“Used to call it ‘chokedamp,’ ” the veteran medical examiner told reporters at an assembled press briefing. “Haven’t seen a case of it in years.”
91
Nearly a hundred members of the media, more than half from the Canadian press, pushed and jostled on the Coast Guard pier in Anchorage as the Otok appeared in the harbor. The big icebreaker approached slowly, allowing the press an ample photo opportunity to capture her smashed bow and multiple paint jobs, before tying up behind a Coast Guard cutter named Mustang.
The White House and the Pentagon wasted no time in diffusing the hostility between Canada and the U.S., bypassing diplomatic channels by taking their case directly to the public. Press briefings had already been distributed, documenting the Otok’s role in destroying the Canadian ice camp under the guise of an American warship. Enlarged color photos of her hull, taken by the Santa Fe, revealed the gray undercoat and the Ford ’s number 54 hidden beneath a coat of red paint. An eyewitness had even been produced, who testified about seeing a gray ship entering a Goyette-owned dry dock near Kugluktuk in the dead of night, only to reappear a few days later painted red.
The press delighted in photographing the captain and crew of the icebreaker as they were marched off the ship under armed guard and placed in immediate custody until later extradition by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Word was quickly leaked of the crew’s admission to destroying the ice camp, as well as their kidnapping of the Polar Dawn’s crew.
Captain Murdock and his crew then met with the reporters, who were stunned to learn of their abduction in Kugluktuk and their near-death ordeal in the barge. Roman and Stenseth took their turns at answering questions until the overwhelmed journalists and broadcasters began trickling off to file their stories. Within hours, a horde of investigative reporters began descending on Terra Green Industries to scrutinize Mitchell Goyette’s corrupt activities in the Arctic.
The press was long gone when Pitt hobbled off the ship with a crutch under one arm. Giordino walked by his side, hefting two small duffel bags and the logbook from the Erebus. As they reached the end of the dock, a slate-colored Lincoln Navigator with black-tinted windows pulled up in front of them. The driver’s window lowered just a crack, revealing a thickheaded man in a crew cut who gazed at them with unblinking eyes.
“The Vice President requests that you climb in back,” the driver said without pleasantry.
Pitt and Giordino gave each other a look of trepidation, then Pitt opened the rear door and threw in his crutch, then climbed inside as Giordino entered from the opposite door. Sandecker eyed them from the front passenger seat, a thick cigar protruding from his lips.
“Admiral, this is a nice surprise,” Giordino said with his usual sarcasm. “But we could have taken a cab to the airport.”
“I was about to say that I’m glad to see you jokers alive, but I may have to rethink that,” Sandecker replied.
“It’s good to see you, Admiral,” Pitt said. “We weren’t expecting to find you here.”
“I promised both Loren and the President that I’d get you two home in one piece.”
He nodded to the driver, who exited the Coast Guard station and began driving across the city to the Anchorage International Airport.
“You promised the President?” Giordino asked.
“Yes. I caught hell when he found out that the Narwhal, with NUMA’s Director aboard, was smack in the middle of the Northwest Passage.”
“By the way, thanks for sending in the Santa Fe when you did,” Pitt said. “They’re the ones who saved our bacon.”
“We were fortunate that they happened to be in the northern Arctic and could reach the area quickly. But the President is well aware that the Polar Dawn’s crew would have been lost if you hadn’t sailed into harm’s way.”
“Stenseth and Dahlgren are to thank for saving the Polar Dawn’s crew,” Pitt replied.
“More important, you pegged the ruse of the icebreaker. I can’t tell you how close we were to a hot fight with the Canadians. The President rightly credits you with averting a major crisis.”
“Then the least he can do is fund us a replacement vessel for the Narwhal,” Giordino said.
The Lincoln motored down the rain-slicked streets, turning past Delaney Park, a wide strip of grass and trees that had been the city’s original airfield. Anchorage International Airport had been built later on a flat to the southwest of downtown.
