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 fish farm. A wet ride, too, coming back with a following sea."

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 cavern that had been expanded with the help of explosives and jackhammers. Flood- lights hanging from the high ceiling illuminated hundreds of plastic cartons stacked high on wooden pallets.

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.

After exiting through the other side of the wall, the pipes contin- ued and ran down a broad, white, gravel-covered alley that sepa- rated two rows of buildings placed parallel to each other. Smaller pipes branched out from the main conduit into the buildings. The one-story structures were built of cinder block and had roofs of cor- rugated steel. The air was heavy with the smell offish, and the low hum of machinery came from every direction.

Austin went over to the nearest building and found the steel door unlocked. Oceanus probably didn't expect prowlers to get past its boats and helicopter. The interior, lit by low-level ceiling lights, was in semi-darkness. The hum he had heard came from electrical mo- tors powering the pumps that circulated water in rows of large blue plastic tanks. They were lined up on either side of a center aisle that ran the length of the building. The tanks were serviced by water mains, feed pipes, pumpsvalves and electrical connections. Austin climbed a metal ladder up the side of one tank. The beam from his flashlight stirred up hundreds of startled fish, each no bigger than a finger.

He climbed down, slipped out of the fish nursery and worked his way from building to building. The structures were identical except for differences in the size and species of the fish they housed. He rec- ognized salmon, cod and other familiar types in the holding tanks. A centrally located smaller building housed a central computer cen- ter. It was unoccupied. He watched the blinking dials and gauges on the central panel and realized why he had seen few people in his travels. The fish farm was almost totally automated.

As he was emerging from the computer center, he heard the crunch of boots. He dodged around a corner as two guards strolled by. The men had their weapons slung on their shoulders, and they were laughing at some shared joke, never suspecting that an intruder lurked in their midst.

After the guards had passed, Austin made his way to the harbor. A pier that was long enough to accommodate large ships extended from the rocky shoreline. Tied up to the dock was the patrol boat that had intercepted him earlier. There was no sign of the helicopter. The tops of hundreds of fish cages were visible along the harbor's edge. Men in open boats were tending the fish cages under a cloud of noisy gulls. More guards lolled on the dock, idly watching the action.

Austin checked his watch. He had to leave right away if he ex- pected to get back to the Mermaid's Gate before the end of slack cur- rent. He circled around the complex and came upon a building similar to the others except that it was set off by itself. Warning signs were posted on the outside. He bypassed a main door and found a sec- ondary entrance on the other side. Unlike the doors to the other fish nurseries, this one was locked.

Using the pry bar, Austin sprung the lock as quietly as possible and pushed the door open. In the dim interior light, he saw that the tanks were twice the size of those he'd seen earlier, and there were half as many. Something about the place bothered him, but he couldn't put his finger on it. For the first time since he'd begun his explorations, his skin began to crawl.

He wasn't alone in the building. A single guard was strolling around the perimeter of the tanks. He timed the guard, waited until he was at the far end of his patrol, then set the pry bar down, climbed a ladder up the side of the nearest tank and peered over the edge.

The smell offish was even stronger than the odor emanating from the smaller tanks in the other buildings. He leaned over and heard the soft swish of swirling water. The tank was occupied. He pointed the flashlight to see what was inside, and the water exploded. There was a blurry flash of white and a gaping mouth lined with sharp teeth. Austin jerked back in reflex. Something wet and slimy grazed his head. He lost his hold and fell off the ladder. His flailing hands grabbed a section of plastic hose, breaking it, and he crashed to the concrete floor. Water poured from the broken hose. He scrambled to his feet, and through dazed eyes he saw a red light flashing above the tank. He swore to himself. The systems failure had set off an alarm.

The guard had heard the ruckus and was running his way. Austin ducked into a space between two tanks, nearly tripping on a stack of metal pipe. The guard ran past Austin and stopped when he saw the gushing water. Austin picked up a short length of metal pipe and stepped out behind the guard. The man must have sensed Austin's presence. He half-turned and went to unsling his rifle, but the pipe came down on his head and he crumpled to the floor.

