by Linda Harrel
Arctic Enemy
By
Linda Harrel
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
ARCTIC ENEMY
To reporter Sarah Grey, the assignment to go on the maiden voyage of the vast ice-breaker Arctic Enterprise was the big chance of her career, and she was determined to do the best job possible. But things began to go very wrong with the arrival of the Director of Marine Safety, the forceful Captain Guy Court. According to Guy, Sarah couldn't do a thing right—but just what had she done to upset him?
Another book you will enjoy
by
LINDA HARREL
SEA LIGHTNING
Patagonia, literally the ends of the earth, did not sound a likely place to find romance. Nor was it, Jensa soon discovered, when she went there to work for Dr Adam Ryder on his study of whales—and encountered nothing but hostility from him. He definitely preferred whales to human beings—at any rate if the human being was called Jensa Welles! Could she stick it out until her job was completed?
First published 1981
Australian copyright 1981
Philippine copyright 1982
This edition 1982
© Linda Harrel 1981
ISBN 0 263 74082 X
CHAPTER ONE
Sarah Grey placed a neat sheaf of papers on the secretary's desk. 'Done,' she said, 'and I've never been so delighted to have an assignment behind me.'
The young girl smiled and shook a halo of blonde curls. 'Complaints, Sarah? Not from you, surely!'
Sarah knew her boss's secretary held a resolutely romantic view of the life of a science reporter. 'Trish,' she said firmly, 'a study of recycling our mountains of waste is hardly a glamorous assignment. Not that I'm against it, mind you, but days spent in rubber boots prowling catwalks while miles of garbage-laden conveyor belts rumble on beneath you is not my idea of fun. Nor, I might add, is it likely to win me national acclaim as a scintillating writer.'
Trish, unmoved, grinned and flicked an impatient wrist. 'No matter,' she said breezily, 'your next story should more than make up for your days on the trash circuit.'
Sarah straightened her back, alert as a doe. 'D'Arcy's got something for me?'
'Yes—but I can't say another word. He practically made me take a vow of silence on this one. So do me a favour, will you, and go in there and speak to him? I'll see that your story gets filed.'
Sarah slid off the corner of Trish's desk, revealing a trim curve of calf beneath the tailored wool skirt—a fact not unnoticed by Terry West, filing a story on pre-season hockey training in Montreal, nor half a dozen other males busy that morning in the Herald's' editorial offices. But Sarah, as usual, had her mind on work and was blind to the wistful glances. She knocked, waited for the usual barked reply, and went into her employer's office, instantly shutting out the clangour of telephones and typewriters, and shouts for copy boys.
The Herald's managing editor looked up from under an untidy shock of salt and pepper hair, smiled ever so briefly, and indicated with a stab of his finger the chair across from him.
As she settled into the leather chair, she said easily, 'Trish has been tantalising me with hints of a new assignment, D'Arcy. Is this more of her irrepressible romanticism, or have you got a real plum?'
He hesitated just a second. 'It's possible,' he conceded gruffly. 'Does the name Tony Freeland ring a bell?'
Sarah frowned, then brightened. 'In shipping, isn't he?… Wait a second… of course! He was the one who represented Freeland Shipping at that big news conference last year on the Arctic gas project, wasn't he?'
'He was,' D'Arcy agreed. 'Stood in for his uncle, Julian Freeland, the chairman of the board, who was ill. Well, he was back in Ottawa last week while you were off poking around in people's trash pails.'
'About the gas project again?'
'Yes—last-minute details with some government types about the maiden voyage of Freeland's ice-breaking super-tanker. And, being the aggressive newsman that I am, I cornered him over at the Parliament Building to feel him out about press coverage of their first trip into the Arctic.'
The implications of D'Arcy's news were not lost on Sarah, who leaned towards him intently. 'Oh, D'Arcy, you didn't get him to agree, did you? What a scoop—this has got to be one of the biggest stories in the world right now!'
Her boss allowed himself a rare smile. 'I did, as a matter of fact. And between you and me, I'm still somewhat stunned myself. This voyage, as you well know, is the most controversial in seafaring history. I expected Freeland to be leery, if not downright hostile, to the idea of close press coverage.'
'Close… just how close, D'Arcy?' Sarah's voice was very quiet.
D'Arcy Turner picked up his pipe and studied it. 'What would you say, Sarah, to accompanying the Arctic Enterprise on her maiden voyage. With an exclusive on the entire story?'
For once, Sarah Grey was speechless. She sank back into the chair, the wide lavender eyes enormous.
Her boss chuckled and picked up the slack. 'I know,' he said nodding. 'The most I'd hoped for was some pre-sailing interviews, a tour of the ship. And I'd planned to fly a reporter and photographer up to the Arctic to cover the docking and loading operations, of course. But Freeland is actually willing to have a reporter on board.'
Sarah turned her head to one side on the delicate, ivory neck and looked askance at D'Arcy. 'And you're really giving the job to me?' she asked breathlessly.
At this, the amiable manner vanished and the gruff, irascible one for which D'Arcy Turner was both famed and feared returned. 'I'll tell you straight out, Sarah, that I'm not entirely happy with the thought of sending you out on this assignment, for lots of reasons.'
