White Death

by Clive Cussler

For thriller fans everywhere, the electrifying new series from Clive
Cussler has been a cause for rejoicing.  With the adventures of Kurt
Austin, taken from the NUMA Files, "Cussler is in top form," says
Publishers Weekly, with "enough derring-do and eco-lore to leave his
fans breathless."

Hailed as a hero for the new millennium, Austin is the leader of NUMA's Special Assignments Team and the threat before him now is definitely
special.  A confrontation between a radical environmentalist group and
a Danish cruiser has forced Austin and colleague Joe Zavala to come to
the rescue of a shipful of trapped men, but when the two of them
investigate further, they discover that something far more sinister is
at work.  A shadowy multinational corporation is attempting to wrest
control of the very seas themselves, no matter what havoc results, and
is killing anyone who attempts to stop it.  When Austin's boat blows up
and he only barely survives, it seems certain he was supposed to be the
next in line to die, but he cannot stop now.  For the environmental
disaster has already begun, and only he and NUMA stand in the way..
..

Filled with all the hair-raising action and endless imagination unique
to Cussler, White Death is an exceptional thriller from the grand
master of adventure fiction.

Clive Cussler is the author or coauthor of twenty-two previous books,
including, most recently, the number-one bestseller Valhalla Rising,
the NUMA Files novel Fire Ice, and the nonfiction work The Sea Hunters
II.  The last describes the true-life adventures of the real NUMA ,
which, led by Cussler, searches for lost ships of historic
significance.  With his crew of volunteers, Cussler has discovered more
than sixty ships, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley.
He divides his time between the mountains of Colorado and the deserts
of Arizona.

Paul Kemprecos co-authored the Numa Files novels Serpent, Blue Gold,
and Fire Ice, and is a Shamus Award-winning author of six underwater
detective thrillers.  A certified scuba diver and a former newspaper
reporter, columnist, and editor, he lives in Massachusetts.

Jacket design and illustration 2003 Lawrence Ratzkin

Photograph of Clive Cussler 2001 Tom Story

Visit our website at: www.penguin.com

Visit the NUMA website at www.numa.net

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

DIRK PITT ADVENTURES BY CLIVE CUSSLER

Valhalla Rising

Atlantis Found

Flood Tide

Shock Wave

Inca Gold

Sahara

Dragon

Treasure

Cyclops

Deep Six

Pacific Vortex

Night Probe!

Vixen 03

Raise the Titanic!

Iceberg

The Mediterranean Caper

FICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH PAUL KEMPRECOS

Fire Ice

Blue Gold

Serpent

NONFICTION BY CLIVE CUSSLER WITH CRAIG DIR GO

The Sea Hunters II

Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed

The Sea Hunters

A NOVEL FROM THE NUMA FILES

CLIVE CUSSLER

with PAUL KEMPRECOS

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

G. P. Putnam's Sons Publishers Since 1838

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street New York, NY 10014

Copyright 2003 by Sandecker, RLLLP

All rights reserved.  This book, or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced in any form without permission.

Published simultaneously in Canada

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cussler, Clive.

White death : a novel from the NUMA files / Clive Cussler with Paul
Kemprecos.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-399-15041-2

1. Austin, Kurt (Fictitious character) Fiction.  2. Underwater
exploration Fiction.  3. Marine scientists Fiction.

I. Kemprecos, Paul.  II.  Title.

PS3553.U75W47 2003 2003046501

813'.54 dc21

Printed in the United States of America 13579 10 8642

This book is printed on acid-free paper.  @ BOOK DESIGN BY LOVE DOG

STUDIO

WHITE DEATH

Prologue I

West of the British Isles, 1515

DIEGO AGUIRREZ AWOKE from his restless sleep thinking that a rat had
scurried across his face.  His wide forehead was bathed in a cold
sweat, his heart hammered in his chest, and a formless panic gnawed
hungrily at his innards.  He listened to the muffled snores of his
sleeping crewmen and the chuckle and swash of wavelets against the
wooden hull.  Nothing appeared to be amiss.  Yet he couldn't shake the
uneasy feeling that an unseen threat lurked in the shadows.

Easing from his hammock, Aguirrez wrapped a thick woolen blanket around
his brawny shoulders and climbed a companionway to the fog-shrouded
deck.  In the muted light of the moon, the solidly built caravel
glistened as if it were made of spiderwebs.  Aguirrez went over to a
form huddled next to the yellow glow of an oil lamp.

"Good evening, Captain," the man said at his approach.

Aguirrez was pleased to see that the watch was awake and alert.

"Good evening," the captain replied.  "All goes well?"  "Yes, sir.
Still no wind, though."

Aguirrez glanced up at the ghostly masts and sails.  "It will come.  I
can smell it."

"Aye, Captain," the man said, stifling a yawn.  "Go below and get some
sleep.  I'll relieve you."  "It isn't time yet.  My shift's not over
for another turn of the glass."  The captain picked up the hourglass
next to the lamp and turned it over.  "There," he said.  "Now it's
time."

The man grunted his thanks and shuffled off to the crew's quarters
while the captain took up a post in the ship's high, squared-off stern
castle.  He gazed off to the south, staring into the smoky mists that
rose like steam from the mirror-flat sea.  He was still at his post
when the sun rose.  His olive-black eyes were red-rimmed, and they
ached with weariness.  His blanket was soggy with moisture.  With
typical stubbornness, he ignored the discomforts and paced back and
forth like a caged tiger.

The captain was a Basque, an inhabitant of the rugged mountains between
Spain and France, and his instincts, honed by years at sea, were not to
be taken lightly.  The Basques were the best sailors in the world, and
men like Aguirrez routinely voyaged to regions that more timid mariners
regarded as the realm of sea serpents and giant whirlpools.  Like many
Basques, he had eyebrows like bramble thickets, large protruding ears,
a long, straight nose and a chin like a mountain ledge.  In later
years, scientists would suggest that the Basques, with their heavy
facial features, were the direct descendants of Cro-Magnon man.

The crew emerged yawning and stretching into the gray predawn light and
set about their tasks.  The captain refused offers to relieve him.  His
persistence was rewarded near midmorning.  His bloodshot eyes glimpsed
a shimmering splinter of light through the thick

curtain of haze.  The quick nervous flicker lasted only an instant, but
it filled Aguirrez with an odd combination of relief and dread.

Pulse quickening, Aguirrez raised the brass spyglass that hung by a
cord around his neck, snapped the sections to their full length and
squinted through the eyepiece.  At first he saw only a gray monotone
circle of magnification where the fog bank blended with the sea.  The
captain wiped his eyes with his sleeve, blinked to clear his vision and
raised the telescope again.  Again he saw nothing.  A trick of the
light, he thought.

Suddenly, he saw movement through the lens.  A sharp prow had emerged
from the mists like the probing beak of a raptor.  Then the full length
of the boat came into view.  The slim black-hulled craft shot forward,
glided a few seconds, then surged forward again.  Two other ships
followed in quick succession, scudding over the flat surface like giant
water insects.  Aguirrez swore softly to himself.

War galleys.

Sunlight reflected off the wet oars that dipped into the sea with a
mechanical cadence.  With each sweep of the oars, the sleek vessels
rapidly closed the gap separating them from the sailing ship.

The captain calmly appraised the fast-approaching ships from stem to
stern, taking in the clean, functional lines with the appreciation of a
skilled shipbuilder.  True greyhounds of the sea, capable of short
bursts of high speed, the fighting galleys developed by Venice were
used by dozens of European countries.

Each galley was propelled by a hundred-and-fifty oars, three ranks of
twenty-five on each side.  The low, level profile imparted a
streamlined look that was ahead of its time, gracefully curving up at
the rear where the captain's house overhung the stern.  The prow was
elongated, although it no longer functioned as a ram as in times past.
The bow had been transformed into an artillery platform.

A small three-sided lateen sail hung from a single mast near the

stern, but human muscle power gave the galley its speed and
maneuverability.  The Spanish penal system provided a steady supply of
rowers condemned to die pulling the heavy thirty-foot oars.  The
cor-sia, a narrow gangway that ran fore and aft, was the realm of hard
men who urged the rowers on with threats and whip-lashes.

Aguirrez knew that the firepower arrayed against his ship would be
formidable.  The galleys were nearly twice the eighty-foot length of
his tubby caravel.  The fighting galley routinely carried fifty of the
single-shot muzzle-loaded smoothbore arquebuses.  The heaviest gun, a
cast-iron, high-angle mortar called a bombard, was mounted on the bow
artillery platform.  Its position on the right-front side was a
holdover from the days when naval strategy centered on ramming the
enemy head-on.

While the galley was a throwback to the sturdy Greek craft that carried
Odysseus from Circe to Cyclops, the caravel was the wave of the future.
Fast and maneuverable for its day, the rugged ship could sail anywhere
on the watery surface of the earth.  The caravel blended its southern
rigging with a tough northern hull of flush-built planking and a
hinged, axe led rudder.  The easily rigged lateen sails, descended from
the Arabic dhow, made the ship far superior to any contemporary sailing
vessel when sailing close to the wind.

Unfortunately for Aguirrez, those sails, so miraculous in their simple
efficiency, now hung limply from the twin masts.  With no breeze to
stir the canvas, the sails were useless sheets of fabric.  The becalmed
caravel was glued to the surface of the sea like a ship in a bottle.

Aguirrez glanced at the lifeless canvas and cursed the elements
conspiring against him.  He seethed at the short-sighted arrogance that
had led him to defy his instinct to stay far out to sea.  With their
low freeboard, the galleys were not designed for open waters and would
have had difficulty following the caravel.  But he had sailed close to
land because the route was more direct.  With favorable

winds, his ship could outrun any vessel on the sea.  He'd never
anticipated a dead calm.  Nor had he expected the galleys to find him
so easily.

He brushed away his self-recriminations and suspicions.  Time enough to
deal with questions later.  Tossing his blanket aside as if it were a
matador's cape, he strode the length of the ship bellowing orders.  The
men came alive as the captain's powerful voice echoed from one end of
the ship to the other.  Within seconds, the deck resembled a stirred-up
anthill.

"Launch the boats!"  Aguirrez pointed to the approaching warships.
"Look smart, lads, or we'll be keeping the executioners working day and
night."

They moved to their tasks with quicksilver speed.  Every man on board
the caravel knew that the horrors of torture and burning at the stake
would be their fate if the galleys captured them.  Within minutes, all
three of the caravel's boats were in the water, manned by the strongest
rowers.  The lines attached to the ship went bowstring-taut, but the
caravel stubbornly refused to move.  Aguirrez yelled at his men to row
harder.  The air over his head turned blue as he appealed to their
Basque manhood with every salty curse he could muster.

"Pull together!"  Aguirrez shouted, his dark eyes blazing.  "You're
rowing like a bunch of Spanish whores."

The oars churned the calm water into a sudsy foam.  The ship shuddered
and creaked, and finally it began to inch forward.  Aguirrez roared his
encouragement and dashed back to the stern.  He leaned on the rail and
put his eye to his spyglass.  Through the lens, he saw a tall, thin man
in the bow platform of the lead galley looking back at him through a
telescope.

"El Brasero," Aguirrez whispered with unveiled contempt.

Ignatius Martinez saw Aguirrez looking at him and curled his thick
voluptuary's lips in a snarl of triumph.  His pitiless yellow eyes
burned with fanaticism in their deep-set sockets.  The long
aristocratic nose was lifted in the air as if it had encountered a bad
smell.

"Captain Blackthorne," he purred to the red-bearded man at his side,
"spread the word among the rowers.  Tell them they will be free if we
catch our prey."

The captain shrugged and carried out the order, knowing that Martinez
had no intention of keeping his promise, that it was merely a cruel
deception.

El Brasero was Spanish for brazier.  Martinez had earned his nickname
for his zeal in roasting heretics at the auto defe, as the public
spectacles of punishment were called.  He was a familiar figure at the
quemerdo, or place of burning, where he used every means, including
bribery, to make sure that he had the honor of lighting the pyre.
Although his official title was Public Prosecutor and Advisor to the
Inquisition, he had persuaded his higher-ups to appoint him as the
Inquisitor in charge of prosecuting the Basques.  The prosecution of
the Basques was extremely profitable.  The Inquisition immediately
confiscated the property of the accused.  The stolen wealth of its
victims financed the Inquisition's prisons, secret police, torture
chambers, army and bureaucracy, and it made rich men of the
Inquisitors.

Basques had brought the arts of navigation and shipbuilding to
unheard-of levels of expertise.  Aguirrez had sailed to the secret
fishing grounds across the Western Sea dozens of times on whaling or
cod-fishing trips.  Basques were natural capitalists, and many, like
Aguirrez, had become rich selling whale products and cod.  His busy
shipyard on the Nervion River built vessels of every type and size.
Aguirrez had been aware of the Inquisition and its excesses, but he was
too busy running his various enterprises and enjoying the infrequent
company of his beautiful wife and two children to give it much thought.
It was on his return from one trip that he had learned firsthand that
Martinez and the Inquisition were malevolent forces that could not be
ignored.

An angry crowd had greeted the fish-laden ships that edged up to the
docks to unload their catch.  The people had shouted for Aguirrez's
attention and pleaded for his help.  The Inquisition had arrested a
group of local women and charged them with witchcraft.  His wife had
been among those taken.  She and the others had been tried and found
guilty and were being moved from prison to the burning place.

Aguirrez calmed the crowd and went directly to the provincial capital.
Although he was a man of influence, his pleas to free the prisoners
fell on deaf ears.  Officials said they could do nothing; this was a
church matter, not a civil one.  Some whispered that their own lives
and property could be placed in jeopardy if they went against the
orders of the Holy Office.  "El Brasero," they whispered in fear.

Aguirrez had taken matters into his own hands and rounded up a hundred
of his men.  They'd attacked the convoy taking the accused witches to
the stake, and freed the women without firing a shot.  Even as he took
his wife into his arms, Aguirrez knew that El Brasero had engineered
the witchcraft arrests and trials to bring the Basque and his property
within his greedy grasp.

Aguirrez suspected that there was an even more compelling reason he had
come to the Inquisition's attention.  The year before, a council of
elders had given him stewardship of the most sacred relics of
Basqueland.  One day they would be used to rally the Basques in a fight
for independence against Spain.  For now, they were contained in a
chest hidden in a secret chamber of Aguirrez's luxurious home. Martinez
could have heard of the artifacts.  The region was rife with informers.
Martinez would know how sacred relics could ignite fanaticism, in much
the same way that the Holy Grail had launched the bloody Crusades. 
Anything that united the Basques would be a threat to the
Inquisition.

Martinez did not respond to the freeing of the women.  Aguirrez was no
fool.  Martinez would strike only after he had collected every scrap of
incriminating evidence.  Aguirrez used this time to prepare.  He put
the fastest caravel in his fleet up on the ways at San Sebastian, as if
it were undergoing repairs.  He spread generous amounts of money around
to enlist his own army of spies, including some in the prosecutor's
entourage, and made it known that the biggest reward would go to the
man who warned of his arrest.  Then he went about his business as usual
and waited, staying close to home, where he surrounded himself with
guards, all veterans of combat.

Several months quietly passed.  Then one night, one of his spies, a man
who worked in the office of the Inquisition itself, galloped
breathlessly up to his villa and pounded on his door.  Martinez was
leading a group of soldiers to arrest him.  Aguirrez paid off the
grateful spy and put his well-laid plans into effect.  He kissed his
wife and children good-bye and promised to meet them in Portugal. While
his family escaped in a farm wagon with much of their wealth, a decoy
was dispatched to lead the arrest party on a merry chase through the
countryside.  Accompanied by his armed entourage, Aguirrez made his way
to the coast.  Under cover of darkness, the caravel slid down the ways,
unfurled its sails and headed north.

When the sun rose the next day, a fleet of fighting galleys had emerged
from the dawn mists in an attempt to cut the caravel off.  Using adroit
seamanship, Aguirrez had eluded his pursuers, and a steady breeze had
sent the ship winging north along the coast of France.  He set a course
for Denmark, where he would begin the turn west toward Greenland and
Iceland, and the Great Land beyond.  But then, off the British Isles,
the ship's wake petered out along

with the wind, and Aguirrez and his men found themselves sitting in a
pool of dead air ...

Now, with the trio of galleys closing in for the kill, Aguirrez was
determined to fight to the death if need be, but his strongest instinct
was survival.  He ordered the gun crew to prepare for battle.  In
arming the caravel, he had sacrificed armament for speed, firepower for
flexibility.

The standard arquebus was a cumbersome muzzle-loaded matchlock gun that
was hooked onto a portable stand and needed two men to load and fire.
The gunners on the caravel were armed with smaller, lighter versions
that could be fired by one man.  His crewmen were excellent marksmen
who would make every shot count.  For heavy artillery, Aguirrez had
chosen a pair of bronze cannon that could be moved on wheeled
carriages.  The gun crews had drilled to the point where they could
load, aim and fire with clockwork precision unheard of in most ships.

The rowers were visibly tired, and the ship was like a fly crawling
across a bucket of molasses.  The galleys were almost within firing
range.  Their snipers could pick off the rowers with ease.  He decided
that the men would have to stay at their oars.  As long as the ship
moved, Aguirrez had a modicum of control.  He urged his men to keep
pulling, and he was turning back to help the gun crew when his
fine-tuned senses detected a shift in temperature, usually the
harbinger of a breeze.  The smaller lateen sail flapped like the wing
of an injured bird.  Then it was still.

As the captain scanned the sea for the puckering of the surface that
would herald a puff of wind, he heard the unmistakable roar of a
bombard.  The wide-mouthed mortar was carried in a fixed carriage with
no means of training or elevation.  The cannonball splashed

harmlessly into the sea about a hundred yards off the caravel's stern.
Aguirrez laughed, knowing that it was practically impossible to score a
direct hit with a bombard, even on a target as slow-moving as the
caravel.

The galleys had been moving three-abreast.  As a cloud of smoke drifted
over the water, the galleys flanking the lead boat shot ahead and came
straight in behind the caravel.  The maneuver was a feint.  Both
galleys veered to the left, and one took the lead.  Galleys had most of
their armament on the right front side.  As they passed the slow-moving
caravel, they could rake its deck and rigging with small and medium
guns.

Anticipating the attack, Aguirrez had placed both cannon close together
on the port side and covered their muzzles with a black cloth.  The
enemy would assume that the caravel also carried the inefficient
bombard and that its flanks were virtually unprotected.

The captain scanned the artillery platform through the spyglass and
swore as he recognized a former crewman who had sailed with him on many
fishing trips.  The man knew the route Aguirrez followed to the Western
Sea.  More than likely, the Inquisition was holding a threat against
his family.

Aguirrez checked the elevation of each cannon.  He pulled aside the
black cloth and sighted through the gun ports on an imaginary circle on
the sea.  Having encountered no opposition, the first galley came in
close to the caravel and Aguirrez gave the order to fire.  Both cannon
thundered.  One shot was premature and snapped the beak off the galley,
but the second cannonball smashed into the artillery platform.

The bow section disintegrated in a burst of fire and smoke.  Water
poured into the ruptured hull, aided by the galley's forward speed, and
the boat slipped below the surface and sank within moments.  Aguirrez
felt a pang of pity for the rowers, manacled to their oars and

unable to escape, but their death would be quick compared to weeks and
months of suffering.

The crew of the second galley saw the lead boat's fate, and in a
display of the nimbleness the triremes were famous for, it veered
sharply away from the caravel, then looped around to rejoin Martinez,
who had prudently held his boat back.

Aguirrez guessed that the galleys would split up, come around both
sides of the ship, careful to stay out of cannon range, then circle
back and attack the vulnerable rowers.  Almost as if Martinez were
reading his thoughts, the galleys pulled apart and each began a long
swing around the opposite sides of the ship, circling like wary
hyenas.

Aguirrez heard a snap above his head, caused by a desultory flap of the
mainsail.  He held his breath, wondering if it was only an errant puff
as before.  Then the sail flapped again and filled out, and the masts
creaked.  He ran to the bow, leaned over the rail and shouted at his
deck crew to bring the rowers back on board.

Too late.

The galleys had cut short their long, lazy loop and angled sharply back
on a course that brought them directly at the ship.  The right-hand
galley swung around and presented its long side, and the gunners
concentrated their arquebus fire on the defenseless longboat.  A
withering fusillade raked the rowers.

Emboldened, the second galley tried the same maneuver on the port side.
The caravel's marksmen had rallied after being taken by surprise, and
they concentrated their fire on the exposed artillery platform where
Aguirrez had last seen Martinez.  El Brasero was undoubtedly hiding
behind thick wood, but he would get the message.

The volley hit the platform like a leaden fist.  As soon as the
marksmen let off one shot, they picked up another weapon and fired
again, while crewmen feverishly reloaded the guns.  The fusillade was
continuous and deadly.  Unable to withstand the prolonged hail of fire,
the galley veered off, its hull splintered and its oars in fragments.

The caravel's crew rushed to haul in the long boats.  The first boat
was bathed in blood and half the rowers were dead.  Aguirrez yelled
orders to his heavy gunners, raced to the helm and grabbed the wheel.
Gun crews swarmed around the cannon and muscled the heavy weapons into
the bow gun ports.  Other deckhands adjusted the rigging to wring the
most out of the freshening breeze.

As the caravel picked up speed, leaving a growing wake, the captain
steered the ship toward the galley that had been raked by fire from his
gunners.  The galley tried to elude him, but it had lost rowers and was
moving erratically.  Aguirrez waited until he was within fifty yards.
The galley's gunners fired at their pursuer, but the shots had little
effect.

The cannon boomed and the balls scored a direct hit on the roofed
captain's house on the stern, blasting it to toothpicks.  The cannon
were speedily reloaded and aimed at the galley's waterline, where they
punched massive holes in the hull.  Heavy with men and equipment, the
galley quickly slipped under the surface, leaving bubbles, shards of
wood and a few hapless swimmers to mark its passing.

The captain turned his attention to the third galley.

Seeing the odds change, Martinez was on the run.  His galley sped off
to the south like a startled hare.  The agile caravel turned from its
kill and tried to follow.  Aguirrez had blood in his eyes as he savored
the prospect of dousing El Brasero's fire.

It was not to be.  The freshening breeze was still gentle, and the
caravel could not match the speed of the fleeing galley, whose rowers
were pulling for their lives.  Before long, the galley was a dark spot
on the ocean.

Aguirrez would have chased Martinez to the ends of the earth, but he
saw sails on the horizon and guessed that they might be enemy
reinforcements  The Inquisition had a long reach.  He remembered his
promise to his wife and children and his responsibility to the Basque
people.  Reluctantly, he swung the ship around and set a course north
toward Denmark.  Aguirrez had no illusions about his enemy.  Martinez
might be a coward, but he was patient and persistent.  It would be only
a matter of time before they met again.

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
front 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 Prussian naval
officer.

Braun checked the compass heading, then turned to a portly middle-aged
man whose bushy, upturned mustache made him resemble 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
kilometers 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 promoting 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 of Germany," sneered Gerhardt
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 forgotten
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 preening
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 intimidating, 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 psychological yoke imposed by the
Treaty of Versailles.  When Lutz had proposed 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 Graf Zeppelin.  As part
of the deal, he agreed to take Heinz along on the expedition 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 Spitsbergen
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,
unnecessarily 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
circled 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
redundant 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
operate at subfreezing Arctic temperatures.  It is the fastest airship
ever built.  We have a network of planes and ships in place that will
respond immediately if we run into any problems.  Our meteorological
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 others 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.  
Although the bluish-white surface looked flat from a thousand feet the
air, land explorers had learned the hard way that it was cris crossed
by ridges and hummocks.

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

The anticipation grew, and even those who were off-duty crowds 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 in the
ice."

The captain peered through his binoculars at where the crew ma 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 elal
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 bat.
"Nevertheless, there is a boat on the ice."

"What would a boat be doing here?"  Heinz said, eyes blinking rapidly.  "I've heard of no other expeditions to the pole.  I order you to
return 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 little man
out the door and watch his body fall onto the pack ice.

Lutz recognized the dangerous mood the captain was in and intervened.
"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 mission,"
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
conspicuously blew smoke in the air, daring the captain to stop him.

The captain ignored the defiant gesture and gave the order to descend.
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 psychedelic 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 dangerous 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 Leif Ericsson stood by, and a
helicopter circled above in the overcast sky.

It was drizzling, typical summer weather for the Faroes, an archipelago
of eighteen specks of rock located in the northeast Atlantic halfway
between Denmark and Iceland.  The 45,000 human inhabitants of the
Faroes are largely descended from the Vikings, who settled 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
navigated rolling seas, some members of the Fourth Estate were wishing
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 slaughtering 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 surprising
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
perfect 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 ypu 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 document
as legal under international agreements.  On the other hand, our ships
have been rammed, our people gassed and shot at and illegal arrests
made."

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

"I would ask them: What could be more terrifying than the coldblooded
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 athletic 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 encounter in
these waters to pursue a boycott of Faroe fish."

"But you still haven't stopped the grinds," 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 of whale-huggers like
us.  But while I admire the Faroese, I think the grind arap 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 hardening.
"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.  Sometimes
you'll see people sawing the animals' heads off while the whales are
still alive!"

A blond female reporter said, "How is & 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 reporter
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
modern 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.  Hundreds 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 of fish-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 between
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 Leif Ericsson 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 captain, "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, Captain
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 necessary 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 Warship
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 respect
for his judgment.  His problem was that he didn't have clear direction
from the bureaucrats in Copenhagen."

"Bureaucrats like me?"  Becker said.

The captain responded with a tight smile.  "I follow orders.  My
superiors said that you were coming aboard as a navy-department
observer.  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 Ericsson.  The official was short and dark, and with his
large, moist eyes and long nose, he looked like a despondent 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 hotheads 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 grin
damp 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
fishing.  We don't want the Faroes to lose their livelihood so that
they become 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
anything 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 authority 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, bouncing 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 directly
toward the Sea Sentinel.  Then the captain turned to Becker and gave
him a grim smile.

"We're about to find out."

RYAN WATCHED THE cruiser break out of its lazy circle and head toward
the SOS ship.  "Looks like Hamlet finally made a decision," he said to
Chuck Mercer, his first mate, who was at the wheel of the Sea
Sentinel.

The Sea Sentinel had been trying to drive the whales out to sea.  The
pod held about fifty pilot whales, and some of the female whales were
holding back to stay with their calves, slowing the rescue attempt. The
SOS ship zigzagged like a lone cowpoke trying to corral stray cattle,
but the nervous whales made the job almost impossible.

"Like herding cats," Ryan muttered.  He went out on the starboard
bridge wing to see how close the advancing whaleboats were to the pod.
He had never seen so many islanders involved in a.grind.  It seemed as
if every harbor in the Faroes had emptied out.  Dozens of boats,
ranging in size from commercial trawlers to open dories powered by
outboard motors, were speeding from several different

directions to join the hunt.  The dark water was streaked with their
wakes.

Therri Weld was already out on the wing, watching the armada gather.
"You've got to admire their stubbornness," she said.

Ryan was equally awestruck.  He nodded in agreement.  "Now I know how
Custer felt.  The Faroese are going all out to defend their bloody
traditions."

"This is no spontaneous outpouring," Therri said.  "From the orderly
way they're moving, they've got a plan."

The words had barely left her lips when, as if on signal, the advancing
fleet began to split up in a pincer movement.  In a classic military
flanking maneuver, the boats swept around Ryan's ship so they were on
the seaward side of the slow-moving whales.  They spread out in a line,
facing inshore, with the pilot whales between them and the Sea
Sentinel.  The ends of the line began to curve slowly inward.  The
whales bunched closer together and moved toward shore.

Ryan was afraid of hurting the panicked whales or breaking up family
units if the ship stood in plaCe.  Reluctantly, he ordered the helmsman
to move the ship out of the path of the hunt.

As the Sea Sentinel moved aside, a loud chorus of triumphant cheers
went up from the fishermen.  The line of boats began to wrap itself
around the hapless whales in a deadly embrace.  The whale-boats moved
forward, tightening up the line to drive their prey to the killing
field, where the sharp knives and spears of the executioners awaited.

Ryan ordered Mercer to steer the Sea Sentinel out to open water.

"Giving up awfully easy," Mercer said.

"Wait and see," Ryan said, with an enigmatic smile.

The cruiser came up alongside the Sea Sentinel like a cop escorting an
unruly spectator from a soccer game, but when the ships were about a
half mile from the whale hunt, the navy escort began to fall
back.  Ryan took over the wheel, frequently checking the cruiser's
location.  When the ships were in what he judged to be the right
position, he picked up the phone to the engine room.

"Full speed ahead," he ordered.

The Sea Sentinel was a clunky wide-beamed vessel, high at both ends,
with a silhouette like an old-fashioned bathtub.  The slow-moving
research ship was designed mainly as a stable platform from which to
launch undersea instrumentation and nets.  The first thing Ryan had
done after SOS had acquired the ship at auction was to outfit the
engine room with powerful diesels that could push her along at a more
respectable clip.

Ryan cut the wheel hard left.  The ship shivered from the strain as it
circled about in a great arcing swash of foam and raced back toward the
whale hunt.  Caught off-guard, the cruiser attempted to follow, but the
warship couldn't match the Sea Sentinel's tight turn and went wide,
losing valuable seconds.

The whale hunt had advanced to within a mile of shore when the Sea
Sentinel caught up with the pod and the line of herdsmen.  The SOS ship
made a sharp turn that brought it across the wakes of the whaleboats.
Ryan stayed at the wheel.  He wanted sole responsibility in case
something went wrong.  His plan to disrupt the hunt required a deft
touch on the helm.  Too fast or too close, and the whalers would be
overturned and thrown into the frigid water.  He kept the ship at an
even speed, using its broad beam to create a following sea.  The wave
hit the boats stern-on.  Some boats managed to ride the wave that
lifted them out of the water.  Others lost headway and spun around in a
wild attempt to prevent pitchpoling.

The line broke up into a disorganized jumble, leaving large open spaces
between the boats, like gaps in a row of teeth.  Ryan spun the wheel
again and brought the Sea Sentinel around in another sharp

turn that placed the ship broadside to the advancing whales.  The
whales fleeing the advancing whalers sensed the presence of the vessel,
turned back in the opposite direction and began to break through the
openings in the hunt line.

Now it was the turn of the Sea Sentinel's crew to cheer but their
jubilation was short-lived.  The faster-moving cruiser had caught up
with the SOS ship and was alongside no more than a hundred yards away,
matching the Sea Sentinel's speed knot for knot.  A voice speaking in
English crackled over the radio.

"This is Captain Petersen of the Leif Eriksson calling the SOS vessel
Sea Sentinel."

Ryan snatched up the microphone.  "This is Captain Ryan.  What can I do
for you, Captain Petersen?"

"You are requested to move your ship to open water."

"We are acting in accordance with international law."  He gave Therri a
crooked grin.  "My legal advisor is standing here by my side."

"I don't intend to debate the finer points of the law with you or your
advisors, Captain Ryan.  You are endangering Danish fishermen.  I have
the authority to use force.  If you don't move immediately, I will blow
your ship out of the water."

The gun turret on the frigate's fore deck turned so that the barrel was
pointed directly at the Sea Sentinel.

"That's a dangerous game you're playing," Ryan said with deliberate
calmness.  "A bad shot could miss us and sink some of those fishermen
you're trying to protect."

Petersen said, "I don't think we would miss at this range, but I want
to avoid bloodshed.  You've given the TV cameras plenty of footage.
Many pilot whales have escaped, and the hunt has been disrupted. You've
made your point and are no longer welcome."

Ryan chuckled.  "Nice to deal with a reasonable man.  Unlike your
gun-happy predecessor.  Okay, I will pull out of the way, but we're not
leaving Faroe waters.  We've got other business."

"You are free to do as you please, as long as it doesn't break our laws
or endanger our people."

Ryan breathed a sigh of relief, his outward serenity only an act he was
aware of the danger to his crew and the press people.  He turned the
helm back to his first mate and gave the order to move off slowly. Once
beyond the hunt area, the Sea Sentinel headed out to sea.  Ryan's plan
was to anchor the ship a few miles offshore while he prepared for the
protest against the fish farm.

Chastened by the Sea Sentinel's earlier move, Petersen made sure the
cruiser stayed slightly behind, ready to dart in and cut off the ship
if it tried to break away.

Therri broke the tension in the pilothouse.  "Captain Petersen doesn't
know what a narrow escape he just had," she said, with a grin.  "One
shot and I would have dragged him into court and slapped a property
lien on his ship."

"I think he was more afraid of our garbage gun," Ryan said.

Their mirth was cut short by the sound of Mercer swearing.

Ryan said, "What's wrong, Chuck?"

"Damnit, Mark."  Mercer was standing with both hands on the wheel. "You
must have messed up the steering pushing this ship around like a Jet
Ski."  He frowned, then stepped back.  "Here, you try it."

Ryan tried to turn the wheel.  It gave for an inch on either side, but
it seemed locked into place.  He exerted a slight pressure, then gave
up.  "The damned thing is locked into place," Ryan said, with a
combination of anger and puzzlement.

Ryan picked up the telephone, ordered the engine room to stop and
turned his attention back to the wheel.  Instead of slowing down, the

ship inexplicably picked up speed.  Ryan swore and called down to the
engine room again.

"What's wrong, Cal?"  he barked.  "Those engines finally made you deaf?
I said cut speed, not increase it."

Ryan's engineer, Cal Rumson, was a topflight seaman.  "Hell, I know
what you said," Cal replied.  The frustration in his voice was obvious.
"I did reduce speed.  The engines are acting crazy.  The controls don't
seem to be working."  "Then kill the power," Ryan said.  "I'm trying,
but the diesels are working harder."  "Keep trying, Cal."

Ryan slammed the phone in its cradle.  This was insanity!  The ship
seemed to have a mind of her own.  Ryan's eyes swept the sea ahead of
the ship.  Good news.  No vessels or land masses in the way.  The worst
that could happen would be to run out of fuel in the Atlantic.  Ryan
picked up the radio microphone to inform the cruiser of their
predicament.  But he was interrupted by a yell from Mercer.  "The
wheel's turning!"

Mercer was trying to hold on to the wheel, which was gradually spinning
slowly to the right, bringing the ship around toward the cruiser.  Ryan
grabbed the rim, then he and Mercer tried to bring the ship back on
course.  They used every ounce of strength they could muster, but the
wheel slipped out of their sweaty hands and the Sea Sentinel moved
closer to the warship.

The Danish ship had taken notice of the course change.  A familiar
voice crackled over the radio.

"Come in, Sea Sentinel.  This is Captain Petersen.  What is the
intention of your course change?"

"We're having problems with our steering.  The wheel is locked and we
can't shut down our engines."  "That's impossible," Petersen said.

"Tell that to the ship!"

A pause.  Then Petersen said, "We'll bear off to give you plenty of sea
room.  We'll issue a warning as to any ships in your way."

"Thanks.  Looks like you'll get your wish about us leaving the
Faroes."

The cruiser began to peel away.

But before the Danish ship could veer off, the Sea Sentinel made a
sharp turn and drove toward the cruiser's exposed side like a
water-borne guided missile.

Sailors lined the cruiser's decks and frantically tried to wave off the
advancing ship.  The cruiser blew short, rapid warning bursts of its
horn.  Voices squawked over the radio in Danish and English.

Seeing that the ships were within seconds of disaster, the sailors ran
for their lives.

In a last desperate attempt to avert a certain collision, Ryan put all
his weight into the wheel.  He was still hanging on when the ship
smashed into the side of the cruiser.  The Sea Sentinel's sharp bow
penetrated the steel hull plates like a bayonet, then slid off the
moving ship in a horrendous shriek of tearing metal.

The Sea Sentinel wallowed in the ocean like a dazed boxer who had just
taken a hard right to the nose.  The cruiser was struggling to keep
afloat, as thousands of gallons of water poured in through the gaping
hole in the hull.  Crewmen scrambled into the lifeboats and prepared to
lower them into the cold sea.

Therri had been thrown to her knees, by the impact.  Ryan helped her to
her feet, and he and the others in the pilothouse dashed down to the
deck.  The panicked TV people, seeing that they were now part of the
story rather than covering it, were trying to get someone to tell them
what to do.  People were bruised and limping.

Someone was screaming for help, and crew and press people were

extracting a bloody body from the metal mush that was all that was left
of the bow section.

Ryan shouted orders to abandon ship.

With all the yelling and confusion, no one looked up to see the
helicopter wheeling high above the ships.  The chopper circled a few
times like a hungry buzzard, then headed off along the coast.

Off the northern coast of Russia

TWELVE HUNDRED MILES southeast of the Faroe Islands, the
search-and-survey ship William Beebe lay at anchor in the frigid waters
of the Barents Sea.  The letters NUMA were emblazoned on the
250-foot-long turquoise hull.  Named after one of the pioneers in
deep-sea exploration, the Beebe bristled with muscular cranes and
winches capable of hoisting entire boats off the ocean floor.

Four crewmen dressed in Neoprene wet suits stood on the stern deck,
eyes fixed on a patch of ocean where the surface roiled like a bubbling
cauldron.  The surface grew paler and mounded into a foamy white dome,
and the submersible rescue vehicle Sea Lamprey burst from the water
like a mutant leviathan coming up for air.  With the precision of a
navy assault team, the ready crew pushed an outboard-powered inflatable
down the stern ramp into the water, scrambled aboard and raced toward
the wallowing submersible.

The ready team attached a towline to the bright-orange vehicle, and a
winch on board the Beebe hauled in the submersible until it was under
the tall A-frame that angled out over the ship's stern.  Kevlar cables
were fastened to eyebolts on the submersible's abbreviated deck.  The
powerful A-frame motor growled, and the submersible was hoisted from
the sea.  As it dangled from the cables, the Sea lamprey offered a full
view of its unlovely cylindrical hull and strangely truncated accordion
bow.

The A-frame swung slowly over the deck and lowered the vehicle into a
custom-made steel cradle, while the waiting deck crew placed a ladder
against the cradle.  Then the hatch at the top of the low conning tower
opened and clanged back on its hinges.  Kurt Austin poked his head out
and blinked like a mole.  His steel-gray, almost platinum, hair was
radiant in the intense metallic light of the overcast sky.

Austin greeted the deck crew with a wave, then squeezed his broad
shoulders through the narrow hatchway, climbed out and stood next to
the conning tower.  Seconds later, his partner, Joe Zavala, stuck his
head out into the fresh air and handed his partner a shiny aluminum
case.

Austin tossed the case down to a stocky, middle-aged man who stood at
the base of the ladder.  The man was dressed in a wool turtleneck
sweater, yellow rainproof pants and a slicker.  Only the high-peaked
cap on his head identified him as Russian navy.  When he saw the case
go airborne, he let out a yell of despair.  He caught the container,
bobbled it for an instant, then hugged it close to his chest.

As Austin and Zavala descended the ladder, the Russian opened the case
and removed a paper-wrapped object cushioned in protective plastic
foam, then he unwrapped the paper to reveal a heavy square bottle.
Holding it like a newborn, he mumbled in Russian.

Noticing the perplexed looks on the faces of the NUMA men, he said,
"Pardon me gentlemen.  I was offering a prayer of thanks that the
contents of the container were undamaged."

Austin eyed the label and grimaced.  "We just dove three hundred feet
and cracked into a submarine to retrieve a bottle olvodka?"

"Oh no," Vlasov replied, digging into the case.  "Three bottles.  The
finest vodka made in Russia."  He carefully unwrapped the other
containers and planted a noisy kiss on each one before laying it back
in the case, "jewel of Russia is one of our finest and Moskovska is
superb.  Charodei is the best chilled."

Austin wondered if he would ever understand the Russian mindset.  "Of
course," he said cheerfully.  "Sinking a submarine to keep your booze
cool makes perfect sense when you explain it that way."

"The submarine was an old Foxtrot-class boat used for training," Vlasov
said.  "It hadn't seen service for more than thirty years."  He gave
Austin a 14-karat-gold smile.  "You must admit it was your idea to
place objects on the sub to test your ability to retrieve them."

"Mea culpa.  It didn't seem like a bad idea at the time."

Vlasov closed the cover of the case.  "Your dive was a success, then
?"

"By and large," Zavala said.  "We've got a few technical problems.
Nothing major."

"Then we must celebrate with a drink," Vlasov said.

Austin reached over and took the case from the Russian's hand.  "No
time like the present."

They picked up three plastic cups from the mess hall, then headed for
the ready room.  Vlasov opened the bottle of Charodei and poured a
healthy portion into each cup.  He raised his drink in toast.  "Here's
to the brave young men who died on the Kurs\."

Vlasov slugged down the vodka as if he were drinking herbal tea.

Austin sipped his drink.  He knew from past experience that demons
lurked in the potent Russian firewater.

"And here's to something like the Kurs\ never happening again," Austin
said.

The Kurs\ sinking had been one of the worst submarine disasters on
record.  More than a hundred crewmen had died in 2000 when the Oscar
II-class cruise missile sub had sunk in the Barents Sea after an
explosion in the torpedo compartment.

Vlasov said, "With your submersible, no young man serving his country
in any nation need die such a horrible death.  Thanks to the ingenuity
of NUMA, we have a way to get into a sunken vessel whether the escape
hatch is operable or accessible, or not.  The innovations you came up
with for this vehicle are revolutionary."

"That's kind of you to say, Commander Vlasov.  Joe deserves the credit
for hammering some odds and ends together and applying good old
American common sense."

"Thanks for the praise, but I stole the idea from Mother Nature,"
Zavala said with typical modesty.  A graduate in marine engineering
from the New York Maritime College, Zavala possessed a brilliant
mechanical mind.  He'd been recruited by NUMA Director James Sandecker
right out of college, and in addition to his duties on the Special
Assignments Team led by Austin, he had designed numerous manned and
unmanned underwater vehicles.

"Nonsense!"  Vlasov said.  "It's a long way from the lamprey eel to
your submersible."

"The principle's the same," Zavala said.  "Lampreys are superbly
engineered creatures.  They latch on to a moving fish, sink their ring
of teeth into the skin and suck the blood out of it.  We use suction
and lasers rather than teeth.  The main problem was coming up with a
flexible watertight seal that would attach to any surface and allow us
to make the cut.  With the use of space-age materials and computers, we
put together a pretty good package."

Vlasov raised his vodka glass again.  "I hold the proof of your
inginuity in my hand.  When will the Sea Lamprey be fully
operational?"

"Soon."  Zavala said.  "I hope."

"The sooner the better.  I shudder to think of the potential for
disaster.  The Soviets built some magnificent boats.  But my countrymen
have always leaned toward gigantism over quality."  Vlasov finished his
drink and rose from his chair.  "Now I must go back to my cabin to
prepare a report for my superiors.  They should be very pleased.  I'm
grateful for all your hard work.  I will thank Admiral Sandecker
personally."

As Vlasov left, one of the ship's officers came into the room and told
Austin he had a telephone call.  Austin picked up the telephone,
listened a few moments, asked some questions, then said, "Stand by. I'll
get right back to you."

He hung up and said, "That was NATO's East Atlantic sub marine
disaster office.  They need our help on a rescue mission."

"Someone's lost a sub?"  Zavala said.

"A Danish cruiser went down off the Faroe Islands, and some of the crew
were trapped inside.  They're still alive, apparently.  The Swedes and
the Brits are on their way, but the cruiser doesn't have an escape
hatch.  The Danes need someone who can go directly through the hull and get the guys out.  They heard we were out here making test dives."

"How long do we have?"

"A few hours, the way they tell it."

Zavala shook his head.  "The Faroes must be more than a thousand
miles from here.  The Beebe is a fast ship for her size, but she'd
need wings to get there in time."

Austin thought about it a minute, then said, "You're a genius."

"Glad you finally realized it.  Mind telling me how you came to that
conclusion?  It would make a great pick-up line in a bar."

"First, let me ask: Is the Sea Lamprey in any shape to use on a
real-life rescue operation?  I detected a note of CYA when Vlasov asked
when it would be ready."

"We civil service types automatically take Cover Your Ass 101 when we
sign on," Zavala said.

"You must have passed the course with flying colors.  Well?"

Zavala pondered the question for a moment.  "You saw how she handled
coming up."

"Sure, like a Brahma bull, but we made it okay.  You'd pay big bucks
for a ride like that at Disney World."

Zavala slowly shook his head.  "You do have a talent for presenting the
possibility of a horrible death in a lighthearted way."

"My death wish isn't any stronger than yours.  You told me the Sea
Lamprey is built like a brick outhouse."

"Okay, I was bragging.  Structurally, she's extremely sound.
Operationally, she could do better."

"On balance, how do the odds of a successful mission stack up?"

"About fifty-fifty.  I can jury-rig some repairs to increase the odds
slightly in our favor."

"I'm not pushing you, Joe."

"You don't have to.  I'd never sleep again if we didn't try to help
these guys.  But we've still got to get the submersible to that Danish
cruiser.  You've figured it out, haven't you, you old fox?"  Zavala
said, noting Austin's grin.

"Maybe," Austin replied.  "I've got a few details to work through with
Vlasov."

"Since I'm about to risk my life on a typical spur-of-the-moment

Austin scheme, I wonder if you could tell me what's cooking under that
prematurely silver-gray hair of yours?"

"Not at all," Austin said.  "Do you recall what Vlasov said about
Soviet gigantism?"

"Yeah, but "

"Think big," Austin said, heading for the door.  "Think real big."

KARL BECKER RESTLESSLY paced the deck of the Danish research vessel
Thor.  Shoulders hunched, hands thrust into the pockets of his great
coat, the navy bureaucrat looked like a large wingless bird.  Becker
wore several layers of clothing, yet he shivered as his thoughts went
back to the collision.  He had been shoved into a lifeboat, only to be
thrown into the freezing water when the overloaded craft capsized
during launch.  If a Faroese trawler had not plucked his semiconscious
body to safety, he would have been dead within minutes.

He stopped to light a cigarette, cupping his hands around the flame,
and leaned on the rail.  As he stared bleakly at the red plastic sphere
that marked the grave of the sunken cruiser, he heard his name being
called.  The Thor's captain, Nils Larsen, was striding across the deck
in his direction.

"Where are those damned Americans?"  Becker growled.

"Good news.  They just called," said the captain.  "They expect to be
here in five minutes."  "About time," Becker said.

Like his colleague on the Leif Eriksson, Captain Larsen was tall and
blond with a craggy profile.  "In all fairness," he said, "it's only
been a matter of hours since the cruiser went down.  The NATO response
team needed a minimum of seventy-two hours to place a mother ship, crew
and rescue vehicle on site.  The NUMA people have lived up to their
pledge to get here within eight hours.  They deserve some leeway."

"I know, I know," Becker said, more in exasperation than anger.  "I
don't mean to be ungrateful, but every minute counts."  He flicked the
cigarette butt into the sea and jammed his hands even further into his
pockets.  "Too bad Denmark no longer has capital punishment," he fumed.
"I'd like to see that whole murderous SOS bunch swinging from the end
of a rope."

"You're sure they deliberately rammed you?"  "No doubt of it!  They
changed course and came directly at us.  Bang!  Like a torpedo."  He
glanced at his watch.  "You're sure the Americans said five minutes?  I
don't see any ships approaching."

"That is puzzling," the captain said.  He raised his binoculars and
scanned the horizon.  "I don't see any vessels, either."  Hearing a
noise, he pointed the lenses toward the overcast sky.  "Wait.  There's
a helicopter coming this way.  It's moving very fast."

The pencil-point speck grew rapidly larger against the slate-gray cloud
cover, and before long the thrump-thrump of rotors was audible.  The
aircraft made directly for the Thor and buzzed the ship slightly higher
than mast-level, then it banked and went into a wide circle around the
research vessel.  The letters NUMA were clearly visible in big bold
letters on the side of the turquoise Bell 212.

The ship's first mate trotted across the deck toward the captain and

pointed to the circling chopper.  "It's the Americans.  They're asking
permission to land."

The captain replied in the affirmative, and the crewman relayed the
okay into a squawking hand radio.  The helicopter swooped in, hovered
above the stern deck and descended in slow motion, making a gentle
landing at the exact center of the white circle that marked the
helipad.

The door flew open, and two men emerged under the spinning rotors and
made their way across the deck.  As a politician, Becker was an acute
observer of people.  The men moved with the casual easiness that he had
seen in other Americans, but their determined stride and the way they
carried themselves projected an air of supreme confidence.

The broad-shouldered man leading the way was just over six feet tall
and around two hundred pounds, Becker estimated.  His hair was gray,
but as the man drew near, Becker saw that he was young, probably around
forty.  His dark-complexioned companion was slightly shorter, younger
and slimmer.  He walked with the panther-like grace of a boxer; it
would not have surprised Becker if he'd known that the man had financed
his way through college fighting as a middleweight.  His movements were
relaxed, but with the inherent energy of a coiled spring.

The captain stepped forward to greet the Americans.  "Welcome to the
Thor," he said.

"Thanks.  I'm Kurt Austin from the National Underwater and Marine
Agency," said the husky man, who looked as if he could walk through a
wall.  "And this is my partner, Joe Zavala."  He shook hands with the
captain, then Becker, almost bringing tears to the Dane's eyes with a
crushing handshake.  Zavala pulverized those bones Austin had missed.

"You made good time," the captain said.

"We're a few minutes behind schedule," Austin said.  "The logistics
were somewhat complicated."

"That's all right.  Thank God you came!"  Becker said, rubbing his
hand.  He glanced toward the helicopter.  "Where's the rescue team?"

Austin and Zavala exchanged an amused glance.  "You're looking at it,"
Austin said.

Becker's astonishment gave way to barely restrained fury.  He whirled
around to face the captain.  "How in God's name are these two ...
gentlemen going to rescue Captain Petersen and his men?"

Captain Larsen was wondering the same thing, but was more reserved.  "I
suggest you ask them," he replied, with obvious embarrassment at
Becker's outburst.

"Well?"  Becker said, glaring first at Austin, then at Zavala.

Becker could not have known that the two men who had stepped off the
helicopter equaled a shipload of rescuers.  Born in Seattle, Austin had
been raised in and around the sea, which was not surprising, since his
father was the owner of a marine salvage company.  While studying for
his master's degree in systems management at the University of
Washington, he'd attended a highly rated Seattle dive school, where
he'd attained proficiency in a number of specialized areas.  He'd put
his expertise to work on North Sea oil rigs, had worked for his father
awhile, then had been hired by the CIA to conduct underwater
intelligence.  When the Cold War ended, he'd been recruited by
Sandecker to head the Special Assignments Team.  Zavala was the son of
Mexican parents who had waded across the Rio Grande, settling in Santa
Fe.  His oil-stained mechanical genius was the stuff of legend around
the halls of NUMA, and he could repair, modify or restore any kind of
engine ever devised.  He had spent thousands of hours as a pilot in
helicopters and small jet and turboprop craft.  His assignment to
Austin's team had proved a fortunate pairing.  Many of their
assignments would never become public

knowledge, but their wisecracking camaraderie in the face of danger
masked a steely determination and a competence few could rival.  Austin
calmly regarded Becker with piercing blue-green eyes the color of coral
under water.  He was not unsympathetic to Becker's plight, and
deflected the Dane's fury with a broad smile.  "Sorry for being flip. I
should have explained immediately that the rescue vehicle is on its
way."

"Should be here in about an hour," Zavala added.  "There's a lot we can
do in the meantime," Austin said.  He turned to the captain.  "I need
help unloading a piece of equipment from the chopper.  Can you spare a
few men with strong backs?"

"Yes, of course."  The captain was relieved to be doing something at
last.  Moving with crisp efficiency, he dispatched his first mate to
round up the work detail.

At Austin's direction, the grunting crewmen lifted a large wooden crate
from the helicopter's storage compartment and set it down on the deck.
Using a crowbar from the helicopter, Austin pried the top off the box
and peered inside.  After a quick inspection, he said, "Everything
looks shipshape.  What's the latest on the situation?"

Captain Larsen pointed to the bobbing buoy that marked the sunken
cruiser.  While Austin and Zavala listened intently, Larsen provided a
quick summary of the collision and sinking.

"It doesn't make sense," Austin said.  "From what you say, they had
plenty of sea room."

"So did the Andrea Doria and the Stockholm," Zavala said, referring to
the disastrous sea collision off Nantucket.

Becker mumbled something about SOS criminals, but Austin ignored him
and concentrated on the business at hand.  "What makes you so sure the
captain and his men are still alive?"

"We were doing a whale population survey not far from here when we got
the call for help," Larsen said.  "We dropped a hydrophone over the
side and picked up the sound of someone tapping an SOS on the hull in
Morse code.  Unfortunately, we can only receive, not send, messages. 
However, we determined that there were thirteen men, including Captain
Andersen, trapped in a pocket of air in the forward bunk room  The air
is foul, and they were in the early stages of hypothermia."

"When did you last hear from them?"

"About two hours ago.  It was essentially the same message, only the
tapping has become much fainter.  Toward the end, they tapped out the
same word over and over."

"What was it?"

"Desperate."

Austin broke the grim silence that followed.  "Did you get any other
equipment down to the ship?"

"The Faroese Coast Guard called the NATO base on Stremoy.  They
contacted the NATO submarine rescue network minutes after the cruiser
went down.  Those ships you see out there are mostly from Scandinavian
countries.  We've been acting as the interim mother ship.  A Swedish
vessel should arrive soon with a rescue vehicle, but like the others,
it's useless in this situation.  It's set up to rescue men through a
submarine rescue hatch.  We've been able to pinpoint the cruiser's
location two-hundred-sixty feet down, but beyond that, for all our
technical ability, we're only spectators at a disaster in the
making."

"Not necessarily," Austin said.

"Then you think you can help?"  Becker said with pleading eyes.

"Maybe," Austin said.  "We can say better after we see what we're up
against."

Becker apologized for his earlier abruptness.  "Sorry I flew off the
handle.  We're grateful for your offer to help.  I owe a special debt
to Captain Petersen.  After we were hit and there was no doubt the

cruiser would sink within minutes, he made sure I had a place in a
lifeboat.  When he learned others were still below, he rushed off to
help them and must have been trapped when the ship sank."

"He's a brave man.  All the more reason for saving him and his crew,"
Austin said.  "Do you have any idea of the ship's position on the
bottom?"

"Yes, of course.  Come with me," the captain said.  He led the way to
an electronics lab off the main deck.  The room was equipped with
computer monitors used for remote sensing projects.  "This is a
high-resolution sonar picture of the Leif Eriksson," he said,
indicating the image on a large monitor.  "As you can see, she is lying
at a slight angle on an inclined slope.  The crews' quarters are here,
one deck below the mess area, a short distance back from the bow.
Obviously, air was trapped here."  He circled a section of hull with
the cursor.  "It's a miracle they're still alive."

"It's a miracle they may wish never happened," Becker observed
glumly.

"Tell us about the compartment."

"It's quite large.  There are bunks for two dozen crewmen.  It's
reached by a single companionway through the mess hall.  There is also
an emergency hatch."

"We'll need specific details about the bunk room particularly the
location of pipes, conduits and structural supports."

The captain handed over a file.  "The navy department faxed this
material to us in anticipation of the rescue attempt.  I think you'll
find everything you need.  If not, we can get it to you quickly."

Austin and Zavala studied the ship's schematic layouts, then went back
to the sonar image.  "There's only so much we can learn from pictures,"
Austin said finally.  "Maybe it's time I went for a swim."  "Good thing
you brought your swimsuit," Zavala said.  "It's the new Michelin model.
Guaranteed to wow the ladies."

Becker and the captain wondered if they had stumbled into the company
of madmen.  They exchanged puzzled glances, then hurried to keep up
with the NUMA men.  While Zavala sketched out their strategy for
Captain Larsen and Becker, Austin supervised the four strapping crewmen
as they moved the crate until it was under a boom.  They unwound cable
from the crane, then Austin ran it into the big box and gave the signal
to start the hoist.

The bright-yellow figure that rose from the crate was nearly seven feet
tall and looked like a robot in a fifties sci-fi film.  The cast
aluminum arms and legs did indeed bulge like those of the Michelin Man,
and the helmet resembled an oversized fishbowl.  The arms ended in
pincers like those of an insect.  Four small fans protected by circular
housings projected from the elbows and the back of the arms.

Austin rapped his knuckles against the unit pack attached to the
figure's back.  "This is the latest in Hardsuit technology.  This model
can operate at depths of two thousand feet for up to six hours, so I'll
have plenty of leeway.  Mind if I borrow a short ladder?  I'll need an
experienced boat crew in the water, too."

The captain dispatched his first mate to carry out the requests. Austin
stripped off his windbreaker, pulled a heavy wool sweater over his
turtleneck jersey, and yanked a black navy watch cap down over his
ears.  The suit broke at the waist into two sections.  Austin climbed
the ladder and eased his body into the bottom pod.  Then the top
section was attached, the lifting line attached, and the boom slowly
lifted him off the deck.

Using the suit's radio, which was the same frequency as the ship's
handsets, he called a halt when he was a few feet above the deck.  He
moved his arms and legs, aided by sixteen hydraulically compensated
rotary joints.  Then he tried out the manually operated manipulators at
the end of each hand pod.  Finally, he tried the foot-pad

controls and listened to the whirr of the vertical and horizontal
thrusters.

"All systems go," Austin said.

The atmospheric diving suit, or ADS, had been developed to protect
divers from intense ocean pressures while allowing them to carry out
tasks of relative delicacy.  Despite its humanoid shape, the Hard-suit
was considered a vehicle and the diver referred to as its pilot.

With Zavala supervising the operation, the boom pivoted over the water.
Austin swung back and forth like a yo-yo at the end of its swing.
Seeing that the launch crew had its boat in the water, he said, "Lower
away."

The cable paid out and Austin dropped into the heaving swells.  Green
froth surged over his helmet.  The boat crew detached the cable
fastening, and Austin sank like a stone for several fathoms, until he
adjusted the suit to neutral buoyancy.  Then he played with the
thrusters, moving up, down, back and forward, then into a hover.  He
took a last look at the pale surface glimmering above him, switched on
the lights on the chest section, mashed the vertical control pad and
began his descent.

UNAWARE OF THE events unfolding more than two hundred feet above his
head, Captain Petersen lay in his bunk and stared into the darkness,
wondering whether he would freeze to death or suffocate first from lack
of oxygen.  It was purely an intellectual exercise.  He was beyond
caring how the end came.  He only hoped that it arrived soon.

The cold had drained most of his energy.  Every labored breath of
carbon dioxide that he and his crew exhaled made the air less able to
sustain life.  The captain was drifting off into the comatose state
that comes when the will to live ebbs like the lowering tide.  Even
thoughts of his wife and children could not pull him back.

He longed to reach the numb stage that might cushion his aches and
pains.  His body still harbored enough life to sustain his misery.  His
tortured lungs launched into a coughing fit that triggered a

throbbing in his left arm, broken when he'd been thrown against a
bulkhead.  It was a simple fracture, but it hurt like hell.  The groans
of his crewmen reminded Petersen that he was not alone in his
discomfort.

As he had a dozen times already, the captain ran through the collision
in his mind, and wondered if he could have avoided it.  All had been
going well.  A dangerous confrontation had been avoided, and the Sea
Sentinel was being escorted out to sea.  Then without warning, that
crazy circus-painted ship had veered toward the cruiser's exposed
side.

His frantic order to bear off had come too late.  The tortured sound of
tearing steel had told him that the wound was fatal.  His naval
training had quickly come into play.  He'd given the order to abandon
ship and had been supervising the launch of the lifeboats when a sailor
ran up and said that men were injured below decks.  Petersen hadn't
hesitated.  He'd left the lifeboat launch in the hands of his first
mate and hurried to aid his men.

The night watch had been asleep when the Leif Ericsson was hit.  The
Sea Sentinel's bow had penetrated the hull behind the sleeping
quarters, sparing the crew from instant death but injuring some men.
Petersen dashed into the mess hall, then half-tumbled down the
companionway and saw that the uninjured were tending to their
comrades.

"Abandon ship!"  he ordered.  "Form human stretchers."  The ship was
sinking at a stern-down angle from the weight of the sea that poured in
through the gaping hole.  Water flowed into the mess hall, then down
through the open hatch into the bunk room cutting off escape.  Petersen
climbed partway up the ladder, slammed the hatch shut and spun the
wheel that locked it tight.  Then the ship lurched as he was
descending, and he slammed against the bulkhead, losing
consciousness.

It was a fortunate accident because he didn't hear the horrible moans
and creaks the ship made on its fatal plunge to the bottom.  And his
limp body wasn't further injured when, moments later, the cruiser
slammed into the soft mud.  Even so, when the captain awoke in the
darkened cabin, it was to an even more terrible sound, the cries of his
men.  Soon after he regained consciousness, a beam of light had stabbed
the darkness and revealed bloodied and pale faces among the jumbled
bunks and sea chests.  The ship's chef, a short, round man named Lars,
called the captain's name.  "Over here," Petersen croaked.

The flickering light came his way.  Lars crawled up beside Petersen
holding an electric torch.

"Are you all right, Lars?"  the captain asked.

"Some bumps and bruises.  My fat protected me.  How about you, sir?"

Petersen managed a wet laugh.  "I'm not so lucky.  Broken left arm."

"What happened, Captain?  I was sleeping."

"A ship slammed into us."

"Damn," Lars said.  "I was having a sweet dream of good things to eat
before I got tossed from my bunk.  Didn't expect to see you down here,
sir."

"One of the crew said you were in trouble.  I came to help."  He
struggled to get up.  "I'm not much help sitting here.  Can you give me
a hand?"

They fashioned an improvised sling from the captain's belt and went
around the cabin.  With the help of a few men who hadn't been severely
injured, they tried to make those less fortunate comfortable.  The
damp, biting cold was the worst immediate danger.  They might be able
to buy time, Petersen thought.  The bunk room had a supply

of immersion suits used for cold-water protection if the ship went
down.

It took awhile to round up the suits, which were scattered throughout
the cabin in bags, and to get the injured men into them.  They slipped
on their gloves and pulled down the hoods.  Then they rounded up spare
blankets and clothes and wrapped themselves in several layers.

With the cold temporarily held at bay, Petersen turned his efforts to
the air problem.  One of the aluminum lockers held breathing devices to
be used in case of fire or other emergency.  These were passed around.
They, too, would buy time.  Petersen decided to use up their canned air
first because it was purer than the air in the cabin, which was making
the men sick.

Petersen formed tapping crews for the same reason POW officers allocate
duties to maintain morale.  The men took turns using a wrench to rap
SOS on the hull.  As one man after another tired of the job, Petersen
continued to tap away, although he wasn't sure why.  Bored with the
SOS, he began tapping out messages describing their plight. Eventually,
he tired and rapped the bulkhead whenever strength allowed, which
wasn't often.  Then he stopped altogether.  His thoughts turned from
rescue, he shut his eyes, and once more he began to think of death.

Using the marker buoy line as his guide, Austin sank into the depths
feet-first and slightly angled forward, like an old hard-hat diver
being lowered at the end of an invisible air hose.  Dancing rainbow
shafts lanced the water like sunlight streaming through stain-glass
windows.  As Austin plunged deeper, the water filtered out the colors
and the twilight abruptly turned into a violet night.

The powerful halogen lights mounted on the front of the Hard-suit
caught snowy motes of marine vegetation and nervous schools of fish in
their beams, but before long, Austin was dropping into the benthic
levels, where only the hardiest of fish lived.  At two hundred feet, his
lights pick out the cruiser's masts and antennas, then the ship's
ghostly contours materialized.

Austin hit the vertical thrusters and slowed to a stop at deck level.
Then the horizontal thrusters whirred, and he cruised along the hull,
rounded the stern and came back to the bow.  The ship lay as shown in
the sonar picture, at a slight angle on the slope, with the bow higher
than the stern.  He studied the ship with the intensity of a medical
examiner inspecting the autopsied body of a murder victim, paying
particular attention to the triangular gash in the side.  No vessel
could have survived the giant bayonet wound.

Seeing only twisted metal beyond the jagged opening, he moved toward
the bow again.  He approached within inches of the hull, feeling as
dwarfed as a fly on a wall, leaned his helmet against the steel plating
and listened.  The only sounds were the hollow noise of his breathing
and the whirr of thrusters as they kept the suit at a hover.  Austin
pushed off several feet, came around, goosed the horizontal thrusters
and let his metal knees slam into the ship.

On the other side of the hull, Petersen's half-closed eyes blinked
fully open.  He held his breath.

"What was that?"  a hoarse voice said in the darkness.  Lars had been
huddled on the bunk next to the captain's.

"Thank God you heard it, too," Petersen whispered.  "I thought I was
going mad.  Listen."

They strained their ears and heard tapping on the outside of the hull.
Morse code.  Slow and measured, as if the sender were struggling with
each letter.  The captain's eyes widened like those of a cartoon
character, as he translated the rough taps into letters.

