The two groups stared warily at each other. After a moment, a man who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor got to his feet and came over. His face was as wrinkled as old leather and his long gray hair was tied in a ponytail. He had dark circles under his eyes and his clothes were filthy, yet he projected an aura of unmistakable dignity. When he spoke, Therri realized why the man looked so familiar.
“I'm Jesse Nighthawk,” he said, extending his hand in greeting.
“NighthawJ” she said. “You must be Ben's father.”
His mouth dropped open. “You know my son?”
“Yes, I work with him in the SOS office in Washington.”
The old man glanced past Them's shoulder as if he were looking for someone. “Ben was here. I saw him run out of the woods. He was with another man, who was killed.”
“Yes, I know. Ben is fine. I just saw him in Washington. He told us that you and the villagers were in trouble.”
Ryan stepped forward and said, “We came to get you and the oth- ers out.”
Jesse Nighthawk gazed at Ryan as if he were Dudley Do-Right, the cartoon Mountie who always arrived to save the day. Shaking his head, he said, “You seem to mean well, but I'm sorry you came. You have put yourself in great danger by coming here.”
“We were captured as soon as we landed,” Therri said. “It was as if they knew we were coming.”
“They have watchers everywhere,” Nighthawk said. “The evil one told me this.”
“The 'evil one'?”
“You'll meet him, I'm afraid. He's like a monster in a heat dream. He killed Ben's cousin with a spear.” Jesse's eyes grew moist at the recollection. “We've been working day and night clearing the forest. Even the women and children...” His voice trailed off in weariness. “Who are these people?” Ryan said.
“They call themselves Kiolya. I think they're Eskimos. I don't know for sure. They started building in the woods across the lake from our village. We didn't much like it, but we're squatters on the land, so we don't have any say in things. Then one day they came across the lake with guns and brought us here. We've been cutting trees and dragging them off ever since. You have any idea what this is all about?”
Before Ryan could answer, there was the sound of the door being unlatched. Six men came into the garage, machine rifles draped in the crooks of their arms. Their dark faces were alike, wide with high cheekbones, and hard, almond-shaped eyes. The cruelty sculpted into their impassive expressions paled next to that of the seventh man to enter. He was built like a bull, with a short thick neck, his head sitting almost directly on powerful shoulders. His yellowish-red skin was pockmarked and his mouth was set in a leer. Vertical tattoo marks flanked his nose, which was bruised and misshapen. He was unarmed, except for the knife hanging in a scabbard at his belt.
Therri stared in disbelief at the man who had pursued Austin on the dogsled. There was no mistaking the ruined face and the body that looked as if it had been pumped up on steroids. She knew ex- actly who Jesse meant when he talked about the 'evil one.' The man swept his eyes over the new prisoners, sending chills along Them's spine as his coal-black eyes lingered on her body. Jesse Nighthawk instinctively stepped back with the other villagers.
A brutish grin crossed the man's face as he saw the fear he in- spired. He uttered a guttural command. The guards shoved Thern, Ryan and Mercer out of the building and marched them through the woods. Therri was completely disoriented. She had no idea where the lake was. If by some miracle she had the chance to escape, she wouldn't know which way to run.
Her confusion was further compounded seconds later. They were moving along a paved path toward a thick stand of fir trees that barred their way like a dark and impenetrable wall. The fat trunks and thickly grown branches were a shadowy interplay of blacks and grays. When they were yards away from the nearest trees, a section of forest disappeared. In its place was a rectangle of blinding white light. Therri shielded her eyes. When they adjusted after a moment, she saw people moving about as if she were looking through a door- way into another dimension.
They were herded through the door into an enormous, brightly lit space hundreds of feet across, and vaulted by a high, rounded ceil- ing. She looked behind her as the rectangle of forest vanished, and she realized that they had stepped into a building masked by a clever camouflage. While the structure itself was an architectural wonder, what caught their breath was the huge silvery-white airship that took up a good portion of the space inside the dome.