'Is there someone else you'd prefer?' she asked, unsuccessfully trying to conceal her alarm.
D'Arcy knocked his pipe against the rim of the large, pottery ashtray. 'There's Ted Benson, of course, who's qualified. He's out in Calgary doing a piece on nuclear energy, but I could recall him.' Anticipating her protest, he added quickly, 'But you are the one who's been covering the exploration for natural gas—you've got all the data at your fingertips. And there's another point in your favour—young Freeland himself.'
Sarah raised a perplexed eyebrow. 'Tony? In what way?'
'He remembered you from that press conference. I got the distinct impression that knowing you would land the job was a spur to giving his consent. He didn't say it in so many words, of course, but the implication was there.'
'There were dozens of us there that day. I don't see how he could remember me out of that sea of raised hands.'
D'Arcy smiled. 'You aimed some very good questions at the gentleman that day, my dear. Apparently he's not forgotten the reporter who did her homework.'
'He acquitted himself rather well, as I recall,' retorted Sarah. 'Perhaps a bit too smoothly, even. But my being a woman—that won't throw a monkey wrench into more practical shipboard matters?'
'No, he was quite definite about that. In fact, he said there'll be two other women, officers' wives, on board. But Sarah. I still don't know, on purely personal grounds, if I want you on that great monster of a super-tanker with its belly full of liquid gas up there in a sea mined with icebergs. It sounds bloody suicidal.'
Sarah set the firm little chin at a defiant angle. 'I thought the whole thrust of the engineers' arguments last year when this project was so hotly debated was the safety of the tanker. Because of the horrendous consequences of a gas explosion, this is supposed to be the most carefully orches
trated shipping adventure ever undertaken!'
'I know, I know.' He shrugged his shoulders.
Sarah crossed her legs and turned her eyes on her boss. 'You didn't show such touching concern for my safety last month when I flew to British Columbia on that logging industry story—there was a million times more chance of my plane crashing than there's supposed to be of this supertanker exploding. And besides,' she pressed, 'if it's safety you're really worried about, may I remind you that Ted Benson is the father of three young children while I'm alone in the world, independent and very unmarried. Besides, I'll not get anywhere in this business shrinking from the thought of what might happen. You're a dear to worry about me, D'Arcy, but please—I want this. Very much.'
Shrugging again, D'Arcy pulled open his top drawer.
'Time's a bit of a problem, so I've had Trish make the preliminary arrangements. She's been in touch with Freeland Shipping's executive offices in London. Here's your itinerary, plane ticket, plus a list of clothing they suggest. Trish also has an expenses cheque waiting for you.' He handed a plump manilla folder to her.
'Freeland finished construction of the Arctic Enterprise last month in their Japanese shipyards. They've just finished bringing her on sea trials from there to Rotterdam for some last-minute outfitting and taking on supplies. You're to fly to Rotterdam and board her there two days from now.'
Sarah scanned the itinerary, shaking the glossy curtain of hair. 'Through the English Channel, north past Greenland to Baffin Bay, and on to Melville Island. The old Northwest Passage that every Canadian school child knows by heart! It makes you shiver, doesn't it, D'Arcy, just to think about those old sailing ships trying to find a passage through the Arctic to the Orient? It's everybody's dream to really see it some day.'
'Well, not everyone's, perhaps. It's not exactly a tropical cruise. But it does have a certain adventuresome ring to it, I'll grant you.'
Sarah shot him a knowing look. 'You don't fool me for a minute. If you weren't saddled with managing this paper you'd have grabbed your pencil and parka and been off on this one yourself! Which reminds me: two days is nothing at all. I've got research to do, files to pull—not to mention all this shopping and packing!'
And so she thanked him, promised him the best exclusive he'd ever seen, blew him a kiss, and vanished into the windowless depths of the newspaper file room.
There, she snapped the plastic lid off her coffee container and took a small sip. In her quick, neat fashion she sorted the folders and stacks of microfilm the library clerk had piled on to the long wooden table, rejecting some, setting others aside.
With her chin resting on her tiny hand, she reread the story she herself had written the year before on the tapping of the Arctic's trillions of cubic feet of natural gas. The engineers she had interviewed were just completing work on a mammoth refrigeration plant on Melville Island that would liquify the gas at a temperature of minus a hundred and sixty degrees Celsius and pump it into waiting tankers.
At first, they had thought that the process could only take place during the brief period when the northern waters were relatively ice-free. But then they had devised the ambitious plan to build giant ice-breaking super-tankers that would turn a limited venture into a profitable year-round one.
Bitter controversy had swirled around the project from the beginning. Promoters claimed it heralded a new era of technology for the world while offering Canada security and independence at a time of frightening energy scarcity.
But detractors questioned the impact the project would have on the fragile ecology of the Arctic. Darkly, some even hinted that it was only a matter of time before there would be a catastrophic explosion of the liquid natural gas, or L.N.G. They likened it to a nuclear holocaust which would create unspeakable horror, wiping out wildlife and threatening the entire chain of life. And then there was the native peoples' concern for their rights and way of life, a sensitive and complex issue, to be sure.
