Despite their superior firepower, Zak and his men had a tough time getting a clean shot off. Forced to climb up the hull, they had to grab the side rail and cower behind its planking while trying to bring their guns to bear. Pitt and Giordino could easily spot their movements and soon had bloodied the hands of the gunmen by splintering the rail with lead. Zak quietly moved in front of the other two gunmen, clinging deftly to the outer rail. He turned and whispered to the other men between rounds.
“Rise and fire together after the next shot.”
Both men nodded, holding their heads down while waiting for the next burst of musket fire. It was Pitt’s turn to fire, and he crouched atop the ladderway with a flintlock pistol on the top step and two muskets across his lap. Shouldering one of the muskets, he peered over the lip of the deck, scanning the side rail through the gun smoke left from Giordino’s last shots. The top of a black parka wavered above a point on the rail, and he quickly drew a bead on the target. He waited for a head to pop up but the gunman refused to budge. Deciding to test the stopping power of the side rail, Pitt lowered his aim a foot and pulled the trigger.
The shot bore through the aged planking and into the calf muscle of the gunman crouching behind. But his body was already reacting to the sound of the musket shot, and he rose with his machine gun to fire. Ten feet down the rail, the second gunman followed suit.
Through the black haze, Pitt detected both men rising and immediately ducked into the ladderway. But as he back-stepped, his instincts took over, and he grabbed the pistol on the step. As his body ducked below the deck, his arm went up with the pistol. His hand was aligned closer to the second gunmen, and he whipped the barrel toward the man’s head and quickly squeezed the trigger.
A simultaneous explosion of lead ripped across the surrounding deck, blasting a shower of splinters on top of him. His ears told him that one of the machine guns had ceased firing, while the other still peppered the ladderway. Sinking to the lower deck with a slight dizziness, he turned to Giordino, who was headed up with a pair of wood-handled pistols and a Purdey shotgun.
“I think I got one of them,” he said.
Giordino stopped in midstep, noticing a pool of blood growing on the deck next to Pitt’s feet.
“You’ve been hit.”
Pitt looked down, then raised his right arm. A V-shaped hole had been ripped through the sleeve beneath his lower forearm, dripping a steady flow of blood. Pitt squeezed his hand, which still gripped his pistol.
“Missed the bone,” he said.
He slipped off the wool jacket as Giordino stepped over and ripped open the sleeve on Pitt’s sweater. Two ugly holes tore through the meaty part of his forearm, somehow missing nerves and bone. Giordino quickly tore strips from Pitt’s sweater and wrapped them tightly around the wound, then helped Pitt back into his jacket.
“I’ll reload,” Pitt said, regaining some color in his pale face. Gritting his teeth, he looked Giordino in the eye with a determined plea.
“Go finish them off.”
82
ZAK HAD REMAINED HIDDEN BEHIND THE RAIL when his two gunmen rose and fired. Using their barrage as a cover, he then stood and rolled over the rail, scurrying across the deck to the ice-encased foremast. He looked aft, but there was no way he could make a clean shot on the ladder well, as a mound of ice amidships created a high barrier between the two positions.
It was an absurd situation, he thought, being held up by men armed with weapons over a century and a half old. He had to admire their cunning, which seemed noticeably absent from his own security team. He looked for another vantage point from which to fire, but, finding none, he searched for a way belowdecks. He spotted the forward hatch, but it was buried under two feet of ice, and there was no forward ladderway on the ship. Then he looked up, noticing that the foremast was tilted at an awkward angle. A cross-spar had ground onto the ridge and jammed the mast to starboard. The heavy mast had cracked the deck around its base, opening a two-foot gash that led below.
Had Zak looked back at the exchange of gunfire, he might have witnessed the death of his second gunman and reconsidered his next move. But he was already thinking three steps ahead as he tucked the Glock into his pocket, then lowered himself through the gap in the deck and dropped into the black interior below.
GIORDINO CLIMBED CAUTIOUSLY TO the head of the ladderway and quickly peered over the ledge. The deck was silent, and he caught no sight of any movement. Then he heard a cry, close by but not from aboard the ship. With the shotgun cocked and at the ready, he crept out of the ladderway and tentatively stepped to the side rail.
