Zak marched off down the beach ahead of the geologists, anxious to make the discovery himself. The cold seemed to fade away as he envisioned the potential riches that waited just down the coast. Goyette would already owe him for ridding the Canadian Arctic of American investors. Finding the ruthenium would be frosting on the cake.
The rugged shoreline was fronted by an undulating series of gullies and bluffs that climbed toward the island’s interior. The ravines were filled with hard-packed ice, while the hilltops were bare, creating a mottled pattern like the dappled coat of a gray mare. Trudging well behind Zak, the geologists moved tentatively in the cold weather, stopping frequently to examine exposed sections of the hillsides and collect samples of rock. Reaching his target area without finding physical evidence of a mine, Zak anxiously paced back and forth until the geologists drew near.
“The mine should be in this vicinity,” he shouted. “Search the area thoroughly.”
As the geologists fanned out, the security guard waved Zak over to the edge of the sea ice. Splayed at the man’s feet, he found the mutilated carcass of a ringed seal. The mammal’s flesh had been torn from its skin in large, jagged chunks. The guard pointed to the animal’s skull, where a wide set of claw marks had scratched through the skin.
“Only a bear would have left a mark like that,” the guard said.
“By the look of the decay, it was a fairly recent meal,” Zak replied. “Keep a sharp lookout, but don’t mention this to our scientific friends. They’re already distracted enough by the cold.”
The polar bear never materialized, and, to Zak’s dismay, neither did the ruthenium. After an hour of diligent searching, the frozen geologists staggered to Zak with confused looks on their faces.
“The visual results are on par with the south side of the island,” said one of the geologists, a bearded man with droopy hazel eyes. “We see some outcrop mineralization with signs of iron, zinc, and a bit of lead content. There’s no obvious evidence of platinum-group ores, including ruthenium. However, we’ll have to assay our samples back on the ship to definitely rule out its presence.”
“What about indications of a mine?” Zak asked.
The geologists all looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Any mining performed by the Inuit one hundred and sixty years ago would be by primitive means at best,” the lead geologist said. “There would have been evidence of surface disruptions. Unless it is under one of these ice sheets, we didn’t see any such indications.”
“I see,” Zak said in a pallid tone. “All right, back to the ship, then. I want to see your assay results as soon as possible.”
As they marched across the sea ice to their pickup site, Zak’s mind churned in bewilderment. It didn’t make sense. The journal was clear that the ruthenium had come from the island. Was it possible that the ore had all been played out in a small quantity? Was there a mistake in the journal or was it all a ruse? As he stood waiting for the Zodiac to arrive, he stared offshore, suddenly spotting a turquoise research ship bearing down on the island.
His bewilderment quickly turned to rage.
62
Pitt and Giordino were three hours into their review of the sonar data when the shipwreck appeared. Giordino had set the viewing speed at double the capture rate, so they were nearly complete with the first grid’s results. The rapidly scrolling seabed images had turned the men glassy-eyed, but they both popped out of their seats when the wreck appeared. Giordino immediately hit a keyboard command that froze the image.
It was a distinct shadow image of a large wreck sitting upright on the bottom, tilted at just a slight angle. The perimeter of the wreck appeared fully intact, except for a mangled crevice running horizontally across the bow.
“She’s a wooden ship,” Pitt remarked, pointing to a trio of long, tapering masts that stretched across the deck and onto the adjacent seafloor. “Looks to have a blunt-shaped bow, characteristic of the bomb ships that the Erebus and Terror were originally built to be.”
Giordino used the computer’s cursor to measure the wreck’s dimensions.
“How does thirty-two meters in length fit?” he asked.
“Like a glove,” Pitt replied, flashing a tired smile. “That’s got to be one of the Franklin ships.”
The door to the viewing room burst open and Dahlgren strode in, carrying a hard drive under his arm.
“Second AUV is back on board, and here’s what she’s got to say,” he declared, handing Giordino the device. He glanced at the screen, then stared with bulging eyes.
