“It comes from the old mining days, when underground miners carried canaries with them to warn of asphyxiation. I had run across the term while investigating an old flooded quarry in Ohio that was rumored to contain pre-Columbian artifacts. Your brother was a doctor, so he would have been familiar with it. I believe he tried to write the message as a warning to others.”
“Have you told anyone else?” Trevor asked.
“No,” Summer replied. “I figured you’ll want to have another chat with the chief of police in Kitimat when you return.”
Trevor nodded but turned away from Summer with a faraway look in his eyes.
“We’ve got a train to catch,” Dirk said, eyeing the clock. “Let’s try a warm-water dive together real soon,” he said to Trevor, shaking his hand.
Summer moved in and gave him a passionate kiss. “Now, remember, Seattle is only a hundred miles away.”
“Yes,” Trevor smiled. “And there’s no telling how long I’ll have to stay in Vancouver arranging a new boat.”
“He’ll probably be behind the wheel before we see ours again,” Dirk lamented as they walked out.
But he would be proven wrong. Two days after they returned to the NUMA regional office in Seattle, a flatbed truck showed up carrying their research boat left behind off Gil Island. It had a full tank of gas, and on the pilot’s seat was an expensive bottle of French burgundy.
47
BY PRESIDENTIAL DIRECTIVE, THE U.S. COAST Guard cutter Polar Dawn steamed stridently across the maritime boundary with Canada just north of the Yukon. As it moved east across the corrugated gray waters of the Beaufort Sea, Captain Edwin Murdock stared out the bridge window in silent relief. There was no armed Canadian flotilla there to challenge him, as a few aboard the ship had feared.
Their mission had begun innocuously enough several months earlier with a proposal to seismically map the periphery sea ice along the Northwest Passage. However, this was well before the Atlanta and Ice Research Lab 7 incidents. The President, concerned about fanning the flames of Canadian indignation, had initially canceled the voyage, but the Secretary of Defense had finally convinced him to proceed with the mission, successfully arguing that the Canadians had previously given implicit approval. It might be years, he asserted, before the U.S. could challenge Canada’s internal waters claim without overt provocation.
“Skies clear, radar screen empty, and seas at three-to-four,” said the Polar Dawn’s executive officer, a rail-thin African-American named Wilkes. “Perfect conditions in which to run the passage.”
“Let’s hope they continue for the next six days,” Murdock replied. He noticed a glint in the sky out the starboard bridge window. “Our upstairs escort is still holding the trail?” he asked.
“I believe they are going to keep an eye on us for the first fifty miles into Canadian waters,” Wilkes replied, referring to a Navy P-3 Orion reconnaissance plane that lazily circled overhead. “After that, we’re on our own.”
Nobody really expected the Canadians to oppose them, but the ship’s officers and crew were well aware of the heated rhetoric that had been erupting from Ottawa the past two weeks. Most recognized it for what it was, empty posturing by some politicians attempting to capture a few votes. Or so they hoped.
The Polar Dawn moved east through the Beaufort Sea, skirting along the jagged edge of the sea ice that occasionally crumbled into a mass of irregular-shaped floes. The Coast Guard vessel towed a sled-shaped seismic sensor off the stern, which mapped the depth and density of the ice sheet as they steamed by.
The waters held clear of traffic, save for the occasional fishing boat or oil exploration vessel. Sailing through the first brief Arctic night without incident, Murdock slowly began to relax. The crew settled into their varied work schedules, which would serve them for the nearly three-week voyage to New York Harbor.
The sea ice had encroached closer to the mainland as they sailed east, gradually constricting the open waterway to less than thirty miles as they approached the Amundsen Gulf, south of Banks Island. Passing the five-hundred-mile mark from Alaska, Murdock was surprised that they still hadn’t encountered any Canadian picket vessels. He had been briefed that two Canadian Coast Guard vessels regularly patrolled the Amundsen Gulf, picking up any eastbound freighters that hadn’t paid their passage fees.
“Victoria Island coming into view,” Wilkes announced.
