Peril at the Top of the World

by James Patterson

  “Or maybe,” said Beck, “Mom and Dad just don’t believe in any kind of summer vacation.”

  “Right. There’s that.”

  Once our furry shopping spree was finished, we booked a flight from Moscow to Helsinki, Finland, with the assistance of Minister Szymanowicz. Once in Helsinki, we flew to Murmansk, a seaport located in the extreme northwest corner of Russia. From there, we set sail for the North Pole via the Barents Sea.

  Studying the map, I figured we were in for a very frigid summer. On the bright side, maybe we’d get to meet a few narwhals.

  CHAPTER 29

  We boarded the Fifty Years of Victory, the world’s largest icebreaker, in Murmansk.

  It was nuclear-powered, so that meant it could churn through ice like a supersonic snow-cone machine. The ginormous ice cruncher had a spoon-shaped bow that was capable of breaking through frozen stuff nine feet thick! It also had its own helipad and helicopter, which meant it was capable of being totally awesome.

  The captain informed us that it would take six days to reach what he called “ninety degrees north.” That’s nautical talk for the North Pole.

  We all shot a ton of high-def of the journey. I knew the Arctic was going to be amazing, but seeing everything in person was mind-blowing. When we passed our first glaciers and the ship started cutting through the Arctic ice pack, it was really cool (pun courtesy of Storm).

  During the voyage (think Moby-Dick with floating ice cubes), even though we felt as if we were in the middle of frozen nowhere, we weren’t alone. We passed a few Russian oil tankers heading south as we churned our way north.

  “Is there really oil up this far?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it all be frozen?”

  “Actually,” said Storm, “the Arctic is believed to hold one-third of the world’s remaining untapped oil and natural-gas resources. That’s why the Russians built the Prirazlomnoye offshore drilling platform above the Arctic Circle. It’s only six hundred and twenty miles from Murmansk.”

  “The Russians are extremely proud of their Arctic oil exports,” said Mom. “And they will defend them at all costs. President Putin signed a law that allows oil and gas corporations to establish private armed security forces to defend their tankers and offshore oil rigs from any and all ‘terrorists’—including environmental protesters from Greenpeace.”

  That would explain why those Zolin oil tankers we’d passed all had armies of security guards toting submachine guns patrolling their decks.

  Finally, when we were all warm and cozy inside Mom’s cabin (which she’d swept for listening devices), she told us why going to the North Pole was so super-important—even if we didn’t find the Enlightened Ones’ secret treasure trove.

  “Our goal has never been to simply find sunken treasure, stolen artwork, and chests filled with gold and precious jewels,” said Mom

  “That’s true,” said Tommy. “We also like to meet interesting people. Like that room-service waitress.”

  “Meeting fascinating and friendly people is fine, Tommy. But your father and I have always been interested in another kind of treasure, one that’s more valuable than any other because it’s completely irreplaceable: the Earth. That’s why we donate so much of the money we raise from our treasure hunting to environmental charities that help save the planet.”

  I put two and two together. “Is the North Pole in trouble?” I asked. “Is that the real reason we’re going there?”

  Mom nodded.

  “Because of the Russians?”

  “Not just them, Bick. Every country in the world wants the buried treasure that lies hidden beneath the polar ice cap.”

  “What buried treasure?” I blurted out.

  “Well, here’s a hint. It’s nicknamed ‘black gold,’” said Mom.

  Oh yeah. Oil!

  “And the more oil people pump out and burn,” Mom explained, “the more damage they do, not just to the Arctic but to the whole global climate.”

  Wow.

  When she put it like that, saving the Arctic was way more important than saving a Rembrandt.

  Even Beck would have to agree with that.

  “But what can one person or family do to save the planet?” asked Storm.

  “Well, for starters,” said Mom, “we can make sure we’re not the only ones doing it! We need to spread the word.”

  She flicked on her video camera.

  “Come on. Let’s go hit the deck and get back to work!”