P-E-T-E ...

Austin was cursing the awkwardness of communicating.  At his direction,
one of the crew had attached a specially adapted ball-peen hammer to
his right hand manipulator.  The mechanical arm moved with agonizing
slowness, but by concentrating all his resources, he finished tapping
out one word in Morse code.

ERSEN

He stopped and put his helmet against the hull.  After a moment, he
heard dots and dashes clunked out in reply.

YES

STATUS

AIR BAD COLD

HELP SOON

A pause.  Then, HURRY

SOON

Petersen called out to his men that rescue was imminent.  He felt
guilty lying.  Their time was about to run out.  He was having a
problem focusing.  It was getting harder to breathe, and soon it would
be impossible.  The temperature had plunged to below zero, and even the
immersion suit couldn't keep out the cold.  He had stopped shivering,
the first sign of hypothermia.

Lars interrupted Petersen's drifting thoughts.  "Captain, can I ask you
a question?"

Petersen grunted in the affirmative.

"Why the hell did you come back, sir?  You could have saved
yourself."

Petersen said, "I heard somewhere a captain is supposed to go down with
his ship."

"This is about as far down as you can go, Captain."

Petersen made a gargling sound that was as close to laughter as he
could muster.  Lars did the same, but their strength soon left them.

They made themselves as comfortable as they could and waited.

THE BOAT CREW was watching for Austin to pop out of the water, and they
snagged him like a runaway calf.  Within minutes, he was back on the
deck, where he spelled out the situation to Becker and Captain
Larsen.

"Dear God," Becker said.  "What a terrible way to die.  My government
will spare no expense to retrieve their bodies for the families."

Becker's pessimism was starting to annoy Austin.  "Please stop playing
the role of the melancholy Dane, Mr.  Becker.  Your government can hold
on to its wallet.  Those men aren't dead yet."

"But you said "

"I know what I said.  They're in tough shape, but that doesn't mean
they're doomed.  The Squalus submarine rescue took more than a day to
accomplish, and thirty-three were saved."  Austin paused as his sharp
ears picked up a new sound.  He stared at the sky and shaded his eyes
against the glare of the overcast.

"Looks like the cavalry has arrived."

A gigantic helicopter was bearing down on the ship.  Dangling below the
helicopter in a sling was a blimp-shaped submarine with a blunt nose.

"That's the largest helicopter I've ever seen," Captain Larsen said.

"Actually, the Mi-26 is the biggest helicopter in the world," Austin
said.  "It's more than a hundred feet long.  They call it the flying
crane.

Becker smiled for the first time in hours.  "Please tell me that
strange-looking object hanging below the helicopter is your rescue
vehicle."

"The Sea Lamprey isn't the prettiest craft in the sea," Zavala said
with a shrug.  "I sacrificed form for function in designing her."

"To the contrary," Becker said.  "She's beautiful."

The captain shook his head in wonderment.  "How on earth did you get
this equipment here so quickly?  You were twelve hundred miles away
when the rescue call went out."

"We remembered that the Russians like to do things in a big way,"
Austin said.  "They jumped at the chance to show the world they're
still a first-rate nation."

"But that helicopter couldn't have carried it all that way in such a
short time.  You gentlemen must be magicians."

"It took a lot of work to pull this rabbit out of a hat," Austin said,
as he watched the helicopter maneuver.  "The Mi-26 picked up the
submersible at sea and transferred it to a land base, where two Antonov
N-124 heavy-duty transport planes were waiting.  The Sea Lamprey went
on one plane.  The big chopper and the NUMA helicopter were loaded on
the other.  It was a two-hour flight to the NATO base in the Faroes.
While they unloaded the submersible and got it ready to fly, we came
out here to prepare the way."

The powerful turboshaft engines drowned out the captain's reply

as the aircraft moved closer and hovered.  The eight rotor blades and
five-bladed tail rotor threshed the air, and the downdraft they created
scooped a vast watery crater out of the sea.  The submersible was
released a few feet above the roiling water, and the helicopter moved
off.  The Sea Lamprey had been fitted out with large air-filled
pontoons.  It sank beneath the waves, but quickly bobbed back to the
surface.

Austin suggested that the captain ready the sick bay to treat extreme
hypothermia.  Then the boat crew ferried them out to the submersible.
The launch crew detached the pontoons.  The submersible blew air from
its ballast tanks and sank below the blue-black surface.

The Sea Lamprey hovered, kept at an even keel by its thrusters.  Austin
and Zavala sat in the snug cockpit, their faces washed by the blue
light from the instrument panel, and ran down the dive checklist.  Then
Zavala pushed the control stick forward, angled the blunt prow down and
blew ballast.  He steered the submersible in a descending spiral as
casually as if he were taking the family out on a Sunday drive.

Austin peered into the gauzy bluish blackness beyond the range of the
lights.  "I didn't have time to ask you before we came aboard," he
said, almost in afterthought.  "Is this thing safe?"

"As a former president once said, "Depends on your definition of is.

Austin groaned.  "Let me rephrase my question.  Are the leaks and the
pump fixed?"

"I think I stopped up the leaks, and the ballast pump works well under
ideal conditions."

"What about actual conditions?"

"Kurt, my father used to quote an old Spanish proverb.  "The closed
mouth swallows no flies."  "

"What the hell do flies have to do with our situation?"

"Nothing," Zavala said.  "I just thought we should change the subject.
Maybe the problem with the ballast control will go away."

The vehicle had been built as a rescue system of last resort.  Once its
lasers punched a hole in a sunken vessel, water would rush in after the
sub disengaged.  There was no way to plug the opening.  All trapped
crewmen had to be evacuated in one trip.  This was a prototype, built
to carry only eight people plus a pilot and co-pilot.  If all thirteen
men and their captain were taken off the cruiser, they'd be over the
weight limit by six.

Austin said, "I've been running the figures in my head.  Estimate a
hundred-fifty pounds per man, and we've got more than a ton of weight.
There's a safety margin built into the Lamprey, so it's probably no big
whoop, except for the lame ballast tank."

"No problem.  We've got a backup pump if the main isn't working."  In
designing the Sea Lamprey, Zavala had followed common practice and
built redundant systems.  Zavala paused.  "Some of the crew might be
dead."

"I've been thinking about that," Austin said.  "We'd increase our
safety margin if we left bodies down there, but I'm not leaving until
we've got every man aboard.  Dead or alive."

The cockpit grew silent as both men considered the awful possibilities.
The only sound was the hum of electric motors as the ungainly craft
dropped into the depths.  Before long, they were at the side of the
cruiser.  Austin directed Zavala to the penetration point.  Then came a
soft clunk as the front end of the submersible bumped the curved steel
plates.  Electric pump motors hummed, and the submersible stayed where
it was, glued to the steel by a vacuum.

The escape tunnel, made of a tough but pliable synthetic material, was
extended.  Eight vertical and horizontal thrusters kept the vehicle
steady under the direction of computers that monitored its movement in
relation to the current.  The instruments indicated when the seal was
complete.  Normally, a thin probe would penetrate the hull to look for
explosive fumes.

Sensors gauged the pressure within the seal and kept the vacuum on
place.  Given the safe signal to enter, Austin strapped on a small air
tank and a scuba regulator and emerged from the air lock.  There was
some leakage around the seal, but not enough to worry about.  He
started to crawl through the escape tunnel.

Inside the cruiser, the crew and captain had slipped into a deathlike
sleep.  Captain Petersen was roused from his cold slumber by the sound
of a giant woodpecker.  Damned bird!  While one level of his brain
cursed the source of the noise, another was automatically analyzing it,
grouping the raps into familiar patterns, each the equivalent of a
letter.

HELLO

He flicked the torch on.  The chef had heard the noise, and his eyes
were as big as fried eggs.  The captain's stiff fingers groped for the
wrench by his side and banged it weakly against the hull.  Then again,
with more force.

The reply was immediate.

MOVE AWAY

More easily said than done, the captain thought.  Petersen told the
chef to back off from the bulkhead, then followed, rolling out of his
bunk.  He crawled across the deck and called out to the other men to
move.  He sat with his back to a locker for what seemed an eternity,
not sure what to expect.

Austin crawled back into the Lamprey.  "Mission accomplished," he
said.

"Turning on the can opener," Zavala said.  He hit the switch for the
ring of cutting lasers.  They sliced through the two-inch metal skin as
easily as a paring knife through an orange.  A monitor showed the
penetration and the brilliant red of the lasers.  The lasers
automatically shut off.

Petersen had been watching as a faint pink circle deepened in color
until it was a bright molten reddish-orange.  He felt welcome heat
against his face.  There was a hollow clang as a section of the hull
fell into the cabin, and he had to shield his eyes against a bright
disk of light.

Steam filled the escape tunnel, and the edges of the opening were still
hot from the laser cutters.  Austin pushed a specially made ladder over
the rim and stuck his head through the opening.

"Any of you gentlemen call a taxi?"  he said.

Despite his lighthearted manner, Austin wondered if the rescue was too
late.  He had never seen such a bedraggled bunch.  He called out for
Captain Petersen.  A grease-covered apparition crawled forward and
croaked, "I'm the captain.  Who are you?"

Austin climbed into the ship and helped the captain to his feet.  "The
introductions will have to wait.  Please tell your men who can still
move to crawl through that hole."

The captain translated the order.  Austin threw a couple of soggy
blankets onto the rough edges of the opening, then helped those who
couldn't make it under their own power.  Petersen collapsed as he was
trying to crawl into the submersible, and Austin had to give him a
shove, then clambered in behind him.  As he entered the air lock, he
saw water trickling in through the rim of the seal where Zavala had
done a hasty patch job.

He quickly closed the hatch behind him.  Zavala had put the controls on
auto while he pulled the crew through the air lock.  The bulky survival
suits didn't make the task any easier.  It was a miracle

that any of the crew was still alive.  Amazingly, some had made the
trip themselves.  The passenger space consisted of two padded benches
running the length of the sub, separated by a narrow aisle.  The
survivors crowded onto the benches or stood in the aisle like commuters
on a Tokyo subway.

"Sorry there's no first-class section," Austin said.

"No complaint," said the captain.  "My men will agree that it is better
than our former living arrangements."

With the crew settled, Kurt returned to the cockpit.  "We had a little
leakage around the seal," he reported.

Zavala indicated a blinking light on a computer-generated diagram of
the submersible.  "More than a little.  The O-ring blew out like a flat
tire a second after we closed the air lock."

He retracted the telescopic escape tube, disengaged the submersible
from the dead ship and backed off, clearly revealing in its floodlights
the round hole where the lasers had cut out the escape route.  When the
sub was clear of the wreck, he activated the ballast pumps.  The
electric motors clicked into action with a low hum, except from the
front right pump, where there was a sound like a fork going down a
garbage disposal.  One ballast tank still had water in it, disrupting
the sub's equilibrium as the others filled with compressed air.

The Sea Lamprey operated like any other submarine; it pumped water into
its ballast tanks to dive, pumped in air to ascend.  The computer tried
to compensate by giving more power to the vertical thrusters.  The
submersible lurched into a nose-down angle, and the smell of hot metal
came through the vents.  Zavala pumped water back into the other tanks,
and the Lamprey leveled out, more or less.

Austin stared at the instrument panel.  A light was blinking on a
schematic troubleshooting diagram.  He ran a check on the computer that
served as the brains of the vehicle.  The trouble system indicated
that the warning light had been triggered by an actual mechanical
problem, the kind of glitch that could show up with new equipment, and
was probably easily repairable.  But this was not a test run; it was a
deep submergence dive to fifty fathoms.  Another light started blinking
red.

"Both front motors are gone," Austin said.  "Better use the backup
pumps."

"Those were the backup pumps," Zavala said.  "So much for redundant
systems.  What's the problem?"  "I could tell you in a minute if I had
this thing up on a lift."  "I don't see any garages nearby, and in any
case, I forgot my credit card."

"As my father used to say, "All it takes to move a stubborn burro is a
stick of dynamite."  " Zavala said.

Around the halls of NUMA, Austin had a well-deserved reputation for
having an unflappable stubbornness in the face of adversity.  Most men
wisely cut and run in the face of sure disaster; Austin faced it with
equanimity.  The fact that he was still alive and breathing showed that
he possessed a remarkable combination of resourcefulness and luck.
Those who'd had to tough it out with him found his serendipity
frightening.  Austin always shrugged off their complaints.  But now,
Joe was giving him a taste of his own medicine.  Austin compressed his
lips in a tight smile, laced his fingers behind his head and sat back
in his seat.

"You wouldn't be so relaxed if you didn't have a plan," Austin said.

Zavala gave his partner an exaggerated wink and removed the two-pronged
key that had been hanging from a chain around his neck.  He flipped
open a small metal cap in the center of the console and inserted the
key.  "When I turn this key and flick the little switch next to it, the
third redundant system comes into play.  Explosive charges will blow
off all the ballast tanks, and up we go.  Smart, eh?"

"Not if the Thor is in the way when we come flying out of the water.
We'd sink the ship and us."

"If it makes you feel any better, press that button.  It sends up a
warning buoy to the surface.  Flares, whistles.  The whole nine
yards."

Austin punched the button.  There was a swoosh as the buoy was ejected
from the sub.  He advised their passengers to hold tight.

Zavala jerked his thumb skyward, a boyish grin on his face, "Going
up'.

He hit the switch and they braced themselves.  The only sound was
Zavala swearing under his breath in Spanish.  "The switch didn't work,"
he said with a sheepish grin.

"Let's see if I can summarize this.  We're three hundred feet down,
with overloaded capacity, the cabin full of half-dead sailors, and the
panic button doesn't work."

"You have a knack for brevity, Kurt."

"Thanks.  I'll expand further.  We've got two front tanks full of
water, two rear ones empty, and that spells neutral buoyancy.  Any way
of lightening the Lamprey?"

"I can jettison the connector tube.  We'll get to the surface, but it
won't be pretty."

"Doesn't seem we have much of an alternative.  I'll tell our passengers
to hold on."

Austin made his announcement, buckled himself into his seat and gave
the signal.  Zavala crossed his fingers and blew off the rescue tube.
It had been made detachable as a precaution, in case the submersible
had to extricate itself from a rescue in a hurry.  There was a muffled
explosion, and the submersible lurched.  The Sea Lamprey rose a foot,
then a yard, then several yards.  Their progress was excruciatingly
slow at first, but the craft gained more speed the higher it went. 
Before long, it was speeding to the surface.

The Sea Lamprey exploded from the sea stern-first and splashed down in
a fountain of white water.  The vehicle rolled violently, tossing those
inside around like dice in a shaker.  Alerted by the warning buoy's
sound-and-light show, small boats dashed in and their crews attached
pontoons that stabilized the craft in a more or less horizontal
position.

The Thor got a line on the vehicle and hauled the Sea Lamprey close to
where a crane could lift it to the deck.  Medical personnel swarmed
over the submersible the second the hatch was popped, and the survivors
were extracted one by one, loaded onto stretchers and hustled onto
waiting MediVac helicopters that transferred them to the land hospital.
By the time Austin and Zavala climbed from the submersible, the deck
was practically deserted, except for a handful of crew who came over
and congratulated them, then quickly left.

Zavala looked around the near-empty deck.  "No brass band?"

"Heroism is its own reward," Austin said pontifically.  "But I wouldn't
turn down a shot of tequila if someone offered it to me."

"What a coincidence.  I just happen to have a bottle of blue agave
tucked away in my duffel bag.  Primo stuff."

"We may have to delay our celebration.  Mr.  Becker is coming our
way."

The Danish bureaucrat was striding across the deck, his face beaming
with unmistakable happiness.  He pumped their hands, pounded the NUMA
men on the back and showered them with effusive praise.

"Gentlemen, I thank you," he said breathlessly.  "Denmark thanks you.
The world thanks you!"

"Our pleasure," Austin said.  "Thanks for the opportunity to test

the Sea Lamprey under actual conditions.  The Russian chopper is at the
NATO base with the transport planes.  We'll give them a call, and we
can be out of here in a few hours."

Becker's face reassumed its usual mask of businesslike dourness.  "Mr.
Zavala is free to go, but I'm afraid you might have to delay your trip.
A special investigative court that was formed to look into the cruiser
incident is convening a hearing in Torshavn tomorrow.  They would like
you to testify."

"Don't see how I can help.  I didn't see the actual sinking."

"Yes, but you dove on the Ericsson twice.  You can describe the damage
in detail.  It will help make our case."  Seeing the doubt in Austin's
face, he said, "I'm afraid we'll have to insist that you be our guest
in the Islands until the hearing is terminated.  Cheer up.  The U.S.
embassy has been informed of our request and will transmit it to NUMA.
I've already arranged lodging for you.  We'll be staying in the same
hotel, in fact.  The Islands are beautiful, and you'll only be delayed
a day or two before you can rejoin your ship."

"It's no problem for me, Kurt," Zavala said.  "I can get the Lamprey
back to the Beebe and wrap up the tests."

Austin's eyes flashed with anger.  He didn't like being told what to do
by an officious little government drone.  He made no effort to disguise
the annoyance in his voice.  "Looks like I'll be your guest, Mr.
Becker."  He turned to Zavala.  "We'll have to put off our celebration.
I'll call the NATO base and get things moving."

Before long, the engine roar of the huge Russian helicopter filled the
air.  The sling was attached under the Sea Lamprey's belly, and the
helicopter lifted the vehicle from the ship's deck.  Then Zavala took
off in the NUMA helicopter and followed the submersible back to the
base where the sub would be loaded onto a transport plane for the
return trip.

"One other thing," Becker said.  "I'd like you to keep that remarkable
suit on board in case the court has the need for further evidence.  If
not, we'll gladly ship it anywhere you wish."

"You want me to make another dive?"

"Possibly.  I would clear it with your superiors, of course."

"Of course," Austin said.  He was too tired to argue.

The captain came over and announced that the shuttle was ready to take
them back to the mainland.  Austin wasn't enthusiastic about spending
any more time than he had to with the Danish bureaucrat.  "I'll come
ashore tomorrow if it's all right with you.  Captain Larsen wants to
show me some of the results of his whale research."

The captain saw the desperation in Austin's eyes and played along.  "Oh
yes, as I said, you'll find our work fascinating.  I'll deliver Mr.
Austin to shore in the morning."

Becker shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  I've spent enough time at sea to
last me a lifetime."

Austin watched the shuttle boat head toward land and turned to the
captain.  "Thanks for rescuing me from Mr.  Becker."

Larsen sighed heavily.  "I suppose bureaucrats like Becker have a value
in the scheme of things."

"So do the stomach bacteria that aid in digestion," Austin said.

The captain laughed and put his hand on Austin's shoulder.  "I think a
liquid celebration of your successful mission is in order."

"I think you're right," Austin said.

AUSTIN RECEIVED VIP treatment aboard the research vessel.  After drinks
in the captain's cabin, he enjoyed a delicious meal, then he was
entertained with incredible underwater footage of the ship's whale
research.  He was given a comfortable cabin and slept like a log, and
the next morning he said his farewell to Captain Larsen.

The captain seemed sorry to see him go.  "We're going to be here a few
days doing survey work on the cruiser.  Let me know if there is
anything I can ever do for you or for NUMA."

They shook hands and Austin climbed into the shuttle for the short trip
to the Western Harbor.  Happy to be on dry land once more after weeks
on and under the sea, he made his way along the cobblestone quay past
the line of fishing boats.  The capital city of the Faroe Islands was
named Torshavn, "Thor's Harbor," after the mightiest of the
Scandinavian gods.  Despite its thundering namesake,

Torshavn was a quiet settlement located on a headland between two busy
boat harbors.

Austin would have preferred to explore the narrow streets that ran
between the colorful old houses, but a glance at his watch told him he
had better get moving if he wanted to make the hearing.  He dropped his
duffel bag off at the hotel room that Becker had arranged for him.  He
figured he wouldn't be in the Faroes more than another day or so, and
decided to leave whether Becker wanted him to or not.  On his way out,
he asked the desk to book him a flight to Copenhagen in two days.

His destination was a short walk up the hill toward Vaglio Square in
the heart of the city's commercial center.  A few minutes later, he
stopped in front of an impressive nineteenth-century building built of
dark-hued basalt.  The plaque on the exterior identified the structure
as the Raohus, or Town Hall.  He mentally girded his loins for the
ordeal ahead.  As an employee of a federal agency, Austin was no
stranger to the hazards of navigating governmental seas.  The rescue of
the men trapped in the Leif Ericsson might have been the easiest part
of his Faroese adventure, he reflected.

The receptionist in the Raohus lobby told Austin how to get to the
hearing room.  He followed a corridor to a door guarded by a burly
policeman and identified himself.  The officer told him to wait and
slipped into the room.  He reappeared a moment later with Becker.
Taking Austin by the arm, Becker moved out of earshot.

"Good to see you again, Mr.  Austin."  He glanced at the policeman and
lowered his voice.  "This matter requires a great deal of delicacy.  Do
you know anything about the Faroe Islands government?"  "Only that
there's an affiliation with Denmark.  I don't know the details."

"Correct.  The Islands are part of the Kingdom of Denmark, but they
have had home rule since 1948.  They're quite independent, even

keeping their own language.  However, when they get into financial
trouble, they don't hesitate to ask Copenhagen for money," he said,
with a faint smile.  "This incident occurred in Faroese waters, but a
Danish warship was involved."

"Which means SOS wouldn't win any popularity contests in Denmark."

Becker brushed off his comment with an airy wave.  "I've made my
feelings clear.  Those crazy people should be hanged for sinking our
ship.  But I am a realist.  The whole regrettable incident would never
have happened if it hadn't been for the Islanders' stubbornness in
keeping their old customs."

"You mean the whale hunt?"

"I won't comment on the morality of the grindarap.  Many in Denmark
regard the grind as a barbaric and unnecessary ritual.  More important
are the economic considerations.  Companies that might buy Faroese fish
or explore for oil don't want the public to think they are doing
business with whale murderers.  When the Faroese can't pay their bills,
Copenhagen must open its pocketbook."

"So much for independence."

Becker smiled again.  "The Danish government wants to resolve this case
quickly, with the minimum amount of international publicity.  We don't
want these SOS people seen as courageous martyrs who acted rashly but
in defense of helpless creatures."

"What do you want from me?"

"Please go beyond your technical observations in your testimony.  We
know what sank the cruiser.  Feel free to emphasize the human suffering
you witnessed.  Our goal is to convict Ryan in the court of public
opinion, then get these reckless hooligans out of our country and make
sure they don't come back.  We want to make sure that the world sees
them as pariahs rather than martyrs.  Perhaps then, something like this
won't happen again."

"Suppose Ryan is innocent in all this?"

"His innocence or guilt is of no concern to my government.  There are
greater issues at stake."

"As you say, a matter of great delicacy.  I'll tell your people what I
saw.  That's all I can promise.

Becker nodded.  "Fair enough.  Shall we go in?"  The policeman opened
the door, and Becker and Austin stepped inside the hearing room.
Austin's eyes swept around the large dark-paneled chamber and took in
the suits, presumably government and legal people, who filled several
rows of chairs.  He was wearing his usual working gear of jeans,
turtleneck and windbreaker, having no need on board ship for dressier
outfits.  More suits sat behind a long wooden table at the front of the
room.  Sitting in a chair to the right of the table was a man in a
uniform.  He was speaking in Danish, his words taken down by a
stenographer.

Becker indicated a seat, sat next to Austin, and whispered in his ear.
"That's the representative from the coast guard.  You're next."

The coast guard witness concluded a few minutes later, and Austin heard
his own name called.  Four men and two women sat at the table, with the
group evenly divided between Faroese and Danish representatives.  The
magistrate, an avuncular Dane with a long Viking face, said his name
was Lundgren.  He explained to Austin that he would ask questions, with
the others on the board offering follow-up.  This was only an inquiry
to collect an informational base, not a trial, he explained, so there
would be no cross-examination.  He would also translate when
necessary.

Austin eased into the chair, and under questioning, offered a
straightforward account of the rescue.  He didn't have to embellish the
suffering or the crew's ordeal in its dark and practically airless
tomb.  The expression on Becker's face showed that he was pleased with
what he heard.  Austin stepped down after forty-five minutes,

with the thanks of the board.  He was anxious to leave, but decided to
stay when the court's chairman announced, in Danish and English, that
the captain of the Sea Sentinel would present his case.

Austin was curious how anyone could defend himself against eyewitness
accounts.  The door opened and two policemen walked in.  Between them
was a tall and ruggedly built man in his mid-forties.  Austin took in
the ginger Captain Ahab chin-fringe, the coifed hair and the
gilt-trimmed uniform.

The magistrate asked the witness to sit down and introduce himself.

"My name is Marcus Ryan," the man said, his gray eyes making direct
contact with those in the audience.  "I am the executive director of
the Sentinels of the Sea organization and captain of the SOS flagship,
the Sea Sentinel.  For those who don't know us, SOS is an international
organization dedicated to the preservation of the sea and the marine
life that dwells within it."  ..

"Please give the court an account of the events surrounding your
collision with the Danish cruiser Leif Ericsson."

Ryan started into a diatribe against the whale hunt.  Speaking in a
firm voice, the magistrate asked him to keep his remarks confined to
the collision.  Ryan apologized and described how the Sea Sentinel had
suddenly veered toward the cruiser, striking it.

"Captain Ryan," Lundgren said with unconcealed amusement.  "Do you mean
to tell me that your ship attacked and rammed the Leif Eriksson of its
own accord ?"

For the first time since he'd started testifying, Ryan lost his aplomb.
"Uh, no, sir.  I'm telling you that the controls of my ship did not
respond."

"Let me see if I understand this clearly," said a woman on the board of
inquiry.  "You are saying that the ship took control of itself and went
off on its merry way."

There was a ripple of laughter in the audience.  "It seems so," Ryan
conceded.

His admission opened the doors for a round of probing questions.  The
hearing may not have been adversarial, Austin thought, but the court
was nibbling Ryan apart like a flock of hungry ducks.  Ryan did his
best to parry the questions, but with each reply, his case became
weaker.  Finally he lifted his hands, as if to say enough.

"I realize that my explanation raises more questions than it answers.
But let me say this unequivocally, so there is no misunderstanding.  We
did not deliberately ram the Danish ship.  I have witnesses who can
back me up.  You can check with Captain Petersen  He'll tell you that I
warned him."

"How long before the collision did this warning occur?"  Lundgren
asked.

Ryan took a deep breath and let it out.  "Less than a minute before we
hit."

Lundgren asked no further questions.  Ryan was excused, and the female
reporter from CNN took the stand.  She was calm during her recounting
of the collision, but she broke down and glared at Ryan with accusing
eyes when she described the death of her cameraman.  Lundgren signaled
a court officer to insert a videotape into a TV set that had been set
off to one side where everyone had a good view of the screen.  The tape
began to roll.  It showed Ryan standing on the deck of his ship
surrounded by reporters and photographers.  There was some joking about
rough seas, then the reporter's voice saying: "Just make sure the story
is worth all the damned Dramamine I swallowed."

The camera executed a close-up of Ryan's grinning face as he replied:
"I can almost guarantee that you'll see action."  As the camera
followed his finger pointing toward the Danish cruiser, there was

a muttering in the audience.  That's it, Austin thought.  Ryan is
toast.

The tape ended, and Lundgren asked the reporter one question "Was that
your voice on the tape?"

When the reporter replied in the affirmative, Ryan sprang to his
feet.

"That's unfair.  You're using my comment completely out of context!"

"Please be seated, Mr.  Ryan," Lundgren said, a bemused expression on
his face.

Ryan realized his outburst would bolster the image of a hothead capable
of ramming a ship.  He regained his composure.  "My apologies, sir.  I
was not told that the video would be introduced into evidence.  I hope
I will have the chance to comment on it."

"This is not an American court of law, but you will have every
opportunity to make your side known before this hearing is adjourned
The board will hear from Captain Petersen and his crew as soon a: they
are able.  You will remain in protective custody at the police station
until then.  We will do our best to expedite the process."

Ryan thanked the court.  Then, escorted by the policemen, he left the
room.

"Is that all?"  Austin asked Becker.

"Apparently so.  I expected they might ask you back to the stand but it
appears they don't need you anymore.  I hope your plans haven't been
disrupted."

Austin assured Becker that it was no problem.  He sat in his chair as
the room began to empty, chewing over Ryan's testimony.  Either the man
was telling the truth or he was a very good actor.  That would be for
wiser men to decide.  First a good, stiff cup of coffee, then he would
check out earlier flights to Copenhagen.  From there, he'd fly back to
Washington.

"Mr.  Austin."

A woman was walking toward him, her face wreathed in a bright smile.
Austin noticed her athletic and well-proportioned figure, the chestnut
hair that fell to her shoulders, the unblemished skin and alert eyes.
She was dressed in a white Icelandic wool jumper known as a
lopapesya.

They shook hands.  "My name is Therri Weld," she said, in a voice that
was mellow and warm.  "I'm a legal advisor with the SOS
organization."

"Nice to meet you, Ms.  Weld.  What can I do for you?"  Therri had been
watching Austin's serious expression as he gave his testimony, and she
was unprepared for his devastating smile.  With his broad shoulders,
burnished features and blue-green eyes, he reminded her of a buccaneer
captain in a pirate movie.  She almost forgot what she was going to
say, but quickly regained her mental footing.

"I wonder if you could spare a few minutes of your time," she said.

"I was about to look for a cup of coffee.  You're welcome to join
me."

"Thanks.  There's a pretty decent cafe around the corner."

They found a quiet table and ordered two cappuccinos.

"Your testimony was fascinating," she said, as they sipped their
coffee.

"Your Captain Ryan was the star of the day.  My words paled by
comparison with his story."

Therri laughed softly.  Her laughter had a musical lilt that Austin
liked.  "Today wasn't his finest hour, I'm afraid.  Usually he can be
quite eloquent, particularly on those subjects he's most passionate
about."

"Tough trying to explain to a bunch of skeptics that your ship was
possessed by evil spirits.  The reporter's testimony and the video
didn't help."

"I agree, which is why I wanted to meet with you."  Austin gave her his
best country-boy grin.  "Aw, shucks, I had hoped you found yourself
hopelessly attracted by my animal magnetism."

Therri raised a finely arched brow.  "That goes without saying," she
said.  "But the main reason I wanted to talk was to see if you could
help SOS."

"To begin with, Ms.  Weld " "Therri.  And may I call you Kurt?"

Austin nodded.  "I've got a couple of problems right off the bat,
Therri.  First of all, I don't know how I can help you.  And second, I
don't know if I want to help your organization.  I'm not in favor of
whale slaughter, but I don't endorse radical nutcases."

Therri skewered Austin with a leveled gaze of her laser-bright eyes.
"Henry David Thoreau, John Muir and Edward Abbey were considered
radical nut cases in their times.  But I concede your point.  SOS tends
to be too activist for the taste of many.  Okay, you say you don't
endorse radicals.  Do you endorse injustice, because that's exactly
what's involved here."  "In what way?"

"Marcus did not ram that Danish ship on purpose.  I was in the
pilothouse when it happened.  He and the others did everything they
could to avoid that collision."

"Have you told this to the Danish authorities?"  "Yes.  They said they
didn't need me to testify and told me to leave the country."

"Okay," Austin said.  "I believe you."

"Just like that?  You don't seem like someone who accepts the world at
face value."

"I don't know what else to say without offending you."

"Nothing you say can offend me."

"Glad to hear that.  But what gives you the idea that I would care
whether the case against Ryan is just or not?"

"I'm not asking you to care about Marcus."

Therri's tone hinted that there was a bit of hard steel behind her soft
features.  Austin suppressed a smile.  "What exactly do you want from
me, Therri?"

She brushed a lock of hair out of her face and said, "I'd like you to
make a dive on the Sea Sentinel."

"What purpose would a dive serve?"

"It might prove that Marcus is innocent."

"In what way?"

She spread her hands.  "I don't know.  But you might find something;
all I know is that Marcus is telling the truth.  To be honest, much of
his radicalism is hot air.  He's really a hard-nosed pragmatist who
calculates the odds very carefully.  He's not the kind of person who
goes around ramming navy ships in a fury.  Besides, he loved the Sea
Sentinel.  He even picked the ridiculous psychedelic color scheme
himself.  No one on the ship, including me, intended for anyone to get
hurt."

Austin leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and
stared at Therri's earnest face.  He liked the way her perfect lips
turned up in a Mona Lisa smile even when she was serious.  Her
girl-next-door appearance couldn't disguise the sensuous woman who
lurked behind remarkable eyes.  There were a thousand reasons why he
should simply thank her for the coffee, shake her hand and wish her
good luck.  There were maybe three good reasons why he might consider
her request.  She was beautiful.  She might have a case.  And,

right or wrong, she was passionate about her cause.  His plane flight
was two days away.  There was no reason his short stay in the Faroes
had to be boring.

Intrigued, he sat forward, and ordered another round of coffees. "Okay,
then," Austin said.  "Tell me exactly what happened."

A FEW HOURS LATER, Austin was a world away from the warmth of the
coffee shop, encased in the bulbous protective armor of his aluminum
Hardsuit, sinking once more into the cold Faroese sea.  As he dropped
into the deep, he smiled as he pictured how Becker would react if he
knew that a Danish vessel was being used to help Marcus Ryan and the
SOS.  It would serve the conniving little bureaucrat right, Austin
thought, his chuckle echoing inside the helmet.

After taking leave of Therri Weld, he had gone back to the hotel,
called Captain Larsen and asked permission to make another dive from
the Thor.  He said he wanted to shoot pictures of the rescue scene for
a report, which was partially true.  Larsen didn't hesitate to say yes
and even sent a shuttle boat in to bring Austin back to the ship. Since
Becker had asked Austin to leave the Hardsuit, it was all ready for
him.

Austin's fathometer told him he was nearing bottom.  He slowed his
descent with short bursts of the vertical thrusters and came to a
hummingbird hover about fifty feet above the bow section of the
cruiser.  The sea had wasted no time gathering the ship to its bosom. A
shaggy coat of marine growth covered the hull and superstructure like
an alpaca blanket.  Schools of deepwater fish nosed in and out of the
portholes, drawn by sea life that had made its home in the shadowed
nooks and crannies of the vessel.

Using a digital still camera, Austin shot pictures of the hole that the
Sea Lamprey had made during the rescue mission and of the three-sided
gash where the Sea Sentinel had punctured the hull.  Austin had quizzed
Captain Larsen about the last known position of the Sea Sentinel,
relative to the cruiser.  Using an undersea dead reckoning, he headed
in the general area of the sinking.

He used a standard search pattern, running a series of roughly parallel
courses until his lights picked out the psychedelic paint job on the
ship's hull.  Like the cruiser, the SOS ship was already growing a fur
coat of marine growth.  The combination of sea grass and tie-dye effect
was startling.  The Sea Sentinel had landed right-side-up on the
bottom, and except for its smashed pug nose, the ship appeared to be in
sound condition.

Austin surveyed the crushed bow and recalled Ryan's testimony.  The
engines had gone haywire, Ryan said, and failed to respond to controls.
There was no way to check out the engines without going inside the
wreck, but the steering system might more easily be investigated,
because part of it was external.  The steering of a modern ship is done
with a combination of electronics and hydraulics.  But even with
computers, GPS positioning and autopilot, the concept is no different
than it was when Columbus set sail to look for India.  At one end is a
wheel or a tiller.  At the other is a rudder.  Turn the wheel, and the
rudder pivots, sending the vessel in the appropriate direction.

Austin soared above the stern, executed a hairpin turn, then dropped
several yards until he was facing the man-tall rudder.

Curious.

The rudder was intact, but something was out of sync.  Bolted to the
rudder were two cables that led forward from the blade to each side of
the hull.  Austin followed the starboard cable to a steel box about the
size of a large suitcase that was welded to the hull.  An electrical
conduit led from the box through the hull.

Even more curious.

The welds around the boxes and conduit were shiny and looked new.  He
backed off and followed the cable to an identical box on the other
side.  He raised the camera and made a couple of shots.  A
rubber-coated line as thick as a man's thumb connected the two boxes.
Another line ran from the port-side box along the curve of the hull to
a point that would have been above the waterline when the ship was
afloat.  At its end was a flat plastic disk about six inches in
diameter.  The significance of what he was seeing dawned on Austin.

Looks like someone owes you an apology, Mr.  Ryan.  Austin took some
pictures, then pried the disk off with his manipulators and placed it
in a carrying case attached to the outside of the Hardsuit.  He stayed
down another twenty minutes, exploring every square inch of the hull.
Finding nothing more out of the ordinary, he tapped his vertical
thruster control and began the trip to the surface.  Once out of his
Hardsuit, he thanked Captain Larsen for the use of the Thor and caught
a boat ride into Torshavn.

Back in his hotel room, he slipped the cassette out of the digital
camera and into his laptop computer and brought the underwater pictures
onto the screen.  He studied the enlarged and enhanced pictures until
he practically had them committed to memory, then he called Therri and
asked to meet her again at the coffee shop.  He got there early and had
the computer set up on the table when she arrived a few minutes
later.

"Good news or bad?"  she said.

"Both."  Austin pushed the laptop across the table.  "I've solved one
mystery, but uncovered another."

She sat down and stared at the picture on the screen.  "What exactly am
I looking at?"

"I think it's a mechanism to override or bypass the steering controls
from the bridge."  "You're sure of this?"  "Reasonably certain."

He clicked the computer mouse through a series of pictures that showed
the boxes welded to the hull from different angles.  "These housings
could cover winches that can pull the rudder in either direction or
lock it in place.  Look here.  This electrical connection runs up the
side of the ship to a receiver above the waterline.  Someone outside
the ship could have controlled the steering."

Therri furrowed her brow.  "Looks like a little pie plate."  Austin dug
into his jacket, pulled out the plastic disk he'd pried off the hull,
and dropped it on the table.  "No pie in this plate.  It's an antenna
that could have been used to pick up signals."

Therri glanced at the screen, then picked the disk up and studied it.
"This would explain the steering problems Marcus had.  What about the
engines he couldn't shut down?"

"You've got me there," Austin said.  "If you could get into the ship
and tear the engine room apart, maybe you'd find a mechanism that would
allow the ship's speed to be controlled from the outside as well."

"I knew everyone on the Sea Sentinel.  They're intensely loyal."  She
jutted her chin forward as if she expected an argument.  "There's no
one in that crew who would sabotage the ship."

"I haven't made any accusations."

"Sorry," she said.  "I suppose I should keep an open mind about someone
from the crew being involved."

"Not necessarily.  Let me ask what they say at airport security.  Did
anyone else pack your baggage or has it been out of your sight?"

"So you do think someone from the outside could have sabotaged the
ship."

Austin nodded.  "I found a power source line for the winches leading
into the hull to tap the ship's energy supply.  Someone would have to
get inside the ship to accomplish that."

"Now that you mention it," she said without hesitation, "the ship
needed some engine work.  It was in dry dock for four days in the
Shetland Islands."

"Who did the work?"

"Marcus would know.  I'll ask him."

"It could be important."  He tapped the screen.  "This may be Ryan's
ticket out of jail.  I'd suggest you get in touch with a guy at my
hotel named Becker who seems to be some sort of behind-the-scenes
mucky-muck with the Danish navy department.  He might be able to
help."

"I don't understand.  Why would the Danes want to help Marcus after all
the awful things they've said about him?"

"That's for public consumption.  What they really want is to kick
Ryan's butt out of the Faroes and make sure he never shows his face
here again.  They don't want him to get on his soapbox, because it
might scare away companies that are thinking about investing in the
Faroes.  Sorry if this messes up Ryan's martyrdom plans."

"I won't deny that Marcus was hoping to make this a cause celebre."

"Isn't that a risky strategy?  If he pushes the Danes too far, they
may

be forced to convict him and toss him into jail.  He doesn't strike me
as a reckless guy."

"He isn't reckless at all, but Marcus will take a calculated risk if he
thinks the stakes are worth it.  In this case, he would have weighed
going to jail against a chance to stop the grind."

Austin extracted the camera cassette from the computer and presented it
to Therri.  "Tell Becker that I will testify to what I saw and verify
that I took these pictures.  I'll run a check on the manufacturer of
this antenna, but it's possible that it was put together out of
standard parts and won't tell us anything."

"I don't know how to thank you," Therri said, rising from her chair.

"My standard fee is acceptance of a dinner invitation."

"I'd be more than pleased to " She stopped short and glanced across the
room past Austin's shoulder.  "Kurt, do you know that man?  He's been
staring at you for some-time."

Austin turned, and saw a balding, long-jawed man in his sixties, who
was now making his way to the table.

"It's Kurt Austin of NUMA, if I'm not mistaken," the man said in a
booming voice.

Austin stood and extended his hand.  "Professor Jorgensen, nice to see
you.  It's been three years since we last saw each other."

"Four, actually, since we worked on that project in the Yucatan.  What
a wonderful surprise!  I saw the news of the miraculous rescue you
performed, but assumed you had departed the Faroes."

The professor was tall and narrow-shouldered.  The ample tufts of hair
flanking his freckled pate resembled swan wings.  He spoke English with
an Oxford accent, which was not surprising, since he had spent his
undergraduate years at the famed English university.  "I stayed on to
help Ms.  Weld here with a project."  Austin introduced Therri, and
said, "This is Professor Peter Jorgensen.  Dr. Jorgensen is one of the
foremost fisheries physiologists in the world."

"Kurt makes it sound far more glamorous than it is.  I'm simply a fish
physician, so to speak.  Well, what brings you to this far-flung
outpost of civilization, Ms.  Weld?"

"I'm an attorney.  I'm studying the Danish legal system."

Austin said, "How about you, Professor?  Are you doing some work here
in the Faroes?"

"Yes, I've been looking into some peculiar phenomena," he said, without
taking his eyes off of Therri.  "Maybe I'm being forward, but I have a
splendid suggestion.  Perhaps we could have dinner together tonight and
I could tell you about what I've been doing."

"I'm afraid Ms.  Weld and I already have plans."

A pained expression crossed Therri's face.  "Oh, Kurt, I'm so sorry.  I
started to say I'd be pleased to have dinner with you, but not tonight.
I'm going to be busy with that legal matter we discussed."

"Hoist by my own petard," Austin said with a shrug.  "Looks like you
and I have a date, Professor."

"Splendid!  I'll see you in the dining room of the Hotel Hania around
seven, if that sounds all right."  Turning to Therri, he said, "I'm
devastated, Ms.  Weld.  I hope we will meet again."  He kissed her
hand.

"He's charming," Therri said, after Jorgensen left.  "Very courtly in
an old-fashioned way."

"I agree," Austin said, "but I'd still rather have you as my dinner
partner."

"I'm so sorry.  Perhaps when we get back to the States."  Her eyes
darkened a shade.  "I've been thinking about your theory about the
possibility that the Sea Sentinel was controlled from the outside. What
would be the range involved in controlling a ship?"

"It could be done from quite a distance, but whoever did it would stay
close by to see if the ship were responding to command.  An; ideas?"

"There were a number of boats carrying press in the area.  Even a
helicopter."

"The controls could have been worked from the sea or the air.  It
wouldn't have required much in the way of equipment.  A transmitter
with a joystick, maybe, like you see for video games.  Assuming we know
the how, let's talk about the why.  Who would benefit by neutralizing
Ryan?"

"Do you have all day?  The list could go on forever.  Marcus has made
enemies all over the world."

"For a start, let's confine ourselves to the Faroe Islands."

"The whalers would top the enemy list.  Passions run high over the
issue, but they're basically decent people, in spite of their odd
customs.  I can't see them attacking the navy ship that's been sent to
protect them."  She paused in thought.  "There's another possibility,
but it's probably too farfetched to consider."

"Try me."

She furrowed her brow in concentration.  "After thegrindarap operation,
Marcus and his crew planned to make a showing at a fish farm owned by
the Oceanus Corporation.  The Sentinels are also against large-scale
aquaculture, because of the harm to the environment."

"What do you know about Oceanus?"

"Not much.  It's a multinational distributor of seafood products.
Traditionally, they've bought fish from fleets around the world, but in
the last few years they've gotten into aquaculture in a huge way. Their
fish farms are on the same scale as some of the land farms operated by
the agribusiness outfits in the States."

"You think Oceanus could have arranged this whole thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, Kurt.  They would have the resources, though.  And,
just maybe, the motive."

"Where was their fish farm located?"

"Not far from here, near a place called Skaalshavn.  Marcus planned to
run the Sea Sentinel back and forth in front of the farm for the
benefit of the cameras."  Therri glanced at her watch.  "That reminds
me ... I should be going.  I've got a lot of work to do."

They shook hands, vowing to get together again.  Therri made her way
across the dining room and stopped briefly to throw him a coquettish
glance over her shoulder.  The gesture was probably meant to be
reassuring, but it only made Austin sadder.

PROFESSOR JORGENSEN HAD politely watched for several minutes as Austin
tried to navigate his way through the incomprehensible courses listed
on the menu, but finally he could bear it no longer.  He leaned across
the table and said, "If you'd like to try a Faroese specialty, I'd
recommend the fried puffin or the pilot-whale steak."

Austin pictured himself gnawing on a drumstick from one of the stubby
little birds with the parrot beak and passed on the puffin.  After
hearing the bloody way in which pilot whales met their demise in the
Faroes, he decided he would rather eat shark snout, but he settled for
thes\erpikjot, well-aged mutton.  After one bite, he wished he had gone
for the puffin.

"How's your mutton?"  Jorgensen said.

"Not quite as tough as shoe leather," Austin replied, working his
jaw.

"Oh my, I should have advised you to get the boiled mutton, as I did.
They dry sl^erpikjot in the wind.  It's usually prepared at Christmas
and served the rest of the year.  It's a bit over the hill, as they
say."  He brightened at a new thought.  "The life expectancy in the
Faroes is quite high, so it must be good for you."

Austin sawed off a small bite and managed to swallow it.  Then he put
his knife and fork down while he gave his jaw muscles a rest.  "What
brings you to the Faroes, Dr.  Jorgensen?  It can't be the food."

The professor's eyes danced with amusement.  "I've been looking into
reports of diminishing fish stocks in the islands.  It's a real
mystery!"

"In what way?"

"I thought at first that the cause of the vanishing fish might be
pollution, but the waters are amazingly pure around the Faroes.  I can
only do so much testing on-site, so I'm heading back to Copenhagen
tomorrow to run some water samples through the computer.  There may be
small traces of chemicals that might have a bearing on the problem."

"Any theories as to the source of the chemicals?"

"It's strange," he said, tugging at one of his tufts of hair.  "I'm
sure the problem has something to do with a nearby fish farm, but so
far there is no discernible link between the two."

Austin had been eyeing the mutton, wondering where he could get a
burger, but his ears perked up at the professor's words.  "Did you say
you were testing the water near a fish farm?"

"Yes.  There are several aquaculture facilities in the islands that
produce trout, salmon and the like.  I collected samples from the
waters around a farming operation in Skaalshavn, a few hours' drive up
the coast from Torshavn on Sundini, the long sound that separates
Streymoy from the island of Eysturoy.  Used to be a whaling station

there in the old days.  The farm is owned by a big fisheries
conglomerate."

Austin took a long shot.  "Oceanus?"

"Yes, you've heard of it?"

"Only recently.  As I understand what you're saying, Professor, the
fish levels near this farm are lower than they should be."

"That's right," Jorgensen replied with furrowed brow.  "A real
puzzle."

"I've heard fish farms can be harmful to the environment," Austin said,
recalling his conversation with Therri Weld.

"True.  The waste products from a fish farm can be toxic.  They feed
the fish a special chemical diet so they'll grow faster, but Oceanus
claims it has a state-of-the-art water purification system.  So far I
haven't found any evidence to dispute that claim."

"Have you visited this fish farm?"

Jorgensen bared his big teeth in a grin.  "No visitors allowed. They've
got the placed locked up tighter than the crown jewels.  I managed to
speak off-premises with someone from the law firm that represents the
company in Denmark.  He assured me that no chemicals were used at the
farm and that it has the finest in water-cleaning facilities.  Always
the skeptical scientist, I rented a little house not far from the
Oceanus operation and went as close as I could by boat to take the
water samples.  As I said, I'm leaving for Copenhagen tomorrow, but you
and your young lady friend are welcome to go up to the cottage.  It's a
pretty ride."

"Thanks, Professor.  Unfortunately, Ms.  Weld will be busy the next few
days."

"That is unfortunate."

Austin nodded absentmindedly.  He was intrigued by Jorgensen's mention
of the tight security at Oceanus.  Where some might see this

as an obstacle, Austin saw an invitation to probe the connection
between Oceanus and the disastrous collision of the SOS ship and the
cruiser.  "I might take you up on your cottage offer.  I'd like to see
a little more of the Faroes before I leave."

"Wonderful!  Stay as long as you want.  The islands are spectacular.
I'll call the landlord to say you'll be coming.  His name is Gunnar
Jepsen, and he lives in a house behind the cottage.  You can use my
rental car.  There's a small boat that goes along with the cottage and
plenty to keep you busy.  Incredible birding on the cliffs, the hiking
is superb, and there are some fascinating archeological ruins nearby."
Austin smiled and said, "I'm sure I'll find something to do."  After
dinner, they had a nightcap in the hotel bar, then bid each other
good-bye with a promise to hook up in Copenhagen.  The professor was
staying with a friend that night and would leave the islands in the
morning.  Austin went up to his hotel room.  He wanted to get an early
start the next day.  He went over to the window and stood awhile in
thought as he looked out over the quaint town and harbor, then he
snatched up his cell phone and punched out a familiar number.

Gamay Morgan-Trout was in her office at NUMA headquarters in
Washington, D.C."  staring intently at the computer monitor, when the
telephone rang.  Without moving her eyes from the screen, she picked up
the telephone and mumbled an absentminded hello.  At the sound of
Austin's voice, she broke into a dazzling smile that was made
distinctive by the slight space between her front teeth.

"Kurt!"  she said with obvious delight.  "It's wonderful to hear from
you."

"Same here.  How are things back at NUMA?"

Still smiling, Gamay brushed a strand of long, dark-red hair away from
her forehead and said, "We've been treading water here since you and
Joe left.  I'm reading a new abstract on toadfish nerve research that
could help cure balance problems in humans.  Paul's at his computer
working on a model of the Java Trench.  I don't know when I've had so
much excitement.  I feel sorry for you and Joe.  That daring rescue
must have bored you to tears."

Paul Trout's computer was back-to-back with his wife's.  Trout was
staring at the screen in typical pose, with head dipped low, partially
in thought, but also to accommodate his six-foot-eight height.  He had
light-brown hair parted down the middle in Jazz Age style and combed
back at the temples.  As always, he was dressed impeccably, wearing a
lightweight olive tan suit from Italy, and one of the colorful matching
bow ties that were his addiction.  He peered upward with hazel eyes, as
if over glasses, although he wore contacts.  "Please ask our fearless
leader when he's coming home," Paul said.  "NUMA headquarters has been
as quiet as a tomb while he and Joe have been making headlines."

Austin overheard Trout's question.  "Tell Paul I'll be back at my desk
in a few days.  Joe's due later in the week, after he wraps up tests on
his latest toy.  I wanted to let you know where I'd be.  I'm driving up
the Faroe coast tomorrow to a little village called Skaalshavn."
"What's going on?"  Gamay said.

"I want to look into a fish-farm operation run by a company called
Oceanus.  There may be a connection between Oceanus and the sinking of
those two ships here in the Faroes.  While I'm poking around, could you
see what you can learn about this outfit?  I don't have much to go on.
Maybe Hiram can help out."  Hiram Yeager was the computer whiz who rode
herd on NUMA's vast database.

They chatted a few more minutes, with Austin filling Gamay in

on the rescue of the Danish sailors, then hung up, with Gamay promising
to get right on the Oceanus request.  She related the gist of her
conversation with Austin.

"Kurt can whistle up a wind better than anyone I know," Paul said with
a chuckle, alluding to the ancient belief that whistling on a ship can
attract a storm.  "What did he want to know about fish-farming, how to
run your tractor underwater?"

"No, a grain binder," Gamay said with exaggerated primness.  "How could
I forget that you practically grew up on a fishing boat?"

"Just a simple son of a son of a fisherman, as Jimmy Buffett would
say."  Trout had been born on Cape Cod, into a fishing family.  His
ancestral path had diverged when, as a youngster, he hung around the
Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.  Some of the scientists at the
Institution had encouraged him to study oceanography.  He'd received
his Ph.D. in ocean science at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography,
specializing in deep-ocean geology, and was proficient in using
computer graphics in his various undersea projects.

"I happen to know that despite your display of ignorance, you know a
lot more about aquaculture than you let on."

"Fish-farming is nothing new.  Back home, folks have been seeding and
harvesting the clam and oyster flats for a hundred years or more."

"Then you know it's essentially the same principle, only extended to
fin fish.  The fish are bred in tanks and raised in open net cages that
float in the ocean.  The farms can produce fish in a fraction of the
time it takes to catch them in the wild."

Paul frowned.  "With the government clamping down on the wild fishery
because of stock depletion, competition like that is the last thing a
fisherman needs."

"The fish farmers would disagree.  They say aquaculture produces
cheaper food, provides employment and pours money into the economy."

"As a marine biologist, where do you stand on the issue?"  Gamay had
received a degree in marine archaeology before changing her field of
interest and enrolling at Scripps, where she'd attained a doctorate in
marine biology, and in the process met and married Paul.

"I guess I stand smack in the middle," she said.  "Fish-farming does
have benefits, but I'm a little worried that with big companies running
the farms, things could get out of control."

"Which way is the wind blowing?"

"Hard to tell, but I can give you an example of what's happening.
Imagine you're a politician running for office and the fish-farm
industry says it will invest hundreds of millions of dollars in the
coastal communities, and that investment will generate jobs and
billions of dollars each year in economic activity in your district.
Which side would you back?"

Trout let out a low whistle.  "Billions?  I had no idea there was that
kind of money involved."

"I'm talking about a fraction of the world business.  There are fish
farms all over the world.  If you've had salmon or shrimp or scallops
lately, the fish you ate could have been raised in Canada or Thailand
or Colombia."

"The farms must have incredible capacity to pump out fish in those
quantities."

"It'sphenomenal.  In British Columbia, they've got seventy million
farm-raised salmon compared to fifty-five thousand wild caught."

"How can the wild fishermen compete with production like that?"

"They can't," Gamay said, with a shrug.  "Kurt was interested in a
company called Oceanus.  Let's see what I can find."

Her hands played over the computer keyboard.  "Strange.  Usually the
biggest problem with the Internet is too much information.  There's
almost nothing on Oceanus.  All I could find is this one

paragraph article saying that a salmon-processing plant in Canada had
been sold to Oceanus.  I'll peck around some more."

It took another fifteen minutes of hunting, and Paul was deep in the
Java Trench again, when he heard Gamay finally say, "Aha!"

"Pay dirt?"

Gamay scrolled down.  "I found a few sentences about the acquisition
buried in an industry newsletter story.  Oceanus apparently owns
companies around the world that are expected to produce more than five
hundred million pounds a year.  The merger gives market access in this
country through an American subsidiary.  The seller figures the U.S.
will buy a quarter of what they produce."

"Five hundred million pounds!  I'm turning in my fishing rod.  I
wouldn't mind seeing one of these plants.  Where's the nearest one?"

"The Canadian operation I just mentioned.  I'd like to see it, too."

"So what's stopping us?  We're twiddling our thumbs while Kurt and Joe
are away.  The world isn't in need of saving, and if it is, Dirk and Al
are always available."

She squinted at the screen.  "The plant is in Cape Breton, which is
more than a skip and a jump from the shores of the Potomac."

"When will you learn to trust my Yankee ingenuity?"  Paul said with a
fake sigh.

While Gamay watched with a bemused smile, Paul picked up the phone and
punched out a number.  After a brief conversation, he hung up with a
triumphant grin on his boyish face.  "That was a pal in NUMA's travel
department.  There's a NUMA plane leaving for Boston in a few hours.
They have two seats available.  Maybe you can charm the pilot into an
add-on to Cape Breton."

"It's worth a try," Gamay said, pushing the OFF button on her
computer.

"What about your toadfish research?"  Paul said.

Camay replied with a bad imitation of a toad's croak.  "What about, the
Java Trench?"

"It's been there for millions of years.  I think it can wait a few more
days."

His computer monitor went blank as well.  Relieved that their boredom,
at last, had come to an end, they raced each other to their office
door.

THE MORNING GLOOM had burned off, and the Faroes were enjoying a rare
moment of sunshine that revealed the splendor of the island scenery.
The countryside seemed to be covered in bright-green billiard table
baize.  The rugged terrain was barren of trees, dotted by grass-roofed
houses and an occasional church steeple, and laced by crooked stone
walls and foot trails.

Austin drove the professor's Volvo along a twisting coastal road that
offered inland views of distant mountains.  Jagged gray out-croppings
rose from the cold blue sea like huge, petrified whale fins.  Birds
swirled around the lofty vertical cliffs where the sea had sculpted the
irregular shoreline.

Around midday, Austin emerged from a mountain tunnel and saw a
doll-like village clustered on a gently sloping hill at the edge of a
fjord.  The serpentine road followed a series of descending

switchbacks, dropping thousands of feet in a few miles.  The Volvo's
wheels skirted the edge of hairpin turns with no guardrails along the
berm.  Austin was happy when he reached the level road that ran between
the foam-flecked surf and the colorfully painted houses built on the
slope of the hillside like spectators at an amphitheater.

A woman was planting flowers in front of a tiny church, whose grassy
roof was surmounted by a short, rectangular steeple.  Austin glanced at
his Faroese phrase book and got out of the car.

He said: "Orsaka.  Hvar er Gimnar Jepsen?"  Excuse me, where could I
find Gunnar Jepsen?

She put her trowel down and came over.  Austin saw that she was a
handsome woman who could have been between fifty and sixty.  Her
silvery hair was tied in a bun, and she was tanned except for the sun
blush on her high cheekbones.  Her eyes were as gray as the nearby sea.
A bright smile crossed her narrow face, and she pointed toward a side
road that led to the outskirts of town.  "Gott taa\," he said.  Thank
you.  "Eingiskt?"  "No, I'm American."

"We don't see many Americans here in Skaalshavn," she said, speaking
English with a Scandinavian lilt.  "Welcome."  "I hope I'm not the
last."

"Gunnar lives up there on the hill.  Just follow that little road." She
smiled again.  "I hope you have a good visit."

Austin thanked her once more, got back in the car and followed a pair
of gravel ruts for about a quarter of a mile.  The road ended at a
large grass-roofed house built of vertical, dark chocolate-colored
planking.  A pickup truck was parked in the drive.  A hundred yards
down the slope was a smaller twin of the main house.  Austin climbed
the porch stairs and knocked.

The man who answered the door was of medium height and slightly on the
portly side.  He had an apple-round face and cheeks, and thin strands
of reddish-blond hair combed over his bald head.

"Ja," he said with a pleasant smile.

"Mr.  Jepsen?"  Austin said.  "My name is Kurt Austin.  I'm a friend of
Professor Jorgensen's."

"Mr.  Austin.  Come in."  He pumped Kurt's hand like a used-car
salesman greeting a prospect.  Then he ushered him into a rustic living
room.  "Dr.  Jorgensen phoned and said you were coming.  It's a long
drive from Torshavn," Jepsen said.  "Would you like a drink?"

"Not now, thanks.  Maybe later."

Jepsen nodded and said, "You're here to do a little fishing?"

"I've heard you can catch fish on dry land in the Faroes."

"Not quite," Jepsen said with a grin, "but almost as good."

"I was doing some ship salvage work in Torshavn and thought fishing
would be a good way to relax."

"Ship salvage?  Austin."  He swore in Faroese.  "I should have known.
You're the American who saved the Danish sailors.  I saw it on the
television.  Miraculous!  Wait 'til the people in the village learn I
am entertaining a celebrity."

"I was hoping I wouldn't be bothered."

"Of course, but it will be impossible to keep your visit a secret from
the townspeople."

"I met one of them outside the church.  She seemed nice enough."

"That would be the minister's widow.  She's the postmistress and head
gossip.  Everyone will know you're here by now."

"Is that the professor's cottage down the hill?"  "Yes," Jepsen said,
removing a key ring from a nail in the wall.  "Come, I'll show you."
Austin got his duffel from the car.  As they walked down the
hard-packed path, Jepsen said, "You're a good friend of Dr.
Jorgensen?"

"I met him a few years ago.  His reputation as a fish scientist is
world-known."

"Yes, I know.  I was very honored to have him here.  Now you."  They
stopped in front of the cottage, whose porch offered a view of the
harbor, where a picturesque fleet of fishing boats was anchored.  "Are
you a fisherman, Mr.  Jepsen?"

"In a little place like this, you survive by doing many things.  I rent
out my cottage.  My expenses aren't great."

They climbed onto the cottage porch and went inside.  The interior was
basically one room with a single bed, bathroom, kitchen area, a small
table and a couple of chairs, but it looked comfortable.  Jepsen said,
"There's fishing gear in the closet.  Let me know if you need a guide
for fishing or hiking.  My roots go back to the Vikings, and no one
knows this place better."

"Thanks for your offer, but I've been around a lot of people lately.  
I'd like to spend some time on my own.  I understand that a boat goes
with the cottage."

"Third one from the end of the pier," Jepsen said.  "A double-ender.
The keys are in it."

"Thank you for your help.  If you'll excuse me, I'd like to unpack,
then I'll go into the village and stretch my legs," Austin said.

Jepsen told Austin to let him know if he needed anything.  "Dress
warm," he said as he went out the door.  "The weather changes quickly
around here."

Heeding Jepsen's advice, Austin pulled a windbreaker over his sweater.
He went outside and stood on the cottage porch, sucking in the cool
air.  The land sloped gradually down to the sea.  From his vantage, he
had a clear view of the harbor, the fish pier and the boats.  He walked
back up the path to the Volvo and drove into the village.

Austin's first stop was the bustling fish pier, where a procession of
trawlers unloaded their catches under an umbrella of squalling
seabirds.  He found the boat tied up as Jepsen had described.  It was a
well-built wooden inboard about twenty feet long, turned up
dory-fashion at both ends.  He checked the motor and found it
relatively clean and new.  The key was in the ignition, as Jepsen had
said.  Austin started the engine and listened to it for a few minutes.
Satisfied that it was running smoothly, he switched it off and headed
back to his car.  On the way, he encountered the minister's widow
coming out of a loading bay.

"Hallo, American," she said with a friendly grin.  "Did you find
Gunnar?"

"Yes, thank you."

She was holding a fish wrapped in newspaper.  "I came down here to get
some supper.  My name is Pia Knutsen."

They shook hands.  Pia's grip was warm and firm.

"Nice to meet you.  I'm Kurt Austin.  I've been enjoying the sights.
Skaalshavn is a beautiful village.  I've been wondering what the name
means in English."

"You are talking to the unofficial village historian.  Skaalshavn means
"Skull Harbor."  "

Austin glanced out at the water.  "Is the bay shaped like a skull?"

"Oh no.  It goes way back.  The Vikings discovered skulls in some caves
when they founded the settlement."

"People were here before the Vikings}"

"Irish monks, perhaps, or maybe even earlier.  The caves were on the
other side of the headland at what was the original harbor for the old
whaling station.  It became too small as fishing grew, so the fishermen
moved their boats and settled here."

"I'd like to do some hiking.  Would you recommend any routes where I
can get a good view of the town and its surroundings?"

"From the bird cliffs, you can see for miles.  Take that path behind

the village," she said, pointing.  "You will go through the moors by
some beautiful waterfalls and streams, past a big lake.  The trail
climbs sharply after you pass the old farm ruins, and you will be at
the cliffs.  Don't go too close to the edge, especially if it's foggy,
unless you have wings.  The ledges are nearly five hundred meters tall.
Follow the cairns back and keep them on your left.  The trail is steep
and goes down fast.  Don't walk too close to the edge along the sea,
because sometimes the waves crash over the rocks and can catch you."

"I'll be careful."

"One more thing.  Dress warm.  The weather changes quickly
sometimes."

"Gunnar gave me the same advice.  He seems quite knowledgeable.  Is he
a native?"

"Gunnar would like people to think he goes back to Erik the Red," she
sniffed.  "He's from Copenhagen.  Moved into the village a year or two
ago."

"Do you know him well?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a roll of her lovely eyes.  "Gunnar tried to
get me into his bed, but I'm not that hard up."

Pia was a good-looking woman, and Austin wasn't surprised at Jepsen's
attempt; but he hadn't driven all this way to tune in on the local
romances.  "I heard there was a fish operation of some sort up the
coast."

