Arctic Drift dp-20

by Clive Cussler

  Hustling toward the small terminal, he was nearly sideswiped by a rusty pickup truck that had crossed the runway and rattled to a stop in front of the door. A squat man hopped out, covered from head to foot in multiple layers of cold-weather gear. The bulky clothing gave him the effect of a giant walking pincushion.

  “Would that be King Tut’s mummy or my Director of Underwater Technology buried under there?” Pitt asked as the man blocked his path.

  The man yanked a scarf away from his jaw, revealing the staunch face of Al Giordino.

  “It is I, your tropics-loving Director of Technology,” he replied. “Hop into my heated chariot before we both turn into Popsicles.”

  Pitt grabbed his luggage off a cart headed toward the terminal and threw it into the open truck bed. Inside the terminal, a plain-looking woman with short hair stood by the window staring out at the two men. As they climbed into the truck, she walked to a pay phone in the terminal and promptly made a collect call to Vancouver.

  Giordino shoved the truck into gear, then held his gloved hands in front of the heater vent as he stepped on the gas.

  “The ship’s crew took a vote,” he said. “You owe us a cold-weather pay bonus plus a week’s vacation in Bora-Bora at the end of this job.”

  “I don’t understand,” Pitt smiled. “The long summer days in the Arctic are renowned for their balmy weather.”

  “It ain’t summer yet. The high was twelve degrees yesterday, and there’s another cold front moving our way. Which reminds me, did Rudi escape our winter wonderland successfully?”

  “Yes. We missed each other in transit, but he phoned to tell me he was warmly ensconced back at NUMA headquarters.”

  “He’s probably sipping mai tais along the banks of the Potomac this very moment just to spite me.”

  The airfield was adjacent to the small town, and Giordino had only a few blocks to drive until reaching the waterfront docks. Located on the barren coast of the Northwest Territories, Tuktoyaktuk was a tiny Inuvialuit settlement that had grown into a small hub for regional oil and gas exploration.

  The turquoise hull of the Narwhal came into view, and Giordino drove slightly past the vessel, parking the truck next to a building marked HARBORMASTER’S OFFICE. He returned the keys to the borrowed truck inside, then helped Pitt with his bags. Captain Stenseth and Jack Dahlgren were quick to greet Pitt as he boarded the NUMA ship.

  “Did Loren finally take a rolling pin to your noggin?” Dahlgren asked, spotting the bandage on Pitt’s head.

  “Not yet. Just a result of some poor driving on my part,” he answered, brushing aside the concern.

  The men sat down in a small lounge near the galley as cups of hot coffee were distributed to all. Dahlgren proceeded to brief Pitt on the abbreviated discovery of the thermal vent while Stenseth discussed the rescue of the Canadian Ice Lab survivors.

  “What’s the local speculation on who could have been responsible?” Pitt asked.

  “Since the survivor’s description perfectly matches that of our frigate the Ford, everyone thinks it was the Navy. We’ve been told, of course, that she was three hundred miles away at the time,” Giordino said.

  “What no one seems to consider is that there are very few active icebreakers up here,” Stenseth said. “Unless it was a rogue freighter risking its own skin or foolishly off course, the potential culprits are relatively small in number.”

  “The only known American icebreaker in these waters is the Polar Dawn,” Giordino said.

  “Make that a Canadian icebreaker now,” Dahlgren said, shaking his head.

  “She doesn’t match the description anyway,” Stenseth said. “Which leaves a handful of Canadian military vessels, the Athabasca escort ships, or a foreign icebreaker, possibly Danish or even Russian.”

  “Do you think it was a Canadian warship that struck the camp by accident and they are trying to cover it up?” Pitt asked.

  “One of the scientists, Bue was his name, swears he saw an American flag, in addition to the hull number that matches the Ford,” Dahlgren said.

  “It doesn’t figure,” Giordino said. “The Canadian military wouldn’t try to instigate a conflict by masquerading as an American warship.”

  “What about these Athabasca escort ships?” Pitt asked.