“How did the press briefings go?” Pitt asked.
“Just as we hoped. The Canadian press is all over the story. They’re already fighting to get to Ottawa to grill the Prime Minister over his mistaken claims about the Arctic incidents. He and his party will have no choice but to face the music and retract their earlier blame against us.”
“I certainly hope this all catches up to Mitchell Goyette in a big way,” Giordino said.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for him,” Sandecker replied.
“Too late?” Giordino asked.
“Goyette was found dead in Vancouver yesterday. He apparently died under mysterious circumstances.”
“Justice served,” Pitt said quietly.
“The CIA acted that fast?” Giordino asked.
Sandecker gave him a withering stare. “We had nothing to do with it.”
The Vice President turned back to Pitt with an anxious look. “Did you find the ruthenium?”
Pitt shook his head. “Al’s got the Erebus logbook right here. The Franklin ruthenium was real, but it was obtained in trade with a whaler from South Africa. There is no ruthenium source in the Arctic, and the South African mines played out years ago. I’m afraid we came up empty.”
There was a long silence in the car.
“Well, we will just have to find another way,” Sandecker finally said quietly. “At least you found Franklin,” he added, “and put to bed a one-hundred-and-sixty-five-year-old mystery.”
“I just hope he finally makes it home himself,” Pitt said solemnly, staring at the distant peaks of the Chugach Mountains as the Lincoln pulled alongside Air Force Two.
92
Mitchell Goyette’s death did little to quell the media tempest swirling about his empire. A number of environmental reporters had already uncovered the carbon dioxide dumping associated with the Kitimat sequestration plant and the near accident with the Alaskan cruise ship. Investigators from Canada’s Environment Ministry had swarmed the facility, closing it down and removing its workers as criminal and civil charges against Terra Green were prepared. Though it took several weeks, the LNG tanker responsible for the carbon dioxide dumping was ultimately tracked down to a Singapore shipyard. Local authorities promptly impounded the Goyette-owned ship.
The mogul’s illicit activities became repeated headline news across both Canada and the U.S. It wasn’t long before the police investigation into Goyette’s years of corrupt bidding for oil, gas, and mineral rights came to light. With an immunity deal in place for Resources Minister Jameson, incriminating details began toppling forward like a string of dominoes. A series of high-dollar wire transfers made to the Prime Minister was exposed, bribes paid by Goyette to further the expansion of carbon sequestration plants across Canada. The money trail led to dozens of other underhanded deals between Goyette and Prime Minister Barrett to jointly exploit the country’s natural resources.
Opposition leaders quickly jumped on the news accounts and investigations, inciting a full-blown witch hunt against the Prime Minister. Already beleaguered by his false accusations in the Arctic incidents, the criminal allegations fell like a ton of bricks. Abandoned of all support, Prime Minister Barrett resigned from office a few weeks later, along with most of his cabinet. Publicly despised, the ex-Prime Minister would fight criminal charges for years until finally agreeing to a nonsentencing plea bargain. His reputation shattered, Barrett quietly faded into obscurity.
Goyette’s Terra Green Industries would face a similar demise. Investigators pieced together his strategy of dominating the Ar
ctic resources by expelling the American presence, monopolizing the local transportation, and bribing his way to controlling rights. Beset by corruption fines and environmental penalties that rose into the hundreds of millions, the private company quietly fell into receivership. Some of the company’s assets, including the LNG tanker, the Victoria Club, and Goyette’s personal yacht, were sold at public auction. Most of the energy assets and the fleet of vessels were acquired by the government, which operated the properties at cost. One icebreaker and a fleet of barges were leased to a nonprofit food bank for a dollar a year. Relocated to Hudson Bay, the barges hauled surplus Manitoba wheat to starving regions of East Africa.
Among the Terra Green fleet holdings, analysts discovered a small containership called the Alberta. An astute team of Mountie investigators proved that it was the same vessel that had rammed the Coast Guard patrol boat Harp in Lancaster Strait, with a few letters in its name repainted to read Atlanta. Like the crew of the Otok, the men who served aboard the Alberta readily testified at the mercy of the court that they were acting on direct orders from Mitchell Goyette.
