Arctic Drift dp-20

by Clive Cussler

  “Silver,” the prospector replied, holding up the tequila bottle and pouring Pitt a second shot. “There used to be a working silver mine up near Algoma Mills, before everyone went crazy around here for uranium. I figure if they had one big strike in the area, there’s bound to be a few scraps around for a small-timer like me.” He shook his head, then grinned. “So far, my theory hasn’t panned out.”

  Pitt smiled, then downed the glass of tequila. He turned to the prospector and asked, “What do you know about the mineral ruthenium?”

  The prospector rubbed his chin for a moment. “Well, it’s a relative of platinum, though not associated with deposits in these parts. I know the price has skyrocketed, so there’s probably a lot more folks out searching for the stuff, but I’ve never run across any. Can’t say that I know anybody else who has either. As I recall, there are only a few places in the world where they mine it. My only other recollection about ruthenium is that some folks thought it had something to do with the old Pretoria Lunatic Mill.”

  “I’m not familiar with the story,” Pitt replied.

  “An old miners’ tale out of South Africa. I read about it while doing some research on diamonds. Apparently, there was a small weaving mill built near the turn of the century near Pretoria, South Africa. After operating for about a year, they started finding the mill workers going batty. It got so bad they had to close down the factory. The lunacy probably had something to do with the chemicals they used, but it never was clearly identified. It was later noted that the plant was built next to a platinum mine rich with ruthenium, and that ruthenium ore, which had little value back then, was stockpiled in great mounds next to the mill. At least one historian thought that the unusual mineral had something to do with the crazy behavior.”

  “It’s an interesting story,” Pitt replied, recalling his discussion at the Co-op. “Have you by chance heard of any mining done by the Inuit up north in the old days?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Of course, the Arctic is considered a mining candy land these days. Diamonds in the Northwest Territories, coal on Ellesmere Island, and of course oil and natural gas prospects all over the place.”

  They were interrupted by a granite-faced Mountie, who poked his head in the door and asked Pitt to fill out a police report on his damaged rental car. The road construction crew arrived shortly after and went to work clearing a path through the debris. The loose rock and gravel was quickly pushed aside, and it was only a short while before a single lane of traffic was opened through the landslide area.

  “Any chance I could bum a ride with you to the Elliot Lake airport?” Pitt asked the old prospector.

  “I’m headed to the Sudbury region, so you’re pretty much on my way. Grab a seat up front,” he replied, taking a seat behind the wheel.

  The big RV barely squeezed through the debris before finding open road on the far side of the landslide. The two men chatted about history and mining until the motor home pulled to a stop outside the tiny airport terminal.

  “There you go, mister, ah…”

  “Pitt. Dirk Pitt.”

  “My name’s Clive Cussler. Happy trails to you, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt shook the old prospector’s hand, then gave the dachshund a pat on the head, before climbing out of the RV.

  “I’m obliged to you for your help,” Pitt said, looking at the prospector with a familiar sense of kinship. “Good luck in finding that beckoning mother lode.”

  Pitt walked into the building and approached the terminal manager, whose mouth gaped when he turned his way. Pitt looked like he had just been run over by a Greyhound bus. His hair and clothes were caked in dust, while a bloodied bandage crossed his scalp. When Pitt relayed how the rental car was sitting on the highway upside down and filled with rocks, the manager nearly went into convulsions.

  While filling out an endless stack of insurance papers, Pitt glanced out the window and noticed that the Gulfstream jet was no longer parked on the tarmac.

  “How long ago did our fellow jet depart?” he asked the manager.

  “Oh, about an hour or two ago. His stay wasn’t much longer than yours.”

  “I think I saw him in town. Kind of a burly guy in a brown suit? ”

  “Yes, that was the customer.”

  “Mind if I ask where he was headed?”

  “You two are both nosy. He asked who you were,” he said, picking up a clipboard and running his finger down a short list of aircraft arrivals and departures. Pitt casually leaned over the manager’s shoulder, catching the plane’s tail number, C-FTGI, which he committed to memory.

