the side of the ship to a receiver above the waterline. Someone out- side the ship could have controlled the steering.”
Therri furrowed her brow. “Looks like a little pie plate.”
Austin dug into his jacket, pulled out the plastic disk he'd pried off the hull, and dropped it on the table. “No pie in this plate. It's an antenna that could have been used to pick up signals.”
Therri glanced at the screen, then picked the disk up and studied it. “This would explain the steering problems Marcus had. What about the engines he couldn't shut down?”
“You've got me there,” Austin said. “If you could get into the ship and tear the engine room apart, maybe you'd find a mechanism that would allow the ship's speed to be controlled from the outside as well.”
“I knew everyone on the Sea Sentinel. They're intensely loyal.” She jutted her chin forward as if she expected an argument. “There's no one in that crew who would sabotage the ship.”
“I haven't made any accusations.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I suppose I should keep an open mind about someone from the crew being involved.”
“Not necessarily. Let me ask what they say at airport security. Did anyone else pack your baggage or has it been out of your sight?”
“So you do think someone from the outside could have sabotaged the ship.”
Austin nodded. “I found a power source line for the winches lead- ing into the hull to tap the ship's energy supply. Someone would have to get inside the ship to accomplish that.”
“Now that you mention it,” she said without hesitation, “the ship needed some engine work. It was in dry dock for four days in the Shetland Islands.”
“Who did the work?” “Marcus would know. I'll ask him.”
“It could be important.” He tapped the screen. “This may be Ryan's ticket out of jail. I'd suggest you get in touch with a guy at my hotel named Becker who seems to be some sort ofbehind-the-scenes mucky-muck with the Danish navy department. He might be able to help.”
“I don't understand. Why would the Danes want to help Marcus after all the awful things they've said about him?”
“That's for public consumption. What they really want is to kick Ryan's butt out of the Faroes and make sure he never shows his face here again. They don't want him to get on his soapbox, because it might scare away companies that are thinking about investing in the Faroes. Sorry if this messes up Ryan's martyrdom plans.”
“I won't deny that Marcus was hoping to make this a cause celebre.”
“Isn't that a risky strat
“He isn't reckless at all, but Marcus will take a calculated risk if he thinks the stakes are worth it. In this case, he would have weighed going to jail against a chance to stop the grind.”
Austin extracted the camera cassette from the computer and pre- sented it to Therri. “Tell Becker that I will testify to what I saw and verify that I took these pictures. I'll run a check on the manufacturer of this antenna, but it's possible that it was put together out of stan- dard parts and won't tell us anything.”
“I don't know how to thank you,” Therri said, rising from her chair.
“My standard fee is acceptance of a dinner invitation.”
“I'd be more than pleased to-” She stopped short and glanced across the room past Austin's shoulder. “Kurt, do you know that man? He's been staring at you for some time.”
Austin turned, and saw a balding, long-jawed man in his sixties, who was now making his way to the table.
“It's Kurt Austin ofNUMA, if I'm not mistaken,” the man said in a booming voice.
Austin stood and extended his hand. “Professor Jorgensen, nice to see you. It's been three years since we last saw each other.”
“Four, actually, since we worked on that project in the Yucatan. What a wonderful surprise! I saw the news of the miraculous rescue you performed, but assumed you had departed the Faroes.”
The professor was tall and narrow-shouldered. The ample tufts of hair flanking his freckled pate resembled swan wings. He spoke English with an Oxford accent, which was not surprising, since he had spent his undergraduate years at the famed English university.
“I stayed on to help Ms. Weld here with a project.” Austin intro- duced Therri, and said, “This is Professor Peter Jorgensen. Dr. Jor- gensen is one of the foremost fisheries physiologists in the world.” “Kurt makes it sound far more glamorous than it is. I'm simply a fish physician, so to speak. Well, what brings you to this far-flung out- post of civilization, Ms. Weld?”
“I'm an attorney. I'm studying the Danish legal system.”
Austin said, “How about you, Professor? Are you doing some work here in the Faroes?”
“Yes, I've been looking into some peculiar phenomena,” he said, without taking his eyes off of Therri. “Maybe I'm being forward, but I have a splendid suggestion. Perhaps we could have dinner together tonight and I could tell you about what I've been doing.” “I'm afraid Ms. Weld and I already have plans.” A pained expression crossed Them's face. “Oh, Kurt, I'm so sorry. I started to say I'd be pleased to have dinner with you, but not tonight. I'm going to be busy with that legal matter we discussed.”
“Hoist by my own petard,” Austin said with a shrug. “Looks like you and I have a date, Professor.”
“Splendid! I'll see you in the dining room of the Hotel Hania around seven, if that sounds all right.” Turning to Therri, he said,
“I'm devastated, Ms. Weld. I hope we will meet again.” He kissed her hand.
“He's charming,” Therri said, after Jorgensen left. “Very courtly in an old-fashioned way.”
“I agree,” Austin said, “but I'd still rather have you as my dinner partner.”
“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.
NUMA 4 - White Death
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
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.”