"Yes, you'll see it from the cliffs.  Ugly concrete and metal
buildings.  The harbor is full of their fish cages.  They raise fish
there and ship it out.  The local fishermen don't like it.  The fishing
around the old harbor has gone bad.  No one from town works there.  Not
even Gunnar anymore."

"He worked at the fish farm?"

"In the beginning.  Something to do with construction.  He used his
money to buy his houses and lives off the rentals."

"Do you get many visitors here?"  Austin was watching a sleek blue
yacht coming into the harbor.

"Bird-watchers and fishermen."  She followed Austin's eyes.  "Like
those men in that pretty boat.  It's owned by a rich Spaniard, I hear.
They say he came all the way from Spain for the fishing."

Austin turned back to Pia.  "You speak English very well."

"We learn it in the schools along with Danish.  And my husband and I
spent some time in England when we were first married.  I don't get
much chance to speak it."  She lifted the fish under Austin's nose and
said, "Would you like to come to my house for dinner?  I could practice
my English."

"It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"No, no.  Come by after your walk.  My house is behind the church."

They agreed to meet in a few hours, and Austin drove to the trail-head.
The gravel path climbed gradually through rolling moors splashed with
wildflowers, and passed near a small lake, almost perfectly round, that
looked as if it were made of cold crystal.  About a mile from the lake,
he came upon the ruins of an old farm and an ancient graveyard.

The path grew steeper and less visible.  As Pia advised, he followed
the carefully piled heaps of rock that marked the way.  He could see
flocks of sheep so far away that they looked like bits of lint.
Towering in the distance were layered mountains with cascading
wedding-veil waterfalls.

The trail led to the cliffs, where hundreds of seabirds filled the air,
balancing delicately on updrafts of air.  Tall sea stacks soared from
the bay, their flat summits wreathed in fog.  Austin chewed on a
Power

Bar and thought that the Faroes must be the most otherworldly place on
the planet.

He kept on going until he stood atop a ridge that gave him a panoramic
view of the serrated coast.  A rounded headland separated Skaalshavn
from a smaller inlet.  Clustered along the shore of the old harbor were
dozens of neatly arranged buildings.  As he surveyed the scene below,
he felt a drop of rain on his cheek.  Dark billowing clouds were
rolling in from the layered mountains to obliterate the sun.  He
started down from the exposed ridge.  Even with switchbacks easing the
vertical drop, the going was hard on the steep trail, and he had to
move slowly until the ground leveled out again.  As he approached sea
level, the heavens opened up.  He kept heading toward the lights of the
town, and before long he was at his car.

Pia took one look at the drenched and bedraggled figure at her door and
shook her head.

"You look like you've crawled out of the sea."  She pulled Austin in by
the sleeve and ordered him to go into the bathroom and strip.  Austin
was too wet to protest.  While he was undressing, she cracked the door
open and tossed in a towel and dry clothes.

"I was sure my husband's clothes would fit," she said approvingly, when
Austin ventured out in the shirt and pants.  "He was a big man like
you."

While Pia set the table, Austin spread his clothes out next to a wood
stove, then stood practically on top of it, basking in the heat, until
she informed him that dinner was ready.

The baked fresh cod melted in his mouth.  They washed dinner down with
a light homemade white wine.  Dessert was a sweet raisin pudding.  Over
their meal, she talked about her life in the Faroes, and Austin told
her a little about his NUMA work.  She was fascinated by his travels to
exotic places for his NUMA assignments.

"I forgot to ask, did you have a good walk, even with the rain?"  Pia
said as she cleared the dishes.

"I climbed to the top of the cliffs.  The views were incredible.  I saw
the fish farm you mentioned.  Do they allow visitors?"

"Oh no" Pia replied, with a shake of her head.  "They don't let anyone
in.  Like I said before, none of the village men work there.  There's a
road along the shore that they used when they were building, but it's
blocked off with a high fence.  Everything comes and goes by sea.  They
say it's like a separate town out there."

"Sounds interesting.  Too bad no one can get in."

Pia refilled Austin's glass and gave him a sly look.  "I could get in
in a minute if I wanted to, through the Mermaid's Gate."

He shook his head, unsure he had heard her correctly.  "The Mermaid's
Gate?"

"That's what my father used to call the natural arch at the edge of the
old harbor.  He used to take me out sometimes in his boat, and we'd go
there.  He never took me in.  It's dangerous because of the currents
and rocks.  Some men have drowned trying to go through the gate, so the
fishermen stay away.  They say it's haunted by the souls of the dead.
You can hear them moaning, but it's only the way the wind blows through
the caves."

"It sounds as if your father wasn't afraid of ghosts."

"He wasn't afraid of anything."

"What do these caves have to do with the fish farm?"

"It's a way to go in.  One cave joins others that lead to the old
harbor.  My father said there are paintings on the walls.  Wait, I'll
show you."

She went to a bookcase and took out an old family album.  Tucked
between pages of photos was a sheet of paper, which she unfolded and
spread on the table.  Drawn on the paper were rough sketches of bison
and deer.  More interesting to Austin were depictions of long graceful
boats powered by sail and oar.

"These are very old drawings," Austin said, although he was unable to
place them in time.  "Did your father show them to anyone else?"

"Not outside the family.  He wanted the caves kept a secret because he
was afraid they would get ruined if people knew about them."

"Then the caves can't be entered from the land side?"  "There was a
way, but it was blocked with boulders.  My father said it would be no
problem to move them.  He wanted to get some scientists in from the
university so it would be done right, but he died in a storm."  "I'm
sorry."

Pia smiled.  "Like I said, he wasn't afraid of anything.  Anyhow, after
he died, my mother moved the family away to live with relatives.  I
came back here with my husband.  I was too busy raising kids to worry
about the caves.  Then the fish company bought the land and the old
whaling station, and no one could get out there."  "Are there more
pictures?"

She shook her head.  "Poppa tried to make a map of the caves, but I
don't know what happened to it.  He said the people who made the
paintings were smart.  They used pictures of fish and birds like signs.
As long as you follow the right fish, you won't get lost.  Some of the
caves lead to blind alleys."

They talked into the night.  Austin finally looked at his watch and
said that he had to go.  Pia wouldn't let him leave until he agreed to
return for dinner the next evening.  He drove along the deserted road
in the dusky light that passes for night in northern climes.

A light was on at the main house, but he saw no sign of Jepsen, and

guessed he had gone to bed.  The rain had ended.  He went out on the
porch and stood there awhile, looking down on the quiet village and
harbor, then went back inside the cottage and got ready to sack out.
Although the remote village seemed peaceful, he couldn't shake the
uneasy feeling that Skaalshavn was a place of dark secrets.  Before he
turned in, he made sure that the door and windows were locked.

PAUL TROUT THREADED the wide-beamed Humvee through the heavy Washington
traffic like a runner going for a touchdown at the Super Bowl. Although
he and Gamay often took the Hummer on four-wheeling family trips in the
Virginia countryside, nothing they encountered off-road could compare
with the challenges of driving in the nation's capital. They made good
time, though, as Gamay called out openings in the traffic and Paul spun
the wheel over without looking.  Their ability to work together like a
well-oiled machine had been crucial on countless NUMA assignments and
was a tribute to the acumen of Admiral Sandecker, who had hired them
together.

Paul turned down a narrow Georgetown street and tucked the Humvee into
the parking space behind their brick town house, and they bolted for
the door.  Minutes later, they were jumping into a taxi, their hastily
packed overnight bags in hand.  The NUMA executive jet was waiting at
the airport with its engines warming up.  The pilot, who was flying a
contingent of scientists to Boston, knew the Trouts from past missions
with the Special Assignments Team.  She had gotten the okay from NUMA
to add the extra leg to her trip and filed a new flight plan.

After dropping off the scientists at Logan Airport, the plane continued
up the Atlantic coast.  With a cruising speed of nearly five hundred
miles an hour, the Cessna Citation had the Trouts in Halifax, Nova
Scotia, in time for a late dinner.  They stayed overnight at a hotel
near the airport and caught an Air Canada flight to Cape Breton early
the next morning, then rented a car at the Sydney airport and drove out
of the city up the rocky coast to look for the processing plant that
Oceanus had acquired.  Gamay had picked up a travel guide at the
airport.  The travel writer who'd written the section describing this
part of the remote coast must have been desperate, because he had
listed the fish-processing plant as a tourist attraction.

After not seeing any signs of civilization for many miles, they came
upon a combination general store, coffee shop and service station.
Gamay, who was taking her turn at the wheel, pulled alongside the
battered pickup trucks lined up in front of the ramshackle false-front
building.

Paul looked up from the map he was studying.  "Charming, but we've got
another few miles before we get to the center of town."

"We have to stop for gas anyhow," Gamay said, tapping the fuel gauge.
"While you pump the pump, I'll pump the locals for gossip."

Tucking the guidebook under her arm, Gamay stepped over the mangy black
Labrador retriever stretched out in a deathlike sleep on the rickety
front porch and pushed the door open.  Her nostrils were greeted by a
pleasant fragrance of pipe tobacco, bacon and coffee.  The store, which
occupied one half of the room, was crammed with

every sort of item, from beef jerky to rifle ammunition.  The coffee
shop took up the other side of the store.

A dozen or so men and women sat at round Formica-and-chrome tables. All
eyes turned to Gamay.  At five-ten and a hundred-thirty-five pounds,
Gamay's slim-hipped figure and unusual red hair would have attracted
attention at a Malibu beach party.  The curious stares followed her
every move as she poured two plastic cups full of coffee from a
self-service dispenser.

Gamay went to pay, and the plump young woman at the cash register
greeted her with a friendly smile.  "Passing through?"  she said, as if
she couldn't imagine any traveler staying in town longer than it took
to fill a coffee cup.

Gamay nodded.  "My husband and I are taking a drive along the coast."

"Don't blame you for not staying," the woman said with resignation.
"Not much to see around here."

Despite her striking sophistication, Gamay's midwestern roots had given
her a down-home earthiness that was hard to resist.  "We think it's
beautiful country," she said, with an engaging smile.  "We'd stay
longer if we had time."  She opened the guidebook to the folded-over
page.  "It says here that there's a pretty little fishing harbor and a
fish-processing plant nearby."

"It does?"  the cashier said with disbelief.

The other people in the room had been listening to every word.  A
spindly white-haired woman cackled like a hen.  "Fishing ain't what it
used to be.  Plant sold out.  Some big outfit bought the business.
Fired all the folks working there.  Nobody knows what they're doing.
People who work there never come into town.  Sometimes we see the
Eskimos driving around in their big black trucks."

Gamay glanced into the guidebook, looking for something she missed.
"Did you say Eskimos?  I didn't think we were that far north."

Her innocent question started a table debate.  Some of the locals
contended that Eskimos guarded the plant.  Others said that the men
driving the SUVs were Indians or maybe Mongolians.  Gamay wondered if
she had stumbled into the local insane asylum, a thought that was
reinforced when the cashier mumbled something about "aliens."

"Aliens?"  Gamay said.

The cashier blinked through thick, round-framed glasses, her eyes
growing wider.  "It's like that secret UFO place in the States, Area
Fifty-one, like they show on The X-Files."

"I seen a UFO once when I was hunting near the old plant," interjected
a man who could have been a hundred years old.  "Big silver thing all
lit up."

"Hell, Joe," said the skinny woman, "I've seen you so lit up you've
probably seen purple elephants."

"Yup," the man said with a gap-toothed grin.  "Seen them, too."

The restaurant filled with laughter.

Gamay smiled sweetly and said to the cashier, "We'd love to tell our
friends back home that we saw a UFO base.  Is it far from here?"

"Maybe twenty miles," the cashier said.  She gave Gamay directions to
the plant.  Gamay thanked the young woman, put a ten-dollar bill in the
empty tip jar, scooped up the coffees and headed out the door.

Paul was leaning against the car, his arms folded across his chest.  He
took the coffee she offered him.  "Any luck?"

Gamay glanced back at the store.  "I'm not sure.  I seem to have run
into the cast of Twin Peaks.  In the last few minutes, I've learned
that this part of the world is home to Eskimos who drive big black
SUVs, a UFO base and purple elephants."

"That explains it," he said with mock seriousness.  "While you were
inside, a bunch of big critters the color of plums came thundering by
here."

"After what I heard, I'm not surprised," she said, slipping behind the
wheel.

"Think the locals were having a little fun at the expense of a
tourist?"  Paul said, getting into the passenger side.

"I'll let you know after we find big silver things around Area
Fifty-one."  Seeing the quizzical expression on her husband's face, she
laughed and said, "I'll explain on the way."

They drove past the turnoff that led to the town center and harbor,
into an area of heavy pine forest.  Even with the cashier's detailed
directions, which included every stump and stone for miles, they almost
missed the turnoff.  There was no sign marking the entrance.  Only the
hard-packed ruts showing fairly recent use distinguished the way from
any of the other fire roads that cut into the thick woods.

About a half mile from the main road, they pulled over.  The cashier
had advised Gamay to park at a clearing near a big glacial boulder and
to walk through the woods.  A few townspeople who had driven close to
the plant's gates had been intercepted and rudely turned away.  The
Eskimos or whatever they were probably had hidden cameras.

Gamay and Paul left the car and made their way through the woods
parallel to the road for about an eighth of a mile, until they could
see the sun glinting off a high chain-link fence.  A black cable ran
along the top of the fence, indicating that the razor wire was
electrified.  No cameras were visible, although it was possible that
they were disguised.

"What now?"  Gamay said.

"We can fish or cut bait," Paul replied.

"I never liked cutting bait."

"Me, neither.  Let's fish."

Paul stepped out of the woods into the cleared grassy swath around the
fence.  His sharp eye noticed a thin, almost-invisible wire at ankle
height.  He pointed to the ground.  Trip wire.  He snapped a dead
branch off a nearby tree and dropped it on the wire, then he slipped
back into the woods.  He and Gamay flattened out belly-first on the
pine needle carpeting.

Soon they heard the sound of a motor, and a black SUV lumbered to a
stop on the other side of the fence.  The door opened, and
fierce-looking pure white Samoyeds as big as lions lunged out and ran
up to the fence.  The snuffling dogs were followed a moment later by a
swarthy, round-faced guard in a black uniform.  He cradled a leveled
assault rifle in his hands.

While the dogs dashed back and forth along the fence, the guard
suspiciously eyed the woods.  He saw the branch lying on the trip wire.
In an unintelligible language, he mumbled into a hand radio, then he
moved on.  The dogs may have sensed the two human beings in the woods.
They growled and stood stiff-legged, staring at the trees that hid the
Trouts.  The guard yelled at them, and they jumped back into the SUV.
Then he drove off.

"Not bad time," Paul said, checking his watch.  "Ninety seconds."
"Maybe it's time we got out of here," Gamay said.  "They'll be sending
someone to clear away that branch."

The Trouts melted back into the woods.  Walking and trotting, they
returned to their rental car.  Minutes later, they were on the main
road.

Gamay shook her head in wonderment.  "That guard, did he look like an
Eskimo to you?"

"Yeah, kinda, I guess.  Never ran into many Eskimos back on old

Cape Cod."

"What's an Eskimo doing this far south, selling Eskimo Pies?"

"The only thing that guy and his puppy dogs were selling was a quick
trip to the morgue.  Let's see what's going on in the big city."

Gamay nodded, and a few minutes later she was taking the turnoff that
led to town.  The village was hardly quaint, and she could see why it
was only a footnote in the travel guide.  The houses were protected
against the weather by asphalt shingles of drab green and faded maroon,
and the roofs were covered with aluminum to allow the snow to slide
off.  There were few people or cars around.  Some of the shops in the
minuscule business section posted signs that said they were closed
until further notice, and the town had an abandoned look.  The harbor
was picturesque, as the tour book said, but it was empty of boats,
adding to the town's forlorn aspect.

The fish pier was deserted except for a ragged flock of sleeping gulls.
Gamay spotted a restaurant bar neon sign in a small square building
overlooking the harbor.  Paul suggested that she grab a table and order
him fish and chips while he meandered around and tried to find someone
who could tell him about the Oceanus plant.

Gamay stepped into the yeasty atmosphere of the restaurant and saw that
the place was vacant except for a heavyset bartender and one customer.
She took a table with a view of the harbor.  The bartender came over
for her order.  Like the people she'd met in the general store, he
proved to be a friendly type.  He apologized for not having fish and
chips, but said the grilled ham and cheese sandwich was pretty good.
Gamay said that would be fine and ordered two sandwiches along with a
Molson.  She liked the Canadian beer because it was stronger than the
American brew.

Gamay was sipping her beer, admiring the fly-specked ceiling, the
torn-fishnet-and-weathered-lobster-buoy decorations on the wall, when
the man sitting at the bar slid off his stool.  Apparently, he had
taken the sight of an attractive woman drinking alone in a bar at mid
day as an invitation.  He sidled over with a beer bottle in his hand
and ran his eyes over Gamay's red hair and lithe, athletic body. Unable
to see her wedding ring because her left hand was resting on her knee,
he figured Gamay was fair game.

"Good mornin', " he said, with an amiable smile.  "Mind if I join
you?"

Gamay wasn't put off by the direct approach.  She moved well among men
because she had a talent for thinking like they do.  With her tall,
slim figure and long, swirled-up hair, it was hard to believe that
Gamay had been a tomboy, running with a gang of boys, building tree
houses, playing baseball in the streets of Racine.  She was an expert
marksman as well, thanks to her father, who'd taught her to shoot
skeet.

"Be my guest," Gamay said casually, and waved him into a chair.

"My name's Mike Neal," he said.  Neal was in his forties.  He was
dressed in work clothes and wore shin-high black rubber boots.  With
his dark, rugged profile and thick, black hair, Neal would have had
classic good looks if not for a weakness around the mouth and a ruby
nose colored by too much booze.  "You sound American."

"I am."  She extended her hand and introduced herself.

"Pretty name," Neal said, impressed by the firmness of Gamay's grip.
Like the general store cashier, he said, "Just passing through?"

Gamay nodded.  "I've always wanted to see the Maritime Provinces.  Are
you a fisherman?"

"Yep."  He pointed out the window and, with unrestrained pride, said,
"That's my beauty over there at the boatyard dock.  The Tiffany.  Named
her after my old girlfriend.  We broke up last year, but it's bad luck
to change the name of a boat."

"Are you taking a day off from fishing?"

"Not exactly.  Boat shop did some work on my engine.  They won't
release Tiffany until I pay them.  Afraid I'd take off without
paying."

"Would you?"

He smirked.  "I stung them for a few bucks before."  "Still, that seems
shortsighted on their part.  With your boat, you could go fishing and
earn the money to pay them back."

Neal's smile dissolved into a frown.  "I could if there were fish to
sell."

"Someone at the general store mentioned that the fishing was bad."

"Worse than bad.  Rest of the fleet has moved up the coast.  Some of
the guys come home between trips to see family."  "How long has this
been going on?"  " "Bout six months."  "Any idea what's causing the
drought?"

He shrugged.  "When we talked to the provincial fisheries people,

they said the fish musta moved off, looking for better feeding.  They
didn't even send someone like we asked.  Don't want to get their feet
wet, I guess.  The marine biologists all must be busy sitting on their
fat asses looking at their computers."

"Do you agree with what they said about the fish moving off?"  He
grinned.  "For a tourist, you've got lots of questions."  "When I'm not
a tourist, I'm a marine biologist."

Neal blushed.  "Sorry.  I wasn't talking about your fat ass.  Oh, hell
"

Gamay laughed.  "I know exactly what you mean about computer biologists
who never leave their lab.  I think fishermen have more practical
knowledge of the sea than any scientist.  At the same time,

professional expertise doesn't hurt.  Maybe I can help you figure out
why there are no fish to catch."

A cloud passed over Neal's features.  "I didn't say there are no fish.
There are fish all right."

"Then what's the problem?"

"These aren't like any fish I've seen in all my years of fishing."

"I don't understand."

Neal shrugged.  Apparently this was one subject he didn't want to talk
about.

"I've studied fish in and out of the water all over the world," Gamay
said.  "There isn't much that would surprise me."

"Bet this would."

Gamay stuck her hand out.  "Okay, it's a bet.  How much is your engine
repair bill?"

"Seven hundred fifty dollars, Canadian."

"I'll pay that if you show me what you're talking about.  Let me buy
you a beer to seal the deal."

Neal's unshaven jaw dropped open.  "You're serious?"

"Very.  Look Mike, there are no fences in the ocean.  Fish go pretty
much where they please.  There may be something harmful in these waters
that could affect American fishermen as well."

"Okay," he said, shaking her hand.  "When can you go?"

"How about today?"

Neal grinned like a Cheshire cat.  The source of his happiness wasn't
hard to figure out.  A nice-looking and friendly American woman was
paying his boatyard bill and going out on his boat, alone, where he
could turn on his rugged charm.  Just then, Paul Trout walked into the
bar and came over to the table.

"Sorry I took so long," Paul said.  "Harbor's pretty deserted."

"This is Mike Neal," Gamay said.  "Mike, I'd like you to meet my
husband."

Neal glanced up at Trout's nearly seven-foot-tall figure, and his
fantasies about Gamay evaporated.  But he was a practical man a deal
was a deal.  "Pleased to meet you," he said.  They shook hands.

"Mike here has agreed to take us out on his boat to show us some
unusual fish," Gamay said.

"We can leave in an hour," Neal said.  "That'll give you time to eat
your lunch.  See you over at the boat."  He rose from his chair and
started to leave.

"Do we need to bring anything?"  Paul asked.

"Naw," Neal said.  He stopped and said: "Elephant gun, maybe?"  He
roared with laughter at ^ ^^ ^^ ^^

could still hear him laughing after he passed through the door

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.  Despite 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.
Fishermen 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 fishing
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 harbor 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
fishermen 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 another,
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 reflected 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 hundred yards
away.  Rocket pods hung from the fuselage.  More company 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 unsmiling
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 Cigarette
boat speeding back toward land.  The helicopter sheared off and rapidly
out paced 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 Mermaid's Gate at
the bottom of a vertical cliff.  It was amazingly symmetrical for a
natural arch.  The opening was about twenty feet high and slightly
narrower in width.  It looked like a mouse hole compared to the
overpowering wall of rough, brownish-black rock.

Despite its lyrical name, the Mermaid's Gate was far from welcoming.
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.  Regretfully, 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 of her 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
slithered 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 surface 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 immediately
buffeted by a musty wind.  The air was amplified like a trumpeter's
breath as it flowed from the cleft, producing the haunting 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 entered 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 arrows.  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 evidence 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.  Floodlights 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 minutes 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
warehouse, 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 container.
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 continued
and ran down a broad, white, gravel-covered alley that separated 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 corrugated
steel.  The air was heavy with the smell of fish, 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 motors
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, pumps, valves 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
recognized salmon, cod and other familiar types in the holding tanks. A
centrally located smaller building housed a central computer center. 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 expected to
get back to the Mermaid's Gate before the end of slack current.  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
secondary 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 of fish 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 between two lines of
tanks, almost crashing into each other like a couple 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 material.  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
intentions, 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 reacted with
pure reflex and swung the pipe as if he were hitting a home run.  There
was a sickening scrunch sound as the pipe connected 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
toward the blinking red lights.  Austin stuck his head out and heard
excited 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 of fish nurseries.  With most of the attention focused
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 access
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 passageway, but by
then he was around a curve and the angled wall protected 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 figures
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 currents 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 skidded
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
of Frisbee 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 between
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 secondary
explosion.  Austin stayed under as long as he could and surfaced 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 surface.  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 direction 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 speeding his
way: His pursuers were no doubt coming to finish off the job.  A
gurgled laugh escaped from his throat.  By the time they arrived, he'd
be nothing but a giant Slurpee.

SECONDS BEFORE HE slipped below the surface, however, Austin's one-way
trip to Davey Jones's locker was cut short.  A hand reached over the
side of the launch and grabbed him by the hair.  His teeth clacked like
a pair of castanets, and his scalp felt as if it were being pulled out
by the roots.  Then other hands were grabbing him by the armpits and
collar, and he was hauled from the sea, sputtering and coughing, like a
kitten in a well.

His legs were still dangling in the water when the motor launch took
off and raced over the waves with a roar of jet propulsion engines, its
bow high in the air.  Through blurred vision, Austin saw, to his
surprise, that they were swinging alongside the blue yacht.
Semi-conscious, he was passed up to the deck and carried to what must
be the sick bay, where he was relieved of his soggy clothes, wrapped in
warm towels and examined by a frowning man with a

stethoscope.  Then he was thrust into a sauna, where, eventually, he
could move his fingers and toes.  He was examined a second time and
given a blue fleece sweat suit to wear.  Apparently, he was going to
live.

His transition from near-death to near-life was accomplished under the
watchful eye of two men, built like professional wrestlers, who spoke
to each other in Spanish.  The same guard dogs escorted him as he
walked on rubber legs to a luxurious stateroom.  They settled him into
a comfortable reclining chair, covered him with a soft blanket and left
him to rest.

Austin fell into an exhausted sleep.  When he awakened, he saw that he
was under scrutiny by a pair of dark eyes.  A man sat in an armchair,
watching him from a few feet away, as if he were a specimen on a lab
slide.

The man grinned when he saw Austin's eyelids flutter.  "Good.  You're
awake," he said.  His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke
American English with only a hint of an accent.

The man reached over to a side table for a silver-plated flask and
poured Austin a drink.  With shaking fingers, Austin swirled the
greenish-yellow amber liquor around in the bottom of the brandy
snifter, breathed in the heavy fumes and took a deep sip.  The fiery
herbal liquor trickled down his throat, and its warmth spread
throughout his body.

Austin glanced at the flask.  "This tastes too good to be antifreeze,
but the effect is the same."

The man chuckled and took a swig from the flask.  "Green Izarra is one
hundred proof," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It's usually served in glasses hardly bigger than your thumb.  I
thought a little extra might be of benefit in your case.  How is your
wound?"

Austin's hand reached down and touched his ribs.  He could feel the
stiffness of a bandage under his shirt, but there was no pain, even
when he pressed with his fingers.  He remembered the flash of white as
the ivory knife slashed his flesh.  "How bad was it?"

"Another half-inch deeper and we would have been burying you at sea."
The grim assessment was accompanied by a grin.  "It feels okay."

"My ship's doctor is an expert in treating trauma.  He sewed you up and
froze the wound."

Austin glanced around at his surroundings, his memories returning.
"Ship's doctor?  This is the blue yacht, isn't it?"

"That's right.  My name is Balthazar Aguirrez.  This is my boat."  With
his barrel chest and large hands, Aguirrez looked more like a
longshoreman than the owner of a yacht that was probably worth several
million dollars.  He had a broad forehead and thick black eyebrows over
a strong nose, a wide mouth that curved upward in a natural grin, and a
chin like a granite ledge.  His eyes were the purple-black of ripe
olives.  He wore a light-blue sweat suit identical to the one on loan
to Austin.  A black beret was perched at a jaunty angle on his thick
pepper-and-salt hair.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr.  Aguirrez.  My name is Kurt Austin.  Thanks
for your hospitality."

Aguirrez extended his hand in a bone-crunching grip.  "Think nothing of
it, Mr.  Austin.  We like to entertain guests."  His dark eyes danced
with amusement.  "Most arrive on board in a more conventional manner,
however.  May I pour you another

Izarra?"

Austin waved it off.  He wanted to keep a clear head.  "Perhaps after
you have some food.  Are you hungry?"

Austin had worked up an appetite since the bread and cheese he'd eaten
for brunch.  "Yes, now that you mention it.  I wouldn't mind a
sandwich."

"I would be a poor host if I could not do better than a sandwich.  If
you feel well enough, I'd like you to join me for a light meal in the
salon."

Austin levered himself out of the chair and stood, somewhat shakily.
"I'll be fine."

Aguirrez said, "Splendid.  I'll give you a few minutes.  Come when
you're ready."  He rose and left the cabin.  Austin stared at the
closed door and shook his head.  His brain still felt waterlogged.  He
was weak from blood loss.  He went into the bathroom and looked in the
mirror.  He looked like a commercial for ghoul makeup.  Not surprising
after being stabbed, shot at and blown out of the water.  He washed his
face with cold, then hot, water.  Noticing an electric shaver, he
removed the stubble on his chin.  When he stepped back into the
stateroom, he saw he had company.

The tough-faced stewards who had escorted him earlier were waiting. One
opened the door and led the way, while the other man took up the rear. 
The walk gave Austin ample opportunity to exercise, and he felt his
legs grow stronger with every step.  They came to the main deck salon,
and one of the men motioned for Austin to enter.  Then he and the other
man left him alone.

Austin stepped into the salon and raised his eyebrows.  He had been on
dozens of yachts and had found the decor to be similar.  Chrome and
leather and clean contemporary lines were the norm.  But the Navarras
salon resembled the interior of a southern European farmhouse.

The eggshell-white walls and ceiling were of stucco, inlaid with
rough-hewn beams, and the floor was a red tile.  A fire was crackling

in a large, stone fireplace that had been built into one wall.  Over
the mantle was a painting of men playing a game Austin recognized as
jai alai.  He went up to a still-life painting of assorted fruit and
was examining the signature when a deep voice said, "Interested in art,
Mr.  Austin?"

Aguirrez had come up from behind without making a sound.  Austin said,
"I collect dueling pistols, which I think of as a form of art."

"Without question!  Deadly art is still art.  I picked up that Cezanne
for my little collection last year.  The other pieces I found at
auction or acquired from private sources."

Austin strolled past the Gauguins, a Degas, Manets and Monets.  The
"little collection" was more extensive than that found in many museums.
He moved to another wall that was covered with large photographs.

"These are originals, too?"

"A few of my holdings," Aguirrez said, with a shrug.  "Shipbuilding
yards, steel mills and so forth."  He sounded like a jaded waiter
rattling off items on a menu.  "But enough of business."  He took
Austin by the arm.  "Dinner is ready."

He led the way through sliding doors into an elegant dining room.  At
the center of the room was an oval mahogany table set for twelve.
Aguirrez removed his beret and, with a snap of his wrist and great
accuracy, flung it to a chair across the room.  He gestured grandly
toward the two opposite chairs at one end of the table.  As the two men
took their seats, a waiter appeared from nowhere and poured their tall
goblets full of wine.

"I think you will like this sturdy Spanish Rioja," Aguirrez said.  He
raised his glass.  "To art."

"To the master and crew of the Navarra."

"You're very gracious," Aguirrez said with obvious approval.  "Ah
good," he said, his eyes lighting up.  "I see that our feast is about
to begin."

There were no appetizers, and they dug right into the main course, a
hearty bean, pepper and pork-rib dish served with cabbage.  Austin
complimented the chef and asked what the dish was.

"This is called alu bias de tolosa," Aguirrez said, downing his food
with gusto.  "We Basques treat it with an almost mystical reverence."
"Basque.  Of course.  Navarra is a Basque province.  Then there's the
jai alai painting.  And the black beret."

"I'm impressed, Mr.  Austin!  You seem to know a great deal about my
people."

"Anyone interested in the sea knows that the Basques were the greatest
explorers, sailors and shipbuilders in the world."

Aguirrez clapped his hands.  "Bravo."  He refilled Austin's wineglass
and leaned forward.  "Tell me, what is your interest in the sea?"  He
maintained his ferocious grin, but pinioned Austin with a penetrating
gaze.

Austin admired the way Aguirrez had subtly managed the conversational
shift.  Until he knew his host better and learned why the blue yacht
was hanging out near the Oceanus fish farm, Austin planned to play his
cards close to his vest.

"I'm a salvage specialist," he said.  "I've been working on a project
in the Faroes.  I came to Skaalshavn to do some fishing."

Aguirrez sat back and roared with laughter.  "Excuse my bad manners,"
he said with tears in his eyes.  "But it was my men who fished you from
the sea."

Austin's mouth widened in a sheepish grin.  "A cold swim wasn't in my
plans."

Aguirrez became serious again.  "From what we saw, there was an
explosion on your boat."

"The ventilation for the engine compartment was insufficient, and
gasoline vapors collected.  It happens sometimes with inboards,"

Austin said.

Aguirrez nodded.  "Strange.  In my experience, explosions of that type
usually happen when a boat has been sitting at the dock.  And your
wound undoubtedly was caused by flying metal."

"Undoubtedly," Austin said with a poker face, knowing full well that
the ship's doctor would have seen that there were no burn marks on his
skin and his wound was too neat to be from a jagged hunk of metal.
Austin didn't know why Aguirrez was playing verbal cat-and-mouse, but
he went along with the game.  "I was lucky you were nearby."

Nodding soberly, Aguirrez said, "We watched your earlier encounter with
the patrol boat and saw you head along the coast.  When we rounded the
point later, you had vanished.  Not long after that, you burst from
that sea cave like a man shot from a cannon."  He clapped his big hands
together.  "Boom!  Your boat was in pieces and you were in the
water."

"That about sums it up," Austin said, with a faint smile.  After
offering Austin a short, thick cigar, which he refused, Aguirrez lit up
a dark stogie that smelled like a toxic waste site.  "So my friend," he
said, blowing smoke through his nostrils.  "Did you get into the
caves?"

"Caves?"  Austin feigned innocence.

"For God's sakes, man, that's why I'm here, to find the caves.  Surely
you must have wondered what my boat is doing in this Godforsaken
place."

"It had occurred to me."

"Then allow me to explain.  I have done very well with my
businesses."

"An understatement.  You're very fortunate.  Congratulations."

"Thank you.  My wealth gives me the means and the time to do whatever I
like.  Some men choose to spend their fortune on beautiful young women.
I choose to be an amateur archaeologist."

"Ambitious hobbies in either case."

"I still enjoy the company of beautiful women, especially if they are
intelligent.  But with me, the past is more than a hobby."  He looked
as if he were about to spring from his chair.  "It is my passion.  As
you said earlier, the Basques were great men of the sea.  They
pioneered the cod and whale fisheries off North America decades before
Columbus.  An ancestor of mine, Diego Aguirrez, profited from this
trade."

"He would be proud to see his descendant has carried on his legacy."

"You're more than kind, Mr.  Austin.  He was a man of great courage and
unyielding principle, qualities that got him in trouble with the
Spanish Inquisition.  He angered one of the more ruthless
Inquisitors."

"Then he was executed?"

Aguirrez smiled.  "He was resourceful, as well.  Diego saw his wife and
children to safety.  I am a direct descendant of his eldest son. Family
tradition says he escaped in one of his ships, but his fate is a
mystery."

"The sea is full of unsolved puzzles."

Aguirrez nodded.  "Nevertheless, he left tantalizing clues that show he
intended to put himself far beyond the reach of the Inquisition.  The
traditional North American route for the Basques included a stopover
here in the Faroes.  So I began to explore that link.  You know the
origins of the name Skaalshavn?"

"I've been told it means "Skull Harbor."  "

Aguirrez smiled and rose from the table to extract an ornately carved
wooden box from a cabinet.  He unlatched the top and pulled

out a skull, cradling it in one hand like Hamlet contemplating Yorick.
"This is from one of those caves.  I've had it looked at by experts. It
has distinct Basque characteristics."  He tossed the skull to Austin as
if it were a ball, probably hoping to shock him.

Austin caught the skull neatly and spun it in his hand like a
geographer studying a globe of the world.  "Maybe it's your ancestor
Diego."  He tossed the skull back.

"I wondered the same thing and had it tested for DNA.  This gentleman
and I are not related, I'm sad to say."  Aguirrez put the skull back
into the box and rejoined Austin at the table.  "This is my second
visit here.  The first time, I expected that the caves would be
accessible from land.  I was dismayed to learn that the harbor and cave
area had been purchased for use as a fish farm.  I located a man who
had worked in demolition when the farm was set up.  He said that when
the owners were blasting out rock to create storage space, they broke
through to the caves.  I tried to persuade the owners to let me conduct
archaeological explorations, but they refused.  I pulled every string I
could think of, but even with my connections, Oceanus wouldn't budge.
So I came back for another look."

"You're very persistent."

"This has become a quest.  Which is why I'm interested in your
adventure.  I suspected the natural arch might provide entry into the
caves, but the waters around them were too dangerous for our launches.
Apparently, you found a way to get in."

"Dumb luck," Austin said briefly.

Aguirrez chuckled.  "I think it was more than luck.  Please, tell me
what you saw.  I will bribe you with more wine."

He snapped his fingers.  The waiter brought a new bottle, opened it and
refilled their glasses.

"No bribe is necessary," Austin said.  "Consider it partial repayment
for your hospitality and the fine meal."  He sipped from his glass,
enjoying the buildup of suspense.  "You're right, there is a way into
the caves through the arch.  The locals call it the "Mermaid's Gate." 
The cave network is quite extensive.  I only saw part of it."

Austin went into detail about the cave art, saying nothing about his
side trip into the fish farm.  Aguirrez hung on every word.

"Similar Paleolithic paintings dating back twelve thousand years have
been found on the walls of caves in Basque country," he murmured at one
point.  "The other drawings indicate that an advanced civilization must
have used the caves."

"That was my impression.  Supposedly, the Faroes were uninhabited
before the Irish monks and the Vikings settled here.  Maybe the
historians were wrong."

"I wouldn't be surprised.  The scholars have no idea where my people
came from.  Our language has no antecedents in Europe or Asia.  Basques
have the highest percentage of RH-negative blood type in the world,
leading some to speculate that we go directly back to Cro-Magnon man."
He banged his fist lightly on the table.  "I'd give anything to get
into those caves."

"You saw the warm reception I got."

"You seem to have stirred up a hornet's nest.  While you slept, the
patrol boats came out from shore and demanded permission to come
aboard.  We refused, of course."

"The boat I saw had a couple of men with automatic rifles."  Aguirrez
waved toward the art hanging on the wall.  "When they saw that my men
outgunned and outnumbered them, they quickly left."

"They had a helicopter, too.  It was armed with rockets."

"Oh yes, that," he said, as if he were talking about a pesky gnat.

"I had my men brandish their handheld surface-to-air missiles, and the
helicopter stopped bothering us."

Missiles and automatic weapons.  The Navarra was armed like a
warship.

Aguirrez read Austin's mind.  "Wealthy men can be a target for
kidnappers.  The Navarra would be fair game for pirates, so I have made
sure it is not exactly toothless.  Of necessity, I have surrounded
myself with loyal and well-armed men."

"Why do you suppose Oceanus is so prickly about people poking into its
business?"  Austin said.  "We're talking about a fish farm, not diamond
mines."

"I asked myself the same question," Aguirrez said, with a shrug.

One of the men who had kept watch over Austin came into the dining
room.  He handed Aguirrez a plastic bag and whispered into his ear.

Aguirrez nodded and said, "Thank you for being so forthcoming about
your visit to the caves, Mr.  Austin.  Is there anything more I can do
for you ?"

"I wouldn't mind a lift back to the village."

"Done.  My man has informed me that we are passing the sea stack and
should be anchoring in a few minutes."  He handed the plastic bag over.
"Your clothes and personal effects have been drying out."

Austin was ushered back to his cabin so he could change.  The bag also
held his wallet, which contained his NUMA photo ID card prominently
displayed in its plastic window.  Aguirrez was a cool one.  He would
have known that Austin's story about being in marine salvage was made
out of whole cloth, yet he'd never let on.  Inside the bag was a
business card with his host's name and a telephone number.  Austin
tucked the card into his wallet.

Aguirrez was waiting on deck to say good-bye.

"I appreciate your hospitality," Austin said, shaking hands with his
host.  "I hope I'm not being rude having to eat and run."

"Not at all," Aguirrez said, with an enigmatic smile.  "I wouldn't be
surprised if our paths crossed again."

"Stranger things have happened," Austin said, with a grin.

Moments later, Austin was in the launch heading across the quiet
harbor.

TWO THOUSAND FEET above Skaalshavn harbor, the Bell 206 Jet Ranger
helicopter that had been tracking the yacht along the coast came to a
hover and focused its Wescam high-resolution surveillance camera on the
launch making its way to shore.  The man in the pilot's seat stared at
a video monitor, watching as a lone passenger disembarked from the
boat.

The helicopter pilot had a pie-shaped face with high cheekbones marked
with vertical tattoo lines.  His coal-black hair was cut in bangs over
his low forehead, characteristics that might lead a casual observer to
take him for a native of the northern tundra.  But the features
normally associated with the Eskimo were distorted.  In place of a
pleasant smile was a cruel, leering expression.  Eyes that should have
twinkled with innocent good humor were as hard as black diamonds.  The
brownish-red skin was pockmarked, as if the corruption within had
seeped through the pores.  The hastily applied bandage taped across the
man's crushed nose intensified the grotesque image.

"We have the target in view," he said with a nasal snarl, speaking in
an ancient language that had its origins under the aurora borealis.

The electronic signal from the camera, which was housed in a pod
beneath the cockpit, was converted into microwaves and transmitted
instantaneously to the other side of the globe to a darkened room,
where pale-gray eyes watched the same picture seen from the
helicopter.

"I can see him quite clearly," the gray-eyed man said.  His silky voice
was quiet and cultured, but it had the sullen menace of a rattlesnake.
"Who is this person who violated our security so easily?"

"His name is Kurt Austin."

A pause.  "The same Austin who rescued the Danish sailors from their
sunken ship?"

"Yes, great Toonook.  He is a marine engineer with the National
Underwater and Marine Agency."

"Are you certain} A mere engineer wouldn't have been so bold or
resourceful as to penetrate our facility.  And why would NUMA be
interested in our operation?"

"I don't know, but our watcher has verified his identity."

"And the yacht that picked him up and drove off your men.  Is it a NUMA
vessel?"

"As far as we know, it is private, of Spanish registry.  We're checking
on the ownership through our sources in Madrid."

"See that it is done speedily.  What is the latest damage report at our
facility?"

"One guard dead.  We were able to repair the damaged pipes and save the
prime specimens."

"The guard deserved to die for being careless.  I want the specimens
moved to Canada immediately.  Our experiments are too vital to be
jeopardized."

"Yes, great Toonook."

"An idiot can see what has happened.  Mr.  Austin has somehow drawn a
connection between Oceanus and the collision we so conveniently
arranged."  "That's impossible "

"The evidence is in front of your eyes, Umealiq.  Don't argue with it.
You must deal with the situation!"

The pilot tightened his grip on the controls, ready to send the
helicopter swooping down like an eagle.  The cruel eyes watching the
monitor screen followed the figure making its way from the fish pier to
the parked car.  Within seconds, he could launch his rockets or spray
the target with flesh-shredding machine-gun fire and obliterate the
life of a bothersome man.  The thin lips widened in a cruel smile.
"Should we kill Austin while we have him in our sights?"  "Do I detect
a yearning to avenge the damage to your precious nose?"  The voice had
a mocking tone to it.  Without waiting for an answer, he said, "I
should kill him for the trouble he has caused me.  Had he allowed the
Danish sailors to die, the revulsion of the world would be directed at
SOS and the attention of the press diverted away from Oceanus."  "I
will do it now "

"No!  Don't be impatient.  We must not attract any more attention to
his demise than necessary."

"He is staying at an isolated cottage.  It would be the perfect place.
We could drop his body off a cliff."

"Then see to it.  But make it look like an accident.  Austin must not be
allowed to broadcast his findings to the world.  Our plans are at a
critical stage."

"I will return to the base and organize our men.  I will see that
Austin enjoys a lingering death, that he experiences fear and pain as
the life drains from his body, that "

"No.  Have someone else do it.  I have other plans for you.  You must
leave for Canada immediately to make sure the specimens get there
safely, then you are to go to Washington and eliminate that Senator who
opposes our legislation.  I have arranged cover for you and your
men."

The pilot glanced with fierce longing at the monitor and touched the
tender mush that was his nose.  "As you wish," he said with
reluctance.

His hands played over the cyclic pitch control, and a moment later the
hovering helicopter darted off in the direction of the old harbor.

Unaware how close he had come to a violent end, Austin sat behind the
steering wheel of Professor Jorgensen's Volvo, contemplating his next
move.  He was wary of the remote location of the cottage.  He gazed at
the warm lights of the town, then grabbed his duffel and left the car.
He walked into the village without encountering a soul and went up to
the house behind the church.

Pia beamed when she opened the door at his knock and invited him
inside.  The exertions of the day must have been apparent in his face.
When he stepped into the light, her smile disappeared.  "Are you all
right?"  she said, with concern in her voice.

"Nothing a glass oiakavit couldn't help."

Clucking like a mother hen, she ushered him to the kitchen table,
poured him a tall glass otakavit, then watched as he drank.  "Well?"
she said finally.  "Did you catch many fish?"

"No, but I went to visit the mermaids."

Pia let out a whooping laugh, clapped her hands and poured him

a couple more fingers of liquor.  "I knew it!"  she said, with
excitement in her voice.  "And were the caves as wonderful as my father
said?"  She listened like a child as Austin described his entry through
the Mermaid's Gate at slack tide and his journey into the cave network.
He told her that he would have stayed longer but men with guns chased
him away.  Cursing impressively in Faroese, she said, "You can't go
back to the cottage tonight.  Gunnar says he doesn't work for those
people, but I think he does."

"I was wondering the same thing.  I left the car at the fish pier.
Maybe I should leave town."

"God, no!  You'll drive off the road into the sea.  No, you will stay
here tonight and leave early tomorrow."

"Are you sure you want a gentleman staying the night?  People will
talk," Austin said with a broad smile.

She grinned back, eyes sparkling with childlike mischief.  "I hope
so."

Shortly before dawn, Austin awakened and got up from the sofa.  Pia
heard him stir and rose to make him a breakfast.  She cooked an
industrial-sized potato omelet with smoked fish and pastry on the side.
Then she packed him a lunch of cold cuts, cheese and apple and sent him
on his way, first eliciting a promise to return.

The town was coming alive as he made his way in the damp morning air to
the fish pier.  A couple of fishermen on their way to work waved at him
from their trucks as he was opening the car door.  The keys slipped
from his fingers as he waved back and when he bent to pick them up, his
nostrils picked up a chemical smell, and he detected a sofa splat-splat
sound.  He got down on his knees and peered under the car, where the
odor was even stronger.  Fluid dripped where the brake hoses had been
cleanly cut.  Austin grunted to him

self softly, then he went over to the fish pier and asked around for a
good mechanic.  The harbormaster said he would call, and before long a
lanky, middle-aged man showed up.

After inspecting the damage, the mechanic stood and handed Austin a
section of the hose.  "Somebody don't like you."

"No chance it was an accident?"

The taciturn Faroese pointed to where the road out of town skirted a
cliff, and he shook his head.  "I figure you'd be flying with the birds
up there on the first curve.  No problem to fix, though."

The mechanic repaired the brakes in short order.  When Austin went to
pay him, he waved away the money.  "That's okay, you're a friend of
Pia's."

Austin said, "The people who did this might know I was at Pia's.  I
wonder if I should talk to the police."

"No such thing here.  Don't worry, the whole town will keep close watch
on her."

Austin thanked him again, and minutes later he was driving out of town.
As he surveyed the sea stack in his rearview mirror, he mentally ticked
off the events of his short stay in Skaalshavn.  He was leaving town
with more questions than answers.  Look on the bright side, he told
himself with a grin.  He had made some terrific new friends.

PAUL TROUT STEPPED onto the deck of Neal's wooden-hulled trawler and
appraised the boat with an expert eye.  What he found surprised him.
Neal was a charming conniver and a drunk, but he was a no-nonsense
fisherman who took pride in his boat.  The signs of tender care were
everywhere.  Woodwork gleamed with fresh paint.  The deck was scrubbed
clean of oil stains.  Rust was kept under control.  The pilothouse had
the latest in fish-finding and navigational equipment.

When Trout complimented Neal on the condition of his boat, the
fisherman beamed like a father who'd been told his firstborn was his
spitting image.  Soon he and Neal were swapping sea stories.  At one
point, when Neal was out of hearing, Gamay raised an eyebrow and said,
"You and Mike appear to be getting along swimmingly.  I suppose you'll
be trading recipes before long."

"He's an interesting guy.  Look at this boat.  It's as well-found as
anything I've ever been on."

"Glad to hear you say that.  NUMA now owns a piece of Tiffany."

The ransom to spring the trawler from the boatyard had been closer to a
thousand dollars than to seven hundred fifty.  After a quick fuel-tank
fill-up, which Gamay also paid for, Neal set the trawler on a course
that would take it into the open sea.

"Fishin' ground's not far," Neal yelled over the throb of the engine. "
"Bout seven miles.  Ten fathoms.  Bottom's smooth as a baby's behind.
Prime for trawling.  Be there shortly."

After a while, Neal checked his GPS position, cut the throttle to an
idle and lowered the net a conical mesh bag, around a
hundred-and-fifty-feet long, designed to be dragged along the sea
bottom.  The boat made two sets and caught lots of seaweed, but no
fish.

"This is very strange," Trout said, inspecting the cod end, the narrow
pouch at the end of the net where harvested fish are concentrated.  "I
can understand hauling in a poor catch, but it's highly unusual to
bring in nothing.  Not even trash fish.  The net's absolutely empty."

A knowing grin crossed Neal's face.  "You may wish it stayed empty."

The net was lowered again, pulled along the bottom and slowly winched
back onto the boat.  A boom was used to hoist the cod end over the deck
where any catch could be emptied out.  This time, something was
thrashing wildly in the net.  Flashes of silvery-white scales were
visible through the tangle of mesh, as a large fish fiercely struggled
to free itself.  Neal yelled out a warning as he prepared to empty the
contents of the net onto the deck.

"Stand way back, folks, we've got a live one!"

The big fish landed on the deck with a squishy thud.  Freed from the
net, it became even more ferocious in its exertions, skittering across
the deck as it arched and snapped its long body, round eyes staring
with an un fishlike malevolence, mouth wide and snapping at air. The
creature slammed into the fish hold, a raised box built into the deck. 
Far from slowing it down, the impact seemed to make it angrier. The
convulsions became more violent, and it scudded back across the
slippery deck.

"Wha-hoof"  Neal yelled, quickly stepping out of the way of the biting
jaws.  He lowered a gaff handle near the fish's head.  In a snapping
blur, the fish bit the handle in two.

Paul watched, spellbound, from the raised safety of a pile of netting.
Gamay had taken out a video camera and was busy filming.  "That's the
biggest salmon I've ever seen!"  Paul said.  The fish was about five
feet long.

"This is crazy," Gamay said, holding the camera steady.  "Salmon don't
act like this when they're caught.  They've got weak teeth that would
break if they tried to do anything like that."

"Tell that to the damned fish," Neal said, holding up the jagged end of
the gaff handle.  He tossed it aside and grabbed a pitchfork, speared
the fish behind the gills and pinned it to the deck.  The fish
continued to struggle.  Neal produced an old Louisville Slugger and
whacked the fish on the head.  It was stunned for a second, then
started snapping again, although less violently.

"Sometimes you have to slam them a few more times before they quiet
down," Neal explained.

Moving with great caution, he managed to loop a line around the tail.
Then he fed the line into an overhanging pulley, pulled the pitchfork
out, lifted the fish and swung it over the open fish hold, still
careful to stay clear of the jaws.  When the fish was positioned over
the hold, he took a filleting knife and cut the line.  The fish fell
into the hold where it could be heard banging against the sides.

"That was the meanest fish I've ever seen," Paul said, with a wondering
shake of his head.  "It behaved more like a barracuda than a salmon."

"It looked like an Atlantic salmon, but I'm not sure what it was. Those
strange white scales.  It was almost albino."  Gamay shut off the
camera and peered into the dimness of the fish hold.  "Listen!  It's
far too big and aggressive to be a normal fish.  It's almost as if it
were some sort of mutant."  She turned to Neal.  "When did you first
start catching these things?"

Neal took the cigar stub from between his teeth and spit over the side.
"First boats started bringing them up in the nets around six months
ago.  The guys called them 'devilfish."  They tore the hell out of the
nets, but they were big so we cut them up and sent them off to market.
Guess the meat was okay, because nobody died," he said with a smirk.
"Pretty soon that's all we were catching.  The smaller fish just
disappeared."  He gestured to the fish hold with his cigar.  "That's
the reason why."

"Did you contact any fishery scientists and tell them what you were
catching?"

"Oh yeah.  We got in touch with the fisheries people.  They didn't send
anyone down."

"Why not?"

"Short-staffed, they said.  Guess you got to look at it their way.
You're a marine biologist.  Would you move out of your lab if someone
called and said big ol' devilfish was eating your stock?"

"Yes, I would have been here in a minute."

"You're different from the others.  They wanted us to ship one of these
babies up for them to look at."

"Why didn't you do it?"

"We were going to, but after what happened to Charlie Marstons, the
fishermen got scared and said to hell with it and moved on."

"Who was Charlie Marstons?"  Paul said.

"Charlie was an old-timer.  Fished these waters for years even after it
got hard for him to get around because of a bad leg.  He was a stubborn
old coot, though, and liked to go out alone.  They found him or what
was left of him coupla miles east of here.  From the looks of it, he
caught a bunch of these lunkers, got too close and maybe his bum leg
gave out.  Hardly enough left to bury."  "You're saying the fish killed
him?"

"No other explanation.  That's when the boys started leaving.  I would
have gone with them if I had my boat.  Funny," he said with a grin,
"one of those babies is my ticket out of here."

Gamay was already thinking ahead.  "I want to bring it back to the lab
for analysis."

"Suits me fine," Neal said.  "We'll box it up as soon as it's safe." He
pointed the Tiffany back to land.  By the time they pulled up to the
dock, the fish was practically dead, but it managed a few spasmodic
snaps, enough to warrant keeping it on board awhile longer.  Neal
recommended a boarding house where they could stay the night.  Gamay
gave him a hundred-dollar bonus, and they agreed to meet the next
morning.

A pleasant middle-aged couple warmly welcomed them at the boarding
house, a Victorian structure at the edge of town.  From the enthusiasm
with which they were greeted, Paul and Gamay figured that the B and B
didn't get much business.  The room was cheap and clean, and the couple
cooked them a hearty dinner.  They had a good night's sleep, and the
next morning, after a huge breakfast, they set out to find Neal and
reclaim their fish.

The pier was deserted.  More worrisome, there was no sign of Neal or
the Tiffany.  They asked at the boatyard, but nobody had seen him

since the day before when he'd paid for his engine work.  A few men
were idling around the waterfront because they had nothing better to
do.  No one had seen Neal that morning.  The bartender they'd met the
day before strolled by on his way to open up the restaurant.  They
asked if he had any idea where Neal might be.

"Probably nursing a hangover about now," the bartender said.  "He came
in last night with a hundred bucks.  Used most of it up buying drinks
for himself and the regulars.  He was pretty tanked when he left.  He's
done it before, so I didn't worry about him.  Neal navigates better
drunk than some men sober.  He took off around eleven, and that was the
last I saw of him.  He's been living on his boat, even when the
boatyard had it."

"Any idea why the Tiffany isn't here?"  Paul asked.

The bartender scanned the harbor and swore under his breath.  "Damned
idiot, he was in no shape to run a boat."

"Would any of the other people who were in the bar know where he is?"

"Naw, they were even drunker than he was.  Only one not drinking was
Fred Grogan, and he left before Mike."

Trout's analytical ear was listening for inconsistencies.  "Who is
Grogan?"  Paul asked.

"Nobody you'd want to know," the bartender said with contempt.  "Lives
in the woods near the old plant.  He's the only local guy the new
owners kept on when they bought in.  Pretty surprising, because Fred is
such a shady character.  He pretty much keeps to himself.  Sometimes he
sneaks into town, driving one of the big black SUVs you see around the
plant."

The bartender paused and looked across the water, shading his eyes.  A
small boat had entered the harbor and was moving toward the pier at
great speed.  "That's Fitzy coming in.  He's the lighthouse keeper.
Looks like he's in a big hurry."

The outboard-powered skiff skidded up to the dock, and the
white-bearded man in the boat tossed a line ashore.  He was clearly
excited and didn't even wait to climb out of the boat before he started
to babble almost incoherently.

"Calm down, Fitzy," the bartender said.  "Can't understand a word."

The bearded man caught his breath and said, "I heard a big boom late
last night.  Rattled my windows.  Figured it might be a jet flying real
low.  Went out this morning to take a look.  Pieces of wood all over
the place.  Look at this."  He whipped back a tarpaulin, pulled out a
jagged plank and held it over his head.  The painted letters Tif were
clearly visible.

The bartender's lips tightened.  He went into his bar and called the
police.  While he waited for the law to arrive, he made several more
phone calls.  Pickup trucks began to arrive, and a motley fleet of
search boats was organized.  With Fitzy in the lead, the flotilla had
already set out when the police chief arrived.  The chief talked to the
bartender and got his story.  By then, some of the boats were
returning.  They had more scraps of wood that identified the boat, but
no sign of Neal.

The sheriff put in a call to the coast guard, which said it would send
in a helicopter, but the consensus seemed to be that Neal had gotten
drunk, decided to go for a joyride and probably hit a rock near the
point and sank.  The Trouts did not comment on the explanation, but as
they drove back to the rooming house, their conversation dwelt on more
sinister possibilities.

Gamay put it bluntly.  "I think Mike was murdered."  "Guess I wasn't
the only one who saw the charring around the wood.  I'd guess his boat
was set on fire or simply blown up.  Neal's bragging about the fish he
caught could have got him killed."

"Is that what it is all about?"  Gamay said, her eyes flashing with
anger.  "Neal was killed over a fish?"

"Maybe."

She shook her head "Poor guy.  I can't help thinking that we're somehow
responsible "

"The only ones responsible are the guys who killed him."  "And I'm
betting that Oceanus had a big hand in this."  "If you're right, they
may come after us next."  "Then I'd suggest that we pack our gear and
get out of town."  Paul pulled the rental car in front of the guest
house, and they went inside, paid their bill and grabbed their bags.
The owners were obviously sorry to see them go, and followed them out
to the car.  As they chattered on about how it was a shame that they
were leaving, Gamay tugged Paul's sleeve and steered him to the
driver's side.  She got in and waved farewell.

"Sorry to spoil our send-off party.  While we were talking, I saw a
black Tahoe pass by."

"Looks like the wolves are gathering," Paul said.  He turned onto the
road that would take them out of town and glanced in the mirror.  "No
one on our tail."

Except for a few vehicles, they saw little traffic, and once they had
gone beyond the town's outskirts, the road was empty.  The two-lane
road wound through thick pine woods, gradually ascending so they were
driving high above the sea.  On one side of the road was forest, and on
the other a sheer drop-off for hundreds of feet.

They were about two miles from the village when Gamay turned to look at
the road behind them and said, "Uh-oh."

Paul glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black Tahoe bearing down
on them.  "They must have been waiting down a side road for us to
pass."

Gamay tightened her seat belt.  "Okay, then, show them what you can
do."

Paul gave her an incredulous look.  "You realize we are driving a

six-cylinder family sedan that is probably half the size and weight of
that black behemoth behind us."

"Damnit, Paul, don't be so analytical.  You're a crazy Massachusetts
driver.  Just put the pedal to the metal."

Trout rolled his eyes.  "Yes ma'am," he said.

He punched the gas pedal with his foot.  The car accelerated to a
respectable eighty miles per hour.  Easily matching their speed, the
Tahoe continued to gain.  Paul managed to wring another ten miles per
hour out of the engine, but the SUV moved closer.

The road began to go into a series of curves that matched the contour
of the coastal hills.  The rental vehicle was no sports car, but it
held the road better on the turns than the big SUV, which leaned
heavily as the curves became sharper.  Trout had to hit the brakes to
keep from going off the road, but the SUV was even less
maneuver-able.

Slowed by the serpentine curves, the SUV lost ground.  Trout curbed his
elation.  He kept his eyes glued to the road, hands firmly gripping the
steering wheel, pushing his car to just under the speed at which it
could go out of control and overshoot a curve.  He knew that one lapse
a patch of sandy highway, an errant boulder or an error of judgment
could get them both killed in a fiery crash.

Gamay kept tabs on their pursuer and maintained a running commentary.
The car's wheels squealed with each change in direction.  Trout held it
steady.  He was running between sixty and seventy miles per hour, and
was heading down a long, gradual slope in the road, when an
unbelievable sight met his eyes.

Ahead of them, a black Tahoe had pulled out onto the road from behind a
huge boulder.  For a second, he thought the SUV behind him had used a
shortcut.

Then Gamay shouted, "There are two SUVs.  They're trying to sandwich us
in."

The vehicle in front of the Trouts' car slowed to block the road, and
the other SUV quickly caught up from behind.  Trout tried to go around,
but each time he poked the rental car's nose into the oncoming lane,
the SUV pulled in front of him.  He touched the brakes to avoid a
rear-end collision.  The following SUV crashed into his rear bumper,
crushing it into the trunk and sending the car into a neck-jolting wild
fishtail.

Paul fought the wheel and managed to keep the car from going into a
spin.  The Tahoe slammed into the car again.  The smell of gas from a
ruptured tank filled the car.  The Tahoe made another lunge, but this
time Gamay saw it coming and yelled, "Right!"

Trout spun the wheel to the right and the Tahoe only clipped the
bumper.  Gamay glanced at the SUVs, which had pulled away.  "They're
holding back for some reason."  "That won't last," Paul said.

"Then we'd better do something soon.  The rental agency is going to
wonder why their car is only two feet long.  Damn, he's coming in
again.  Left!"

Trout jerked the wheel.  The car moved into the passing lane, and Trout
saw something that made his hair stand up on edge.  The road curved
sharply to the right.  The Tahoes could keep them boxed in until the
last minute.  The SUV in front would screen the curve from view.  Then
it would slow to make the turn, and the one behind would knock them off
the cliff like a cue stick tapping a billiard ball.  Paul yelled at
Gamay to hold tight, and he gripped the wheel even tighter with his
sweaty palms.  He tried to remove all thought from his mind, relying
only on instinct, keeping sharp watch in the rearview mirror.  Timing
would be crucial.

The vehicle on their tail began to accelerate.  Trout made his move.
When the SUV came within a few feet of the car's bumper, he jerked the
wheel to the right.

The car hit the soft, sandy berm along the side of the road and drove
up on the inclined shoulder like a race car on the angled track of a
speedway.  It crashed through bushes and small trees.  Wood shrieked
against metal.

He saw a flash of black as the Tahoe flew by him on the left.  Then
came a horrendous screech of brakes and a crash.  The SUV that had been
on his tail had slammed into the rear of the vehicle in front, locking
bumpers.  The lead vehicle tried to slow and turn, but the weight of
the attached SUV made any turn impossible, and they were locked
together.  Both vehicles shot off the cliff like projectiles from a
slingshot and plunged hundreds of feet in a fiery tandem death trap.

Trout was having his own problems.  The banking had followed the
contour of the road, and now it curved while the car maintained a
straight trajectory.  He lost all control as the car was airborne.
Centrifugal force kept him pressed into the driver's door.  The car
landed at an angle, collapsing the wheels, with a sound like a junkyard
symphony.  He tried to glance over at Gamay, but the airbags deployed
and all he could see was exploding white plastic.  Then only
blackness.

WELCOME BACK TO Torshavn, Mr.  Austin," said the friendly desk clerk at
the Hotel Hania.  "Your fishing trip up the coast went well, I
trust."

"Yes, thanks.  I ran into some very unusual fish."  The efficient desk
clerk handed Austin an envelope along with his room key.  "This came in
earlier today."

Austin opened the envelope and read the message neatly printed on hotel
letterhead: I'm in Copenhagen.  Staying at the Palace.  Dinner offer
still good?  Therri.

Austin smiled as he thought of Therri's incredible eyes and her dulcet
voice.  He must remember to play the lottery.  Maybe the winds of good
fortune were blowing in his direction.  On a clean sheet of stationery,
he wrote a reply: Tonight at the Tivoli?  He folded the paper, gave it
to the desk clerk and asked him to send the message.

"Would you try to reserve a room for tonight at the Palace Hotel?"  he
said.

"I'd be happy to, Mr.  Austin.  I'll ready your bill for checkout."

Austin went up to his room, where he took a shower and shaved.  The
phone rang as he was toweling himself dry.  The desk clerk said that
his room at the Palace was all set and that he had taken the liberty of
canceling the previous reservation at an airport hotel.  Austin packed
his bag and called Professor Jorgensen.  The professor was in class, so
Austin left a message saying he would like to see him later in the day
if possible.  He said he would be en route to Copenhagen and suggested
that Jorgensen leave a reply at the Palace Hotel front desk.

Austin gave the desk clerk a generous tip, then he caught the
helicopter shuttle from Torshavn to Vagar Airport and took the Atlantic
Airways flight to Copenhagen.  Later that day, the airport taxi dropped
him off at Radhuspladen, the city's main square.  He made his way past
the statue of Hans Christian Andersen and the spouting dragon water
fountains to the stately old Palace Hotel overlooking the busy square.
Two messages waited for him.  One was from Therri: Tivoh it is!  See
you at six.  The other note was from Professor Jorgensen, saying he
would be in his office all afternoon.