Aside the exterior hull, he observed two bodies lying faceup on the ice. The mercenary White, the first casualty, lay with his eyes still open, a pool of red around his torso. Beside him was a second gunman, who had a large hole through his forehead from Pitt’s last pistol shot. Giordino spotted a third man down on the beach, who was shouting for help. He clutched his leg and moved with a limp, trailing a thin stain of red.
Giordino heard a noise behind him and turned to see Pitt climb uneasily out of the ladderway, a pistol in his good hand and a musket over his shoulder.
“Did we manage to scare them off?” he asked.
“Thanks to your eagle-eyed marksmanship,” Giordino replied, motioning over the rail at the two dead gunmen. “I’d say you won the turkey shoot today.”
Pitt eyed the bodies with little remorse. Though he felt no comfort in killing another man, he had no pity for hired murderers, especially those that had had a hand in sinking the Narwhal.
“Sounds like they have some companions on the beach,” he said. “They’ll be back in force shortly.”
“My thoughts as well,” Giordino replied. Looking at Pitt’s bloodied sleeve, he gave his friend a concerned look. “No offense, but I don’t relish making this old tub my personal Alamo.”
“Better odds up the ravine?”
Giordino nodded. “I think it’s time to vacate the premises. They could wait until dark and overrun us, or, worse, set fire to this matchbox. There’s only so long we can hold out with these popguns. They’ll come back slow and cautious, which will give us some time to get up the hill. We can carry plenty of shot and powder to discourage them from following too close. Hopefully, they’ll just give up the chase and let us freeze to death on our own,” he added wryly.
“There’s one other thing that we’ll be needing,” Pitt remarked.
“I can’t believe you haven’t already absconded with it,” Giordino replied with a grin. “The key to the whole shebang. The ship’s log.”
Pitt simply nodded, hoping the log could be found and that its contents would prove worthy of the sacrifices already incurred.
“Take a rest, I’ll go find it,” Giordino said, stepping toward the ladderway.
“No, I’ll go,” Pitt replied, rubbing his wounded arm. “With this maimed wing, I’ll have trouble aiming the long gun if company arrives.” He slipped the musket off his shoulder and passed it to Giordino, along with the pistol. “Go ahead and shoot well before you see the whites of their eyes.”
Pitt climbed down the ladderway, feeling somewhat dizzy from the loss of blood. Moving aft, he made his way down the passageway toward the officers’ quarters under the dim light of the bulkhead candles he had lit earlier. The passageway eventually turned black as he reached an unexplored portion of the ship. He cursed himself for forgetting to grab the whale oil lamp and was about to turn back when he noticed a faint glow ahead in the darkness. Taking a few steps forward, he saw that there was a flickering light at the end of the passage. It was a light that neither he nor Giordino had left behind.
Stepping lightly, he approached the end of the passageway, which opened into the Great Cabin. A candle light flickered within, casting long black shadows on the bulkheads. Pitt crept to the doorway and peered in.
With his teeth glimmering under the amber light, Clay Zak looked up from a large table at the center of the room with a malicious smile.
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“Come on in, Mr. Pitt,” he said coldly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
83
A DOZEN YARDS FROM THE EDGE OF THE SEA ICE, a bearded seal frolicked in the dark green water, searching for a stray Arctic cod. The gray-coated mammal caught sight of a black protrusion rising out of the water and swam over to investigate. Pressing a whiskered snout against the cold metal object, it detected no sign of potential nourishment, so turned and swam away.
Sixty feet beneath the surface, Commander Barry Campbell chuckled at the close-up image of the seal. Refocusing the viewing lens of the Type 18 search periscope at the red-hulled icebreaker a quarter mile away, he carefully examined the ship. Stepping away from the periscope, he waved over Bill Stenseth, who stood nearby in the USS Santa Fe’s cramped control room.
