Chapters (45)
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
- NUMA 4 - White Death
Austin overheard Trout's question. “Tell Paul I'll be back at my desk in a few days. Joe's due later in the week, after he wraps up tests on his latest toy. I wanted to let you know where I'd be. I'm driving up the Faroe coast tomorrow to a little village called Skaalshavn.”
“What's going on?” Gamay said.
“I want to look into a fish-farm operation run by a company called Oceanus. There may be a connection between Oceanus and the sink- ing of those two ships here in the Faroes. While I'm poking around, could you see what you can learn about this outfit? I don't have much to go on. Maybe Hiram can help out.” Hiram Yeager was the com- puter whiz who rode herd on NUMA's vast database.
They chatted a few more minutes, with Austin filling Gamay in on the rescue of the Danish sailors, then hung up, with Gamay prom- ising to get right on the Oceanus request. She related the gist of her conversation with Austin.
“Kurt can whistle up a wind better than anyone I know,” Paul said with a chuckle, alluding to the ancient belief that whistling on a ship can attract a storm. “What did he want to know about fish-farming, how to run your tractor underwater?”
“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.”