Austin dropped his duffel bag off in his room and called the professor
to tell him he was on his way.  As Austin was leaving the hotel, it
occurred to him that jeans and turtleneck were hardly appropriate for a
night out with a beautiful woman.  He stopped at a men's clothing shop
in the concourse and, with the help of a knowledgeable salesman,
quickly picked out what he wanted.  A hefty bribe to the salesman and
tailor insured that the clothes would be ready for him at five.

The University of Copenhagen campus was a short cab ride from the
central square.  The Marine Biological Laboratory was part of

the Zoological Institute.  Park lawns surrounded the two-story brick
building.  The professor's cubicle had exactly enough room to
accommodate a desk and computer and two chairs and a clutter limit that
the professor had far exceeded.  Graphs and charts covered the walls,
and folders were piled everywhere.

"Pardon the mess," he apologized.  "My main office is at the Helsingor
campus.  I use this closet when I'm teaching classes here."  He removed
a pile of papers from a chair to make room for Austin.  Nonplussed at
what to do with the mess, he placed it precariously atop a teetering
stack of other papers on his desk.  "Wonderful to see you again, Kurt,"
he said with his big-toothed grin.  "I'm so glad you were able to make
it to our beautiful city."

"It's always a pleasure to visit Copenhagen.  Unfortunately, my flight
back to the States leaves tomorrow, so I only have one night here."

"Better than nothing at all," Jorgensen said, settling into the cramped
area behind his desk.  "Tell me, did you ever hear anything further
from that lovely woman, the attorney who was having coffee with you in
Torshavn?"

"Therri Weld?  As a matter of fact, I'm having dinner with her
tonight."

"Lucky man!  I'm sure she'll be a more enjoyable companion than I was,"
Jorgensen said with a chuckle.  "Well, did you enjoy Skaal-shavn?"

"Enjoy isn't the word for it.  Skaalshavn is a surprising place. Thanks
for letting me use your cottage and your boat."

"My pleasure.  It's incredible country, isn't it?"

Austin nodded.  "Speaking of Skaalshavn, I was wondering how your lab
tests turned out."

The professor rummaged through the Mt.  Everest of papers on his desk.
Miraculously, he found the file he was looking for.  He took his
glasses off and replaced them.  "I don't know if you're acquainted with
my main areas of expertise.  I specialize in the effects of hypoxia.  I
study how oxygen deficiency and temperature change affect fish
populations.  I don't claim to be an expert in every area, so I've run
my findings by various colleagues in bacterial viruses.  We have tested
dozens of water samples and fish taken at various locations near the
Oceanus operation for signs of anomalies.  We wondered if there was a
parasite.  Nothing."

"What about your original theory that there might be trace chemicals in
the water?"

"No, to the contrary.  The Oceanus people weren't exaggerating when
they bragged their filtration system was state-of-the-art.  The water
is absolutely pure.  The other fish farms I tested produced waste from
feed and so on.  In short, I found nothing that would affect the
Skaalshavn stocks."

"Which begs the question, what is decimating the fish population?"

Jorgensen pushed his glasses up on his forehead.  "There could be other
reasons we haven't touched.  Predators, habitat degradation, a
disruption of the food supply."

"Have you ruled out a link to the fish farm completely?"

"No, I haven't, which is why I'm returning to Skaalshavn to make more
tests."

"That might be a problem," Austin said in an understatement.  He
proceeded to give the professor a condensed version of his exploration
of the fish farm, his narrow escape and rescue.  "I'll be glad to pay
you for the loss of the boat," he added.

"The boat is the least of my concerns.  You could have been filled."
Jorgensen was flabbergasted.  "I ran into patrol boats when I was
making my tests.  They looked intimidating, but they never attacked or
threatened me."

"Maybe they didn't like my face.  I know I didn't like theirs."

"You may have noticed I am not exactly a movie star," the professor
said.  "No one tried to kill me."

"It's possible that they knew your tests would come up negative.  In
that case, there was no reason to scare you off.  Did you discuss your
work with Gunnar?"

"Yes, he was always there when I returned from my field tests and
seemed very interested in what I was doing."  A light dawned in the
professor's eyes.  "I see!  You think he was an informant for
Oceanus?"

"I don't know for certain, but I was told that he worked for Oceanus
during the construction of the fish farm.  It's certainly possible that
he continued to be employed by the company after the plant was
built."

Jorgensen frowned.  "Have you mentioned this episode to the police?"

"Not just yet.  Technically speaking, I was trespassing on private
property."

"But you don't try to fyll somebody simply for being nosy!"  "That does
seem like an overreaction.  However, I can't see the Faroe police
department pushing the matter.  Oceanus would deny that our little
dust-off ever took place.  The way they reacted to a little harmless
snooping tells me they must have something to hide.  I'd like to poke
around quietly, and the police would simply stir things up."

"As you wish.  I know little about intrigue.  My realm is science." His
brow wrinkled in thought.  "That creature in the tank that scared the
devil out of you.  You don't think it was a shark?"

"All I know is that it was big and hungry and as pale as a ghost."
"Aghost fish.  Interesting.  I'll have to think about it.  In the
meantime, I'll prepare for my return trip to the Faroes."

"Are you sure you want to go?  It might be dangerous after my
encounter."

"This time, I'm going in a research vessel.  Besides safety in numbers,
it will provide access to a full range of research gear.  I'd love to
bring along an archaeologist to research those caves."

"Not a great idea, Professor, but there's someone in town who might be
helpful in that area.  Her father visited the caves, and she told me
how to gain entry.  Her name is Pia."

"The minister's widow?"

"Yes, you've met her?  She's quite a woman."

"I'll say," Jorgensen said, before catching himself.  The blush
staining his cheeks told the whole story.  "We've met a few times
around the village.  She's impossible to avoid.  Can you change your
plans and return to Skaalshavn with me?"

Austin shook his head.  "Thanks for the offer.  But I've got to get
back to my duties at NUMA.  I'm leaving Joe to wrap up the tests on the
Sea Lamprey.  Please keep me apprised of your findings."

"I will, of course."  Jorgensen cradled his chin in his hand, and a
faraway look came to his eyes.

"My scientific training abhors the whole idea of portents.  I am
trained to draw no conclusion unless I have the facts to back it up.
There's something terribly wrong here, Kurt.  I can feel it in my
bones.  Something unholy."

"If it's any consolation, I've had the same feeling.  It goes beyond a
bunch of guys running around with guns."  He leaned forward with a
level gaze in his blue-green eyes.  "I'd like you to promise me
something when you go back to Skaalshavn."

"Of course, my boy.  Anything you say."

"Take care, Professor," Austin said, in a firm manner that left no room
for misunderstanding.  "Take great care."

THE SENSE OF foreboding continued to haunt Austin even after he stepped
outside Jorgensen's office building into the bright Danish sunlight.
Several times during the cab ride back to the hotel, he found himself
glancing through the rear window.  He gave up finally and sat back to
enjoy the ride.  If danger were stalking him, he would never see it
with all the traffic.

Austin stopped at the clothing store to pick up his purchases.  He
carried the neatly tied boxes to his room and called Therri.  It was
5:30.  "I have a room one floor below yours.  I think I can hear you
singing in joyful anticipation of our dinner."

"Then you must have also heard me dancing as well."  "It's amazing how
my charm affects women," Austin said.  "I'll meet you in the lobby.  We
could make believe that we're old lovers encountering each other by
chance."

"You're a surprising romantic, Mr.  Austin."

"I've been called worse things.  You'll know me by the red carnation in
my lapel."

When the elevator doors opened, Therri stepped out as if she were on
stage and immediately caught the attention of every male in the
vicinity, including Austin.  He couldn't take his eyes off her as she
glided across the lobby.  Therri's chestnut hair tumbled down to the
thin straps of her white ankle-length lace dress that clung to her slim
waist and thighs.

Her warm smile showed that Therri approved of her date as well.  She
surveyed the European-styled single-breasted jacket of dove gray whose
slightly pinched waist emphasized Austin's shoulders like a military
uniform.  The blue shirt and white silk tie set off his deep tan,
coral-colored eyes and pale hair.  Pinned to his lapel was a red
carnation.

She extended her hand, which Austin kissed lightly.  "What a lovely
surprise," she said in an upper-class British accent.  "I haven't seen
you since "

"Biarritz.  Or was it Casablanca?"

Therri put her wrist to her forehead.  "Oh, who can say?  One place
blends with the other over time, don't you agree?"

Austin leaned close to her ear and whispered, "We'll always have
Marrakech."

Then he hooked her arm in his, and they strolled out the door as if
they had known each other for ages.  They walked across the busy square
toward Tivoli, the famed nineteenth-century amusement park known for
its rides and entertainment.  The lively park was ablaze with neon and
filled with visitors taking in the theater, dance and symphony music.
They stopped to watch a folk-dance troupe for a few minutes.  Therri
suggested that they have dinner at a restaurant with an outdoor
terrace, and they were seated at a table that had a view of the Ferris
wheel.

Austin picked up the menu.  "Since you chose the restaurant, I'll make
the dinner selections, if you don't mind."

"Not at all.  I've been subsisting on smorrebrod sandwiches."  When the
waiter came over, Austin ordered tiny fjord shrimps as an appetizer.
For the main course, he ordered flaeftesteg, roast pork served with
crackling and cabbage, for himself, and morbradbof, small pork fillets
in mushroom sauce, for Therri.  Then for drinks, he picked Carlsberg
pilsner beer rather than wine.

"You placed that order rather deftly," Therri said admiringly.  "I
cheated.  I came to this same restaurant the last time I was in
Copenhagen on a NUMA assignment."  "Great minds, as they say."

They toasted each other with their foamy glasses and sipped the cool,
crisp beer.  The shrimp came.  Therri closed her eyes with pleasure
after the first bite.  "This is wonderful."

"The secret of cooking fish is to never let the flavoring drown out the
subtle taste.  This is flavored with lime and spiced with fresh
pepper."

"One more thing to add to my thank-you list."

"Your good mood seems to go beyond the food.  Your meeting with Becker
went well, I take it."

"Your friend Mr.  Becker was actually quite charming.  He can't speak
highly enough of you and was very impressed with the photos you took of
the Sea Sentinel.  At my urging, they checked out the Sentinel for
themselves and found it had been sabotaged exactly as you described. We
came to terms.  They agreed to drop the charges against Marcus."

"Congratulations.  No strings attached?"

"A whole ball of twine.  Marcus and anyone associated with SOS,
including yours truly, must be out of Denmark within the next
forty-eight hours.  We're booked to fly home on the Concorde
tomorrow."

"The Concorde} SOS doesn't stint when it comes to travel, does it?"

She shrugged.  "The people who contribute millions to SOS don't seem to
mind it, as long as the oceans are protected."

"I'll try that line with the NUMA bean counters who keep an eye on the
travel budget.  You'll be having lunch at Kinkaid's while I'm dining on
rubber chicken at thirty-five thousand feet.  Tell me, what other
conditions did Becker impose?"

"No press conferences allowed on Danish soil.  There can be no attempts
to salvage the Sea Sentinel.  And the only way we will ever step foot
in Denmark is if we smuggle ourselves in as guest workers.  Again, I
can't thank you enough for all you've done."

"Everything comes with a price.  Tell me all you know about Oceanus."

"Of course, I'll be glad to.  As I said last time, Oceanus is a
multinational corporation dealing in fish products and transport.  It
operates fleets of fishing boats and transport vessels around the
world."

"That could describe a dozen corporations."  Austin smiled.  "Why do I
have the feeling you're hiding something?"

Therri looked shocked.  "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's used to dealing with people who think that
telling some of the truth gets them off the hook for all of it."

She frowned and said, "I deserved that.  It's an old lawyer habit.  We
attorneys like to keep something in reserve.  SOS is very much in your
debt.  What would you like to know?"

"Who owns the company, for starters?"

"SOS asked itself the same question.  We ran into a thicket of
intertwining shadow corporations, paper companies and murky trusts. One
name kept coming up: Toonook."

"Huh.  That name reminds me of a film I saw when I was a kid, an old
documentary called Nanoo\ of the North.  Is he an Eskimo?"

"That's my guess.  We can't confirm it, but we dug up some
circumstantial evidence pointing in that direction.  It took an
incredible amount of research.  We learned that he's a Canadian
citizen, and that he's very good at keeping his face hidden.  That's
all I can tell you about him, and that's the whole truth."

Austin nodded, thinking about the swarthy dark-skinned guards who'd
shot at him.  "Let's go back to Oceanus.  What first brought them to
the attention of SOS?"

"They were one of the few companies that ignored our Faroes boycott.
We'd been aware of fish-farming as an environmental issue, but it was
the company's attempts to hide its operations that got Marcus
interested.  When he learned about the fish farm in the Faroes, he
thought that he might stir things up if he focused the spotlight on the
operation."

"There are two ships on the bottom of the ocean that prove he was
right."

"Let me ask you something," Therri said, leveling her gaze.  "What do
you know about Oceanus that you haven't told me}"

"Fair enough.  While you were negotiating with Mr.  Becker, I poked
into an Oceanus fish farm in the Faroes."  "Did you learn anything?"

Austin felt a twinge of pain in his chest wound.  "I learned that they
don't like people poking into their business.  I'd advise you and your
friends to give them a wide berth."  "Now who's the evasive one?"

Austin only smiled.  As much as he wanted to trust Therri, he did not
know the extent of her loyalty to SOS and its leader.  "I've told you
enough to keep you out of trouble."

"You must know that throwing me a tidbit of information is only going
to stir up my curiosity."

"Just remember that curiosity killed the cat.  I wouldn't want to see
you suffer a similar fate."

"Thanks for the warning."  She smiled her beguiling smile.

"You're welcome.  Maybe we can continue this conversation when we get
back to Washington."

"I can think of any number of hotel lobbies that would be conducive to
an accidental rendezvous.  We can pledge not to talk business."

"Let's begin now."  Austin signaled the waiter and ordered two Peter
Heering cherry liqueurs.

"What would you like to talk about, then?"  Therri said.

"Tell me about SOS."

"That could be construed as business."

"Okay, I'll ask you a personal question.  How did you come to be
involved with the Sentinels?"

"Fate," she said with a smile.  "Before I became a whale-hugger, I was
a tree-hugger.  My future was ordained from the moment of birth.  My
folks named me Thoreau after Henry David."

"I wondered where the Therri came from."

"I suppose I was lucky they didn't name me Henry.  My father was an
environmental activist before there was such a thing.  My mother was
from an old Yankee family that got rich on slaves and rum.  When I
graduated from Harvard Law School, it was expected that I go into the
family guilt business.  My turn now.  How did you get into NUMA

Austin gave Therri the Cliffs Notes version of his career.

"There's an unaccountable gap in time in your life history," she
said.

"You're much too alert.  I worked for the CIA during that period.  My
division was disbanded after the Cold War ended.  Can't tell you more
than that."

"That's all right," she said.  "An air of mystery adds to your
attractiveness."

Austin felt like an outfielder about to catch an easy pop fly. Therri

had moved the conversation to a slightly more intimate level, and he
was about to respond in kind when he noticed her looking over his
shoulder.  He turned and saw Marcus Ryan making his way toward their
table.

"Therri!"  Ryan said, with his matinee-idol smile.  "What a nice
surprise."

"Hello, Marcus.  You remember Kurt Austin from the hearing in
Torshavn."

"Of course!  Mr.  Austin gave the only unbiased testimony during that
whole fiasco."

"Why don't you join us?"  Therri said.  "You don't mind, do you,
Kurt?"

Austin minded very much.  The encounter smelled strongly of a staged
meeting, but he was curious about the reason for the setup.  He
motioned to a chair and shook hands with Ryan.  The grip was
surprisingly firm.

"Only for a minute," Ryan said.  "I don't want to intrude on your
dinner, but I'm glad for the opportunity to thank Mr.  Austin for
helping SOS."

"Your appreciation is misdirected.  I didn't do it to help SOS.  It was
a personal favor for Miss Weld.  She's the one who persuaded me to take
a close look at your boat."

"I don't know of many people who can resist her persuasiveness, and she
deserves a lot of credit.  Nevertheless, you did a great service for
the creatures of the sea."

"Spare me the hearts and flowers, Mr.  Ryan.  I gave Therri the
evidence of sabotage because it was the right thing to do, not because
I believe in your cause."

"Then you know I had no responsibility for that collision."

"I know that you purposely ratcheted up the tension, hoping something
would happen so you could get it on the TV cameras."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures.  From what I know about
NUMA, your organization isn't above using unorthodox methods to achieve
its goals."

"There's a big difference.  Every one of us, right up to Admiral
Sandecker, is ready to bear responsibility for our actions.  We don't
take refuge behind posters of puppy-faced little harp seals."

Ryan's face turned the color of a cooked beet.  "I've always been
willing to take the consequences for my actions."

"Sure, as long as you knew there was a way out."

Ryan smiled over his anger.  "You're a difficult man, Mr.  Austin."

"I try to be."

The waiter arrived just then with their dinners.

"Well, I won't spoil your evening," Ryan said.  "It was fun talking to
you, Mr.  Austin.  I'll give you a call later, Therri."

With a jaunty wave, he joined the throngs moving past the restaurant.

Austin watched Ryan depart and said, "Your friend takes an exalted view
of himself.  I thought the oceans already had a god.  Neptune or
Poseidon, depending on your language of choice."

He expected Therri to defend Ryan, but she laughed instead.
"Congratulations, Kurt.  It's nice to know that Marcus isn't the only
one who has a talent for irritating people."

"It comes naturally to me.  You should tell him that the next time you
set up an accidental meeting."

She glanced at the Ferris wheel, avoiding his steady gaze, then toyed
with her fork before answering.  "Was it that transparent?"

"Any more transparent and it would be invisible."

She sighed heavily.  "Sorry for the clumsy attempt to deceive you.  You
didn't deserve it.  Marcus wanted to meet you so he could thank you. He
was sincere about that.  I didn't expect you to get into a spitting
match.  Please accept my apology."

"Only if you'll have a nightcap in the Palace lounge after we take a
long walk around the neighborhood."

"You drive a hard bargain."

Austin gave her a devilish grin.  "As your friend Mr.  Ryan said, I'm a
difficult man."

COPENHAGEN SEEMED TO be in the midst of a major celebration, but the
bash was only a normal night in one of Europe's liveliest cities. Music
issued from dozens of cafes.  The parks and squares along an expansive
pedestrian mall named Stroget teemed with strollers and street
performers.  The party atmosphere was fun, but it was hard to carry on
a conversation.  Austin suggested that they turn down a quiet street
lined with closed boutiques and make their way back to the hotel.

The deserted street was dark except for a few shop windows and softly
glowing gas lamps.  Austin was listening to Therri tell an anecdote
about Becker, when he noticed movement ahead and saw two figures step
out of the shadows into a puddle of yellow light.

Austin knew the Danes to be low-key and extra polite, and Copenhagen
was relatively crime-free.  It didn't bother him when the two men took
up a stance blocking the sidewalk.  Maybe they'd had too much Akavit.
He took Therri's arm and prepared to walk around the pair.  He
reassessed the situation when the men produced long clubs from behind
their backs.

Hearing a scraping footfall, Austin glanced over his shoulder.  Two
more men, also wielding clubs, were approaching from behind.  Therri
had become aware of the threat without comprehending it and had stopped
talking.  In what looked like a rehearsed strategy, the men began to
encircle them.

Austin looked around for a weapon.  Figuring that anything was better
than nothing, he grabbed the lid from a row of trash cans.  The
heavy-duty cover was made of thick, solid aluminum, he was glad to see.
He stepped protectively in front of Therri and used the lid like a
medieval infantryman's shield to fend off a clanging blow from the
nearest attacker.  The man brought the club up to strike again, but
Austin went from defense to offense and straight-armed the heavy lid
into the attacker's face.  The man yelped with pain, and his knees
buckled.  Austin lifted the lid in both hands and brought it down on
the man's head, where it made a sound like a gong.  His hands hurt at
the shock of the impact, but the attacker was even worse off, crumpling
onto the sidewalk in a dark heap.

Another attacker swiftly closed in.  Austin jammed the lid in his face,
but the attacker anticipated the move, stepping back out of range and
clubbing the lid harmlessly aside.  Austin was trying to keep the
tender left side of his rib from being hit.  The assailant sensed a
weakness and landed a glancing blow to Austin's head.  Austin saw
whirling galaxies.  At the same time, he heard Therri's scream.  One
attacker held her while the other pulled her back by the hair to expose
her throat.  A hard blow to her windpipe could be fatal.

Austin blinked the stars from his eyes and tried to go to her aid.  His
assailant stepped in front of him and brought his club down as
if he were wielding a two-handed broadsword.  Austin deflected the
blow, but it knocked the lid from his hand, and he lost his balance.
Down on one knee, Austin raised his arm to protect his head.  He saw
wide faces and glittering eyes, clubs raised in the air, and braced
himself for a shower of blows to rain down on his skull.  Instead, he
heard thuds and grunts and men yelling in two different languages, one
incomprehensible, the other Spanish.  The attackers who had encircled
him melted away like snowflakes.

He struggled to his feet and saw figures running away from him.  Clubs
rattled to the pavement.  Shadows were moving in every direction, and
he was reminded of the scene in the movie Ghost where the shades of the
dead take the damned to the underworld.  Then the shadows disappeared.
He and Therri were alone, except for the slumped form of the man he had
clouted.  The attacker's friends had apparently abandoned him.

"Are you all right?"  Austin said, taking Therri's arm.

"Yes, I'm fine, but as you can tell, I'm very shaky.  What about you?"

He lightly touched the side of his head.  "My head feels like raw
hamburger and my skull is full of twittering sparrows, but other than
that I'm fine.  It could have been worse."

"I know," she said with a shudder.  "Thank goodness those men saved
us."

"What men?  I was a little busy with my imitation of Ivanhoe."

"They came out of nowhere.  I think there were two of them.  They went
after the others and chased them away."

Austin kicked the battered trash-can lid.  "Hell, I thought I scared
them off with my head-masher."  He brushed the dirt off his ripped and
dirty pants.  "Damn, this is the first new suit I've bought in
years."

Therri couldn't help laughing.  "Incredible.  You narrowly missed

being beaten to death, and you're worried about your suit."  She
embraced him in a warm hug.

Therri was holding him tightly.  He didn't even complain about the
pressure of her body against his knife wound.  He was thinking that she
smelled very good, when suddenly she stiffened, backed away from him
and looked over his shoulder with horror in her eyes.  "Kurt, watch
out!"

Austin turned and saw that the attacker who'd been lying on the
sidewalk was slowly getting to his feet.  The man stared at them for a
few seconds, apparently still dazed.  Austin clenched his fists and
started toward the man, ready to send him back to la-la land.  He
stopped in midstep when a small circle of intense red appeared in the
man's forehead.

"Get down!"  Austin yelled at Therri.  When she hesitated, he pulled
her to the sidewalk, shielding her body with his.

The man started toward them, then he stopped as if he had walked into
an invisible wall, went down on his knees and fell face down onto the
sidewalk.  Austin heard footsteps and saw a figure running down the
street.  Austin pulled Therri to her feet and apologized for knocking
her down.

"What happened?"  She seemed to be in a daze.

"Someone shot our friend.  I saw the spot from a laser sight."

"Why would they do that?"

"Maybe his company has a strict severance policy."

"Or maybe they didn't want him talking," she said, staring at the dead
body.

"Either way, this isn't a healthy place to be."

Austin took Therri by the arm and guided her away from the scene.  He
kept a sharp eye out for a return of their attackers, not relaxing
until the lights of the Palace Hotel were in sight.  The hotel

cocktail lounge seemed like another world.  Austin and Therri sat in a
corner booth surrounded by the cheerful Babel of voices and the
tinkling of a jazz piano playing Cole Porter.  Austin had ordered two
double scotches.

Therri took a deep swallow of her drink and looked around at the other
patrons.  "Did that really happen out there in the street?"

"It wasn't a production of West Side Story, if that's what you mean.
Can you tell me what you remember?"

"It all happened so fast.  Two of those men with the clubs grabbed me."
She frowned.  "Loo\ what those SOBs did to my hair."  Anger was
replacing her fear.  "Who were those jerks?"

"The attack was well-coordinated.  They knew we were in Copenhagen and
must have been watching us tonight in order to set up the ambush.
What's your guess?"

She replied without hesitation.  "Oceanus?"

Austin nodded grimly.  "As I learned in the Faroes, Oceanus has the
thug power, the violent inclination and the organization.  What
happened next?"

"They let me go.  Just like that.  Then they were running away, with
the other men chasing after them."  She shook her head.  "I wish our
Good Samaritans had stayed so I could thank them.  Should we tell the
police what happened?"

"Normally, I'd say yes.  But I don't know if it would do any good. They
might pass it off as an attempted mugging.  Given your relationship
with the Danish authorities, you might be detained here longer than
you'd like."

"You're right," Therri said.  She drained the last of her glass.  "I'd
better get back to my room.  My flight leaves early in the morning."

Austin walked Therri to her door, where they paused.  "You're sure
you'll be okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine.  Thanks for the interesting evening.  You certainly
know how to show a girl a good time."

"That was nothing.  Just wait until our next date."  She smiled and
kissed him lightly on the lips.  "I can hardly wait."  He was impressed
at how quickly Therri had recovered.  She was proving to be an iron
butterfly.  "Call me if you need anything."

She nodded.  Austin wished her a good night's sleep and headed for the
elevator.  She watched until the elevator doors had closed.  Then she
pulled her key out of the lock, walked down the hall and knocked on
another door, which was opened by Marcus Ryan.  His smile disappeared
when he saw the strain in her face.  "Are you all right?"  he said with
concern in his voice.  "You look a little pale."

"Nothing a little makeup won't cure."  She brushed by him and stretched
out on the sofa.  "Whip me up a strong cup of tea, then have a seat and
I'll tell you all about it."

They sat down, and she told them about their attack and rescue.  After
hearing her story, Ryan tented his fingers and stared off into space.
"Austin is right.  It's Oceanus.  I'm sure of it."  "Me too.  I'm less
sure who our rescuers were."  "Austin didn't know who they were?"  She
shook her head.  "He said no."  "Was he telling the truth?"

"He may suspect who they were, but I didn't press him on that.  Kurt
doesn't strike me as someone who lies."

"Well, well, my tough-minded legal counsel has a soft side after all.
You like him, don't you?"  Ryan said with a foxy grin.  "I won't deny
it.  He's different."  "I'm different, too, you must admit."

"That you are," she said with a smile.  "That's why we're professional
colleagues and not lovers."

Ryan sighed theatrically.  "Guess I'm fated to be a bridesmaid, never a
bride."

"You'd make a hideous bride.  Besides, you had your chance to be a
bride.  As you recall, I didn't like playing second fiddle to SOS."

"Didn't blame you.  I am something of a warrior monk when it comes to
the Sentinels."

"Crap!  Don't give me that monk stuff.  I happen to know you've got a
girlfriend in every port."

"Hell, Therri, even a monk has to get out of the monastery and kick up
his heels from time to time.  But let's talk about your intriguing
relationship with Austin.  Do you think he's smitten by your charms,
enough to have him wrapped around your finger?"

"From what I've seen, Kurt doesn't wrap around anyone's finger."  Her
eyes narrowed.  "What's going on in that tangle of plots and schemes
that you call a mind?"

"Just a thought.  I'd like to get NUMA on our side.  We need muscle if
we're going to tackle Oceanus."

"And if we can't get NUMA to help us?"

He shrugged.  "Then we'll have to go it alone."

Therri shook her head.  "We're not big enough to do that.  This is not
a street gang we're dealing with.  They're too big and powerful.  You
saw how easily they sabotaged our ship.  If someone like Kurt Austin is
nervous, then we should pay attention.  We can't risk any more
lives."

"Don't underestimate SOS, Therri.  Muscle isn't everything.  Strength
can come from knowledge."

"Don't talk in riddles, Marcus."

He smiled.  "We may have a winning card.  Josh Green called yesterday.
He has stumbled onto something big, and it concerns an Oceanus
operation in Canada."

"What sort of operation?"

"Josh wasn't sure.  It came out of Ben Nighthawk."

"The college intern in our office?"

Ryan nodded.  "As you know, Nighthawk is a Canadian Indian.  He's been
getting these weird letters from his family in the North Woods.  A
corporation took over a big tract of land near their village.  As a
favor to Ben, Josh looked into the ownership.  The land was purchased
by a straw corporation set up by Oceanus."

In her excitement, Therri put aside her fears.  "This may be the lead
we're looking for."

"Uh-huh.  I thought the same thing.  Which is why I told Josh to check
it out."

"You sent him up there alone?"

"He was on his way to Canada to meet Ben when he called.  Night-hawk
knows the lay of the land.  Don't worry.  They'll be careful."

Therri bit her lower lip as she thought back to the savage attack on a
quiet Copenhagen street.  She respected Ryan for a hundred different
reasons, but sometimes his zeal to attain a goal got in the way of his
judgment.

Fear clouded her eyes.  "I hope so," she murmured.

THE GIANT TREE trunks soared like columns in an ancient temple.  Their
intertwining branches blocked the sun's rays and created an artificial
twilight on the forest floor.  Far below the tree-tops, the dented old
pickup lurched and dipped like a boat in a storm as it climbed over
ropy tree roots and unyielding rocks.

Joshua Green sat on the passenger side, jouncing on the hard seat.  He
kept one hand above his head to cushion the impact of his skull against
the interior of the truck's roof.  Green was an environmental law
expert with the Sentinels of the Sea.  He was a sandy-haired,
thin-faced man whose large, round glasses and birdlike nose made him
look like an emaciated owl.  He had gamely toughed out the ride without
a complaint until the truck hit a bump that practically bounced him
through the overhead.

"I'm feeling like a kernel in a popcorn machine," he said to the
driver.  "How much longer do I have to endure this torture?"

"About five minutes; then we'll start walking," Ben Nighthawk replied.
"Don't blame you for getting sick of the bumpy ride.  Sorry about the
transportation, too.  It's the best my cousin could come up with."

Green nodded in resignation and turned his attention back to the deep
woods that encroached on every side.  Before being assigned to SOS
headquarters, he'd been part of the field operations SWAT team.  He had
been rammed and shot at, and he'd spent short but unforgettable times
in jails no better than medieval dungeons.  He had acquired a
reputation for amazing aplomb under fire, and his professorial
appearance disguised a tough interior.  But the unnatural darkness of
his surroundings unnerved Green more than anything or anybody he had
ever encountered at sea.

"The road doesn't bother me.  It's these damned woods," he said,
staring out at the forest.  "Damned creepy!  It's the middle of the
day, the sun is shining, and it's dark as Hades out there.  Like
something out of a Tolkien novel.  Wouldn't surprise me if an Ore or an
ogre jumped out at us.  Whoops, I think" I just saw Shrek."

Nighthawk laughed.  "I suppose the woods are a little spooky if you're
not used to them."  He gazed through the windshield, but instead 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 protection."  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 absorbed 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 reflected 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
nearest 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 building 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 office.  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 family]" 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 followed 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
conglomerate 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
villagers 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 airport, 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 float plane 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 encountering 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, moving like
shadows in the silence of the tall trees, until Nighthawk stopped and
raised his hand.  He froze in place, eyes half-closed, moving 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 Indian 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 canteen 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
immediately, the scenery began to change.  The trees grew shorter and
slimmer as the soil under their feet became sandier.  The undergrowth
thickened, and they had to push their way through thorns that ripped at
their clothes.

Shafts of light streamed in from breaks in the trees overhead.

Then, quite suddenly, they could see the sparkle of water.  At a signal
from Nighthawk, they got down on their hands and knees and made their
way to the edge of the lake.

After a moment, Nighthawk stood and walked to the water's edge, with
Green following.  An elderly Cessna float plane was tied up at a
rickety dock.  Nighthawk inspected the plane, finding nothing out of
place.  He removed the cowling and gasped when he saw the engine.

"Josh, look at this!"

Green peered at the engine.  "Looks like someone took an ax to it."

The hoses and connections hung loose where they had been cut.  The
engine was scarred in a dozen places where it had been hit with
something hard.

"This is why no one could fly out of here," Nighthawk said.  He pointed
to a foot-worn trail that led away from the float plane dock.  "That
path leads to the village."

Within minutes, they were making their way to the edge of a clearing.
Nighthawk held out his hand for them to stop.  Then he squatted on his
haunches and peered with sharp eyes through the bushes.  "There's no
one here," he said finally.

"Are you sure?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Nighthawk said.  He walked unafraid into the
open, with Green hesitantly taking up the rear.

The village consisted of a dozen or so sturdy-looking log houses, most
with porches.  They were built on both sides of a swath of packed-down
dirt in a rough approximation of a small town's Main Street, complete
with one structure that had a general-store sign on it.  Green expected
someone to burst out the front door at any moment, but the store and
every other house in the village were as still as tombs.

"This is my house, where my parents and my sister lived," Nighthawk
said, stopping in front of one of the larger structures.

He went up on the porch and went inside.  After a few minutes, he came
out, shaking his head.  "No one.  Everything is in place.  Like they
just stepped out for a minute."

"I poked my head in a couple of the other places," Green said.  "Same
thing.  How many people lived here?"  "Forty or so."

"Where could they have gone?"

Nighthawk walked to the edge of the lake a few yards away.  He stood,
listening to the quiet lap of the waves.  After a moment, he pointed to
the opposite shore and said, "Maybe over there?"  Green squinted across
the lake.  "How can you be sure?"  "My mother wrote that there was
funny stuff going on across the lake.  We've got to check it out."
"What kind of funny stuff?"

"She said big helicopters were coming in and unloading material night
and day.  When the village men went over to investigate, they were run
off by guards.  Then one day, some guys with guns came over to the
village and looked around.  They didn't hurt anyone, but my mother
figured they'd be back."

"Wouldn't it be better to go tell the authorities?  They could send
someone in by plane."

"I don't think there's time," Nighthawk said.  "Her letter is more than
two weeks old.  Besides, I can feel danger and death in the air."

Green shuddered.  He was stuck in the middle of nowhere, and the only
person who could get him out was raving like a medicine man in a B
movie.

Sensing his friend's nervousness, Nighthawk smiled and said, "Don't
worry, I'm not going native.  That's a good suggestion about the cops.
I'd feel better if we checked things out first.  C'mon," he said, and
they headed back to the knoll they had climbed a few minutes before.
They came to a natural overhang of rock.  Nighthawk pulled

away some branches that covered the opening.  Lying upside-down on a
crude rack was a birch-bark canoe.  Nighthawk ran his hand lovingly
over the shiny surface.

"I made this myself.  Used only traditional materials and
techniques."

"It's beautiful," Green said.  "Straight out of Last of the
Mohicans."

"Better.  I've gone all over the lake in it."

They dragged the canoe to the beach, dined on beef jerky and rested as
they waited for the sun to go down.

With the approach of dusk, they threw their packs into the canoe,
pushed it into the water and started paddling.  Night had fallen by the
time they drew close to the shore.  They had to stop when the canoe hit
something solid in the water.

Nighthawk reached down, thinking they had hit a rock.  "It's some kind
of metal cage.  Like a bait box."  He scanned the water with his sharp
eyes.  "The water is filled with them.  I smell fish, lots of them.  It
must be some sort of hatchery operation."

They found a breach in the floating barricade and pointed the canoe
toward land.  Something stirred and splashed in the metal cages,
confirming Nighthawk's theory of a fish hatchery.  Eventually they came
to the outer end of a floating dock lit by dim ankle-high lights they
had seen from the water.  Tied up to a series of finger piers were
several Jet Skis and powerboats.  Next to the smaller watercraft was a
large catamaran.  It had a conveyor belt running down the middle, and
Nighthawk guessed that it was used in the hatchery operation.

"I've got an idea," Green said.  Working systematically, he pulled the
ignition keys from the Jet Skis and the boats and threw them into the
water.  Then they tucked the canoe in between the other craft, covered
it with a borrowed tarp and climbed onto the pier.

Where the dock joined the shore, it continued as a blacktop walkway
that led inland.  Nighthawk and Green decided to keep to the woods.
After walking a few minutes, they encountered a wide dirt track, as if
a big bulldozer had plowed its way through the forest.  They followed
the swath and came up on a row of trucks and earth-moving machinery
arranged in neat rows behind a huge storage building.  Using the shed
as a shield, they peered around the corner and saw that they were at
the edge of an open area carved out of the woods.  It was brightly
illuminated by a ring of portable halogen lights.  Mechanized shovels
were flattening down the dirt, and great road-building machines were
laying down swathes of blacktop.  Work crews armed with shovels were
smoothing out the hot asphalt in preparation for it to be flattened
down by the steamrollers.  Nighthawk said, "What do we do next,
Professor?"  "How long do we have until daybreak?"

"About five hours to first light.  It would be smart to be back on the
lake before then."

Green sat with his back against a tree.  "Let's keep an eye on what's
going on until then.  I'll take the first watch."  Shortly after
midnight, Ben took over.  Green stretched out on the ground and closed
his eyes.  The cleared area was now almost deserted except for a few
armed men lounging around.  Nighthawk blinked his eyes and reached over
to tap Green's shoulder.  "Uh, Josh "

Green sat up and looked toward the plaza.  "What the hell ?"  Beyond
the clearing, where there were only woods before, was a huge
dome-shaped structure whose mottled surface glowed bluish white.  It
seemed to have appeared by magic.

"What is that thing?"  Ben whispered.  "And where did it come from?"

"You got me," Green said.

"Maybe it's a hotel."

"Naw," Green said.  "Too functional-looking.  Would you stay in a place
like that?"

"I grew up in a log cabin.  Any place bigger than that is a hotel."

"I don't mean to disparage your home territory, but can you see
fishermen and hunters flocking here?  That thing belongs in Las
Vegas."

"We're talking North Pole, man.  Looks like an overgrown igloo."

Green had to admit the dome had the same contours as the Eskimo
shelters he had seen in National Geographic.  But instead of hard snow,
the surface appeared to be a translucent plastic material.  Huge hangar
doors were set into the base of the dome, overlooking the open area,
which was being built as a plaza.

As they watched, there were signs of new activity.  The plaza was
becoming busy again.  The construction crew had returned, along with
more armed men, who could be seen glancing up at the night sky.  Before
long, the sound of engines could be heard from above.  Then a gigantic
object moved across the night sky and blotted out the stars.

"Look at the dome," Nighthawk said.

A vertical seam had appeared in the top of the structure.  The seam
widened into a wedge, then the top half of the dome peeled back like
the sections of an orange until it was completely open.  Light streamed
out of the dome's interior and bathed the silvery skin of a gigantic
torpedo-shaped object that moved slowly to a position exactly above the
vast opening.

"We were both wrong," Nighthawk said.  "Our Las Vegas hotel is a blimp
hangar."

Green had been studying the contours of the enormous aircraft.  "You
ever see that old news footage about the Hindenburg, that big German
airship that caught fire and burned back in the 1930s?"

"But what's something like that doing here?"  "I think we may find out
very soon," Green said.  The descending airship sank into the
structure, and the sections of the dome moved back into place and
restored the round shape.  Before long, the doors overlooking the plaza
slid open, and a group of men emerged from inside the structure.  They
were dressed in black uniforms, and all had dark, swarthy complexions.
They swarmed around a man whose bullish head was set on powerful
shoulders.

The man walked over to the edge of the plaza and inspected the progress
of the work.  Nighthawk had paid little attention to the workers
before.  But now he could see that, unlike the uniformed men, these
people were dressed in jeans and work shirts, and armed guards were
watching them.  "Oh hell!"  he whispered.  "What's wrong?"  Green
said.

"Those are men from my village.  That's my brother and father.  But I
don't see my mother or any of the other women."

The leader continued on his inspection tour, walking around the edge of
the plaza.  The men who had been guarding the workers watched their
leader's progress.  Taking advantage of their inattention, one of the
laborers had edged closer to the woods.  Then he dropped his shovel and
made a break for freedom.  Something about the way he ran, with a
slight limp, looked familiar to Nighthawk.

"That's my cousin," he said.  "I can tell by the way he runs.  He hurt
his foot bad when we were kids."

One of the guards glanced back and saw the fleeing man.  He raised his
gun to fire, but lowered it at an apparent command from the bull-headed
man.  He stepped over to a stack of tools and snatched up a
sharp-tipped metal pike from the pile.  He held it lightly in two
hands, drew back like a javelin thrower, then snapped the pike forward
with all the strength of his squat, powerful body.

The missile flew through the air in a metallic blur.  It had been
thrown expertly ahead of the runner in a high looping trajectory and
timed so that it caught him between the shoulder blades.  He went down,
pinned like a butterfly in a collection book.  By then, the leader had
turned his back and didn't even see him fall.

The whole scene the aborted escape and the killing of his cousin had
taken only a few seconds.  Nighthawk had watched, frozen in place, but
now he lunged forward and, despite Green's attempts to hold him back,
broke from cover and ran toward his cousin's body.

Green scrambled after the young Indian and brought him down in a flying
tackle.  He was on his feet a second later, pulling Nighthawk to his
feet by the scruff of his neck.  They were clearly visible in the
bright glare of lights.  Nighthawk saw the guns pointed in their
direction, and his instincts took over.

He and Green dashed for the woods.  Shots rang out and Green fell.
Nighthawk stopped and went to help his companion, but the bullet had
caught Green in the back of the head and destroyed his skull. Nighthawk
turned and ran, geysers of earth erupting around his feet. He dove into
the forest, while a fusillade from the plaza shredded the branches over
his head.  Under a shower of twigs and leaves, he dashed through the
trees until he came to the edge of the lake and his feet pounded onto
the dock.

He saw the Jet Skis and wished Green had kept one ignition key.
Nighthawk unsheathed a hunting knife from his belt and sliced the
mooring lines.  Then he shoved the watercraft as far away from the dock
as he could.  He whipped the tarp from the canoe, pushed off and began
to paddle furiously.  He was in open water when he saw muzzle flashes
from the dock area and heard the rattle of automatic-arms fire.  The
shooters were firing blind, and their bullets were hitting the water
off to one side.

The canoe flew across the lake until it was out of range.  Night-hawk
continued to paddle with all his strength.  Once he had gained the
other shore, he could lose himself in the deep woods.  It is never
entirely dark on water, which catches and magnifies even the tiniest
speck of light.  But now, the lake around him began to glow as if it
were infused with a luminescent chemical.  He turned and saw that the
light was not coming from the lake, but was a reflection.

Behind him, a wide shaft of light was shining toward the heavens.  The
dome was opening.  The airship was rising slowly into the air.  When it
was a few hundred feet over the trees, the airship headed toward the
lake.  Bathed in the eerie light from below, the airship looked like an
avenging monster out of some time-shrouded myth.  Instead of
approaching on a straight line, the airship turned sharply and moved
along the shore.  Beams of light shot out from its underbelly and
probed the surface of the lake.

After making its first pass, the airship turned onto a parallel track.
Rather than make a random thrust into the space over the lake, the
airship was conducting a thorough search, using a lawn-mowing pattern.
Nighthawk was paddling for all he was worth, but it would be only a
matter of minutes before the searchlights dancing over the lake's
surface caught the canoe.

The airship made another turn and started back on a course that would
take it directly over the canoe.  Once spotted, the canoe would be an
easy target.  Nighthawk knew there was only one option available to
him.  He drew his hunting knife and slashed a hole in the bottom of the
canoe.  Cold water poured in and surged around his waist.  The water
was up to his neck, as the airship blotted out the sky almost directly
overhead.  The guttural noise of its engines blocked out all other
sound.

Nighthawk ducked his head and held on to the sinking canoe to keep it
below the surface.  Above him, the water glowed white from

the moving bull's-eyes, then went black again.  He stayed under as long
as he could, then, gasping for breath, he popped his head out of the
water.

The airship had turned for another pass.  Nighthawk could hear another
sound mingling with the throb of engines.  The whine and snarl of Jet
Skis.  Someone must have had spare ignition keys.  Nighthawk swam off
at an angle, away from the village.

Minutes later, he saw lights scudding across the lake at great speed as
the Jet Skis made directly for the deserted village.  Nighthawk kept
swimming until he felt soft muck under his feet.  He crawled up onto
the shore, exhausted from the swim, but he rested only long enough to
wring water out of his shirt.

Lights were coming his way along the beach.

Nighthawk took one last, sorrowful look across the lake, before he
melted into the woods like a sodden wraith.

ABROAD SMILE CROSSED Austin's bronzed face as the taxi crunched onto
the long gravel driveway in Fairfax, Virginia.  Austin paid his fare
from Dulles Airport and sprinted up the steps of the Victorian
boathouse, part of an old estate fronting on the Potomac River.  He
dropped his bags inside the door, swept his eye around the combination
study-den and the familiar line from Robert Louis Stevenson came to
mind.

Home is the sailor, home from sea.

Like Austin himself, his house was a study in contrasts.  He was a man
of action whose physical strength, courage and quickness made him a
force to be reckoned with.  Yet he possessed a cool intellect, and he
often drew inspiration from the great minds of centuries past.  His
work often involved the latest in high-tech gadgets, but his respect
for the past was crystallized in the brace of dueling pistols that hung
over his fireplace.  It was part of a collection of more than two hundred sets, to which he was always adding, despite the limitations of a
government salary.

The dichotomy in his personality was reflected in the comfortable
dark-wood Colonial furniture that contrasted with the plain white
walls, like those in a New York art gallery, that were hung with
contemporary originals.  His extensive bookshelves groaned under the
weight of hundreds of books that included first editions of Joseph
Conrad and Herman Melville, and well-worn volumes containing the
writings of the great philosophers.  While he could spend hours
studying the works and wisdom of Plato and Kant, his extensive music
library was heavy on progressive jazz.  Curiously, there was little to
indicate that he spent most of his working days on or under the sea,
except for a primitive painting of a clipper ship and a few other
sailing vessels, a photo of his catboat under full sail and a
glass-encased model of his racing hydroplane.

Austin had lovingly converted the boathouse into a residence, doing
much of the work himself.  His assignments for NUMA, and before that
for the CIA, took him all over the globe.  But when his work was done,
he could always return to his safe harbor, drop sail and throw the
anchor over the side.  All that was needed to make the nautical analogy
complete, he reflected, was a ration of grog.

He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of dark rum and
Jamaican ginger beer.  The ice tinkled pleasantly in his glass as he
threw the doors open to release the musty smell.  He went out onto the
deck, where he filled his lungs with the fresh river air and surveyed
the slow-moving Potomac in the vanishing light.  Nothing had changed.
The river was as beautiful and serene as ever.

He stretched out in a wood-slatted Adirondack chair, lay back and
stared at the sky as if the stars could tell him what was behind the
events of the last few days.  His misadventures in the Faroe Islands
and in Copenhagen would have been the stuff of dreams if not for the
itch on his chest where the knife wound was healing and the tender
swelling under his hair where a club had connected with his noggin.  He
could draw a straight line from the sabotage of the SOS ship to the
attack on a quiet Copenhagen street.  The dark impulses that had
inspired the sabotage of the SOS ship were obviously a means to an end.
Simply put, someone wanted SOS out of the picture.  When Austin had
gotten nosey, he'd become a target, first in Skaalshavn and later in
Copenhagen.

The situation could be summed up in a simple equation: Whenever someone
got too close to a company called Oceanus, the results could be
disastrous.  His thoughts drifted back to the Faroe Islands fish farm
and the thing in the fish tank that had scared the hell out of him.  A
miasma of pure evil seemed to hang over the Oceanus operation.  What
had Jorgensen said?  Unholy.  Then there was the Basque tycoon,
Balthazar Aguirrez, and his Quixotic quest.  What was that all about?

Austin went over the events of the past several days in his mind until
he felt his eyelids drooping.  He downed the last of his drink, climbed
the stairs to his bedroom in the turret surmounting the mansard roof,
and turned in.  He slept soundly and was up and dressed early the next
morning, refreshed by a night's sleep and stimulated by a pot of strong
Kona coffee.  He telephoned an old friend at the CIA to make sure he
would be in, then called his NUMA office to say he'd be late.

Unlike his colleague Dirk Pitt, who collected antique autos and
relished driving them, Austin was indifferent when it came to ground
transportation.  Driving a sedan from the NUMA car pool, nondescript
except for its turquoise color, he headed to Langley, along a route he
knew well from his days with the CIA, and parked his car next to dozens
of other government vehicles.  Security at the sprawling complex was
tighter since 9/11.

Herman Perez, whom he had called earlier, was waiting in the visitors'
area.  Perez was a slightly built man with an olive complexion and
dark-brown eyes that matched his thinning hair.  Perez helped speed the
check-in process through security and led Austin through the labyrinth
of corridors to an office uncluttered by a scrap of paper.  The only
objects on the desktop were a computer monitor, a telephone and a photo
of an attractive woman and two cute children.

"Kurt, it's great to see you!"  Perez said, motioning for Austin to sit
down.  "Thinking of jumping Sandecker's ship to come back into the
Company?  We'd love to have you.  The cloak-and-dagger stuff you're so
good at has become respectable at Langley once again."

"Admiral Sandecker might have something to say about that.  But I'll
have to admit that I still get misty-eyed when I think about the fun we
had on our last job."

"The secret missile retrieval job we did off Gibraltar," Perez said
with a boyish grin.  "Oh boy, that was something."

"I was thinking about that on the drive over this morning.  How long
has it been?"

"Too damned long.  You know something, Kurt, I still hear little
flamenco dancers in my head whenever I drink Spanish wine."  A dreamy
look came into Perez's face.  "By God, we had some good times, didn't
we?"

Austin nodded in agreement.  "The world has changed a lot since
then."

Perez laughed in reply.  "Not for you, old pal!  Hell, I read about
that amazing rescue you pulled off in the Faroe Islands.  You haven't
changed a bit, you old sea dog.  Still the same swashbuckling
Austin."

Austin groaned.  "These days, for every minute swashing buckles,

I spend an hour at my desk dealing with reports."

"I hear you!  I could do without the paperwork, although I've got

ten to like my nine-to-five schedule since I became a father.  Two
kids, would you believe it?  Being a desk jockey isn't all bad.  You
might want to try it."

"No, thanks.  I'd rather have my eyeballs tattooed."  Perez laughed.
"Well, you didn't come here to talk about the good ol' days.  You said
on the phone that you were looking for background info on Balthazar
Aguirrez.  What's your interest in him, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all.  I ran into Aguirrez in the Faroe Islands.  He seemed like
a fascinating character.  I know he's a shipbuilding magnate, but I
suspected there was more to him than meets the eye."

"You met him?"

"He was fishing.  So was I."

"I should have known," Perez said.  "Trouble attracts trouble."

"Why is he trouble?"

"What do you know about the Basque separatist movement?"

"It's been around a long time.  Every so often, Basque terrorists blow
up a public building or assassinate an innocent government official."

"That pretty much sums it up," Perez said.  "There's been talk for
decades of a separate Basque state that would straddle Spain and
France.  The most radical separatist group, ETA, started fighting for
an autonomous Basque state in 1968.  When Franco died in 1975, the new
Spanish government gave the Basques more political power, but the ETA
wants the whole enchilada.  They've killed more than eight hundred
people since taking up the cause.  Anyone who is not on their side is
an enemy."

"A familiar story around the world, unfortunately."  "The political
wing of the separatist movement is the Batasuna party.  Some people
have compared it to Sinn Fein, the public face of

the IRA.  The Spanish government threw up its hands after more
assassinations and the discovery of a big ETA weapons cache.  Autonomy
wasn't working, so they banned Batasuna and started to crack down on
the whole separatist movement."

"Where does Aguirrez fit in to this bloody little picture?"

"Your instincts were right about there being more to him than meets the
eye.  He has been a major backer of Batasuna.  The government has
accused him of financing terrorism."

"I liked him.  He didn't look like a terrorist," Austin said, recalling
his benefactor's bluff and down-to-earth manners.

"Sure, and Joe Stalin looked like somebody's grandfather."

Austin remembered the yacht's tough-looking crew and the heavy-duty
armament that the vessel carried.  "So, are the charges true?"

"He freely admits to supporting Batasuna, but points out that it was a
legitimate party when he gave them money.  The government suspects he's
still channeling money into the movement.  They have no proof, and
Aguirrez is too well-connected to bring into court with flimsy
evidence."

"What's your take on the guy?"

"In all my years in Spain, I never met him, which was why I was
surprised when you said you had.  I think he's a moderate who'd like to
see a peaceful separatist solution, but the ETA murders have undermined
his cause.  He's afraid the crackdown will rekindle the conflict and
endanger innocent citizens.  He may be right."

"Sounds like he's walking a very thin tightrope."

"Some people say that the pressure's made him unhinged.  He's been
talking about a way to rally European public opinion in favor of a
Basque nation.  Did he give you any hint of what's on his mind?"  Perez
narrowed his dark eyes.  "Surely you didn't talk just about fishing."

"He struck me as very proud of his Basque heritage his yacht is named
the Navarra.  He didn't say a word about politics.  We talked

mostly about archaeology.  He's an amateur archaeologist with strong
interest in his own ancestors."

"You make him sound like a contender for the nutty professor.  Let me
give you a warning, old friend.  The Spanish police would love to nail
him to the wall.  They have no direct proof linking him to terrorist
acts, but when they do, you don't want to be in their way."

"I'll remember that.  Thanks for the heads-up."

"Hell, Kurt, it's the least I could do for a former comrade-in arms

Before Perez had the chance to start reminiscing again, Austin glanced
at his watch.  "Got to get moving.  Thanks for your time."

"Not at all.  Let's get together for lunch sometime.  We miss you here.
The brass is still ticked off about Sandecker grabbing you for

NUMA."

Austin rose from his chair.  "Maybe we'll work on a joint operation
someday."

Perez smiled.  "I'd like that," he said.

The Washington traffic had let up, and before long, Austin saw the sun
gleaming on the green glass facade of the thirty-story NUMA building
overlooking the Potomac.  He groaned when he walked into his office.
His efficient secretary had neatly piled the pink call-back slips in
the center of his desk.  In addition, he would have to dig himself out
of an avalanche of e-mail messages before he got down to preparing a
report on Oceanus.

Ah, the exciting life of a swashbuckler!  He scrolled through his
e-mail, deleted half of it as nonessential and shuffled through his
pink slips.  There was a message from Paul and Gamay.  They had gone to
Canada to check into an Oceanus operation.  Zavala had left a call on
his answering machine saying he would be home that night in time for a
hot date.  Some things never change, Austin thought with a shake of his
head.  His handsome and charming partner was much

in demand among Washington's female set.  Austin sighed and began to
tap away at his computer.  He was wrapping up the first draft when the
phone rang.

"Good afternoon, Mr.  Austin.  I was hoping I'd find you in your
office."

Austin smiled at the sound of Therri's voice.  "I'm already pining for
the high seas.  Your flight home on the Concorde went well, I trust."

"Yes, but I don't know why I hurried back.  My in-box is filled with
depositions and briefs.  But I didn't call to complain.  I'd like to
get together with you."

"I'm halfway out the door.  A walk maybe.  Cocktails and dinner.  Then,
who knows?"

"We'll have to put the 'who knows?"  on hold for now.  This is
business.  Marcus wants to talk to you."

"I'm really starting to dislike your friend.  He keeps getting in the
way of what may be the love affair of the century."

"This is important, Kurt."

"Okay, I'll meet with him, with one condition.  We make a date for
tonight."

"It's a deal."

She gave Austin a time and place for the meeting.  Therri's charm
notwithstanding, he had agreed to talk to Ryan because he had come to a
dead end and thought he might learn something new.  He hung up, leaned
back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers behind his head.  It was
easy to bring his thoughts around to Oceanus.  His chest ached when he
raised his arm, and the pain made an effective memory aid.

He wondered if the Trouts had turned up anything.  They hadn't called
since leaving their message.  He tried to reach them on their cell
phone and got no answer.  He didn't worry.  Paul and Gamay were

fully capable of taking care of themselves.  Next, he called Rudi Gunn,
NUMA's assistant director, and set up a luncheon meeting.  Rudi's famed
analytical skills might help guide him through the dense thicket
surrounding the mysterious corporation.

Gunn was bound to home in on Aguirrez when he read the report,
questioning whether there was any link between Basque terrorism and
Oceanus violence.  Aguirrez had mentioned his ancestor, Diego.  Austin
pondered the Basque's obsession with his forebear and thought that
Aguirrez might be on to something.  From his own experience, Austin
knew that the past is always the key to the present.  He needed someone
who could guide him back five centuries.  One person came to mind
immediately.  Austin picked up the phone and punched out a number.

THE WORLD-FAMOUS marine historian and gourmand, St.  Julien Perlmutter,
was in an agony of ecstasy.  He sat outside a three-hundred-year-old
Tuscan villa whose shaded terrace had a breathtaking view of rolling
vineyards.  Visible in the distance, dominating the Renaissance city of
Florence, was the Duomo.  The wide oak table before him groaned with
Italian cuisine, from pungent sausage made locally, to a thick, rare
beefsteak Florentine.  There was so much wonderful food, and so many
wonderful colors and fragrances, in fact, that he was having a hard
time trying to decide where to start.

"Get a grip on yourself, old man," he muttered, stroking his gray beard
as he stared at the spread.  "Wouldn't do to starve to death amid all
this plenty."

At four hundred pounds, Perlmutter was in little danger of wasting
away.  Since arriving in Italy ten days before, he had eaten his way up
the Italian boot on a promotional tour for an Italian-American food
magazine.  He had trudged through wineries, trattorias and smokehouses,
posed for photo opportunities in refrigerator rooms full of hanging
prosciutto, and delivered lectures on the history of food going back to
the Etruscans.  He had dined on sumptuous feasts everywhere he stopped.
The sensory overload had brought him to his present impasse.

The cell phone in his suit pocket trilled.  Grateful for the
distraction from his quandary, he flipped the phone open.  "State your
business in a concise and businesslike manner."  "You're a hard man to
find, St.  Julien."

The sky-blue eyes in the ruddy face danced with pleasure at the sound
of the familiar voice of Kurt Austin.

"To the contrary, Kurt m'lad.  I'm like Hansel and Gretel.  Follow the
food crumbs, and you'll find me nibbling at the gingerbread house."

"It was easier to follow the suggestion of your housekeeper.  She told
me you were in Italy.  How's the tour going?"

Perlmutter patted his substantial stomach.  "It's very fulfilling, to
say the least.  All goes well in the District of Columbia, I trust?"
"As far as I know.  I just flew back from Copenhagen last night."  "Ah,
the city of Hans Christian Andersen and the Little Mermaid.  I remember
when I was there some years ago, there was this restaurant I dined at
"

Austin cut Perlmutter off before he launched into a course-by-course
account of his meal.  "I'd love to hear about it.  But right now, I
need your historical expertise."

"Always willing to talk about food or history.  Fire away."  Perlmutter
was often asked to lend his expertise to NUMA queries.

"Have you ever come across a Basque mariner by the name of Diego
Aguirrez?  Fifteenth or sixteenth century."

Perlmutter dug into his encyclopedic mind.  "Ah yes, something to do
with the Song of Roland, the epic French poem."

"Chanson de Roland?  I struggled through that as part of a high school
French course."

"Then you know the legend.  Roland was the nephew of the emperor
Charlemagne.  He held off the Saracens at Roncesvalles with the help of
his magic sword, Durendal.  As he was dying, Roland beat his sword
against a rock to keep it out of the hands of his enemies, but it
wouldn't break.  He blew his horn to summon help.  Charlemagne, hearing
it, came with his armies, but it was too late.  Roland was dead.
Through the centuries, Roland became a Basque hero, a symbol of their
stubborn character."

"How do we get from Roland to Aguirrez?"  "I recall a reference to the
Aguirrez family in an eighteenth century treatise on pre-Columbian
voyages to the Americas.  Aguirrez was said to have made many fishing
trips to North American waters decades before Columbus's voyage.
Unfortunately, he ran afoul of the Spanish Inquisition.  There were
unverified reports he had been entrusted with the Roland relics."

"From what you say, the Roland story was not just a legend.  The sword
and the horn actually existed."

"The Inquisition apparently thought so.  They feared the relics could
be used to rally the Basques."

"What happened to Aguirrez and the relics?"  "They both disappeared.
There is no record of a shipwreck that I can recall.  May I ask what
prompts your interest in the subject?"

"I met a descendant of Diego Aguirrez.  He's retracing the voyage of
his long-lost ancestor, but he never said anything about sacred
relics."

"I'm not surprised.  Basque separatists are still setting off bombs
in

Spain.  Lord knows what would happen if they got their hands on potent
symbols like this."

"Do you remember anything else about Aguirrez?"  "Not off the top of my
head.  I'll dig around in my books when I get home."  Perlmutter owned
one of the world's finest marine libraries.  "I'll be back in
Georgetown in a few days, after a stop-off in Milan."

"You've been a great help as usual.  We'll talk again.  Buon ap-peti
to

"Grazie," Perlmutter said, clicking off his phone.  He turned his
attention back to the table.  He was about to dig in to a plate of
marinated artichoke hearts when his host, who owned the villa and the
surrounding vineyards, came in with the bottle of wine he had gone
for.

Shock registered on the man's face.  "You're not touching your food.
Are you ill?"

"Oh no, Signor Nocci.  I was distracted by a telephone call regarding a
question of a historical nature."

The silver-haired Italian nodded.  "Perhaps a taste of the ching ali
the wild boar, will help your memory.  The sauce was made from truffles
found in my woods."

"A splendid suggestion, my friend."  With the dam breached, Perlmutter
dug into the food with his usual gusto.  Nocci politely held his
curiosity at bay while his guest devoured the repast.  But when
Perlmutter dabbed his small mouth and set his napkin aside, Nocci said,
"I am an amateur historian.  It is impossible not to be when one lives
in a country surrounded by the remnants of countless civilizations.
Perhaps I can help you with your question."

Perlmutter poured himself another glass of 1997 Chianti and recounted
his conversation with Austin.  The Italian cocked his head.

"I know nothing about this Basque, but your story brings to mind
something I came across while doing some research in the Biblioteca
Laurenziana."

"I visited the Laurentian Library many years ago.  I was fascinated by
the manuscripts."

"More than ten thousand masterpieces," Nocci said, nodding his head.
"As you know, the library was founded by the Medici family to house
their priceless collection of papers.  I have been writing a paper on
Lorenzo the Magnificent which I hope to publish some day, although I
doubt if anyone will read it."

"Be assured, I shall read it," Perlmutter said grandly.

"Then it will have been worth my labor," Nocci said.  "Anyway, one of
the hazards of research is the temptation to wander away from the
highway, and while I was at the library, I traveled a side road that
led to the Medici Pope Leo X. With the death of King Ferdinand in 1516,
his seventeen-year-old successor, Charles V, encountered pressure to
restrict the power of the Inquisition.  In the great humanist tradition
of the Medici family, Leo favored curtailing the Inquisitors.  But
Charles's advisors persuaded the young king that the Inquisition was
essential to maintain his rule, and the persecution continued another
three hundred years."

"A sad chapter in human history.  It's comforting to know that Aguirrez
had the courage to speak out, but the dark forces are strong."

"And none was darker than a Spaniard named Martinez.  He sent a letter
to the king urging him to support the Inquisition and expand its
powers.  As far as I can determine, the letter was forwarded to Leo for
his comment and came to the library with the Pope's other papers."  He
shook his head.  "It is the fanatical raving of a monster.  Martinez
hated the Basques, wanted them wiped from the face of the earth.  I
remember there was a mention of Roland, which I recall thinking was
unusual in this context."

"What was the nature of this reference?"

Nocci heaved a great sigh and tapped his head with his forefinger.  "I
can't remember.  One of the consequences of growing old."

"Perhaps you'll remember after more wine."

"I trust the wine more than my memory," Nocci said, with a smile.  "The
assistant curator at the library is a friend of mine.  Please relax,
and I will make a telephone call."  He was back in a few minutes.  "She
says she would be happy to produce the letter I mentioned for us any
time we want to look at it."

Perlmutter pushed his great bulk back from the table and rose to his
feet.  "I think perhaps a little exercise would do me some good."

The trip to Florence took less than fifteen minutes.  Nocci usually
drove a Fiat, but in expectation of Perlmutter's visit, he had leased a
Mercedes, which more comfortably accommodated his guest's wide girth.
They parked near the leather and souvenir stalls that abounded in the
Piazza San Lorenzo and went through an entrance to the left of the
Medici family's old parish chapel.

Passing into the quiet cloisters, they left the bustle of commerce
behind them and climbed the Michelangelo stairs into the reading room.
The sturdy frame that supported Perlmutter's large figure allowed more
agility than would have seemed possible under the laws of gravity.
Still, he was puffing from the exertion of climbing the staircase and
gladly agreed when Nocci said that he would fetch his friend.
Perlmutter strolled past the rows of carved straight-backed benches,
basking in the light that was filtering through the high windows as he
breathed in the musty odor of antiquity.

