A tall, ruggedly built man in his forties stood on the ship's fore- deck surrounded by reporters and camera technicians. Marcus Ryan, the captain of the Sea Sentinel, was conservatively dressed in a black tailored officer's uniform decorated with gold braid on the collar and sleeves. With his movie star profile, tanned skin, the collar-length hair tousled by the breeze and the fringe of ginger-colored beard framing his square jaw, Ryan looked as if he had been cast for the movie role of a dashing sea captain. The image was one he went to great pains to cultivate.
"Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen," Ryan said in a well- modulated voice that carried over the rumble of engines and the swash of water against the hull. "Sorry we couldn't have provided smoother seas. Some of you look a bit green around the gills after our trip from the Shetlands."
The members of the press pool had been chosen by lot to cover the invasion story. After a night spent in cramped bunks as the ship nav- igated rolling seas, some members of the Fourth Estate were wish- ing they hadn't been so lucky.
"That's okay," croaked a female reporter from CNN. "Just make sure the story is worth all the damned Dramamine I swallowed."
Ryan flashed his Hollywood smile. "I can almost guarantee that you'll see action." He swept his arm theatrically in a wide arc. The cameras dutifully followed his pointing finger to the warship. The cruiser was moving in a wide circle, just fast enough to maintain headway. Fluttering from its main mast was the red-and-white flag of Denmark. "The last time we tried to stop the Faroese from slaugh- tering pilot whales, that Danish cruiser you see fired a shot across our bow. Small arms fire narrowly missed one of our crew, although the Danes deny they shot at us."
"Did you really slam them with a garbage gun?" asked the CNN reporter.
"We defended ourselves with the materials at hand," Ryan replied with mock seriousness. "Our cook had rigged up a catapult to launch biodegradable garbage bags off the deck. He's a medieval weapons buff, so he developed a 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."