Arctic Drift

by Clive Cussler

  “Yes,” Dirk replied. “I brought her in to port.”

  The man nodded briskly, then stormed down the dock, catching the police inspector as he stepped ashore. Summer watched as the man engaged the Mountie in an animated conversation, their voices elevating to a high pitch.

  “Can’t say we’ve had the warmest of welcomes,” Dirk muttered, climbing into the NUMA vessel. “Does everybody here have the demeanor of a grizzly bear?”

  “Guess we brought too much drama to sleepy little Kitimat,” Summer replied.

  Securing their boat and retrieving their water samples, they headed into the north-woods town, finding it not so sleepy after all. A miniboom was taking place in Kitimat, an outgrowth of the deepwater port facility located southwest of downtown. International industry had quietly taken notice of the shipping capabilities and was turning the town into the busiest Canadian port north of Vancouver. A longtime Alcon Aluminum smelter had recently undergone a billion-dollar expansion, while logging operations and tourism continued to grow.

  Locating a shipping office, they overnighted their water samples to a NUMA lab facility in Seattle, then grabbed a late dinner. Walking back to their motel, they took a detour to the dock to retrieve a few items from the boat. Standing on the bridge, Summer found herself staring at the Ventura, moored in front of them. The police had finished their investigation and the boat sat empty, a silent blanket of morbidity hanging over it. Dirk stepped up from belowdecks, noticing his sister’s concentration.

  “Can’t do anything to bring them back,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s head to the motel and turn in.”

  “Just thinking about that message on the footwell and what the captain was trying to say. I wonder if it was a warning of some sort.”

  “They died quickly. We don’t even know if it was a last message.”

  Summer thought about the inscription again and shook her head. It meant something more than it appeared to, of that much she was certain. Beyond that, she had no clue. Somehow, she told herself, she would figure it out.

  6

  THE RESTAURANT’S DECOR WOULD NEVER BE FEATURED in Architectural Digest, Dirk thought, but the smoked salmon and eggs certainly rated five stars. He grinned at the moose head protruding above Summer as he swallowed another bite of breakfast. The moose was only one of a dozen stuffed animal heads mounted on the wall. Each seemed to be staring at Summer through hard glassy eyes.

  “All this roadkill is enough to make a person turn vegan,” Summer grimaced, shaking her head at the bared snout of a grizzly bear.

  “Kitimat’s taxidermist must be the richest guy in town,” Dirk replied.

  “Probably owns the motel.”

  She sipped at a cup of coffee as the door to the café opened and a tall man entered the restaurant. He strode directly to their table as Dirk and Summer recognized him as the agitated man they’d encountered on the dock the day before.

  “May I please join you?” he asked in a nonthreatening manner.

  “Please do,” Dirk said, pushing out a chair. He stuck his hand out at the stranger. “I’m Dirk Pitt. This is my sister, Summer.”

  The man’s brow rose a fraction as he gazed at Summer.

  “Glad to know you,” he replied, shaking hands. “My name is Trevor Miller. My older brother, Steve, was captain of the Ventura.”

  “We’re sorry for what happened yesterday,” Summer replied. She could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he was deeply shaken by the loss of his brother.

  “He was a good man,” Trevor said, his gaze turning distant. He then looked at Summer and offered a sheepish grin. “My apologies for the gruff behavior yesterday. I had just received word of my brother’s death over the marine radio and was a little upset and confused.”

  “A natural reaction,” Summer said. “I think we were all a little confused.”

  Trevor inquired about their involvement, and Summer told of their discovery of the fishing boat while surveying the Hecate Strait.

  “Your brother fished these waters for some time?” Dirk asked.

  “No, only two or three years. He was actually a doctor who sold his practice and turned to fishing out of passion. Did pretty well at it, too, despite all the restrictions placed on commercial fishing these days to protect the stocks.”

  “Seems like an odd career transition,” Summer remarked.

  “We grew up on the water. Our father was an engineer for the local mining company and an avid fisherman. We traveled around a lot but always had a boat. Steve would be on the water every chance he got. He even crewed on a trawler in high school.”

