Текст книги "White Death"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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PROLOGUE II

Germany, 1935

SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT, the dogs began to howl along a swath of countryside between the city of Hamburg and the North Sea. Terrified canines stared at the black, moonless sky with lolling tongues and shivering haunches. Their keen hearing had picked up what human ears could not: the faint whir of engines from the giant silver-skinned torpedo that slithered through the thick layer of clouds high above.

Four Maybach 12-cylinder engines, a pair on each side, hung in streamlined housings from the bottom of the 800-foot-long airship. Lights glowed in the oversized windows of the control car near the rront of the fuselage. The long, narrow control car was organized like a ship's pilothouse, complete with compass and spoked steering wheels for the rudder and elevators. standing next to the helmsman, feet wide apart, arms clasped behind his back, was Captain Heinrich Braun, a tall ramrod-straight figure impeccably dressed in a dark-blue uniform and a tall-peaked cap. Cold had seeped into the cabin and overwhelmed its heaters, so he wore a thick turtleneck sweater under his jacket. Braun's haughty profile could have been chiseled from granite. His rigid posture and silver hair, cropped close to his scalp military-style, and the slight elevation to his jutting chin, recalled his days as a Pruss– ian naval officer.

Braun checked the compass heading, then turned to a portly middle-aged man whose bushy, upturned mustache made him re– semble a good-natured walrus.

"Well, Herr Lutz, we have successfully completed the first leg of our historic journey." Braun had an elegant, anachronistic way of speaking. "We are maintaining our goal of one hundred twenty kilo– meters per hour. Even with a slight headwind, fuel consumption is exactly as calculated. My compliments, Herr Professor."

Herman Lutz looked like the bartender in a Munich beer cellar, but he was one of the most highly skilled aeronautical engineers in Europe. After his retirement, Braun had written a book suggesting airship service across the pole to North America. At a lecture pro– moting his book, he'd met Lutz, who was trying to raise money to fund a polar airship venture. The men were drawn to each other by their firm belief that airships could promote international cooperation.

Lutz's blue eyes danced with excitement. "My congratulations to you, Captain Braun. Together we will advance the greater glory of world peace."

"I'm sure you mean the greater glory ofGermany" sneered Ger– hardt Heinz, a short, slight man who had been standing behind the others, close enough to hear every word. With great ceremony, he lit up a cigarette.

In a steel-tipped voice, Braun said, "Herr Heinz, have you for– gotten that above our heads are thousands of cubic feet of highly flammable hydrogen? Smoking is permitted only in the section so designated in the crew's quarters."

Heinz mumbled an answer and snuffed out the cigarette with his fingers. Attempting to gain the edge, he drew himself up like a preen– ins rooster. Heinz had shaved his head to the skin and affected a pince-nez for his nearsighted eyes. The pale-white head was perched on narrow shoulders. While the effect was supposed to be intimi– dating, it was more grotesque.

Lutz thought that, with his tight black leather overcoat, Heinz looked like a maggot emerging from its pupa, but he wisely kept this thought to himself. Having Heinz on board was the price he and Braun had had to pay to get the airship into the air. That and the aircraft's name: Nieztsche, after the German philosopher. Germany was struggling to get out from under the financial and psychologi– cal yoke imposed by the Treaty of Versailles. When Lutz had pro– posed an airship voyage to the North Pole, the public had been eager to contribute funds, but the project had stagnated.

A group of industrialists quietly approached Lutz with a new proposition. With military backing, they would fund an airship to make a secret trip to the North Pole. If the mission succeeded, it would be made public, and the Allies would be presented with a fait accompli that displayed the superiority of German air technology. Failure would be kept a secret to avoid a black mark. The airship was built under cover, Lutz patterning it on the huge airship Gmf Zep– pelin. As part of the deal, he agreed to take Heinz along on the ex– pedition to represent the interests of the industrialists.

"Captain, would you enlighten us as to our progress?" Lutz said.

Braun stepped over to a chart table. "Here is our position. We will follow the course taken by the Norge and the Italia to the Spitsber– gen Islands. From there we make the dash to the pole. I expect the last leg to take about fifteen hours, depending on weather."

