White Death

11

PAUL TROUT THREADED the wide-beamed Humvee through the heavy Washington traffic like a runner going for a touchdown at the Super Bowl. Although he and Gamay often took the Hummer on four-wheeling family trips in the Virginia country- side, nothing they encountered off-road could compare with the chal- lenges of driving in the nation's capital. They made good time, though, as Gamay called out openings in the traffic and Paul spun the wheel over without looking. Their ability to work together like a well-oiled machine had been crucial on countless NUMA assign- ments and was a tribute to the acumen of Admiral Sandecker, who had hired them together.

Paul turned down a narrow Georgetown street and tucked the Humvee into the parking space behind their brick town house, and they bolted for the door. Minutes later, they were jumping into a taxi, their hastily packed overnight bags in hand. The NUMA exec- utive jet was waiting at the airport with its engines warming up. The pilot, who was flying a contingent of scientists to Boston, knew the Trouts from past missions with the Special Assignments Team. She had gotten the okay from NUMA to add the extra leg to her trip and filed a new flight plan.

After dropping off the scientists at Logan Airport, the plane con- tinued up the Atlantic coast. With a cruising speed of nearly five hundred miles an hour, the Cessna Citation had the Trouts in Hali- fax, Nova Scoria, in time for a late dinner. They stayed overnight at a hotel near the airport and caught an Air Canada flight to Cape Breton early the next morning, then rented a car at the Sydney air- port and drove out of the city up the rocky coast to look for the pro- cessing plant that Oceanus had acquired. Gamay had picked up a travel guide at the airport. The travel writer who'd written the sec- tion describing this part of the remote coast must have been desper- ate, because he had listed the fish-processing plant as a tourist attraction.

After not seeing any signs of civilization for many miles, they came upon a combination general store, coffee shop and service station. Gamay, who was taking her turn at the wheel, pulled alongside the battered pickup trucks lined up in front of the ramshackle false-front building.

Paul looked up from the map he was studying. "Charming, but we've got another few miles before we get to the center of town."

"We have to stop for gas anyhow," Gamay said, tapping the fuel gauge. "While you pump the pump, I'll pump the locals for gossip."

Tucking the guidebook under her arm, Gamay stepped over the mangy black Labrador retriever stretched out in a deathlike sleep on the rickety front porch and pushed the door open. Her nostrils were greeted by a pleasant fragrance of pipe tobacco, bacon and coffee. The store, which occupied one half of the room, was crammed with every sort of item, from beef jerky to rifle ammunition. The coffee shop took up the other side of the store.

A dozen or so men and women sat at round Formica-and-chrome tables. All eyes turned to Gamay. At five-ten and a hundred-thirty- five pounds, Gamay's slim-hipped figure and unusual red hair would have attracted attention at a Malibu beach party. The curious stares followed her every move as she poured two plastic cups full of cof- fee from a self-service dispenser.

Gamay went to pay, and the plump young woman at the cash reg- ister greeted her with a friendly smile. "Passing through?" she said, as if she couldn't imagine any traveler staying in town longer than it took to fill a coffee cup.

Gamay nodded. "My husband and I are taking a drive along the coast."

"Don't blame you for not staying," the woman said with resigna- tion. "Not much to see around here."

Despite her striking sophistication, Gamay's midwestern roots had given her a down-home earthiness that was hard to resist. "We think it's beautiful country," she said, with an engaging smile. "We'd stay longer if we had time." She opened the guidebook to the folded-over page. "It says here that there's a pretty little fishing harbor and a fish- processing plant nearby."

"It does?" the cashier said with disbelief.

The other people in the room had been listening to every word. A spindly white-haired woman cackled like a hen. "Fishing ain't what it used to be. Plant sold out. Some big outfit bought the business. Fired all the folks working there. Nobody knows what they're doing. People who work there never come into town. Sometimes we see the Eskimos driving around in their big black trucks."

Gamay glanced into the guidebook, looking for something she missed. "Did you say Eskimos•? I didn't think we were that far north."

Her innocent question started a table debate. Some of the locals contended that Eskimos guarded the plant. Others said that the men driving the SUVs were Indians or maybe Mongolians. Gamay won- dered if she had stumbled into the local insane asylum, a thought that was reinforced when the cashier mumbled something about "aliens." "Aliens?" Gamay said.

The cashier blinked through thick, round-framed glasses, her eyes growing wider. "It's like that secret UFO place in the States, Area Fifty-one, like they show on The X-Files."