As moderate forces of influence regained power in the Canadian government, relations with the U.S. warmed quickly. The Polar Dawn was quietly returned to the Americans, along with a small remuneration for its crew. The ban on U.S.-flagged vessels sailing the Northwest Passage was lifted and a strategic security agreement signed a short time later. For purposes of a shared mutual defense, the agreement stated, Canada pledged that American military vessels would forever be granted unrestricted transit through the passage. More important to the President, the Canadian government opened up access to the Melville Sound gas field. Within months, major quantities of natural gas were flowing unabated to the United States, quickly suppressing the economic disruption caused by the spike in oil prices.
Behind the scenes, the FBI and Royal Canadian Mounted Police jointly reopened their files on Clay Zak. The bombings at the George Washington University lab and the zinc-mining camp in the Arctic were easily pinned on him, but his other crimes were not so traceable. Although suspicions were raised, he was never fully linked to Elizabeth Finlay’s death in Victoria. He was, however, suspected in a dozen more unsolved deaths involving known opponents of Mitchell Goyette. Even though he was buried in a pauper’s grave at the North Vancouver Cemetery, his murderous activities would keep investigators busy for years to come.
The only Goyette associate to successfully navigate the flood of judicial and media probes was the natural resources minister, Arthur Jameson. Despite his deep involvement in the corruption, Jameson survived the ordeal with an odd mark of public admiration. Contempt for Goyette was so great, even in death, that Jameson’s crimes were overlooked by his act of turning evidence and blowing open the entire case.
Resigning his minister’s post, Jameson was offered a provost position at a respected private college in Ontario, where he was called upon to teach a popular course in ethics. His stature grew as his past misdeeds were eventually forgotten, and Jameson soon embraced the scholarly life and a modestly downsized life-style. Only his four children were starkly reminded of his past activities, when, upon reaching the age of thirty-five, they each inherited a Cayman Islands trust account worth ten million dollars.
As for Goyette himself, he gained little sympathy in death. His bribery, vice, and greed, as well as his total disregard for the environmental impact of his pursuits, created a universal spite. The attitude pervaded even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who assigned only a cursory investigation into his death. Officials knew his murderer would be lionized and downplayed the circumstances of his death as potentially accidental. Public interest in the crime quickly waned, while internally the police cited few clues and an endless enemies list that precluded a solution to the crime. With little fanfare, the death of Mitchell Goyette quickly became a cold case that nobody cared to solve.
93
An elite Royal Navy color guard unit carried the dark-wood casket down the steps of the neoclassic Anglican chapel and carefully placed it onto an ornate nineteenth-century gun carriage. The eulogy had been long, as was the norm for a royal ceremonial funeral, with obligatory remarks recited by the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales, among other notables. The sentiments were blustery and patriotic but not very personal, for no one still living had even known the deceased.
The funeral of Sir John Alexander Franklin was a grand and noble affair and, at the same time, an uplifting event. The discovery of Franklin’s body aboard the Erebus had aroused a nostalgic romance amongst the British people, rekindling the days of glory when Wellington commanded the ground and Nelson ruled the seas. Franklin’s exploits in the Arctic, a largely forgotten historical footnote to modern generations, was regaled in detail to a suddenly enthralled public that clamored for more.
The public fascination had placed great pressure on the team of archaeologists and forensic specialists tasked with examining the ship and retrieving his body. Working round the clock, they solved two key mysteries, even before Franklin’s body arrived in London and was placed on view in Westminster Abbey.