"I hope we have better luck than the Italians," Heinz said, un– necessarily reminding the others of previous airship attempts to reach the pole. In 1926, the Norwegian explorer Amundsen and an Italian engineer named Umberto Nobile had successfully reached and cir– cled the pole in an Italian dirigible named the Norge. However, No– bile's second expedition in the sister ship known as the Italia was supposed to have landed at the pole, but it had crashed. Amundsen had been lost in a rescue attempt. Nobile and some of his men were finally rescued.

"It is not a question of luck," said Lutz. "This airship's design built on the mistakes of others, precisely with this mission in mind. It is stronger and better able to handle rough weather. It has redun– dant communications systems. The use of Blaugas will allow for greater control because we won't have to vent hydrogen as ballast. We have defrosting ability in our controls. Its machinery is made to op– erate at subfreezing Arctic temperatures. It is the fastest airship ever built. We have a network of planes and ships in place that will re– spond immediately if we run into any problems. Our meteorologi– cal capacity is second to none."

"I have the utmost confidence in you and the ship," Heinz said with an unctuous smile, as his natural inclination to toady up to oth– ers came to the fore.

"Good. I suggest we all get some rest before we reach Spitsbergen. We will refuel there, and proceed to the pole."

The trip to Spitsbergen was uneventful. Contacted by radio, the refueling and resupply crew was ready, and the airship was on its way within hours, heading north, past the Franz Josef archipelago.

The dull gray sea below was speckled with pieces of floating ice. The chunks eventually graduated to large irregular pancakes that joined to form ice broken here and there by dark black veins of open water. Near the pole, the ice became a vast, unbroken expanse. Al– though the bluish-white surface looked flat from a thousand feet in the air, land explorers had learned the hard way that it was criss– crossed by ridges and hummocks.

"Good news," Braun announced cheerfully. "We are at eighty– five degrees north. We will make the pole soon. The weather condi– tions are ideal. No wind. Clear skies."

The anticipation grew, and even those who were off-duty crowded into the control cabin and peered out the big windows as if they hoped to see a tall striped shaft marking the spot at 90 degrees north.

One observer called out, "Captain, I think I see something on the ice.

The captain peered through his binoculars at where the crewman was pointing.

"Most interesting." He handed the binoculars to Lutz.

"It's a boat," Lutz said after a moment. Braun nodded in agreement and directed the helmsman to change course.

"What are you doing?" Heinz said.

Braun handed him the binoculars. "Look," he said, without elab– oration.

Heinz fumbled with his pince-nez and squinted through the glasses. "I see nothing," he said flatly.

Braun wasn't surprised at the answer. The man was as blind as a bat. "Nevertheless, there is a boat on the ice."

What would a boat be doing here?" Heinz said, eyes blinking rap– idly. "I've heard of no other expeditions to the pole. I order you to re– turn to our course."

On what grounds, Herr Heinz?" the captain asked, elevating his chin even more. It was apparent from the coldness of his voice that he didn't care what the reply would be.

Our mission is to go to the North Pole," Heinz said.

Captain Braun glared at Heinz as if he was about to kick the lit– tle man out the door and watch his body fall onto the pack ice.

Lutz recognized the dangerous mood the captain was in and in– tervened. "Herr Heinz, you are right, my friend. But I believe our charge was also to investigate any matter that may be of aid to us or the next expedition."

Braun added, "In addition, we are duty-bound, no less than any ship that sails the sea, to help those who may be in distress."

"If they see us, they will radio someone and jeopardize our mis– sion," Heinz said, trying another tack.

"They would have to be blind and deaf not to have seen or heard us," said Braun. "And if they report our presence, so what? Our ship has no markings except for the name."

Seeing he was defeated, Heinz slowly lit up a cigarette and con– spicuously blew smoke in the air, daring the captain to stop him.

The captain ignored the defiant gesture and gave the order to de– scend. The helmsman adjusted the controls, and the giant airship began its long, sloping glide down to the pack ice.

1

The Faroe Islands, the present

THE LONE SHIP bearing down on the Faroe Islands looked like the loser in a paint-ball fight. The hull of the 170-foot Sea Sentinel was splashed from stem to stern with an eye-blinding psy– chedelic potpourri of tie-dye rainbow colors. A piping calliope and a crew of clowns would not have been out of place to complete the carnival atmosphere. The ship's raffish appearance was deceptive. As many had learned to their sorrow, the Sea Sentinel was as dan– gerous in its own way as any vessel in the pages of Jane s Fighting Ships.

