Arctic Drift

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt heeded the voice and crawled toward the passenger door, where he was helped out and onto his feet. The pounding in his head eased as he stood upright, but a light trickle of blood still rolled down his cheek. Looking at the damaged car, he shook his head at the good fortune that had saved him.

  The sliding mass of rock and gravel that had battered the car and flipped it on its roof had also pushed it across the road, to the very edge of the steep chasm that fell to the river below. The car would have easily gone over the edge, taking Pitt to his death, but for a firmly cemented mileage signpost. The slim metal post caught the car just behind the front fender, pinning it to the edge of the road, as tons of loose rock plunged down the hill around both ends of the car. The road itself was buried under a mound of dirt and rocks for a stretch of fifty yards.

  “Must be some clean living that kept you from going over the edge,” Pitt heard his rescuer say.

  He turned to face a robust older man with white hair and beard who stood gazing at Pitt through a pair of jovial gray eyes.

  “It wasn’t clean living that saved me, I can assure you,” Pitt replied. “Thank you for pulling me out. I would have suffocated in there if you hadn’t dug your way in.”

  “Don’t mention it. Why don’t you come on back to the RV and let me patch you up,” the man said, pointing to a motor home parked on unblemished asphalt a few yards away. It was the same motor home that Pitt had passed earlier on the road.

  Pitt nodded and followed the man and the little black-and-tan dachshund as they climbed into an open side door of the RV. Pitt was surprised to find the interior finished in teak and polished brass, which gave the look of a luxury cabin on a sailing ship. On one wall he curiously noticed a bookcase filled with reference guides on mining and geology.

  “Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up while I find my medical kit?” the man said.

  Pitt washed his hands and face in a porcelain sink as a Royal Canadian Mounted Police car raced up with its lights flashing. The old man stepped out and spoke to the police, then returned a few minutes later and helped Pitt apply a bandage to a thin gash that zigzagged across the left side of his scalp.

  “The Mounties said there’s a highway construction crew working just a few miles away. They can get a front-end loader over here pretty quick, and should have a lane cleared through the rocks in just an hour or two. They’ll want to take a report from you when you feel up to it.”

  “Thanks for putting them off. I’m just starting to get my bearings back.”

  “Forgive me for not asking earlier, you must surely need a drink. What can I get you?”

  “I’d kill for a tequila, if you have any,” Pitt replied, sagging into a small leather-upholstered chair. The dachshund immediately jumped into his lap and coaxed Pitt to pet him behind the ears.

  “You are in luck,” the man replied, pulling a stubby bottle of Don Julio tequila out of a cabinet. Swirling the bottle around, he said, “Still a few shots left.”

  “I’m lucky twice today. That’s a fine brand of tequila,” Pitt remarked, recognizing the expensive label of blue agave cactus juice.

  “Mauser and I like to travel well,” the man said with a grin as he poured two healthy shots for Pitt and himself.

  Pitt let the warm liquid trickle down his throat, admiring its complex flavor. He felt his head clear almost immediately.

  “That was quite a slide,” the man said. “Good thing you weren’t a few yards farther down the road.”

  “I saw it coming and tried to back away from it but came up a little short.”

  “I don’t know what kind of fool would be blasting above an open highway,” he said, “but I sure hope they catch the bugger.”

  “Blasting?” Pitt asked, suddenly recalling the white sedan he saw parked up the road.

  “I heard the pop and noticed a puff of white smoke up the hill right before those boulders started dancing. I told the Mounties about it, but they said there are no blasting crews working anywhere around here.”

  “You don’t think it was just a large boulder that let go and kicked up the rest?”

  The man knelt down and opened a wide drawer beneath the bookshelf. Digging beneath a thick blanket, he exposed a small wooden box marked DYNO NOBEL. Pitt recognized the manufacturer’s name as the offshoot of Alfred Nobel, inventor of dynamite. Opening the lid, the man showed Pitt a number of eight-inch-long yellow cartridges packed inside.