"I seen a UFO once when I was hunting near the old plant," in- terjected a man who could have been a hundred years old. "Big sil- ver thing all lit up."

"Hell, Joe," said the skinny woman, "I've seen you so lit up you've probably seen purple elephants."

"Yup," the man said with a gap-toothed grin. "Seen them, too." The restaurant filled with laughter.

Gamay smiled sweetly and said to the cashier, "We'd love to tell our friends back home that we saw a UFO base. Is it far from here?"

"Maybe twenty miles," the cashier said. She gave Gamay directions to the plant. Gamay thanked the young woman, put a ten-dollar bill in the empty tip jar, scooped up the coffees and headed out the door.

Paul was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest. He took the coffee she offered him. "Any luck?"

Gamay glanced back at the store. "I'm not sure. I seem to have run into the cast of Twin Pea/y. In the last few minutes, I've learned that this part of the world is home to Eskimos who drive big black SUVs, a UFO base and purple elephants."

"That explains it," he said with mock seriousness. "While you

were inside, a bunch of big critters the color of plums came thun- dering by here."

"After what I heard, I'm not surprised," she said, slipping behind the wheel.

"Think the locals were having a little fun at the expense of a tourist?" Paul said, getting into the passenger side.

"I'll let you know after we find big silver things around Area Fifty-one." Seeing the quizzical expression on her husband's face, she laughed and said, "I'll explain on the way."

They drove past the turnoff that led to the town center and har- bor, into an area of heavy pine forest. Even with the cashier's de- tailed directions, which included every stump and stone for miles, they almost missed the turnoff. There was no sign marking the en- trance. Only the hard-packed ruts showing fairly recent use distin- guished the way from any of the other fire roads that cut into the thick woods.

About a half mile from the main road, they pulled over. The cashier had advised Gamay to park at a clearing near a big glacial boulder and to walk through the woods. A few townspeople who had driven close to the plant's gates had been intercepted and rudely turned away. The Eskimos or whatever they were probably had hid- den cameras.

Gamay and Paul left the car and made their way through the woods parallel to the road for about an eighth of a mile, until they could see the sun glinting off a high chain-link fence. A black cable ran along the top of the fence, indicating that the razor wire was electrified. No cameras were visible, although it was possible that they were disguised.

"What now?" Gamay said.

"We can fish or cut bait," Paul replied.

"I never liked cutting bait."

"Me, neither. Let's fish."

Paul stepped out of the woods into the cleared grassy swath around the fence. His sharp eye noticed a thin, almost-invisible wire at ankle height. He pointed to the ground. Trip wire. He snapped a dead branch off a nearby tree and dropped it on the wire, then he slipped back into the woods. He and Gamay flattened out belly-first on the pine needle carpeting.

Soon they heard the sound of a motor, and a black SUV lumbered to a stop on the other side of the fence. The door opened, and fierce- looking pure white Samoyeds as big as lions lunged out and ran up to the fence. The snuffling dogs were followed a moment later by a swarthy, round-faced guard in a black uniform. He cradled a leveled assault rifle in his hands.

While the dogs dashed back and forth along the fence, the guard suspiciously eyed the woods. He saw the branch lying on the trip wire. In an unintelligible language, he mumbled into a hand radio, then he moved on. The dogs may have sensed the two human beings in the woods. They growled and stood stiff-legged, staring at the trees that hid the Trouts. The guard yelled at them, and they jumped back into the SUV. Then he drove off.

"Not bad time," Paul said, checking his watch. "Ninety seconds." "Maybe it's time we got out of here," Gamay said. "They'll be sending someone to clear away that branch."

The Trouts melted back into the woods. Walking and trotting, they returned to their rental car. Minutes later, they were on the main road.

Gamay shook her head in wonderment. "That guard, did he look like an Eskimo to you?"

"Yeah, kinda, I guess. Never ran into many Eskimos back on old Cape Cod."

"What's an Eskimo doing this far south, selling Eskimo Pies?"

"The only thing that guy and his puppy dogs were selling was a quick trip to the morgue. Let's see what's going on in the big city."

Gamay nodded, and a few minutes later she was taking the turnoff that led to town. The village was hardly quaint, and she could see why it was only a footnote in the travel guide. The houses were pro- tected against the weather by asphalt shingles of drab green and faded maroon, and the roofs were covered with aluminum to allow the snow to slide off. There were few people or cars around. Some of the shops in the minuscule business section posted signs that said they were closed until further notice, and the town had an abandoned look. The harbor was picturesque, as the tour book said, but it was empty of boats, adding to the town's forlorn aspect.

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.