  “While I can’t tell you who is aboard, I can tell you that the plane is bound for Vancouver, with a scheduled fuel stop in Regina, Saskatchewan.”

  “They visit Elliot Lake often?”

  “No, I can’t say I’ve seen that plane here before.” The manager tilted his head toward a small room in the corner of the terminal. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, and I’ll notify your flight crew that you are here.”

  Pitt agreed and made his way to the lounge, where he poured a cup of coffee from a stained glass pot. A corner-mounted television was tuned to a Calgary rodeo, but Pitt stared past the bronco riders, toying with the scattered puzzle pieces of the last few days. His trip to the Miners Co-op had been made on a lark, yet his hunch had been right. Sourcing a supply of ruthenium was of global importance, and somebody else was in on the hunt. He thought back to the well-dressed man in the white sedan, John Booth. There was something familiar about the man, but Pitt knew no one in Vancouver who had the means to fly in a corporate jet.

  The terminal manager popped into the lounge, refilling a large coffee cup as he spoke to Pitt.

  “Your flight crew is on their way to your aircraft. I told them you would be right out.”

  As he spoke, he ripped open a packet of sugar to pour into his coffee. The bag ripped completely in half, though, showering the carpeted floor in white granules.

  “Jeez,” he groaned, tossing the empty packet aside. “Well, that will give the night janitor something to do,” he muttered, staring at the mess.

  Pitt was likewise staring at the mess but with a different reaction. His eyes suddenly turned bright, and a sly grin spread across his lips.

  “A fortuitous disaster,” he said to the manager, who looked back at him blankly. “Thanks for your assistance. I need to make a couple of phone calls, then I’ll be right aboard.”

  When he crossed the tarmac a few minutes later, Pitt had a spry step to his aching bones and the gash to his head had ceased hurting. Across his face, the sly grin was still firmly embedded in place.

  39

  Minister Jameson, I have Mitchell Goyette on line one,” the gray-haired secretary said, poking her head into Jameson’s office like a gopher.

  Jameson nodded from his desk, then waited until his secretary closed the door on her way out before hesitantly picking up the phone.

  “Arthur, how are things in our lovely capital city?” Goyette greeted with mock friendship.

  “Ottawa is enjoying a warm spring, to accompany the hot jingoistic climate in Parliament.”

  “It’s high time we retained Canada’s resources for Canadians,” Goyette snorted.

  “Yes, so that we can sell them to the Chinese,” the minister replied drily.

  Goyette promptly turned serious. “There’s a small pile of rocks in the Arctic southeast of Victoria Island called the Royal Geographical Society Islands. I’ll be needing the mineral rights to the entire landmass,” he said, as if asking for a cup of coffee.

  “Let me take a look,” Jameson replied, pulling a bundle of maps from his desk drawer. Finding a map marked Victoria Strait, which was overlaid with numbered grid lines, he moved to a desktop computer. Inputting the grid numbers, he accessed the ministry’s records of exploration and extraction licenses issued by the government. Within a few minutes, he had an answer for Goyette.

  “I’m afraid we already have a produc
tion license in place, which covers about thirty percent of the islands, primarily the southern portion of West Island. It’s a ten-year license, but they are only entering their second year of operations. The license is held by Kingfisher Holdings, a subsidiary of the Mid-America Mining Company out of Butte, Montana. They have built a small mining facility and are currently extracting small quantities of zinc, apparently just in the summer months.”

  “An American firm holds the license?”

  “Yes, but through a Canadian shell company. There’s technically no law against it, providing they post the required security bond and meet the other provisions of the license agreement.”

  “I want the license rescinded and reissued to one of my entities,” Goyette said matter-of-factly.

  Jameson shook his head at Goyette’s presumption. “There would have to be a violation of the license, such as environmental polluting or shortchanging the royalty payments. It can’t be done unilaterally, Mitchell, without setting the government up for a major lawsuit.”