  CHAPTER 30

  We all bundled up, grabbed our video gear, and headed out to record everything we saw on our way to the North Pole.

  No, we didn’t see Santa Claus. Or Rudolph. Or even penguins. (Beck says that’s because penguins are found only in Antarctica and the South Pole, but you probably knew that already.)

  By the way, now that Mom had confirmed that our real reason for sailing to the North Pole wasn’t to find the looted Russian art or the Enlightened Ones’ secret art-treasure storage facility, I understood why Dad had to split. He, like me, knew the North Pole wasn’t the real answer to the Enlightened Ones’ clues. It was just too easy. But he and Mom needed an official, state-approved way to travel north and document what was happening to the Arctic environment without having those armies of oil-company security guards shooting their machine guns at us. In the meantime, Dad was free to hunt down the stolen goods.

  I had to hand it to Mom and Dad. They knew what they were doing, even when it didn’t seem like it!

  Anyway, back aboard the Fifty Years of Victory, we spent three pretty awesome days crushing through the Arctic ice pack. We also shot some more amazingly beautiful video.

  Beck and I saw polar bears and walruses. Storm memorized the songs of the seabirds soaring overhead. Sometimes, the blue glacier ice sang to us too! Unfortunately, the songs came from the glacier cracking and sloughing off sheets of ice, which made whining noises as they slid into the sea. Mom said it was evidence of global warming.

  “There are no trees anywhere,” said Tommy, stating the obvious. But actually, it was pretty incredible to look out and see nothing but flat ice islands, big and small, in all directions.

  Except some of the snowdrifts were glowing flamingo pink!

  “It’s algae that grows only on snow,” explained Storm. “A phenomenon due, in part, to all the guillemot guano.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Bird poop.”

  “And there goes some human waste,” said Mom with a sigh. “The nonbiodegradable kind. A lot of what’s wrong with the environment ends up here, guys. Trash and debris dumped into the oceans of the world get carried northward on underwater currents.”

  She zoomed in her camera on a lake of bobbing plastic that, to say the least, hadn’t been properly recycled! We saw bottles, bags, and even tossed-out tub toys. Beck and I shot footage of it too.

  “The amount of plastic debris and litter on the Arctic Ocean’s seafloor has doubled in the past ten years,” said Mom. “A lot is trapped in glaciers.”

  “Which,” said Storm, “are melting at a record rate and unleashing a plastic avalanche.”

  We passed a glacier that looked like a box of ice cream somebody forgot to pop in the freezer. After a little ice singing, chunks slid down the side and, with a thunderous splash, belly-flopped into the sea.

  “This is the real treasure we need to save, guys,” said Mom as another wall of ice collapsed. “We need to record everything we see. Put it all together in a documentary.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom, we’re getting some really killer footage,” I said.

  “Maybe, if people get to see what’s really happening at the North Pole—ice melting, animals in danger, the balance of nature being radically disturbed, the Russians threatening to come in and mess everything up with oil spills—”

  Mom did not get to finish that thought.

  Three burly men in bright yellow parkas surrounded us on the ship’s bow. They looked extremely shady.

  “Excuse me,” said one in a t
hick Russian accent. “Why do you take pictures of that? It is just ice.”

  “The North Pole,” said another one, pointing forward, “is, how do you Americans say, north.”

  All three of the scary men chuckled. Their foggy breath smelled like fish. Fish that had been smoking cigars.

  I checked out the embroidered patch stitched to the arm of each of the three yellow parkas.

  It resembled a 3 because it was the Russian letter for Z—just like we’d seen on that passing oil tanker.

  Because our deck mates worked for the teenage billionaire Viktor Zolin!

  CHAPTER 31

  “You work for Viktor Zolin?” I said.

  “Da. But now, we are here on what you call summer vacation. Forget Mexico or the Bahamas. We like to take cruises to more frigid climates.”

