“Nice clear night, sir,” Bojorquez said.
“Clear and cold as a penguin’s butt,” Roman replied, grimacing in the ten-degree temperature. He had spent his youth in Hawaii and still hadn’t adjusted to cold weather despite years of Arctic training.
“Could be worse,” Bojorquez said, flashing a set of bright white teeth. “At least it ain’t snowing.”
They hiked up the ridge, stepping over and through rough sections of ice that crunched drily under their boots. Reaching the crest, they peered across a gentle slope of uneven ice that stretched down the opposite side. The inky black waters of Coronation Gulf rippled a mile away, while two miles beyond twinkled the lights of Kugluktuk. Dropped from a low-flying C-130 out of Eielson Air Force Base in Fairbanks, Roman and his team had been sent in to seize and extract the crew of the Polar Dawn on a mission authorized by the President.
“What’s your assessment? ” Roman asked, staring at the small town’s lights.
The sergeant was a twenty-year man, having served in Somalia and Iraq before being recruited into the elite Delta Forces. Like most of the members of the Arctic unit, he had served multiple tours in the rugged mountains of Afghanistan.
“Satellite recon looks pretty accurate. That plateau’s not too chewed up,” he said, motioning behind them toward the drop zone. “We’ll get a decent runway cleared, no problem.”
He gazed down toward the gulf waters and raised an arm. “That stretch to the drink is a little longer than I’d like to see.”
“My concern as well,” Roman replied. “We’ve got such short nightfall, I hate to think of the darkness we’ll lose just getting the boats into the water.”
“No reason we can’t get a head start tonight, Captain.”
Roman looked at his watch, then nodded. “Get the Zodiacs down as far as you can before daybreak and cover them up. We might as well burn some energy tonight, since we have a long day of rest tomorrow.”
Under the remaining cover of darkness, the small commando team hustled across the ice like rabbits on adrenaline. The men of Green Squad quickly took up the task of carving out an ice runway capable of supporting a pair of CV-22 Ospreys, which would be their ticket out. The drop zone had been selected for just that reason, offering a flat plateau hidden from view yet within striking distance of Kugluktuk. Though the tilt-rotor Ospreys were capable of a vertical landing and takeoff, safety concerns with the fickle Arctic weather prompted orders that they be deployed conventionally. The soldiers measured and marked a narrow, five-hundred-foot path across the ice, then put the minibulldozers to work. Powered for silent running, the tiny machines furiously scraped and shoved the ice until a crude landing strip began to take shape.
At the edge of the runway, the Blue Squad hacked a small enclosure into the ice, which partially concealed a half dozen white bivouac tents that served as shelter. Once the camp was complete, the soldiers set about inflating the rubber Zodiacs, each boat large enough to carry twenty men, then the boats were placed on aluminum sled runners for transport over the ice.
Roman and Bojorquez lent a hand to the four men of Blue Squad as they pushed the two boats across the ice. The southern sky was already beginning to lighten when they reached the crest of the ridge. Roman stopped and rested for a moment, eyeing the distant light of a ship crossing the gulf toward Kugluktuk. Urging the men to keep moving, they started down the slope. Despite the declining grade, they found the ice more jagged and coarse, making the going arduous. The forward runners often jammed into small crevices, requiring added exertion to pull free.
The inflatable boats had been pushed a half mile when the golden flames of the sun arced over the southeast horizon. The men fought to push the boats faster, knowing that premature exposure was the greatest risk to their mission. Yet Roman abandoned his plan to ditch the boats at first light and pushed the team forward.
It took a full hour before the exhausted men finally reached the shores of Coronation Gulf. Roman had the boats flipped upside down and concealed in a blanket of snow and ice. Hastily making their way back to camp, they found the landing strip completed by their cohorts. Roman made a quick inspection, then retired to his tent with a feeling of satisfaction. The mission preparations had gone without a hitch. When the long Arctic day passed, they would be ready to go.