Stenseth had taken an immediate liking to the submarine’s energetic captain. With sandy hair and beard, sparkling eyes, and a ready laugh, Campbell reminded Stenseth of a youthful Santa Claus, pre belly and white hair. A twenty-year Navy man, the jovial Campbell operated with a sense of purpose. There was no hesitation when Stenseth urged him to conduct an electronic search for Pitt and Giordino and the missing submersible. Campbell immediately piloted the attack sub to the south, with its full complement of sonar at play. When the icebreaker was detected lingering in the area, Campbell had ordered the sub to dive in order to maintain its stealth.
Stenseth stepped over to the periscope and peered through its dual eyepiece. A crystalline image of the red icebreaker burst through the magnified lens. Stenseth studied the flattened bow of the vessel, surprised that the damage wasn’t greater from its high-speed collision with the Narwhal.
“Yes, sir, that’s the vessel that rammed us,” he said matter-of-factly. Keeping his face pressed against the eyepiece, he focused on a man in black approaching the ship on foot. Tracing his path, he observed several additional men congregated on the beach.
“There are several men on the shoreline,” he said to Campbell. “They appear armed.”
“Yes, I saw them, too,” Campbell replied. “Swing the periscope to your right about ninety degrees,” he requested.
Stenseth obliged, rotating the periscope until a bright yellow object blurred past. Moving back, he refocused the lens while a lump grew in his throat. The Bloodhound appeared through the lens wedged against the sea ice, its top hatch thrown open.
“That’s our submersible. Our men Pitt and Giordino must have gone ashore,” he said, a rising tone of urgency in his voice. He stood up and faced Campbell.
“Captain, the men on that icebreaker sank my ship and tried to murder the crew of the Polar Dawn. They’ll kill Pitt and Giordino, too, if they haven’t already. I have to ask you to intervene.”
Campbell stiffened slightly. “Captain Stenseth, we sailed into Victoria Strait for the strict purposes of a search-and-rescue mission. My orders are clear. I am not to engage Canadian military forces under any circumstances. Any deviation will require a request up the chain of command, which will likely take a twenty-four-hour response.”
The submarine captain exhaled deeply, then gave Stenseth a crooked smile as his eyes suddenly gleamed. “On the other hand, if you tell me that two of our own are lost in the elements, then it is within my duty to authorize a search-and-rescue mission.”
“Yes, sir,” Stenseth replied, reading his drift. “I believe two of the Narwhal’s crew are either aboard the icebreaker awaiting transfer or are ashore without proper food, clothing, or shelter, and require our assistance.”
“Captain Stenseth, I don’t know who these people are, but they sure don’t look or act like the Canadian military to me. We’ll go get your NUMA boys. And if these jokers interfere with our rescue ops, I guarantee you they will wish they hadn’t.”
THERE WAS NO WAY Rick Roman was going to be denied. Though he and his commando team were severely weakened by their ordeal on the barge, they knew there was unfinished business to take care of. When word filtered down that a SEAL team was being assembled to search for Pitt and Giordino, Roman pleaded with the Santa Fe’s captain to participate. Knowing that his SEAL team was undermanned, Campbell reluctantly agreed. And in a nod toward just retribution, he let Roman lead the team to board and search the icebreaker.
With a hot shower, dry clothes, and two extended trips to the officers’ mess, Roman almost felt human again. Dressed in a white Arctic assault suit, he stood assembled with his team and the SEAL commandos in the enlisted mess area.
“Ever thought you’d be making an amphibious assault off a nuclear sub?” he asked Bojorquez.
“No, sir. I’m still and always will be a landlubber. Though after tasting the chow they serve these squids, I am beginning to rethink my choice about joining the Army.”
A deck above them in the control room, Commander Campbell was easing the submerged Santa Fe to the edge of the ice field. He had spotted a large hummock nearby that appeared to offer some measure of concealment from the distant icebreaker. Dropping the periscope, he watched as the diving officer inched the submarine under the ice, then stopped and gently rose to the surface.
With uncanny precision, the Santa Fe’s sail barely broke through the ice, protruding just a few feet above the surface. Roman’s team and a pair of SEALs were quickly ushered out the bridge and onto the adjacent sea ice. Five minutes later, the sail and masts sank out of sight and the submarine again became a phantom of the deep.