  More snickers from the three thugs. Their parkas were so poofy they might’ve been hiding weapons under their coats. Heck, they were so poofy they might’ve been hiding walruses.

  “Well,” said Beck, who really isn’t afraid of anything or anybody, “we’re only on this tub because your boss, the teenage billionaire, recommended us for this mission.”

  “What mission do you mean?” said one of the Russians. “Taking home movies of glaciers?” He held out his hand to Mom. “Give me the camera. Now.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mom.

  “Viktor Zolin owns that glacier. He does not like people taking pictures of his property.”

  This time, Mom just laughed.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  The Russian shook his head. “No joke. Putin sold it to him.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Nikita. My name is Nikita.”

  “I’m sorry, Nikita, but Vladimir Putin does not own the Arctic Circle.”

  “Oh, really? Try telling him that!”

  Mom was starting to lose her patience with Nikita. “Look, sir, many countries have laid claim to the Arctic Circle, not just Russia—Canada, Norway, Denmark, and the United States.”

  Storm took over with the details. “Each country is allowed to explore potential oil reserves within two hundred miles of its coastline.”

  “Ah,” said Nikita, “but several years ago, we Russians very cleverly sent a mini-submarine to the floor of the Arctic Ocean and planted our country’s flag underwater. So the ocean is all ours!”

  “Ha!” said Storm. “The United Nations tossed that claim out years ago.”

  “It does not matter. You may not take photographs of that iceberg without the express written consent of Viktor Zolin. Give me your camera, Mrs. Kidd, or you will force me to take it.”

  Mom did as she was commanded.

  Probably because she realized the goons weren’t packing walruses under their parkas.

  Plus, Mom knew the four of us had snapped the same photographs and videos on our smartphones—the ones that were now cleverly hidden deep inside the pockets of our four parkas.

  “You’ve got Mom’s camera,” said Tommy, “now back off, Nikita. We’re the good guys, remember? We came all this way to find the four famous paintings stolen from your art museum in Saint Petersburg.”

  “You funny!” howled Nikita.

  “No,” I said. “That’s an entirely different book series starring Jamie Grimm. He funny. We Kidds. We treasure hunters.”

  “We’re not just treasure hunters,” said Mom. “We’re also people who are extremely worried about what’s happening to the Arctic environment.”

  The three Russians stopped laughing.

  Nikita reached inside his pocket. I heard a click.

  Oh yeah. He was definitely packing.

  CHAPTER 32

  “What do you mean, you are worried about the environment?” said Nikita, puffing out his already puffy chest.

  “This fragile ecosystem could easily be destroyed,” said Mom. “By people like Viktor Zolin.”

  Yep. She went there. (I think Mom’s the one Beck got her tough stuff from.)

  “The Russian oil industry spills more than thirty million barrels on land each year,” added Storm, who’d been spending time in her cabin memorizing Greenpeace web postings. “That’s seven times the amount that leaked into the Gulf of Mexico during BP’s Deepwater Horizon disaster.”

  “This is ice,” said Nikita with a sinister smile. “This is not land.”

  “True,” said Mom. “But over eighteen months, you guys spew four million barrels of oil into the Arctic Ocean.”

  Nikita narrowed his eyes. “Accidents happen this far north, Mrs. Kidd. To oil. To pipes. To people. Noses can freeze and snap off. Especially when these noses are being poked into matters they have no business investigating. We would not want to see this happen to you. Or your children.”

  “Whoa,” said Tommy, bristling. “Is that a threat, dudes?”

  “No. Just a friendly word of advice. As you cook the porridge, so you must eat it.”

  “Huh?” said Beck. “Who’s cooking porridge?”

  “I didn’t see it on the breakfast buffet,” I added.

  “It is a Russian proverb!” shouted Nikita, looking like a big, angry bear.

  The exasperated Russians shook their heads. “Do not say we did not warn you, Kidd Family Treasure Hunters! Many accidents happen on the ice every year. You do not wish to be one of them!”

  Then they stomped away.