“Shoot, you already found her. Mighty fine-looking wreck,” he added, nodding at the clear image.
“Half of the pair,” Pitt said.
“I’ll start getting the submersible prepped. That will make for a sweet dive to the bottom.”
Pitt and Giordino finished reviewing the first AUV’s imagery, then tore through the data from the second vehicle. The remaining data came up empty. The sister shipwreck was somewhere outside the two initial search grids. Pitt decided against expanding the grids until they determined which wreck they had found.
He made his way to the bridge with the wreck coordinates, where he found Captain Stenseth gazing out the starboard wing. Less than two miles away, the icebreaker Otok came steaming north with its empty barge in tow.
“Lo and behold, a match for one of your friend Goyette’s barges,” Stenseth remarked.
“A coincidence?” Pitt asked.
“Probably,” Stenseth replied. “The barge is riding high, so she’s empty. Likely headed for Ellesmere Island for a load of coal, then back through the passage to China.”
Pitt studied the vessels as they moved closer, marveling at the massive size of the barge. He stepped over to the chart table and retrieved the photograph Yaeger had provided of the Goyette barge under construction in New Orleans. He looked at the picture and saw it was an exact duplicate of the vessel approaching off the starboard beam.
“We have a match,” Pitt remarked.
“You think they’ll report our position to the Canadian authorities? ”
“I doubt it. But there’s a chance they’re here for the same reason we are.”
Pitt kept a wary eye on the icebreaker as it steamed past a quarter mile away. There was no friendly chitchat over the radio, just the silent rocking from the barge’s wake as the vessels passed by. Pitt continued to watch as the icebreaker held a steady north-bound course.
Stenseth must be right, he thought. It only made sense that an empty barge in these parts was headed to pick up a shipment, and Ellesmere Island was well to the north of them. Still, there was something uncomfortable about the appearance of the two vessels. Somehow, he knew, their appearance was no simple coincidence.
63
“Her name’s the Narwhal. She’s Canadian.” Zak reached over and snatched the binoculars out of the captain’s hands and looked for himself. Studying the research ship, he read her name in white letters across the transom. Peering astern, he found a yellow submersible on the rear deck with NUMA painted on the side. He noted with chagrin a maple leaf flag flying atop the bridge.
“A bold move, Mr. Pitt,” he muttered. “That’s no Canadian ship, Captain. That is an American research ship operated by NUMA.”
“How could an American research ship make its way here?”
Zak shook his head. “With some measure of deception, apparently. I have no doubt that they are here after the ruthenium. The fools must think that it is underwater.”
He watched the NUMA ship fade from view as they continued steaming north.
“Hold our course until we are clear of radar coverage. Stay out of range for an hour or two, then creep back just to the point where you can detect them. If they move, then tail them.” He glanced at the bridge clock. “I’ll return shortly before nightfall with our next move.”
Zak climbed down a companionway to his cabin, intending to take a nap. Failure was making him irritable, however. The mineral assays f
or the rocks collected on the north shore had come back negative for ruthenium, and now there was the presence of the NUMA ship. Reaching for a bottle of bourbon, he poured himself a glass but spilled a shot when the ship took a sudden roll. A few drops landed on the Inuit map, which he had set on his nightstand. He grabbed the map, holding it up as a trail of bourbon ran down the page. The liquid bisected the island like a brown river, making it appear to be two separate islands. Zak stared at the map a long while, then hurriedly yanked out a satellite image of the island grouping. Comparing the images of West Island, he matched the south and west coastlines exactly but not the eastern shoreline. Sliding the Inuit map over, he then compared its shape to the satellite image of East Island. The eastern coastlines matched perfectly, but there the similarities ended.
“You idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’re looking in the wrong spot.”
The answer was right in front of him. The narrow waterway that had split the West and East islands had obviously been frozen solid one hundred and fifty years ago. The Inuit map had actually represented both islands, drawn as one landmass. The difference shifted the position of the ruthenium source nearly two miles farther east than he had estimated.