Nocci returned after a minute with a handsome middle-aged woman, whom
he introduced as Mara Maggi, the assistant curator.

She had the reddish-blond hair and fair Florentine complexion that
showed up so often in Botticelli paintings.

Perlmutter shook her hand.  "Thank you for seeing us on such short
notice, Signora Maggi."

She greeted Perlmutter with a radiant smile.  "Not at all.  It is a
pleasure to open our collection to someone of such repute.  Please come
with me.  The letter you wish to see is in my office."

She led the way to a space whose window overlooked the cloister garden
and settled Perlmutter in a small anteroom that had a spare desk and a
couple of chairs.  Several pages of wrinkled parchment lay in an open
vellum-bound wooden box.  She left the two men alone and said to call
if they needed any help.

Nocci gingerly lifted the first parchment page from the folder and held
it by the edges.  "My Spanish is not too bad.  If you'll allow me ..
."

Perlmutter nodded and Nocci began to read.  As he listened, Perlmutter
decided that he had seldom heard writing that dripped with so much
venom and bloodthirsty hatred.  The diatribe was a litany of charges
directed at the Basques witchcraft and Satanism among them.  Even the
uniqueness of their language was used in evidence.  Martinez was
obviously a madman.  But behind his ravings was a clever political
message to the young Medici king: To restrict the Inquisition would
diminish the power of the throne.

"Ah," Nocci said, adjusting his reading glasses, "here is the passage I
was telling you about.  Martinez writes:

But it is their tendency to rebellion I fear the most.  They are
attached to relics.  They have the Sword, and the Horn, to which they
attribute great powers.  It gives them the power to rebel.  Which will
threaten the authority of the church and of your kingdom, my lord.

There is one among them, a man called Aguirrez, who is at the heart of
this sedition.  I have vowed to pursue him to the ends of the earth, to
reclaim these relics.  Sire, if our Sacred Mission is not allowed to
continue its work until heresy is uprooted from the land, I fear the
call of Roland's horn will summon our enemies to battle and that his
Blade will lay waste to all we hold dear."

"Interesting," Perlmutter said, knitting his brow.  "First of all, he
seems to be saying that the relics are real.  And second, that this
fellow Aguirrez has them in his possession.  This certainly backs up
the legendary accounts of Roland's fall."

Signora Maggi poked her head in the door and asked if they needed
anything.  Nocci thanked her and said, "This is a fascinating document.
Do you have any more papers authored by this man Martinez?"

"I'm very sorry, but there is nothing I can think of."

Perlmutter tented his fingers and said, "Martinez comes across in his
writings as a man of great ego.  I would be surprised if he did not
keep a journal of his day-to-day activities.  It would be wonderful if
such a book existed and we could get our hands on it.  Perhaps at the
state archives in Seville."

Signora Maggi was only half-listening.  She was reading a sheet of
paper that had been tucked into the box with the other records.  "This
is a list of all the manuscripts in this box.  Apparently, one of the
documents was taken from this file by a previous curator and sent on to
the Venice State Archives."

"What sort of document?"  Perlmutter asked.

"It is described here as an "Exoneration of a Man of the Sea," written
by an Englishman, Captain Richard Blackthorne.  It was supposed to be
returned, but there are more than ninety kilometers of

archives covering a thousand years of history, so sometimes things fall
through the cracks, as you Americans say."

"I'd love to read Blackthorne's account," Perlmutter said.  "I'm due in
Milan tomorrow, but perhaps I can divert to Venice."

"Perhaps it won't be necessary."  She took the file into her office,
and they could hear the soft clicking of a computer keyboard.  She
reappeared after a moment.  "I have contacted the Venice State Archives
and asked for a virtual search of the records.  Once the document is
found, it can be copied and transmitted through the Internet."

"Well done!"  Perlmutter said.  "And my heartfelt thanks."

Signora Maggi kissed Perlmutter on both fleshy cheeks, and before long
he and Nocci were driving through the suburbs of Florence.  Exhausted
by the activities of the day, Perlmutter took a nap and awoke just in
time for dinner.  He and Nocci dined on the terrace.  He had regained
his gustatory equilibrium and had no trouble downing his veal and pasta
dishes.  After finishing up with a spinach salad and a simple dolci of
fresh fruit, they watched the sun go down, silently sipping on glasses
of limoncello.

The phone rang and Nocci went to answer it, while Perlmutter sat in the
dark, savoring the smell of earth and grapevines, carried to his tulip
nose by a light evening breeze.  Nocci appeared a few minutes later and
summoned Perlmutter into a small state-of-the-art computer room.

Noting his guest's upraised eyebrow, Nocci said, "Even a business as
small as mine must use the latest in communications in order to survive
in the global market.  That was Signora Maggi," he said, sitting down
in front of the monitor.  "She apologizes for the delay, but the
document you requested had to be retrieved from the Museo Storico
Navale, the naval museum, where it had been languishing.  Here," he
said, and rose to give up his seat.

The sturdy wooden chair creaked in protest when Perlmutter settled in.
He scanned the title page, on which the author declared the journal to
be "an account of an unwilling mercenary in the service of the Spanish
Inquisition."

Perlmutter leaned forward, stared into the screen and began to read the
words that had been written five centuries before.

JL

THE BEER TRUCK rounded a sharp curve, and the driver slammed on his
brakes to avoid hitting the battered wreck in the road.  The car that
lay on its side a few yards from the edge looked as if it had been
dropped from a great height.  Two more wrecks smoldered at the bottom
of the drop-off hundreds of feet below.  The driver hurried from his
truck and peered into the car window.  He was surprised to discover
that the people inside were still alive.

The trucker called for help on his CB radio.  The rescue crew had to
use mechanical jaws to extricate the Trouts, and then the couple was
taken to a small but well-equipped hospital.  Paul suffered from a
broken wrist, Gamay had a concussion, and they were both covered with
bumps and bruises.  They spent the night under observation, went
through another exam the next morning and were pronounced fit to go.
They were signing out at the front desk, when two men wearing rumpled
suits arrived, identified themselves as provincial police and asked to
talk with them.

They settled into an unoccupied visitors' lounge, and the Trouts were
asked to tell what happened.  The senior man was named Mac-Farlane.  In
a classic good-cop, bad-cop pairing, he was the friendly one who
tut-tutted, while his partner, a man named Duffy, was the belligerent
officer who tried to pick holes in their story.

After replying to a particularly pointed question, Gamay, who could
never be mistaken for a shrinking violet, stared at Duffy and gave him
a smile.  "I may be wrong, Officer, but it sounds as if we're being
accused of something."

MacFarlane fidgeted with his hands.  "It's not that, ma'am, but look at
it from our point of view.  You and your husband arrive in town from
out of nowhere.  Within twenty-four hours, a fisherman you were seen
with goes missing, along with his boat.  Then four men are killed in a
very unusual accident."

"Damned bloody death plague if you ask me," Duffy growled.

"We've told you everything," Paul said.  "We were on vacation, and went
out with a fisherman named Mike Neal, whom we met at a waterfront
restaurant.  You can check with the bartender.  Mr.  Neal was looking
for work and offered to take us out for a cruise."

"Pretty expensive cruise," Duffy sneered.  "The boatyard says you paid
off Neal's bill of nearly a thousand dollars."

"We're both ocean scientists.  When we learned about the problems the
fishermen had been having with low catches, we asked Mr.  Neal to do
some survey work."

"What happened next?"

"We stayed overnight at a bed and breakfast.  The next morning, we
learned that Mr.  Neal and his boat had been lost.  We were continuing
our trip, when we were caught between two very bad drivers driving two
very big cars."

"From what you said," Duffy said, making no attempt to hide his
skepticism, "it sounds like these folks were trying to run you off the
road."

"It seems that way."

"That's what we can't figure," Duffy said, scratching the stubble on
his chin.  "Why would they try to kill a couple of innocent
tourists?"

"You'll have to ask them," Paul said.

Duffy's ruddy face went an even deeper red.  He opened his mouth to
respond.

MacFarlane raised his hand to shush his partner.  "Those folks are in
no condition to answer questions," he said with a wan smile.  "But you
see, this presents another problem.  The young lady here stopped at a
general store and asked about a fish plant in town.  The four gentlemen
who were killed were all employees of the same plant."

"I'm a marine biologist," Gamay said.  "My interest in fish is nothing
odd.  I don't mean to tell you how to do your job," she said, in a tone
that indicated that was exactly what she was doing, "but maybe you
should talk to someone at the plant."

"That's another funny thing," Duffy said.  "The plant's closed."

Gamay hid her surprise with a shrug and girded herself for more
questions, but just then, MacFarlane's cell phone rang, saving them
from another round of the third degree.  He excused himself, got up and
moved into the hall, out of earshot.  A few minutes later, he came back
in and said, "Thanks for your time, folks.  You can go."

"I won't argue with you, Officer, but could you tell us what's going
on?"  Paul said.  "A minute ago, we were public enemies one and two."
The worried expression that had been on MacFarlane's face earlier was
replaced by a friendly smile.  "That was the station.  We made some
inquiries when we saw the ID cards in your wallets.  Just got a

call from Washington.  Seems like you two are pretty important people
at NUMA.  We'll prepare a couple of statements and get them to you for
additions and signatures.  Anywhere we can take you?"  He seemed
relieved at the resolution of a difficult situation.

"A rental-car agency might be a good start," Gamay said.

"And a pub would be a good finish," Paul said.

On the drive to the car rental office, Duffy dropped his bad-cop act
and told them how to get to a pub where the beer and food were good and
cheap.  The policemen, who were going off-duty, invited themselves
along, too.  By the time they got into their second pint, the
detectives were very talkative.  They had retraced the Trouts'
footsteps, talking to the B-and-B owners and a few regulars around the
waterfront.  Mike Neal was still missing, and the man named Grogan had
also disappeared.  There was no telephone number for the Oceanus plant.
They were still trying to contact the corporation's international
office, but were having little luck.

Gamay ordered another beer after the police officers left.  She blew
off the foamy head and, in an accusatory tone, said, "That's the last
time I take a drive in the country with you."

"At least you didn't break any bones.  I have to drink my beer with my
left hand.  And how am I going to tie my bow ties?"

"Heaven forbid you use snap-ons, you poor boy.  Have you seen the dark
circle under my eye?  I believe it's what we called a mouse when I was
a kid."

Paul leaned over and lightly kissed his wife on the cheek.  "On you, it
looks exotic."

"I suppose that's better than nothing," Gamay said, with an indulgent
smile.  "What do we do now?  We can't go back to Washington with
nothing to show but a few lumps and repair bills for a nonexistent
boat."

He sipped his beer.  "What was the name of that scientist Mike Neal
tried to contact?"

"Throckmorton.  Neal said he was at McGill University."

"Montreal!  Why not drop by and see him, as long as we're in the
neighborhood?"

"Brilliant idea!"  Gamay said.  "Enjoy your beer, Lefty.  I'll update
Kurt on our plans."

Gamay took her cell phone to a relatively quiet corner of the pub and
called NUMA.  Austin was out, so she left a message saying they were
following the Oceanus trail to Quebec and would be in contact.  She
asked Austin's secretary to track down a telephone number for
Throckmorton and to see if she could put together a flight to Montreal.
Several minutes later, the secretary called back with the phone number
and two reservations on a flight leaving later that day.

Gamay called Throckmorton.  She said she was a NUMA marine biologist
and wondered if he had any time to talk about his work.  He was
delighted and flattered, he said, and would be free after his last
class.  Their Air Canada flight landed at Dorval Airport around
midafternoon.  They dropped their baggage off at the Queen Elizabeth
Hotel and caught a cab to the McGill University campus, a cluster of
gray granite older buildings along with more modern structures on the
side of Mont Royal.

Professor Throckmorton was wrapping up his lecture as the Trouts
arrived, and emerged from his classroom surrounded by a flock of
chattering students.  Throckmorton's eye caught Gamay's stunning red
hair and took in Paul's tall figure.  He shooed away the students and
came over to greet the newcomers.

"The Doctors Trout, I presume," he said, pumping their hands.  "Thank
you for seeing us on such short notice," Gamay said.  "Not at all," he
said warmly.  "It's an honor to meet scientists from NUMA.  I'm
flattered that you're interested in my work."

Paul said, "We were traveling in Canada, and when Gamay learned about
your research, she insisted that we make a detour."

"Hope I'm not the source of marital discord," he said, bushy eyebrows
jumping like startled caterpillars.

"Not at all," Gamay said.  "Montreal is one of our favorite cities."

"Well, then, now that we've got that settled, why don't you come up to
the lab and see what's on the slab, as they say."

"Didn't they say that in The Rochy Horror Picture Show}" Gamay said.

"Correct!  Some of my colleagues have taken to calling me the mad
scientist Frank N. Furter."

Throckmorton was of shorter-than-average height, chubby rather than
plump, and the roundness of his body was repeated in his moon-shaped
face and his circular eyeglasses.  Yet he moved with the quickness of
an athlete, as he led the way to the lab.

He ushered the Trouts through a door and into a large, brightly lit
space and motioned for them to sit down at a lab table.  Computers were
scattered at stations around the room.  Aerators bubbled in a series of
tanks on the far side of the lab, and a briny smell of fish filled the
room.  Throckmorton poured three lab beakers of iced tea and sat down
at the table.

"How did you hear about my work?"  he said, after a sip from his
beaker.  "Something in a scientific journal?"

The Trouts exchanged glances.  "To be honest," Gamay said, "we don't
know what you're working on."

Seeing Throckmorton's puzzled expression, Paul jumped in and said, "We
got your name from a fisherman by the name of Mike Neal.  He said he
had contacted you on behalf of the men in his fleet.  Their catches
were off, and they thought it might have something to do with an odd
type of fish he and the other fishermen in his town were landing."

"Oh, yes, Mr.  Neal!  His call was directed to my office, but I never
talked to him.  I was out of the country when he called, and I've been
too busy to get back to him.  Sounded quite intriguing.  Something
about a 'devilfish."  Maybe I can give him a call later today."

"I hope you get good long-distance rates," Paul said.  "Neal is
dead."

"I don't understand."

"He was killed in a boat explosion," Gamay said.  "The police don't
know what caused it."

A stunned expression crossed Throckmorton's face.  "Poor man."  He
paused, then said, "I hope this doesn't seem callous, but I suppose now
I'll never know about this strange devilfish."

"We'll be glad to tell you what we know," Gamay said.

Throckmorton listened intently as Gamay and Paul took turns describing
their trip with Neal.  As each detail unfolded, the cheerfulness
drained from Throckmorton's rosy-cheeked face.  He gazed solemnly from
Gamay to Paul.  "Are you absolutely certain of everything you told me?
You're quite sure of the size of the fish and the strange white color.
And its aggressiveness?"

"See for yourself," Paul said, producing the videotape shot on Neal's
boat.

After viewing the tape, Throckmorton rose, solemn-faced, from his chair
and paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.  Over and
over, he muttered, "This is not good, not good at all."

Gamay had a disarming way of cutting to the chase.  "Please tell us
what's going on, Professor."

He stopped his pacing and sat down again.  "As a marine biologist, you
must know about trans genic fish," he said.  "The first one was
developed practically in your backyard, at the University of Maryland
Biotechnology Institute."

"I've read a number of papers, but I can't say I'm an expert on the
subject.  From what I understand, genes are spliced into fish eggs to
make them grow faster."

"That's right.  The genes come from other species, even from insects
and humans."

"Humans?"

"I don't use human genes in my experiments.  I agree with the Chinese,
who are heavily into bio fish research, that using human genes in this
manner is unethical."

"How are the genes used?"

"They produce unusually high levels of growth hormones and stimulate
the fish's appetite.  I've been developing trans genic fish with the
Federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans lab in Vancouver.  The
salmon grown there are fed twenty times a day.  The constant feeding is
essential.  These super-salmon are programmed to grow eight times
faster, forty times larger than normal in the first year.  You can see
what a boon this is for a fish farmer.  He brings a fatter fish to
market in a fraction of the time."

"Thus ensuring a larger profit."

"To be sure.  Those pushing to bring bio fish to market call it the
"Blue Revolution."  They admit they'd like to increase profits, but
they say they have an altruistic motive as well.  DNA-altered fish will
provide a cheap and plentiful source of food for the poorer nations of
the world."

"I think I heard the same arguments in favor of DNA-modified crops,"
Gamay said.

"With good reason.  Genetically modified fish were a logical outgrowth
of the biotech food trend.  If you can engineer corn, why not do the
same for higher living organisms?  This is likely to be far more
controversial, though.  The protests have already started.  The
opponents say trans genic fish could mess up the environment, wipe out
the wild fishery and put the small fisherman out of business.  They're
calling these biotech creations "Frankenfish."  "

"Catchy name," said Paul, who had been listening with interest to the
conversation.  "Can't see it selling too many fish."

"Where do you stand on this issue?"  Gamay said.

"Since I created some of these fish, I have a special responsibility. I
want to see more study before we start raising these creatures on fish
farms.  The push to commercialize what we've been doing worries me.  We
need extensive risk assessment before we trigger what could be a
disaster."

"You sound very worried," Gamay said.

"It's what I don't know that concerns me.  Things are spinning out of
control.  Dozens of commercial operations are pushing to bring their
own fish to market.  More than two dozen fish species are being
researched in addition to salmon.  The potential is enormous, although
some fish farmers are turning away from transgenics because of the
controversy.  But big corporations have been moving in.  There are
dozens of patents for gene changes in Canada and the U.S."

"An economic and scientific juggernaut like that will be hard to stop
once it gets going."

"I feel like King Canute trying to shout down the ocean."  The
frustration was apparent in his voice.  "Billions of dollars are at
stake, so the pressure is enormous.  That's why the Canadian government
funds trans genic research.  The feeling is that if we don't lead the
way, others will.  We want to be ready when the dam bursts."

"If there is so much pressure and money involved, what's holding back
the bio fish tide?"

"A potential public relations nightmare.  Let me give you an example. A
New Zealand company called King Salmon was developing bio fish but word
about two-headed and lump-covered fish leaked out, and the press
whipped the public into a frenzy.  King had to stop its experiments and
destroy everything, because people were worried that these Frankenfish
might escape into the wild and start mating with normal ones."

"Is something like that a possibility?"  Gamay said.

"Not with contained fish-farming, but I have no doubt that trans genic
fish would escape if they were placed in open-water cages.  They are
aggressive and hungry.  Like a convict who yearns for freedom, they'd
find a way.  The government fisheries lab in Vancouver is as tight as
Fort Knox.  We've got electronic alarms, security guards,
double-screened tanks to keep fish from getting away.  But a private
company might be less cautious."

Gamay nodded.  "We've had invasions of foreign species in U.S. waters,
with potentially damaging results.  The Asian swamp eel has been found
in some states it's a voracious creature that can slither across dry
land.  Asian carp are in the Mississippi River, and there are worries
they can get into Lake Michigan.  They grow up to four feet long, and
there have been stories of them jumping out of the water and knocking
people out of boats, but the real worry is the way they suck up
plankton like a vacuum cleaner.  Then there's the lion fish, a real
cutie.  They carry spines that can poison humans, and they compete for
food with native species."

"You make an excellent point, but the situation with trans genic fish
is even more complicated than a competition for food.  Some of my
colleagues are more worried about the "Trojan gene' effect.  You recall
the story of the Trojan horse, naturally."

"The wooden horse filled with Greek soldiers," said Paul.  "The Trojans
thought it was a gift, brought it inside their city walls and that was
the end of Troy."

"An appropriate analogy in this case," Throckmorton said.

He tapped his finger against the cover of a thick staple-bound report that was lying on the table.  "This was published by English
Nature, the group that advises the British government on conservation
matters.  It contains the results of two studies.  As a result of the
findings, English Nature is opposing release of trans genic fish unless
they are made infertile, and a House of Lords committee wants an
outright ban on GM fish.  The first study was done at Purdue
University, where researchers found that trans genic male fish have a
fourfold advantage in breeding.  Larger fish are preferred as mates by
females."

"Who says size isn't important?"  Paul said, with his usual dry
humor.

"It happens to be very important in fish.  The researchers looked at
the Japanese medaka, whose trans genic offspring were twenty-two
percent larger than their siblings.  These big males made up eighty
percent of the breeding against twenty percent for the smaller
males."

Gamay leaned forward with her brow furrowed.  "It would eventually be a
disaster for the wild population."

"Worse than a disaster.  More like a catastrophe.  If you had one trans
genic fish in a population of 100,000, GM fish would become fifty
percent of the population within sixteen generations."  "Which isn't
long in fish terms," Gamay commented.  Throckmorton nodded.  "You can
cut that time even further.  Computer models show that if you
introduced sixty DNA-altered fish into a population of sixty thousand,
it would take only forty generations to pollute the gene pool to
extinction."  "You said there was a second study."  Throckmorton rubbed
his hands together.

"Oh yes, it gets even better.  The researchers at universities in
Alabama and California gave salmon growth-promoter genes to some
Channel catfish.  They found that these trans genic fish were better at
avoiding predators than were their natural counterparts."

"To put it succinctly, you think one of these super fish might get into
the wild, where it would outbreed and outlive the natural species,
quickly driving them to extinction."

"That's it.

Paul shook his head in disbelief.  "Given what you've just told us," he
said, "why would any government or company be fooling around with
genetic dynamite like this?"

"I understand what you're saying, but in the hands of a professional,
dynamite can be extremely useful."  Throckmorton rose from his chair.
"Come see, Dr.  Frankenstein's workbench is right this way."

He led them to the other side of the lab.  The fish swimming in the
tanks ranged in size from finger-length to a couple of feet long.  He
stopped in front of one of the larger tanks.  A silver-scaled fish with
a dark ridge along its spine was swimming slowly from one end of the
tank to the other.

"Well, what do you think of our latest genetically modified monster?"

Gamay leaned close so that her nose was inches from the glass.  "Looks
like any other well-fed salmon you might see swimming in the Atlantic
Ocean.  Maybe a little more girth around the middle than normal."

"Appearances can be deceiving.  How old would you say this handsome
fellow is?"

"I'd guess it's about a year old."

"Actually, only a few weeks ago, it was a mere egg."

"Impossible."

"I would agree with you if I hadn't played midwife at its birth.  What
you're looking at is an eating machine.  We've managed to soup

up its metabolism.  If that creature were placed in the wild, it would
quickly out-eat the native stocks.  Its little brain shouts one message
over and over.  "Feed me, I'm hungry!"  Watch."

Throckmorton opened a cooler, extracted a bucket of small bait fish and
threw a handful into the tank.  The salmon pounced on the fish, and
within moments it had devoured its meal.  Then it devoured the floating
shreds.

"I practically grew up on a fishing boat," Paul said with wide eyes.
"I've seen shark go for a hooked cod and schools of blues drive bait
fish onto the beach, but I've never come across anything like this. Are
you sure you didn't insert some piranha genes into your little baby?"

"Nothing that complicated, although we did some physical engineering as
well.  Salmon have weak, brittle teeth, so we gave this model sharper,
more durable dentures that allow it to eat more quickly."

"Amazing," Gamay said, equally impressed by the display.

"This fish was only slightly modified.  We've built some real monsters,
true Frankenfish.  We destroyed them immediately so that there was no
chance they might escape into the wild.  We found that we could control
size, but I started to worry when I saw how aggressive our creations
were, even though they looked fairly normal."

Gamay said, "The fish we caught was aggressive and abnormal in size.

The worried look came back onto Throckmorton's face.  "There's only one
conclusion I can draw.  Your devilfish was a mutant created in a lab.
Someone is doing research that has gotten out of control.  Instead of
destroying their mutants, they've allowed them into the wild.  It's a
shame the fish you caught was destroyed.  I can only hope that it was
sterile."

"What would happen if genetically engineered fish like the one we may
have seen start to propagate?"

"A biotech fish is basically an alien species.  It's no different than
an exotic life-form brought in from Mars and introduced into our
environment.  I see environmental and economic damage on an
unprecedented scale.  They could destroy whole fishing fleets, causing
huge economic hardship, like that experienced by Mr.  Neal and his
fellow fishermen.  It would totally upset the balance of nature in the
waters along our coasts, where the most productive areas are.  I have
no idea what the long-term consequences would be."

"Let me play devil's advocate," Gamay said after some thought. "Suppose
these so-called super fish did supplant the natural population. The
commercial fishermen would in effect become the predators who keep the
population within reasonable limits.  You would still have fish that
could be harvested and sold at market.  They would just be bigger and
meatier."

"And meaner," Paul noted.

"There are too many unknowns to take the risk," Throckmorton said.  "In
Norway, hybrid salmon escaped into the sea and bred successfully with
the native fish, but were less able to survive in the wild.  So you
could have a case where the super fish that replaces the wild stock
dies out as a species, eliminating itself as well as the natural
population."

A sardonic voice said, "My dear Throckmorton, are you trying to
frighten these poor people with your dire warnings?"

A man wearing a lab coat had quietly slipped into the lab and was
observing them, a wide smile on his face.  "Frederick!"  Professor
Throckmorton said, beaming.  Turning to the Trouts, he said, "This is
my esteemed colleague, Dr.  Barker.  Frederick, these are the Doctors
Trout from NUMA."  In an audible aside, Throckmorton said, "They may
call me Frankenstein, but this is Dr.  Strangelove."

Both men laughed over the shared joke.  Barker came over and shook
hands.  He was in his early fifties, with an imposing physique,

a shaved head and sunglasses that hid his eyes.  His skin had a
bleached-out look to it.

"It's a great pleasure to meet someone from NUMA.  Please don't let
Throckmorton frighten you.  You'll never eat a salmon aman dine again
after listening to him.  What brings you to McGill?"

"We were on vacation and heard about Dr.  Throckmorton's work," Gamay
said.  "As a marine biologist, I thought there might be something in it
NUMA would be interested in."

"A busman's holiday!  Well, let me defend myself against this slander.
I am a strong proponent of trans genic fish, which makes me suspect in
the eyes of my friend here."

"The doctor is more than a proponent.  He is affiliated with some of
the biotech companies that are pushing to bring these creatures to
market."

"You make it sound like a dark conspiracy, Throckmorton.  My friend
forgets to tell you that I am working with the full complicity and
financial support of the Canadian government."

"Dr.  Barker would like to create a designer salmon, so that people
could have a different flavor every day of the week."

"That's not a bad idea, Throckmorton.  Do you mind if I borrow it?"

"Only if you claim full responsibility for creating such a monster."

"The professor worries too much."  He gestured toward the fish tank.
"That fine fellow is proof there is no need to create a trans genic
fish of monstrous size.  And as he said, biotech fish are less able to
survive in the wild.  It's easy enough to sterilize the fish so they
won't replicate themselves."

"Yes, but sterilization techniques are less than one hundred percent
reliable.  You might not be so casual after you hear the news that the
Trouts have brought me."

Throckmorton asked the Trouts to tell their story and run the

video again.  When they were finished, he said, "What do you make of
it, Frederick?"

Barker shook his head.  "I'm afraid I share some blame.  I got the
message from Neal when he called.  But I never called him back."

"And what do you think?"

Barker's smile had disappeared.  "I would say that it was impossible,
if it had not been witnessed by two qualified observers and videotaped.
This has all the earmarks of a trans genic experiment gone wrong."

"Who would be so irresponsible as to let a fish like this escape into
the wild?  Apparently, there are others, if we are to believe the
fishermen.  We must get someone in the field immediately."

"I agree wholeheartedly.  It's evident that this white devilfish is
already competing with the wild species for food.  Whether it can pass
along its genes is another question."

"That's what has bothered me all along about this whole issue, its
unpredictability," Throckmorton said.

Barker glanced at his watch.  "What is not unpredictable is my next
class, which meets in a few minutes."  He bowed slightly and shook
hands with Paul and Gamay.  "I'm sorry that I have to run.  A pleasure
meeting you."

"Your colleague is fascinating," Gamay said.  "He looks more like a
professional wrestler than a geneticist."

"Oh yes, Frederick is one of a kind.  The female students love him.  He
rides a motorcycle around the city, which they think is very cool."

"Is there something wrong with his eyes?"

"You noticed the sunglasses, of course.  Frederick tends toward
albinism.  As you can see from his lack of complexion, he avoids the
sun, and his eyes are very sensitive to light.  His handicap hasn't
hindered his accomplishments, though.  Everything I said about his
brilliance is true, though, unlike me, he is putting his expertise to
work in the

private sector.  He'll probably become a millionaire.  Anyway, we must
both thank you for alerting us.  I'll start immediately to put a field
team together."

"We've taken enough of your time," Gamay said.

"Not at all.  It's been a treat to talk to you.  I hope we'll meet
again."

Throckmorton asked if he could copy the video.  Minutes later, Paul and
Gamay were in a cab headed down the hill to the hotel.

"Interesting afternoon," Paul said.

"More so than you think.  While Throckmorton and I were copying the
tape, I asked him who Barker's employers were.  I thought it wouldn't
hurt to have another lead to chase down.  He said the company was named
Aurora."

"Pretty name," Paul said with a yawn.  "What did he say about it?"

Gamay smiled mysteriously.  "He said Aurora is a subsidiary of a larger
company."

Paul blinked.  "Don't tell me "

She nodded.  "Oceanus."

He thought about it for a moment, then said, "I tried to look at this
as if I were creating a computer graphic, but the problem is more like
a kid's picture puzzle.  Barker is one dot, the guys who tried to drive
us off the road are another dot.  If we connect the two, we can start
to sketch out a picture.  So our course of action is very clear."

"And what might that be?"  Gamay said with skepticism.

Paul gave her a lopsided grin.  "We have to come up with more dots."

THE LOCATION Ryan had suggested for a rendezvous was only a few minutes
from NUMA headquarters.  Austin drove along the George Washington
Parkway to a sign that said theoDore roosevelt island.  He parked his
car, walked over the footbridge that spanned a narrow waterway called
Little River and followed a path to the Roosevelt Memorial, a wide
plaza edged by low benches.  Ryan was standing with his back to the
bronze statue of the president, apparently keeping an eye out for
Austin.

Ryan waved him over.  "Thanks for coming, Kurt."  Ryan turned and gazed
up at the statue.  TR stood with legs wide apart, fist raised high in
the air.  "Ol' Teddy up there got me into this crazy business.  He put
millions of acres under federal protection, saved endangered birds from
the plume hunters and made the Grand Canyon a national park.  He wasn't
afraid to push the law to its limits when he thought he was acting in the public good.  Whenever I have doubts about what I'm doing, I think of this guy staring down the fat
cats."

Austin couldn't help feeling that Ryan was posing for a photo op. "It's
hard to believe you have doubts about anything, Marcus."

"Oh I do, believe me.  Especially when I think of the task I've carved
out for myself: Protecting the world's oceans and the critters that
live in them."

"If I recall my mythology, the sea-god position has been filled for the
last few thousand years."

Ryan smirked like a guilty child.  "Yeah, I guess I do sound godlike at
times.  But mythology also tells us that gods commonly appoint
themselves to their positions."

"I'll remember that if I ever lose my job at NUMA.  Therri said you
wanted to talk to me about something important."

"Yes," Ryan said, looking past Austin's shoulder.  "There she is now,
as a matter of fact."

Therri was walking across the plaza with a young man Austin guessed to
be in his early twenties.  He had reddish-brown skin, a broad face and
high cheekbones.

"Good to see you again, Kurt," Therri said, extending her hand.  Her
manner was businesslike in front of the other men, but her eyes told
Austin she hadn't forgotten the goodnight kiss in Copenhagen; or at
least that's what he hoped they said.  "This is Ben Nighthawk.  Ben is
a research assistant in our office."

Ryan suggested that they move off to the side of the memorial.  When he
was sure they could talk out of the earshot of any wandering tourists,
he wasted no time.  "Ben has uncovered some important information on
Oceanus," he said.

With a nod from Ryan, the young Indian began to tell his story.  "I
come from a tiny village in northern Canada.  It's pretty remote,

on a big lake, and usually it's pretty quiet up there.  A few months
ago, my mother wrote me a letter saying someone had bought a huge tract
of land across the lake from the village.  Big corporation, she
thought.  I hope to work against overdevelopment of the Canadian wilds
when I get out of college, so I got really interested when she said
they were building night and day on the lake.  Helicopters and float
planes were coming in at all hours.  I asked my mother to keep me up to
date, and the last time I heard from her was more than two weeks ago. 
She was really worried."

"About what?"  Austin said.

"She didn't say, only that it had something to do with the stuff going
on across the lake.  So I got worried and went home to take a look and
my family was gone."

"You're saying they disappeared?"  Austin said.

Nighthawk nodded.  "Everyone in the village had vanished."

"Canada's a big place, Ben.  Where was your village located?"

Nighthawk glanced at Ryan.  "In good time, Kurt," Ryan said.  "Tell Mr.
Austin what happened next, Ben."

"I went looking for my family," Nighthawk continued.  "I found them
being kept prisoner on the other side of the lake.  Guys with guns were
forcing the men from my village to work, clearing land around a big
building."

"Do you know who they were?"

"I never saw them before.  They were dressed in black uniforms."  He
looked at Ryan for encouragement, then went on.  "It's crazy, but when
we got there "

"We?"

Ryan said, "Josh Green, my next in command, went along with Ben.  Don't
be afraid to tell Mr.  Austin everything you saw, no matter how wild it
seems."

Nighthawk shrugged.  "Okay, then.  When we first got there, we
didn't see anything but forest, except for where they were clearing.
Then this huge building suddenly appeared out of nowhere."  He paused,
waiting for Austin to reply with disbelieving laughter.

Austin kept his blue-green eyes leveled.  "Go on," he said, his face
impassive.

"That's it.  Instead of trees, we were looking at a giant dome.  Josh
and I thought it looked like an Eskimo igloo, only hundreds of times
bigger.  While we were watching, the top of the thing opened like
this."  He cupped his hands to form an open clamshell.  "Turned out it
was a hangar for a blimp."

Austin said, "Something like the Goodyear blimp?"  Nighthawk screwed up
his mouth in thought.  "Naw.  Bigger and longer.  More like a rocket
ship.  It even had a name on the fin.  Nietzsche.  "

"Like the German philosopher?"

"I guess so," Ben said.  "We saw the thing land in the hangar, and the
roof closed again, and then a bunch of guys came out the front door. My
cousin was in a work gang, and he tried to run for it, and one of those
bastards killed him."  Nighthawk's voice became choked with emotion.

Ryan put his hand on Nighthawk's shoulder.  "That's enough for now,
Ben."

Austin said, "I'd like to help.  But I'm going to need more details."
Ryan said, "We'll be glad to fill you in, but the information comes
with a price."

Austin raised an eyebrow.  "I'm a little short of change today,
Marcus."

"We're not interested in money.  We want SOS and NUMA to work together
to bring Oceanus down.  We share the information.  You include us in
any mission."

Austin showed his teeth in a wide grin.  "You'd be better off calling
in the marines, Ryan.  NUMA is a scientific organization dedicated to
gathering knowledge.  It's not a military organization."

"C'mon, Kurt, you're being disingenuous," Ryan said, with a knowing
smile.  "We researched your job at NUMA.  This Special Assignments Team
you run has come up against some pretty hard cases.  You didn't stop
the bad guys by whacking them over the head with a scientific
treatise."

"You flatter me, Marcus.  I don't have the power to authorize a joint
mission.  I'd have to run it by higher-ups."

Ryan took the answer as a qualified yes.  "I knew you'd come around,"
he said triumphantly.  "Thank you so much."

"Save your thanks.  I have no intention of going to the head honchos

"Why not?"

"NUMA would be putting its reputation on the line if it worked with a
fringe organization like SOS.  On the other hand, you'd gain public
support for the Sentinels by putting them under NUMA's umbrella of
legitimacy.  Sorry.  It's a one-sided deal."

Ryan brushed back his hair.  "We haven't told you everything, Kurt.  I
have a personal stake in this, as well.  It wasn't just Ben's cousin
Josh Green was killed."

"It was my fault," Ben said.  "I ran into the open, and he tried to
stop me.  They shot him."

"You did what anyone would have done in your place," Ryan said.  "Josh
was a brave man."

"You're talking about two murders now," Austin said.  "Have you
reported them to the police?"

"No.  We want to deal with this ourselves.  And there's something else
that may persuade you to change your mind.  We tracked down the new
owner of the land around Ben's lake.  It was a real estate straw
corporation ... set up by Oceanus."

"You're sure of that?"

"Positive.  Are you with us now?"

Austin shook his head.  "Before you buckle on your six-shooters and
ride off, let me remind you what you're up against.  Oceanus has money,
and worldwide connections, and as you've seen, they don't hesitate to
commit cold-blooded murder.  They'd swat you and anyone you brought in
from SOS like a fly.  I'm sorry about Ben's cousin and your friend
getting killed, but it only proves what I've been saying.  You'll be
putting your people in similar danger."  He glanced pointedly at
Therri.

"They're willing to take any risk for the environment," Ryan said.
"Apparently, NUMA doesn't give a damn about it."

"Hold on, Marcus," Therri said.  She had seen Austin's jaw harden.
"Kurt has a point.  Maybe we could offer a compromise.  SOS could work
behind the scenes with NUMA."

"Spoken like a true lawyer," Austin said.

Therri hadn't expected Austin's quick rebuff.  "What's that supposed to
mean?"  she said, a hint of coldness creeping into her voice.

"I think this is less about the whales and the walruses and dead
friends, and more about your friend's ego."  He turned back to Ryan.
"You're still ticked off about the loss of the Sea Sentinel.  She was
your pride and joy.  You were going to play the martyr in front of the
cable news cameras, but the Danes beat you to the punch when they
dropped the charges and quietly kicked you out of their country."

"That's not true," Therri said.  "Marcus is "

Ryan silenced her with a wave of his hand.  "Don't waste your breath.
It's apparent that Kurt is a fair-weather friend."

"Better than no friend at all," Austin said.  He pointed toward the
statue of Roosevelt.  "Maybe you should go back and read that guy's
resume again.  He didn't ask others to stick their necks out.  Sorry
to

hear about your cousin, Ben, and about Josh Green.  Nice to see you
again, Therri."

Austin had had his fill of Ryan's self-aggrandizement.  He'd been
hopeful when he heard Nighthawk's story, but angry at Ryan for slamming
the door on a possible lead.  He was striding down the path when he
heard footsteps from behind.  Therri had followed him from the
memorial.  She caught up with him and grabbed him lightly by the arm.
"Kurt, please reconsider.  Marcus really needs your help."

"I can see that.  But I can't agree to his conditions."

"We can work something out," she pleaded.

"If you and Ben want help from NUMA, you'll have to cut loose from
Ryan."

"I can't do that," she said, bringing the power of her lovely eyes to
bear.

"I think you can," Austin said, boring back with his own, equally
intense gaze.

"Damnit, Austin," she said with exasperation, "you're one stubborn
bastard."

Austin chuckled.  "Does that mean you won't go out to dinner with
me?"

Therri's face darkened with anger, and she spun on her heel and strode
off along the path.  Austin watched her until she disappeared around a
curve.  He shook his head.  The sacrifices I make for NUMA, he thought.
He started off toward the parking lot, only to stop short a minute
later when a figure popped out of the woods.  It was Ben Nighthawk.

"I made an excuse to get away," Nighthawk said breathlessly.  "I told
Marcus I had to use the rest room.  I had to talk to you.  I don't
blame you for not wanting to hook up with SOS.  Marcus has let all the
publicity go to his head.  He thinks he's Wyatt Earp.  But I saw

those guys kill my cousin and Josh.  I tried to tell him what he's up
against, but he won't listen.  If SOS goes in, my family is dead meat."
"Tell me where they are and I'll do what I can."  "It's tough to
explain.  I'll have to draw you a map.  Oh, hell " Ryan was striding up
the path toward them, an angry expression on his handsome face.  "Call
me," Austin said.

Ben nodded and walked back to meet Ryan.  They became engaged in what
looked like a heated discussion.  Then Ryan put his arm around Ben and
guided him back to the memorial.  He turned back once, to glare at
Austin, who shrugged off the evil eye and headed back to his car.

Twenty minutes later, Austin strolled into the Air and Space Museum on
Independence Avenue.  He took the elevator to the third floor, and was
headed toward the library, when he encountered a middle-aged man in a
wrinkled tan suit who had stepped out of a side room.

"Kurt Austin, as I live and breathe!"  the man said.

"I wondered if I'd bump into you, Mac."

"Always a good chance of that around here.  I practically live within
these walls.  How's the pride of NUMA these days?"

"Fine.  How's the Smithsonian's answer to St.  Julien Perlmutter?"

MacDougal chortled at the question.  Tall and lean, with fine sandy
hair and a hawk-nose that dominated his narrow face, he was the
physical antithesis of the portly Perlmutter.  But what he lacked in
girth he made up for with an encyclopedic knowledge of air history that
was every bit the equivalent of Perlmutter's grasp of the sea.

"St.  Julien carries much more, um, weight in the historical world than
I do," he said, with a twinkle in his gray eyes.  "What brings you into
the rarified atmosphere of the Archives Division?"

"I'm doing some research on an old airship.  I was hoping I'd find
something in the library."

"No need to go to the archives.  I'm on my way to a meeting, but we can
talk on the way."

Austin said.  "Have you ever come across a mention of an airship called
the Nietzsche}"

"Oh, sure.  Only one airship had that name the one that was lost on the
secret polar expedition of 1935."  "You know it, then?"

He nodded.  "There were rumors that the Germans had sent an airship to
the North Pole on a secret mission.  If it had succeeded, it was meant
to cow the Allies and tout the glories of German Kulture in the
propaganda war.  The Germans denied it, but they couldn't explain the
disappearance of two of their greatest airship pioneers, Heinrich Braun
and Herman Lutz.  The war came along, and the stories faded."

"So that was it?"

"Oh no.  After the war, papers were discovered that suggested strongly
that the flight had indeed taken place, with an airship similar to the
Graf Zeppelin.  The airship supposedly sent a radio message as it
neared the pole.  They had discovered something of interest on the
ice."

"They didn't say what?"

"No.  And some people believe it was a fabrication, anyhow.  Maybe
something Josef Goebbels made up."  "But you believe the accounts."

"It's entirely possible.  Certainly the technology was there."  "What
could have happened to the airship?"  "There are all sorts of
possibilities.  Engine failure.  Sudden storm.  Ice.  Human error.  The
Graf Zeppelin was a highly successful aircraft,

but we're talking about operating in extreme conditions.  Other
airships have come to similar fates.  It could have crashed into the
pack ice, been carried hundreds of miles away and gone into the sea
when the ice melted."  His face lit up.  "Don't tell me!  You've found
traces of it at the bottom of the sea?"

"Unfortunately, no.  Someone mentioned it to me ... and, well, my
scientific curiosity got the better of me."

"I know exactly what you mean."  He stopped in front of a door. "Here's
my meeting.  Come by again and we'll talk some more."

"I will.  Thanks for your help."

Austin was glad that Mac wasn't pressing him further.  He didn't like
being evasive with old friends.

MacDougal paused with his hand on the doorknob.  "The fact that we're
talking about the Arctic is a funny coincidence.  There's a big
reception tonight to open a new exhibition on Eskimo culture and art.
"People of the Frozen North," or something like that.  Dogsled races,
the whole thing."

"Dogsled races in Washington?"

"I said the same thing, but apparently it's so.  Why don't you come by
and see for yourself?"

"I may just do that."

As he was leaving the museum, Austin stopped at the information booth
and picked up a brochure for the exhibition, which was in fact called
Denizens of the Frozen North.  The opening night reception was by
invitation only.  He ran his eye down the brochure and stopped at the
name of the sponsor: Oceanus.

He tucked the brochure in his pocket and drove back to his office.  A
few calls later, he had wrangled an invitation, and, after working
awhile longer on his report to Gunn, he went home to change.  As he
walked past the bookshelves in his combined living room library, he

ran his fingers along the spines of the neatly shelved volumes.  The
voices of Aristotle, Dante and Locke seemed to speak to him.

Austin's fascination with the great philosophers went back to his
college days and the influence of a thought-provoking professor. Later,
philosophy provided a distraction from his work and helped shed light
on the darker elements of the human soul.  In the course of his
assignments, Austin had killed men and injured others.  His sense of
duty, justice and self-preservation had shielded him from crippling,
and perhaps dangerous, self-doubt.  But Austin was not a callous man,
and philosophy gave him a moral compass to follow when he examined the
rightness of his actions.

He extracted a thick volume, flicked on the stereo so that the liquid
notes flowed from John Coltrane's saxophone, then went out on the deck
and settled into a chair.  Riffling through the pages, he quickly found
the quote he'd been thinking about since MacDougal had mentioned a
blimp named Nietzsche.

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does
not become a monster.  And when you loot into an abyss, the abyss also
loo fe into you.

He stared off into space for a few moments, wondering if he had seen
the abyss, or more important, whether it was looking back at him.  Then
he closed the book, put it back on the shelf and went to get ready for
the reception.

A HUGE BANNER EMBLAZONED with the words Denizens of the Frozen North
was draped over the Mall entrance to the National Museum of Natural
History.  Painted on the banner, so there would be no mistaking the
subject of the show, were figures in hooded fur parkas riding dog sleds
across a forbidding Arctic landscape.  Mountainous hulking icebergs
loomed in the background.

Austin walked between the portico columns and stepped into the museum's
expansive octagonal rotunda.  At the center of the eighty-foot-wide
space was a masterpiece of taxidermy, an African elephant charging
across an imaginary savanna.  The twelve-ton animal dwarfed the petite
docent standing under its upraised trunk.

"Good evening," the young woman said with a smile, handing Austin a
program.  She was wearing a lightweight facsimile of traditional Eskimo
dress.  "Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition.  Go
through that door and you'll see the displays in the

special exhibition hall.  A movie on Eskimo culture will be showing
every twenty minutes in the Imax Theater.  The sled dog and harpoon
competitions will be held on the Mall in about fifteen minutes.  Should
be quite exciting!"

Austin thanked the guide and trailed the guests into the special
exhibit area.  The well-lit display cases were filled with Eskimo
artwork and ivory carvings, tools for hunting and fishing, cleverly
fashioned skin suits and boots that would keep their owners warm and
dry in the coldest of Arctic temperatures, driftwood sleds, canoes and
whaleboats.  A doleful chant backed by the beat of a tom-tom came from
speakers scattered around the hall.

The chattering crowd was the usual combination of Washington
politicians, bureaucrats and press.  For all its importance in the
world, Washington was still a small town, and Austin recognized a
number of familiar faces.  He was talking to a historian from the Navy
Museum who was a kayak enthusiast, when he heard his name called. Angus
MacDougal from the Air and Space Museum was making his way through the
milling guests.  He took Austin's arm.

"Come over here, Kurt, there's someone I want you to meet."

He led Austin to a dignified-looking gray-haired man and introduced him
as Charles Gleason, the curator of the exhibition.

"I told Chuck that you were interested in Eskimos," MacDougal said.

"Actually, they prefer to be called "Inuit," which means, 'the People,"
" Gleason said.  " "Eskimo' was a name the Indians gave them.  It means
'eaters of raw flesh."  Their name for themselves is "Nakooruk," which
means 'good."  " He smiled.  "Sorry for the lecture.  I taught college
for many years, and the pedagogue in me keeps reasserting itself."

"No apology necessary," Austin said.  "I never resist the opportunity
to learn something new."

"That's very kind of you.  Do you have any questions on the
exhibition?"

"I was wondering about the sponsor," Austin said.  He read the placard
stating that items in the case were on loan from Oceanus, and he
decided to take a long shot.  "I've heard the head of Oceanus is a man
named Toonook."

"That's right."

Gleason gave him a wary look.  "You're serious?"

"Very.  I'd like to meet the gentleman."

Gleason replied with a strange half smile and made a sound between a
chortle and a snicker.  Unable to contain himself, he burst forth with
a loud guffaw.  "Sorry," he said, "but I'd hardly call Toonook a
gentleman.  Toonook is the Inuit name of an evil spirit.  He's
considered to be the creator and destroyer."

"You're saying Toonook is a mythological name?"

"That's right.  The Inuit say he's in the sea, the earth and the air.
Every time there's an unexpected noise, like the ice cracking
underfoot, it's Toonook, looking for a victim.  When the wind howls
like a pack of hungry wolves, it's Toonook."

Austin was confused.  Toonook was the name Therri had given him as the
head of Oceanus.  "I can see why my question made you laugh," Austin
said, with an embarrassed smile.  "I must have misunderstood."

"There's no misunderstanding as far as the Inuit are concerned,"
Gleason said.  "When they travel alone, they keep an eye out for
Toonook.  They carry a bone knife and wave it around to keep Toonook at
bay."

Austin's eye drifted past Gleason's shoulder.  "Something like the
little pig sticker in that display case?"

Gleason tapped the glass in front of the ornately carved white blade.
"That's a very rare and unusual item."

"In what way?"

"Most Inuit knives were tools mainly used for skinning.  That knife was
made with one purpose: to kill other human beings."

"Odd," Austin said, "I had always heard that the Eskimos were a
peaceful and good-natured people."

"Very true.  They live in close quarters in a harsh and demanding
environment where tempers could easily flare into violence.  They know
cooperation is vital to survival, and so they've evolved a whole set of
rituals and customs to diffuse aggression."

"That knife looks about as aggressive as it gets."

Gleason nodded in agreement.  "The Inuit are subject to the same dark
passions as the rest of humankind.  The people who made that weapon
were from a tribe that broke the peaceful mold.  We think they came
from Siberia in prehistoric times and settled in northern Quebec.  They
tended toward rape, pillage, human sacrifice ... very nasty.  The other
communities banded together many years ago and drove them off.  They
named them "Kiolya."  "

"Doesn't ring a bell."

"It's the Inuit name for the aurora borealis, which the Arctic people
regard as the manifestation of evil.  The real name of the tribe, no
one knows."

"What happened to the Kiolya?"

"They scattered around Canada.  Many of them ended up in the cities,
where their descendants formed criminal enterprises.  Murder for hire
and extortion, mainly.  Some of them retained their old tribal customs,
such as the vertical tattoos over the cheekbones, until they found that
it identified them easily to the police."

"I'm curious.  How is an exhibition like this pulled together?"

"In many different ways.  With this one, a public relations firm from
Oceanus approached the museum and asked if we would be interested in
placing the show.  They said the sponsors had a strong interest in
educating the public on Inuit culture, and they would organize the
exhibition and pay all costs.  Well, we couldn't resist.  It's a
fascinating show, don't you think?"

Austin stared at the Kiolya knife, which was identical to the weapon
that had slashed his chest open at the Faroe Islands fish farm.  He was
thinking about the vertical tattoos on the face of the man who'd
wielded the knife.  "Yes, fascinating," he said.

"Since I can't introduce you to Toonook, perhaps you'd like to meet the
representative from Oceanus."

"He's here?"

"I just spoke to him a few minutes ago in the diorama room.  Follow
me."

The lights in the diorama room had been dimmed to simulate the Arctic
night.  Lasers projected a moving display of the northern lights on the
ceiling.  Standing alone in front of a life-sized diorama showing a
seal hunt was a tall, well-built man with a shaved head.  Dark
sunglasses covered his eyes.

Gleason approached the man and said, "Dr.  Barker, I'd like you to meet
Kurt Austin.  Mr.  Austin is with the National Underwater and Marine
Agency.  You must know of it."

"I would have to come from another planet not to know NUMA."

They shook hands.  Austin felt like his fingers were clutching a frozen
side of beef.

"I hope you don't mind if I share our little joke," Gleason said to
Kurt.  "Mr.  Austin thought that the head of Oceanus was named
Toonook."

"Mr.  Gleason explained that Toonook was not a man, but an evil
spirit," Austin said.

Barker stared at Austin through the dark lenses.  "It's more
complicated than that," he said.  "Toonook is considered to be evil in
the Inuit culture.  He is the embodiment of that clever light display
on the ceiling.  But like others through history, the people of the
North worshipped the thing they feared the most."

"Toonook is a god, then?"

"Sometimes.  But I assure you that the head of Oceanus is very
human."

"I stand corrected.  If it's not Toonook, what is his real name?"

"He prefers to keep his identity a secret.  If you'd like to call him
Toonook, feel free to do so.  He has been called worse names by his
competitors.  He stays out of the limelight, and it falls upon his
employees to represent him.  In my case, I work for a company named
Aurora, which is a subsidiary of Oceanus."

"What sort of work do you do for Aurora?"

"I'm a geneticist."

Austin glanced around the room.  "This is a wide departure from
genetics."

"I like to get out of the lab.  I suggested that Oceanus sponsor this
exhibition.  I have a direct interest in the Kiolya.  My great-great
grandfather was a New England whaling captain.  He stayed with the
tribe and tried to stop the walrus hunting that led to its
dissolution."

"Mr.  Gleason tells me that the other Eskimos ran the Kiolya off
because they were thieves and murderers."

"They did what they had to do to survive," Barker said.

"I'd love to continue this discussion," Gleason said, "but you'll have
to excuse me.  I see an assistant who needs my attention.  Please give
me a call sometime, and we can talk at length, Mr.  Austin."

When Gleason was gone, Austin said, "Tell me, Dr.  Barker, what sort of
business is Oceanus involved in that would require the services of a
geneticist?"

The frozen smile disappeared.  "Come on, Austin.  We're alone, so we
don't need to play games, anymore.  You know very well what Oceanus
does.  You broke into our Faroe Islands operation, caused a lot of
damage and killed one of my men.  I won't forget it."

"Gee," Austin said.  "Now you've got me confused.  You've obviously
mistaken me for someone else."

"I don't think so.  The Danish press published your picture everywhere.
You're quite the hero in Denmark, you know, for rescuing their sailors
after that collision."

"A collision which your company engineered," Austin said, dropping all
pretense.

"And which would have worked, except for your meddling."  The soft,
cultivated voice had become a snarl.  "Well, that ends now.  You've
interfered in my business for the last time."

"Your business?  I thought you were a humble employee for Oceanus, Dr.
Barker ... or should I call you Toonook?"

Barker removed his glasses and stared at Austin with pale-gray eyes.
The moving colors played across his ashen features as if projected on a
screen.  "Who I am is not important.  What I am has a direct bearing on
your future.  I am the instrument of your death.  Turn around."

Austin glanced over his shoulder.  Two swarthy men stood behind him,
blocking the way.  They had closed the door to keep the other guests
out.  Austin wondered which would offer him the better chance, pushing
Barker through the display glass or bulling his way between the men at
the door.  He had already decided he didn't like either option and was
groping for a third, when there was a knock at the door and MacDougal
stuck his head in.

"Hey, Kurt," he called out.  "I'm looking for Charlie Gleason.  Sorry
to interrupt you."

"Not at all," Austin said.  MacDougal wasn't the Seventh Cavalry, but
he would do.

The guards looked for direction to Barker.  He replaced his sunglasses,
gave Austin his glacial smile and said, " "Til we meet again," and made
for the door.  The guards stepped aside to let him through, and a
second later, all three men were lost in the crowd.

Austin's reunion with MacDougal didn't last long.  As they merged with
the crowd, Mac spotted a senator who was a friend of the Smithsonian,
and he dashed off to collar him for funding.  Austin mingled with the
other guests until he heard an announcement saying that the dogsled
races were about to begin.  He was heading back to the rotunda when he
caught a glimpse of chestnut hair cascading to bare shoulders.  Therri
must have felt his attention.  She turned and glared in his direction.
Then she smiled.

"Kurt, what a nice surprise," she said.  As they shook hands, she eyed
him from head to toe.  "You look quite handsome in your tuxedo."

Austin hadn't expected the friendly greeting after the acrimony of
their parting exchange on Roosevelt Island.  "Thanks," he said.  "Hope
it doesn't smell too strongly of mothballs."

She adjusted one of his lapels as if she were his prom date.  "You
smell quite nice, as a matter of fact."

"And so do you.  Does this flowery exchange of compliments mean that
we're friends again?"

"I was never angry at you.  Frustrated, perhaps."  She pouted, but her
eyes twinkled.  The girl-next-door wholesomeness couldn't mask an
underlying sensuality.

"Let's call a truce, then, and start over."

"I'd like that."  Therri glanced around at the crowd.  "I'm curious
about what brought you to the reception."

"The same thing that attracted you.  I'm sure it didn't escape your
attention that these displays are the property of Oceanus."

"That's the main reason we're here."  Therri glanced off to the side of
the rotunda, where Ben Nighthawk stood.  He looked uneasy in his black
tuxedo, unsure of what to do with his hands, shifting his weight from
one foot to the other.  She waved him over.

"You remember Ben," Therri said.

"Good to see you again," Austin said, shaking hands.  "Nice tux."

"Thanks," Nighthawk said, without enthusiasm.  "It's rented."  He
glanced around at the other guests.  "I'm a little out of my
element."

"Don't worry," Austin said.  "Most of the people who come to these
receptions are here for the food and the gossip."

"Ben agreed to escort me," Therri said.  "Marcus thought Ben's memory
might be jogged by something he saw."

"Has it been?"

"Not yet," Therri said.  "What about you?  Have you learned
anything?"

"Yes," he said with a tight smile.  "I've learned that you don't listen
to warnings of possible danger."

"That's ancient history," Therri said, like someone trying to be
patient with an annoying child.  Austin took in the challenging gaze
and decided he was wasting his breath trying to change her mind.

"I'm on my way outside to see the dogsled races," he said.  "Would you
like to join me?"

"Thank you," she said, hooking her arm in Nighthawk's.  "We were headed
that way ourselves."

A guide directed them outside.  Traffic on Madison Drive had been
stopped to allow spectators to cross to the National Mall.  It was a
beautiful night.  Lit by floodlights, the red sandstone turrets of the
Smithsonian Castle were clearly visible across the eight-hundred

foot width of greensward.  Toward the Potomac, the plain white spike of
the Washington Monument soared into the night sky.

A large section of open grass had been marked off with yellow police
tape and was brightly illuminated by portable lights.  Inside the
enclosure, orange pylons were arranged in a rectangle.  Hundreds of
reception guests in evening attire, and passersby attracted by the
lights and crowd, ringed the perimeter.  A few National Park Service
uniforms could be seen.  From the other side of the racecourse, where
several trucks were lined up, came a sound like a kennel at feeding
time.  Then the excited yelps and barks were drowned out by a male
voice on the public address system.

"Welcome to the Denizens of the Frozen North exhibition, ladies and
gentlemen," the announcer said.  "You're about to see the most exciting
part of the show, the dogsled competition.  This is more than a race.
The contestants, from two different Inuit communities in Canada, will
demonstrate the skills needed to survive in the Arctic.  The hunter
must speed to the kill and use his harpoon with unerring accuracy.  As
you know, we don't have much snowfall in Washington this time of year."
He paused, to allow for the laughter.  "So the racers will have wheels
on their sleds instead of runners.  Enjoy the show!"

Figures milled around the trucks, then broke into two groups, each
pushing a sled toward an opening in the taped enclosure.  The sleds,
one bright blue, the other fire-engine red, were brought to the
starting point and placed side by side.  The wolflike sled dogs were
taken from the kennel trailers and hooked into their harnesses.

Excited by the prospect of a run, the huskies grew more agitated.  The
barking reached a crescendo as the impatient dogs pulled against their
harnesses.  The nine-dog teams, with eight in pairs and one as leader,
exerted an amazing amount of muscle power when harnessed

together.  Even with the brakes set and handlers holding on, the sleds
inched forward.

Two men, the drivers obviously, detached themselves from the others and
climbed onto their sleds.  A second later, the starting gun went off.
The drivers shouted commands, the dogs dug their paws in, and the sleds
took off like twin rockets.  The dogs immediately went into an all-out
run.  Unsure of the conditions on the grassy course, the drivers slowed
slightly as they came into the first turn.  There was some skidding,
but the sleds came out of the turn side by side and stayed neck and
neck into the second curve, successfully navigating it.

The sleds were moving at full tilt again as they raced toward the spot
where Austin stood behind the yellow tape, next to Therri and Ben.  The
drivers urged the dogs on with loud kissing sounds.  In deference to
the mild evening, the drivers were not dressed in hooded fur parkas,
instead wearing skin pants tucked into their boots.  Sweat glistened on
their bare chests.

The sleds were modified tube steel rigs like those used to train dogs
when there is no snow for the runners to glide upon.  Steel mesh
platforms about six feet long and more than a yard wide nestled between
four rubber airplane tires.  The sleds were steered by a small wheel at
the top of a vertical tube frame.  The drivers stood with feet placed
on narrow side extensions that flanked the main platform, bodies
hunched over the steering posts to cut wind resistance and lower the
center of gravity.  As the sleds flashed by with whirring wheels, the
faces of the drivers were only a blur.

The racers were still abreast as they came into the third turn.  The
red one was on the inside.  Looking for a gain, the driver tried to cut
the turn tightly.  But the sled caught an edge, and the wheels on the
other side lifted off the ground a few inches.  The driver skillfully

compensated with the weight of his body and a touch of the brake, and
the wheels slammed down again.  The blue-sled driver took advantage of
the lost gamble.  He could have gone wide, but he finessed the turn
with admirable skill and gained a quarter of a length in the
straightaway.

The crowd was cheering madly, and it went wild when the blue sled
increased the lead to half a length.  Another few feet and the blue
sled would be able to pull over in front of the red one, blocking the
way and controlling the race.  The blue driver kept glancing over his
shoulder, looking for an opportunity.  He got his chance in the fourth
and last curve.

The leading sled, on the outside, came into the turn at a perfect speed
and angle to put him completely ahead of the other racer.  But the red
sled suddenly veered to the right, and its front wheel caught the
leader's rear-left tire.  The blue sled fishtailed from the impact, and
the driver fought to bring it under control.  The dogs sensed the
whiplash about to take place and tried to compensate by pulling harder,
but the centrifugal forces acting on the light vehicle proved too
potent.

The blue sled went up on two wheels and flipped.  The driver went
airborne, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon.  He hit the
grass hard, rolled several times and lay still.  The dogs kept running
and dragged the sled on its side until they could pull it no farther.
Then they began to fight among themselves.  The handlers ducked under
the yellow tape and rushed in to get the dogs under control, while
others tended to the fallen driver.

The red-sled driver pushed ahead at full speed, although he had the
race won, not slowing until he had passed over the finish line.  The
sled was still moving when he jumped off it and grabbed a harpoon from
a barrel.  Without pausing to aim, he sent the spear winging to

ward an archery target set up near the course.  The spear hit the
bull's-eye at dead center.  Then he pulled a hatchet from his belt and
hurled it at the target as well.  Bull's-eye again.

The victorious driver raised his fists high in the air and let out a
chilling cry of victory, then strutted around the perimeter of the race
course, his wide mouth set in a grin, his face like a malevolent
jack-o'-lantern.  His arrogant posturing put to rest any doubts that
the collision was an accident.  A lone boo issued from the stunned
crowd, then was joined by others, growing into an angry chorus as the
spectators showed their disapproval of the winning tactics.  Disgusted
with the race, guests began to move back to the museum.

The driver gestured at the departing spectators as if daring someone to
step forward.  His gaze swept the crowd looking for anyone brave or
foolish enough to take him on when it fell on Austin.  The dark eyes
narrowed into slits.  Austin tensed.  Standing only a few feet away was
the man who had slashed him and tossed a hand grenade into his boat at
the Mermaid's Gate.  He would have recognized the man from the hate
burning in his feral eyes even without the vertical tattoo lines on the
cheekbones and the mangled knot of flesh where Austin had bashed him in
the nose.

The thick lips in the dark, wide face formed a silent word.  Austin.

Austin was stunned that the man knew his name, but he hid his
surprise.

Using his most mocking tone, he said, "Long time no see, Nanook.  You
owe me for the plastic surgery I did on your pretty face."

The driver stepped closer until they were a foot or so apart, separated
only by the yellow tape.  Austin could smell the man's fetid breath.

"The name is Umealiq," he said.  "I want you to call my name when you
beg me for mercy."

"Don't blame you for being dissatisfied with your nose job," Austin
said evenly.  "You didn't give me a lot to work with.  Pay me for the
boat you blew up and we'll call it even."

"The only payment you will get is death," the man snarled.

His thick fingers dropped down to his belt, and he began to slide the
bone knife from its scabbard.  Although most of the spectators had
left, there were still knots of people hanging around.  Austin sensed
that there was no safety in numbers and the man would not hesitate to
kill him, even in front of dozens of witnesses.  He clenched his right
fist, ready to send it crashing into the broken nose, where it would
inflict the most damage and pain.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sudden movement.  Ben
Nighthawk had hurled himself at the driver.  The Indian was too light
and his tackling form too imperfect to do any damage.  The driver
grunted, and his squat body shuddered slightly from the impact, but he
kept his footing and swatted Nighthawk aside with a mighty blow.