  “I do a little blasting myself now and then, when investigating a potential mineral vein.”

  “You’re a prospector?” Pitt asked, nodding toward the shelf of geology books.

  “More of a hobby than a profession,” the man replied. “I just like searching for things of value. I would never be blasting near civilization, but that’s probably what happened here. Some fool found something shiny up the hill and decided he had to have a closer look. I wouldn’t want to foot his cleanup bill if he gets caught.”

  Pitt nodded silently, suspecting that the blast hadn’t originated from an innocent miner.

  “What brings you to this area?” Pitt asked.

  “Silver,” the prospector replied, holding up the tequila bottle and pouring Pitt a second shot. “There used to be a working silver mine up near Algoma Mills, before everyone went crazy around here for uranium. I figure if they had one big strike in the area, there’s bound to be a few scraps around for a small-timer like me.” He shook his head, then grinned. “So far, my theory hasn’t panned out.”

  Pitt smiled, then downed the glass of tequila. He turned to the prospector and asked, “What do you know about the mineral ruthenium?”

  The prospector rubbed his chin for a moment. “Well, it’s a relative of platinum, though not associated with deposits in these parts. I know the price has skyrocketed, so there’s probably a lot more folks out searching for the stuff, but I’ve never run across any. Can’t say that I know anybody else who has either. As I recall, there are only a few places in the world where they mine it. My only other recollection about ruthenium is that some folks thought it had something to do with the old Pretoria Lunatic Mill.”

  “I’m not familiar with the story,” Pitt replied.

  “An old miners’ tale out of South Africa. I read about it while doing some research on diamonds. Apparently, there was a small weaving mill built near the turn of the century near Pretoria, South Africa. After operating for about a year, they started finding the mill workers going batty. It got so bad they had to close down the factory. The lunacy probably had something to do with the chemicals they used, but it never was clearly identified. It was later noted that the plant was built next to a platinum mine rich with ruthenium, and that ruthenium ore, which had little value back then, was stockpiled in great mounds next to the mill. At least one historian thought that the unusual mineral had something to do with the crazy behavior.”

  “It’s an interesting story,” Pitt replied, recalling his discussion at the Co-op. “Have you by chance heard of any mining done by the Inuit up north in the old days?”

  “Can’t say that I have. Of course, the Arctic is considered a mining candy land these days. Diamonds in the Northwest Territories, coal on Ellesmere Island, and of course oil and natural gas prospects all over the place.”

  They were interrupted by a granite-faced Mountie, who poked his head in the door and asked Pitt to fill out a police report on his damaged rental car. The road construction crew arrived shortly after and went to work clearing a path through the debris. The loose rock and gravel was quickly pushed aside, and it was only a short while before a single lane of traffic was opened through the landslide area.

  “Any chance I could bum a ride with you to the Elliot Lake airport?” Pitt asked the old prospector.

  “I’m headed to the Sudbury region, so you’re pretty much on my way. Grab a seat up front,” he replied, taking a seat behind the wheel.

  The big RV barely squeezed through the debris before finding open road on the far side of the
landslide. The two men chatted about history and mining until the motor home pulled to a stop outside the tiny airport terminal.

  “There you go, mister, ah . . .”

  “Pitt. Dirk Pitt.”

  “My name’s Clive Cussler. Happy trails to you, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt shook the old prospector’s hand, then gave the dachshund a pat on the head, before climbing out of the RV.

  “I’m obliged to you for your help,” Pitt said, looking at the prospector with a familiar sense of kinship. “Good luck in finding that beckoning mother lode.”

  Pitt walked into the building and approached the terminal manager, whose mouth gaped when he turned his way. Pitt looked like he had just been run over by a Greyhound bus. His hair and clothes were caked in dust, while a bloodied bandage crossed his scalp. When Pitt relayed how the rental car was sitting on the highway upside down and filled with rocks, the manager nearly went into convulsions.

  While filling out an endless stack of insurance papers, Pitt glanced out the window and noticed that the Gulfstream jet was no longer parked on the tarmac.