The Sea Sentinel had arrived in Faroe waters after a 180-mile trip

from the Shetland Islands off of Scotland. Greeting the vessel was a small flotilla of fishing boats and yachts hired by international press organizations. The Danish cruiser LeifErifson stood by, and a hel– icopter circled above in the overcast sky.

It was drizzling, typical summer weather for the Faroes, an ar– chipelago of eighteen specks of rock located in the northeast Atlantic halfway between Denmark and Iceland. The 45,000 human inhabi– tants of the Faroes are largely descended from the Vikings, who set– tled there in the ninth century. Although the islands are part of the Kingdom of Denmark, the locals speak a language derived from old Norse. The people are outnumbered by the millions of birds that nest in the towering cliffs that stand like ramparts against the sea.

A tall, ruggedly built man in his forties stood on the ship's fore– deck surrounded by reporters and camera technicians. Marcus Ryan, the captain of the Sea Sentinel, was conservatively dressed in a black tailored officer's uniform decorated with gold braid on the collar and sleeves. With his movie star profile, tanned skin, the collar-length hair tousled by the breeze and the fringe of ginger-colored beard framing his square jaw, Ryan looked as if he had been cast for the movie role of a dashing sea captain. The image was one he went to great pains to cultivate.

"Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen," Ryan said in a well– modulated voice that carried over the rumble of engines and the swash of water against the hull. "Sorry we couldn't have provided smoother seas. Some of you look a bit green around the gills after our trip from the Shetlands."

The members of the press pool had been chosen by lot to cover the invasion story. After a night spent in cramped bunks as the ship nav– igated rolling seas, some members of the Fourth Estate were wish– ing they hadn't been so lucky.

"That's okay," croaked a female reporter from CNN. "Just make sure the story is worth all the damned Dramamine I swallowed."

Ryan flashed his Hollywood smile. "I can almost guarantee that you'll see action." He swept his arm theatrically in a wide arc. The cameras dutifully followed his pointing finger to the warship. The cruiser was moving in a wide circle, just fast enough to maintain headway. Fluttering from its main mast was the red-and-white flag of Denmark. "The last time we tried to stop the Faroese from slaugh– tering pilot whales, that Danish cruiser you see fired a shot across our bow. Small arms fire narrowly missed one of our crew, although the Danes deny they shot at us."

"Did you really slam them with a garbage gun?" asked the CNN reporter.

"We defended ourselves with the materials at hand," Ryan replied with mock seriousness. "Our cook had rigged up a catapult to launch biodegradable garbage bags off the deck. He's a medieval weapons buff, so he developed a gadget similar to a trebuchet that had a sur– prising range. When the cruiser tried to cut us off, we nailed it with a direct hit, much to our surprise. And theirs" He paused and with per– fect comic timing said, "There's nothing like being slimed with potato peels, eggshells and coffee grounds to take the wind out of your sails."

Laughter rippled through the group.

The BBC reporter said, "Aren't you worried that antics of that sort add to the reputation given to the Sentinels of the Sea as one of the more radical environmental and animal rights groups? Your organization has freely admitted to scuttling whaling ships, blocking waterways, spray-painting baby seals, harassing sealers, cutting drift nets…"

Ryan raised his hand in protest. "Those were pirate whale ships, international waters, and the other stuff you mentioned we can doc– ument as legal under international agreements. On the other hand, our ships have been rammed, our people gassed and shot at and ille– gal arrests made."

"What do you say to those people who call you a terrorist organi– zation?" a reporter from The Economist said.

"I would ask them: What could be more terrifying than the cold– blooded slaughter of fifteen hundred to two thousand defenseless pilot whales each year? And I would remind them that no one has ever been hurt or killed by an SOS intervention." Ryan flashed his smile again. "C'mon, folks, you've met the people on this ship." He gestured toward an attractive young woman who had been standing apart from the others, listening to the discussion. "Tell me honestly, does this lady look scary?"

