Fast Ice

by Clive Cussler

  Ryland gave the pilot a new order. “Get me on the platform as soon as possible.”

  The pilot brought the helicopter down on the helipad with authority, planting its landing gear firmly on the deck. As the ground crew rushed to secure the craft, Ryland and Yvonne left the helicopter in search of the platform’s Chief of Operations, a man named Ober.

  They found him on the north side of the rig, standing near the rail with a radio in his hand. He was overseeing the tanker operation personally, barking orders and marking the progress on a clipboard.

  “What’s the holdup?” Ryland demanded. “That ship was supposed to be on its way by now.”

  Ober understood the stakes. He was one of Ryland’s oldest hands. He’d been part of the inner circle from the beginning. “The wind made the initial docking cumbersome. Getting the tanker in position took a while. Hooking up the pipes was another issue. She’s secured and loading now.”

  “Any problems with the crew?”

  “Not really,” Ober said. “And as far as they know, we’re pumping light sweet crude directly from the well. They probably think it’s a black market deal,” he added. “I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time. I’m not sure what happens if they inspect the tanks and find a mix of seawater and slurry. But I’m assuming they have orders not to.”

  “They won’t question the cargo,” Ryland insisted.

  “Happy to hear it,” Ober said. “What about Liang?”

  “He knows what he’s getting,” Ryland said. “Up to a point, at least. It’s been explained to him that the slurry is food for the algae. He just doesn’t know what the algae is going to do when these tankers dump it in the sea.”

  Ober nodded and allowed a look of pride to come over his face. For eight years, he’d been part of Ryland’s long-term plan. He’d worked on oil rigs and ramrodded efforts at various mines, earning a reputation as a ruthless taskmaster—all while waiting for the moment that Ryland had promised would come, when they would emerge from hiding and change the world. “So, this is it? It’s finally time?”

  Ryland nodded. “It’s time. And the sooner we get these ships loaded and sent on their way, the better. The next tanker is due here in three hours. Can you get this one filled by then?”

  Ober shook his head. “I’ll need five hours at least,” Ober said. “Unless you want me to send her out a little light.”

  “No,” Ryland said. “Top her off. I’ll contact Liang and have him delay the other vessel.”

  Ober nodded and got on the radio, giving a new order to the tug that was helping keep the huge tanker in position.

  “Have the turbines arrived?” Yvonne asked.

  “They were delivered this morning,” Ober said. “We hoisted them aboard and kept them on the cable. The crane operator is standing by to load them whenever your transport arrives.”

  “It’s already here,” Yvonne said.

  Ober looked at her oddly. “Where?”

  She pointed to the water beneath the platform. Ober leaned over the rail for a better look. A long, tubular shape rested in the shadows of the oil platform. The vessel was grayish white in color, like an old koi swimming in a murky pond.

  “Would you like me to assist?”

  “No,” Ryland said. “We’ll take care of the turbines. You just get that tanker loaded and on its way. I want it off the platform and heading for the open sea as soon as possible.”

  35

  NUMA HEADQUARTERS

  Rudi stared at the list of equipment Joe Zavala was requesting. He didn’t recognize half of what was written there. “Are you planning an expedition to Antarctica or a trip to the moon?”

  No longer in the high-tech conference room, he was talking with Joe on an old-fashioned speakerphone. It felt positively antiquated.

  “Antarctica is more treacherous than the moon,” Joe insisted. “No storms on the moon. No snow or hidden crevasses waiting to swallow up men and equipment. No hundred-mile-an-hour winds or killer penguins.”

  “Except for the last part,” Rudi said, “you have a point. About the only thing I recognize on this list are the electrically powered snow machines. I assume that’s a type of snowmobile?”

  “One that doesn’t make a lot of noise,” Joe said. “Or give off much heat. Helpful if the bad guys are looking for us with infrared cameras.”

  Rudi could see where this was going. “Understandable. But what on earth is a ‘haptic feedback suit with remote linkup’?”

  “It’s a suit with a virtual reality system built into it,” Joe said. “Allows the person wearing it to control vehicles, drones and automated scouting systems.”

  “Automated scouting systems?”

  “Robots,” Joe said.

  “Are we sending you any robots?”

  “We have a few on the list. Don’t worry, you won’t need to pay for seats in first class. They’re relatively compact and stored in small boxes. We’ll put them together on-site if we need them.”

  “At least you’ve got standard cold-weather gear and high-calorie food supplements on the list. There’s also something called a snow racer? Tell me that’s not a car with studded tires.”

  “It’s a lightweight craft that flies over the snow with only a couple skis touching the ground. Like the drones, it’s portable and can be put together on location. And because it’s sail-powered, it’s fast and silent and creates no heat signature.”

  “Sounds like Kurt’s ice yacht,” Rudi said.

  “Very similar.”

  “Let’s hope Kurt’s better at driving this contraption than he was piloting that.”

  “He could hardly be worse,” Joe said with a laugh.

  Rudi checked a box next to the snow racer, to confirm his approval, and then quickly checked the rest of the boxes. “I’ve approved everything,” Rudi said. “It’ll be airlifted to you overnight. But then what? Has Kurt found a suitable boat yet?”