  “How long ago did our fellow jet depart?” he asked the manager.

  “Oh, about an hour or two ago. His stay wasn’t much longer than yours.”

  “I think I saw him in town. Kind of a burly guy in a brown suit? ”

  “Yes, that was the customer.”

  “Mind if I ask where he was headed?”

  “You two are both nosy. He asked who you were,” he said, picking up a clipboard and running his finger down a short list of aircraft arrivals and departures. Pitt casually leaned over the manager’s shoulder, catching the plane’s tail number, C-FTGI, which he committed to memory.

  “While I can’t tell you who is aboard, I can tell you that the plane is bound for Vancouver, with a scheduled fuel stop in Regina, Saskatchewan.”

  “They visit Elliot Lake often?”

  “No, I can’t say I’ve seen that plane here before.” The manager tilted his head toward a small room in the corner of the terminal. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, and I’ll notify your flight crew that you are here.”

  Pitt agreed and made his way to the lounge, where he poured a cup of coffee from a stained glass pot. A corner-mounted television was tuned to a Calgary rodeo, but Pitt stared past the bronco riders, toying with the scattered puzzle pieces of the last few days. His trip to the Miners Co-op had been made on a lark, yet his hunch had been right. Sourcing a supply of ruthenium was of global importance, and somebody else was in on the hunt. He thought back to the well-dressed man in the white sedan, John Booth. There was something familiar about the man, but Pitt knew no one in Vancouver who had the means to fly in a corporate jet.

  The terminal manager popped into the lounge, refilling a large coffee cup as he spoke to Pitt.

  “Your flight crew is on their way to your aircraft. I told them you would be right out.”

  As he spoke, he ripped open a packet of sugar to pour into his coffee. The bag ripped completely in half, though, showering the carpeted floor in white granules.

  “Jeez,” he groaned, tossing the empty packet aside. “Well, that will give the night janitor something to do,” he muttered, staring at the mess.

  Pitt was likewise staring at the mess but with a different reaction. His eyes suddenly turned bright, and a sly grin spread across his lips.

  “A fortuitous disaster,” he said to the manager, who looked back at him blankly. “Thanks for your assistance. I need to make a couple of phone calls, then I’ll be right aboard.”

  When he crossed the tarmac a few minutes later, Pitt had a spry step to his aching bones and the gash to his head had ceased hurting. Across his face, the sly grin was still firmly embedded in place.

  39

  MINISTER JAMESON, I HAVE MITCHELL GOYETTE on line one,” the gray-haired secretary said, poking her head into Jameson’s office like a gopher.

  Jameson nodded from his desk, then waited until his secretary closed the door on her way out before hesitantly picking up the phone.

  “Arthur, how are things in our lovely capital city?” Goyette greeted with mock friendship.

  “Ottawa is enjoying a warm spring, to accompany the hot jingoistic climate in Parliament.”

  “It’s high time we retained Canada’s resources for Canadians,” Goyette snorted.

  “Yes, so that we can sell them to the Chinese,” the minister replied drily.

  Goyette promptly turned serious. “There’s a small pile of rocks in the Arctic southeast of Victoria Island called the Royal Geographical Society Islands. I’ll be needing the mineral rights to the entire landmass,” he said, as if asking for a cup of coffee.

  “Let me take a look,” Jameson replied, pulling a bundle of maps from his desk drawer. Finding a map marked Victoria Strait, which was overlaid with numbered grid lines, he moved to a desktop computer. Inputting the grid numbers, he accessed the ministry’s records of exploration and extraction licenses issued by the government. Within a few minutes, he had an answer for Goyette.

  “I’m afraid we already have a production license in place, which covers about thirty percent of the islands, primarily the southern portion of West Island. It’s a ten-year license, but they are only entering their second year of operations. The license is held by Kingfisher Holdings, a subsidiary of the Mid-America Mining Company out of Butte, Montana. They have built a small mining facility and are currently extracting small quantities of zinc, apparently just in the summer months.”