They gazed up in astonishment at the torpedo-shaped leviathan that was longer than two football fields. Its tail tapered down to a point that was surrounded by four triangular stabilizing fins, giving it a streamlined appearance despite its enormous size. Four massive engines in protective nacelles hung from struts below the belly of the aircraft. The airship rested on a complicated system of fixed and mov- able gantries. Dozens of men in coveralls swarmed around and over the airship. The air echoed with the sound of machinery and tools. The guards nudged the prisoners forward under the rounded nose of the airship, which loomed overhead as if it could crush them at any second. Therri had a fleeting image of what a bug must feel like just before a shoe comes down.
A long, narrow control cabin, ringed by big windows, was set into the aircraft's belly a short distance back from the nose, and they were ordered inside. The roomy interior reminded Therri of a ship, com- plete with its spoked wheel and binnacle. A man stood inside giving orders to several others. Unlike the guards, who all looked as if they had sprung from the same mold, he was tall and his skin looked as if it had been bleached. His head was shaved bald. He turned at the arrival of the prisoners and looked at them through dark sunglasses then handed off the electronic clipboard he was holding.
“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise. SOS to the rescue.” He smiled, but his voice had all the warmth of a wind blowing off a gla- cier.
Ryan responded as if he hadn't heard the taunt. “My name is Mar- cus Ryan, the director of Sentinels of the Sea. This is Them Weld, our legal counsel, and Chuck Mercer, SOS operations director.”
“There's no need to go through the routine of name, rank and se- rial number. I know perfectly well who you are,” the man said. “Let's not waste time. In the white-man's world, I go by the name of Fred- erick Barker. I'm called Toonook by my own people.”
“You and these others are Eskimos?” Ryan said.
“Ignorant people call us by that name, but we are Kiolya.”
“You don't fit the stereotype for an Eskimo.”
“I've inherited the genes of a New England whaling captain. What started as a humiliating liability has enabled me to pass myself off in the outside world without question, to the benefit of the Kiolya.”
“What is this thing?” Ryan said, glancing above his head.
“Beautiful, isn't it? The Nietzsche was secretly built by the Ger- mans to go to the North Pole. They planned to use it for commercial flight. It was all fitted out to take on passengers who would pay any- thing to fly aboard a real polar explorer. When it crashed, my peo- ple thought it was a gift from heaven. In a way, they were right. I've spent millions in restoration. We made improvements in the engines and their carrying capacity. The gas bags were replaced with new ones that can hold millions of cubic feet of hydrogen.”
'I thought hydrogen went out with the Hindenburg,') Mercer said.
'German airships safely traveled thousands of miles using hydro- gen. I chose it because of the weight of my cargo. Hydrogen has twice the lifting power of helium. By the means of this simplest of atoms, the People of the Aurora Borealis will achieve their rightful destiny."
“You're talking in riddles,” Ryan said.
“Not at all. Legend has it that the Kiolya were born in the aurora, which the Inuit tribes fear as a source of bad luck. Unfortunately, you and your friends will soon learn that this reputation is well-earned.”
“You intend to kill us, don't you?”
“The Kiolya don't keep prison
ers beyond their usefulness.”
“What about the villagers?”
“As I said, we don't keep prisoners.”
“Since we're doomed, why not indulge our curiosity and tell us where this aviation antique fits in.”
A cold smile crossed the pale lips. “This is where the hero plays on the villain's vanity, hoping for the cavalry to arrive. Don't waste your time. You and your friends will live only as long as I need you.”
“Aren't you interested in learning what we know about your plans?”
In answer, Barker said something in a strange language, and the leader of the guards stepped forward and handed him one of the C- 4 explosive packets that Mercer had carefully prepared. “Did you in- tend to do some mining?”
Ryan shot back. “Hell no! We planned to sink your operation like you did our ship.”
“Blunt and to the point as usual, Mr. Ryan. But I don't think you'll get the chance to ignite your little July Fourth display,” he said, his words dripping with contempt. He tossed the explosives to his hench- man. “And exactly what do you know about our 'operation'?”