50
THE DE HAVILLAND OTTER TOUCHED DOWN harshly on the flat ice runway, then taxied to a small block building with TUKTOYAKTUK painted in faded lettering on it. As the plane’s twin propellers ground to a halt, an airport worker in a thick orange jumpsuit jogged up and opened the side door, letting a blast of frigid air into the interior. Pitt waited at the back of the plane as the other passengers, mostly oil company employees, donned heavy jackets before exiting down the stairs. Eventually making his way off the plane, he was welcomed by a numbing gust that knocked the temperature several degrees below zero on the windchill factor.
Hustling toward the small terminal, he was nearly sideswiped by a rusty pickup truck that had crossed the runway and rattled to a stop in front of the door. A squat man hopped out, covered from head to foot in multiple layers of cold-weather gear. The bulky clothing gave him the effect of a giant walking pincushion.
“Would that be King Tut’s mummy or my Director of Underwater Technology buried under there?” Pitt asked as the man blocked his path.
The man yanked a scarf away from his jaw, revealing the staunch face of Al Giordino.
“It is I, your tropics-loving Director of Technology,” he replied. “Hop into my heated chariot before we both turn into Popsicles.”
Pitt grabbed his luggage off a cart headed toward the terminal and threw it into the open truck bed. Inside the terminal, a plain-looking woman with short hair stood by the window staring out at the two men. As they climbed into the truck, she walked to a pay phone in the terminal and promptly made a collect call to Vancouver.
Giordino shoved the truck into gear, then held his gloved hands in front of the heater vent as he stepped on the gas.
“The ship’s crew took a vote,” he said. “You owe us a cold-weather pay bonus plus a week’s vacation in Bora-Bora at the end of this job.”
“I don’t understand,” Pitt smiled. “The long summer days in the Arctic are renowned for their balmy weather.”
“It ain’t summer yet. The high was twelve degrees yesterday, and there’s another cold front moving our way. Which reminds me, did Rudi escape our winter wonderland successfully?”
“Yes. We missed each other in transit, but he phoned to tell me he was warmly ensconced back at NUMA headquarters.”
“He’s probably sipping mai tais along the banks of the Potomac this very moment just to spite me.”
The airfield was adjacent to the small town, and Giordino had only a few blocks to drive until reaching the waterfront docks. Located on the barren coast of the Northwest Territories, Tuktoyaktuk was a tiny Inuvialuit settlement that had grown into a small hub for regional oil and gas exploration.
The turquoise hull of the Narwhal came into view, and Giordino drove slightly past the vessel, parking the truck next to a building marked HARBORMASTER’S OFFICE. He returned the keys to the borrowed truck inside, then helped Pitt with his bags. Captain Stenseth and Jack Dahlgren were quick to greet Pitt as he boarded the NUMA ship.
“Did Loren finally take a rolling pin to your noggin?” Dahlgren asked, spotting the bandage on Pitt’s head.
“Not yet. Just a result of some poor driving on my part,” he answered, brushing aside the concern.
The men sat down in a small lounge near the galley as cups of hot coffee were distributed to all. Dahlgren proceeded to brief Pitt on the abbreviated discovery of the thermal vent while Stenseth discussed the rescue of the Canadian Ice Lab survivors.
“What’s the local speculation on who could have been responsible?” Pitt asked.
“Since the survivor’s description perfectly matches that of our frigate the Ford, everyone thinks it was the Navy. We’ve been t
old, of course, that she was three hundred miles away at the time,” Giordino said.
“What no one seems to consider is that there are very few active icebreakers up here,” Stenseth said. “Unless it was a rogue freighter risking its own skin or foolishly off course, the potential culprits are relatively small in number.”
“The only known American icebreaker in these waters is the Polar Dawn,” Giordino said.
“Make that a Canadian icebreaker now,” Dahlgren said, shaking his head.
“She doesn’t match the description anyway,” Stenseth said. “Which leaves a handful of Canadian military vessels, the Athabasca escort ships, or a foreign icebreaker, possibly Danish or even Russian.”
“Do you think it was a Canadian warship that struck the camp by accident and they are trying to cover it up?” Pitt asked.
“One of the scientists, Bue was his name, swears he saw an American flag, in addition to the hull number that matches the Ford,” Dahlgren said.
“It doesn’t figure,” Giordino said. “The Canadian military wouldn’t try to instigate a conflict by masquerading as an American warship.”