The commandos quickly split up, the two SEALs moving to investigate the Bloodhound, while Roman and his men crept toward the icebreaker. The ship was a half mile away across a mostly flat sheet of ice that offered only sporadic ridges and hummocks for concealment. In their Arctic whites, however, they blended perfectly. Moving methodically, Roman approached the vessel from the sea side, then circled wide around its bow, having to avoid the watery lead that tailed the stern. Spotting a side stairwell that dropped down the ship’s port hull, he moved the team within twenty yards, then ducked behind a small ridge. A few anxious seconds ticked by when a pair of men in black parkas descended the steps, but they turned toward shore without even a glance in the direction of Roman and his team.
With their position secure, Roman sat and waited as a chill wind rifled over their prone bodies.
84
A DECKHAND POSTING WATCH DUTY ON THE OTOK ’ S bridge was the first to detect it.
“Sir,” he called to the captain, “there’s something breaking up the ice off our port beam.”
Seated at the chart table drinking a cup of coffee, the visibly annoyed captain rose and walked slowly to the port bridge window. He arrived in time to witness a house-sized mass of ice rise up and crumble as a pair of gray-speckled tubes poked through the surface. A second later, the black teardrop-shaped sail of the Santa Fe burst through, scattering shards of ice in all directions.
A 688-I Los Angeles class attack submarine, the Santa Fe had been modified for under-the-ice operations. With strengthened hull, fairwater, and mast components, she was easily capable of penetrating ice three feet thick. Rising fifty yards off the Otok’s beam, the Santa Fe’s full hull cracked through the ice field, exposing a narrow black strip of steel three hundred feet long.
The Otok’s captain stared in disbelief at the sudden appearance of the nuclear warship. But his mind began to race when he saw a steady flow of white-clad men burst out of the sub’s forward hatch armed with machine guns. He felt only minimal solace when he noticed that the armed men all raced toward the island rather than his ship.
“Quick, pull up the drop steps,” he shouted at the deckhand. Turning to a crewman seated at the radio set, he barked, “Alert whatever security force is still aboard.”
But it was too late. A second later, the bridge wing door burst open and three figures dressed in white charged in. Before the captain could react, he found the muzzle of an assault rifle jammed into his side. With a shocked sense of submission, he raised his arms, then stared into the brown eyes of the tall man wielding the weapon
.
“Where . . . where did you come from? ” he stammered.
Rick Roman looked the captain in the eye, then gave him a frosty grin.
“I came from that icebox of a caboose you decided to sink last night.”
85
ZAK SAT COMFORTABLY AT THE HEAD OF THE thick wooden table positioned in the center of the Great Cabin. A flickering candle lantern on the table illuminated a large leather-bound book pushed to one side. In front of Zak was stacked a pile of glass plates, each the size of a large post-card. Lying a few inches from his right hand was his Glock pistol.
“A rather remarkable old ship,” Zak said, “with an interesting record of documentation.”
“The Erebus came very close to being the first to navigate the Northwest Passage, Clay,” Pitt replied.
Zak’s brow rose a fraction at the mention of his name.
“I see you’ve done your homework. Not surprising, I suppose. You are quite an accomplished man, I have learned. And rather dogged in the chase.”
Pitt stared at Zak, angry with himself for not bringing the percussion-cap pistol. With an injured arm and no weapon, he was nearly helpless against the assassin. Perhaps if he could stall for time, Giordino would come looking armed with his shotgun.
“I’m afraid that all I know about Clay Zak is that he is a lousy janitor and enjoys murdering innocent people,” Pitt said coldly.
“Joy doesn’t enter into it. A necessity of business, you might say.”
“And exactly what business of yours requires ruthenium at any cost?” Pitt asked.
Zak flashed a humorless grin. “It is little more than a shiny metal to me. But it is worth much more to my employer. And it is obviously of strategic value to your country. If one were to prevent the mineral from feeding your artificial-photosynthesis factories, then my employer continues to be a very rich man. If he can control the supply of ruthenium outright, then he becomes an even richer man.”
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