“We know all about your experiments with biologically modified fish.”
“That's only part of my grand plan,” Barker said. “Let me explain what the future holds. Tonight, this airship will rise into the sky and head east. Its holding tanks will be filled with genetically modified fish in several species. It will spread my creations in the sea like a farmer planting seed. Within a few weeks and months, the native species will be wiped out. If this pilot project succeeds, as I expect it will, similar seedings will take place in all the world's oceans. In time, most of the fish on the world market will be those produced through our patented gene banks. We will have near-total monopoly.”
Ryan laughed. “Do you really think this crazy scheme will work?”
“There's nothing crazy about it. Every computer model points to a resounding success. The natural fish stocks are doomed from over- fishing and industrial pollution, anyway. I'm simply hastening the day when the oceans are turned into vast fish farms. Best of all, throwing fish into the sea isn't even against the law.”
“Killing people is against the law,” Ryan said, anger in his eyes. “You murdered my friend and colleague Josh Green.”
Therri was unable to contain herself any longer. “Josh wasn't the only one. You killed the television reporter aboard the Sentinel. Your thugs shot one of your own men in Copenhagen. You murdered Ben Nighthawk's cousin and tried to kill Senator Graham. You're keep- ing people as slaves.”
“The company lawyer has a tongue!” Barker's jaw hardened and the civilized tone he had been using turned into a snarl. “It's a pity you weren't around to argue the case for the Kiolya when they starved to death because the white men decimated the walrus. Or when the tribe was forced to leave its traditional hunting grounds, spreading throughout Canada, moving into the cities far from their homeland.”
"None of that gives you the right to kill people or to mess up the
oceans for your own good,“ she said, with unrestrained fury. ”You can terrorize a bunch of poor Indians and push us around, but you're going to have to contend with NUMA."
“I'm not going to lose any sleep over Admiral Sandecker's collec- tion of oddballs and geeks.”
“Would you lose sleep over Kurt Austin?” Ryan said.
“I know all about Austin. He's a dangerous man-but NUMA re- gards SOS as an outlaw organization. No, you and your friends here are all alone. More alone than you have ever been in your life.” Barker's tattooed henchman said something in the Kiolya language. “Umealiq reminds me that you wanted to see my pets.”
With the guards taking up the rear, Barker led the way to a side door that opened to the outside. Moments later, they were back at the building where SOS had planted the explosive charges. Only this time, the interior was brightly lit up.
Barker paused in front of one of the tanks. The fish inside was nearly ten feet long. Barker cocked his head like an artist studying his canvas.
“I did most of my early work with salmon,” Barker said. “It was comparatively easy to create giants like this. Although I actually came up with a fifty-pound sardine that lived a few months.”
He moved on to the next tank. Therri sucked in her breath at the sight of the creature inside. It was a salmon, half the size of the fish in the first tank, but it had two identical heads on the same body. 'This one didn't turn out the way I planned. You must admit it's in- teresting, though."
The fish in the next tank was even more deformed, its body cov- ered with round lumps that gave it a repulsive, pebbled appearance. In another tank was a fish with bulbous, protruding eyes. The same deformities were repeated with other species, haddock and cod and herring.
“These are hideous,” Ryan said.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Barker stopped before a tank that held a silvery-white fish about five feet long. “This is an early prototype I developed before I found that aggression and size were getting out of control in my experiments. I let some into the wild to see what happened. Unfortunately, they started to devour each other after they wiped out the local species.”
“These aren't experiments, they're monsters,” Ryan said. “Why do you let them live?”
“Feeling sorry for a fish? That's stretching it, even for SOS. Let me tell you about this fellow. He's very handy. We threw the body of the Indian into the tank along with your friend, and he stripped them down to the bone in no time. We let the other Indians watch, and they haven't given us an ounce of trouble since.”
Ryan lost his cool and launched himself at Barker. He had his hands around the man's throat, when Barker's henchman grabbed the rifle from one of the guards and slammed the butt into Ryan's head. Therri was showered with blood as Ryan slumped to the floor.