Therri Weld was in her mid-thirties, of medium height, with a compact, well-proportioned body. The faded jeans and workshirt she wore under her baggy windbreaker did little to disguise her ath– letic but distinctly feminine figure. An SOS baseball hat covered chestnut hair whose natural curl was made even more pronounced by the damp air, and her gentian eyes were alert and intelligent. She stepped forward and gave the press corps a bright smile.

"I've already met most of you," she said, in a voice that was low but clear. "So you know that when Marcus doesn't have me slaving away as a deckhand, I'm a legal advisor to SOS. As Marcus said, we use direct action as a last resort. We pulled back after our last en– counter in these waters to pursue a boycott of Faroe fish."

"But you still haven't stopped the grinds/9 the BBC reporter said to Ryan.

"The Sentinels have never underestimated how tough it would be to end a tradition that goes back hundreds of years," Ryan answered. "The Faroese have the same stubbornness their Viking forefathers needed to survive. They're not about to give in to a bunch ofwhale– huggers like us. But while I admire the Faroese, I think the grindarap is cruel and barbaric. It's unworthy of the islanders as a people. I know a few of you have been to a grind before. Anyone care to sum it up.

"Damned bloody business," the BBC reporter admitted. "But I don't like fox hunts, either."

"At least the fox has a sporting chance," Ryan said, his jaw hard– ening. "The grind is simply a massacre. When someone spots a pod of pilot whales, the siren goes off, and boats herd the whales in to shore. The locals-women and kids sometimes-are waiting on the beach. There's a lot of drinking and it's a big party, for everyone except the whales. The people stick gaffs into the whales' blowholes and drag the animals inshore, where they have their jugular veins cut and they bleed to death. The water turns red from the blood-letting. Some– times you'll see people sawing the animals' heads off while the whales are still alive!"

A blond female reporter said, "How is a grind any different from slaughtering steers for beef?"

"You're asking the wrong person," Ryan said. "I'm a vegan." He waited for the laughter to die down. "Your point is well-taken, though. We may be protecting the Faroese from themselves. Pilot– whale meat is loaded with mercury and cadmium. It's hurting their children."

"But if they want to poison themselves and their kids," the re– porter said, "isn't it intolerant of SOS to condemn their traditions?"

"Gladiatorial combat and public executions were traditions once. Civilization decided these savage spectacles have no place in the mod– ern world. Inflicting unnecessary pain on defenseless animals is the same thing. They say it's tradition. We say it's murder. That's why we're back."

"Why not continue with the boycott?" the BBC man asked. Therri addressed the question. "The boycott was too slow. Hun– dreds of pilot whales continue to be killed. So we've changed our strategy. The oil industry wants to sink wells in these waters. If we bring enough bad publicity to the hunt, the oil companies might hold back. That would put pressure on the islanders to end their grinds."

"And we've got other business here as well," Ryan added. "There's a multinational fish-processing company that we're going to picket to demonstrate our opposition to the harmful effects offish-farming."

The Fox News reporter was incredulous. "Is there anyone you don't plan to antagonize?"

"Let me know who we've missed," Ryan said to laughter.

The BBC man said, "How far do you intend to push your protest?"

"As far as we can. This hunt is illegal under international law, in our opinion. You people are here as witnesses. Things could get dicey. If anyone wants to leave now, I can arrange a transfer." He scanned the faces surrounding him and smiled. "No one? Good. Well, then, brave souls, into the breach we go. We've been keeping track of several pods of pilot whales. The waters around here fairly teem with them. That young deckhand you see waving wildly may have something to tell us."

A crew member who had been keeping watch trotted over. "A couple of pods are passing by Stremoy/' he said. "Our observer on shore says the siren's wailing and the boats are being launched."

Ryan turned back to the reporters. "They'll probably try to drive the whales ashore at the Kvivik killing field. We'll put ourselves be– tween the boats and the whales. If we can't drive the pod away, we'll start cutting the boats off."

The CNN reporter pointed to the cruiser. "Isn't it going to irritate those chaps?"

"I'm counting on it," Ryan said, with a ferocious grin.

High in the bridge of the LeifErifsson, a man in civilian clothes squinted at the Sea Sentinel through a powerful pair of binoculars. "My God," Karl Becker murmured to Eric Petersen, the ship's cap– tain, "that ship looks as if it were painted by a madman."