Climbing into his bunk, he swallowed the glass of bourbon, then lay down with a renewed sense of hope. All was not lost, for the ruthenium mine must still be there. It had to be. Content in the knowledge, he turned his thoughts to more immediate issues. First, he reasoned, he had to figure out what to do with Pitt and the NUMA ship.
64
The strong westerly winds finally began to abate, reducing the seas to a moderate chop. The settling winds brought with it a wispy gray fog that was common to the region during the spring and summer months. The thermometer finally climbed into double digits, prompting shipboard jokes about the balmy weather.
Pitt was just thankful that the weather had calmed enough to launch the submersible without risk. Climbing through the hatch of the Bloodhound, he settled into the pilot’s seat and began checking a bank of power gauges. Beside him in the copilot’s seat, Giordino reviewed a predive checklist. Both men wore just light sweaters, shivering in the cold cabin they knew would soon turn toasty from the electrical equipment aboard.
Pitt looked up as Jack Dahlgren stuck his poker face into the hatch.
“You boys remember, those batteries don’t hold their charge so well in this cold weather. Now, you go bring me back the ship’s bell and I might just leave the lights on for you.”
“You leave the lights on and I just might let you keep you job,” Giordino uttered back.
Dahlgren smiled and started humming the Merle Haggard standard “Okie from Muskogee,” then closed and sealed the hatch. A few minutes later, he worked the controls of a small crane, lifting the submersible off the deck and depositing it in the center of the ship’s brightly illuminated moon pool. Inside, Pitt signaled for its release, and the yellow cigar-shaped submersible began its descent.
The seafloor was just over a thousand feet deep, and it took the slowly drifting Bloodhound almost fifteen minutes to reach the bottom. The gray-green waters quickly melded to black outside the submersible’s large viewing port, but Pitt waited until they passed the eight-hundred-foot mark before powering up the bright bank of exterior high-intensity lights.
Rubbing his hands together in the slowly warming cabin, Giordino looked at Pitt with mock suffering.
“Did I ever tell you that I’m allergic to the cold?” he asked.
“At least a thousand times.”
“My mama’s thick Italian blood just doesn’t flow right in these icebox conditions.”
“I’d say the flow of your blood has more to do with your affinity for cigars and pepperoni pizzas than with your mother.”
Giordino gave him a thankful look for the reminder and pulled the stubby remains of an unlit cigar out of his pocket and slid it between his teeth. Then he retrieved a copy of the shipwreck’s sonar image and spread it across his lap.
“What’s our plan of attack once we reach the wreck site?”
“I figure we have three objectives,” Pitt replied, having earlier planned the dive. “First, and most obvious, is to try and identify the wreck. We know that the Erebus had a role in the ruthenium that was obtained by the Inuit. We don’t know if the same holds true for the Terror. If the wreck is the Terror, there may well be no clues whatsoever aboard. The second objective is to penetrate the hold and determine if there are any significant quantities of the mineral still there. The third objective is the most tenuous. That would be to search the Great Cabin and the captain’s cabin to determine if the ship’s log still exists.”
“You’re right,” Giordino agreed. “The log of the Erebus would be the holy grail. It surely would tell us where the ruthenium was found. Sounds like a long shot to hope that it survived intact, though.”
“Admittedly, but far from impossible. The log was probably a heavy leather-bound book stored in a chest or locker. In these cold waters, there’s at least a chance that it’s still in one piece. Then it would be up to the preservationists to determine if it could be conserved and ultimately deciphered.”
Giordino eyed the depth gauge. “We’re coming up on nine hundred and fifty feet.”
“Adjusting for neutral buoyancy,” Pitt replied, regulating the submersible’s variable ballast tank. Their descent slowed to a crawl as they passed the thousand-foot mark, and, minutes later, a flat, rocky seafloor appeared beneath them. Pitt engaged the propulsion controls and drove the vessel forward, skimming a few feet off the bottom.