  “Then how do I obtain the rights?” he huffed.

  “Mid-America is currently in compliance, according to the latest inspection report, so your only option would be to try and purchase the rights directly from them. They would no doubt gouge you for the pleasure.” He thought for a moment. “There may in fact be another possibility.”

  “Go ahead,” Goyette urged impatiently.

  “There is a national defense clause in the license. Should this brouhaha with the United States continue to escalate, there is a possibility of using it for grounds to terminate the license. The clause allows for the termination of foreign-held licenses in the event of war, conflict, or dissolution of state relations. A long shot, of course, but one never knows. What exactly is your interest in the islands?”

  “Something that is as good as gold,” Goyette replied quietly. Regaining his brashness, he barked, “Prepare the necessary details for me to bid on a new license. I’ll figure out a way to have this Mid-America Corporation cough it up.”

  “Very well,” Jameson replied, his teeth gritted. “I will await your results.”

  “That’s not all. As you know, the Melville Sound site is showing extraordinarily rich reserves of natural gas, yet I only own rights to a tiny fraction of the fields. I will be needing to obtain the extraction rights to the entire region.”

  The line fell silent for several seconds before Jameson finally muttered, “I’m not sure that will be possible.”

  “Nothing is impossible, for the right price,” Goyette laughed. “You’ll find that most of the tracts are previously ice-covered regions that nobody was interested in. Until now.”

  “That is the problem. Word is out that major shipments are already being made from Melville. We’re receiving dozens of exploration requests for the area.”

  “Well, don’t bother responding to them. The Melville gas fields will be worth billions, and I’m not going to let them slip through my fingers,” he snapped. “I will be sending you several maps shortly. They delineate my desired exploration zones, which encompass large sections of Melville Sound and some other Arctic regions. I intend to dramatically expand my exploration business in the Arctic and want wholesale exploration licenses for the entire lot. There are incredible profits available there, and you’ll be aptly rewarded, so don’t blow it. Good-bye, Arthur.”

  Jameson heard a click as the line went dead. The resources minister sat frozen for a moment until a seething anger welled up from within, then he slammed the phone down with a whack.

  * * *

  Two thousand miles to the west, Goyette punched off his speakerphone and leaned back in his chair. Gazing across his office desk, he stared into the cool eyes of Clay Zak.

  “Nothing ever comes easy,” he griped. “Now, tell me again why this ruthenium is so bloody important.”

  “It’s quite simple,” Zak replied. “If you can monopolize the supply of ruthenium, then you can control a primary solution to global warming. What you elect to do with the mineral is a matter of money… and ego, I suppose.”

  “I’m listening,” Goyette grunted.

  “Assuming that you control the principal supply, then you have a choice to make. Mitchell Goyette, the environmentalist, can become the savior of the planet and pocket a few bucks along the way, fueling the expansion of artificial photosynthesis factories around the world.”

  “But there is a risk on the demand side,” Goyette argued. “We really don’t know how much ruthenium will ultimately be needed, so the profits could be enormous or they could be squat. I’ve staked most of my worth in developing control of the Northwest Passage. I have invested heavily in natural gas and oil sands infrastructure to be able to ship through the passage, supported by my fleet of Arctic vessels. I have long-term export agreements in place with the Chinese and will soon have the Americans pleading on their knees. And I’ve got a potential booming business in carbon dioxide sequestration. If global warming is reversed, or even halted, I could face extended ice issues that run counter to my entire business strategy.”

  “In that case, I suppose we can turn to Mitchell Goyette the unrepentant capitalist, who can recognize a profit opportunity blindfolded and will stop at nothing to keep his financial empire expanding.”

  “You flatter me,” Goyette replied sarcastically. “But you have made the decision easy. I can’t afford to have the Northwest Passage revert to a solid chunk of ice. The recent melting is what has allowed me to gain control of the Melville Sound gas fields and monopolize transportation in the region. Maybe ten or fifteen years from now, when the oil sands and gas reserves are nearing depletion, I can go save the planet. By then, the ruthenium may even be exponentially more valuable.”