Again the hand groped for the knife, and he took a step forward, only
to freeze at the sound of a commotion.  The blue-sled driver was making
his way across the Mall, accompanied by several angry handlers.  Dirt
and blood stained his face.  Umealiq whirled to face the newcomers.
They exchanged angry words, obviously arguing over the race tactics.
With a quick burning glance back at Austin, the red-sled driver pushed
his way through the others and made his way back to the trucks.

Therri was down on her knees, tending to Nighthawk.  Austin went to her
side and saw that the Indian's only injury was a bruise where he'd been
struck under the eye.  As they helped him to his feet, he spit the
words out: "That was the man who killed my cousin."

"You're sure?"  Therri said.

Nighthawk nodded dumbly.  His dazed eyes fixed on the figure walking
across the Mall, and he stumbled forward.  Austin saw where

he was going and stepped in front of him, barring his path.  "He and
his pals will kill you."

"I don't care."

"Now is not the time," Austin said, in a voice that said he wasn't
yielding.

Nighthawk saw that his determination wasn't enough to get him past
Austin's wide shoulders.  He swore in his native language and stalked
across the Mall toward the museum.

Therri said, "Thanks for stopping Ben.  We should tell the police."

"Not a bad idea.  But it might be a problem."

A group of men was striding onto the Mall from the direction of the
museum.  In the lead was the tall figure of Dr.  Barker.  He hailed
Austin like a long-lost buddy.

"Nice to see you again, Austin.  I'm on my way out and stopped to say
good-bye."

"Thanks, but I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, but you are.  Umealiq is waiting for you and your friend.  You're
about to learn why he is named after the stone-headed lance the Inuit
use on seal hunts."

Barker pointed to where Scarface stood in the middle of the racecourse.
Then, escorted by two bodyguards, he strode off to where a limo
awaited, leaving the rest of his men behind.

Others came running over from where the trucks were parked.  Austin did
a quick count and estimated that there were about twenty men in all.
Not exactly great odds.  Their prospects didn't get any better when a
couple of men ran over to the portable lights that had illuminated the
racecourse and snapped them off.

The Mall had become a big and lonely place.  The nearest police
presence was a traffic cop on Madison Drive stopping cars so the guests
could return to the museum.  The remaining guests were making their way
back to the reception, and the passersby had resumed their strolls.
Austin's sharp eye followed the shadows that were moving across the
grass in a classic encircling maneuver.

He took Therri's arm and tried to guide her toward the museum, but
Barker's men barred their way.  It was a repeat of the scene in
Copenhagen, but this time Austin had no trash-can lid to use as a
shield and a weapon.  He could see several strollers, and even a couple
of National Park Service people, walking through the Mall unmindful of
the unfolding drama, but decided against calling for help.  Anyone he
talked to would be put in immediate danger.

One light had been left on.  Standing in the bull's-eye of
illumination, like an actor in the spotlight, was Umealiq.  His hand
was on his scabbard.  His men were closing in from the sides and
behind.  Austin had no choice.  He took Therri's hand, and they slowly
began to walk toward what was certain death.

DESPITE THE AURA of death in the air, Austin maintained an uncanny
serenity.  He had developed the ability to shift his brain into what
could best be described as a mental overdrive.  While his synapses
continued to crackle, an inner voice slowed his thought processes,
calmly taking in details fed to it by the senses and formulating a plan
of action.

He and Therri faced two possible fates.  At a signal from their leader,
the men pacing on both sides could carve them up with their hatchets.
More likely, Austin judged, Scarface would do the job, as he himself
had promised.  Austin was working on a third option, although it
wouldn't have been apparent to their escorts.  He glanced fearfully
around him, giving the impression of being consumed with panic and
confusion, while mentally he mapped out an escape route and calculated
the odds.

Therri squeezed his hand until his knuckles hurt.  "Kurt, what should
we do?"  she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice.

The question gave Austin a sense of relief.  It told him that, far from
having given up hope, Therri was also looking for a way out of their
predicament.  Her determination suggested that she could call upon
untapped reserves.  She would need them, Austin thought.

"Keep walking.  Just think of it as a stroll in the park."

Therri glanced sideways at their silent escorts.  "Some stroll.  Some
park.  I haven't had so much fun since our Copenhagen date."

The spark of humor was a good sign.  They took a few more steps.

Austin murmured, "When I say 'mush," I want you to follow my lead."

"Did you say 'mush'?"

"That's right.  Stay with me.  Climb up on my heels if you have to.  No
matter where I go, stay close."

Therri nodded, and they continued to walk at a snail's pace.  Austin
and Therri had advanced close enough to Scarface to see the hard eyes
glittering like black diamonds under the low-cut bangs.  The others
seemed in no hurry, probably trying to draw out the terror as long as
possible.  In their black coveralls, the men looked like mourners at a
wake.  Austin saw them only as dangerous obstacles to be removed or
eluded.  The real focus of his attention lay off to the left.  The red
dogsled had been left unattended.  The dogs sat or lay curled up on the
grass, eyes half-closed, mouths open in a canine grin.

Austin took a deep breath.  Timing would be everything.

Another step closer to the end of their lives.

Scarface anticipated their arrival.  His hand dropped to the hilt of
the bone knife in its scabbard, the cruel mouth widened in a smile,
like someone licking his chops over a tender steak.  He said something
in an unintelligible language.  It was only a few words, probably a

gloating remark, but it caught the attention of his men, who all looked
in their leader's direction.

Austin gripped Therri's hand.  "Ready?"  he whispered.

She squeezed back.

"Mush!"

Austin sidestepped to his left, yanked Therri practically off her feet,
and lunged toward a gap in the line of pickets.  The guards saw them
break out and tried to head them off, like defensive linebackers
converging to stop a runner with the ball.  They raced toward the
closing gap.  At the last moment, Austin changed direction.  He shook
off Therri's hand, and putting all the weight of his body behind his
shoulder, smashed into the midsection of the guard to his left.  The
man let out a sound like a malfunctioning steam engine and doubled
over.

The other guard charged in, hatchet in hand.  Using the bounce from his
first encounter, Austin came out of his crouch and slammed into the man
with his other shoulder.  The impact lifted the other man off his feet.
The hatchet went flying onto the grass.

Therri was right behind him.  A few more steps and they were at the
sled.  The dogs noticed their approach and perked their ears up. Austin
grabbed the sled's upright framework and held it tight.  He didn't want
the dog team to bolt off.  Without being instructed, Therri rolled onto
the steel-mesh platform, then sat up, legs extended forward, hands
gripping the uprights in front of her.  Austin kicked off the brake.

"Hike!"  he snapped in a clear, commanding voice.

The sled's regular driver probably used an Inuit command, but the team
knew from his tone what Austin wanted.  Mushers don't use the word
"mush" to get dogs moving.  The word is too soft.  Austin was a man of
the sea, but he wasn't above developing land-based skills. Dogsledding,
unfortunately, wasn't among them.  He had tried

dogsled driving a few times as a diversion on ski trips, and after
being thrown into snowdrifts a couple of times, he discovered that it
looked easier than it was.  The driver had to balance on runners that
seemed as thin as knife blades, while trying to control a pack of
animals only a few generations removed from their wolf brethren.  Sled
dogs were deceptively small, but welded together in a team, they
produced an incredible explosion of power with their short legs.

He knew, too, that a dogsled driver had to come across as the leader of
the pack if the strong-willed dogs were to respond to his commands. The
team was on its feet even before he shouted the command.  The gang line
connecting the dogs to the sled went taut, and the wheel almost jerked
out of his hands.  Austin ran several steps, helping the sled along,
then he jumped on board and let the dogs do all the work.  They bayed
loudly, happy doing what they did best, which was to run their hearts
out.

From the instant he had gotten his hand on the sled, the whole
operation had taken only a few seconds.  Scarface's men tried to cut
the sled off.  The dogs were too fast.  They barked gleefully as they
outdistanced their pursuers.  Once they were in the clear, Austin
experimented with the steering.  He tried "gee" and "haw" commands to
make the dogs go right and left, and he was glad to see that the team
was multilingual.  Steering required a tender touch on the wheel,
especially on the curves.  Turn too sharply and the sled acted like the
business end of a bullwhip, although the weight of two people kept all
four wheels on the ground.

The combined load also kept their speed down.  Austin hadn't considered
this a problem, figuring that they could still outdistance a running
man, especially the burly Scarface and his short-legged cohorts.  His
confidence drained away when he looked back.  Umealiq was on the other
sled in hot pursuit.  Austin steered off the grass onto a paved
walkway.  The sled picked up speed on the smooth asphalt.

But he had to share the walkway, and this was presenting a problem, as
he wove around obstacles like a slalom racer.  He narrowly missed a
young couple, then brushed by a man walking a toy poodle that yapped at
Austin.  He drove a woman on Rollerblades up on the turf, and she swore
creatively at him.  Angry shouts and curses followed the sled as he
pushed the dogs to even greater speed.

He tried to figure out how long the team would last, running at full
tilt, and decided he didn't have much time.  Sled dogs are accustomed
to running in the cold and snow, and with their thick fur coats they
would quickly become overheated in the warm evening temperatures.  He
glanced around to get his bearings.  They were moving across the Mall,
away from the museum, toward the Castle and the Smithsonian quad.  He
looked behind him.  Umealiq had gained ground, and it would be only a
matter of time before he caught up.  "Easy," he commanded the dogs, and
he put pressure on the brake to reinforce his command.  They slowed.
"What are you doing?"  Therri said.  "Get off!"  "What?"

"Get off and make a run for the lights and people around the
Smithsonian.  I can't outrun him with you on board.  It's me he really
wants."

Therri reluctantly overcame her natural inclination to argue.
Comprehending the danger, she rolled off the sled, then got to her feet
and started running.  Austin shouted at the dogs to get moving.  The
team took off again in a neck-snapping start.  He made a right-angle
turn onto another path.  The sled felt lighter and more responsive, and
he was moving faster than before.  He was glad to see Scarface still
chasing him.  Therri was safe, but pausing to let her off had given
Umealiq the chance to gain ground.

Austin's eyes were blurred with the sweat running down his fore

head.  He wiped away the moisture with the sleeve of his tux and
glanced over his shoulder.  Scarface had cut the distance in half.
Austin dodged another pedestrian and looked ahead.  He could see the
white spike of the Washington Monument in the distance.  There might be
armed security guards around the monument, but he would never make it
that far.  The dogs were becoming weary.  He could feel them slow their
pace slightly, and the sled was acting like a car running out of gas.
He urged the team on with the kissing sound he had heard the drivers
use during the race.

Cars were moving along the street ahead of him.  With luck and timing,
he could put the traffic between him and his pursuers.  The sled
emerged from the Mall onto the sidewalk.  Austin saw an opening between
two moving vehicles and steered for it, hoping to whisk through to the
other side of the street.  The dogs hesitated, but he urged them on.
The paws of the lead dog had left the curb when one of the ubiquitous
limos that prowled the streets of Washington came out of nowhere and
cut him off.

Austin cut the steering wheel hard.  The lead dog was way ahead of him
and had already changed directions, dashing off to the right with the
team and the sled behind him.  The sled heeled over at an angle like a
boat sailing close to the wind.  Austin compensated with his body, and
the sled slammed back down on all four wheels and straightened out. The
dogs were pulling the sled along the sidewalk.  Scarface had cut the
angle and was pacing Austin along the sidewalk a few yards away.

The two sleds raced along the sidewalk like the chariot racers in
Ben-Hur.  The dogs swerved around pedestrians.  Austin had just about
relinquished control, conceding that the dogs could steer the sled far
better than he could, and simply concentrated on hanging on.  Even at
top form, his skills would have been no match for the other driver. The
sleds were running side by side, almost close enough to

touch.  Then Scarface upped the ante and aimed a pistol at Austin from
a few feet away.

Austin had the feeling that someone had just painted a bull's-eye on
his forehead.  But getting a clean shot wouldn't be easy.  Scarface
held the wheel with his left hand and the pistol in his right.  Without
the stability of two hands holding on to the wheel, the sled wavered
from side to side, and Scarface was finding it impossible to keep the
pistol barrel leveled.  He tried a shot anyhow.

The bullet missed Austin and went high.  Austin took little comfort
from the wild shot.  Scarface would keep trying until he emptied his
gun.  Even if the flying lead missed Austin, someone else could be hurt
or killed.  Acting more on instinct than intellect, Austin quickly
touched his brakes.  The Eskimo's sled pulled slightly ahead of him.
Borrowing a page from Umealiq's book of dirty race tactics, Austin
angled his sled to the right.  His front wheel slammed into the rear
wheel of the other sled, and Scarface fought to maintain control.

The maneuver was risky, but it had the desired effect.  With only one
sweat-soaked hand gripping the steering wheel, Scarface was unable to
stop the rim from spinning.  The sled's front wheels jack-knifed.  The
sled itself fishtailed, then flipped, and Scarface tumbled off, the
pistol flying out of his hand and clattering onto the sidewalk.  He
rolled several times before coming to a stop.  His dog team kept on
running, dragging the sled on its side, before they figured out it was
a waste of time.

Austin was in no position to celebrate.  His team was pulling the sled
toward Constitution Avenue.  He yelled a command to stop and jammed his
foot down on the brakes, but it was no use.  The dogs had been spooked
by the gunshot and unnerved by Austin's erratic driving, and he
realized he was simply along for the ride.  They plunged into the busy
boulevard without looking.

The sled flew off the curb, became airborne and slammed down on all
four wheels.  Austin's teeth rattled in his skull.  There was a banshee
screech as an SUV as big as a house slammed on its brakes, its massive
chrome grille only inches away.  Austin caught a glimpse of the
horrified face behind the wheel, the driver's eyes popping out of his
head as he watched a man in a tux drive a sled team across Washington's
busiest boulevard.

The best Austin could do was to hang on and try to keep the sled
upright.  His ears were filled with the squeal of brakes, and then he
heard a thud as someone rear-ended another car.  There were several
more thuds as the chain reaction continued.  The air reeked of the
smell of burnt rubber.  Then he was safely across the avenue, and the
dogs were scrambling onto the opposite sidewalk.  The sled was moving
slow enough for him to jump off before it hit the curb.  The dogs were
exhausted from running in the unaccustomed heat and had no desire to
keep moving.  They simply plopped down where they were, their sides
heaving and their tongues dripping like faucets.

Austin looked back across the trail of chaos he had left on
Constitution Avenue.  Traffic on his side had come to a stop, and angry
people were getting out of their cars to trade registration and license
numbers.  Scarface stood on the opposite curb, blood streaming down his
face.  He pulled his knife from his belt.  Holding it close to his
chest, he stepped off the curb, only to pause at the sound of sirens.
Then one of the kennel trucks Austin had seen near the racecourse
screeched to a stop, hiding the Eskimo from view for a few seconds.
When it took off a second later, the man had vanished.

Austin went over to the panting dogs and patted each one on the head.

"We'll have to do this again, but not too soon," he said.

He brushed the knees and elbows of his tuxedo, but he knew he

must look as if he were coming off a weekend binge.  Shrugging in
resignation, he walked back to the museum.  Therri was standing on the
Constitution Avenue side of the four-story granite edifice.  The
expression of anxiety on her face disappeared when she saw Austin
trudging toward her, and she ran over to throw her arms around him.

"Thank goodness you're all right," she said, hugging him in a tight
embrace.  "What happened to that awful man?"

"He got thrown for a loop by the Washington traffic and called it a
night.  Sorry I had to kick you off back there."

"That's all right.  I've been dumped by guys before, although this is
the first time it's been off a moving dogsled."

Therri said that after she had been unceremoniously kicked off the
sled, she had found a police cruiser parked near the Castle.  She'd
told the police that her friend was in danger of being murdered on the
Mall, and though the police had looked at her as if she were crazy,
they did go to investigate.  She had come back to the museum to look
for Ben, but there'd been no sign of him.  She was trying to decide
what to do next when she heard the sirens, walked onto the boulevard
and saw Austin plodding down the avenue.  They shared a cab back to
their cars and parted with a lingering kiss and the promise to get in
touch the next day.

A turquoise NUMA vehicle was in Austin's driveway when he got home, and
the front door was unlocked.  He walked into the house and heard the
Dave Brubeck Quartet playing "Take Five" on the stereo.  Sitting in
Austin's favorite black leather chair with a drink in his hand was Rudi
Gunn, second in command at NUMA.  Gunn was a wiry little man, slim with
narrow shoulders and matching hips.  He was a master of logistics, a
graduate of Annapolis and a former commander in the navy.

"Hope you don't mind my breaking into your house," Gunn said.

"Not at all.  That's why I gave you the lock code."

Gunn pointed to the glass.  "You're getting a little low on your
Highland malt scotch whiskey," he said, his lips turning up in his
typical mischievous grin.

"I'll talk to the butler about it."  Austin recognized the book that
Gunn was holding.  "Didn't know you liked Nietzsche."

"I found it on the coffee table.  Pretty heavy stuff."

"It might be heavier than you think," Austin said, going over to the
bar to mix himself a Dark and Stormy.

Gunn put the book aside and picked up a bound folder from a side table.
"Thanks for getting your report to me.  I found it far more interesting
than Mr.  Nietzsche's writings."

"Thought you might," Austin said, settling into a sofa with his
drink.

Gunn pushed his thick horn-rimmed glasses up onto his thinning hair and
leafed through the folder.  "At times like this, I realize what a
boring life I lead," he said.  "You've really missed your calling.  You
should be writing scripts for video games."

Austin took a big gulp of his drink, savoring the deep flavor of the
dark rum and the tingle of the Jamaican ginger beer.  "Naw.  This stuff
is too far-fetched."

"I beg to differ, old pal.  What's far-fetched about a mysterious
corporation that sinks ships by remote control?  A long-lost cave with
fantastic wall art in the Faroe Islands.  A creature out of Jaws that
knocks you on your ass."  He started to chuckle uncontrollably.  "Now
that's something I would have liked to witness."

"There's no such thing as respect anymore," Austin lamented.

Gunn got his composure back, and he turned a few more pages.  "The list
goes on and on.  Murderous Eskimo thugs who hunt humans instead of
seals.  Oh yes, a female attorney with a radical environmental group." 
He looked up from his reading.  "She has long slim legs, I suppose."

Austin thought about Therri's figure.  "About average in length, I'd
say, but quite shapely."

"Can't have everything, I suppose."  Gunn put the folder on his lap and
gave Austin the once-over, taking in his scuffed shoes, crooked bow tie
and the hole in the knee of the tuxedo.  "Did the bouncer throw you out
of the museum reception?  You look a little, ah, rumpled."

"The reception was fine.  But I learned that Washington is going to the
dogs."

"Nothing new there.  Hope that tux wasn't rented," Gunn said.  "Worse,"
Austin replied.  "I own it.  Maybe NUMA will buy me a new one."

"I'll take it up with Admiral Sandecker," Gunn said.  Austin refreshed
their drinks, then laid out the story of the meeting with Marcus Ryan
and the evening's events.

After absorbing the account without comment, Gunn tapped the report on
his lap.  "Any thoughts on how your dogsled adventure fits in with this
wild tale?"

"Lots of thoughts, but nothing coherent.  I'll sum up what I know in a
single sentence.  The people who run Oceanus deal ruthlessly with
anyone who gets in their way."

"That would be my conclusion, too, based on what you've said."  Gunn
paused for a moment, brow furrowed.  He had the capacity to think as
coldly and clearly as a computer.  He processed the mountain of
information, separating the wheat from the chaff.  After a few moments,
he said, "What about this Basque character, Aguirrez?"

"Interesting fellow.  He's the wild card in this poker game.  I talked
to a friend at the CIA.  Aguirrez may or may not be allied with

Basque separatists.  Perlmutter is looking into the family background
for me.  All I know for now is that he's either a Basque terrorist or
an amateur archaeologist.  Take your pick."

"Maybe he could bird-dog this thing for us.  Too bad you can't get in
touch with him."

Austin set his drink down, pulled his wallet from his pocket and
extracted the card Aguirrez had given him as he was leaving the
Basque's yacht.  He handed the card to Gunn, who noted the phone number
on the back.  "Why not?"  he said, and handed the card back.

Austin picked up a phone and punched out the number.  He was tired from
the night's exertions, and his expectations were low.  So he was
startled when he heard the familiar basso voice on the line.

"What a pleasant surprise, Mr.  Austin.  I had the feeling we'd be
talking again."

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"Not at all."

"Are you still in the Faroes?"

"I am in Washington on business."

"Washington?"

"Yes, the fishing in the Faroes didn't live up to its reputation.  What
can I do for you, Mr.  Austin?"

"I called to thank you for pulling me out of some difficulties in
Copenhagen."

Aguirrez made no attempt to deny that his men had chased away the
club-yielding thugs who'd attacked Austin and Therri Weld.  He simply
laughed and said, "You have a way of getting yourself in difficult
situations, my friend."

"Most of my troubles have to do with a company called Oceanus.  I was
hoping we might chat about that subject again.  Maybe you could bring
me up to date on your archaeological investigation as well."

"I'd like that very much," Aguirrez said.  "I have meetings in the
morning, but tomorrow afternoon would be convenient."

They agreed on a time, and Austin jotted down the directions Aguirrez
gave him for an address in Washington.  He hung up and started to fill
Gunn in on the short conversation, when the phone rang.  It was Zavala,
who had returned from Europe.  Joe had fixed the problems with the Sea
Lamprey, then had jumped ship when the Beebe had been invited by the
Danish vessel Thor to join in a Faroe Islands research project.

"Just wanted to let you know I'm home.  I've hugged my Corvette, and
I'm about to head out for a nightcap with a beautiful young lady,"
Zavala said.  "Anything new since I last saw you?"

"The usual stuff.  Tonight, a crazy Eskimo on a dogsled chased me
through the Mall with murder in his heart.  Other than that, things are
quiet."

There was silence at the other end of the line.  Then Zavala said,
"You're not kidding, are you?"

"Nope.  Rudi's here.  Drop by my place and you'll get the whole sordid
story."

Zavala lived in a small building in Arlington, Virginia that had once
housed a district library.  "Guess I'm cancelling that date.  Be by in
a few minutes," he said.

"One more thing.  Still got that bottle of tequila we were going to
break into back in the Faroes?"

"Sure, it's in my duffel bag."

"I think you better bring it with you."

THE NEXT MORNING, Austin stopped at the Museum of Natural History on
the way to NUMA headquarters.  Gleason was in the exhibition hall when
Austin arrived, and he didn't look happy.  The guests, music and food
of the reception had disappeared, but that wasn't the main cause of his
concern.  The display cases were empty.  Not even a placard remained.

Gleason was beside himself.  "This is terrible, absolutely terrible,"
he was saying.

"Looks like you had a fire sale," Austin said.

"Worse.  This is a total disaster.  The sponsors have pulled the
exhibition."

"Can they do that?"  Austin realized it was a dumb question, even as
the words left his mouth.

Gleason waved his arms.  "Yes, according to the small print in the
contract they insisted we sign.  They are allowed to break up the
exhibition any time they want to and give us a small monetary
compensation instead."

"Why did they close the show?"

"Damned if I know.  The PR firm that set the whole thing up said
they're just following orders."  "What about Dr.  Barker?"

"I tried to get in touch with him, but he's vanished into thin air."
"You've been closer to Oceanus than most people," Austin said, getting
to his real reason for stopping by the museum.  "What do you know about
Dr.  Barker?"

"Not much, I'm afraid.  I know more about his ancestor."  "The whaling
captain he mentioned?"

"Yes, Frederick Barker, Sr.  One of the Kiolya knives you saw on
display originally belonged to him.  It was more than a hundred years
old.  Dreadful thing, and razor-sharp.  Gave me a stomachache just
looking at it."

"Where would I look for information on Captain Barker?"  "You can start
in my office."  Gleason cast a woeful glance at the empty display
cases.  "C'mon.  Not much for me to do here."

The office was in the administrative wing.  Gleason gestured for Austin
to take a seat, then plucked an old volume from the shelf.  The title
was Whaling Captains of New Bedford.  He opened the book to a page and
plopped it in front of Austin.

"I dug this out of our library when the exhibition first came through.
That's Captain Barker.  The New England whaling skippers were a tough
lot.  Many became captains in their twenties.  Mutinies, destructive
storms, hostile natives all in a day's work to them.  The adversity
made some men ogres, others humanitarians."

Austin examined the grainy black-and-white photograph in the book.
Barker was dressed in native garb, and it was hard to make out his
features.  A fur parka framed his face, and bone goggles with
horizontal slits in them covered his eyes.  White stubble adorned his
chin.

"Interesting eye wear Austin said.

"Those are sunglasses.  The Inuit were very aware of the dangers from
snow blindness.  They would have been particularly important to Barker,
whose eyes were probably sensitive to light.  There was albinism in
Barker's family.  They say that's why he spent so many winters in the
frozen north, to avoid the direct sunlight."

Gleason explained that in 1871, Barker's ship, the Orient, was wrecked,
and the captain was the only survivor.  "The natives saved Barker's
life, and he spent the winter in an Eskimo settlement.  He recounts how
the chiefs wife pulled off his boots and thawed his frozen feet out
with the warmth of her naked bosom."

"I can think of worse ways to thaw out.  Where does the Kiolya tribe
come in?"

"They were the ones who saved him."

"That seems out of character with what you told me of their
bloodthirsty ways.  I would have expected them to kill a stranger."

"That would have been the normal case, but don't forget that Barker
stood out from the ordinary whale hunter.  With his pure white hair,
pale skin and eyes, he must have looked like some sort of snow god."

"Toonook, perhaps."

"Anything is possible.  Barker didn't go into detail about some things.
Quaker society in New Bedford would not have approved of one of their
number posing as a god.  The experience transformed him, though."

"In what way?"

"He became a staunch conservationist.  When he got home, he urged his
fellow whale men to stop slaughtering the walrus.  The Kiolya muscled in on the walrus hunting grounds like a street gang taking
over new drug turf.  They even took women and tools from those they
conquered.  The other Inuit tribes practically starved as a result,
until they banded together and drove the Kiolya away.  Barker saw this
conflict over walrus meat and wanted to end it.  He was grateful to the
Kiolya and thought if the walrus were saved, they might change their
marauding ways."

"Was he right?"

"Barker was naive, in my view.  I don't think anything would have
changed their behavior, short of brute force."

Austin pondered over the answer.  As a student of philosophy, he was a
great believer in the theory that past is present.  The Kiolya might be
the key to unraveling the tangled skein that surrounded Oceanus.

"Where could I go to learn more about the tribe?"

"Canadian police blotter, for the most part, I'd venture.  There isn't
much information between their diaspora and the present, but I did find
a crazy story that verifies what I said earlier about the god thing."
He rummaged around in a filing cabinet and produced a 1935 clip from
The New Yor\ Times, encased in a plastic envelope.  It was datelined
Hudson Bay.  Austin took a minute to read the story:

The Arctic north added another mystery to its history of exploration
when a half-crazed German crawled out of the frozen tundra claiming
that he was the sole survivor of an airship disaster.

Canadian authorities said the German, who identified himself as
Gerhardt Heinz, was brought in by a group of unknown Eskimos who had
apparently rescued him.  The Times found Mr.  Heinz in a hospital ward,
where he died a short time later.  In the interview, Mr.  Heinz said,

"I was on a secret trip to the North Pole for the greater glory of the
Fatherland.  We landed at the pole, but on the way back, we sighted the
wreck of a boat frozen in the ice.  The captain insisted on landing on
the ice to investigate.  It was a boat of great antiquity, probably
hundreds of years old.  We removed a frozen body, which we placed in
the airship cooler, along with some unusual items.

"After rising from the ice and traveling a distance, we experienced
mechanical problems, and had to land.  The survivors decided to try to
cross the ice, but I stayed to guard the zeppelin.  I was near death
when the local natives found me, and I was nursed back to health."

Mr.  Heinz said that the natives spoke no English, but he learned that
their name was "Kiolya."  He said that they thought he was a god,
having come from the skies, and when he requested through sign language
that they bring him to the nearest settlement, they complied.

German authorities contacted by the Times said that they had no
knowledge of Mr.  Heinz nor of any dirigible voyage to the North
Pole.

Austin asked Gleason to run off a copy of the article and thanked him
for his time and information.  "Sorry about your exhibition," he said
on the way out.

"Thank you."  Gleason shook his head.  "It simply astounds me why they
pulled up stakes so abruptly.  By the way, have you heard about Senator
Graham?  That's another disaster.  One of our strongest supporters."

Austin said, "I think I saw Graham last night at the reception."

"You did.  While he was driving home to Virginia, his car was forced
off the road by a truck.  He's in critical condition.  Hit-and run.

"Sorry to hear about that, too."

"Damn," Gleason said.  "Hope it's not true about bad things running in
threes."

"There may be a simpler explanation for your run of bad luck," Austin
said.

"Oh, what's that?"

Austin pointed to the sky, and in all seriousness, said: "Toonook."

ST.  JULIEN PerlmuTTER stepped into his spacious Georgetown carriage
house and cast an appreciative glance around at the hundreds of
volumes, old and new, that spilled off the sagging wall shelves and
flowed like a vast river of words, breaking off into tributaries that
ran into every room.

An ordinary human being confronted with this seeming confusion would
have fled the premises.  A beatific smile came to his lips, as his eye
lingered on one stack, then moved on to another.  He could rattle off
titles, even quote whole pages, from what was generally acknowledged to
be the world's most complete collection of literature regarding
historic ships.

He was starving after dealing with the rigors of a trans-Atlantic
flight.  Finding space aboard a plane to accommodate his substantial
bulk was not a problem; he simply reserved two seats.  But even the
culinary offerings of first class were, to Perlmutter's way of
thinking,

the equivalent of a church ham-and-bean supper.  He headed for the
kitchen like a heat-seeking missile and was glad to see that the
housekeeper had followed his shopping instructions.

Even though it was early in the day, before long he was dining on a
Provencale-style stuffed lamb with potatoes perfumed with thyme and
washed down with a simple but well-balanced Bordeaux.  Thus fortified,
he was dabbing at his mouth and magnificent gray beard with a napkin
when the phone rang.

"Kurt!"  he said, recognizing the voice on the line.  "How in blazes
did you know I was back?"

"There was a report on CNN that Italy had run out of pasta.  I assumed
you would be coming home for a square meal."

"No," Perlmutter boomed.  "Actually, I returned because I missed being
taunted on the phone by impertinent young whippersnappers who should
know better."

"You sound in fine fettle, St.  Julien.  It must have been a good
trip."

"It was, and I do feel as if I've eaten all the pasta in Italy.  But
it's good to be back on my own turf."

"I wondered what you had turned up on my historical query."

"I was going to call you later today.  Fascinating material.  Can you
drop by?  I'll brew up some coffee, and we can talk about my
findings."

"Five minutes.  I just happen to be driving through Georgetown."

When Austin arrived, Perlmutter served two giant cups of cafe latte. He
pushed aside a pile of books to reveal a chair for Austin, and another
stack to make room for his own wide haunches on an oversized sofa.

Perlmutter sipped his coffee.  "Well, now, getting down to business ...
After you called me in Florence, I discussed your query about the
Roland relics with my host, a Signor Nocci.  He remembered a historical
reference he had seen in a letter to the Medici Pope penned by a man
named Martinez, who was a fanatical supporter of the Spanish
Inquisition, particularly where it applied to the Basques.  Mr.  Nocci
put me in touch with an assistant curator at the Laurentian Library.
She dug out a manuscript written by Martinez in which he directs
particular venom at Diego Aguirrez."

"The ancestor of Balthazar, the man I met.  Good work."  Perlmutter
smiled.  "That's only the start.  Martinez says flatly that Aguirrez
had the sword and the horn of Roland and that he would pursue him, and
I quote, 'to the ends of the earth," to retrieve these objects."

Austin let out a low whistle.  "That establishes that the Roland relics
were real and puts them directly in the hands of the Aguirrez
family."

"It would seem to verify the rumors that Diego was in possession of the
sword and horn."

Perlmutter passed over a folder.  "This is a copy of a manuscript from
the Venice State Archives.  It was found at the naval museum in a file
having to do with war galleys."

Austin read the title on the first page.  "An Exoneration of a Man of
the Sea."  The publication date on the frontispiece was 1520.  The
preamble described the work as, An account by Richard Blac\thorne, an
unwilling mercenary in the service of the Spanish Inquisition, a humble
sailor who has always stood in defence of His Majesty's name, in which
he proves infamies that have been brought against him to be untrue and
warns any and all never to trust the murdering Spaniards.

He glanced up at Perlmutter.  "Blackthorne is surely a master of the
never-ending sentence, but what does he have to do with Roland and the
long-dead Aguirrez?"

"Everything, m'lad.  Everything."  He looked into the bottom of

his coffee cup.  "While you're up, old boy, would you fetch me a
refill?  I'm feeling peaked after the rigors of travel.  Get one for
yourself."

Austin had no intention of getting up, but he rose from his chair and
went for the refills.  He knew that Perlmutter functioned best when he
was eating or drinking.

Perlmutter sipped his coffee and ran his hand over the manuscript as if
he were reading it with his fingers.  "You can study this at your
leisure, but I'll give you a quick summary now.  Apparently,
Black-thorne fell afoul of rumors that he had willingly served the
hated Spaniard, and he wanted to set the record straight."  "That came
across loud and clear in the preamble."  "Blackthorne was worried about
the stain on his name.  He was born of a respectable merchant family in
Sussex.  He went to sea as a youth and worked his way up from cabin boy
to master of a merchant vessel plying the Mediterranean.  He was
captured by Barbary pirates and forced to become a rower on an Algerian
galley.  The galley was shipwrecked, and he was rescued by the Genoese,
who turned him over to the Spanish."

"Remind me never to be rescued by the Genoese."  "Blackthorne was a hot
potato.  According to the Inquisition system, any Englishman was a
heretic, and subject to torture, arrest and execution.  English and
Dutch sailors shunned Spanish ports for fear they would be arrested. If
you were caught with a copy of the King James Bible or possessed some
ancient classic deemed heretical, you were, to put it literally,
toast."

Austin glanced down at the folder.  "Either Blackthorne survived or his
memoirs were ghostwritten."

"He had nine lives, our Captain Blackthorne.  He actually escaped once
from the Spanish but was recaptured.  He was eventually dragged from
his dark cell in irons to stand trial.  The prosecutor

called him an enemy of the faith and 'other opprobrious names," as he
put it.  He was condemned to death and was headed for the stake, when
fate intervened in the unlikely form of El Brasero."

"Isn't that the name of a Mexican restaurant in Falls Church?"

"You're asking the wrong man.  I've always considered "Mexican' and
'restaurant' uttered in the same sentence as no less an oxymoron than
'military intelligence."  El Brasero means 'brazier' in Spanish.  It
was the nickname given the aforementioned Martinez for his zeal in
putting the torch to heretics."

"Not the type you would invite to a barbecue."

"No, but he proved to be Blackthorne's savior.  The Englishman
impressed Martinez with his resourcefulness, and his ability to speak
Spanish, but more important, Blackthorne was familiar with war galleys
and sailing ships."

"That shows the lengths to which Martinez would go to catch Aguirrez,
even sparing a victim."

"Oh, yes.  We know from his writings that he thought Aguirrez was
especially dangerous because he had been charged with the stewardship
of the Roland relics and might use them to rally his countrymen against
the Spaniards.  When Aguirrez escaped arrest in his ship, Martinez went
after him.  Blackthorne was commanding Brasero's lead galley when they
caught up with Aguirrez on his caravel off the coast of France in 1515.
Although he was becalmed, outnumbered and outgunned, Aguirrez managed
to sink two galleys and put Martinez to flight."

"The more I learn about Diego, the more I like him."  Perlmutter
nodded.  "His strategy was brilliant.  I intend to include this fight
in a collection I'm preparing of classic sea battles.  Unfortunately,
Brasero had the services of an informer who knew that Aguirrez always
stopped in the Faroe Islands to rest before crossing the ocean to North
America."

Austin leaned forward in his chair and murmured, "Skaalshavn."

"You know it?"

"I was in Skaalshavn a few days ago."

"Can't say I'm familiar with the place."

"Can't blame you, it's quite remote.  A picturesque little fishing
village with a natural harbor of refuge.  There are some interesting
caves nearby."

"Caves?"  The blue eyes danced with excitement.

"Quite an extensive network.  I've seen them.  From the drawings on the
walls, I'd say they've been occupied off and on going back to ancient
times.  The Basques, or others, may have been using them for hundreds,
maybe thousands, of years."

"Blackthorne mentions the caves in his narrative.  In fact, they were
instrumental in his story."

"In what way?"

"Aguirrez could easily have outdistanced his pursuers and fled to North
America, where Brasero would never find him.  The Basques were the only
mariners intrepid enough to sail the Atlantic in those days.  But Diego
knew that Brasero would go after his family.  And he knew that even if
he stashed the relics in North America, when he returned to Europe,
Brasero would be waiting."

"Maybe he decided to take a stand for the most primal of reasons,"
Austin said.  "He wanted his revenge on the man who had ruined his life
and stolen his fortune."

"No disagreement there.  Brasero was just as determined to finish the
job he'd started.  He had switched from his galley to a warship twice
the size of Diego's caravel.  He had put Blackthorne in command.  The
ship bristled with guns that would have made short work of the Basques.
But Diego knew from their previous encounter of the informant on board
Brasero's ship and prudently moved the caravel away from the caves.
Diego stationed a handful of his men on shore,

where they could be seen by Brasero, and when Martinez launched his
boats, the men ran into the caves, drawing their pursuers after
them."

"I smell a trap."

"You've got a better nose than Martinez, although in fairness, he was
probably distracted by thoughts of all the fun he was going to have
burning Diego and his crew."

"Shades of Custer's Last Stand.  That cave system is a labyrinth.
Perfect to stage an ambush."

"Then I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that's what happened.  It
was a two-pronged strategy.  The caravel swept down on the warship and
cowed its skeleton crew with a few cannon shots.  Then they boarded the
ship and took it over.  Meanwhile, Diego launched his ambush.  He had
dragged one of his ship's cannon into the caves and used it to take the
wind out of the attack."  Perlmutter raised a pudgy fist as if he were
reliving the battle.  "Brasero was a skilled swordsman, but Aguirrez
was better.  Instead of killing him, he toyed with Martinez before he
doused Brasero's flame forever."

"Where was Mr.  Blackthorne in all this?"

"One of Brasero's men went to take a shot at Diego.  Blackthorne killed
the man.  Diego had his men bring Blackthorne to him.  The Englishman
laid out his story.  Diego needed a skilled captain to command the
warship, so he made a deal.  Blackthorne would take charge of the ship
and get Diego's men home safely.  Several weeks later, by Blackthorne's
account, he sailed up the Thames with his prize."

"What happened to the Roland relics?"

"Blackthorne never mentions them.  But by his account, Diego called for
a small volunteer crew to stay with him and sent the others home with
Blackthorne.  Diego no longer needed gunners and cannon crew, only
skilled sailors.  Even with Brasero dead, he knew

the relics would not be safe as long as the Inquisition was alive.  So
he continued west, never to be heard from again.  Another unsolved
mystery of the sea."

"Maybe not," Austin said.  He handed Perlmutter the news clip about the
zeppelin crash.

Perlmutter read the story and looked up.  "These unusual 'items' Heinz
mentions could be the long-lost relics."

"My thoughts exactly.  Which means they're in the hands of Oceanus."

"Would Oceanus give them up?"

Austin thought of his run-ins with the Oceanus thugs.  "Not likely," he
said, with a rueful chuckle.

Perlmutter gazed at Austin over tented fingers.  "It seems there is
more to this whole saga than meets the eye."

"A hell of a lot more, and I'll be glad to tell you all the gory
details over another cup of coffee."  Austin lifted his cup.  "As long
as you're up, old boy, could you fetch me a refill?  Get one for
yourself."

AUSTIN ARRIVED THREE minutes before his appointed meeting time with
Aguirrez.  After leaving Perlmutter's house, Austin drove down Embassy
Row.  The gods that look over Washington drivers were smiling, and he
found a parking space with no trouble.  He walked along Pennsylvania
Avenue until he stood in front of a square building that consisted of
several dark-glass stories grafted onto some old Washington houses.
Austin read the sign next to the front door and wondered if he had the
wrong address.  Given the troubles the Aguirrez family had had with the
Spanish authorities through the centuries, the last place he would have
expected to find Balthazar was at the embassy of Spain.

Austin gave his name to a security guard at the door and was passed on
to the receptionist, who punched out a number on her intercom phone and
spoke in Spanish to someone on the line.  Then she

smiled and, in a lovely accent that evoked visions of Castile, said,
"Mr.  Aguirrez is with the ambassador.  He'll be with you in a
moment."

A few minutes later, Aguirrez came strolling out of a hallway. Aguirrez
had shed his blue sweat suit and black beret and was impeccably dressed
in a dark-gray suit that would have cost Austin a week's pay.  But even
the best of tailors couldn't hide the peasant hands and sturdy
physique.  He was talking to a snowy-haired man who walked beside him,
hands behind his back, head lowered in thought as he listened intently
to what the Basque was saying.  Aguirrez saw Austin and waved at him. 
The two men broke off their conversation, parting with warm handshakes
and smiles.  Aguirrez strode over to where Austin stood and wrapped an
arm around his shoulder.

"Mr.  Austin," he said cheerfully.  "How nice to see you again.  I'm
sorry I didn't introduce you to the ambassador, but he was late for a
meeting.  Come this way."

Aguirrez led Austin down a hallway to a door into what had been a
drawing room in one of the old houses that were part of the embassy
complex.  The centerpiece was an oversized marble fireplace, and the
room itself was comfortably appointed with plush rugs and heavy, dark
wood furniture.  Oil paintings of Spanish rural scenes decorated the
walls.

As they took their seats, Aguirrez evidently noted the wondering look
on Austin's face, because he said, "You look puzzled, Mr.  Austin."

Austin saw no reason to beat around the bush.  "I'm surprised to find
you here a man accused of being a Basque terrorist within the walls of
the Spanish Embassy."

Aguirrez didn't seem offended.  "You have obviously looked into

my background, which I expected, so you know that the accusations have
not been substantiated."

"Still, I noticed that you're not wearing your black beret."

Aguirrez gave out a booming laugh.  "In deference to my hosts, I have
shed my chapeau, although I miss wearing it.  I think that some in this
building might think I had a bomb under the beret, and their
nervousness would interfere with our work."

"Which is?"

"To settle the Basque problem peacefully once and for all."

"That's a tall order after hundreds of years of conflict."

"I'm confident it can be accomplished."

"What happened to your ancestral quest?"

"The past and the present are inseparable in this cause.  The Basque
separatists want a homeland.  The Spanish government has experimented
with autonomy, with unfortunate results.  If I find the relics I am
looking for, their discovery could set off an emotional wave of Basque
nationalism.  I know my people.  It would tear Spain apart."

"So you have suddenly become very important to the Spanish
government."

He nodded.  "I have met with high-level officials in Madrid who asked
me to inform your State Department people of the situation and assure
them I am not a terrorist.  I have agreed, once I find the relics, to
put them in safekeeping."

"What's to prevent you from going back on your word?"

The Basque frowned, and a dangerous expression came to his dark eyes.
"It is a logical question, and one the Spanish government also asked. I
told them that I will honor the memory of my ancestor, who was chosen
to be the guardian of the relics.  In return, the Spanish government
will take graduated, meaningful steps toward Basque autonomy."

"You're using the relics as leverage?"

He shrugged.  "I prefer to call it a solution that takes into account
our mutual interests."

"Not a bad deal, considering the fact that you don't have the
relics."

"A technicality," he said, the broad smile returning.  "I have
unearthed information on the sea routes my ancestor took to the New
World.  The Basques were in the Faroes as early as 875.  After stopping
at the Faroes, Diego would head for Newfoundland or Labrador.  There is
ample precedent for this theory.  My people fished for cod and whales
off North America as far back as the Middle Ages."

"I've read that Cabot found Indians using words that could have had a
Basque origin."

"No doubt about it!"  he said, his face flushing with excitement.  "My
research indicates that there are some unexplored caves near
Channel-Port aux Basques in Newfoundland.  I will rejoin my yacht there
as soon as I clear up my business here, and I am convinced that before
long I will hold the sword and horn of Roland in my hands."

Austin paused, wondering how he could gently break the news, then
decided that it could not be done.  "There may be a problem," he
said.

Aguirrez eyed Austin warily.  "What do you mean?"

Austin handed over an envelope containing a copy of the Black-thorne
manuscript.  "This material suggests that the relics may not be where
you think they are."  Austin proceeded to lay out the story Perlmutter
had told him.  As Aguirrez listened, storm clouds seemed to move in and
perch on his brow.

"I know of St.  Julien Perlmutter through my own research.  He is
highly respected as a sea historian."  "There is none more
knowledgeable."

Aguirrez slammed a fist into his palm.  "I knew Diego wasn't killed by
Brasero.  He escaped with the relics."

"There's more," Austin said.  He handed Aguirrez the news clip
detailing the interview with the Zeppelin's survivor.

"I still don't understand," the Basque said after reading the
article.

"Oceanus is the owner of the zeppelin that found your ancestor's boat
locked in the ice."

Aguirrez saw the connection immediately.  "You believe that Oceanus has
the sacred relics in its possession?"

"It's a good bet if you follow the chain of evidence."

"And in your view, Oceanus can't be approached on this matter?"

"I don't think Oceanus can be approached on anything," Austin said,
with a rueful chuckle.  "You recall my boating accident?  I have a
confession to make.  An Oceanus security guard blew up my boat with a
hand grenade."

"And I must confess that I never believed your story about engine
fumes."

"While we're in a confessing mood," Austin said, "maybe you can tell me
why your men followed me to Copenhagen."

"A precaution.  To be frank, I didn't know what to make of you.  I knew
from your identity card that you were with NUMA, but I didn't know why
you were poking into the Oceanus operation, and assumed it must be an
official mission.  My curiosity was stirred, so I decided to keep an
eye on you.  You made no effort to hide your movements.  My men
happened to be nearby when you were attacked.  How is the young lady
you were with, by the way?"

"She's fine, thanks to the alertness of your men."

"Then you're not angry at being followed?"

"Not at all, but I wouldn't like to see you make it a habit."

"I understand."  Aguirrez paused in thought.  "Am I correct to assume
the men who attacked you were from Oceanus?"

"That seems a safe conclusion.  The attackers resembled the guards I
encountered at the Oceanus operation in the Faroes."

"Oceanus tried to kill you twice.  Be careful, my friend, they may try
again."

"They already have."

Aguirrez didn't ask for details, and it was obvious he had other things
on his mind.  He rose from his chair and paced the room, Blackthorne's
manuscript clutched in his hand.  "The people here must not know of
this material.  Without the relics, the Spanish government will lose
its incentive to move on Basque autonomy.  But this goes beyond
political matters," he said in a hollow voice.  "I have failed my
ancestor Diego by not finding the relics."

"There may still be a way."

Aguirrez stopped his pacing and fixed Austin with a penetrating stare.
"What are you saying?"

"We're both interested in nailing Oceanus to the wall.  Let's talk
about it, taking account, as you said before, of mutual interests."

Aguirrez hiked his bushy eyebrows, but his face remained impassive.
Then he went over to a liquor cabinet and brought back two small
glasses and a bottle of greenish-yellow liquor.  He poured the glasses
full and handed one to Austin, who recognized the distinctive scent of
Izzara.

An hour later, Austin slid behind the wheel of his car.  He wondered if
he had made a deal that might come back to haunt him, but he trusted
his instincts, which were all he had to go on at this point.  He sensed
that Aguirrez was devious but principled, and since they shared the
same goals, it would be foolish not to form a loose alliance.

He checked his cell phone and saw that there were two calls.  The first
was from the Trouts.  He was relieved to hear from them.  He knew from
working with them on the Special Assignments Team that Paul and Gamay
were able to take care of themselves, but at the same time, they had
gone looking for Oceanus without knowing how dangerous their mission
might be.

Gamay answered his call.  She and Paul had returned from Canada a few
hours before, and dropped their luggage off at their town house.  Then
they had gone to NUMA headquarters to meet with Zavala, who was going
to update them.

"Did you get inside the Oceanus operation?"  Austin asked.  "No," Gamay
said, "but we bumped into a few of their people."  Gamay was being a
little too casual.  "I know from personal experience that when you bump
into Oceanus, it bumps back.  Are you and Paul all right?"

"We're fine.  A slight concussion for me and a broken wrist for Paul.
The cuts and bruises are healing nicely."

Austin swore under his breath, angry at himself for putting his
partners in danger.

"I didn't realize what I was getting you into.  I'm sorry."  "Don't be.
You only asked us to see what we could learn about Oceanus.  It was our
decision to go flying off to Canada and poke our noses in where they
weren't welcome.  It was worth the trip, too.  We wouldn't have learned
about the devilfish otherwise."

The only devilfish Austin had ever heard of was the manta ray.  "Are
you sure that concussion is on the mend?"

"I've never been more clearheaded, Kurt.  In all my years as a marine
biologist, I've never encountered anything like this before.  Paul
calls it 'white death."  "

Austin experienced a quick fris son as he recalled his brush with

the large, toothy creature in the Oceanus fish tank.  "You can fill me
in when I get there."

He hung up and punched out Gunn's number.  "Hello, Rudi," he said,
without the usual exchange of pleasantries.  "I think it's time we had
a meeting with Sandecker."

THE GIANT VIDEO screen in the conference room glowed blue for a second,
then an image appeared.  There was a flash of silvery-white scales in a
net, and Mike Neal was heard shouting, "Hold on, folks, we've got a
live one!"  There was a blurred glimpse of a fish slamming against the
deck and a close-up of a toothy mouth snapping a gaff handle in two.
The handheld camera showed the same fish being clouted with a baseball
bat.  The astonished voices of the Trouts were audible in the
background.

Paul Trout clicked the remote control and froze the picture.  The
lights blinked back on, and a crisp, commanding voice was heard to say,
"It seems Jaws has formidable competition."

Admiral James Sandecker, the driving force behind NUMA, sat at a long
conference table, his head enveloped in a purple cloud that belched
from the fat cigar in his hand.

"That thing up on the screen is in a class of its own, Admiral," said

Gamay, who sat at the table along with Austin, Zavala and Rudi Gunn.
"The great white shark attacks when it's hungry or hunted.  The
creature we're looking at is more like Mack the Knife: just plain
mean.

Sandecker blew out a plume of smoke and glanced around the table.  "Now
that you've engaged my attention with what must be the shortest monster
movie on record, please tell me what in blazes is going on and what
that creature has to do with the cast on Paul's wrist."

Gamay and Paul took turns telling the story of their Canadian
adventure, from their visit to the Oceanus fish-processing plant to
their talk with the geneticists at McGill.

Austin cut in.  "Did you say Frederick Barker?"

"Yes," Gamay said.  "Do you know him?"

"We've had a passing acquaintance.  His men tried to kill me last
night."

Austin gave the gathering a quick rundown of his encounter with Barker
and the wild dogsled race through the Mall.

"Congratulations, Kurt.  The traffic tie-up you caused was page one in
The Washington Post."  Sandecker paused in thought.  "Let me see if I
understand this story to date.  You believe that Oceanus orchestrated
the sinking of two ships in Faroe waters to divert attention from a
secret project, directed by this man Barker, having to do with the
breeding of mutant fish."  He gestured at the screen.  "Fish similar to
the one Paul and Gamay encountered in Canada.  And that people from a
rogue Eskimo tribe made attempts on your life in the Faroes, in
Copenhagen and in Washington."

"Sounds unbelievable when somebody else tells it," Austin said, with a
shake of his head.

"Baron Munchausen couldn't have done better.  Luckily, Paul and Gamay
have verified the existence of these homicidal Eskimos."  He turned to
Gunn.  "What do you make of this fantastic tale, Rudi?"

"Before I answer, I'd like to ask Gamay what could happen if these
artificially mutated super fish got into the sea and started
breeding."

"According to Dr.  Throckmorton, Barker's colleague, in sufficient
numbers, they could create a biological time bomb," Gamay said.  "They
could replace the natural strains of fish within a few generations."

"What's wrong with that?"  Sandecker said, playing devil's advocate.
"Fishermen would have to catch a few large fish instead of many smaller
ones."

"True, but we don't know enough about the long-range effects.  What
would happen if these Frankenfish had some property that made them
unfit for human consumption?  What if an unforeseen mutant strain
resulted?  What if the super fish offspring couldn't survive in the
wild?  You'd have neither the natural species nor the mutants.  The
ocean system would be thrown out of whack.  Fishermen, processing
people and distributors would be idled around the world.  This would
disrupt whole societies that depend upon fish protein for nourishment.
Industrial nations would be damaged, as well."

"That's quite a dismal forecast," Sandecker said.

"I'm being conservative in my assessment.  There are so many unknowns.
We know that more than twenty-five species are being targeted for
genetic modification.  It could mean a tragedy of unimaginable
proportions if they escape into the sea."

"We're assuming that monster up there escaped from a research lab,"
Rudi said.  "Suppose he and others like him were released into the sea
deliberately?"

Gamay stared at Gunn as if he had grown a set of horns.  "Why would
anyone risk extinction of a whole species?  That would be a terrible
thing."

Gunn shook his head.  "Not for everyone."

"What are you saying?"  Sandecker asked.

"That the fish will vanish from the sea, but not from the Oceanus
holding tanks.  Oceanus has been acquiring international patents for
its fish genes.  The species would be preserved in Oceanus DNA

banks."

"Very clever, Rudi," Sandecker said.  "Oceanus would have created a
monopoly on a major source of the world's protein."

Paul said, "A monopoly like that could be worth billions of dollars."

"It goes beyond money," Sandecker said.  "Fish protein is a major
source of nourishment for much of the world.  Food is power."

"This explains why Oceanus is so trigger-happy," Austin said.  "If the
news got out that they were about to deplete the world's oceans, the
adverse public reaction would be overwhelming."

"Certainly sounds plausible," Gunn said.  "You establish bio fish
hatcheries around the world.  You could seed the major fish-breeding
areas in a short time."

"You wouldn't need many fish," Gamay said.  "Each male bio fish
released could breed with dozens of females.  But I'd like to point out
there is nothing illegal about dumping fish into the open sea."

"They've been responsible for the loss of two ships and several deaths
trying to keep their dirty little secret," Austin said.  "They're
holding an entire Indian village captive.  Last I heard, murder and
kidnapping were illegal."

Sandecker said, "But since we can't pin the killings and other crimes
on Oceanus yet, we'll have to proceed with care.  We can't go through
the regular channels.  Even the Canadian government can't know of our
action.  Oceanus could bring the forces of the law down on us.  The
Special Assignments Team was formed for missions away from official
oversight, so it's the perfect vehicle to carry out our plan."

"I didn't know we had a plan," Zavala said.

"Seems obvious to me," the admiral said.  "We blow Oceanus and

their bloody scheme out of the water, like the pirates they are.  I
realize it won't be easy.  Nighthawk's family and relatives could be
placed in jeopardy.  The fact that we've stumbled onto the scene might
make Oceanus act in haste."

"There's another factor we should take into account," Austin said.
"Marcus Ryan is determined to get SOS involved.  They could compromise
our plan and put the captives in real danger."

"That settles it," Sandecker said.  "We move immediately.  We've got to
strike at the heart of this thing, that facility in the Canadian woods.
Kurt, did this young Indian give you any inkling where his village was
located?"

"Ryan had him on a short leash.  Ben seems to have disappeared, but
I'll keep trying to find him."

"We can't wait that long."  Sandecker's gaze moved over to a
scruffy-looking man who had quietly slipped into the room during the
discussion and taken a seat in a corner.  "Hiram, do you have something
for us?"

Hiram Yeager was the director of the vast computer network that covered
the entire tenth floor of the NUMA building.  The center processed and
stored the biggest amount of digital data on the oceans ever assembled
under one roof.  The brains behind this incredible display of
information-gathering power was dressed in his standard uniform, Levi
pants and jacket over a pure white T-shirt.  His feet were stuffed into
a pair of cowboy boots that looked as if they had come from Boot Hill.
His long hair was tied in a ponytail, and his gray eyes peered out at
the world through wire-rimmed granny glasses.

"Rudi asked me to see if Max would compile a list of places that have
experienced sudden fish kills, and to cross-check when possible with
nearby fish-processing plants or farms."

"Do you want us to adjourn this meeting to the data center?"  Sandecker
asked.

Yeager's boyish face beamed with excitement.  "Stay right where you
are.  You're about to see a demonstration of Portable Max."

Sandecker grimaced.  He was impatient to get his troops moving and
wasn't interested in Yeager's experiments, only their results.  But his
respect for the computer genius displayed itself in the same
uncharacteristic patience that allowed Yeager to ignore the NUMA dress
code.

Yeager connected a laptop computer to various outlets and to the video
screen.  He clicked the on button.  Anyone who expected an ordinary
presentation didn't know Hiram Yeager.  The image of a woman appeared
on the video screen.  Her eyes were topaz brown and her hair a shiny
auburn, her shoulders bare down to the first hints of her breasts.

It was hard to believe that the lovely woman on the screen was an
artificial intelligence system, the end product of the most complex
electronic circuitry imaginable.  Yeager had recorded his voice,
digitally altering it to give it a feminine tone, and programmed the
face of his wife, a successful artist, into the system.  Max tended to
be just as testy and petulant as she was.

When he was working in the data center, Yeager sat at a huge console
and Max was projected in 3-D onto a giant monitor.  "With the Portable
Max, you don't have to come to the data center to ask questions.  The
laptop connects to the mainframe, so I can bring her with me wherever I
go.  Isn't that right, Max?"

Normally, Max responded to the opening question with a dazzling smile,
but the face on the screen looked as if she had been sucking on lemons.
Yeager fiddled with the connections and tried again.

"Max?  Are you okay?"

The eyes looked down to the bottom of the screen.  "I'm feeling rather
... flat."

"You look fine from out here," Yeager said.

"Fine?"

"No, you look wonderful!"

Sandecker's patience had run out.  "Perhaps you should send the young
lady a bouquet of roses."

"That always works for me," Zavala said.

Sandecker shot him a withering look.  "Thank you for giving us the
benefit of your wide experience, Joe.  I'm sure you can include it in
your memoirs.  Hiram, could you cut to the chase, please?"

Max smiled.  "Hello, Admiral Sandecker."

"Hello, Max.  Hiram is correct when he says you look wonderful.  But I
think we should end this Portable Max experiment.  In the future, we
will visit you in the data center."

"Thanks for your understanding, Admiral.  What can I do for you ?"

"Please produce the data Hiram requested."

The face instantly disappeared.  In its place was a map of the world.
Max's voice narrated: "This map shows the locations where there have
been fish kills near aquaculture facilities.  I can give you specifics
for each location."

"Don't bother for now.  Please show us those aquaculture sites owned by
Oceanus."

Some of the circles vanished, but a substantial number remained.

"Now go to Canada," Sandecker said.

The picture zoomed in on Cape Breton.

"Bingo!"  Paul Trout said.  "That's where Gamay and I had our run-in
with Oceanus."

Austin said, "Max, could you draw a straight line from the Oceanus site
to the nearest lake in northern Canada?"

The map displayed a line that connected the coastal facility with the

interior, but the lake it showed was too small and too close to
civilization.  After several tries, Max connected the aquaculture
operation to the only lake large and remote enough to fit Nighthawk's
description.  "We can run some satellite photos on this site, but my
instincts tell me this is the right place," Austin said.

"Thank you, Max.  You can shut down now," Sandecker said.  The screen
went blank.  Sandecker, who was obviously pleased with himself, turned
to Zavala and said, "Now that's how you handle a woman."  His face grew
serious.  "I think it's time to get moving," he said.

Zavala raised his hand and cleared his throat.  "This is pretty rugged
country.  Assuming we find these hombres with no trouble, do we just
drop in on them?"

Sandecker looked as if the question surprised him.  "I'm open to
suggestions."

"I've got one.  Call in the Royal Canadian Mounties."  "I'm sure you
can do it without their help."  Sandecker showed his even teeth in a
crocodile smile.  "You have carte blanche."

"I'd rather have the Mounties," Zavala said.  "If they're busy, a
contingent of Special Forces might do."

"I don't blame Joe for being doubtful," Austin said, coming to his
partner's aid.  "As the Trouts and I know, Oceanus shoots first and
asks questions later."

"It would take too long to go through the red tape necessary to involve
the Canadian military or police.  As for Special Forces, we would need
presidential authority to trespass on Canadian turf.  I don't see that
coming."

"In that case, I'd like to make a proposal," Austin said.  He related
his conversation with Aguirrez.

Sandecker puffed thoughtfully on his cigar.  "Let me see.  You'd

like to use the resources of this Basque, who may or may not be a
terrorist, to carry out a NUMA mission in a foreign country?" Sandecker
said.

"If we can't use the U.S. Marines or the Mounties, he might be all we
have."

"Hmm," Sandecker said.  "Can he be trusted?"

"He can be trusted to do whatever he can to find his relics.  Beyond
that I can't say, other than to remind you that he saved my life on two
occasions."

Sandecker tugged at his precisely trimmed beard.  The idea of using the
Basque appealed to the admiral's unconventional side, but he was
reluctant to lose control of the situation.  On the other hand, he had
complete confidence in Austin and his team.

"Use your best judgment," Sandecker said.

"There's something else," Austin said.  He told them about the
overnight closing of the museum exhibition and the accident involving
Senator Graham.

"But I know Graham well," Sandecker said.

Gunn nodded.  "And guess what his commerce committee has been involved
in lately?  Legislation trying to close loopholes that would allow bio
fish to be shipped into the U.S."

"Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"  Austin said.  "Especially since he
was returning from a party hosted by Oceanus."

"Are you suggesting," Sandecker said, "that this exhibition was an
elaborate cover for an assassination crew?"

"It fits.  With Graham out of the way, those loopholes may never be
closed."

"I agree.  There are certainly enough party hacks around to raise the
possibility of bribes," said Sandecker, who had a low opinion of
Congress.

Austin said, "Oceanus has cleared away a major obstacle.  I think
they're about to make their move."

Sandecker rose from his seat and glanced around the table with his cold
blue eyes.  "Then it's high time we made ours," he said.

When Austin returned to his office, a message was waiting for him from
the captain of the NUMA research vessel William Beebe, working with the
Danes in the Faroe Islands.  Call immediately, the message said, and
left a phone number.

"I thought you'd want to know," the captain said, when Austin reached
him.  "There's been an accident out here.  A research vessel working
with a Danish scientist named Jorgensen blew up somehow.  They lost
eight people, including the professor."

Austin had forgotten about Jorgensen's plans to continue his research
near the Oceanus plant.  Now he recalled warning the professor to be
careful.

"Thank you, Captain," he said.  "Any idea what caused the explosion?"

"The lone survivor said something about a helicopter in the area before
the explosion, but she didn't make sense.  She was the one who
suggested that we call you, in fact.  Seems she was on the boat as a
guest of the professor.  Name was Pia something."

"She's a friend of mine.  How is she?"

"Few broken bones, some burns.  But the doctors expect that she'll pull
through.  Sounds like a tough lady."

"She is.  Could you give her a message?"

"Of course."

"Tell her I'll be over to see her as soon as she's feeling better."

"Will do."

Austin thanked the captain and hung up.  He stared into space, his

jaw muscle working, his blue-green eyes at the topaz level on Moh's
scale of hardness.  He was thinking of Jorgensen's horsy smile and
Pia's kindness.  Barker, or Toonook, or whatever his name was, had made
the mistake of his life.  By killing the professor and injuring Pia, he
had made it personal.

THE SINGLE-ENGINE float plane flew low, looking like a toy against the
vastness of the Canadian wilderness.  Therri Weld sat next to the pilot
in the front passenger seat, where she had a good view of the ranks of
sharp, pointed treetops, any one of which could have ripped the belly
out of the fuselage.

The first part of the flight had been spent in white-knuckled terror.
Therri had not been reassured when she saw the pair of fuzzy dice
hanging in the cockpit.  But as the flight proceeded without a hitch,
she had concluded that the pilot, an enormous, grizzled man whose name
was Bear, actually seemed to know what he was doing.  "Don't get up
here very often," Bear shouted over the roar of the engine.  "Too
remote for most of the 'sportsmen' who come up to go hunting and
fishing.  Their idea of roughing it is staying at a lodge with inside
plumbing."  Bear pointed through the windshield at the featureless
terrain.  "Coming up on Looking Glass Lake.  It's really

two lakes joined by a short connector.  Locals call it the Twins,
although one's bigger than the other.  We'll drop down on the little
guy in a few minutes."

"All I see is trees and more trees," said Marcus Ryan, who sat behind
the pilot.

