White Death

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 fish- ing 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 har- bor 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 fish- ermen 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 an- other, 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 re- flected 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 hun- dred yards away. Rocket pods hung from the fuselage. More com- pany 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 un- smiling 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 gu

Glancing over his shoulder a minute later, Austin saw the Ciga- rette boat speeding back toward land. The helicopter sheared off and rapidly outpaced 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 Mer- maid's Gate at the bottom of a vertical cliff. It was amazingly sym- metrical for a natural arch. The opening was about twenty feet high and slightly narrower in width. It looked like a mouse hole com- pared to the overpowering wall of rough, brownish-black rock.

Despite its lyrical name, the Mermaid's Gate was far from wel- coming. 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. Re- gretfully, 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, do

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 cha

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 im- mediately buffeted by a musty wind. The air was amplified like a trumpeter's breath as it flowed from the cleft, producing the haunt- ing moan of the dead mariners.

He clicked his flashlight on and followed a tu