  “Spoken like a true capitalist.”

  Goyette reached over and picked up two thin pages of paper lying on his desk. They were the journal entries Zak had stolen from the Miners Co-op.

  “The basis for this whole ruthenium claim still seems rather flimsy,” he said, examining the pages. “A trader purchased the ore in 1917 from an Inuit whose grandfather acquired the stuff some seventy years earlier. The grandfather was from Adelaide but claimed the ruthenium came from the Royal Geographical Society Islands. On top of that, he called it Black Kobluna and said the source was cursed with dark spirits. Hardly the basis of a scientific mining claim.” He peered at Zak, unsure whether the whole thing might be a ruse on the part of the paid assassin.

  Zak stared back without blinking. “It may be a long shot. But the Inuit ruthenium had to come from somewhere, and we’re talking one hundred and sixty years ago in the middle of the Arctic. The journal has a map of the island, showing exactly where it was mined. The Inuit didn’t have front-end loaders and dump trucks back then, so they would have had to pretty much find the stuff lying on the ground. There has to be more there. While this Mid-America Company has appeared in the area, they’re looking for zinc, and on the opposite side of the island. Yes, Mitchell, it may well be a long shot. But there could be an enormous payoff if it’s there, and an enormous cost to you if someone else gets to it first.”

  “Aren’t we the only ones who know about the Inuit deposits? ”

  Zak squinted slightly, his lips pressed in a tight grimace.

  “There is the possibility that Dirk Pitt is aware of the trail,” he said.

  “Pitt?” Goyette asked, shaking his head in nonrecognition.

  “He’s the Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency in the United States. I ran into him at the research lab in Washington and noticed him giving aid to the lab manager after the explosion. He appeared again in Ontario, at the Miners Co-op, just after I took these journal entries. I tried to arrange an accident on the road out of town, but some old man helped him escape. He’s obviously aware of the importance of ruthenium in triggering the artificial-photosynthesis process.”

  “He might be on to you as well,” Goyette said, a crease crossing his troubled brow.

  “I c
an take care of that easily enough,” Zak said.

  “It’s not a good idea to be blowing up high-visibility government officials. He can’t do anything from the States. I’ll have him tailed just to make sure he stays there. Besides, I’ll need you to go to the Arctic and investigate the Royal Geographical Society Islands. Take a security team with you, and I’ll send along some of my top geologists. Then figure out a way to put Mid-America out of business. I want you to find the ruthenium. Obtain it at any cost. All of it.”

  “That’s the Mitchell Goyette I know and love,” Zak said with a twisted smile. “We haven’t talked about my share.”

  “It’s a pipe dream at the moment. Ten percent of the royalties is more than generous.”

  “I was thinking of fifty percent.”

  “That’s absurd. I’ll be incurring all of the capital costs. Fifteen percent.”

  “It’s going to take twenty.”

  Goyette clenched his teeth. “Get off my boat. And enjoy the cold.”

  40

  Despite Loren’s pleas for him to stay in bed and rest, Pitt rose early the next morning and dressed for work. His body ached worse than it had the day before, and he moved slowly until his joints gradually limbered up. He contemplated drinking a tequila with orange juice to deaden the pain but ultimately thought better of it. The aches of injury took longer to vanquish, he thought, cursing the mark of time and its toll on his body.

  Loren summoned him to the bathroom, where she cleaned the scrape on his head and applied a fresh bandage.

  “At least your hair will cover that one up,” she said, scraping her finger across several scars on Pitt’s chest and back. Numerous bouts with death in the past had left their share of physical marks, as well as a few mental ones.

  “A lucky blow to the head,” he quipped.

  “Maybe it will knock some sense into you,” she replied, wrapping her arms around his torso. While Pitt had told Loren of the events in Ontario, he had neglected to mention that the landslide had not occurred by accident. She reached up and lightly kissed his scalp, then reminded him that he had promised to take her to lunch later in the day.