All eyes on the bridge strained to make out the tundra-covered island through a damp gray haze. Larger than the state of Kansas, the huge island pressed a four-hundred-mile-long coastline opposite the North American mainland. The waterway ahead of the Polar Dawn constricted again as they entered the Dolphin and Union Strait, named for two small boats used by Franklin on an earlier Arctic expedition. The ice shelf crept off both shorelines, narrowing the open seaway through the strait to less than ten miles. The Polar Dawn could easily shove through the adjacent meter-thick ice if necessary, but the ship kept to the ice-free path melted by the warm spring weather.
The Polar Dawn forged another hundred miles through the narrowing strait as its second Arctic night in Canadian waters approached. Murdock had just returned to the bridge after a late dinner when the radar operator announced first one and then another surface contact.
“They’re both stationary at the moment,” the operator said. “One’s to the north, the other almost directly south. We’ll run right between them on our current heading.”
“Our picket has finally appeared,” Murdock said quietly.
As they approached the two vessels, a larger ship appeared on the radar some ten miles ahead. The sentry vessels remained silent as the Polar Dawn cruised past, one on either flank. As the Coast Guard ship moved on unchallenged, Murdock stepped over to the radar station and peered over the operator’s shoulder. With a measure of chagrin, he watched as the two vessels slowly departed their stations and gradually fell in line behind his own ship.
“It appears we may have trouble passing Go and collecting our two hundred dollars,” he said to Wilkes.
“The radio is still silent,” the exec observed. “Maybe they’re just bored.”
A hazy dusk had settled over the strait, painting the distant shoreline of Victoria Island a deep purple. Murdock tried to observe the ship ahead through a pair of binoculars but could only make out a dark gray mass from the bow profile. The captain adjusted course slightly, so as to pass the ship on his port side with plenty of leeway. But he would never get the chance.
In the fading daylight, they closed within two miles of the larger ship when a sudden spray of orange light burst from its gray shadow. The Polar Dawn’s bridge crew heard a faint whistling, then saw an explosion in the water a quarter mile off their starboard bow. The startled crew watched as the spray of water from the blast rose forty feet into the air.
“They fired a shell at us,” Wilkes blurted in a shocked voice.
A second later, the long silent radio finally crackled.
“Polar Dawn, Polar Dawn, this is the Canadian warship Manitoba . You are trespassing in a sovereign waterway. Please heave to and prepare for boarding.”
Murdock reached for a radio transmitter. “Manitoba, this is the captain of the Polar Dawn. Our transit route has been filed with the Foreign Affairs Ministry in Ottawa. Request you let us proceed.”
Murdock gritted his teeth as he waited for a response. He had been given strict orders not to provoke a confrontation at any cost. But he had also been given assurances that the Polar Dawn’s passage would be uncontested. Now he was getting shot at by the Manitoba, a brand-new Canadian cruiser built expressly for Arctic duty. Though technically a military vessel, the Polar Dawn had no armament with which to fight. And it wasn’t a particularly fast ship; certainly it was incapable of outrunning a modern cruiser. With the two smaller Canadian vessels blocking the rear, there was no place to run anyway.
There was no immediate answer to Murdock’s radio call. Only a silent pause, and then another orange flash from the deck o
f the Manitoba. This time the shell from the warship’s five-inch gun landed a scant fifty yards from the Coast Guard ship, its underwater blast sending a concussion that could be felt throughout the vessel. On the bridge, the radio crackled once more.
“Polar Dawn, this is Manitoba,” spoke a voice with a kindly charm that was incongruous to the situation at hand. “I must insist that you heave to for boarding. I’m afraid I have orders to sink you if you don’t comply. Over.”
Murdock didn’t wait for another orange flash from the Manitoba.
“All stop,” he ordered the helmsman.
In a heavy voice, he radioed the Manitoba his concession. He quickly had the radioman send a coded message to the Coast Guard sector headquarters in Juneau, explaining their predicament. Then he quietly waited for the Canadian boarders, wondering if his career was all but over.