  “By Canadian law, all commercial traffic through ice-clogged sections of the Northwest Passage requires an icebreaker escort,” Stenseth said. “A private firm, Athabasca Shipping, handles the escort duty. They operate a number of large icebreaker tugs, which are also used to haul their fleet of oceangoing barges. We saw one towing a string of enormous liquid-natural-gas barges passing through the Bering Strait a few weeks ago.”

  Pitt’s eyes lit up. He opened a briefcase and pulled out a photograph of a massive barge under construction in New Orleans. He handed the picture to Stenseth.

  “Any resemblance to this one?” Pitt asked.

  Stenseth looked at the photo and nodded. “Yes, it’s positively the same type. You don’t see barges of that size very often. What’s the significance?”

  Pitt briefed the men on his hunt for the ruthenium, its trail to the Arctic, and Mitchell Goyette’s possible involvement. He checked some additional papers that Yaeger had provided, which confirmed that the Athabasca Shipping Company was owned by one of Goyette’s holding companies.

  “If Goyette is shipping gas and oil from the Arctic, his environmental posturing is certainly fraudulent,” Giordino noted.

  “A dockworker I met at a bar told me someone was shipping the Chinese massive quantities of oil sands, or bitumen, out of Kugluktuk,” Dahlgren said. “He said they were bypassing the government’s shutdown of refineries in Alberta due to greenhouse gas emissions.”

  “A good bet it’s on Goyette’s barges,” Pitt said. “Maybe it’s even his oil sands.”

  “It would seem that this Goyette might have a powerful incentive to obtain the ruthenium source,” Stenseth said. “How do you propose beating him to it?”

  “By finding a one-hundred-and-eighty-five-year-old ship,” Pitt replied. He then shared Perlmutter’s findings and the clues linking the mineral to Franklin’s expedition ship Erebus.

  “We know the ships were initially abandoned northwest of King William Island. The Inuit account places the Erebus farther south, so it is possible that a shifting ice sheet drove the ships in that direction before they sank.”

  Stenseth excused himself to run to the bridge, while Dahlgren asked Pitt what he hoped to find.

  “Providing that the ice didn’t completely crush the ships, there’s a good chance the vessels are intact and in an excellent state of preservation due to the frigid water.”

  Stenseth returned to the lounge with an armful of maps and photographs. He opened a nautical chart that showed the area around King William Island, then produced a high-altitude photo of the same region.

  “Satellite photo of Victoria Strait. We’ve got updates for the entire passage. Some areas north of here are still encased in sea ice, but the waters around King William have already broken up due to an early melt off this year.” He laid the photograph on the table for all to see. “The seas are essentially clear in the area where Franklin became icebound one hundred and sixty-five years ago. A bit of drift ice still remains, but nothing that should impede a search effort.”

  While Pitt nodded with satisfaction, Dahlgren was shaking his head.

  “Aren’t we forgetting one mighty important tidbit? ” he asked. “The Canadians have expelled us from their waters. The only reason we have been able to remain in Tuktoyaktuk so long is because we feigned problems with our rudder.”

  “With your arrival, those problems have now been rectified,” Stenseth said to Pitt with a wily smile.

  Pitt turned to Giordino. “Al, I believe you were tasked with proposing a strategy to address Jack’s concern.”

  “Well, as Jack can attest, we have taken the opportunity to befriend the small Canadian Coast Guard contingent stationed here in Tuk,�
�� Giordino said, using the local’s abbreviation for the town’s Inuit name. “And while this has personally cost me a number of high bar tabs, in addition to a hangover or two for Jack, I believe I have made commendable progress.”

  He opened one of the captain’s charts that showed the western portion of the passage, then searched the coastline with his finger.

  “Cape Bathurst, here, is about two hundred miles to the east of us. The Canadians have a radar station on the point, which they use to pick up all eastbound traffic through the passage. They can radio ahead to Kugluktuk, where a pair of vessels are stationed, or call back here to Tuk, where a small cutter is berthed. Fortunately for us, the Canadians have posted most of their intercept vessels on the other end of the passage, snaring the bulk of the traffic entering via Baffin Bay.”

  “Last time I checked, we didn’t have stealth capabilities on our research ships,” Pitt said.