"Yeah, bound to find trees in these parts," Bear said, with a cheerful
grin.  He glanced over to see if Therri appreciated the joke on Ryan.
She smiled gamely, but her heart wasn't in it.  She would have felt far
more confident if Ben Nighthawk were with them.  Her calls to his
apartment had gone unanswered.  She'd wanted to keep trying, but Marcus
had been in a hurry to get rolling.

"You can pull out if you want to," Ryan had said.  "Chuck and I can go
it alone, but we've got to move fast because the plane's waiting for
us."  Therri barely had time to pack before Ryan picked her up.  Before
long, they were piling into the SOS executive jet with Chuck Mercer,
the former first mate of the Sea Sentinel.  With his ship on the
bottom, Mercer was eager to see action.

Therri would have been more enthusiastic if she didn't think Ryan was
making up his strategy as he went along.  Thanks to the information
from Ben, Ryan knew where to go.  Ben had told him the name and
location of the lake.  It was Ben, too, who had given him Bear's
name.

The bush pilot used to be a drug smuggler and was known to work with no
questions asked, if the money was right.  He hadn't even blinked when
Marcus had spun a cock-and-bull tale about doing a documentary film on
native culture and wanting to observe Ben's village without being
seen.

Bear was usually discreet, but he had become careless living in a
community where everyone was aware of his past.  He'd let a few words
slip about his job for SOS while he was fueling up the plane.  He could
not have known that sharp ears were listening, or that unfriendly eyes were watching as his plane took off and headed into the
interior.

The lake loomed up suddenly.  Therri glimpsed water shimmering in the
slanting rays of the late afternoon sun.  Seconds later, the plane
dropped as if it had hit a downdraft.  She felt her heart in her mouth,
then the plane bottomed out and slid into a gradually angled
trajectory.  The floats skimmed the lake's surface a short distance
before the plane settled into the water and slowed.

Bear taxied close to shore.  When the plane neared a sharply banked
beach a few yards wide, he climbed out of the cockpit onto a float and
jumped feet first into water up to his waist.  He tied an anchor line
onto a strut, pulled the other end over his shoulder and towed the
plane closer to shore.  He tied up to a stump, then helped the others
unload a large package and several smaller ones.  They untied the
largest bundle, and with the help of a CO2 capsule, quickly pumped up
an inflatable boat about eight feet long.  Bear watched with interest,
hands on hips, as Ryan tested a quiet, battery-operated outboard
motor.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he said.  "You've got the radio if you need
me.  Watch your ass."

The plane taxied to one end of the lake, took off and headed back the
way it had come.  Therri went over to where Ryan and Mercer were
checking through the pack.  Mercer unwrapped a block of C-4 explosives
and examined the detonators.

He smiled and said, "Just like the old days."

"Sure you're up for this, Chuck?"

"You're talking to the guy who sank an Icelandic whaling ship
practically single-handed."

"That was a few years ago.  We're a lot older now."

Mercer fingered a detonator.  "Doesn't take much energy to push a
button," he said.  "I owe these bastards for our ship."  Mercer had

been steaming since he'd learned that Oceanus's ships were serviced at
the same Shetlands boatyard where the Sea Sentinel could have been
sabotaged.

"We can't forget Josh, either," Ryan said.

"I haven't forgotten Josh.  But are you sure there's no other way?"
Therri said.

"I wish there were," Ryan said.  "We've got to play hardball."

"I'm not arguing with the need to do something, but the means.  What
about Ben's people?  You're risking their lives."

"We can't be diverted from our prime goal.  We know from our contacts
on Senator Graham's staff that Oceanus continued the trans-gendered
fish experiments that were halted in New Zealand.  We've got to stop
this abomination before it is unleashed."

"Abomination?  You're scaring me, Marcus.  You're talking like a
Biblical prophet."

Ryan's face flushed, but he held his temper.  "I have no intention of
making Ben's people collateral damage.  Oceanus will be too busy
dealing with our little gifts to do anything.  In any case, we'll call
the authorities as soon as we're finished here."

"It would only take a few bursts from an automatic weapon to kill Ben's
people.  Why not call in outside help now?"

"Because it would take time we don't have.  We're talking search
warrants and legal process.  The villagers could be dead by the time
the Mounties decide to investigate."  He paused.  "Remember, I tried to
bring NUMA in on this, and Austin refused."

Therri bit her lower lip in frustration.  Her loyalty toward Ryan was
intense but not uncritical.

"Don't turn your sights on Kurt.  If it weren't for him, you'd be
eating sardines in a Danish prison cell."

Ryan beamed his lighthouse smile.  "You're right.  I'm out of line. But
there's still time to call Bear and have him take you out of here."

"Not on your life, Ryan."

Mercer had finished organizing their backpacks.  He strapped on a
pistol belt and handed one to Ryan.  Therri refused a weapon.  They
piled their supplies into the inflatable, shoved it off the beach and
started the engine.  It ran with a low hum and pushed them through the
water at a slow but respectable speed.  They hugged the shoreline even
after they had passed through the channel into the larger lake.

Ryan was using a topographic map with notations based on Ben's
information.  He stopped the boat at one point and peered through his
binoculars at the opposite side of the lake.  He could make out a pier
and several boats, but no structure matching Nighthawk's description.

"That's funny, I don't see any dome.  Ben said it rose above the
trees."

"What should we do?"  Therri said.

"We'll go to Ben's village and wait there.  Then we'll head across the
lake, leave our calling cards where they will do the most good and set
the timers for late morning, when we'll be well on our way out of
here."

They got underway again.  The sun was falling behind the trees when
they saw the clearing and the dozen or so houses that made up Ben's
village.  It was deathly quiet, with only a faint soughing in the trees
and the lap of the waves against shore breaking the silence.  They
stopped about fifty yards offshore while Ryan, then the others, checked
out the village with light-gathering glasses.  Seeing nothing, they
cruised straight on in, beached the boat and came ashore.

Ryan was careful, insisting that they check out the houses and store.
The village was deserted, as Ben had described.  They had something to
eat.  By the time they finished, darkness was complete, except for a
blue-black sheen on the lake and pinpoints of light on the opposite
shore.  They took turns standing watch while the others

slept.  Around midnight they were all awake and preparing to move out.
They slid the boat into the water and pushed off.

Halfway across the lake, Ryan peered through his glasses, and said,
"Jesus!"

The sky across the lake was lit up.  He handed the binocs to Therri,
but even with her naked eye she could see the dully lit greenish-blue
structure that mounded above the trees.  It seemed to have dropped from
space.

Ryan directed Mercer to steer off to one side, away from the pier. They
beached a few minutes later, pulled the inflatable onshore and piled
brush around it.  Then they made their way along the beach toward the
pier.  When they were a few hundred feet away, they cut inland and came
upon the road that Ben and Josh Green had used to get to the airship
hangar.  The muddy ruts Ben had described had since been graded and
blacktopped.

They were looking for a particular type of building, and found what
they were looking for in a structure that hummed with the sound of
pumps.  Mercer made short work of the padlocks with a tiny cutting
torch.

Large glass tanks stretched from one side of the building to the other,
and the air inside was heavy with the smell of fish and the hum of
motors.  The room was in semi-darkness, but large pale shapes could be
seen moving behind the glass.  Mercer got right to work.  He placed
packets of C-4 in strategic places, molding the putty-like explosive
around pumps and electrical conduits where explosions would do the most
damage.  What was left, he placed on the outside of the tanks.

They worked fast, arming the charges and setting the timers, and were
done within thirty minutes.  The only people they had seen were those
moving in the distance, but Ryan wasn't going to press their luck. They
made their way back toward the lakeshore, again without encountering
anyone.  Ryan was beginning to feel uneasy, but he

pressed on.  If all went as planned, Bear would be picking them up just
before the big bang.

Unfortunately, all did not go as planned.  Their boat was missing, to
begin with.  Thinking that they may have misjudged the distance in the
dark, Ryan sent the others down the beach to look for the boat, while
he stood watch.  When five minutes had passed and they hadn't returned,
he struck out after them, and he found Therri and Mercer standing side
by side looking out toward the lake.

"Did you find it?"  he said.

No answer.  They remained motionless.  When he moved in closer, he saw
why.  Their wrists were bound behind their backs with wire, and they
had tape across their mouths.  Before he could free his friends, the
bushes behind the beach erupted and they were surrounded by a dozen
burly figures.

One man took Ryan's gun away and another came closer and flicked on a
flashlight, its beam illuminating the man's hand.  Dangling in his
fingers was one of the charges Ryan had set in the fish house.  The man
threw the explosives into the lake and put the beam on his own face so
that Ryan could be sure to see the pockmarked jack-o'-lantern features
and the fierce grin.

He drew a white-bladed knife from his belt and put it under Ryan's chin
so that the point dimpled his skin and drew a droplet of blood.  Then
he uttered something in a strange language and returned the knife to
its scabbard.  Together, they began to march back toward the airship
hangar.

AUSTIN EXAMINED THE satellite photograph through the magnifying glass
and shook his head.  He slid the picture and magnifier across his desk
to Zavala.  After studying the photo for a moment, Zavala said, "I can
see a lake with a clearing on one side and some houses.  Could be
Nighthawk's village.  There's a pier and some boats on the other side,
but no airship hangar.  Maybe it's hidden."

"Maybe we're setting off on a fool's mission, old chum."

"Wouldn't be the first time.  Look at it this way: Max said this is the
place, and I'd trust Max with my life."

"You may have to," Austin said.  He checked his watch.  "Our plane will
be ready in a couple of hours.  We'd better get packed."

"I never unpacked from my last trip," Zavala said.  "See you at the
airport."

Austin did a quick turnaround at his boathouse and was heading out the
door, when he saw the light blinking on his telephone answering
machine.  He debated whether to listen to the message, but when he
pushed the button, he was glad he did.  Ben Nighthawk had called and
left a phone number.

Austin dropped his duffel bag and quickly punched out the number. "Man,
am I glad to hear from you," Nighthawk said.  "I've been waiting by the
phone hoping you'd call."

"I tried to get in touch with you a couple of times."

"Sorry for being such a jerk.  That guy would have killed me if you
hadn't stepped in.  I wandered around and hung out with some pals,
feeling sorry for myself.  When I got back to my apartment, there was a
message from Therri.  She said that SOS was going off on its own.  Ryan
talked her into it, I guess."

"Damned fools.  They'll get themselves killed."

"I feel the same way.  I'm worried about my family, too.  We've got to
stop them."

"I'm willing to try, but I need your help."

"You've got it."

"How soon can you leave?"

"Whenever you want me to."

"How about now?  I'll pick you up on the way to the airport."

"I'll be ready."

After Zavala left the NUMA building, he drove his 1961 Corvette
convertible to his home in Arlington, Virginia.  While the upstairs was
spotless, as would be expected of someone who routinely dealt in
microscopic tolerances, Zavala's basement looked like a cross between
Captain Nemo's workshop and a redneck gas station.  It was crammed with
models of undersea craft, metal-cutting tools and piles of diagrams
marked with greasy fingerprints.

The one exception to the jumble was a locked metal cabinet where

Zavala kept his collection of weaponry.  Technically, Zavala was a
marine engineer, but his duties on the Special Assignments Team
sometimes required firepower.  Unlike Austin, who favored a custom-made
Bowen revolver, Zavala employed whatever weapon was handy, usually with
deadly efficiency.  He eyed the collection of firearms in the cabinet
wondering what, short of a neutron bomb, would be effective against a
ruthless multinational organization with its own private army and
reached for an Ithaca Model 37 repeating shotgun, the primary weapon
used by the SEALs in Vietnam.  He liked the idea that the shotgun could
be fired almost like an automatic weapon.

Zavala carefully packed the shotgun and an ample supply of ammunition
into a case, and before long he was on his way to Dulles Airport.  He
drove with the top down, savoring the ride because he knew it would be
his last in the "Vette until his assignment was over.  He pulled up to
a hangar in an out-of-the-way corner of the airport where a crew of
mechanics was doing last-minute checks on a NUMA executive jet.  He
kissed the Corvette's fender and said a sad good-bye, then climbed
aboard the plane.

Zavala was going over his flight plan when Austin arrived a short time
later with Ben Nighthawk in tow.  Austin introduced the young Indian to
Zavala.  Nighthawk glanced around as if he were looking for
something.

"Don't worry," Austin said, noting the expression of consternation on
Nighthawk's face.  "Joe just looks like a bandit.  He really does know
how to fly a plane."

"That's right," Zavala said, looking up from his clipboard.  "I've
passed a correspondence course, all except for the part about the
landing."

The last thing Austin wanted was to have Ben bolt from the plane in
fright.  "Joe likes to kid around," he said.

"I wasn't worried about that, it's well, is this all there is?  I mean
just us}"

Zavala's lips turned up in a smile.  "We hear a lot of that sort of
thing," he said, recalling Becker's skepticism when he and Austin had
arrived to rescue the Danish sailors.  "I'm starting to get an
inferiority complex."

"This isn't a suicide squadron," Austin said.  "We'll pick up some
extra muscle on the way.  In the meantime, make yourself comfortable.
There's coffee in that carafe.  I'll assist Joe in the cockpit."

They were quickly cleared for takeoff, and the plane headed north.  At
a cruising speed of five hundred miles an hour, they were over the
waters of the Gulf of St.  Lawrence in a little over three hours.  They
touched down at a small coastal airport.  Rudi Gunn had checked earlier
and found that there was a NUMA survey ship working in the gulf.  The
way had been smooth through Canadian customs, and before long Austin,
Zavala and Ben were climbing aboard the ship, which had come into port.
By previous arrangement, the Navarra was waiting ten miles offshore.

As they approached the yacht, Zavala eyed the long, sleek vessel with
appreciation.  "Pretty," he said.  "And from her lines, I'd say she's
fast, too, but she doesn't look tough enough to take on Oceanus."
"Wait," Austin said, with a knowing smile.

The Navarra sent over a launch to pick them up.  Aguirrez was waiting
on deck, his black beret, as usual, perched at a jaunty angle on his
head.  By his side were the two brawny men who had escorted Austin
after he was plucked from the waters outside the Mermaid's Gate.

"Good to see you again, Mr.  Austin," Aguirrez said, pumping Kurt's
hand.  "Glad you and your friends could make it aboard.  These are my
two sons, Diego and Pablo."

It was the first time Austin had seen the two men smile, and he

noted the resemblance to their father.  He introduced Zavala and
Nighthawk.  The yacht was already underway by that time, and he and the
others followed Aguirrez to his grand salon.  Aguirrez motioned for the
men to take a seat, and a steward appeared with hot drinks and
sandwiches.  Aguirrez asked them about their trip and waited patiently
for them to finish their lunch before he picked up a remote control. At
a click of a button, a section of wall slid up to reveal a giant
screen.  Another click, and an aerial photograph filled the space.  The
photograph showed forest and water.

Nighthawk sucked in his breath.  "That's my lake, and my village."

"I used the coordinates Mr.  Austin gave me and fed them into a
commercial satellite," Aguirrez said.  "I'm puzzled, however.  As you
can see, there is no sign of this airship building that you
mentioned."

"We had the same problem with the satellite photos we looked at,"
Austin said.  "But our computer model indicates that this is the
place."

Nighthawk rose and walked over to the screen.  He pointed to a section
of forest bordering the lake.  "It's here, I know it is.  Look, you can
see where the woods have been cleared, and there's the pier."  His
confusion was evident.  "But there's nothing but trees here where the
blimp hangar should be."

"Tell us again what you saw that night," Austin said.

"The dome was huge, but we didn't see it until the airship appeared.
The surface was covered with panels."

"Panels?"  Zavala said.

"Yes, what you see on a geodesic dome, like the one they built for the
Olympics in Montreal.  Hundreds of sections."

Zavala nodded.  "I didn't think that adaptive camouflage technology was
that far advanced."

Sounds more like invisibility we're talking about," Austin said,
gesturing toward the screen.

"Not a bad guess.  Adaptive camouflage is a new technique.  The surface
that you want to hide is blanketed with flat panels, which sense the
scenery and changing light.  Then what the sensors see is displayed on
the panels.  If you were standing at ground level looking at this
thing, all you would see is trees, so the dome would blend into the
local forest.  Someone obviously took satellite imaging into account.
It would be a simple matter to project treetops on the roof panels."

Austin shook his head.  "Joe, you never cease to amaze me with your
supply of arcane knowledge."

"I think I read about it in Popular Mechanics."  "Nonetheless, you may
have solved the mystery," Aguirrez said.  "At night, the panels Mr.
Zavala talked about could be programmed for the ambient darkness.  Mr.
Nighthawk saw more than was intended when the dome opened for the
zeppelin.  There's something else that might interest you.  I saved
photos taken earlier."  Aguirrez went back through the memory bank, and
projected another aerial photo.  "This picture was taken of the area
yesterday.  There in the corner, you see the outline of a small plane.
I'll zoom in on that section."

The picture of a float plane filled the entire screen.  Four figures
could be seen standing on the shore of the lake.  "The plane
disappeared a short time after the photo was taken, but look here."
Another image appeared, showing a small boat with three people in it.
One of them, a woman, was looking skyward as if she knew they were
under surveillance from space.

The Basque's sharp ears picked up the sound of Austin swearing under
his breath.  Aguirrez raised his bushy eyebrows.

"I think I know who those people are," Austin said by way of
explanation.  "And if I'm right, it could complicate things.  How soon
can we jump off?"

"We're heading up the coast to a point that will enable you to go

the shortest straight-line distance.  Two hours maybe.  In the
meantime, I can show you what I have to offer."

With his sons taking up the rear, Aguirrez escorted the others down a
companionway to a large, brightly lit below-decks helicopter hangar.
"We have two helicopters," he said.  "The civilian one on the stern we
use for getting about.  This SeaCobra is held in reserve should the
occasion arise.  The Spanish Navy ordered a number of these aircraft.
Through my connections, I was able to sidetrack one of them.  It
carries the standard armament."  Aguirrez sounded like a car salesman
touting the extras for a Buick.

Austin swept his eyes over the naval version of the army Huey, the
rocket and Minigun pods slung under the stubby wings.  "The standard
armament will do just fine."

"Very good," Aguirrez said.  "My sons will accompany you and your
friend in the Eurocopter, and the SeaCobra will go along with you in
case you need backup."  He furrowed his brow.  "I'm concerned that
someone smart enough to use such clever camouflage would have the best
detection technology.  You could be greeted by a welcoming party, and
even a heavily armed helicopter would be vulnerable."

"I agree," Austin said.  "That's why we're going in by land.  We'll put
down at an abandoned logging camp, and Ben will guide us through the
forest to our target.  We think they will expect any intrusion to come
across the lake, as Ben did before, so we'll come in from behind. We'll
escape the same way hopefully, with Ben's family and friends."

"I like it.  Simple in planning and execution.  What do you do when you
get to your target?"  Aguirrez asked.

"That's the hard part," Austin replied.  "We don't have much other than
Ben's account and the aerial photos.  We'll have to improvise, but it
wouldn't be the first time."

Aguirrez didn't seem worried.

"Well, then, I suggest we get started."  He signaled Diego, who went
over to a phone next to a battery of switches.  He spoke a few words,
then began to punch buttons.  There was the hum of motors, an alarm
horn sounded, and doors in the ceiling slid slowly apart.  Next, the
floor started to move upward, and moments later, they and the
helicopter were lifted up to the deck, where crewmen, alerted by the
call, hurried in to prepare the SeaCobra for action.

THE VESSEL THAT Dr.  Throckmorton had commandeered for his survey was a
stubby converted stern-trawler used by the Canadian Fisheries Service.
The one-hundred-foot-long Cormorant was docked near where Mike Neal's
boat had been tied up on the Trouts' first visit to the harbor.

"To quote the great Yogi Berra, "This is like deja vu, all over again,"
" Trout said, as he and Gamay walked up the gangplank onto the deck of
the survey vessel.

She gazed out at the sleepy harbor.  "Strange being back here.  This
place is so peaceful."

"So is a graveyard," Paul said.

Throckmorton bustled over and greeted them with his usual effusiveness.
"The Doctors Trout!  What a pleasure it is to have you aboard.  I'm so
glad you called.  I had no idea after our discussion in Montreal that
we'd be seeing each other so soon."

"Neither did we," Gamay said.  "Your findings created quite a stir with
the people at NUMA.  Thanks for having us aboard on such short
notice."

"Not at all, not at all."  He lowered his voice.  "I recruited a couple
of my students to help out.  A young man and woman.  Brilliant kids.
But I'm pleased to have adult scientific colleagues aboard, if you know
what I mean.  I see you're still wearing your cast.  How's the arm?"

"It's fine," Paul said.  He glanced around.  "I don't see Dr.  Barker
on board."

"He couldn't make it," Throckmorton said.  "Personal commitment of some
sort.  He may try to join us later.  I hope he shows up.  I could use
his genetic expertise."

"Then the research hasn't been going well?"  Gamay said.  "On the
contrary, it's been going fine, but I'm more of a mechanic in this
field, if I may use an analogy.  I can bolt the frame and chassis
together, but it's Frederick who designs the sports car."

"Even the most expensive sports car wouldn't run forever without the
mechanic to make the engine go," Gamay said with a smile.

"You're very kind.  But this is a complex matter, and I've run into a
few aspects that have me puzzled."  He frowned.  "I've always found
fishermen to be superb observers of what's going on at sea.  The local
fishing fleet has moved on to more productive grounds, as you know. But
I talked to a few old-timers, shore captains who watched the fish
stocks vanish and be replaced by these so-called devilfish.  Now the
devilfish have dribbled down to nothing.  They're dying, and I don't
know why."

"Too bad you haven't been able to catch any."

"Oh, I never said that.  Come, I'll show you."

Throckmorton led the way through the "dry lab," where the computers
and other electrical equipment were kept high and dry, and into the
"wet lab," basically a small space with sinks, running water, tanks and
table space used for the damp pursuits such as carving up specimens for
investigation.  He donned a pair of gloves and reached into a in
oversized cooler.  With a hand from the Trouts, he pulled out the
frozen carcass of a salmon about four feet long and placed it on a
table.  "That's similar to the fish we caught," Paul said, bending low
to inspect the pale-white scales.

"We would have liked to keep this specimen alive, but it was
impossible.  He tore the net apart and would have devoured the rest of
the ship if he lived long enough."

"Now that you've seen one of these things up close, what are your
conclusions?"  Gamay said.

Throckmorton took a deep breath and puffed out his plump cheeks.  "It's
as I feared.  Judging from his unusual physical size, I'd say he's
definitely a genetically modified salmon.  A lab-produced mutant, in
other words.  It's the same species as the one I showed you in my
lab."

"But your fish was smaller and more normal-looking."  Throckmorton
nodded.  "They were both programmed with growth genes, I'd venture, but
where my experiment was kept under control, there seems to have been no
effort to restrain size with this fellow.  It's almost as if someone
wanted to see what would happen.  But size and ferociousness led to its
downfall.  Once these creatures destroyed and replaced the natural
stocks, they turned on each other."  "They were too hungry to breed, in
other words?"  "That's possible.  Or this design may simply have had a
problem adapting to the wild, in the same way a big tree would be
uprooted in a storm while a straggly little scrub pine survives. Nature
tends to cull out mutants that don't fit into the scheme of
things."

"There's another possibility," Gamay said.  "I think Dr.  Barker said
something about producing neutered bio fish so they couldn't breed."

"Yes, that's entirely possible, but it would involve some sophisticated
bioengineering."

"What's next for your survey?"  Paul said.

"We'll see what we can catch over the next few days, then I'll bring
this specimen and anything else I catch back to Montreal, where we can
map the genes.  I may be able to match it up with some of the stuff I
have in the computers.  Maybe we can figure out who designed it."

"Is that possible?"

"Oh, sure.  A genetic program is almost as good as a signature.  I sent
Dr.  Barker a message telling him what I found.  Frederick is a whiz at
this sort of thing."

"You speak very highly of him," Paul said.

"He's brilliant, as I said before.  I only wish that he weren't
affiliated with a commercial venture."

"Speaking of commercial ventures, we heard there's a fish-processing
plant of some sort up the coast.  Could they have had anything to do
with this?"

"In what way?"

"I don't know.  Pollution, maybe.  Like those two-headed frogs they
sometimes find in contaminated waters."

"Interesting premise, but unlikely.  You might see some deformed fish
or fish kills, but this monster is no accident.  And we would have seen
deformities in other species, which doesn't seem to have been the case.
Tell you what, though.  We'll motor out and anchor for the night near
the fish plant and make a few sets with the net in the morning.  How
long can you stay on board?"

"As long as you can stand us," Paul said.  "We don't want to impose."

"No imposition at all."  He put the salmon back into the cooler.  "You
may decide to cut your stay short after you see your cabin."

The cabin was slightly bigger than the two up-and-down bunks it
contained.  After Throckmorton left them to get settled, Paul tried to
ease his six-foot-eight length into the lower bunk, but his legs hung
over the side.

"I've been thinking about what Dr.  Throckmorton told us," Gamay said,
trying the mattress on top.  "Suppose you were Dr.  Barker and you were
working for Oceanus on this bio fish thing.  Would you want anyone
testing genetic material that could be traced to your doorstep?"

"Nope.  Judging from our own experience, Oceanus is ruthless when it
comes to snoops."

"Any suggestions?"

"Sure.  We could suggest that Throckmorton find another location to
anchor for the night.  Fake a toothache, or make some other excuse."

"You don't really want to do that, do you?"

"As you recall, I whined the whole trip up here because I couldn't go
play with Kurt and Joe."

"You don't have to remind me.  You sounded as if you hadn't been picked
for the Little League team."

"Dr.  Throckmorton is a fine fellow, but I wasn't prepared to babysit
him away from the action."

"And now you think the action may have moved to our doorstep."

Paul nodded and said, "Got a Loony?"  Gamay dug out a Canadian dollar
coin with the picture of a loon on one side.

Paul tossed it in the air and caught it on the back of his cast. Heads.
 I lose.  You get to choose which watch you want."

"Okay, you can take the first two-hour shift, starting as soon as the
rest of the crew turns in."

"Fine with me."  He extracted himself from the bunk.  "I wouldn't get
much sleep in this torture rack."  He lifted his injured arm in the
air.  "Maybe I can use this cast as a weapon."

"No need," Gamay said with a smile.  She dug into her duffel bag and
pulled out a holster that held a .22 caliber target pistol.  "I brought
this along in case I wanted to brush up on my target shooting."

Paul smiled.  As a girl, his wife had been taught by her father to
shoot skeet, and she was an expert marksman.  He took the pistol and
found that he could aim it if he propped up the cast with his other
hand.

Gamay looked at his shaky aim.  "Maybe we should both stand watch."

The ship dropped anchor about a mile from shore.  The silhouettes of
roof lines and a communication tower marked the Oceanus facility, which
was located on a rocky hill overlooking the water.  The Trouts had
dinner in the small galley with Throckmorton, his students and some
crew.  Time went by quickly, hastened by talk about Throckmorton's work
and the Trouts' NUMA experiences.  Around eleven, they called it a
night.

Paul and Gamay went to their cabin and waited until the ship was quiet.
Then they crept up onto the deck and took a position on the side facing
land.  The night was cool.  They stayed warm with the heavy sweaters
under their windbreakers and blankets borrowed from their bunks.  The
water was flat calm, except for a lazy swell.  Paul sat with his back
to the cabin housing, and Gamay lay on the deck beside him.

The first two hours went quickly.  Then Gamay took over and Paul
stretched out on the deck.  It seemed he was asleep only a few minutes
before Gamay was shaking him by the shoulder.  He came awake quickly
and said, "What's up?"

"I need your eyes.  I've been watching that dark smudge on the

water.  I thought it might be a patch of floating seaweed, but it's
come closer."

Paul rubbed his eyes and followed the pointing finger.  At first, he
saw nothing but the blue-blackness of the sea.  After a moment, he saw
a darker mass, and it seemed to be moving in their direction.  There
was something else, the soft murmur of voices.  "That's the first time
I ever heard a patch of kelp talking.  How about firing a shot across
their bow."

They crawled forward, and Gamay assumed a prone firing position with
her elbows resting on the deck, the pistol clasped in two hands.  Paul
fiddled with a flashlight, but finally got it into position.  When
Gamay gave him the go-ahead, he flicked the light on.  The powerful
beam fell upon the swarthy faces of four men.  They were dressed in
black and were sitting in two kayaks, their wooden paddles frozen in
mid-stroke.  Their almond eyes blinked with surprise in the light.

Crack}.

The first shot shattered the paddle held by the lead man in one boat.
There was a second shot, and a paddle in the second boat flew into
pieces.  The men in the rear of the kayaks back-paddled furiously, and
the others dug their hands into the water to help.  They got the boats
turned around and headed back toward land, but Gamay wasn't about to
let them off so easily.  The boats were almost out of range of the
light when she shot out the other two paddles.

"Good shootin', Annie Oakley," Paul said.

"Good spottin', Dead-Eye Dick.  That should keep them busy for a
while."

The gunfire wasn't loud by itself, but in the stillness of the night it
must have sounded like cannon barrages, because Dr.  Throckmorton and
some of the crew came on deck.

"Oh, hullo," he said, when he saw the Trouts.  "We heard a noise.  My
goodness " he said, spying the pistol in Gamay's hand.

"Just thought I'd do some target practice."

They could hear voices out on the water.  One of the crew went to the
ship's rail and cocked his ear.  "Sounds as if someone needs help. We'd
better get a boat over the side."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Paul said, in his usual soft-spoken
manner but with an unmistakable steeliness in his voice.  "The folks
out there are doing fine on their own."

Throckmorton hesitated, then said to the crewman: "It's all right.  I
want to talk to the Trouts for a moment."

After the others had shuffled back to their cabins, Throckmorton said,
"Now if you wouldn't mind telling me, my friends, exactly what is going
on?"

Gamay said to her husband, "I'll go get some coffee.  It could be a
long night."  Minutes later, she returned with three steaming mugs.  "I
found a bottle of whiskey and poured in a few shots," she said.  "I
thought we might need it."

Taking turns, they laid out their suspicions of the Oceanus plot,
backing them up with evidence gleaned from several sources.

"These are grave charges," Throckmorton said.  "Do you have solid proof
of this outrageous plan?"

"I'd say the proof is that thing in your lab cooler," Gamay said.  "Do
you have any more questions?"

"Yes," Throckmorton said after a moment.  "Do you have any more
whiskey?"

Gamay had thoughtfully stuck the pint in her pocket.  After they
refreshed his coffee and he had taken a sip, Throckmorton said,
"Frederick's affiliations have always bothered me, but I had assumed,
optimistically I suppose, that scientific reason would overrule his
commercial interests in time."

"Let me ask you a question about the premise we're operating

under," Gamay said.  "Would it be possible to destroy the native fish
populations and substitute these Frankenfish?"

"Entirely possible, and if anyone could do it, it would be Dr.  Barker.
This explains so much.  It's still hard to believe Dr.  Barker is with
this bunch.  But he has acted strangely."  He blinked like someone
coming out of a dream.  "Those gunshots I heard.  Someone tried to
board our ship!"

"It would seem so," Gamay said.

"Perhaps it would be better if we moved on and informed the
authorities!"

"We don't know where that shore facility fits into the picture," Gamay
said, with a combination of feminine firmness and reassurance.  "Kurt
thinks it may be important and wants us to keep an eye on it until his
mission is completed."

"Isn't that dangerous to the people on board this ship?"

"Not necessarily," Paul said.  "Just as long as we keep watch.  I'd
suggest that you have the captain get the ship ready for a quick
departure.  But I doubt our friends will come back, now that we've
spoiled the element of surprise."

"All right," Throckmorton said.  He set his jaw in determination.  "But
is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes," Paul said.  He took the whiskey from Gamay and poured
Throckmorton another shot to calm the professor's nerves.  "You can
wait."

THE SOS CREW stumbled blindly through deep woods, with the guards
showing no mercy.  Therri tried to get a better look at their
tormenters, but a guard jammed a gun into her back with such force that
it broke the skin.  Tears of pain ran down her cheeks.  She bit her
lip, stifling the urge to cry out.

The forest was dark, except for lights glowing here and there through
the trees.  Then the trees thinned, and they were standing in front of
a building whose large door was illuminated by an outside floodlight.
They were shoved inside the building, the guards cut the wire binding
their wrists, and the sliding door was slammed shut and locked behind
them.

The air inside smelled of gasoline and there were oil stains on the
floor, evidence that the structure had been built as an oversized
garage.  No vehicles were parked inside, but the garage was far from
empty.  More than three dozen people men, women and a few children
huddled like frightened puppies against the far wall.  Their misery was
etched into their tired faces, and there was no mistaking the terror in
their eyes at the sudden appearance of strangers.

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.

""Nighthawk," 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 Therri'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 others
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 exactly who
Jesse meant when he talked about the 'evil one."  The man swept his
eyes over the new prisoners, sending chills along Therri'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 inspired.
He uttered a guttural command.  The guards shoved Therri, 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 doorway 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 ceiling.  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
movable 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, complete
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 glacier.

Ryan responded as if he hadn't heard the taunt.  "My name is Marcus
Ryan, the director of Sentinels of the Sea.  This is Therri Weld, our
legal counsel, and Chuck Mercer, SOS operations director."

"There's no need to go through the routine of name, rank and serial
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 Frederick
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 Germans
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 anything to
fly aboard a real polar explorer.  When it crashed, my people 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 hydrogen.  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 prisoners 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 intend 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
henchman.  "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 keeping
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 collection 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 regards 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
interesting, though."

The fish in the next tank was even more deformed, its body covered 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 recognized
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.

The Eurocopter carrying Austin, Zavala, Ben Nighthawk and the two
Basques lifted off the Navarras helicopter 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 helicopters
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 detection. 
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 surgical 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 cloud his judgment.

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 ground. 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 distance 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, despite the
infrared sweep.  As the rotors spun to a stop, a silence so complete
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."

Austin had more temporal things on his mind.  "The light's fading. We'd
better get moving."

They rounded up their rucksacks and broke into two groups.  The NUMA
men, Nighthawk and the Aguirrez brothers would be the assault group.
The muscular Basques moved with an air of assurance that suggested they
were no strangers to clandestine missions.

The two pilots, who were also heavily armed, would wait for a call

to provide backup.  Ben led the way into the forest, and they went from
dusk to darkness the second they were under the trees.  Each man except
the last in line carried a small halogen flashlight, which they held
beam-pointed-down as they followed Ben, who moved through the woods as
silently and as swiftly as a woodland wraith.  They traveled between a
walk and a trot for several miles, making good time on the soft carpet
of pine needles, until Ben finally called a halt.  They stood in the
piney darkness, panting with exertion, sweat pouring down their
faces.

Ben cocked his ear, listening.  After a moment, he said, "We're less
than a mile away."

Zavala slipped the shotgun off his shoulder.  "Time to make sure our
powder is dry."

"Don't worry about the guards," Ben said.  "They're all on the
lakeside.  Nobody would expect us to come in this way."  "Why not?"
Zavala replied.

"You'll see.  Make sure you don't get ahead of me," Nighthawk said, and
without another word, he pushed on.  Ten minutes later, Ben slowed his
pace to a walk.  Advising them to proceed with care, he brought the
group to an abrupt halt at the edge of a chasm.  Austin flashed his
light on the steep vertical walls, then pointed it downward toward the
sound of rushing water.  The beam exhausted itself before reaching the
river far below.

"I think I know why there are no guards on this side," Zavala said. "We
took a wrong turn and ended up on the north rim of the Grand Canyon."

"This is called "Dead Man's Leap," " Ben said.  "The people around here
aren't very original when it comes to naming things."  "They make their
point well enough," Austin said.  Zavala looked to the right and the
left.  "Can we detour around this little ditch?"

"We'd have to travel another ten miles through thick forest," Ben said.
"This is the narrowest point.  The lake is a half mile from here."

"I remember an Indiana Jones movie where they crossed a chasm on an
invisible bridge," Zavala said.

"Ask and you shall receive," Austin said, as he removed his backpack.
He unsnapped the flap and pulled out a coil of nylon rope and a compact
folding grapnel.

Zavala's eyes widened.  "You never cease to amaze me, amigo.  Here I
was thinking I was well prepared because I brought a Swiss army knife
with the corkscrew.  I'll bet you have a bottle of fine wine in your
little baggie as well."

Austin produced a pulley and rappelling harness.  "Before you nominate
me for a Boy Scout merit badge, I should confess that Ben told me we'd
have to cross this moat before we scaled the castle walls."

Austin warned everyone to give him room.  He stepped dangerously close
to the rim, whirled the grapnel over his head and let it fly.  The
first try fell short and clanged against the chasm wall.  Two other
tosses landed on the other side but failed to hook on.  On the fourth
throw, the hooks wedged into a cleft between some rocks.  Austin
belayed the other end of the rope to a tree and tested his weight to
see if the grapnel would hold.  Then he attached the pulley and
rappelling harness to the rope, took a deep breath and stepped out into
space.

By the time he reached the other side, he seemed to be moving at Mach
2. A clump of bushes cushioned his landing.  Using a retrieval line,
Zavala pulled the pulley back, attached Austin's backpack and sent it
over.  After the rest of their gear was transported the same way,
Zavala and Ben made the next crossing, then the two Basques followed.

They gathered up their packs and kept on moving through the

woods until they began to see will-o'-the-wisp lights sprinkled among
the trees like the campfires of a gypsy encampment.  They could hear
the muffled sounds of machinery.

Ben brought them to a halt.  "Now you can worry about the guards," he
whispered.

Zavala and the Basques slipped their weapons off their shoulders, and
Austin loosened the flap on his belt holster.  He had studied the
satellite photos of the complex, trying to glean the layout as best he
could even without the dome.  Ben had helped fill in the gaps.

The zeppelin dome lay a short distance from the lake, surrounded by a
network of paved walkways and roads that connected several smaller
buildings hidden in the woods.  He asked Ben to take him to where he
saw the dome.  While the others waited, the Indian led the way through
the woods to the edge of a tarmac path that was lit by low-intensity,
ankle-high lights.  Seeing that the way was clear, they quickly crossed
the tarred path into another patch of woods.

At one point, Ben stopped, then raised his hands like a sleepwalker and
began to move toward the trees barring their way.  He stopped again and
whispered for Austin to do the same.  Austin followed with arms
outstretched until his hands were about to touch the shadowy tree
trunks.  But instead of rough bark, his palm encountered a smooth, cold
surface.  He put his ear against the exterior and heard a low humming.
He backed off and saw the tree trunks again.  Adaptive camouflage has a
great future, he thought.

He and Ben quickly retraced their path and rejoined the others.  Austin
suggested that they investigate the outbuildings.  They would regroup
in fifteen minutes.

"Don't take any wooden Eskimo pies," Zavala said, as he slipped away
into the darkness.

Pablo hesitated.  "What if we're discovered?"

"If you can do so quietly, neutralize anyone who sees you," Austin
said.  "If not, and all hell breaks loose, escape the way we came."

"What about me?"  Ben asked.

"You've done enough leading us here.  Take a rest."

"I can't rest until my family is safe."

Austin didn't blame Ben for wanting to find his family.  "Stay close
behind me."  He drew his Bowen from its holster and waited until the
others had melted into the darkness.  Then he motioned for Ben to
follow, and they struck off along the pathway, sacrificing the cover of
the woods for speed.

They could hear activity from the direction of the lake, but the way
was clear, and before long, they came across a long, low building.  It
was unguarded.

"Shall we?"  Austin said to Ben.  They stepped inside.  The building
was only a storage warehouse.  They made a quick inspection and headed
back to the rendezvous.  Zavala showed up a few minutes later.

"We checked out a warehouse," Austin said.  "Did you find anything
exciting?"

"I wish I hadn't" Zavala said.  "I'm swearing off fish and chips
forever.  I think I hit the Frankenfish mother lode."

He described the strange, deformed creatures that he had seen in the
building he'd investigated.  It took a lot to disrupt Zavala's natural
calm, but from the tone of his voice, he was clearly rattled by the
mutant monsters in the fish tanks.  "Sounds like the things in your
finny freak show constitute the prototype models," Austin said.

He stopped talking at a soft rustling in the woods.  It was only Pablo
returning.  He said that he had found what looked like an empty garage.
Inside there were signs of human habitation, scraps of food, slop
buckets and blankets that might have been used to sleep

on.  He handed Austin an object that made Austin's jaw go hard.  It was
a child's doll.

They waited for Diego to appear, and when he did show up, they saw why
he was late.  He was bent low, carrying a heavy burden across his
shoulders.  He stood up, and an unconscious guard crashed to the
ground.  "You said to neutralize anyone who got in the way, but I
thought this pig might be more useful alive."

"Where did you find him?"

"He was in a barracks for the guards.  Maybe one or two hundred bunks.
This thing was taking a siesta."

"Bet it's the last time he sleeps on the job," Austin said.  He got
down on one knee and flashed his light in the guard's face.  The high
cheekbones and wide mouth were indistinguishable from the other guards
he had seen, except that he had a bruised forehead.  Austin stood and
unscrewed the top of a canteen.  He took a sip, then poured water onto
the guard's face.  The heavy features stirred and the eyes fluttered
open.  They widened when they saw the guns pointed at his head.

"Where are the prisoners?"  Austin said.  He held the doll out so the
guard could see what he wanted.

The man's lips spread wide in a mirthless grin, and the dark eyes
seemed to glow like fanned coals.  He snarled something in an
incomprehensible language.  Diego added a little persuasion, putting
his boot on the man's crotch and placing the muzzle between the fierce
eyes.  The grin vanished, but it was clear to Austin that the guard was
bound by a fanaticism that would withstand all the threats and pain
that could be brought to bear.

Diego saw that he was getting nowhere, and switched around, putting his
foot on the man's face and his gun jammed into the man's crotch.  The
man's eyes widened and he mumbled something in his language.

"Speak English," Diego said, and jammed the gun harder.

The guard caught his breath.  "The lake," he gasped.  "In the lake."

Diego smiled.  "Even a pig wants to keep his cojones," he said.

He removed the gun, turned it around and slammed the butt down.  There
was a sickening hollow sound, and the guard's head lolled like that of
the doll still clutched in Austin's hand.

Austin flinched, but he had no sympathy for the guard.  He was too busy
pondering the frightful possibilities for the prisoners.  "Sweet
dreams," he said with a shrug.

"Lead the way," Pablo said.

"Since we're slightly outnumbered, this may be a good time to call in
the reserves," Zavala said.

Pablo unclipped the radio from his belt and ordered the SeaCobra pilot
to hover a mile away.  Austin tucked the doll inside his shirt.  Then,
with the others following, he hurried in the direction of the lake,
determined to return the doll to its rightful owner.

WHEN THE GUARDS had burst into the garage prison brandishing
truncheons, Marcus Ryan was huddled with Jesse Nighthawk.  He had been
probing the Indian's knowledge of the forest so that he could put
together an escape plan.  Ryan's hopes were dashed as the guards, at
least two dozen of them, clubbed the prisoners at random.  Most of the
Indians were used to the sporadic beatings aimed to discourage
resistance, and they cowered against the far wall.  But Ryan was slow
to move, and blows rained down on his shoulders and head.

Therri had been playing with a little girl named Rachael, when the door
burst open and the makeshift prison was suddenly filled with shouts and
swinging clubs.  Rachael was about five years old, the youngest child
in the group, and like many of the villagers, she was part of Ben's
extended family.  Therri stepped between one of the at

tackers and the little girl, and braced herself for the blow to come.
The guard froze, confused at the unexpected show of defiance.  Then he
laughed and lowered his upraised club.  He glared at Therri with
pitiless eyes.  "For that, you and the girl will go first."

He called out to one of his companions, who grabbed Therri by the hair.
She was pushed facedown onto the floor, and a club was pressed across
the back of her neck.  Her hands were bound behind her back with wire
that cut painfully into her wrists.  Then she was pulled to her feet
and saw Marcus and Chuck, whose heads were bloodied from the club
blows.

When all the prisoners had been trussed like hogs, the guards herded
them through the doorway and marched them through the woods.  They
walked through the woods for several minutes, until the dull sheen of
the lake was visible through the trees.  Although it seemed like
several days, only a few hours had passed since they had been
captured.

They were shoved into a shed near the lake and left alone.  They stood
in the darkened building, the children whimpering, the older people
trying to comfort the younger ones with their stoic attitude.  The fear
of the unknown was even more torturous than being beaten.  Then there
was a commotion at the door, which opened to admit Barker, surrounded
by a contingent of his inscrutable guards.  He had removed his
sunglasses, and Therri saw the strangely pale eyes for the first time.
They were the color of a rattlesnake belly, she thought.  Some of the
guards carried blazing torches, and Barker's eyes seemed to glitter in
the flickering light.  His face was wreathed in a satanic smile.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said, with the geniality of a
tour guide.  "Thank you for coming.  Within a few minutes, I will rise
high above this place on the first phase of a journey into the future. 
I wish to thank you all for helping to get this project launched.  To
those of you from SOS, I wish you'd been in my hands earlier, so that
by the sweat of your labor you would come to appreciate the brilliance
of this plan."

Ryan had regained his composure.  "Cut the crap.  What do you intend to
do with us?"

Barker surveyed Ryan's bloodied face as if he were seeing it for the
first time.  "Why, Mr.  Ryan, you're looking a little rumpled these
days.  Not your usual blow-dried self."

"You haven't answered my question."

"To the contrary, I answered it when you were first brought to me.  I
said you and your friends would remain alive as long as I found you
useful."  He smiled again.  "I no longer find you useful.  I'm having
the air dome lit up for your entertainment.  It will be the last thing
your dying brain will record."

The words chilled Therri to the bone.  "What about the children?"  she
said.

"What about them?"  Barker's icy gaze swept the prisoners as if
surveying cattle being led to slaughter.  "Do you think I care for any
one of you, young or old?  You are nothing more to me than snow-flakes.
You'll all be forgotten once the world learns that an insignificant
Eskimo tribe controls a significant portion of the ocean.  Sorry I
can't stay.  Our timetable is very precise."

He spun on his heel and disappeared into the night.  The prisoners were
rounded up and herded outside and toward the lake.  Moments later,
their steps echoed on the long wooden pier.  The dock was in darkness,
except for the lights on what looked like a barge, only with a
catamaran hull.  As they moved closer, Therri saw that a conveyor belt,
flush with the deck, led from a bin in the bow to a wide chute at the
stern end.  She surmised that the strange craft must be

used as a moveable feeding station.  The feed went into the bin, and
was transported via the belt and dumped into the fish cages through the
chute.  An awful thought came to her, and she yelled a warning:

"They're going to drown us!"

Marcus and Chuck had seen the barge as well, and at her words, they
struggled against their captors.  All they got for their trouble were
club blows that took the fight out of them.  Rough hands grabbed Therri
and pushed her onto the barge.  She stumbled and crashed onto the deck.
She managed to twist her body so that she didn't come down face first
on the hard surface, and most of the shock was absorbed at great
painful cost by her right arm.  Her knee hurt like hell, too.  She
didn't have time to dwell on her injuries.  Duct tape was slapped
across her mouth so she couldn't cry out.  Then her ankles were bound,
a heavy weight was tied onto her wrist bindings, and she was dragged
along to the end of the barge and stretched crosswise across the
belt.

She felt another, smaller body against hers.  She looked over, and to
her horror she saw that the next victim in line was Rachael, the little
girl she had befriended.  Then came the SOS men and the other
prisoners.  The preparations for multiple murder went on until all the
prisoners were laid across the belt like cordwood.  Then the barge's
inboard motors rumbled into life.

The lines were cast off the pier and the barge began to move.  Therri
couldn't see where they were going, but she managed to turn to face the
child and tried to comfort the girl with her eyes, although she was
sure they were filled with terror.  In the distance, she could see the
light from the dome rising above the trees, as Barker had promised. She
vowed that if she ever got the chance, she would kill him personally.

The motors went for only a short while, then they cut out and

there was the splash of an anchor in the water.  Therri struggled
against her bindings, to no avail.  She tensed, preparing for the
worst.  It came a minute later, when the motor that powered the
conveyor belt started.  The belt began to move, carrying her closer to
the lip of the chute and to the cold dark water beyond.

AUSTIN HAD LED his ragtag assault group through the woods, skirting the
darkened plaza, using the dimly lit footpath visible through the trees
as a rough guide.  He moved slowly and with great deliberation, making
sure his path was free of twigs and branches before he put his full
weight on his advancing foot.

The slow pace was maddening, but while they had seen no one since
encountering the guard, Austin had the creepy feeling that they were
not alone.  His instincts were vindicated when the airship dome lit up
like a giant lightbulb and a low roar arose from the plaza.

Austin and the others froze like living statues.  Then a delayed
reaction set in and they hit the ground belly-first, their weapons
cocked and ready to repel an assault.  The hail of bullets they
expected never came.  Instead, the roar grew in intensity and volume
and flowed around them in a vast rushing river of sound.  The noise
came from the mouths of hundreds of Kiolya men, their broad, upturned
faces

cast in bluish light, zombie eyes transfixed on Barker, who stood on a
raised dais in front of the dome.

Then came the monotonous chorus of a dozen tom-toms ringing in the
plaza, and the crowd began to chant:

"Toonook ... Toonook ... Toonook ..."

Barker bathed in the adulation, letting it wash over him, drinking it
in as if it were an elixir before he raised his arms to the sky.  Then
the chanting and the drumbeat stopped as if a switch had been pulled.
Barker began to speak in a strange tongue that had its origins beyond
the far reaches of the aurora borealis.  He started speaking slowly,
his voice growing in power.

Zavala crawled up beside Austin.  "What's going on?"

"Looks like our friend is having a high school pep rally."

"Ugh.  Those cheerleaders wouldn't win any beauty contests," Zavala
said.

Austin stared through the trees, mesmerized by the barbaric spectacle.
As Ben had said, the dome actually did resemble a huge igloo.  Barker
was doing them a favor by whipping his gang of cutthroats into a
murderous frenzy.  With all its attention focused on their leader,
Barker's private army would hardly notice a handful of intruders
sneaking through the woods.  Austin scrambled to his feet and signaled
to the others to do the same.  Crouching low, they made their way
through the forest until at last they broke into the open at the edge
of the lake.

The area around the dock seemed to be deserted.  Austin assumed that
all of Barker's men had been summoned back to the big igloo for their
leader's command performance.  He wasn't about to take any chances,
though.  The shed near the dock was large enough to harbor dozens of
assassins.  He edged along one side of the building and peered around
the corner.  The shed's twin doors facing the water were wide open, as
if the last person out had been in a hurry.

With Zavala and the Basques keeping watch, Austin stepped inside and
flashed his light around.  The shed was empty, except for some lines,
anchors, buoys and other boating paraphernalia.  After a quick glance
around, he was about to leave, when Ben, who had followed him inside,
said, "Wait."

The Indian pointed to the concrete floor.  All Austin saw were mounds
of dirt tracked in by those using the building.  Ben got down on one
knee, and with his finger, traced the small footprint of a child.
Austin's eyes hardened, and he strode back outside to find Zavala and
the Aguirrez brothers staring at some lights that were moving in the
lake.  Austin thought he heard the sound of a motor.  He couldn't be
sure, because the sound of Barker's voice was still being carried on
the wind.  He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of
night-vision goggles, which he put to his eyes.  "It's some sort of
boat.  Square-built with low sides."

He handed the goggles to Ben, who peered through the lenses and said,
"That's the catamaran I saw the first time I was here."

"I don't recall you mentioning it."

"Sorry.  There was so much happening that night.  When Josh Green and I
brought my canoe in, we saw it tied up to the dock.  Didn't seem
important at the time."

"It could be very important.  Tell me about it."

Ben shrugged.  "I'd say it was more than fifty feet long.  Kind of a
barge, but with a catamaran hull.  A conveyor belt a couple of yards
across ran down the center from a big bin at the bow back to the stern,
which slopes down.  We figured it was used to feed the fish."

"Feed the fish," Austin murmured.

"You remember what I told you about the fish cages I saw."

Austin wasn't thinking about fish in cages.  Ben's words had conjured
up the Mafia cliche associated with concrete overshoes and a trip to
the bottom of the East River.  He cursed as he recalled the

nasty habit that had got the Kiolya in trouble with its neighbor
tribes.  Barker had cooked up a mass human sacrifice to go along with
his send-off.

Austin trotted to the end of the dock.  He stopped and squinted through
the night-vision goggles again.  With Ben's description running through
his mind, he had a better understanding of what he was seeing.  The
low-slung craft was moving slowly and had almost reached the middle of
the lake.  In the illumination cast by the running lights, he could see
people moving around the deck.  He couldn't tell what they were up to,
but he had a good idea.

Pablo had followed him.  "What is it?"  he said, looking out at the
lights reflected in the water.

"Trouble," Austin replied.  "Call in the SeaCobra."  Pablo unclipped the
radio from his belt and barked an order in Spanish.

"They're on their way," he said.  "What do you want them to do when
they get here?"

"Tell them to thaw out that big igloo for starters."  Pablo smiled and
relayed the order.

Austin called Zavala over and they talked briefly.  While Zavala set
off along the pier, Austin got the others together.  "I want you to
head for Ben's village on the far side of the lake.  Wait for us there.
If things get too hot after the fireworks start, lose yourselves in the
woods."  "Are those my people out there on the barge?"  Ben said
anxiously.  "I think so.  Joe and I will take a closer look."  "I want
to go."

"I know you do.  But we're going to need your knowledge of the forest
to get us out of here."  Seeing the stubborn set to Ben's jaw, he
added: "The danger to your people becomes greater with every second we
spend talking."

The rumble of a motor came from where Zavala had been at work

on one of the boats tied up at the dock.  Barker's men had taken no
chances after Ben's last visit, and there were no keys left in the
ignition, but Zavala could take a marine engine apart in his sleep.
Moments later, the husky power plant of a Jet Ski could be heard
purring.  Zavala came back to where the others were standing.  "I knew
my Swiss army knife would come in handy," he said.

Austin glanced anxiously out into the lake, then climbed down from the
pier onto the Jet Ski.  Zavala got on behind to ride shotgun,
literally.  Austin pushed off from the pier and twisted the throttle,
and seconds later, the Jet Ski was scudding across the lake at fifty
miles per hour in pursuit of the distant lights.

Austin was ambivalent about personal watercraft.  They were noisy
polluters with no purpose beyond disturbing beachgoers, wildlife and
sailboats.  At the same time, he had to admit, riding a Jet Ski was
like tearing around on a waterborne motorcycle.  Within minutes, he
could see the outlines of the catamaran without the use of the night
goggles.  The barge seemed to have stopped.  Those aboard the craft
heard the sound of the fast-approaching watercraft and saw the foamy
rooster tail it was creating in its wake.  A spotlight blinked on.

Temporarily blinded by the bright light, Austin ducked low over the
handlebars, knowing that his reaction came too late.  He had hoped to
get close to the barge before being discovered.  Even the shortest
glimpse of his Caucasian features and pale hair would have identified
him as a stranger, and by definition, as the enemy.  He put the Jet Ski
into a sharp turn that kicked up a wall of foam.  The light found them
within seconds.  Austin swerved in the opposite direction, not knowing
how long he could keep up the water acrobatics, or even if the slalom
turns would do any good.  He yelled over his shoulder.

"Can you douse that light?"

"Keep this thing steady and I will," Zavala shouted back.

Austin obliged by slowing the Jet Ski and putting it broadside to

the catamaran.  He knew he was giving those on board an easy shot, but
felt he had to risk it.  Zavala raised his shotgun to his shoulder and
squeezed the trigger.  The gun boomed.  The light stayed on, and the
beam found them again.  Ears still ringing from the first blast, Austin
felt rather than heard the second shot.  The light blinked out.

The men on the boat broke out their flashlights.  Soon, thin beams
probed the darkness, and Austin could hear the rattle and snap of
small-arms fire.  By then, he was outside the range of the lights,
keeping the Jet Ski at a low speed so its wake wouldn't be so obvious.
They could hear the bullets ripping up nearby sections of water.  The
catamaran had pulled anchor and was moving again.

Austin was certain that the encounter had not delayed the evil task of
those on board, but only hastened it.  He suspected that if he tried to
pull the boat over like a traffic cop, he and Zavala would end up with
more holes than a sieve.  Precious seconds went by as he scoured his
brains.  He recalled what Ben had said about the catamaran, and an idea
came to him.  He outlined his plan to Zavala.  "I'm starting to worry,"
Zavala said.  "I don't blame you.  I know it's risky."

"You don't understand.  I like the plan.  That's what worries me."
"I'll make an appointment with a NUMA shrink when we get back.  See if
you can soften up the opposition in the meantime."

Zavala nodded and leveled his shotgun at a figure of a man who had the
bad judgment to stand where he was silhouetted by the running lights.
The shotgun thundered and the man threw his arms up and disappeared
from view like a duck in a shooting gallery.

Austin throttled up, and seconds later, when a fusillade from the boat
lacerated the surface of the lake, he was well away from the spot.  The
shotgun thundered and another body toppled over.  The men aboard the
barge finally figured out that they were easy targets and

doused the running lights.  It was exactly the reaction Austin had
counted on.

The catamaran was starting to pick up speed.  Austin ran the Jet Ski
parallel to the barge for a moment, then circled around until he was a
couple of hundred yards astern.  Eyes riveted on the twin wakes ahead,
he accelerated the Jet Ski.  He aimed directly off to one side of the
stern and cut power at the last second.

The front of the Jet Ski hit the catamaran's stern with a loud and
hollow thump, then the watercraft made a horrible scraping noise as it
slid up and onto the sloping deck.  A crewman who had heard the
approaching watercraft stood in the stern with his machine pistol at
the ready.  The Jet Ski's rounded bow slammed into his legs.  There was
the audible snap of bone, and he was catapulted halfway down the length
of the deck.  Zavala had rolled off before the Jet Ski had come to a
stop.  Austin dismounted and yanked the Bowen from its holster.

The Jet Ski had skidded so that it was sideways on the deck, offering
them some protection.  Austin drew a quick bead on a figure moving in
the darkness and fired off a shot.  He missed, but the muzzle flash
illuminated a horrifying sight.  Bodies he couldn't tell if they were
alive or dead in the dark were lined up crosswise on the conveyor belt
and were slowly moving toward the stern, where they would slide down a
chute into the lake.

He yelled at Zavala to cover him.  The shotgun fired off three shots in
rapid succession.  From the screams at the other end of the boat, one
or more rounds found their deadly mark.  Austin holstered his revolver,
launched himself at the nearest struggling form and pulled it off the
belt.  Another, smaller body took its place on the nightmarish assembly
line.  Austin pulled it aside out of harm's way and saw that it was a
child.

More bodies were coming at him.  He wondered how long he could pull
them to safety, but he was determined to try.  He grabbed another by
the legs.  From the weight, he guessed that it was a man, and he
grunted with exertion as he pulled him to safety.  He had his hands
around the ankles of another, when the belt stopped.  He stood up.
Sweat poured down his face, and he was breathing hard.  He felt a
twinge of pain from his old chest wound.  He looked up and saw a figure
holding a flashlight coming his way.  The Bowen filled Austin's hand.

"Don't shoot, amigo," came the familiar voice of his partner.

Austin lowered the Bowen.  "I thought you were covering me."

"I was.  Then there was nothing left to cover you from.  After I nailed
a couple of guys, the rest of them jumped ship.  I found the off switch
on the belt controls."

The first body Austin had pulled from an almost certain death was
making muffled sounds behind the duct tape.  Austin borrowed the
flashlight and found himself looking into the unmistakable gentian eyes
of Therri Weld.  He carefully stripped the duct tape from her mouth,
then freed her hands and feet.  She gave him a quick thanks, then freed
the little girl who had almost been her companion in death.  Austin
handed over the doll, and the girl hugged it in a crushing embrace.

Working together, they quickly freed the others.  Ryan beamed his smile
at Austin and started to shower him with praise.  Austin had had enough
of the egotistic activist.  He was angry at Ryan for getting in the way
of the rescue and for risking Therri's life.  A wrong look from Ryan
and he would have thrown him overboard.

"Just shut up for now," he said.

Ryan saw that Austin was in a no-nonsense mood, and he clamped his lips
together.

The last prisoners were being freed, when Austin heard a boat

motor.  He grabbed for his Bowen, and he and Zavala crouched behind the
rail.  They heard the boat shut its motor down and bump against the
hull.  Austin stood and flicked on the light.  The bull's-eye fell on
the anxious face of Ben Nighthawk.

"Come ahead," Austin yelled out.  "Everyone's okay here."

A look of relief crossed Ben's face.  He and the Aguirrez brothers
climbed onto the catamaran.  Pablo was bent over and seemed to be
having some problems moving, and the other men had to help him.  The
Basque's sleeve was stained with blood above the elbow.

"What happened?"  Austin said.

Diego smiled and said, "While you were out here, some of the guards saw
us taking their boat and wanted us to pay rent.  We gave them what we
had.  Pablo was wounded, but we killed the pigs."  He looked around the
boat and saw at least three bodies.  "I see you have been busy, too."

"Busier than I would have liked."  Austin glanced toward the dock,
where lights were moving about.  "Looks like you stirred up a hornets'
nest."

"A very big hornets' nest," Pablo replied.  He looked up at the
thut-thut sound of a helicopter.  "But we have stingers as well."

Austin saw a flitting shadow against the blue-blackness of the night
sky.  The SeaCobra had arrived in the nick of time.  It flew like an
arrow toward land.  As it drew near Barker's complex, it slowed and,
instead of unleashing the expected destruction on the igloo, went into
a circle.  It was searching for its target and not finding it.  The
igloo's camouflage had been turned on, and the huge building blended in
with the dark forest.

It was a fatal moment of indecision.  Searchlights illuminated the
helicopter like a German bomber in the London blitzkrieg.  Seeing that
they had been discovered, the helicopter crew launched a missile at the
plaza.  Too late.  The missile smashed into the plaza and

killed a handful of Barker's men, but at the same time, a streak of
light shot upward.  The heat-seeking ground-to-air missile couldn't
miss at such close range.  It zeroed in on the helicopter's exhaust.
There was a brilliant flash of hot yellow and red light, and the
chopper fell in fiery, sizzling pieces into the lake.

It happened so fast that the people watching from the catamaran could
hardly believe what they saw.  It was as if the cavalry had come to the
rescue, only to be wiped out in an Indian ambush.  Even Austin, who
knew the tide of battle could turn in an instant, was in a state of
shock, but he quickly got over it.  There was no time to waste.
Barker's murderous myrmidons could be on them within minutes.  He
called Ben over and told him to ferry those on board to land, where
they could hide in the woods.

Ryan came over and said, "Look, I'm sorry about all this, but I do owe
you again."

"This one's on the house, but the next time you get into trouble,
you're on your own."

"Maybe I can repay you by lending a hand."

"Maybe you can repay me by getting your butt out of here.  Make sure
Therri and the others make it safely to shore."

"And what are you going to do?"  Therri said.  She had come up behind
Ryan.

"I intend to have a few words with Dr.  Barker, or Toonook."

She stared at him in disbelief.  "Now who's being reckless.  You're the
one who scolded me for putting myself in needless danger.  He and his
men will kill you."

"You're not getting out of our dinner date that easily."

"Dinner?  How can you think about such a thing with all this insanity
going on?  You're crazy!"

"I'm quite sane, but I'm determined to get through a romantic meal for
two without interruption."

face softened and a faint smile came to her lips.  "I'd like that,
too.  So be careful."

He kissed her lightly on the mouth.  Then he and Zavala pushed the Jet
Ski back into the water.  It had suffered a few dents and bullet holes
during the rescue assault on the catamaran, but the motor was in fine
shape and Zavala had no trouble getting it running again.  As Austin
pointed the watercraft back toward the vortex of violence, he realized
that he didn't know what he was going to do when he finally met up with
Dr.  Barker.  But he was certain he'd come up with something.

Austin and Zavala landed on the beach a few hundred yards from the dock
and made their way back toward the plaza, where Barker had addressed
his gang of thugs.  The plaza was empty.  Many of the defenders had
scattered into the forest when the helicopter attacked.  Austin and
Zavala made their way around a crater and several bodies.

With its electronic camouflage in use, the dome itself was invisible,
but light streamed from a slim rectangular opening in the forest where
the portal had been left open.  No one barred the way as Austin and
Zavala stepped inside and got their first breathtaking glance of the
huge silver torpedo that filled most of the hangar.  Powerful
floodlights reflected off the zeppelin's shiny aluminum skin, leaving
the Perimeter of the dome in darkness.  They slipped into the shadows
and hid behind a scaffold on wheels, where they had a good view of the
scene.

The men scurrying around the zeppelin, apparently making last minute
preparations for take-off, lent scale to the gigantic aircraft.