The craggy brown seafloor was mostly devoid of life, a cold and empty world not far removed from the frozen lands protruding above the surface. Pitt turned the submersible into the current, guiding the vessel in a sweeping series of S turns. Though the Narwhal had been stationed directly above the wreck, Pitt knew that they had drifted considerably south during their descent.
Giordino was the first to spot the wreck, pointing out a dark shadow on their starboard flank. Pitt steered the Bloodhound hard to the right until the stately wreck materialized under their spotlights.
Before them sat a nineteenth-century wooden sailing ship. It was one of the most remarkable shipwrecks Pitt had ever seen. The frigid Arctic waters had retained the ship’s condition in a near-perfect state of preservation. Covered in a fine layer of silt, the ship appeared fully intact, from its bowsprit to its rudder. Only the masts, which had slipped from the deck during the long plunge to the bottom, lay out of place, dangling over the side railing.
Mired in its desolate eternal mooring, the ancient ship exuded a forlorn aura. To Pitt, the ship appeared like a tomb in an empty graveyard. He felt an odd chill thinking about the men who had sailed her, then been forced to abandon their home of three years under desperate conditions.
Slowly engaging the submersible, Pitt cruised in a tight arc around the vessel while Giordino activated a forward-mounted video camera. The hull timbers still appeared thick and sound, and in places where the silt was thin they could see a coat of black paint still adhering to the wood. As they rounded the stern, Giordino was startled to see the tips of a propeller protruding from the sand.
“They had steam power?” he asked.
“A supplement to sail, once they reached the ice pack,” Pitt confirmed. “Both ships were equipped with coal-fired locomotive engines installed for added propulsion through the thinner sea ice. The steam engines were also used to provide heat for the ship’s interior.”
“No wonder Franklin had the confidence to try to plow through Victoria Strait in late summer.”
“What he may not have had enough of by that point in the expedition was coal. Some figure they ran short of their coal supplies, and that may have accounted for the ships becoming trapped in the ice.”
Pitt pushed the submersible around to the ship’s port side, anxious to find lettering on the bow that might reveal the ship’s name. But he was disappointed to find instead the only real evidence of d
amage to the ship. The hull beneath the bow was blown out in a jagged mass of timbers, caused by the constricting ice. The damage had extended to the topside deck when the weakened section had struck the seafloor, causing the timbers above to buckle. A broad section of the bow on both sides of the centerline had crumpled like an accordion just a few feet astern of the vessel’s blunt prow. Pitt patiently hovered off both sides of the bow as Giordino brushed aside the silt with an articulated arm, but no identifying script work could be found.
“I guess this one wants to play hard to get,” Pitt muttered.
“Like too many of the women I’ve dated,” Giordino grimaced. “I guess we’ll have to take Dahlgren up on his ship’s bell offer after all.”
Pitt elevated the submersible above the deck, then swept toward the stern. The deck was remarkably clear of debris, the ship obviously configured in its winter hibernation mode when it was abandoned. The only unusual item was a large canvas structure that lay across the deck amidships. Pitt knew from the historical accounts that a tentlike covered structure was set up on the deck in winter so that the crew could escape the interior confines of the ship for exercise.
Pitt continued aft, where he found the helmsman’s station and the large wooden ship’s wheel, still standing upright and attached to the rudder. A small bell was mounted nearby, but, after careful scrutiny, he could find no markings on it.
“I know where the ship’s bell is,” Pitt stated, cruising back toward the bow. Hovering over the tangled mass of timbers and debris where the bow had buckled, he pointed down.
“It’s in the garbage pit here.”
“Must be,” Giordino agreed with a nod. “It’s not our day. Or night.” He checked a console of dials in front of him. “We have just under four hours of battery power remaining. Do you want to rummage around for the bell or have a look inside?”
“Let’s take Rover for a walk. There’s one upside to this damage, I suppose. It will allow us easier access to the interior.”
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