  “We don’t necessarily need it,” Giordino continued. “As luck would have it, there’s a Korean freighter here in port that struggled in with engine problems. The harbormaster told me the repairs have been completed and that they’ll be departing later today. The ship is only going as far as Kugluktuk with a load of oil drilling repair parts, so it’ll be sailing without an icebreaker escort.”

  “You’re suggesting that we shadow her?” Pitt asked.

  “Precisely. If we can hold tight to her port flank while we pass Bathurst, they might not pick us up.”

  “What about the Canadian picket vessels?” Dahlgren asked.

  “The Tuk cutter just came into port this morning, so she likely won’t put to sea again right away,” Giordino said. “That leaves the two vessels in Kugluktuk. I’d bet one of them is probably hanging around the Polar Dawn, which was taken there. So that likely leaves just one vessel that we’d have to slide past.”

  “I’d say those are odds worth taking,” Pitt stated.

  “What about air surveillance? Can’t we count on the Canadian Air Force to do an occasional flyby?” Dahlgren asked.

  Stenseth pulled out another sheet from his pile. “Mother Nature will lend us a hand there. The weather forecast for the next week is pretty dismal. If we set sail today, we’ll probably accompany a slow-moving low-pressure front that’s forecast to roll through the archipelago.”

  “Stormy weather,” Giordino said. “We’ll know why there’s no plane up in the sky.”

  Pitt looked around the table, eyeing the others with confidence. They were men of unquestioned loyalty that he could trust in difficult times.

  “It’s settled, then,” he said. “We’ll give the freighter a couple of hours head start, then shove off ourselves. Make it look like we are headed back to Alaska. Once safely offshore, we’ll circle back and catch the freighter well before Bathurst.”

  “Won’t be a problem,” Stenseth said. “We’ve got at least eight or ten knots on her.”

  “One more thing,” Pitt said. “Until the politicians resolve the Polar Dawn situation, we are on our own. And there’s a reasonable chance we could end up with the same fate. I want only a skeleton crew of volunteers aboard. Every scientist and nonessential crew member is to disembark here as quietly as possible. Do what you can to book them rooms and flights out of here. If anyone asks, tell them they are oil company employees who have been reassigned.”

  “It will be taken care of,” Stenseth promised.

  Pitt set down his coffee and stared across the table with sudden unease. A painting hung on the opposite bulkhead, depicting a nineteenth-century sailing ship caught in a harrowing gale, its sails shredded and masts falling. A jagged cluster of rocks rose in its path, ready to bash the ship to bits.

  Stormy weather indeed, he thought.

  51

  A thick plume of black smoke sifted out the funnel of the freighter as its lines were cast and the blue-hulled ship churned slowly away from the dock. Standing on the Narwhal ’s bridge, Bill Stenseth watched as the Korean ship steamed out of Tuktoyaktuk’s small harbor and entered the Beaufort Sea. Picking up a shipboard phone, Stenseth dialed the number to a cabin belowdecks.

  “Pitt here,” came the response after a single ring.

  “The Korean freighter is on her way.”

  “What’s our crew status?”

  “All nonessential personnel are off the ship. I think we filled up every hotel in town. Of course, there are only two hotels in town. Flights to Whitehorse have been arranged for everyone. They’ll have an easy time getting to Alaska from there, or even Vancouver. We’re left with a total of fourteen men aboard.”

  “That’s a slim contingent. When can we leave?”

  “I was preparing to cast off in another two hours so as not to raise suspicion.”

  “Then I guess we just need to notify our hosts that we are headed home,” Pitt said.

  “My next order of business,” Stenseth reported.

  The captain hung up, then collected Giordino for good measure and walked down to the Canadian Coast Guard station. The Canadian commander seemed less interested in Stenseth’s imminent departure than the loss of Giordino’s charity at the local seamen’s bar. With little to fear from the research ship, the Coast Guard commander said farewell, neglecting to provide an escort out of Canadian waters.

  “With that kind of international goodwill, perhaps there’s a future for you in the diplomatic corps,” Stenseth joked to Giordino.

