gadget similar to a trebuchet that had a sur- prising range. When the cruiser tried to cut us off, we nailed it with a direct hit, much to our surprise. And theirs' He paused and with per- fect comic timing said, 'There's nothing like being slimed with potato peels, eggshells and coffee grounds to take the wind out of your sails.'
Laughter rippled through the group.
The BBC reporter said, 'Aren't you worried that antics of that sort add to the reputation given to the Sentinels of the Sea as one of the more radical environmental and animal rights groups? Your organization has freely admitted to scuttling whaling ships, blocking waterways, spray-painting baby seals, harassing sealers, cutting drift nets…'
Ryan raised his hand in protest. 'Those were pirate whale ships, international waters, and the other stuff you mentioned we can doc- ument as legal under international agreements. On the other hand, our ships have been rammed, our people gassed and shot at and ille- gal arrests made.'
'What do you say to those people who call you a terrorist organi- zation?' a reporter from The Economist said.
'I would ask them: What could be more terrifying than the cold- blooded slaughter of fifteen hundred to two thousand defenseless pilot whales each year? And I would remind them that no one has ever been hurt or killed by an SOS intervention.' Ryan flashed his smile again. 'C'mon, folks, you've met the people on this ship.' He gestured toward an attractive young woman who had been standing apart from the others, listening to the discussion. 'Tell me honestly, does this lady look scary?'
Therri Weld was in her mid-thirties, of medium height, with a compact, well-proportioned body. The faded jeans and workshirt she wore under her baggy windbreaker did little to disguise her ath- letic but distinctly feminine figure. An SOS baseball hat covered chestnut hair whose natural curl was made even more pronounced by the damp air, and her gentian eyes were alert and intelligent. She stepped forward and gave the press corps a bright smile.
'I've already met most of you,' she said, in a voice that was low but clear. 'So you know that when Marcus doesn't have me slaving away as a deckhand, I'm a legal advisor to SOS. As Marcus said, we use direct action as a last resort. We pulled back after our last en- counter in these waters to pursue a boycott of Faroe fish.'
'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