After acrimonious debate, the project had won approval, although the conditions for it were to be stringent. The liquification plant was to be remote from human settlement. The route of the super-tanker would avoid as far as possible both the human population and the rich herds of whales, seals and caribou.
But in nothing would the safeguards be as extensive as they would be for the construction of the L.N.G. tankers. That, at least, was reassuring, thought Sarah, slipping the article back into its folder and pulling the file on Freeland Shipping towards her.
The fact that Freeland Shipping had won the contract to produce and run the world's first ice-breaking super-tanker had been a surprise to everyone involved. The staggering construction and operating costs of super-tankers, running into millions of dollars, meant that they were almost always backed by giant financial consortiums. But Freeland was the exception—one of the last great family-owned shipping enterprises. Their ships were all of British registry, also a rarity at a time when more and more owners had 'flags of convenience' from countries where standards weren't as high as they remained in Britain. Freeland Shipping still stood for all that was best in the traditions of the sea. Its liners remained the grandes dames of the ocean, embodying the romantic mystique that others had abandoned long ago in favour of speed and efficiency.
But Freeland had been eclipsed during the previous ten years by the aggressive newcomers, the multi-billion dollar conglomerates that dominated the heady world of super-tankers. No one in that closed circle had thought that Freeland would reach the final round of fierce bidding for the contract.
But make it they did, with a superb presentation on the most expensive ship ever to be built. It was to be a Class 7 ice-breaker, one able to navigate waters encrusted with ice up to seven feet in depth. No ship in the world was to have more sophisticated navigation or safety equipment gracing its decks.
The superiority of design and the best estimated date of completion, combined with Freeland's reputation for impeccable standards, had won them the contract hands down. There was a rash of raised eyebrows and tempers in the exclusive club of super-tanker owners.
'Impressive,' murmured Sarah, flipping through the pages of an obscure shipping industry quarterly. And even more impressive was the role played in the company's resurgence by Tony Freeland himself. Although his uncle was the major stockholder and dominant figure in the company, Julian Freeland's increasingly poor health had forced him to relinquish more and more control to his nephew. It was Tony, apparently, who was singlehandedly responsible for Freeland's furious fight for the L.N.G. contract and its bid to win back a leading role in world shipping.
Sarah's delicate fingers, the nails free of polish and buffed to a pearly glow, pulled a photographer's glossy proof out of the Herald's picture file. A group of government officials together with representatives of Freelands smiled out at her. They were gathered in an ornately panelled office for the contract signing ceremony.
Sarah was suddenly and intensely curious about the man who had approved her presence aboard the Enterprise at such a critical time, and who was to be her host for the voyage. She bent over the picture, her arched eyebrows coming together in a tiny frown of concentration, and tried to pick out the frustratingly small details. With her reporter's training, she scanned the faces, searching for expression, gestures, anything that might give her an insight into what was really going on behind the amiable public facade.
Seated in the centre of the group was an elderly, distinguished gentleman who the caption confirmed was Julian. Beside him, documents in hand and obviously in charge, sat the urbane and darkly handsome man she recognised as Tony. The rest were identified only as other government and company representatives.
They all, with one glaring exception, looked jubilant. The exception stood towards the rear of the assemblage, his bearing stiff and his otherwise attractive face askew with a slight grimace. An unfortunate camera angle, Sarah concluded, for surely everyone at that signing must have been dizzy with elation.
She turned her atten
tion back to Tony Freeland and discovered that the prospect of being his guest for a few weeks was not entirely unpleasant. He had handled himself beautifully at their encounter the year before, smoothly fielding difficult and frequently hostile questions from the press.
She had wondered at the time if his manner wasn't too unruffled to be genuine. But then, she reasoned, he had ample cause for that supreme confidence. If the rumours were true that his company had been on the verge of bankruptcy and he alone had saved it with this staggeringly ambitious venture, who could fault him for crowing a bit? He had to be a remarkable man. With any luck at all, she was going to have a blockbuster story on her hands.
CHAPTER TWO
The Arctic Enterprise had grown and grown, as the taxi picked its way down the littered dock at dawn, until she seemed to fill the horizon. She blotted out the pale slice of sun rising over Rotterdam's Europort and even seemed to muffle the squalling, reeling gulls.
Empty of cargo and riding high, her steel walls formed a cold, grey canyon. Sarah stood at the bottom of that canyon, her neck tipped painfully back as she strained to catch a glimpse of the living and navigational superstructure that loomed like a modern office tower high over the stern.
'Designed for beauty you weren't,' she murmured, noting critically the graceless and utilitarian lines. Only the fine gold lettering of the Freeland crest emblazoned on the rakish funnel and the regal crimson of the house flag snapping smartly in the breeze were reminders of the flair and elegance that marked Freeland's passenger liners. Had it pained that traditionalist, Julian Freeland, to put his seal on so exotic yet oddly plain a ship? Sarah wondered.
The driver deposited the last of her luggage at her feet and slammed the car boot shut. Sarah puzzled a moment over the strange currency, then produced the fare from her change purse. 'Bedankt,' she said, smiling.