  “My liver would lodge a protest,” Giordino replied.

  The men stopped at the harbormaster’s office, where Stenseth paid the docking fees. Leaving the office, they bumped into Pitt stepping out of a small hardware store with a triangular package under one arm.

  “Were we missing something aboard?” Stenseth asked,

  “No,” Pitt replied with a tight grin. “Just an added insurance policy for when we get to sea.”

  The sky overhead had grown dark and threatening when the Narwhal slipped its lines two hours later and slowly cruised out of the harbor. A small fishing boat passed in the opposite direction, seeking refuge in port from the pending rough weather. Pitt waved out the bridge, admiring the black-painted boat and its hearty breed of fishermen who braved the Beaufort Sea for a living.

  The waves began rolling in six-foot swells when the Northwest Territories coastline fell from view behind them. Light snow flurries filled the air, cutting visibility to less than a mile. The foul weather aided the Narwhal ’s stealth voyage, and the ship quickly altered course to the east. The Korean freighter had built a twenty-five-mile lead, but the faster research ship quickly began closing the gap. Within hours, the oblong image of the freighter appeared on the fringe of the Narwhal ’s radar screen. Captain Stenseth brought the NUMA ship within three miles of the freighter, then slowed until he had matched speed with the larger ship. Like a coal tender behind a locomotive, the research ship tailed the freighter’s every turn as it steamed along the uneven coastline.

  Sixty-five miles ahead, Cape Bathurst jutted into the Beaufort Sea like a bent thumb. It was an ideal location to monitor the marine traffic entering the western approach to Amundsen Gulf. Though the nearest northerly landmass, Banks Island, was still a hundred miles away, the sea ice encroached to within thirty miles of the cape. With radar coverage extending more than fifty miles, the small Coast Guard station could easily track all vessels sailing through open water.

  As Pitt and Stenseth studied a chart of the approaching cape, Dahlgren entered the bridge lugging a laptop computer and a string of cables. He tripped over a canvas bag near the bulkhead, dropping his cables but hanging on to the computer.

  “Who left their laundry lying around?” he cursed.

  He realized the bag contained a sample of rocks and picked up a small stone that had skittered out of the bag.

  “That happens to be your laundry,” Stenseth said. “Those are the rock samples that you and Al brought back from the thermal vent. Rudi was supposed to take them to Washington for analysis, but he left them on the bridge.”
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br />   “Good old Rudi,” Dahlgren lauded. “He could make an atom bomb out of a can of dog food, but he can’t remember to tie his shoes in the morning.”

  Dahlgren slipped the stone into his pocket while he picked up the cables, then stepped over to the helm. Without further comment, he opened a panel beneath the ship’s console and began connecting the cables.

  “Not an opportune time to be reformatting our nav system, Jack,” Stenseth admonished.

  “I’m just borrowing a bit of data for a computer game,” he replied, standing up and turning on his computer.

  “I really don’t think we have the need for any games on the bridge,” Stenseth said, his agitation growing.

  “Oh, I think y’all will like this one,” he replied, quickly typing in a number of commands. “I call it Shadow Driver.”

  The screen on his laptop suddenly illuminated with the image of two boats sailing in tandem from bottom to top. An angular beam of gray spread from a point at the top corner of the monitor, illuminating the majority of the screen, save for a moving shadow behind the upper boat.

  “A little software program I just put together, with some help from the ship’s GPS and radar systems. This shaft of gray light is targeted from Bathurst, mimicking the station’s radar coverage.”

  “Which will allow us to stay out of the eye of the ground radar system?” Pitt asked.

  “You nailed her. Because of our changing angle to the radar station, we’ll have to constantly adjust our position behind the freighter in order to duck the signal. We just can’t chug right alongside her or else we’d be detected at the fringe angles. If the helmsman keeps us locked in the indicated shadow, then we have a darn good chance of sailing past Bathurst like the Invisible Man.”

  Stenseth studied the computer, then turned to the helmsman. “Let’s put it to the test before we get in range. Engines ahead one-third. Take us five hundred yards off her port beam, then match speed.”