  Joe hesitated, which Rudi took to mean he was choosing his words carefully.

  “As I understand it, he’s kicked the tires on a few things and is close to making a decision.”

  “Why does that sentence fill me with dread?”

  “Because you know Kurt too well,” Joe replied. “How close are we to figuring out a location? This equipment isn’t going to do us much good if we still have to wander around half the continent hoping to bump into Ryland and his sister.”

  Rudi glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d been waiting to place a phone call until he could be sure it would be answered in person. “I’ll let you know when I have something. Hopefully, pretty soon.”

  As Joe signed off, Rudi sat quietly. He waited for the numbers on his digital clock to read 5:01. As soon as the last digit changed, he picked up the phone and dialed the private line of an old friend at the Pentagon.

  The line rang three times before a gruff voice answered. “This is Whitaker.”

  Rudi leaned back in his chair. “Good evening, Nate. This is Rudi Gunn.”

  Silence for a second, then, “That’s Rear Admiral Nate to you, Gunn. I’ve got an anchor and a star on my shoulder these days.”

  Rudi laughed. “Sorry about that, Admiral. I guess I still remember you as a fourth-class plebe at Annapolis. A scrawny kid whom I had to rescue from trouble and mold into a successful midshipman.”

  Nathanial Whitaker and Rudi Gunn had been students at the Naval Academy together. Whitaker was in the class behind Rudi, who was charged with mentoring the younger man. Over the years, they formed a strong bond. When Rudi graduated first in his class, Whitaker arranged a party that went nonstop for two days. A year later, when Whitaker graduated second in his class, Rudi returned the favor. He threw his friend an equally epic soirée and began a lifelong habit of needling Whitaker about his lowly class ranking.

  Whitaker spoke again. “I’d be a full admiral by n
ow if you’d have done your job right. My nefarious association with you has done nothing but hold my career back all these years.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Rudi said with a laugh. “All the same, I need a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I understand you’re in the reconnaissance business these days.”

  “Vicious rumor,” Whitaker insisted. “I might know someone who is, however. This better be important.”

  “I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t,” Rudi said. “I need a recon pass over a long, narrow strip of the Antarctic.”

  “Just use one of your satellites,” Whitaker said. “At this point, you have more birds than we do.”

  “I need more detail than I can get from a satellite. And I need to see beneath the snow. I’m hoping you have something that can perform that task?”

  Whitaker remained silent for a moment. “We might. But why Antarctica? What on earth are you looking for down there?”

  Rudi sighed. “Admiral,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  36

  SOUTH AFRICAN TERRITORIAL WATERS

  Kurt stood on the deck of a South African patrol boat as it cruised in tight formation with a black-hulled container ship. He wore South African Navy fatigues, a flak jacket and a helmet. Seven men of the South African Navy stood beside him in similar gear.

  The patrol boat had pulled in tight beside the larger vessel and was now riding on the very cusp of the ship’s bow wave.

  “You’ve got a good pilot at the wheel,” Kurt said, addressing the boat’s commanding officer, a South African by the name of Clarence Zama.

  “He’s showing off,” Zama replied. “He knows who you are.”

  “You mean an old friend who shows up out of the blue and asks for an impossible favor?” Kurt said.

  “Yes,” Zama replied, laughing. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Kurt and Zama had worked together on an anti-smuggling operation years ago. They’d tracked down and captured a group of poachers who were smuggling ivory and endangered species out of Cape Town.

  Rather than give up, the poachers had set off explosives, attempting to scuttle their ship. Zama had been trapped belowdecks, Kurt managed to save him by ramming a hole in the side of the poacher’s vessel and giving him a way to get out.

  “I doubt we’ll see any explosions today,” Zama said. “But these illegal China trawlers don’t give up so easily either.”

  “How often do you deal with them?”

  “All the time,” Zama said. “They sail in groups. Sometimes ten or more. The moment they see us coming, they scatter and run in all directions. Obviously, we can only go after one boat at a time. So even if we catch it, nine fully loaded trawlers get away. And usually the captain of the vessel we catch has dumped his catch before we get aboard. When that happens, our efforts are all for nothing. And if they make it to international waters, then we aren’t even allowed to board them.”

  A trio of seagulls flew overhead, calling out loudly and riding the wind off the container ship’s hull.

  “You expect this time to be different,” Kurt noted.

  “I do,” Zama said. “Because the trawler you picked is a larger vessel and working alone. And because this time they won’t know we’re coming.”

  “Hiding behind the container ship was a great idea,” Kurt said.

  With a broad smile, Zama thanked him for the compliment. “The illegal trawlers use radar and lookouts, but behind this wall of steel we can’t be seen. Not with human eyes or electronic beams. While I’ve wanted to try this tactic for years, the big wigs in my government have refused to allow it. Now, thanks to you we’ve finally been granted permission.”

  “Glad I could help,” he said.

  “Don’t be too happy,” Zama said. “If something goes wrong it’s going to be blamed on you.”

  “It usually is,” Kurt said. “My only concern is the container ship. What’s to stop someone on board from giving us away?”

