"Did you use your boat for a base camp?"
"For the next twelve days. I made two, sometimes three field trips a day on cross-country skis, prospecting before returning for a hot meal and a good night's rest in a warm-"
"Up to now, you had seen no one?"
"I kept well clear of the Kelva missile station and the Kama security post. I saw no sign of the Russians until the final day of the mission."
"How were you discovered?"
"A Russian soldier on patrol his dog must have crossed my trail and picked up my scent. Small wonder. I hadn't bathed in almost three weeks."
Seagram dropped a smile. Donner picked up the questioning more coldly, aggressively "Let's get back to your field trips. What did you find?"
"I couldn't cover the whole island on cross-country skis, so I concentrated on the promising areas that had been pinpointed by the satellite computer printouts." He stared at the ceiling. "The north island; the outer continuation of the Ural and Yugorski mountain chains, a few rolling plains, plateaus, and mountains-most of which are under a permanent ice sheet. Violent winds much of the time. The chill factor is murderous. I found no vegetation other than some rock lichen. If there were any warm-blooded animals, they kept to themselves."
"Let's stick to the prospecting," Donner said, "and save the travel lecture for another time."
"Just laying the groundwork." Koplin shot Donner a disapproving stare, his tone icy. "If I may continue without interruption-"
"Of course," Seagram said. He pulled his chair strategically between the bed and Donner. "It's your game, Sid. We'll play by your rules."
"Thank you." Koplin shifted his body. "Geographically, the island is quite interesting. A description of the faulting and uplifting of rocks that were once sediments formed under an ancient sea could fill several textbooks. Mineralogically, the magmatic paragenesis is barren."
"Would you mind translating that?"
Koplin grinned. "The origin and geological occurrence of a mineral is called its paragenesis. Magma, on the other hand, is the source of all matter; a liquid rock heated under pressure which turns solid to form igneous rock, perhaps better known as basalt or granite."
"Fascinating," Donner said dryly. "Then what you're stating is that Novaya Zemlya is void of minerals."
"You are singularly perceptive, Mr. Donner," Koplin said.
"But how did you find traces of byzanium?" Seagram asked.
"On the thirteenth day, I was poking around the north slope of Bednaya Mountain and ran onto a waste dump."'
"Waste dump?"
"A pile of rocks that had been removed during the excavation of a mine shaft. This particular dump happened to have minute traces of byzanium ore."
The expressions on his interrogators' faces suddenly went sober.
"The shaft entrance was cunningly obscured," Koplin continued. "It took me the better part of the afternoon to figure which slope it was on."
"One minute, Sid." Seagram touched Koplin's arm. "Are you saying the entrance to this mine was purposely concealed?"
"An old Spanish trick. The opening was filled until it was even with the natural slope of the hill."
"Wouldn't the waste dump have been on a direct line from the entrance?" Donner asked.
"Under normal circumstances, yes. But in this case they were spaced over a hundred yards apart, separated by a gradual arc that ran around the mountain's slope to the west."
"But you did discover the entrance?" Donner went on.
"The rails and ties for the ore cars had been removed and the track bed covered over, but I managed to trace its outline by moving off about fifteen hundred yards and studying the mountain's slope through binoculars. What you couldn't see when you were standing on top of it became quite clear from that distance. The exact location of the mine was then easy to determine."
"Who would go to all that trouble to hide an abandoned mine in the Arctic?" Seagram asked no one in particular. "There's no method or logic to it."
"You're only half right, Gene," Koplin said. "The logic, I fear, remains an enigma; but the method was brilliantly executed by professionals-Coloradans." The word came slowly, almost reverently. "They were the men who excavated the Bednaya Mountain mine. The muckers, the blasters, the jiggers, the drillers, the Cornishmen, the Irishmen, Germans, and Swedes. Not Russians, but men who emigrated to the United States and became the legendary hard-rock miners of the Colorado Rockies. How they came to be on the icy slopes of Bednaya Mountain is anybody's guess, but these were the men who came and mined the byzanium and then vanished into the obscurity of the Arctic."