  “He sure kept a smart boat,” Dirk said. “I’ve never seen such an immaculate fishing boat.”

  “The Ventura was the pride of the Northwest, he used to joke. Steve was a bit of a perfectionist. He always kept his boat spotless and his equipment maintained in the highest order. That’s what makes everything so troubling.” He gazed out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. Then he turned to Dirk and asked quietly, “They were dead when you found them?”

  “I’m afraid so. The boat was circling haphazardly with no one at the helm when we first spotted it.”

  “The Ventura would have piled onto the rocks of Gil Island if Dirk hadn’t jumped aboard,” Summer added.

  “I’m glad you did,” Trevor said. “The autopsies revealed that the men died of asphyxiation. The police are certain that carbon monoxide poisoning was the cause. Yet I went all over the Ventura and could find no evidence of an exhaust leak.”

  “The engine is well astern of the wheelhouse, which makes it perplexing. Perhaps there is no leak and it was just an odd mix of wind and running conditions that allowed the exhaust fumes to accumulate in the cabin,” Dirk suggested. “It does seem odd that the three men succumbed so quickly.”

  “It might not be that unusual,” Summer said. “There was a mystery several years ago when a high number of drowning deaths began plaguing houseboat vacationers on Lake Powell. They finally discovered that exhaust fumes were accumulating off the stern of the houseboats and incapacitating swimmers in the water.”

  “Steve was such a cautious man,” Miller noted.

  “It’s not difficult to be overcome by an unseen killer,” Dirk said.

  The discussion was taking a toll on Trevor, and he paled from the strain. Summer poured him a cup of coffee and tried to move the conversation elsewhere.

  “If there is anything we can do to help, please ask,” she said, her soft gray eyes showing genuine concern.

  “Thank you for trying to help my brother and his crew, and for saving the Ventura. My family is grateful.” Trevor hesitated, then added, “There is one favor I would like to ask you. I wonder if you would consider taking me to the site where you found them.”

  “It’s over fifty miles from here,” Dirk said.

  “We can take my boat. She cruises at twenty-five knots. I’d just like to see where he was at the time.”

  Summer glanced at a clock mounted beneath a sneering mountain lion. “We don’t have to meet with the police inspector until three o’clock,” she said to her brother. “We might be able to make a quick run out and back.”

  “I need to check out the ROV and see if we get anything back from the Seattle lab,” Dirk replied. “How about you go with Mr. Miller, and I’ll handle the inspector in case you’re late getting back.”

  “Call me Trevor. And I’ll have her back on time,” Trevor said, smiling at Summer as if he were asking her father’s permission to take her out. She was surprised to feel a slight blush cross her cheeks.

  “Save me a seat under the hot interrogation light,” she said to Dirk, rising from her chair. “I’ll see you at three.”

  7

  TREVOR HELPED SUMMER ABOARD HIS BOAT, THEN quickly cast off the lines. As the workboat edged away from the dock, she leaned over the side and noted a NATURAL RESOURCES CANADA logo painted on the hull. When the boat had safely slipped past the port dockage and was speeding
down Douglas Channel, Summer walked into the cabin and sat on a bench near the pilot’s seat.

  “What do you do for the Natural Resources Department?” she asked.

  “Coastal ecologist for the department’s Forestry Service,” he replied, steering around a logging ship chugging down the center of the channel. “I work mostly with industrial concerns in the northern British Columbia coastal region. I have been fortunate to base out of Kitimat, since the ongoing port expansion provides plenty of activity.” He turned to Summer and smiled. “Tame stuff compared to what you and your brother do for NUMA, I’m sure.”

  “Collecting plankton samples along the Inside Passage isn’t too wild and crazy,” she replied.

  “I would be interested in seeing your results. We’ve had reports of concentrated marine mortality in a few areas around here, though I’ve never been able to successfully document the occurrences.”

  “Be only too happy to work with a fellow disciple of the deep,” she laughed.