^unch crews strained at the anchor lines like contestants engaged in a
tug-of-war game.  High above, the dome's roof was slowly opening and
stars were visible through the gap.  Austin ran his eyes along
the zeppelin's length, coolly taking in every detail, from the blunt
nose to the tapering tail, his gaze lingering for a second on the
triangular top fin and the word Nietzsche.  The airship was a beautiful
example of form following function, but aesthetics were secondary in
his mind.

The control cabin was only a few feet above the floor, but it was
surrounded by guards.  He surveyed the airship again and saw what he
was looking for.  He pointed to the nearest engine nacelle and quickly
outlined his idea to Zavala, who nodded and gave him the okay sign,
signifying he understood.  Zavala radioed Diego that they were boarding
the airship.  The roof opening was almost big enough to let the airship
through.  In another few seconds, the launch crews would begin to let
up the slack on the anchor lines.

The zeppelin rested on tapering supports that resembled old-fashioned
oil derricks.  Other towers were arranged closer to the aircraft.  With
Zavala close on his heels, Austin made his way from tower to tower,
finally reaching two scaffolds that supported the starboard rear
nacelle.  He glanced around.  The crews were still intent on keeping
the zeppelin down as it strained against the anchor lines.  Satisfied
that they had not been seen, he climbed to the top of the tower.

The egg-shaped engine housing was about the size of an SUV and attached
to the fuselage by metal struts.  The spinning propeller was the height
of two men.  Austin grabbed onto a strut and pulled himself onto the
top of the nacelle.  He could feel the vibration from the powerful
engine through the soles of his boots.  As the propeller picked up
speed, it created a backwash, and he had to hold on tightly to prevent
being blown off.  He reached down to lend a hand to Zavala, who was
still scrambling onto the engine housing, when the launch crew slacked
the lines and the zeppelin began to rise.  Zavala's legs dangled as he
tried to get a foot up on the rounded side of the

nacelle.  Holding on with one hand, Austin used the considerable
strength in his shoulders to give Zavala the lift he needed.

By then, the zeppelin was halfway to the roof.  From their position
atop the nacelle, they were shielded from eyes below.  But the prop
wash was picking up, and it was becoming harder to hold on to the
slick, rounded surface.  Austin looked up and saw a rectangular opening
where the struts disappeared into the fuselage.  He yelled at Zavala,
but his words were blown away by the wind, so he simply pointed. Zavala
answered, and although Austin couldn't hear his partner's reply, he was
sure Joe was saying, "After you."

Austin began to climb.  The strut had been made with ladder rungs to
allow an engineer access to the engine pod for midair repairs.  With
the prop turning and the zeppelin rising, the journey of several feet
was the ultimate challenge.  Austin's progress wasn't pretty, but he
made it through the rectangular opening in the zeppelin's belly.

Once out of the main force of the prop wash, he hung on the ladder and
looked back.  Zavala was right behind him.  The zeppelin had risen
through the top of the dome, and the doors in the roof were closing.
The people in the dome looked to be the size of ants.-By the time
Zavala made it into the fuselage, the dome was closed completely.
Having made their decision to stow away, he and Zavala had no other
choice.  They began to climb into the darkness.

THE NiETZSCHE WAS a miracle of aeronautical design.  Twice as long as a
Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet, it had been built in an age before computers and
space-age materials.  The Nietzsche had been modeled after the Graf
Zeppelin, the 776-foot-long silver cigar built in 1928 by airship
pioneer Hugo Eckener, but innovations that would later be part of the
Hindenburg had also been incorporated into the design.  In the Graf,
passenger quarters were behind the control room.  But the Nietzsche had
been designed with living space within the fuselage itself.

Once inside the fuselage, Austin and Zavala found themselves in a small
room, after their perilous climb from the nacelle.  Hanging on the wall
were machinists' tools and spare parts and long black leather coats
like those favored by aviators of a bygone era.  The room was

unheated, and the coats would come in handy for those who worked there.
Austin tried a coat on and found that it fit.

"You look like the Red Baron," Zavala said.

Austin slipped a leather cap down on his head.  "I prefer to think of
myself as a master of disguise."  Seeing the skepticism in his
partner's face, Austin said: "Maybe you've noticed that we're somewhat
different in appearance from the Eskimo gentlemen we've seen on this
little adventure.  If these ridiculous outfits give us a second's edge,
they might be worth it."

"The sacrifices I make for NUMA," Zavala said, searching for a coat
that fit him.

The room's single door opened onto a long corridor.  The walls of the
plushly carpeted passageway were decorated with fanciful scenes of men
in top hats flying a variety of odd-shaped hot-air balloons and flying
machines.  Antique crystal lamps hung from the ceiling.  At the end of
the corridor was a passenger area of comfortably appointed staterooms,
each with two berths and its own unique pattern of flowery wallpaper.

A short walk led to an elegant dining salon.  There were about a dozen
small rectangular tables, each covered with a white tablecloth, neatly
creased napkins set in place.  Two upholstered chairs with mahogany
arms and legs were pulled slightly back from each table, as if guests
were to arrive momentarily.

Tall curtained windows would have given the diners a God's-eye view of
the world below.  Next to the dining room was a lounge, complete with
bar and bandstand, and a dance floor of highly polished wood.  Like the
dining salon, the lounge was decorated in Art Deco motif.  Geometric
patterns prevailed.  The wall behind the bar was an art gallery of
zeppelin photos.

The lounge was hushed except for the muted rumble of engines.

Zavala looked around in wonder.  "This is like being on an old ocean
liner."

"Just pray that it isn't the Titanic," Austin said.  Austin led the way
toward a room furnished with leather sofas and chairs.  His knowledge
of German was limited, but he guessed that the sign on the wall
designated the area as the smoking room.  They left the room and
followed another corridor that led to an expansive space that seemed to
be a work area.  They could see a large functional table illuminated by
halogen lamps, computers and several chairs that were designed more for
function than comfort.  Part of the room was in shadow.  Austin found a
wall light switch and flicked it on.  The entire room was flooded with
light, and both men tensed when they discovered that they were not
alone.  Two figures stood against the far wall, and Zavala swore in
Spanish.  Out of the corner of his eye, Austin saw the shotgun coming
to bear.  "Wait!"  he said.

Zavala lowered the gun and smiled as he studied the figures.  He was
looking at the mummified bodies of two men, propped up on metal stands.
They stood in a natural position, arms hanging down by their sides.
Their skin was as dark as leather and stretched tightly against their
skulls.  The eye sockets were empty, but the faces were remarkably well
preserved.  Austin and Zavala moved in for a closer look.

Zavala said, "I don't think these guys are the Blues Brothers."  "I
don't think they're brothers at all.  Judging from their clothing, I'd
say they come from different eras."

One man was dressed in a heavy shirt and leggings of coarse material.
His dark hair hung down to his shoulders.  The taller man had short
blond hair and wore a pre World War II leather coat, not unlike the
ones Austin and Zavala were wearing.  Hanging above

the mummies was a large, ragged-edged piece of aluminum.  The word
Nietzsche was printed on it.

Next to the mummies was a glass display case like those found in
museums.  Inside the case were a Leica 35mm still camera and several
lenses, a Zeiss movie camera, charts of the northern hemisphere and a
leather-bound book.  Austin opened the case and leafed through the
pages of the book.  It was filled with entries in German, stopping in
1935.  He stuffed the book into his pocket.  He was examining a display
of Eskimo harpoons and knives, when Zavala called him over.

"Kurt.  You've got to see this."

Zavala had wandered over to the long ebony chest that rested on a
waist-high platform.  On top of the chest was a horn that looked as if
it had been made from an elephant's tusk.  The instrument was studded
with gems and banded in gold.  Austin carefully removed the horn and
handed it to Zavala, who marveled at the detail of the battle scenes
carved into the ivory.

Austin opened the chest and pushed back the lid.  Lying on purple
velvet inside the chest was a sword in its scabbard.  He lifted the
leather scabbard from the chest and inspected the gold-clad hilt and
hand guard.  Set into the heavy triangular pommel was a huge ruby.  The
elaborate hand guard was etched with flowers.  He mused at the
incongruity of the beautiful decoration on a weapon with such deadly
potential.

He hefted the two-edged sword, feeling the perfect balance, then
gingerly drew the weapon from the scabbard.  An electric thrill seemed
to run through his arm.  Could this be Durendal, the fabled weapon that
Roland swung against the Saracens?  The blade was chipped here and
there.  A picture flitted through his mind of Roland bamging the sword
against a stone so that it wouldn't fall into the hands of the enemy.

Zavala whistled.  "That thing must be worth a fortune."  Austin thought
about all the time and money Balthazar Aguirrez had expended in his
search for the object in his hand.  "It's worth a lot more than that,"
he said.

He removed his coat and buckled the scabbard around his waist.  He took
a few steps as an experiment and found that the scabbard slapped
against his leg.  The thick leather belt hindered access to his
revolver holster as well.  He tried another position, slipping the
scabbard belt over his shoulder so that the sword hung down by his left
side.  Then he got back into his coat.

"Planning to do some fencing?"  Zavala said.  "Maybe.  You must admit
it beats your army knife."  "My knife has a corkscrew," Zavala reminded
him.  "What about the overgrown bugle?"

"We'd better put it back.  I don't want to advertise the fact that I've
absconded with the toothpick under my coat."

They carefully replaced the horn the way it was found and moved to the
other side of the room, where a map of the world was spread out on the
worktable.  Austin bent over the map and saw that coastal areas on all
the continents were blocked out in red pen.  Noted next to each red
section was a date and a listing of various species of fish.  A large
star marked the lake site where they had boarded the airship.  He drew
his finger from the star along a pencil line due east into the North
Atlantic.  The notation above the line was that day's date.

He straightened and said, "We've got to stop this ship before it gets
to the Atlantic.  This isn't a test run."

"Fine with me.  I might point out that this thing is almost a thousand
feet long and full of heavily armed thugs who might have other
ideas."

"We don't have to take over the whole ship, just the control cabin."

"Why didn't you say so?  It's as good as done."

"Think you can fly this old gasbag?"

"Can't be that hard," Zavala said.  "You hit the throttle and point the
nose where you want to go."

Despite the casual reply, Austin never doubted Zavala's words.  His
partner had hundreds of hours under his belt flying practically every
aircraft built.  Austin tried to picture where they were in the
zeppelin.  He guessed that they were about midway along the length of
the great airship.  If they kept moving forward and down, they would
come to the control cabin.

They left the room and its strange museum display and followed a maze
of passageways totally unlike those they had encountered when they
first came aboard.  Their surroundings were newer and more functional.
They came to a set of stairs leading down.  Austin thought they had
come to the control cabin, but he changed his mind when his nose picked
up a whiff of brine and fish.  He was reminded uncomfortably of his
first breath inside the Oceanus fish nursery in the Faroe Islands.

He hesitated at the top of the stairs, drew his Bowen, and slowly
descended into the blackness below.  His ears picked up the sound of
motors and bubbling aerators, further convincing him that his
fish-nursery theory was correct.  He was about halfway down the stairs,
when the lights went on and he saw that he had more than bio fish to
contend with.

Dr.  Barker stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him, a
cheerful smile on his thin face.  His eyes were hidden behind dark
sunglasses.

"Hello, Mr.  Austin," Barker said.  "We've been expecting you.  Won't
you join us?"

Any inclination to refuse Barker's offer was tempered by the sight

of the stone-faced guards who surrounded the man, and the assault rifle
muzzles pointed up the stairwell.  The touch of a finger on even a
single trigger would be enough to reduce Austin and Zavala to their
basic molecules.  Even more persuasive was the expression on the face
of Barker's scar faced henchman, who had tried on several occasions to
kill Austin.  His liver-colored lips were stretched in a wide grin that
told Austin he was still the top target in the man's sights.

"I would be a fool to refuse such a warm invitation," Austin said, as
he descended the rest of the way.

"Now drop your guns and kick them over," Barker said.

Austin and Zavala did as they were told.  The guards picked the weapons
up.  One man came over and frisked Zavala.  Scarface stepped up to
Austin and ran his hands roughly down the front of the leather coat.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you die," he growled.

Durendal seemed to glow red hot against Austin's ribs.  "I know a
dentist who could do wonders for your teeth," he said.

Scarface stopped his search and grabbed Austin's lapel in a choking
hold, only to back off at an order from Barker.

"That's no way to treat our guests," Barker said.  Turning to Joe, he
said, "You're Mr.  Zavala, I presume?"

Zavala's mouth turned up slightly at the ends, and the softness of his
dark brown eyes couldn't disguise the contempt in his voice.  "And
you're Dr.  Barker, the mad scientist, I presume.  Kurt has told me a
lot about you."

"All good, I'm sure," Barker said.  He seemed amused as he glanced back
to Austin.  "Are you gentlemen on your way to a costume ball?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact.  If you don't mind, we'll be on our way,"
Austin said.

"Don't run off so soon.  You just got here."

"If you insist.  We'd like to lower our hands, if you don't mind."

"Go right ahead, but don't give my men an excuse to kill you on the
spot."

"Thanks for the warning."  Austin glanced around.  "How did you know we
were aboard, hidden surveillance cameras?"

"Nothing so sophisticated in this old relic.  Purely as a safety
measure, we installed sensors around the ship.  A light in the control
cabin indicated a change in air temperature in the starboard
engine-maintenance room.  When we went to investigate, we found the
hatch open.  We thought it was an accident until we noticed that the
coats were missing."

"How careless of us."

"It's the kind of carelessness that can get you killed.  That was a
dangerous way to come aboard.  If you wanted a tour, we would have been
glad to accommodate you."

"Maybe next time."

"There won't be a next time."  Barker stepped forward and removed his
sunglasses, revealing the pale eyes Austin had first seen at the
Smithsonian reception.  The irises were almost as white as the rest of
his eyes and reminded Austin of a venomous snake he had once seen. "You
and NUMA have caused me a great deal of trouble," Barker said.

"Your troubles are just beginning," Austin said.

"Brave words for someone in your position.  But not unexpected. Umealiq
was disappointed when you foiled his plans for you in Washington."

"Umealiq?"  said Zavala, who was hearing the name for the first time.

"That's Scarface's real name," Austin said.  "It supposedly means
'stone lance."  "

Zavala's lips curled in a slight smile.

"You find something humorous in the situation?"  Barker said.

"That's funny," Zavala said.  "I thought it was Kiolyan for 'seal
manure."  "

Scarface's hand went to the ivory knife at his belt, and he took a step
forward.  Barker stopped him with an outstretched arm.  He gazed
thoughtfully at the NUMA men.

"What do you know about the Kiolya?"

"I know that the Inuit consider you to be the scum of the Arctic,"
Austin said.

Barker's bloodless face flushed scarlet.  "The Inuit are in no position
to judge.  They have let the world think that the people of the north
are nothing but a bunch of blubber-chewing caricatures who run around
in furs and live in ice houses."

Austin was pleased to see that he could get under Barker's cold skin.
"I've heard the Kiolyan women smell like rancid whale blubber," he
said.

Zavala sensed the opening and joined in.  "Actually, they smell worse,"
he said.  "That's why these goons prefer their own male company."

"Insult us all you want," Barker said.  "Your feeble repartee is the
ranting of the doomed.  My men are a brotherhood, like the warrior
monks of the past."

Austin's mind was racing madly.  Barker was right.  He and Joe could
summon up every insult possible, but they were still two unarmed men
against several well-armed guards.  He would have to try to change the
equation.  It took some willpower to do so, but he yawned and said,
"What about that tour you promised?"

"How rude of me to forget."

Barker led the way onto a raised catwalk running down the middle of the
chamber.  The sound of bubbling water came from both
sides, but the source of the noise was hidden by darkness.  Barker
replaced the sunglasses on his head and gave an order to one of his
men.  A second later, the chamber was flooded in a blue light that came
from fish tanks on both sides and a couple of feet below the catwalk.
The tanks were flush to the floor and were covered with sliding
transparent plastic lids that allowed a view of the huge fish swimming
inside.

"You look puzzled, Mr.  Austin."

"Another miscalculation on my part.  I thought your fish were being
held at your coastal operation where they would have access to salt
water."

"These are no ordinary fish," Barker said with pride in his voice.
"They are designed to survive in salt or fresh water.  The seed fish
are improvements on the models I developed with Dr.  Throckmorton. They
are slightly larger and more aggressive than ordinary fish. Perfect
breeding machines.  The airship will fly within feet of the ocean's
surface, and they will slide down special chutes built into the belly
of the zeppelin."  He spread his arms the way he had done at his pep
rally.  "Behold my creations.  Soon, these beautiful creatures will be
swimming in the sea."

"Where your monsters will create incredible havoc," Austin said.

"Monsters?  I think not.  I've simply used my genetic-engineering
skills to produce a better commercial product.  There's nothing illegal
about it."

"Murder is illegal."

"Spare us your pitiful indignation.  There were many casualties before
you came onto the scene.  There will be many more obstacles to be
removed."  He crossed to the tanks on the other side of the fish hold.
"These are my special pets.  I wanted to see how large and hungry I
could make an ordinary fish.  They are too aggressive for breeding
purposes.  They are separated by sluice gates now so they don't attack
each other."

At a word from Barker, a guard went over to a cooler and extracted a
frozen cod around two feet long.  He slid back the plastic lid covering
one of the tanks and tossed the carcass into the water.  Within
seconds, the cod disappeared in a bloody froth.

"I've made dinner reservations for you," Barker said.

"No thanks, we've already eaten," Austin said.

Barker studied the faces of the two men, but saw no sign of fear, only
defiance.  He frowned and said, "I'll give you and your partner time to
think about your fate, to imagine what it feels like to be torn apart
by razor-sharp teeth and scattered over the ocean.  Our men will come
for you shortly after we stop at our facility on the coast to refuel.
Adieu, gentlemen."

Barker's men grabbed Austin and Zavala and hustled them down a corridor
leading to a storage room.  They were shoved inside, and the door was
locked behind them.

Austin tried the lock, then found a seat on a pile of cardboard
boxes.

"You don't seem very worried about being fed to the fishes," Zavala
said.

"I have no intention of providing entertainment for that white-eyed
freak and his cretinous henchmen.  By the way, I liked your comment
about Kiolyan women."

"It went against my grain.  As you know, I love women of any kind. They
have a lot to put up with, with their menfolk running around killing
and sacrificing people.  So, Mr.  Houdini, how do we escape this little
mess?"

"I guess we bust our way out of here."

"Uh-huh.  And assuming we can get beyond that door, what chance do the
two of us have against a battalion of armed men?"

"There are three of us, actually."

Zavala looked around.  "An invisible friend, no doubt."  Austin peeled
out of his coat and drew the sword from its scabbard.  Even in the
faint light inside the storage room, the blade seemed to glow.  "This
is my friend Durendal."

THE CATAMARAN CAME in like a marine landing craft, and the twin hulls
slid partway onto the shore with a shriek of fiberglass against gravel.
The boat had no sooner come to a grinding halt than the people on board
started to pile off.  Ben Nighthawk was the first to hit the ground,
followed by the Basques and the SOS crew.  They helped the villagers
climb down, and the group headed inland.  Only Ben and Diego stayed
behind.

Jesse Nighthawk turned and saw his son lingering on the beach.  He
shooed the other villagers into the woods and walked back to where Ben
was standing.

"Why aren't you coming?"  the old man said.

"Go on without me," Ben replied.  "I've been talking to Diego.  We have
work to do."

"What do you mean?  What sort of work?"

Ben looked across the lake.  "Revenge."

"You can't go back!"  Jesse said.  "It's too dangerous."

Diego, who had been listening to the exchange, said, "The helicopter
pilots who were shot down were our friends.  Their death cannot go
unanswered."

"Those people killed my cousin," Ben said.  "They beat and tortured my
friends and family.  They've raped our beautiful forest."

Jesse couldn't see his son's face in the shadows, but there was no
mistaking the determination in Ben's voice.  "Very well," he said
sadly.  "I will see the others to safety."

Marcus Ryan emerged from the woods, trailed by Chuck Mercer and Therri
Weld.  "What's going on?"  he said, sensing the somber atmosphere.

"Ben and this man are going back," Jesse said.  "I tried to stop them.
They want to get themselves killed."

Ben put his hand on his father's shoulder.  "That's the last thing I
want to do, Pop.  I can't speak for Diego, but at the very least, I
want to wipe that big fake igloo off the face of the earth."

"That's a tall order for two men," Ryan said.  "You'll need help."

"Thanks, Mark, I know you mean well, but the others need you more than
we do."

"You're not the only one who has a score to settle," Ryan said.  His
voice gained a steely edge.  "Barker killed Joshua, and he sank my
ship.  Now he's trying to kill the oceans.  I owe him big-time.  That
thing on the other side of the lake is no grass hut.  You're not going
to blow it down with a huff and a puff."

"We know that.  We'll figure it out."

"You don't have time for trial and error.  I know how we can send that
dome into the stratosphere."  Ryan turned to Mercer.  "You remember
what we talked about?"

"Yeah, I remember.  We said we could give Barker a big hotfoot if we
got the chance."

"Well, Ben, how about it?"  Ryan said.  "Are we in?"

"It's not my decision alone."  He turned to Diego.

The Basque said, "There are many of them and only a few of us.  Pablo
is out of action.  We would have to be very lucky merely to stay
alive."

Ben hesitated.  "Okay, Mark.  You're in."

Ryan's mouth widened in a triumphant grin.  "We'll need some 
explosives.  Our C-4 was taken away when we were captured."

"My brother and I have some hand grenades," Diego said, reaching over
to tap his backpack.  "Three apiece.  Enough?"

In answer, Ryan glanced at Mercer, who said, "It could work if they're
positioned in the right place."

"What can I do?"  said Therri, who had been listening to the
discussion.

"Ben's people are in pretty tough shape," Ryan said.  "They'll need
your help, especially the kids."

"I'll do my best," Therri said.  She kissed him and gave Mercer and Ben
a peck on the cheek as well.  "Take care of yourselves."

As Therri made her way back into the forest, Ben and the other men
pushed the catamaran off the beach and climbed aboard.  The boat's twin
hulls and powerful motors gave it a respectable speed.  They scudded
over the surface of the lake and soon reached the opposite shore. Pablo
and Diego rode shotgun in the bow as the boat coasted up to the pier. 
They quickly tied up and headed inland.

Mercer made a stop at the boat shed and emerged with two reels of
three-eighths docking line, some cord and a roll of duct tape.  Walking
single file, they detoured around the plaza.  With Ryan in the lead,
the group made its way undetected to the side of the dome.

Ryan found what he was looking for: a tall, cylindrical fuel tank
located in a clearing surrounded by dense woods.  Painted on the side
was a warning that the tank contained highly flammable contents.  A
steel pipe about six inches in diameter ran from the tank to the side
of the building.  Next to where the pipe entered the airship hangar was
a locked door.  Like the dome itself, the door was made of a plastic
material and easily gave way to the strength and determination behind
Diego's shoulders.

Then he and the others stepped into a short passageway that ran
parallel to the pipe for several yards.  The conduit disappeared
through a wall next to another door, this one unlocked.  Ryan took the
lead and opened the door a crack, giving him a view of the interior of
the airship hangar.  Men milled around in the middle of the building,
where the airship had been tied down.  Others were coiling lines or
moving gantries and scaffolding.  A few guards were drifting out the
hangar's main door.

Ryan motioned for the others to stay put while he and Mercer stepped
into the hangar.  They crawled along the wall behind tall stacks of
coiled hose until they came to where the pipe entered the building.
Barker had gestured toward the hose when he had explained why he used
hydrogen rather than helium to fill the airship's gasbags.  A valve
controlled by a large hand-turned wheel allowed the flow of gas into
the hose.  Ryan turned the wheel on the pipe until they could hear the
hiss of gas escaping through the nozzle.

The escaping gas rose to the roof, where it wouldn't be detected, they
hoped, until it was too late.  With their work done, they slipped out
the door and followed the passageway into the open.  Ben and Diego had
been equally busy.  Following Mercer's instructions, they had taped the
hand grenades onto the tank.  Short lengths of cord had been attached to
the safety-pin rings and ganged to the line from one
of the spools.  Ryan and Mercer inspected the work, found it
satisfactory, then walked back to the lake, uncoiling the line behind
them.  They tried to run the line straight back to the lake, keeping it
clear of bushes and trees where it could snag.

When they'd emptied one two-hundred-foot-long spool, they spliced the
free end onto another spool.  They were still a dozen yards short of
the lake when that spool gave out, too.  Mercer ducked into the boat
shed and came out with several lengths and sizes of rope that they
spliced together until the rope reached to the water's edge.  When all
was ready, Diego headed back to the plaza and took a position behind a
thick tree.

With their work inside the hangar done, Kiolyan men were streaming out
into the plaza, some of them heading in the direction of their
barracks.  The Basque coldly took a bead on a guard and let off a short
burst.  The man fell to the ground.  More guards came running from the
direction of the barracks and began to fire indiscriminately into the
woods where they saw muzzle flashes, but Diego moved after each kill
and the bullets went far wide of their targets.  When two more of their
number were killed, the men in the plaza ran for the door of the giant
igloo.

Diego had counted on exactly this reaction.  He had tried to pick off
the men who were making a break for the woods.  The effect was to herd
the guards into the "protection" of the structure.  He knew that, given
time, they would emerge from other exits in the dome and fan out into
the woods and try a flanking maneuver.  But as the last man disappeared
into the airship hangar, leaving the plaza deserted, Diego was already
sprinting back to the beach.

Waiting on shore, where he and the others had been alerted by the sound
of gunfire, Ryan saw Diego running toward him and handed the end of the
line to Ben.

"Would you like to do the honors?"

"Thanks," Ben said, taking the line.  "Nothing would give me more
pleasure."

Ryan turned to the other men.  "When Ben yanks on that line, dive into
the water and keep your head under for as long as you can.  Okay, Ben.
Let'er rip!"

Ben jerked hard on the line, then dropped it and dove with the others
into the lake.  They filled their lungs with air, then ducked below the
surface.  Nothing happened.  Ryan poked his head out and swore.  He
sloshed out of the lake onto the beach, picked up the loose end of the
line and gave it a tug.  It tugged back as if caught on a branch.

"I'll check.  Must be hung up on something," he called out to the
others, and followed the line inland.

Ryan was only partly right.  The line was snagged on someone, not
something.  A stray guard had seen Diego bolt for the lake and had gone
over to investigate.  He was holding the line in his hand when he saw
Ryan approach from the beach.  Ryan was bent low, his eyes following
the line, and he never saw the man level his gun.  The first sign that
he was not alone was the impact of the bullet hitting him in the
shoulder like a fiery hammer blow.  He dropped to his knees.

The guard never got off another shot.  Diego, who had been following
Ryan's trail, let off a burst that stitched its way across the guard's
chest.  The guard was thrown back by the impact, but his fingers
clutched the line in a death grip.  Ryan watched through filmy eyes as
the guard fell, his weight pulling on the line.  An alarm sounded in
his brain, cutting through the pain and confusion, and he tried to
rise, but his legs were made of rubber.  Then he felt strong hands
lifting him to his feet and guiding him back toward the lake.  They
were almost at the water's edge, when the lake lit up as if it had been
sprayed with phosphorescent paint.

When the guard had toppled over, the tug had been transmitted

along the line to the grenade rings.  They'd popped out, and the levers
had gone flying, igniting the fuse train.  Six seconds later, the
grenades went off simultaneously.  A millisecond after that, the
hydrogen in the tank ignited.  The fiery gas rushed along the short
length of the pipe and exited through the nozzle as if it were expelled
from the business end of a flamethrower.  The spurting flames touched
off the invisible cloud of hydrogen hanging under the dome.

The airship hangar became a hell for the Kiolyan guards.  Saturated
with hydrogen, the superheated air exploded inside the dome, instantly
incinerating flesh and bone.  The dome contained the heat for only a
few seconds, glowing white hot, before the thick plastic cells that
formed the walls evaporated.  But the delay before the final explosion
of flames gave Ryan and Diego the time they needed.  They gained the
water's edge and dove into the lake as the dome exploded and sent out
sheets of flame that vaporized the surrounding forest and outbuildings.
Blistering waves of heat rippled out in every direction.

Hampered by his wound, Ryan had only taken a quick gulp of air before
plunging into the lake, and his lungs were only partially filled.  He
saw the water light up and heard a muffled roar, and he stayed under
for as long as he could before popping his head up.  When he surfaced,
thick smoke from the burning forest stung his eyes, but he paid no
attention to the pain.  He stared in awe at the mushroom cloud rising
high in the sky from the field of orange-glowing embers that marked the
place where he had last seen the dome.  It made the Hindenburg
explosion look like a candle flame.

Like otters coming up for air, Ben, Mercer and Diego stuck their heads
out of the water and shared his wonder.  Each of them had lost a friend
or a relative to the schemes of Barker and his Kiolyan henchmen.  But
there was no smugness or satisfaction at the destruction they had
caused.  They knew that justice had been only

partially served.  The mad geneticist had been hurt but not stopped. By
the flickering light of the burning trees, they swam to the catamaran,
the three of them helping Ryan through the water.  Minutes later, the
boat was moving across the water, leaving the smoldering funeral pyre
in its wake.

AUSTIN sat ON the box of fish antibiotics, holding the sword blade
between his knees, his head bent against the hilt.  A stranger would
have seen this pose as one of dejection, but Zavala knew better. Austin
would act when he was ready.

Zavala was keeping himself occupied with a set of exercises that were
part yoga, part Zen and part old-fashioned shadowboxing to loosen him
up and focus his mind.  He finished demolishing an imaginary opponent
with a left uppercut and a quick right cross, brushed his palms
together and said, "I've just knocked out Rocky Marciano, Sugar Ray
Robinson and Muhammad Ali in quick succession."

Austin looked up and said, "Save some punches for Barker and his pals.
We're starting to descend."

Austin had been gambling that Barker was telling the truth when he said
that he intended to feed them to his so-called pets and dump what was
left into the Atlantic Ocean.  A murderer like Barker would

resort to any form of violence and duplicity to achieve his goals, but
his inflated vision of himself extended to his godlike pronouncements
of life and death.  If Barker said he would kill them over the
Atlantic, he meant it.

Austin had been waiting for the refueling stop, hoping the zeppelin's
crew would be distracted as the great airship came in for a landing.
The guards had taken the men's wristwatches, and it was impossible to
keep accurate track of the passage of time.  After seeing that they
were cut off from sight and sound, Austin had stuck the sword point
into the floor and put his ear against the hilt.  The sword picked up
the engine vibrations like a stylus on a record player.  In the last
few minutes, the pitch had changed.  The engines had slowed.  He stood
and walked over to the sturdy wood-paneled door.  They had put their
shoulders against it earlier, but all they had gotten for their trouble
were bruises.

Austin knocked softly on the door.  He wanted to be sure no guard was
standing on the other side.  When there was no reply, he gripped the
sword hilt in two hands, lifted the blade over his head and brought it
down, putting all the considerable strength in his thick arms behind
the thrust.

The wood splintered, but the blade didn't go through the door.  Using
the point, he pried off a section as big as his hand, then enlarged it.
Working furiously, he opened a hole big enough to slip his arm through.
The latch had been padlocked.  After several more minutes, taking
turns hacking at the wood with Zavala, they cut the latch off and
pushed the door open.  Seeing no guards, they cautiously made their way
back to the fish hold.  Austin leaned over the gangway.

"Sorry to disappoint you boys," he said to the milky shapes swimming
around in the tanks, "but we have other dinner plans."

"They probably don't like Mexican food anyhow," Zavala said.  "Check
out the water level."

The surface of the water was at a slant, indicating that the zeppelin
was inclined at a forward angle.  They were on their way down.  Austin
wanted to get into the control car but suspected it would be heavily
defended.  They would have to be more creative.  Again he looked for an
answer in Barker's psychotic personality.  In his rambling discourse,
Barker had revealed more than he should have.

"Hey, Joe," Austin said thoughtfully, "do you remember what our host
said about the sluice gates?"

"They keep the more aggressive fish separated.  Otherwise, his little
pets would chew themselves to pieces."

"He also said that the systems on this gasbag are hot-wired.  I'll bet
that when the sluice gates are removed, an alarm goes off.  How would
you like to create a little chaos?"

Austin pulled up one of the gates.  The fish on either side of the gate
had come to the top of the tank, thinking that the presence of a human
meant they were about to be fed.  When the gate was removed, they all
froze for an instant.  Then their fins became a blur.  There was a
flash of silvery white and snapping jaws.  Recalling the fate Barker
had planned for them, Austin and Zavala watched the silent battle with
a cold feeling in the pits of their stomachs.  Within seconds, the
tanks were filled with blood and fish parts.  The creatures had ripped
each other to shreds.

A red light on the wall had started to flash when the gate was removed.
Austin waited by the door while Zavala lounged on the catwalk.  He
almost shouted for joy when only one guard showed up.  The guard
stopped short when he saw Zavala, and raised his rifle.  Austin stepped
up from behind and said, "Hello."  When the guard turned, Austin jammed
his elbow into the man's jaw.  The guard crumpled to the floor like a
sack of blubber.  Austin scooped up the rifle and tossed it to Zavala.
Then he found a switch that turned the alarm off.

With Zavala rearmed and Austin clenching his sword as if he

were about to lay siege to a castle, they left the fish hold and
followed a short corridor that led to a set of stairs going down to the
control cabin.  From their elevated vantage point, they could see
through the open door.  Men were moving about the cabin or were at the
controls, but Barker wasn't among them.  Austin signaled for Zavala to
back away.  The control cabin could wait.  It made no sense to tangle
with the claws and teeth of the monster called Oceanus when it might be
easier to cut off its head.

Austin had a pretty good idea where he might find Barker.  They hurried
back through the fish hold and along a passageway until they came to
the combination work area and museum where Austin had found Durendal.
Austin's guess as to Barker's whereabouts was correct.  The scientist
and his scar faced henchman were bent over the chart table.

With his animal instincts, Scarface sensed their intrusion and raised
his head.  He saw the two NUMA men, and his face contorted in an
expression of savage fury.  Barker heard his henchman snarl and looked
up.  After his initial surprise, he broke out in a smile.  Austin
couldn't see the eyes behind the sunglasses, but he could tell that
they were fixed on the sword.  Without a word, Barker went over and
picked up the horn, then looked inside the chest.

"Well, well, Mr.  Austin.  It seems that you're a thief as well as a
stowaway."

He closed the lid and went to replace the horn on top.  But first he
glanced over at Scarface, who replied with an almost imperceptible nod.
Before Austin could move, Barker threw the horn at Zavala's head.
Zavala ducked and the horn missed him by a few inches.  Taking
advantage of the distraction, Umealiq dropped down behind the desk.
With the agility of a cat, he gained the protection of the heavy sofa.
He popped up like an ugly jack-in-the-box, let off a wild shot from a
handgun, then disappeared through a doorway.

"Get him before he alerts the others!"  Austin shouted.  But Zavala was
already on his way.

Austin and Barker were left alone.  With the smile still pasted or his
ghostly face, Barker said, "Seems as if this is between you and me| Mr.
Austin."

Austin returned the smile.  "If that's the case, you're through."

"Brave words.  But consider your position.  Umealiq will kill your
partner, and within moments, armed men will come pouring through that
door."

"Consider your position, Barker."  He raised the sword and advanced.
"I'm about to cut your cold heart out and toss it to your mutant
monsters."

Barker spun around like a ballet dancer, snatched a harpoon off the
wall of the Eskimo display and, with a flick of his wrist, hurled it at
Austin with amazing accuracy.  Austin stooped to avoid the missile. The
harpoon buried itself in the chest of one of the mummies.  The stand
holding the mummified body in leather crashed over, pulling down the
section of airship skin with the word Nietzsche on it.  Barker snatched
another harpoon off the wall and charged at Austin, with an ivory knife
from the display in his other hand.

Austin lopped off the harpoon point with a quick swing of the sword,
but the movement left him open.  He stepped backward to avoid the knife
and stepped on the horn, which was lying on the floor.  His ankle
buckled and he fell.  Barker yelled in triumph and lunged.  Austin had
landed with the sword under him and couldn't bring it to a defensive
position.  The knife slashed down.  Austin blocked Barker's wrist with
the edge of his hand.  He tried to grip it, but his palm was sweaty. He
let go of the sword and brought his other hand around and used it to
push the knife point away from his throat.

Frustrated by Austin's superior strength, Barker jerked his hand back
and brought it up to strike again.  Austin rolled out of the way,
leaving the sword behind him.  They both scrambled to their feet at the
same time.

When Austin went to retrieve the sword, the knife slashed the air a few
inches from his chest.  Barker kicked the sword out of reach, then
advanced on Austin.  He stepped back and felt the edge of the desk
behind him.  He could go no farther.  Barker was so close, Austin could
see his face reflected in the sunglasses.

Barker smiled and raised his knife to strike.

Zavala had bounded through the doorway and stopped short.  He expected
to find himself in another corridor.  Instead, he was in a small
chamber, not much bigger than a telephone booth, with ladder rungs
running up one wall.  A single wall lamp lit the cramped space.  Under
the lamp was a flashlight rack.  One of the lights was missing.  He
grabbed one of the remaining flashlights and pointed it up.  He thought
he saw a flicker of movement in its beam, then nothing but darkness. He
slung the rifle over his shoulder, tucked the light in his belt and
began to climb.  The shaft opened onto a passageway constructed in a
triangle of interlocking girders.  Probably part of a keel that kept
the airship rigid and allowed access to its innards.

The keel intersected another passageway.  Zavala held his breath and
heard a slight ting that could have been made by a boot or shoe
slapping against metal.  He stepped into the new passageway and found
that it curved up against the inside of the zeppelin's skin.  The white
fabric of the inflated gas bags was pressed tightly against the
framework on the other side.  He guessed that he was inside a ring that
worked with the keels to give the airship further support.

His theory proved out, as the passageway began to curve back on itself,
so that he was climbing directly over the huge bags.  Zavala was in
good shape, but he was panting heavily when, at the top of the
zeppelin, he came to another triangular passageway running lengthwise
from the front to the back of the airship.  The choice was easier this
time.  He pointed his light along the transverse support.  He could see
movement and hear heavy footsteps echoing in the distance.

Zavala dashed along the keel, knowing he had to stop Scarface before he
made it to the control car and raised the alarm.  He came to another
juncture where the transverse corridor intersected a supporting ring.
There was no sign or sound of Scarface to reveal where he had gone.
Zavala's mind assembled a picture of the inside of the great airship.

If he were looking at a clock, the corridor he was in would be in the
noon position.  The transverse passageway he had seen earlier was at
eight o'clock.  To keep the rings rigid, there must be a third
horizontal passageway at four o'clock.  Maybe he could cut Scarface off
at the pass.

He descended the ring, half climbing, half falling.  He almost shouted
in exultation when he came upon the third transverse passageway.  He
ran down the corridor, pausing at each ring to listen.  He was guessing
that Scarface would make his way as far forward as he could before
descending to the control car using another ring.

At the third juncture of a keel and a ring, Zavala heard a ting-ting as
someone climbed down the metal ladder.  He waited patiently until he
could hear heavy breathing.  He flicked on the light.  The beam caught
Scarface clinging to the ladder like a large, ugly spider.  Scarface
saw that he'd been intercepted and began to climb up the ladder.

"Hold it right there!"  Zavala ordered.  He brought the shotgun to his
shoulder.

Umealiq halted and looked down at Zavala with an ugly leer on his face.
"Fool!"  he shouted.  "Go ahead and fire.  You'll be signing your death
warrant.  If you miss me and hit a hydrogen bag, the airship will go up
in flames and you and your partner will die."

Zavala's lips twitched at the ends.  As an engineer, he was
well-acquainted with the properties of various elements.  He knew that
hydrogen was volatile, but unless he was using a tracer bullet,
combustion was unlikely.  "That's where you're wrong," he said.  "I'd
just end up punching a hole in the gas bag."

The evil smile vanished.  Umealiq bent off the ladder and pointed his
gun at Zavala.  The shotgun boomed once.  The heavy shell hit Umealiq
squarely in his broad chest and knocked him off the ladder.  Zavala
stepped back to avoid the body that crashed to his feet.  As his life
ebbed, Umealiq's face was twisted in disbelief.

"That's something else you were wrong about," Zavala said.  "I don't
miss."

While Zavala was chasing Scarface, Austin had been fighting for his
life.  Again, he had thrown his left hand up so that the edge of it
caught Barker's wrist and stopped the descending knife inches from his
neck.  With his right hand, he reached up to grab Barker by the throat,
but the other man jerked back.  Austin's groping fingers yanked off the
sunglasses.  He found himself staring into Barker's pale-gray
snake-eyes.  Austin froze for a second and lost his grip on the wrist.
Barker jerked his arm back, prepared to make another thrust.

Austin reached back onto the desk, his fingers in a desperate search
for a paperweight or something else he could use to brain Barker with.
He felt a searing sensation.  His hand had touched one of the halogen
lamps that illuminated the map.  He grabbed the lamp, brought it

around and shoved it in Barker's face, hoping to burn him.  Barker
blocked the lamp, but he couldn't stop the light.  It was as if Austin
had thrown acid into Barker's light-sensitive eyes.  He screamed and
threw his hand in front of his eyes to shield them.  He stumbled back,
screaming in the Kiolyan language.  Austin watched dumbfounded at the
damage he had wrought with a single lightbulb.

Barker groped his way out of the room.  Austin picked up the sword and
went after him.  In his haste to catch Barker before he could get back
to the control car, Austin was less careful than he should have been,
and Barker was waiting for him in the fish hold.  He ambushed Austin
from just inside the door, and his slashing knife caught the rib cage
on the side opposite from his existing wound.  Austin dropped the sword
and tumbled off the gangway onto the plastic lids that covered the fish
tanks.  He felt a warm dampness soaking his shirt.

He heard a nasty laugh from Barker, who stood on the gangway visible in
the blue glow from the tanks.  He was looking up and down, and Austin
realized with relief that he was still blind.  Austin tried to pull
himself along the top of the tanks.  The creatures under the plastic
stirred in the water as they saw him moving and smelled the blood.
Barker jerked his head in Austin's direction.

"That's right, Mr.  Austin.  I still can't see.  But my acute sense of
hearing gives me a different kind of sight.  In the land of the
blind,

the man with the best hearing is king."

Barker was trying to goad Austin into a fatal response.  Austin was
losing blood and didn't know how long he could stay conscious.

Zavala could be dead.  He was on his own.  There was only one chance.
He slid back the lid of the tank next to him, groaning to cover the
noise.

Barker's head stopped like a radar antenna with a fix on its target.

He smiled, his pale eyes staring directly at Austin.

Barker smiled.  "Are you hurt, Mr.  Austin?"

He took a few steps toward Austin on the catwalk.  Austin groaned again
and slid back the top of the tank another few inches.  Barker stepped
off the catwalk and walked slowly along the tops of the fish tanks.
Austin glanced at the opening.  The gap was still less than a foot.  He
groaned again and brought it back another few inches.

Barker stopped and listened as if he suspected something.

"Screw you, Barker," Austin said.  "I'm opening the sluice gates."

Barker's face fell, and he let out a feral snarl and charged forward.
He never heard Austin pull the lid back another foot and then he had
stepped into the tank.  He sank out of sight, then his head bobbed back
up to the surface.  His face turned into a mask of fear as he realized
where he was, and he clung to the edge of the tank and tried to pull
himself out.  The mutant fish in the tank had been startled by the
intrusion, but now it was nosing around Barker's legs.  It was being
excited as well by blood from Austin's wound that had seeped down into
the water.

Austin rose to his feet and coolly pulled up the adjoining sluice
gates.  Barker was halfway out of the tank when the fish from the other
tanks found him.  His face turned even whiter, and then he slipped back
into the tank.  There was a flurry and commotion ... and his body
disappeared in bloody foam.

Austin turned off the alarm switch and staggered back to Barker's
quarters, where he had found a medicine cabinet with a first-aid kit.
Using tape and bandages, he stanched the bleeding.  Then he retrieved
the sword and was about to follow Zavala to see if he could help him,
when his partner stepped through the door.

"Where's Barker?"  Zavala said.

"We had a disagreement and he went to pieces."  Austin's lips tightened
in a mirthless smile.  "I'll tell you later.  What about Scarface?"

"Fatal gas attack."  He glanced around.  "We might want to get off this
thing."

"I was just starting to enjoy the ride, but I see your point."  They
hurried forward to the control car.  There were only three men in the
cabin.  One man stood in front of a spoked wheel at the forward end of
the car.  Another manned a similar wheel on the port side.  A third,
who seemed to be in command, was directing them.  He went for a pistol
in his belt when he saw Austin and Zavala enter the cabin.  Austin was
in no mood for fooling around.

He stuck the sword's razor-sharp blade under the commander's Adam's
apple and said, "Where are the others?"

Fear replaced the hatred in the man's dark eyes.  "They're manning
mooring lines for the landing."

While Zavala kept him covered, Austin lowered the sword and went over
to one of the gondola windows.  Lines dangled from a dozen points along
the length of the great zeppelin.  The zeppelin's lights illuminated
the upturned faces of the men who waited below to grab the lines and
pull the airship down to a mooring tower.  He turned and ordered the
commander to take his men and leave the control car.  Then he locked
the door behind them.

"What do you think?"  he said to Zavala.  "Can you fly this antique?"

Zavala nodded.  "It's like a big ship.  The wheel up front is the
rudder control.  The one on the side controls the elevators.  I'd
better take that.  It might require a gentle hand."

Austin stepped over to the rudder wheel.  The zeppelin was angled
forward, giving him a clear view of the scene below.  Some of the
mooring lines were in the hands of the ground crew.

He took a deep breath and turned to Zavala.  "Let's fly."

Zavala turned the elevator wheel, but the zeppelin refused to rise.

Austin cranked the engine controls over to half speed ahead.  The
airship began to move forward, but the mooring lines were holding it
down.

"We need more lift," Zavala said.

"What if we dump some weight?"

"That might work."

Austin scanned the control panel until he found what he was looking
for.  "Hold on," he said.

He punched the button.  There was a gushing noise as the fish tanks
emptied.  Hundreds of wriggling fish and thousands of gallons of water
poured out of the chutes under the airship and rained down on the men
below.  The ground crew scattered, releasing the mooring lines.  Those
men who didn't let go found themselves lifted in the air when the
airship rose suddenly with the loss of ballast.  Then they, too,
dropped off.

The zeppelin moved forward and up until it was in the clear.  Austin
found that the rudder controls, as Zavala said, were not unlike those
used to steer a ship.  There was a delay before the great mass above
their heads responded to the turn of the wheel.  Austin steered the
zeppelin out to sea.  In the golden sparkle cast by the dawning sun, he
could see the silhouette of a boat a few miles offshore.  Then, he was
distracted by a loud banging on the control-cabin door.

He yelled over his shoulder.  "I think we've worn out our welcome,
Joe."

"I wasn't aware we'd ever had a welcome, but I won't argue with you."

Austin steered toward the boat, and when they were closer, he brought
the engine speed down to slow.  Zavala turned the elevator wheel so
that the zeppelin would move up.  Then they climbed through the windows
and grabbed a couple of mooring lines.  Austin

had some trouble holding on because of his latest wound, but he was
able to wrap his legs around the rope and control his descent fairly
well.  They started to rappel to the sea as the zeppelin began to
regain altitude.

Paul had been standing watch a few minutes earlier when he heard the
unmistakable sound of big engines.  Something was going on in the air
over the Oceanus facility.  A minute before, beams of light had stabbed
the sky.  He saw a huge shadow, then lights were bouncing off the
metallic skin of the airship.  The airship turned seaward, gradually
moving lower as it approached the boat.

He awakened Gamay and asked her to alert the rest of the crew.  He was
afraid Oceanus might have called in aerial support.  The sleepy-eyed
captain was on deck a moment later.  "What's going on?"  he said.

Paul pointed at the approaching zeppelin, which glowed as if it were on
fire from the golden rays of the new sun.  "We'd better get moving.  I
don't know whether that's a friend or enemy."  The captain was fully
awake now.  He ran for the bridge.  Professor Throckmorton was on deck
as well.  "Dear God," the professor said.  "That's the biggest thing
I've ever seen."

The engines growled and the boat began to move.  They watched nervously
as the airship cut the distance between them.  It was moving
erratically, left and right, then its nose would go high and low.  But
one thing was clear, it was coming right at them.  It was so low now
that the lines dangling from below touched the waves.

Gamay had been focused on the control cabin.  She saw heads appear in
the windows, then two men climbed out and slid down the ropes.  She
pointed them out to Paul, and a broad grin crossed his face.

The captain had returned to the deck.  Paul told him to bring the boat
to a stop.

"But they'll catch us."

"Exactly right, Captain, exactly right."

Mumbling to himself, the captain raced back to the bridge.  Paul and
Gamay grabbed some crew members and readied the vessel's inflatable
outboard boat.  The engines cut to an idle, and the boat plowed to a
halt as the zeppelin's gigantic silhouette filled the sky.  As the
airship came abeam, the figures hanging from the lines dropped into the
sea with two great splashes.  The inflatable came alongside the heads
bobbing in the waves.  Paul and Gamay pulled Zavala and Austin
aboard.

"Nice of you to drop in," Paul said.

"Nice of you to pick us up," Austin said.

Even as he grinned with pleasure, Austin was keeping an eye on the
zeppelin.  To his relief, after the airship leveled out, it steered on
a course away from the ship.  Barker's men must have broken back into
the control car.  They would have made short work of the boat and
everyone on it with their automatic weapons.  But the Kiolya were
headless now, without Toonook, their great leader.

Within minutes, friendly hands were helping Austin and the others back
onto the research vessel.  Austin and Zavala were taken below and
provided with dry clothes.  Gamay did a professional job patching up
Austin's latest wound with bandages.  The injury might require a few
stitches, but it looked worse than it was.  On the plus side, Austin
consoled himself, he would have matching scars on either side of his
rib cage.  He and Zavala were sitting in the galley with the Trouts,
enjoying strong coffee and the warmth from the stove, when the cook, a
Newfoundlander, asked if they wanted breakfast.

Austin realized they hadn't eaten since the jerky they had had the
previous day.  From the look in Zavala's eyes, he was equally hungry.

"Anything you can rustle up," Austin said.  "Just make sure there's a
lot of it."

"I can give you fish cakes and eggs," the cook said.

"Fish cakes?"  Zavala said.

"Sure.  It's a Newfie specialty."

Austin and Zavala exchanged glances.  "No, thanks," they said.

BEAR CAME THROUGH as promised.  Them had called the bush pilot on the
radio, told him she needed to evacuate nearly fifty people and pleaded
for his help.  Asking no questions, Bear had rallied every bush pilot
within a hundred-mile radius.  Floatplanes streamed in from every
direction to airlift the passengers from the shore of the lake.  The
sick and elderly went on first, then the young.  Therri stood on the
beach, feeling a mixture of relief and sadness, and waved good-bye to
her new friend Rachael.

Ryan's bloody badge of courage qualified him for a ride on one of the
first planes out.  With his shoulder wound patched up to stem the
bleeding and prevent infection, he and the others were taken to a small
but well-equipped provincial hospital.  The Aguirrez brothers arranged
their own transportation, calling in the EuroCopter to fly them back to
the yacht with the news of their loss.

Before they left, Ben and some of the younger men in the tribe went
back across the lake to see what was left of Barker's complex.  On
their return, they reported that nothing remained.  When Therri asked
about the fate of the monster fish she had seen, Ben simply smiled and
said, "Barbecued."

Therri, Ben and Mercer were among the last to leave.  This time, the
fuzzy dice in Bear's cockpit were reassuring.  As the float plane
wheeled over the vast forest, she looked down at the huge blackened
area around the devastated site of Barker's incredible building.

"Looks like we had a little forest fire down there," Bear yelled over
the drone of the engine.  "You folks know anything about that?"

"Someone must have been careless with a match," Mercer said.  Seeing
the skeptical expression in Bear's eyes, Mercer grinned and said, "When
we get back, I'll tell you the whole story over a beer."

It actually took quite a few beers.

Austin and Zavala, in the meantime, enjoyed their reunion with the
Trouts and the leisurely cruise back to port on Throckmorton's research
vessel.  Throckmorton was still in a state of shock at the revelation
of Barker's mad scheme, and he promised to testify before Senator
Graham's Congressional committee once he had filled in Parliament about
the dangers of genetically modified fish.

Back in Washington, Austin met with Sandecker to fill him in on the
mission.  The admiral listened to the story of Barker's demise with
rapt attention, but he saved most of his fascination for Duren-dal.  He
held the sword gingerly in his hands.

Unlike many men of the sea, Sandecker was not superstitious, so Austin
hiked an eyebrow when the admiral gazed at the shimmering blade and
murmured, "This weapon is haunted, Kurt.  It seems to have a life of
its own."

"I had the same feeling," Austin said.  "When I first picked it up, an
electric current seemed to flow from the hilt into my arm."

Sandecker blinked as if he were coming out of a spell, and slid the
sword back into its scabbard.  "Superstitious rubbish, of course."

"Of course.  What do you suggest we do with it?"

"There's no question in my mind.  We return it to its last rightful
owner."

"Roland is dead, and if the mummy I saw is Diego's, he won't be putting
any claims on Durendal any time soon."

"Let me think about it.  Do you mind if I borrow the sword in the
meantime?"

"Not at all, although I could use it to cut through the mounds of
paperwork."

Sandecker lit his cigar and tossed the match into his fireplace.
Flashing his familiar crocodile grin, he said, "I've always found fire
to be much more effective in dealing with the effluent of our federal
bureaucracy."

Sandecker's summons came a couple of days later.  The admiral's voice
crackled over the phone.  "Kurt, if you have a minute, could you please
come up to my office.  Round up Joe, too.  There are some people here
who want to see you."

Austin tracked down Zavala in the deep-submergence design lab and gave
him Sandecker's message.  They arrived outside the admiral's office at
the same time.  The receptionist smiled and waved them through.
Sandecker greeted them at the door and ushered them into the nerve
center of NUMA.

"Kurt.  Joe.  Good of you to come," he said effusively, taking them by
the arm.

Austin smiled at Sandecker's disingenuous welcome.  One had little choice when Sandecker called.  Those who arrived late or not at all
suffered the full weight of the admiral's wrath.

Standing behind Sandecker were Balthazar Aguirrez and his two sons.
Balthazar roared with pleasure when he saw Austin.  He pumped Austin's
hand and then Zavala's in his lobster grip.

"I asked Mr.  Aguirrez and his sons to stop by so we could thank them
for helping us in Canada," Sandecker said.  "I've been telling them
about your mission."

"We couldn't have done it without your help," Austin said.  "Sorry for
the loss of your pilots and helicopter.  And for Pablo's injury."

Aguirrez waved his hand in dismissal.  "Thank you, my friend.  The
helicopter was only a machine and can easily be replaced.  As you can
see, my son's wound is healing nicely.  The death of the pilots was a
shame, but like all the men on my boat, they were highly paid
mercenaries and well aware of the dangers of their chosen
profession."

"Nonetheless, a tragic loss."

"Agreed.  I'm pleased with the success of your mission, but do you have
any news of the sword and the horn?"

"It seems your relics had a long and arduous journey," Sandecker said.
"With the help of the log Kurt discovered in Barker's macabre museum,
we've been able to piece the story together.  Your ancestor, Diego,
sailed across the Atlantic from the Faroe Islands.  But he never
reached land.  He and his crew died, most likely from disease.  The
ship drifted into the polar ice.  The zeppelin discovered the caravel
hundreds of years later after a secret flight to the North Pole, and
removed the body of your ancestor.  Mechanical problems forced the
airship down on the ice.  The Kiolya found it, and removed the bodies
of Diego and the zeppelin's captain, Heinrich Braun."

"Kurt has told me this story," Aguirrez said impatiently.  "But what of
the relics?"

Sandecker said, "Gentlemen, I'm being rude.  Please sit down.  I think
it's time for some brandy."

The admiral waved his guests to the comfortable leather chairs in front
of his massive desk and went over to a bar hidden behind a wall panel.
He brought back a bottle of B and B and poured each man a snifter of
brandy.  He stuck his nose in the wide-mouthed glass, closed his eyes
and took a deep breath.  Then he unlocked his humidor and produced a
handful of his specially rolled cigars.  He passed the cigars around
and patted the breast pocket of his navy blazer.

"I seem to have lost my cigar clipper.  You gentlemen don't happen to
have a knife?  Never mind."  He reached into the chair well of his
desk, pulled out a scabbard and laid it on the desk.  "Perhaps this
will do."

Balthazar's dark eyes widened in disbelief.  He rose from his chair and
reached out for the scabbard, cradling it with both hands as if it were
made of glass.  With shaking fingers, he slid the sword from the
scabbard and held it high above his head as if he were rallying
Charlemagne's legions to battle.

His lips formed a single whispered word.  "Durendal."

"The horn will arrive in a few days, along with the remains of your
ancestor," Sandecker said.  "I thought you might be able to put these
priceless relics together with their rightful owner."

Balthazar slid the sword back into the scabbard and passed it on to his
sons.

"The rightful owners are the Basque people.  I will use the sword and
horn of Roland to ensure that the Basques finally attain their
sovereignty."  He smiled.  "But in a peaceful manner."

The glee at the success of his theatrical gesture was evident in
Sandecker's clear blue eyes.  He raised his glass high.  "Let's drink
to that," he said.

Ryan called Austin later that day and said he was back in Washington.
He asked Austin to meet him at the "usual place."  Austin arrived at
Roosevelt Island a few minutes early, and was waiting in front of the
statue, when he saw Ryan coming his way.  Austin noticed that Ryan was
still pale and gaunt from his wound.  There was something else.  The
arrogant tilt of the chin and the boyish know-it-all grin that had
flawed Ryan's good looks and irritated Austin were gone.  Ryan seemed
more serious and mature.

He smiled and extended his hand.  "Thanks for coming, Kurt."  "How do
you feel?"

"Like I've been used for target practice."

"I wish I could say you get used to it," Austin said, recalling the
bullet and knife scars that marked his own body.  "Knowing that you
drove a spike into Barker's plans must help ease the pain.
Congratulations."

"Couldn't have done it without the help of Ben and Chuck, and Diego
Aguirrez."  "Don't be modest."

"You're the one who's being modest.  I heard about your adventures
aboard the zeppelin."

"I hope this isn't turning into a mutual admiration society," Austin
said.  "I wouldn't want to ruin a wonderful relationship."

Ryan laughed.  "I asked you here so I could apologize.  I know I've
been more than a little overbearing and self-righteous."  "Happens to
the best of us."

"There's something else.  I tried to use Therri to leverage your
help."

"I know.  I also know that Therri is too independent-minded to be
used."

"I had to apologize, anyhow, before I leave."

"You sound as if you're heading off into the sunset."

"Like Shane} No, I'm not quite ready for that.  I'm off to Bali in a
few days to see if SOS can stop the illegal trade in sea turtles.  Then
I've got to help with a sea lion rescue in South Africa and see what we
can do about poaching in the Galapagos Marine Reserve.  In between,
I'll be raising funds to replace the Sentinel."  .  "An ambitious
schedule.  Good luck."

': "I'll need it."  Ryan checked his watch.  "Sorry to run, but I've
got to line up the troops."

They walked back to the parking lot, where they shook hands once
more.

"I understand you're seeing Therri later this week."

"We're having dinner, as soon as we crawl out from our office work."

"I promise not to interrupt you the way I did back in Copenhagen."

"Don't worry," Austin said.  He glanced at the sky, a mysterious smile
on his lips.  "Where I'm taking Therri for dinner this time, no one
will interrupt us."

MAY I POUR you more champagne, mademoiselle?"  the waiter said.

"Thank you," Therri said with a smile.  "I'd like that."  The waiter
refilled the fine crystal champagne glass and gave the bottle of Moet a
professional twist.  Then, with a click of his heels, he walked back to
his station, ready to be summoned with the slightest hike of an
eyebrow.  He was impeccably dressed, his black hair was slicked back
with shiny pomade, and a pencil-thin mustache adorned his upper lip. He
possessed the perfect attitude, a bored detachment combined with
undivided attention.

"He's wonderful" Therri whispered.  "Where did you get him?"  "Straight
from the Orient Express," Austin said.  Seeing the doubt in Therri's
face, he added, "I confess.  I borrowed him from NUMA

food services.  He worked as a maitre d' at La Tour d'Argent in Paris
before Sandecker hired him away to organize the NUMA dining room.

"He's done an outstanding job organizing our dinner," she said.  They
were sitting at a table for two.  The tablecloth was white starched
linen.  The dishes and silverware were Art Deco.  Dress was formal.
Therri wore a knockout strapless black evening dress, and Austin had
replaced the tux he'd ruined in the Washington dogsled race.  She
nodded in the direction of a string quartet that was playing Mozart in
the background.  "I suppose the musicians are from the National
Symphony Orchestra."

Austin's mouth widened in a sheepish grin.  "They're friends from the
NUMA engineering division who get together on weekends.  Quite good,
aren't they?"

"Yes.  And so was dinner.  I don't know who your chef was, but " She
paused, catching the look in Austin's eye.  "Don't tell me.  The chef
was NUMA, too."

"No.  He's a friend of mine, St.  Julien Perlmutter.  He insisted on
cooking for us tonight.  I'll introduce you later."

She sipped her champagne, and her mood grew somber.  "I'm sorry, but I
can't help thinking from time to time of Dr.  Barker and the monstrous
creatures he created.  It seems like a nightmare."

"I wish it were a bad dream.  Barker and his pals were very real.  So
were his Frankenfish."

"What a strange, terrible man he was.  I suppose we'll never know how
someone so brilliant could become so evil."

"All the more amazing when you consider that his ancestor, from all
accounts, was a decent human being.  The original Frederick Barker saw
that the Eskimos were starving and tried to stop his fellow whaling
captains from killing walrus."

"His genes must have been twisted during their passage from generation
to generation," she said.

"Add a little God syndrome into the genetic stew and you get a mad
scientist who fancies himself the personification of an evil spirit."

"It's ironic, isn't it?"  she said, after a moment's thought.  "Barker
was a product of genes gone wrong.  It was precisely the process he
used in his laboratory to create monsters from normally docile fish.  I
shudder every time I think of those poor deformed creatures."  An
anxious look came to her eyes.  "This is the end of that insane
research, isn't it?"

Austin nodded.  "Barker was a true genius.  He wrote nothing down.  He
kept the notes for his genetic tinkering stored in his head.  That
knowledge died with him."

"Still, it wouldn't prevent someone else, equally as brilliant, from
duplicating his work."

"No, but the loopholes in the law will soon be closed.  Biofish will
not be allowed into the U.S. The Europeans are equally determined that
Frankenfish and chips will never be on their menu.  Without a market,
there's no incentive."

"What about the others in the Kiolya tribe?"

"Arrested, dead or on the run.  Without Barker to whip them into a
murderous frenzy, I'd say it's the end of that bunch as a threat.
Barker's holdings are up for grabs.  The wolves are tearing his giant
corporation to pieces.  Now let me ask you a question.  What's the
future hold for you and SOS?"

"We're parting ways.  I've decided that commando raids aren't my style.
I've been offered a staff position as environmental counsel with
Senator Graham."

"Glad to hear you'll be around."

The waiter carried a black telephone over to the table.  "Mr.  Zavala
would like to talk to you," he said.

Joe's voice came on the line.  "Sorry to interrupt dinner.  I thought
you should know that we're going to start to make the approach soon."

"Thanks for the heads-up.  How long do we have?"

"Enough for one very long dance."

Austin smiled and hung up.  "That was Joe calling from the control car.
We'll be landing soon."

Therri stared out the large observation window at the tapestry of
lights far below.  "It's beautiful.  I'll never forget this night.  But
please tell me how you wrangled the use of the zeppelin for a dinner
date?"

"I had to pull a few strings.  The Germans are anxious to reclaim the
first airship to have landed on the North Pole.  When I heard the
zeppelin was being flown from Canada to Washington, I offered the
services of an experienced pilot, and in return reserved the dining
room for a few hours.  It seemed the only way we could have dinner
undisturbed."  He looked at his watch.  "The pilot says we have time
for one dance."

"I'd love to."

They rose from the table and Austin offered his arm, and they strolled
into the dimly lit lounge.  Austin turned on a record player, and the
mellow tunes of the Glenn Miller band flowed from the speaker. "Thought
we should have a little period music."

Therri was staring out the observation window at the lights of the
great East Coast megalopolis.  She turned and said, "Thank you for an
exceptional evening."

"It's not over yet.  After we land, we can have a nightcap at my place.
Who knows where the evening will lead?"

"Oh, I know exactly where it will lead," she said with a dreamy
smile.

He took her in his arms, inhaling the scent of her perfume, and high
above the earth, they danced among the stars.