“What about these Athabasca escort ships?” Pitt asked.
“By Canadian law, all commercial traffic through ice-clogged sections of the Northwest Passage requires an icebreaker escort,” Stenseth said. “A private firm, Athabasca Shipping, handles the escort duty. They operate a number of large icebreaker tugs, which are also used to haul their fleet of oceangoing barges. We saw one towing a string of enormous liquid-natural-gas barges passing through the Bering Strait a few weeks ago.”
Pitt’s eyes lit up. He opened a briefcase and pulled out a photograph of a massive barge under construction in New Orleans. He handed the picture to Stenseth.
“Any resemblance to this one?” Pitt asked.
Stenseth looked at the photo and nodded. “Yes, it’s positively the same type. You don’t see barges of that size very often. What’s the significance?”
Pitt briefed the men on his hunt for the ruthenium, its trail to the Arctic, and Mitchell Goyette’s possible involvement. He checked some additional papers that Yaeger had provided, which confirmed that the Athabasca Shipping Company was owned by one of Goyette’s holding companies.
“If Goyette is shipping gas and oil from the Arctic, his environmental posturing is certainly fraudulent,” Giordino noted.
“A dockworker I met at a bar told me someone was shipping the Chinese massive quantities of oil sands, or bitumen, out of Kugluktuk,” Dahlgren said. “He said they were bypassing the government’s shutdown of refineries in Alberta due to greenhouse gas emissions.”
“A good bet it’s on Goyette’s barges,” Pitt said. “Maybe it’s even his oil sands.”
“It would seem that this Goyette might have a powerful incentive to obtain the ruthenium source,” Stenseth said. “How do you propose beating him to it?”
“By finding a one-hundred-and-eighty-five-year-old ship,” Pitt replied. He then shared Perlmutter’s findings and the clues linking the mineral to Franklin’s expedition ship Erebus.
“We know the ships were initially abandoned northwest of King William Island. The Inuit account places the Erebus farther south, so it is possible that a shifting ice sheet drove the ships in that direction before they sank.”
Stenseth excused himself to run to the bridge, while Dahlgren asked Pitt what he hoped to find.
“Providing that the ice didn’t completely crush the ships, there’s a good chance the vessels are intact and in an excellent state of preservation due to the frigid water.”
Stenseth returned to the lounge with an armful of maps and photographs. He opened a nautical chart that showed the area around King William Island, then produced a high-altitude photo of the same region.
“Satellite photo of Victoria Strait. We’ve got updates for the entire passage. Some areas north of here are still encased in sea ice, but the waters around King William have already broken up due to an early melt off this year.” He laid the photograph on the table for all to see. “The seas are essentially clear in the area where Franklin became icebound one hundred and sixty-five years ago. A bit of drift ice still remains, but nothing that should impede a search effort.”
While Pitt nodded with satisfaction, Dahlgren was shaking his head.
“Aren’t we forgetting one mighty important tidbit? ” he asked. “The Canadians have expelled us from their waters. The only reason we have been able to remain in Tuktoyaktuk so long is because we feigned problems with our rudder.”
“With your arrival, those problems have now been rectified,” Stenseth said to Pitt with a wily smile.
Pitt turned to Giordino. “Al, I believe you were tasked with proposing a strategy to address Jack’s concern.”
“Well, as Jack can attest, we have taken the opportunity to befriend the small Canadian Coast Guard contingent stationed here in Tuk,” Giordino said, using the local’s abbreviation for the town’s Inuit name. “And while this has personally cost me a number of high bar tabs, in addition to a hangover or two for Jack, I believe I have made commendable progress.”
He opened one of the captain’s charts that showed the western portion of the passage, then searched the coastline with his finger.
“Cape Bathurst, here, is about two hundred miles to the east of us. The Canadians have a radar station on the point, which they use to pick up all eastbound traffic through the passage. They can radio ahead to Kugluktuk, where a pair of vessels are stationed, or call back here to Tuk, where a small cutter is berthed. Fortunately for us, the Canadians have posted most of their intercept vessels on the other end of the passage, snaring the bulk of the traffic entering via Baffin Bay.”