  “An American firm holds the license?”

  “Yes, but through a Canadian shell company. There’s technically no law against it, providing they post the required security bond and meet the other provisions of the license agreement.”

  “I want the license rescinded and reissued to one of my entities,” Goyette said matter-of-factly.

  Jameson shook his head at Goyette’s presumption. “There would have to be a violation of the license, such as environmental polluting or shortchanging the royalty payments. It can’t be done unilaterally, Mitchell, without setting the government up for a major lawsuit.”

  “Then how do I obtain the rights?” he huffed.

  “Mid-America is currently in compliance, according to the latest inspection report, so your only option would be to try and purchase the rights directly from them. They would no doubt gouge you for the pleasure.” He thought for a moment. “There may in fact be another possibility.”

  “Go ahead,” Goyette urged impatiently.

  “There is a national defense clause in the license. Should this brouhaha with the United States continue to escalate, there is a possibility of using it for grounds to terminate the license. The clause allows for the termination of foreign-held licenses in the event of war, conflict, or dissolution of state relations. A long shot, of course, but one never knows. What exactly is your interest in the islands?”

  “Something that is as good as gold,” Goyette replied quietly. Regaining his brashness, he barked, “Prepare the necessary details for me to bid on a new license. I’ll figure out a way to have this Mid-America Corporation cough it up.”

  “Very well,” Jameson replied, his teeth gritted. “I will await your results.”

  “That’s not all. As you know, the Melville Sound site is showing extraordinarily rich reserves of natural gas, yet I only own rights to a tiny fraction of the fields. I will be needing to obtain the extraction rights to the entire region.”

  The line fell silent for several seconds before Jameson finally muttered, “I’m not sure that will be possible.”

  “Nothing is impossible, for the right price,” Goyette laughed. “You’ll find that most of the tracts are previously ice-covered regions that nobody was interested in. Until now.”

  “That is the problem. Word is out that major shipments are already being made from Melville. We’re receiving dozens of exploration requests for the area.”

  “Well, don’t bother responding to them. The Me
lville gas fields will be worth billions, and I’m not going to let them slip through my fingers,” he snapped. “I will be sending you several maps shortly. They delineate my desired exploration zones, which encompass large sections of Melville Sound and some other Arctic regions. I intend to dramatically expand my exploration business in the Arctic and want wholesale exploration licenses for the entire lot. There are incredible profits available there, and you’ll be aptly rewarded, so don’t blow it. Good-bye, Arthur.”

  Jameson heard a click as the line went dead. The resources minister sat frozen for a moment until a seething anger welled up from within, then he slammed the phone down with a whack.

  T WO THOUSAND MILES TO the west, Goyette punched off his speakerphone and leaned back in his chair. Gazing across his office desk, he stared into the cool eyes of Clay Zak.

  “Nothing ever comes easy,” he griped. “Now, tell me again why this ruthenium is so bloody important.”

  “It’s quite simple,” Zak replied. “If you can monopolize the supply of ruthenium, then you can control a primary solution to global warming. What you elect to do with the mineral is a matter of money . . . and ego, I suppose.”

  “I’m listening,” Goyette grunted.

  “Assuming that you control the principal supply, then you have a choice to make. Mitchell Goyette, the environmentalist, can become the savior of the planet and pocket a few bucks along the way, fueling the expansion of artificial photosynthesis factories around the world.”

  “But there is a risk on the demand side,” Goyette argued. “We really don’t know how much ruthenium will ultimately be needed, so the profits could be enormous or they could be squat. I’ve staked most of my worth in developing control of the Northwest Passage. I have invested heavily in natural gas and oil sands infrastructure to be able to ship through the passage, supported by my fleet of Arctic vessels. I have long-term export agreements in place with the Chinese and will soon have the Americans pleading on their knees. And I’ve got a potential booming business in carbon dioxide sequestration. If global warming is reversed, or even halted, I could face extended ice issues that run counter to my entire business strategy.”