"Ah, so you know Captain Ryan," Petersen replied, with a faint smile.

"Only by reputation. He seems to have what the Americans call a Teflon shield. For all his law-breaking, he has never been convicted on any charge. What do you know of Ryan, Captain?"

"First of all, he is not mad. He is possessed with a near-fanatical determination, but all his actions are measured. Even the gaudy color scheme of his ship is calculated. It lulls unsuspecting opponents into making mistakes-and shows up quite well on television."

"Maybe we could arrest them for visual pollution of the sea, Cap– tain Petersen," said Becker.

"I suspect Ryan would find an expert to say the ship is nothing less than a floating work of art."

"Glad to see that you've maintained your sense of humor despite the humiliation this ship suffered from its last encounter with the Sentinels of the Sea."

"It only took a few minutes of hosing down the deck to get rid of the garbage they threw at us. My predecessor felt that it was neces– sary to respond to the garbage attack with gunfire."

Becker winced. "Captain Olafsen was still commanding a desk the last time I heard. The publicity was incredibly bad. 'Danish War– ship Attacks Unarmed Boat.' Headlines that the crew was drunk. My God, what a disaster!"

"Having served as Olafsen's first officer, I have the greatest re– spect for his judgment. His problem was that he didn't have clear di– rection from the bureaucrats in Copenhagen."

"Bureaucrats like me?" Becker said.

The captain responded with a tight smile. "I follow orders. My su– periors said that you were coming aboard as a navy-department ob– server. Here you are."

"I wouldn't want a bureaucrat aboard my ship if I were in your shoes. But I assure you, I have no authority to supersede your orders. I will, of course, report what I see and hear, but let me remind you that if this mission is a fiasco, both our heads will roll."

The captain hadn't known what to make of Becker when he first welcomed him aboard the Erilsson. The official was short and dark, and with his large, moist eyes and long nose, he looked like a de– spondent cormorant. Petersen, on the other hand, fit the common mold for many Danish men. He was tall, square-jawed and blond.

"I was reluctant to have you aboard," the captain said, "but the hot– heads who are involved in this situation could let things get out of control. I welcome the opportunity to consult with someone from the government."

Becker thanked the captain and said, "What do you think of this grindarap business ? "

The captain shrugged. "I have many friends on the island. They would rather die than give up their old customs. They say it's what makes them who they are. I respect their feelings. And you?"

"I'm a Copenhagener. This whale thing seems like a big waste of time to me. But there's a great deal at stake here. The government respects the wishes of the islanders, but the boycott has hurt their fish– ing. We don't want the Faroes to lose their livelihood so that they be– come a ward of the state. Too damned expensive. To say nothing of the revenue losses to our country if the oil companies are persuaded to hold back their drilling because of this whale hunt."

"I'm well aware that this situation is something of a morality play. All the actors know their roles exactly. The islanders have planned this grind to defy SOS and to make sure Parliament is aware of their concerns. Ryan has been just as vocal in saying he won't allow any– thing to stand in his way."

"And you. Captain Petersen, do you know your role?" "Of course. I just don't know how the drama ends." Becker grunted in answer.

"Let me reassure you," the captain said, "the Faroe Police have been ordered to stay in the background. Under no circumstances am I to use guns. My orders are to protect the islanders from danger. I can use my judgment on how this is to be done. If the Sea Sentinel comes close enough to endanger the smaller boats, then I have the au– thority to nudge the SOS ship aside. Please excuse me, Mr. Becker. I see that the curtain is about to go up."

From several harbors, fishing boats were racing to a disturbed area of ocean. They were moving fast, their bows up on plane, bounc– ing over the low chop. The boats were converging on a spot where the shiny black backs of a pod of pilot whales broke the surface. Fountains of spray exploded from the whales' blowholes.

The Sea Sentinel was also moving in on the whales. Petersen gave his helmsman orders. The cruiser broke out of its holding pattern.

Becker had been mulling over Petersen's earlier words.

"Tell me, Captain, when does a 'nudge' become a ram?"

"Whenever I want it to."

"Isn't there a fine line between the two?"

Petersen told his helmsman to increase speed and set a course di– rectly toward the Sea Sentinel. Then the captain turned to Becker and gave him a grim smile.

"We're about to find out."