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.