  “Two of my men,” Zama said. “One on the bridge and one in the radio room. Add to that the fact this is an Indonesian vessel and we should be okay. The Chinese fish their waters mercilessly. There is no love lost between them. Also . . .” he added. “I may have mentioned a cash reward.”

  “How much of a reward?”

  “How much do you have on you?”

  Kurt laughed. “Get me on that ship and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  Zama checked his watch. They’d been traveling in formation with the container ship for two hours. “We’re almost abeam the trawler. Once we get there, you’ll feel the full power of our engines. I suggest you hold on.”

  Kurt locked one hand on the rail and placed his other hand on the inner collar of the flak jacket as Zama checked his watch. The seconds counted down, with Zama raising his arm for the helmsman to see. When the clock hit zero, he brought his arm down with a flourish, like the starter at a drag race sending the cars off down the track.

  The surge from the vessel’s gas turbine engines hit almost instantly. A powerful vibration coursed through the hull and the patrol boat jumped forward.

  It nosed over the edge of the bow wave, riding down it and picking up speed. By the time it shot out ahead of the container ship, the patrol boat was traveling at thirty knots.

  Kurt, both hands now on the rail, looked to his right. Just over a mile away, he spied the Chinese trawler. A two-hundred-foot vessel with a pea green hull, fishing booms out on either side and a large net trailing from the stern.

  The patrol boat cut to the right, the g-force of the turn forcing everyone on deck to brace against the acceleration. Now on an intercept course, the boat straightened, heading for the trawler and jump-crash-jump-crashing across the waves. Each jump offering a full second of zero gravity, each crash enough to buckle a man’s legs if he wasn’t ready for it.

  Zama got on the radio, broadcasting to the Chinese ship, ordering them to cut engines to full stop and await boarding.

  The repeated warnings went unheeded and it became clear that the Chinese had no intention of obeying. A flurry of activity began in earnest. Kurt saw them cutting away the nets and dropping the lines from the booms. Other men were running about the deck, while black smoke began to billow from the funnel and the trawler turned away.

  “She’s pouring on the coal,” Kurt said, shouting above the wind.

  “Making for international waters,” Lieutenant Zama replied. “But she’ll never get across the line before we reach her.”

  The enthusiasm in his voice was that of a man who’d been held back from doing his duty by bureaucrats for far too long. Now, finally given a chance, he was acting.

  Kurt felt the enthusiasm of the group around him. And while he had his own reasons for wanting to capture the illegal fishing trawler, he couldn’t help but feel a camaraderie with the men on the patrol boat. “Where do you plan to go aboard?”

  “It depends if they come to their senses or not,” Zama replied. “Should they hove to and cut their engines, we’ll board at the stern. If they continue to run, we’ll pull up on their port beam and fire a few lines across.”

  A quick glance told Kurt the trawler wasn’t slowing. In fact, it continued to pick up speed, appearing surprisingly quick for such an ungainly looking ship. “Better get those lines ready,” Kurt said. “Something tells me they’re not pulling over.”

  “They want to make it interesting,” Zama said. “So be it.” He shouted to his men. “Get ready to show them what we can do.”

  The men reacted quickly, securing braided nylon lines to rocket-propelled anchors, which they loaded into weapons that resembled World War II bazookas.

  Kurt stayed out of the way, keeping his eye on the trawler. Spotting a man on deck with a machine gun, he shouted a warning. “Get down.”
>
  The crew heard Kurt shout and dropped behind the patrol boat’s steel wave blocker just in time to hear small-arms fire pinging off the outside of it. Another spread of bullets raked the superstructure above, denting the armor and blasting chips from one of the windows.

  “Do they always fight this hard?” Kurt asked.

  “Only when they have something to hide,” Zama said. “Last year, one of their ships rammed one of ours. Turned out they had a cargo hold full of very expensive tuna.”

  The lieutenant addressed the men around him, half of whom were armed with rifles. “Return fire. Keep them pinned down. And ready the fifty-caliber, in case they don’t want to play nice.”

  Working in synchronized precision, Zama’s men popped up above the rail in separate places. They peppered the bow of the trawler with shots, then the stern and then amidships. Their gunfire drove the machine-gun-wielding man back into the hull.

  They pulled up beside the trawler, swinging close and slowing until they were in a position abeam the midship section of the Chinese ship.

  “Now,” Lieutenant Zama ordered.

  His men fired three rocket-propelled harpoons at the trawler. The first plunged into the side of the ship’s superstructure and held fast. The second harpoon hit the metal plating surrounding the base of one of the fishing booms. It also held fast. The third harpoon glanced off some equipment, skittered to the right and failed to secure itself.

  The man who’d fired it began hauling on the line.

  “Leave it,” Zama said. “Two lines will do.”

  While that man put the launcher aside, the South African sailors hooked themselves onto the ropes and shimmied across the gap between two ships.

  Kurt moved up behind them, but Lieutenant Zama kept him back. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay behind until we’ve secured the ship. I did not expect this type of resistance.”

  “I’d really hate to sit this out,” Kurt said.

  “I insist,” Zama said. “You’re my guest.”