A HEAVILY ARMED TEAM of Canadian Special Forces pulled alongside the Polar Dawn within minutes and quickly boarded the ship. Executive Officer Wilkes met the boarders and escorted them to the bridge. The leader of the Special Forces team, a short man with a lantern jaw, saluted Murdock.
“Lieutenant Carpenter, Joint Task Force 2 Special Forces,” he said. “I have orders to take command of your vessel and bring her to port at Kugluktuk.”
“And what of the crew?” Murdock asked.
“That’s for the higher-ups to decide.”
Murdock stepped nearer, looking down on the shorter lieutenant. “An Army soldier who knows how to pilot a three-hundred-foot ship?” he asked skeptically.
“Ex-Merchant Marine.” Carpenter smiled. “Helped push coal barges up the Saint Lawrence in my daddy’s tug since I was twelve.”
Murdock could do nothing but grimace. “The helm is yours,” he said finally, standing aside.
True to his claim, Carpenter expertly guided the Polar Dawn through the strait and across the western reaches of Coronation Gulf, nosing into the small port of Kugluktuk eight hours later. A small contingent of Royal Canadian Mounted Police lined the dock as the ship tied up at a large industrial wharf. The Manitoba, which had shadowed the Polar Dawn all the way to port, tooted its horn from out in the bay, then turned and headed back into the gulf.
The Polar Dawn’s crew was rounded up and marched off the cutter to a white dockside building that had formerly been a fish house, its weathered exterior peeling and blistered. Inside, several rows of makeshift bunks had been hastily set up to accommodate the imprisoned crew. The men were confined in relative comfort, however, their captors providing warm food, cold beer, and books and videos for entertainment. Murdock approached the Mountie in charge, a towering man with ice blue eyes.
“How long are we to be confined here?” the captain asked.
“I don’t really know myself. All I can tell you is that our government is demanding an apology and reparations for the destruction of the Beaufort Sea ice camp and an acknowledgment that the Northwest Passage is rightly part of Canada’s internal waters. It’s up to your government leaders to respond. Your men will be treated with all consideration, but I must warn you not to attempt an escape. We have been authorized to use force as necessary.”
Murdock nodded, suppressing a smile. The request, he knew, would go over in Washington like a lead balloon.
48
PITT HAD JUST STEPPED OFF A COMMERCIAL AIRLINE flight to Calgary when news of the Polar Dawn’s seizure hit the newswires. Mobs of passengers were crowded around airport televisions, trying to digest the impact of the event. Pitt stopped and watched briefly as a Canadian political commentator called for a shutdown of all oil, gas, and hydroelectric power exports to the U.S. until they agreed to Canada’s ownership of the Northwest Passage. Pitt stepped to a quiet corner by an empty gate and dialed a direct number to the Vice President’s office. A secretary immediately put the call through, and the businesslike voice of James Sandecker burst through the phone in an irritated tone.
“Make it quick, Dirk. I’ve got my hands full with this Canada situation,” he barked without preamble.
“I just caught the news here in Calgary,” Pitt replied.
“That’s a long ways from Washington. What are you doing in Calgary? ”
“Waiting for a flight to Yellowknife and then a puddle jumper to Tuktoyaktuk. The Narwhal has been sitting in port there since picking up the survivors of the Canadian Ice Lab.”
“That’s what started this whole mess. I’d like to get my hands on the real joker who smashed up that camp. In the meantime, you better get that vessel out of Canadian waters pronto, then return to Washington.”
“Rudi’s on his way back to D.C. with a directive to suspend all NUMA research projects around Canada and immediately move our vessels to neutral waters. I’ve just got a special job up here to close down personally.”
“This have anything to do with that pet science project your pretty wife keeps haranguing me about?”
Bless Loren’s heart, Pitt thought. She had already gone after the old man.
“Yes, it does. We need to find the source of the ore, Admiral.”
The line went silent, but Pitt could hear some papers being shuffled at the other end.
“Loren writes a bang-up policy paper,” Sandecker finally grunted. “Like to have her on my staff if she ever gets tired of serving in Congress.”
“I’m afraid her constituents wouldn’t let her.”
“This ruthenium . . . it’s the real deal?”
