White Death

by Clive Cussler

  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 er- rant 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 gun- ners 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. ElBrasero was un- doubtedly hiding behind thick wood, but he would get the message.

  The volley hit the platform like a leaden fist. As soon as the marks- "en let off one shot, they picked up another weapon and fired again, while crewmen feverishly reloaded the guns. The fusillade was con- tinuous 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 gunports. Other deckhands adjusted the rig- ging to wring the most out of the freshening breeze.

  As the caravel picked up speed, leaving a growing wake, the cap- tain 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 row- ers 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 equip- ment, 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 row- ers 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 re- inforcements. 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. Mar- tinez might be a coward, but he was patient and persistent. It would be only a matter of time before they met again.

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  PROLOGUE II

  Germany, 1935

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Most interesting.” He handed the binoculars to Lutz.

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

  “What are you doing?” Heinz said.

  Braun handed him the binoculars. “Look,” he said, without elab- oration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “If they see us, they will radio someone and jeopardize our mis- sion,” Heinz said, trying another tack.

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

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

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

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  1

  The Faroe Islands, the present

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Laughter rippled through the group.

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

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

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

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

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

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