White Death - Cussler Clive - Страница 40
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Nighthawk laughed. "I suppose the woods are a little spooky if you're not used to them." He gazed through the windshield, but in- stead of apprehension, a look of reverence bathed his round, apple- brown features. "It's different when you grow up around here. The forest and the darkness are your friends because they provide pro- tection." He paused and said wistfully, "Most of the time."
A few minutes later, Nighthawk brought the truck to a halt, and they got out and stood in the cathedral gloom. Clouds of tiny flies whirled around their heads. The powerful scent of pine was almost suffocating, but to Nighthawk it was like the finest perfume. He ab- sorbed the sights and smells with a beatific expression on his face, then he and Green donned the backpacks that carried cameras and film, survival tools, water and snacks.
Without consulting a compass, Nighthawk started walking. "This way/' he said, as confident as if he were following a dotted line on the ground.
They moved in silence across the thick carpet made up of decades of fallen pine needles, weaving their way through the tree trunks. The air was hot and oppressive, and sweat soaked their shirts within minutes. Except for clusters of ferns and moss hills, no underbrush grew beneath the trees. They made good time without bushes and briars to slow them down. As he loped after Nighthawk, Green re- flected on the path that had led him from the comfort of his air- conditioned office to this murky weald.
In addition to his duties with SOS, Green taught part-time at Georgetown University in Washington, which was where he'd met Ben Nighthawk, who was attending his class. The young Indian was in college on scholarship. He wanted to use his education to save the North Woods environment, which was threatened by development. Struck by Ben's intelligence and enthusiasm, Green had asked him to be a research assistant in the SOS office.
The lanky environmentalist and the stocky young Indian were only a few years apart in age, and they had soon become good friends as well as colleagues. Nighthawk was glad for the friendship because he infrequently made it home. His family lived on the shores of a big lake in a remote and almost inaccessible part of eastern Canada. A seaplane owned jointly by the villagers made weekly trips to the near- est town for supplies and emergencies and also carried mail back and forth.
His mother had been keeping Nighthawk up to date about a major construction project on the lake. Someone was probably build- ing a trophy lodge, Nighthawk had assumed with resignation. It was the sort of project he was determined to wage war against when he got out of college. Then, the week before, his mother had written an upsetting letter hinting at dark goings-on, and asking her son to come home as soon as he could.
Green told Nighthawk to take as much time off as he needed. A few days after Nighthawk had left for Canada, he called the SOS of- fice. He sounded desperate. "I need your help," he implored.
"Of course," Green replied, thinking his young friend had run out of money. "How much do you need?"
"I don't need any money. I'm worried about my familyV9 Nighthawk explained that he had gone to the town nearest to the village and learned that the seaplane hadn't come in for two weeks. The townspeople assumed that the plane had mechanical problems and that someone would eventually come out of the woods by land looking for replacement parts.
He borrowed a truck from a relative who lived in town and fol- lowed the crude road that led to the village. He found the road fenced off and guarded by hard-looking men who said that the property was now private. When he said he wanted to get to his village, they waved him off with their weapons and warned him not to come back.
"I don't understand," Green had said on the phone. "Didn't your family live on reservation land ?"
"There were only a handful of our people left. A big paper con- glomerate owned the land. We were squatters, technically, but the company tolerated us. They even used the tribe in ads to show what nice people they were. They sold the land, and the new owners have been working on a big project on the other side of the lake." 'It's their land; they can do what they want to." 'I know, but that doesn't explain what happened to my people."
'Good point. Have you gone to the authorities?"
"It was the first thing I did. I talked to the provincial police. They said they were contacted by a city lawyer who told them that the vil- lagers had been evicted."
"But where did they go?"
"The police asked the same question. The lawyer said they moved on. Probably squatting on someone else's property, he said. You have to understand, my people are considered eccentric anachronisms. The police here say there is nothing they can do. I need help."
As they talked, Green checked his calendar. "I'll have the company plane run me up there tomorrow morning," he said. SOS leased an executive jet that was on standby.
Are you sure.
"Why not? With Marcus tied up in Denmark, I'm nominally in command, and to be honest, having to deal with all the egos and turf wars in this office is driving me bonkers. Tell me where you are."
True to his word, Green had flown into Quebec the following day. He caught a connector flight on a small plane that took him to the town Nighthawk had called from. Ben was waiting at the tiny air- port, the truck packed with camping supplies and ready to go. They drove several hours along back roads and camped overnight.
Looking at the map by the light of the camp lantern, Green saw that the forest covered a huge area, pockmarked with large bodies of fresh water. Ben's family lived off the land, fished and hunted for a living and brought in hard cash revenue from the sport fishermen and hunters.
Green had suggested hiring a floatplane to take them in, but Nighthawk said that the heavily armed guards he encountered had made it clear that trespassers would be shot. The access road they guarded wasn't the only way to get to the village, Nighthawk said. The next morning, they'd driven a few more hours, never encoun- tering another vehicle, until they'd come to the track that led into the deep woods.
After leaving the truck, they walked now for about an hour, mov- ing like shadows in the silence of the tall trees, until Nighthawk stopped and raised his hand. He froze in place, eyes half-closed, mov- ing his head slightly back and forth like a radar antenna focusing on an incoming target. He seemed to have forsaken the ordinary senses of sight and hearing and was using some inner direction-finder.
As Green watched, fascinated, he thought, You can take the In- dian out of the forest, but you can't take the forest out of the Indian. At last, Nighthawk relaxed, reached into his pack and unscrewed a canteen. He handed it to Green.
"I hate to be a pest," Green said, taking a swig of warm water, "but
how much farther do we have to walk?" Nighthawk pointed toward the line of trees. "About a hundred yards that way is a hunter's trail that will take us to the lake."
"How do you know?" Ben tapped his nose. "No big deal. I've been following the water smell. Try it."
After a sniff or two, Green found to his surprise that he could pick up the faint scent of rotting vegetation and fish mixed with the fragrance of pine. Nighthawk took some water and tucked the can- teen back into his pack. Lowering his voice, he said, "We'll have to be very careful from here on in. I'll communicate with hand signals."
Green gave him the okay sign, and they set off again. Almost im- mediately, the scenery began to change. The trees grew shorter and slimmer as the soil under their feet became sandier. The under- growth thickened, and they had to push their way through thorns that ripped at their clothes.
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