White Death (NUMA Files 4)

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 un- forgettable times in jails no better than medieval dungeons. He had acquired a reputation for amazing aplomb under fire, and his pro- fessorial 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 woodsy 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 in- stead 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 pro- tection." 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 ab- sorbed 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 re- flected 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 near- est 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 build- ing 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 of- fice. 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 familyV9 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 fol- lowed 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 con- glomerate 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 vil- lagers 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 air- port, 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 floatplane 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 encoun- tering another vehicle, until they'd come to the track that led into the deep woods.