Clive Cussler - White Death

"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 an- cestral 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 re- ceived his Ph.D. in ocean science at the Scripps Institution of Oceanography, specializing in deep-ocean geology, and was profi- cient 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 econ- omy."

"As a marine biologist, where do you stand on the issue?" Gamay had received a degree in marine archaeology before chang- ing 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 in- dustry 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's phenomenal. 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 cant" 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 acqui- sition 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.

Gamay 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 be- tween 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 danced at his Faroese phrasebook and got out of the car.

He said: "Orsaa. Hvar er Gunnar 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 taaf" he said. Thank you.

"EingisJt?"

"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.