  The boat snaked through the winding channel at high speed, gliding easily over the calm water. Green fingers of land laden with thick pines jutted into the sound, a series of scenic obstacles. Following their progress on a navigation chart, Summer instructed Trevor to slow as they entered the main cross channel of Hecate Strait. A brief rain shower pelted them for a few minutes, leaving them in a gray gloom. As they approached Gil Island, the rain lifted, increasing visibility to a mile or two. Looking from the radar to the horizon, Summer could see that there were no other vessels around them.

  “Here, let me steer,” Summer said, standing and putting a hand on the wheel. Trevor gave her a reluctant look, then stood and stepped aside. Summer angled the boat toward the island, then slowed and swung north.

  “We were situated about here when we noticed the Ventura running from the northwest, a mile or so off. She made a lazy turn, gradually coming up on our beam. Would have struck us if we hadn’t jumped off her path.”

  Trevor stared out the window, trying to visualize the scene.

  “I had just taken a water sample. We saw no one at the helm, and a radio call went unanswered. I brought us alongside, and Dirk was able to jump aboard. That’s when he found your brother,” she said, her voice trailing off.

  Trevor nodded, then walked to the stern deck and gazed across the water. A light drizzle began to fall, streaming his face with moisture. Summer left him alone with his thoughts for several minutes, then approached quietly and grabbed his hand.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” she said softly.

  He squeezed her hand but continued staring off in the distance. His eyes suddenly sharpened as he focused on something nearby. A white cloud had materialized on the water a few dozen yards off the bow. The vapor grew rapidly until it encroached upon the boat.

  “Awfully white for a fogbank,” Summer said with a curious look. She noted that the air took on a pungent odor as the mist drew closer.

  The cloud had billowed to the tip of the bow when the light drizzle overhead suddenly thickened into a downpour. Trevor and Summer ducked into the wheelhouse as a deluge of rainwater pelted the boat. Through the window, they watched the approaching white cloud disappear under the gray canopy of falling water.

  “That was odd,” Summer remarked as Trevor fired up the motor. He aimed the boat toward Kitimat, applying a heavy throttle, as he noticed a scattering of dead fish whir by in the water.

  “Devil’s Breath,” he said quietly.

  “Devil’s what?”

  “Devil’s Breath,” he repeated, turning a troubled eye toward Summer. “A local native Haisla was fishing in this area a few weeks ago and washed up dead on one of the islands. The authorities said he drowned, possibly run over by a vessel that didn’t see him in the fog. Maybe he had a heart attack, I don’t really know.” The rain outside had let up, but Trevor kept his eyes on the boat’s path ahead.

  “Go on,” Summer prodded after a lengthy pause.

  “I never thought much about it. But a few days ago, my brother recovered the man’s skiff while fishing out here and asked me to return it to the family. The man had lived in Kitamaat Village, a Haisla settlement. I had done some water studies for the village, so I was friendly with a number of residents. When I met with the family, the deceased man’s uncle kept crying that Devil’s Breath had killed him.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “He said that the devil had decided his time had come and cast down a cold white breath of death that killed him and everything around him.”

  “The reported fish and marine life kills?”

  Trevor turned and gave Summer a half grin. “I’m pretty sure the old guy was drunk when he told me that. The Haisla have no shortage of supernatural deeds in their storytelling.”

  “It does sound like an old wives’ tale,” Summer agreed.

  But her words didn’t stop a sudden chill from tingling up her spine. The rest of the journey was made in silence, as they both contemplated the strange words of the Haisla native and how it fit with the things they had seen.

  THEY WERE WITHIN A few miles of Kitimat when an executive helicopter whisked across their bow low overhead. The chopper angled toward a protruding chunk of land on the north bank, where an industrial facility was nestled in the trees. A wooden pier stretched into the sound, berthing several small boats and a large luxury yacht. On an adjacent grass clearing was pitched a large white party tent.

  “Private hunting lodge for the rich and famous?” Summer asked with a tilt of her head.