The sterile blankness of total incomprehension flooded Seagram's face. He turned to Donner and was met by the same expression. "It sounds crazy, absolutely crazy."
" `Crazy'?" Koplin echoed. "Maybe, but no less true."
"You seem pretty confident," Donner muttered.
"Granted. I lost the tangible proof during my pursuit by the security guard; you have only my word on it, but why doubt it? As a scientist, I only report facts, and I have no devious motive behind a lie. So, if I were you, gentlemen, I would simply accept my word as genuine."
"As I said, it's your game." Seagram smiled faintly.
"You mentioned tangible evidence." Donner was calm and coldly efficient.
"After I penetrated the mine shaft-the loose rock came away in my hands, and I had only to scoop out a three-foot tunnel-the first thing my head collided with in the darkness was a string of ore cars. The strike of my fourth match illuminated an old pair of oil lamps. They both had fuel and lit on the third try." The faded blue eyes seemed to stare at something beyond the hospital room wall. "It was an unnerving scene that danced under the lamp's glow, mining tools neatly stacked in their racks, empty ore cars standing on rusting eight-gauge rails, drilling equipment ready to attack the rock-it was as though the mine was waiting for the incoming shift to sort the ore and run the waste to the dump."
"Could you say whether it looked as if someone left in a hurry?"
"Not at all. Everything was in its place. The bunks in a side chamber were made, the kitchen was cleared up, all the utensils were still on the shelves. Even the mules used to haul the ore cars had been taken to the working chamber and efficiently shot; their skulls each had a neat round hole in its center. No, I'd say the departure was very methodical.
"You have not yet explained your conclusion as to the Coloradans' identity," Donner said flatly.
"I'm coming to it now." Koplin fluffed a pillow and turned gingerly on his side. "The indications were all there, of course. The heavier equipment still bore the manufacturers' trademarks. The ore cars had been built by the Guthrie and Sons Foundry of Pueblo, Colorado; the drilling equipment came from the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver; and the small tools showed the names of the various blacksmiths who had forged them. Most had come from Central City and Idaho Springs, both mining towns in Colorado."
Seagram leaned back in his chair. "The Russians could have purchased the equipment in Colorado and then shipped it to the island."
"Possibly," Koplin said. "However, there were a few other bits and pieces that also led to Colorado."
"Such as?"
"The body in one of the bunks for one."
Seagram's eyes narrowed. "A body?"
"With red hair and a red beard," Koplin said casually. "Nicely preserved by the sub-zero temperature. It was the inscription on the wood above the bunk supports that proved most intriguing. It said, in English, I might add, `Here rests Jake Hobart. Born 1874. A damn good man who froze in a storm, February 10, 1912."'
Seagram rose from his chair and paced around the bed "A name, that at least is a start." He stopped and looked at Koplin. "Were there any personal effects left lying around?"
"All clothing was gone. Oddly, the labels on the food cans were French. But then there were about fifty empty wrappers, Mile-Hi Chewing Tobacco, scattered on the ground. The last piece of the puzzle though, the piece that definitely ties i
t to the Coloradans, was a faded yellow copy of the Rocky Mountain News, dated November 17, 1911. It was this part of the evidence that I lost."
Seagram pulled out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. Donner held a lighter for him and Seagram nodded.
"Then there is a chance the Russians may not have possession of the byzanium," he said.
"There is one more thing," Koplin said quietly. "The top-right section of page three of the newspaper had been neatly snipped out. It may mean nothing, but, on the other hand, a check of the publisher's old files might tell you something."
"It might at that." Seagram regarded Koplin thoughtfully. "Thanks to you, we have our work laid out for us."
Donner nodded. "I'll reserve a seat on the next flight to Denver. With luck, I should come up with a few answers."