Therri felt the coldness in the pit of her stomach as she recog- nized the source of the fear she had seen in Jesse Nighthawk's eyes. She heard Barker say, “If Mr. Ryan and his friends are so concerned about their finny friends, maybe we can arrange dinner together later.”
Then the guards closed in.
NUMA 4 - White Death
34
THE EUROCOPTER CARRYING Austin, Zavala, Ben Nighthawk and the two Basques lifted off the Navarras heli- copter pad and wheeled above the yacht in a big circle. Minutes later, the SeaCobra joined the circling chopper. Flying side by side, the choppers headed west toward the afternoon sun.
From his seat next to the pilot, Austin had a clear view of the Sea- Cobra's lethal silhouette pacing the Eurocopter a few hundred feet away. The combat helicopter carried enough weaponry to level a small city. Austin was under no illusions. Oceanus would be no pushover.
Cruising at a speed of one hundred twenty-five knots, the heli- copters soon passed over a rocky shoreline and left the sea behind them. They were traveling over a dense forest of fir trees, keeping a tight formation, hugging the treetops in the hope of avoiding detec- tion. Austin checked the load in his Bowen revolver, then he sat back in his seat, closed his eyes and worked through their plan in his head.
Zavala sometimes jokingly accused Austin of making things up as he went along. There was some truth to the charge. Austin knew planning could only go so far. Having grown up on and around the water, his views were colored by his nautical experiences. He knew that a mission was like sailing a boat into foul weather; when things went wrong, they really went wrong. A good sailor kept his lines clear and his bailing can handy.
He was a strong believer in the KISS principle. Keep It Simple Stupid. Since his primary goal was to get Ben's family and friends out safely, the SeaCobra couldn't just swoop down and blast away at everything in sight. Austin knew there was no such thing as a surgi- cal strike. The chopper's armament would have to be used sparingly, a fact which neutered its fearsome capability. He furrowed his brow at the wild card that fanatical idiot Marcus Ryan had dealt him.
Austin didn't need his fondness for Therri Weld to clo
ud his judg- ment.
The Eurocopter's engine changed pitch as the aircraft cut speed and came to a hover over the forest. Ben, who was sitting behind Austin with Zavala and the Aguirrez brothers, was signaling the pilot to descend. The pilot shook his head and insisted that there was no place to land.
Pablo glanced out the window. “Do you trust the Indian?” Austin checked the landing zone. Visibility was restricted, and he could see nothing but dark greenery in the lowering sun. They were now in Ben Nighthawk's backyard. "This is his country, not mine.
Pablo nodded, then barked in Spanish at the pilot, who muttered to himself and radioed the other helicopter of his plans to land. The SeaCobra peeled off and flew a back-and-forth pattern over the woods, using its infrared detectors to see if there were any warm bodies lurking in the vicinity. Detecting no sign of human life, the SeaCobra gave the okay to land.
The Eurocopter sank into the forest. No one except Ben would have been surprised to hear the rotors shred themselves in an unequal match with the sturdy tree trunks. But the only sound was a crackle and snap of thin branches and the soft thump of the skids hitting the around. Ben's sharp eyes had seen what the others had not, that what appeared to be thick forest was in reality a cleared area overgrown with heavy underbrush. The SeaCobra dropped down a short dis- tance away.
Austin let out the breath he had been holding and jumped from the chopper with Zavala and the Aguirrez brothers right behind him. They ducked into a combat crouch with guns at the ready, de- spite the infrared sweep. As the rotors spun to a stop, a silence so com- plete that it seemed to have substance settled on them. Ben climbed out of the chopper and glanced at the upheld machine rifles.
“You won't find anyone here,” he said. “This place hasn't been used since I was a kid. There's a river over there through the trees.” He pointed to some ramshackle buildings that were barely visible in the dusky light. “That's the bunkhouse and the sawmill. It's a bad- luck place. My father said they had lots of accidents. They built a new camp downriver where they could float the logs to market quicker.”