With the immediate threat disposed of, Austin's first instinct was to cut and run, but he decided to create a diversion first. Wielding the pipe as a sledgehammer, he methodically smashed several plastic pipe assemblies. Red alarm lights blinked over several tanks now, and water from the damaged pipes poured onto the floor and created a river.

Austin splashed through the puddles toward the door. The rush of water had drowned out other sounds, and he didn't hear the pounding footsteps of a second man. They met at an intersection be- tween two lines of tanks, almost crashing into each other like a cou- ple of circus clowns. The comic aspect was intensified when they both slipped and went down. But Austin had no reason to laugh when the man sprang to his feet and yanked a pistol from a holster at his belt.

Austin swung the pipe as he rose to a standing position, and the pistol went flying. The man's eyes widened with surprise at Austin's quickness. He reached under the shirt of his black uniform and pulled out a knife with a long blade made from a hard white mate- rial. He stepped back, taking up a defensive position. In that second instant, Austin had a chance to study his opponent.

The man was about a head shorter than Austin. His head seemed to sit directly on muscular shoulders that hinted at the power in the squat body. Like the guards, he had a wide, round face with bangs, and almond-shaped eyes that were as black and hard as obsidian. Vertical tattoos decorated his high cheekbones. Beneath the flat nose were wide, fleshy lips. He spread that mouth in a toothy smile, but there was no mirth in it, only cruelty.

Austin was in no mood for a smiling contest. Time was not on his side. More guards could show up at any second. He couldn't retreat. He had to dispatch this obstacle and pray there weren't others. His hands tightened on the pipe. His eyes must have given away his in- tentions, because the man lunged without warning. He moved with scorpion-speed despite his thickset body. Austin felt a stinging pain on the left side of his rib cage. He had been holding the pipe like a Louisville Slugger, and the knife had slipped inside his guard. Austin felt a wetness where the blade had sliced through his sweater and shirt.

The man's smile grew wider, and the blood-tipped knife was poised for another slashing attack. He feinted to his left. Austin re- acted with pure reflex and swung the pipe as if he were hitting a home run. There was a sickening scrunch sound as the pipe con- nected with the man's nose, crushing bone and cartilage. Blood sprayed as if from a fountain. Austin couldn't believe it! After a blow that would have felled a steer, the man was still on his feet. A dazed look came into the man's eyes, and a second later, the knife fell from his limp fingers and he collapsed to the floor.

Austin began sprinting for the exit, but he heard shouts and ducked behind a fish tank. Several guards burst through the door and ran to- ward the blinking red lights. Austin stuck his head out and heard ex- cited voices coming from the direction of the harbor. He stepped out into the open, sprinted around the side of the building and returned to the main complex offish nurseries. With most of the attention fo- cused on the damage he had left behind him, Austin was able to make his way to the fish-food warehouse.

Austin was relieved to see that the warehouse was still deserted. Soon he could lose himself in the labyrinth of caves. He had his hand tight against his chest, but he couldn't stanch the bleeding completely. Even worse, he was leaving a trail of blood droplets. A siren wailed in the distance. He was trotting past the forklift when a thought struck him. He was making it too easy for these guys.

He slid into the forklift seat, started the motor, aimed the tines at a tall stack of food cartons and nailed the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward and smashed into the boxes with enough force to topple them. The boxes crashed onto the conveyor belt and blocked the opening. He knocked over a couple more piles in front of the ac- cess and freight doors. As a finishing touch, he jammed a tine into the control box for the conveyor belt.

Moments later, he was hurrying through the caverns. He paused in the main picture gallery and listened. He could hear yells over his own heavy breathing. An even worse sound was the barking of dogs. His crude barricade had been breached. He continued at a measured trot, following the bobbing bull's-eye of the flashlight. In his haste, he mistook one fish marker for another and lost precious moments finding his way back. The shouts and barks were louder now, and he could see the phantasmagoric glow of lights behind him. The caves amplified and echoed the voices, creating the impression that a whole army was after him.