"Make the newspaper your first stop, then try and trace Jake Hobart. I'll make a check on old military records from this end. Also, contact a local expert on Western mining history, and run down the names of the manufacturers Sid gave us. However unlikely, one of them might still be in business."
Seagram stood up and looked down at Koplin. "We owe you more than we can ever repay," he said softly.
"I figure those old miners dug nearly half a ton of high-grade byzanium from the guts of that bitch mountain," Koplin said, rubbing his hand through a month's growth of beard. "That ore has got to be stashed away in the world somewhere. Then again, if it hasn't emerged since 1912, it may be lost forever. But, if you find it, make that when you find it, you can say thanks by sending me a small sample for my collection."
"Consider it done."
"And while you're at it, get me the address of the fellow who saved my life so I can send him a case of vintage wine. His name is Dirk Pitt."
"You must mean the doctor on board the research vessel who operated on you."
"l mean the man who killed the Soviet patrol guard and his dog, and carried me off the island."
Donner and Seagram looked at each other thunderstruck.
Donner was the first to recover. "Killed a Soviet patrol guard!" It was more statement than question. "My God, that tears it!"
"But that's impossible!" Seagram finally managed to blurt. "When you rendezvoused with the NUMA ship, you were alone."
"Who told you that?"
"Well . . . no one. We naturally assumed--"
"I'm not Superman," Koplin said sarcastically. "The patrol guard picked up my trail, closed to within two hundred yards, and shot me twice. I was hardly in any condition to outrun a dog and then sail a sloop over fifty miles of open sea."
"Where did this Dirk Pitt come from?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea. The guard was literally dragging me off to his security post commander when Pitt appeared through the blizzard, like some vengeful Norse god, and calmly, as if he did it every day before breakfast, shot the dog and then the guard without so much as a how-do-you-do."
"The Russians will make propaganda hay with this." Donner groaned.
"How?" Koplin demanded. "There were no witnesses. The guard and his dog are probably buried under five feet of snow by now, they may never be found. And if they are, so what? Who's to prove anything? You two are pushing the panic button over nothing."
"It was a hell of a risk on that character's part," Seagram said.
"Good thing he took it," Koplin muttered. "Or instead of me lying here safe and snug in my sterile hospital bed, I'd be lying in a sterile Russian prison spilling my guts about Meta Section and byzanium."
"You have a valid point," Donner admitted.
"Describe him," Seagram ordered. "Face, build, clothing"
Koplin did so. His description was sketchy in some areas, but in others his recollection of detail was remarkably accurate.
"Did you talk with him during the trip to the NUMA
"Couldn't. I blacked out right after he picked me up and didn't come to until I found myself here in Washington in the hospital."
Donner gestured to Seagram. "We'd better get a make on this guy, quick."
Seagram nodded. "I'll start with Admiral Sandecker. Pitt must have been connected with the research vessel. Perhaps someone in NUMA can identify him."
"I can't help wondering how much he knows," Donner said staring at the floor.
Seagram didn't answer. His mind had strayed to a shadowy figure on a snow-covered island in the Arctic. Dirk Pitt. He repeated the name in his mind. Somehow it seemed strangely familiar.
10
The telephone rang at 1210 A.M. Sandecker popped open one eye and stared at it murderously for several moments. Finally, he gave in and answered it on the eighth ring.
"Yes, what is it?" he demanded.
"Gene Seagram here. Admiral. Did I catch you in bed?"
"Oh, hell no." Sandecker yawned. "I never retire before I write five chapters on my autobiography, rob at least two liquor stores, and rape a cabinet member's wife. Okay, what are you after, Seagram?"
"Something has come up."
"Forget it. I'm not endangering any more of my men and ships to bail your agents out of enemy territory." He used the word enemy as though the country were at war.
"It's not that at all."
"Then what?"
"I need a line on someone."
"Why come to me in the dead of night?"
"I think you might know him."
"What's the name?"
"Pitt. Dirk. The last name is Pitt, probably spelled P-i-t-t."