“Yes, conclusively proven. And there’s somebody else in the hunt for it, which confirms its worth.”
“If it can make this artificial photosynthesis fly, then it would be invaluable. I can’t begin to tell you how bad things are economically because of the energy crunch. The President’s carbon mandate puts us on even more of a tightrope. If we don’t find a way out, then we’re headed for a full-blown meltdown.”
“Finding the mineral might be our only chance,” Pitt replied.
“Loren’s cover letter says there may be a source linked to the lost Franklin Expedition?”
“There are some compelling clues in that direction. It seems to be the only real lead to a near-term supply of the mineral.”
“And you want to conduct a search?”
“Yes.”
“This is some poor timing on your part, Dirk.”
“Can’t be helped. It’s too important not to try. And it’s too important to come up second. I’d just like to know where things are headed with the Polar Dawn.”
“Are you on a secure line?”
“No.”
Sandecker hesitated. “The chickens want to lay some eggs, but the rooster is still pacing the henhouse.”
“How soon before breakfast?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
Pitt knew that Sandecker often referred to the Pentagon generals as chickens, due to the eagle insignias on their caps. The message was clear. The Secretary of Defense was pushing for a military response, but the President had not made up his mind yet. A decision would be forthcoming shortly.
“The Canadian demand is being treated seriously,” Sandecker continued. “You need to collect your vessel and get on over to Alaska, assuming the Canadians will let you leave port. Don’t mess around, Dirk. I can’t give you any support in Canadian waters. This thing will likely blow over in a few weeks and you can resume your search then.”
A few weeks could easily turn into months, and the summer season in the Arctic would be lost. Add an early cold snap and they would be shut out from searching around King William Island until the following spring thaw.
“You’re right, Admiral. I’ll take the Narwhal and sail her to calmer waters.”
“Do it, Dirk. And don’t delay.”
Pitt hung up the phone with no intention of sailing the Narwhal to Alaska. If his phone conversation was being monitored, he could say nothing different. And he had not lied to Sandecker. Taking the Narwhal farther along the passage would indeed be sailing into much calmer waters than the Beaufort Sea.
>
At the other end of the line, Sandecker hung up the phone and shook his head. He knew Pitt almost like a son. And he knew full well that he wasn’t about to sail the Narwhal to Alaska.
49
THE WHITE FLECKS FLOATED LAZILY IN THE DARK sky, growing larger to the eye as they approached the earth. It was only when they reached an altitude of a hundred feet or so that their rapid speed of descent became apparent. A few seconds later, they struck the ice-covered ground, landing with a crackling thud. First to touch down was a trio of large wooden boxes, painted flat white to blend with the surroundings. Then human forms followed, ten in all, each recoiling into a ball as their feet touched the ground. Instantly, each man stripped off his harness and rolled his parachute into a ball, then quickly buried the entirety beneath a foot of ice.
A moderate breeze had scattered the men over a half-mile swath, but within minutes they had assembled near one of the crates. Though it was a moonless night, visibility was better than a hundred yards because of the stars that twinkled brightly overhead. The men quickly lined up in front of their commander, a tall, deeply tanned man named Rick Roman. Like the men under him, Roman was dressed in a white camouflage snowsuit with matching helmet and drop-down night vision goggles. On his hip, he carried a holstered Colt .45 automatic pistol.
“Quality drop, men. We’ve only got an hour of darkness ahead of us, so let’s get to work. Green Squad has runway detail, and Blue Squad has Zodiac and base assembly. Let’s move.”
The men, members of the Army’s elite Delta Force, quickly attacked the large crates, spilling their contents. Two of the boxes each contained a Zodiac inflatable boat along with some cold-weather bivouac gear. The third crate contained two Bob-cat compact track loaders, converted to run on electric batteries. A smaller container inside held additional weapons, ammunition, meals, and medical kits.
“Sergeant Bojorquez, would you accompany me, please?” Roman called out.
A bull-shaped man with black eyes and prematurely gray hair threw down the side of a crate, then walked over and joined Roman. The Army captain strode off toward an elevated ridge that ran along one side of the landing zone.
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