The stutter of an automatic weapon echoed throughout the caves. Austin dove for the floor, and a hail of bullets splattered harmlessly against the walls. He tried to ignore the searing pain of his chest wound and scrambled to his feet. Another fusillade raked the pas- sageway, but by then he was around a curve and the angled wall pro- tected him. Seconds later, he was squeezing through the last narrow passageway, then he was out and climbing down the natural staircase to the boat.

When he tried to start the engine, it coughed. He reached down into the cold water with his right hand, cleaned the seaweed that had tangled the propeller and tried the starter again. This time, the motor responded. As he pulled away and pointed the boat toward the canal that would take him back to the Mermaid's Gate, two black-clad fig- ures climbed down to the edge of the pool. The beams from their flashlights caught him, but they also illuminated the canal opening.

Austin aimed for the cleft and slammed against the sides of the canal, tearing off hunks of wood. He saw gray daylight ahead, and then the boat burst into the Mermaid's Gate. He snapped the wheel over. The boat made a sharp right turn toward the opening, but the slack current was ending and the devilish confluence of tides and cur- rents had returned. The boat slid sideways down the side of a wave and headed for a wood-splintering collision with the far wall, only to be saved when another billow pitched it back toward the canal opening.

Austin gunned the throttle, trying to gain control. The boat skid- ded as if it were riding on banana peels. He gave the wheel a quick jerk to avoid crashing into a jagged outcropping that would have sliced the boat in two. The propeller tinged against an underwater ledge. He brought the boat around again, but the waves caught him in another game ofFrisbee toss. The double-ender lost headway and was pushed backward into the grotto. Austin gauged the ebb and flow of the circulating water and in desperation aimed for a V that marked a calmer area between currents.

As the boat fishtailed toward the opening, Austin saw that he had company. His pursuers had made their way along the ledges that bordered the canal. They stood on the rocks only yards away from where he was about to pass.

One of the men aimed his rifle at Austin, who was an easy target, but his companion pushed the barrel down. He undipped a hand grenade from his belt, tossed it lightly in the air a few times like a baseball pitcher warming up, then as Austin passed, the man pulled the pin, holding down on the lever. Austin's eyes glanced from the grenade and into the merciless face of the man who had stabbed him. His nose was a bloody pulp and streams of blood had caked on his cheeks. He must have been in terrible pain, but the face broadened into a wide grin as he leisurely lofted the grenade into Austin's boat. Then he and the other man ducked behind an outcropping of rocks and covered their ears.

The arcing grenade clunked into the boat, landing practically at

Austin's feet. Austin wrung the last bit of torque out of the engine. The boat planed at a sharp angle, and the grenade rolled down the deck until it lodged against the narrow transom.

The boat burst through the arch into the open water. Choosing be- tween the devil and the deep blue sea, Austin instinctively chose the latter: A part of his brain made the choice between being blown to bits instantaneously and freezing to death in a few minutes. He launched his body off the boat.

He plunged into the frigid water, and, a second later, heard the muffled thud of the grenade, then the fuel tanks erupted in a sec- ondary explosion. Austin stayed under as long as he could and sur- faced under a rainfall of wood splinters. The boat was gone, and he dove again to avoid the burning fuel that floated on the water's sur- face. When he came up a second time, he was numb with cold, but the survival instinct burned in his chest. He started to swim in the di- rection of land, but he had taken only a few more strokes before his joints felt as if someone had poured liquid oxygen into them.

Over the wave-tops, he caught a blurred glimpse of a boat speed- ing his way: His pursuers were no doubt coming to finish off the job. A gurgled laugh escaped from his throat. By the time they ar- rived, he'd be nothing but a giant Slurpee.