  “Keep shooting footage, you guys,” said Mom when she was sure they were gone. “We need to document all of this, the beauty of it all and what’s at risk if we don’t change some bad habits soon! Just don’t let Zolin’s goons catch you with your cameras up.”

  “There’s only three of them,” said Beck. “There are five of us shooting pictures.”

  “Four,” said Mom. “They took my camera.”

  “No problem,” said Tommy. “I have a couple spares in my cabin. I have to take a lot of selfies and text a lot to keep up with my many, you know, friends.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows.

  We all kept taking pictures and recording footage for our Kidd family Arctic documentary—but never in a group. And never if we saw one of the Zolin heavies lurking nearby.

  And then, finally, we reached the North Pole.

  The icebreaker creaked and crunched to a stop. The grown-ups all popped open bottles of bubbly stuff and celebrated with a toast. Beck and I split a root beer.

  We rushed off the boat with everybody else.

  After posing for a few quick pics and Beck’s family sketch, we heard a strange announcement: “Everyone, please join hands. It is time to dance around the world!”

  CHAPTER 33

  Okay, I have to admit—standing at the top of the world is incredibly awesome. Every direction we looked in was, basically, south.

  We held hands with all the other passengers (including a South African girl whom Tommy fell in love with instantly) and did what the cruise director called “Our Special International Round Dance.”

  We’d never learned dancing on board the Lost but fortunately this dance was just walking in a circle around the North Pole, or 90 degrees north, as everybody’s GPS app referred to it.

  “Now,” said the cruise director when we’d completed one rotation, “you have all literally walked around the world!”

  “Awesome,” Tommy shouted.

  “But we’re still going to sail around it,” Beck said to Mom. “Right?”

  “You promised,” I added.

  Mom nodded. “And save as many of this earth’s treasures as we can.”

  Our cruise package included a backyard barbecue on the ice, a hot-air-balloon ride over the pole, and, for the totally adventurous (or totally insane), a plunge into the Arctic Ocean! Which one of us was dumb enough to do it? You guessed it. I think Tommy did it only because the girl from South Africa put on her bathing suit first.

  We spotted Nikita and his Zolin Oil crew patrolling the ice pack with their weapons out.

  Beck and Storm
marched right up to the guys. Mom, Tommy (shivering in his wet swimsuit under his parka), and I followed close behind.

  “What do you think you’re doing with those rifles?” demanded Storm.

  “Protecting you from polar bears,” said the head goon, Nikita. “And, perhaps, yourselves.”

  “You will not shoot a polar bear!” said Beck.

  “Polar bears are listed as a threatened species under the U.S. Endangered Species Act of 2008,” said Storm, giving the Russians her total ecotour-guide treatment. “Thanks to the ongoing loss of their sea-ice habitat due to global warming.”

  “Do you like polar bears, Kidd Family Treasure Hunters?” asked Nikita slyly.

  “We’re Americans,” said Tommy. “We love every cute and cuddly critter on earth and/or YouTube!”

  “The only way we’d want to shoot one,” said Mom, “is with our cameras. But since you took mine, I can’t do that either!”

  “Do not despair,” said the Russian. “You are in luck. There is a polar bear very near to where we now stand. See the paw prints? Change into your warm clothes, shivering boy in bathing suit. We will let you borrow our snowmobiles so you may track it.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mom.

  Nikita shrugged. “Viktor Zolin called us on the ship’s radiotelephone. He said we are to be nice to you since you are, indeed, doing this treasure-hunting favor for him. Who knows? Perhaps this polar bear is the one who stole the paintings from the Hermitage Museum.”

  His friends chuckled at his terrible joke.

  “Are you mocking us?” asked Storm.

  “No. We’re joking. We funny, like this Jamie Grimm you told us about,” said Nikita. He clapped his hands. “Quickly, change into your expedition gear. We will get the snowmobiles ready. You don’t have much time before the ship turns around and heads back to Murmansk!”