Though a variety of ails contributed to his death at age sixty-one, the scientists determined that a case of tuberculosis, easily contracted within the tight confines of a winter-bound ship, most likely finished him off. More intriguing was the revelation as to why a large portion of the Erebus’s crew had turned mad. Based on the account in the ship’s log, which Pitt had sent to British authorities, the scientists tested a sample of ruthenium found in an officer’s cabin. Assay testing revealed that the South African ore contained high quantities of mercury. When heated on the cookstove in buckets and bedpans, the ore released toxic fumes that accumulated in the galley and crew’s quarters. As with the mad hatters of later years, mercury poisoning created neurological damage and psychotic reactions after months of exposure.
The tragic myriad events just added to the allure of the story, and the public flocked to pay their respects to Franklin. The gates of Kensal Green, an ancient, sprawling cemetery west of London akin to Forest Lawn, had to be closed on the day of his funeral after thirty thousand people congregated on its storied grounds.
It was a hot and humid summer day, far removed from the Arctic conditions in which he had died. The horse-drawn caisson pulled slowly away from the chapel, rattling over a cobble-stone path, as the steel-shod hooves of the black shire mares clacked loudly with each dropped step. With a long procession following behind on foot, the caisson rolled slowly toward a secluded section of the cemetery crowned by towering chestnut trees. The driver pulled to a stop next to a family plot fronted by an open gate. A freshly dug grave lay empty alongside a tomb marked LADY JANE FRANKLIN, 1792–1875.
Franklin’s beloved wife, more than anyone, had resolved the fate of the lost expedition. Through tireless appeal and expense, she had personally outfitted no fewer than five relief expeditions on her own. Scouring the Arctic in search of her husband and his ships, the early expeditions had failed, along with those sent by the British government. It was another Arctic explorer, Francis McClintock, who had ultimately discovered Franklin’s fate. Sailing the steam yacht Fox on Lady Franklin’s behalf, he’d found important relics and a note on King William Island that revealed Franklin’s death in 1847 and the crew’s subsequent abandonment of the ships trapped in the ice.
It had taken one hundred and sixty-eight years since kissing her good-bye on the shores of the Thames, but John Franklin was reunited with his wife once more.
His soul would have been happy for another reason, as he was laid to rest beside Jane. When a Royal Navy frigate had retrieved his coffin from the Erebus and transported it back to England, the ship had traveled the long route, through the Bering Strait and down the Pacific to the Panama Canal.
In death, if not in life, Sir Franklin had finally sailed the Northwest Passage.
94
Pitt stared out his office window at the Potomac River far below, his mind drifting aimlessly
like the river’s current.
Since returning from the Arctic, he had been out of sorts, carrying a mild angst mixed with disappointment. Part of it was his injuries, he knew. His leg and arm wounds were healing well, and the doctors said he would make a full recovery. Though the pain was mostly absent, he still hated the loss of mobility. He had long since abandoned the crutch but still required the use of a cane at times. Giordino had lightened the need by providing a walking stick that contained a hidden vial of tequila inside. Loren had stepped up as well, performing her best Florence Nightingale routine by nursing him at every opportunity. But something still held him back.
It was the failure, he knew. He just wasn’t used to it. The quest for the ruthenium had momentous importance, yet he had come up dry. He felt like he had let down not only Lisa Lane but also every person on the planet. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He’d followed the clues as he found them, and would have done nothing differently. Crack geologists throughout the government were already on the hunt for new sources of ruthenium, but the near-term prospects were grim. The mineral just didn’t exist in quantity, and there was nothing he could do about it.
His instincts had been wrong for a change and it gave him doubts. Maybe he’d been at the game too long. Maybe it was time for a younger generation to take the reins. Perhaps he should go back to Hawaii with Loren and spend his days spearfishing.
He tried to conceal his melancholy when a knock came to the door and he called for the visitor to enter.
The door blew open and Giordino, Gunn, and Dahlgren came marching into his office like they owned it. Each man had a suppressed grin on his face, and Pitt noticed they were all hiding something behind their backs.
“Well, if it isn’t the three wise men. Or wise guys, in this case,” Pitt said.
“Do you have a minute?” Gunn asked. “There’s something we’d like to share with you.”
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