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  "But you still haven't stopped the grinds/9 the BBC reporter said to Ryan.

  “The Sentinels have never underestimated how tough it would be to end a tradition that goes back hundreds of years,” Ryan answered. "The Faroese have the same stubbornness their Viking forefathers needed to survive. They're not about to give in to a bunch ofwhale- huggers like us. But while I admire the Faroese, I think the grindarap is cruel and barbaric. It's unworthy of the islanders as a people. I know a few of you have been to a grind before. Anyone care to sum it up.

  “Damned bloody business,” the BBC reporter admitted. “But I don't like fox hunts, either.”

  “At least the fox has a sporting chance,” Ryan said, his jaw hard- ening. “The grind is simply a massacre. When someone spots a pod of pilot whales, the siren goes off, and boats herd the whales in to shore. The locals-women and kids sometimes-are waiting on the beach. There's a lot of drinking and it's a big party, for everyone except the whales. The people stick gaffs into the whales' blowholes and drag the animals inshore, where they have their jugular veins cut and they bleed to death. The water turns red from the blood-letting. Some- times you'll see people sawing the animals' heads off while the whales are still alive!”

  A blond female reporter said, “How is a grind any different from slaughtering steers for beef?”

  “You're asking the wrong person,” Ryan said. “I'm a vegan.” He waited for the laughter to die down. “Your point is well-taken, though. We may be protecting the Faroese from themselves. Pilot- whale meat is loaded with mercury and cadmium. It's hurting their children.”

  “But if they want to poison themselves and their kids,” the re- porter 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 mod- ern 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. Hun- dreds 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 offish-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 be- tween 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 LeifErifsson, 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 cap- tain, “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, Cap- tain 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 neces- sary 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 War- ship 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 re- spect for his judgment. His problem was that he didn't have clear di- rection from the bureaucrats in Copenhagen.”

  “Bureaucrats like me?” Becker said.

  The captain responded with a tight smile. “I follow orders. My su- periors said that you were coming aboard as a navy-department ob- server. 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 Erilsson. The official was short and dark, and with his large, moist eyes and long nose, he looked like a de- spondent 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 hot- heads 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 grindarap 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 fish- ing. We don't want the Faroes to lose their livelihood so that they be- come 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 any- thing 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 au- thority 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, bounc- ing 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 di- rectly toward the Sea Sentinel. Then the captain turned to Becker and gave him a grim smile.

  “We're about to find out.”

  NUMA 4 - White Death

  2

  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 at- tempt. 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 star- board 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 or- derly way they're moving, they've got a plan.”

  The words had barely left her lips when, as if on signal, the ad- vancing fleet began to split up in a pincer movement. In a classic mil- itary 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 escort- ing 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 cruisers lo- cation. When the ships were in what he judged to be the right posi- tion, 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 out- fit 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 to- ward 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 ves- sel, 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 speak- ing in English crackled over the radio.

  "This is Captain Petersen of the LeifErilsson calling the SOS ves- sel 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 delib- erate calmness. “A bad shot could miss us and sink some of those fish- ermen 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 dis- rupted. 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 pre- pared 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 com- bination 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 con- trols don't seem to be working.”

  “Then kill the power,” Ryan said.

  "I'm trying, but the diesels are work ing 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 At- lantic. Ryan picked up the radio microphone to inform the cruiser of their predicament. But he was interrupted by a yell from Mercer.