"Just to humor an old man's curiosity, what makes you think I know him?"
"I have no proof, but I'm certain he has a connection with NUMA."
"I have over two thousand people under me. I can't memorize all their names."
"Could you check him out? It's imperative that I talk to him."
"Seagram," Sandecker grunted irritably, "you're a monumental pain in the ass. Did it ever occur to you to call my personnel director during normal working hours?"
"My apologies," Seagram said. "I happened to be working late and-"
"Okay, if I dig up this character, I'll have him get in touch with you."
"I'd appreciate it." Seagram's tone remained impersonal. "By the way, the man your people rescued up in the Barents Sea is getting along nicely. The surgeon on the First Attempt did a magnificent job of bullet removal."
"Koplin, wasn't it?"
"Yes, he should be up and around in a few days."
"That was a near thing, Seagram. If the Russians had cottoned onto us, we'd have a nasty incident on our hands about now."
"What can I say?" Seagram said helplessly.
"You can say good night and let me get back to sleep," Sandecker snarled. "But first, tell me how this Pitt figures into the picture."
"Koplin was about to be captured by a Russian security guard when this guy appears out of a blizzard and kills the guard, carries Koplin across fifty miles of stormy water, not to mention stemming the blood flow from his wounds, and somehow deposits him on board your research vessel, ready for surgery."
"What do you intend to do when you find him?"
"That's between Pitt and myself."
"I see," Sandecker said. "'Well, good night, Mr. Seagram."
"Thank you, Admiral. Good-by."
Sandecker hung up and then sat there a few moments, a bemused expression on his face. "Killed a Russian security guard and rescued an American agent. Dirk Pitt . . . you sly son of a bitch."
11
United's early flight touched down at Denver's Stapleton Airfield at eight in the morning. Mel Donner passed quickly through the baggage claim and settled behind the wheel of an Avis Plymouth for the fifteen-minute drive to 400 West Colfax Avenue and the Rocky Mountain News. As he followed the west-bound traffic, his gaze alternated between the windshield and a street map stretched open beside him on the front seat.
He had never been in Denver before, and he was mildly surprised to see a pall of smog hanging over the city. He expected to be confronted with the dirty brown and gray cloud
over places like Los Angeles and New York, but Denver had always conjured up visions in his mind of a city cleansed by crystal clean air, nestled under the protective shadow of Purple Mountain Majesties. Even these were a disappointment; Denver sat naked on the edge of the great plains, at least twenty-five miles from the nearest foothills.
He parked the car and found his way to the newspaper's library. The girl behind the counter peered back at him through tear-shaped glasses and smiled an uneven-toothed, friendly smile.
"Can I help you?"
"Do you have an issue of your paper dated November 17, 1911?"
"Oh my, that does go back." She twisted her lips. "I can give you a photocopy, but the original issues are at the State Historical Society."
"I only need to see page three."
"If you care to wait, it'll take about fifteen minutes to track down the film of November 17, 1911, and run the page you want through the copy machine."
"Thank you. By the way, would you happen to have a business directory for Colorado?"
"We certainly do." She reached under the counter and laid a booklet on the smudged plastic top.
Donner sat down to study the directory as the girl disappeared to search out his request. There was no listing of a Guthrie and Sons Foundry in Pueblo. He thumbed to the T's. Nothing there either for the Thor Forge and Ironworks of Denver. It was almost too much to expect, he reasoned, for two firms still to be in business after nearly eight decades.
The fifteen minutes came and went, and the girl hadn't returned, so he idly leafed through the directory to pass the time. With the exception of Kodak, Martin Marietta, and Gates Rubber, there were very few companies he'd heard of. Then suddenly he stiffened. Under the J listings his eyes picked out a Jensen and Thor Metal Fabricators in Denver. He tore out the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and tossed the booklet back on the counter.
"Here you are, sir," the girl said. "That'll be fifty cents."
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