“Last time I checked, we didn’t have stealth capabilities on our research ships,” Pitt said.
“We don’t necessarily need it,” Giordino continued. “As luck would have it, there’s a Korean freighter here in port that struggled in with engine problems. The harbormaster told me the repairs have been completed and that they’ll be departing later today. The ship is only going as far as Kugluktuk with a load of oil drilling repair parts, so it’ll be sailing without an icebreaker escort.”
“You’re suggesting that we shadow her?” Pitt asked.
“Precisely. If we can hold tight to her port flank while we pass Bathurst, they might not pick us up.”
“What about the Canadian picket vessels?” Dahlgren asked.
“The Tuk cutter just came into port this morning, so she likely won’t put to sea again right away,” Giordino said. “That leaves the two vessels in Kugluktuk. I’d bet one of them is probably hanging around the Polar Dawn, which was taken there. So that likely leaves just one vessel that we’d have to slide past.”
“I’d say those are odds worth taking,” Pitt stated.
“What about air surveillance? Can’t we count on the Canadian Air Force to do an occasional flyby?” Dahlgren asked.
Stenseth pulled out another sheet from his pile. “Mother Nature will lend us a hand there. The weather forecast for the next week is pretty dismal. If we set sail today, we’ll probably accompany a slow-moving low-pressure front that’s forecast to roll through the archipelago.”
“Stormy weather,” Giordino said. “We’ll know why there’s no plane up in the sky.”
Pitt looked around the table, eyeing the others with confidence. They were men of unquestioned loyalty that he could trust in difficult times.
“It’s settled, then,” he said. “We’ll give the freighter a couple of hours head start, then shove off ourselves. Make it look like we are headed back to Alaska. Once safely offshore, we’ll circle back and catch the freighter well before Bathurst.”
“Won’t be a problem,” Stenseth said. “We’ve got at least eight or ten knots on her.”
“One more thing,” Pitt said. “Until the politicians resolve the Polar Dawn situation, we are on our own. And there’s a reasonable chance we could end up with the same fate. I wan
t only a skeleton crew of volunteers aboard. Every scientist and nonessential crew member is to disembark here as quietly as possible. Do what you can to book them rooms and flights out of here. If anyone asks, tell them they are oil company employees who have been reassigned.”
“It will be taken care of,” Stenseth promised.
Pitt set down his coffee and stared across the table with sudden unease. A painting hung on the opposite bulkhead, depicting a nineteenth-century sailing ship caught in a harrowing gale, its sails shredded and masts falling. A jagged cluster of rocks rose in its path, ready to bash the ship to bits.
Stormy weather indeed, he thought.
51
A THICK PLUME OF BLACK SMOKE SIFTED OUT THE funnel of the freighter as its lines were cast and the blue-hulled ship churned slowly away from the dock. Standing on the Narwhal ’s bridge, Bill Stenseth watched as the Korean ship steamed out of Tuktoyaktuk’s small harbor and entered the Beaufort Sea. Picking up a shipboard phone, Stenseth dialed the number to a cabin belowdecks.
“Pitt here,” came the response after a single ring.
“The Korean freighter is on her way.”
“What’s our crew status?”
“All nonessential personnel are off the ship. I think we filled up every hotel in town. Of course, there are only two hotels in town. Flights to Whitehorse have been arranged for everyone. They’ll have an easy time getting to Alaska from there, or even Vancouver. We’re left with a total of fourteen men aboard.”
“That’s a slim contingent. When can we leave?”
“I was preparing to cast off in another two hours so as not to raise suspicion.”
“Then I guess we just need to notify our hosts that we are headed home,” Pitt said.
“My next order of business,” Stenseth reported.
The captain hung up, then collected Giordino for good measure and walked down to the Canadian Coast Guard station. The Canadian commander seemed less interested in Stenseth’s imminent departure than the loss of Giordino’s charity at the local seamen’s bar. With little to fear from the research ship, the Coast Guard commander said farewell, neglecting to provide an escort out of Canadian waters.
Arctic Drift (A Dirk Pitt Novel, #20) Page 25