  “Nothing that glamorous. It’s actually a prototype carbon sequestration plant, built by Terra Green Industries. I was involved in some of the site approval and inspection work as it was being built.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept of carbon sequestration. Collecting and liquefying industrial carbon dioxide gases and pumping them deep into the earth or beneath the ocean floor. Seems like an expensive way to keep pollutants out of the atmosphere.”

  “The new greenhouse gas emission limits make it a hot technology. The clampdown on industrial carbon dioxide releases in Canada is especially stringent. Companies can now trade carbon credits, but the cost is much higher than many had anticipated. Mining and power companies are particularly desperate to find lower-cost alternatives. Goyette expects to make a lot of money from his sequestration technology if he is allowed to expand the process.”

  “Mitchell Goyette, the environmental magnate?”

  “Yes, he’s the owner of Terra Green. Goyette is something of a cultural hero to many Canadians. He’s built dams, wind farms, and solar panel fields all over the country while touting hydrogen fuel technologies.”

  “I’m familiar with his call for offshore wind farms along the Atlantic seaboard to produce clean energy. I have to tell you, that doesn’t exactly look like a hydrogen-powered yacht,” Summer said, pointing toward the Italian-built luxury vessel.

  “No, he doesn’t live the self-deprived life of a true greenie. He’s become a billionaire off the environmental movement, yet nobody holds it against him. Some people say that he doesn’t even believe in the movement, that it’s just a means for him to make money.”

  “Apparently he has succeeded,” she said, still eyeing the yacht. “Why did he build a sequestration facility here?”

  “In a word, Athabasca. The oil sands of Athabasca, Alberta, require a tremendous amount of energy to refine into crude oil. A by-product of the process is carbon dioxide, apparently in large quantities. The new greenhouse gas agreement will shut down the refinery operations unless they can find a way around their CO2 problem. Enter Mitchell Goyette. The oil companies were already building a small pipeline from the oil fields to Kitimat. Goyette convinced them to build an extra pipeline to run liquefied carbon dioxide.”

  “We noticed a pair of small oil tankers in the channel,” Summer said.

  “We fought the pipelines hard for fear of oil spills, but the commerce powers won out. Goyette, meanwhile, convinced the governmen
t that a coastal location was key for his facility, and even received a land grant from the Natural Resources Department.”

  “A shame it ended up in such a pristine location.”

  “There was a lot of dissent in the department, but the natural resources minister ultimately signed off on it. In fact, I’m told he is one of the guests visiting the official grand opening today.”

  “And you didn’t make the cut?” Summer asked.

  “My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. No, wait, the dog ate it.” He laughed. It was the first time Summer had caught Trevor in a light moment, and she observed a sudden warmth in his eyes.

  They sped on into Kitimat, Trevor easing the boat to berth behind the docked NUMA vessel. Dirk could be seen inside the research vessel’s cabin, typing on a laptop computer. He closed the computer and stepped out with a morose look on his face as Summer and Trevor tied up the other vessel, then walked alongside.

  “Back before three, with room to spare,” Summer greeted, eyeing her wristwatch.

  “I think the police chief’s visit is the least of our worries,” Dirk replied. “I just downloaded the lab results from the water samples we sent to Seattle yesterday.”

  “Why so glum?”

  Dirk handed the printout to Summer, then gazed across the waters of the sound. “The pristine-looking waters lying off Kitimat are threatening to kill anything that swims through them.”

  8

  MITCHELL GOYETTE DRAINED THE GLASS OF Krug Clos du Mesnil champagne with a smug look of satisfaction. He placed the empty crystal flute on a cocktail table just as the wash from the helicopter’s rotor rippled the tent overhead.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a deep voice. “That would be the Prime Minister.” Extricating himself from a small group of province politicians, Goyette exited the tent and strode toward a nearby landing pad.

  A large and imposing man, Goyette had a polished demeanor that bordered on slick. With wide eyes, greased-back hair, and a permanent grin, he had the look of a wild boar. Yet he moved in a fluid, almost graceful manner that belied his simmering arrogance. It was the conceit of a man who had amassed his wealth through shrewdness, deceit, and intimidation.