White Death - Cussler Clive - Страница 5

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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.

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."

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