“Looks to be a vessel rounding the northwest coast,” the helmsman reported, eyeing the radarscope.
Captain Stenseth picked up a pair of binoculars and viewed a tandem pair of dots on the horizon.
“Probably an Asian freighter making an escorted attempt through the passage,” he said. He turned to Pitt, who was seated at the chart table studying a blueprint of the Franklin ships. “We’ll be approaching the finish line shortly. Any idea when your torpedo will pop up?”
Pitt glanced at his orange-faced Doxa dive watch. “She ought to surface within the next half hour.”
It proved to be twenty minutes later when one of the crewmen spotted the yellow AUV bobbing to the surface. Stenseth maneuvered the ship alongside, and the AUV was quickly hoisted aboard. Giordino removed its one-terabyte hard drive and hustled the data to a small viewing room, where a computer and projection system awaited.
“You headed to the movies?” Stenseth asked as Pitt stood up and stretched.
“Yes, the first of two rather long double features. You have a fix on the transponders?”
Stenseth nodded. “We’ll go grab them next. They’ve actually been pushed quite far along, due to the strong southerly current here. We will have to make a bit of a dash for them before they pile up on the island rocks.”
“I’ll tell Dahlgren to be standing by,” Pitt replied. “Then we can go grab fish number 2.”
Pitt made his way down to the darkened viewing room, where Giordino already had the sonar’s collected data displayed on the screen. A gold-colored image of the seafloor was scrolling by, revealing a largely flat but rocky bottom.
“A nice crisp image,” Pitt said, taking a seat next to Giordino.
“We boosted the frequency for a higher resolution,” Giordino explained. He handed Pitt a bowl of microwave popcorn. “But it still ain’t Casablanca, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay. As long as we find something worth playing again, Sam.”
The two men sat back and stared at the screen as an endless swath of sea bottom began scrolling by.
61
THE ZODIAC POUNDED OVER THE CHOPPY SWELLS, careening off small chunks of ice as a freezing mist sprayed into the air. The pilot kept the throttle open until approaching a wide expanse of unbroken ice that stretched from the shoreline. Finding a section with a sloping front edge, he drove the inflatable boat up and onto the sea ice. The hardened hull of the Zodiac slid several feet before mashing to a halt against a low knoll. Seated near the stern, Zak waited for the geology team to exit the boat before he stepped out, following a guard carrying a hunting rifle whose sole job was to ward off any inquisitive bears.
“Pick us up a mile down the coast in exactly two hours,” Zak ordered the pilot, waving an arm to the west. Then he helped shove the Zodiac back into the water and watched as the rubber boat sped to the Otok, idling a half mile away.
Zak could have stayed in the warmth of his cabin, reading a biography of Wild Bill Hickok that he had brought along, but he feared the geologists would dawdle in the cold. What actually drove him ashore, he didn’t want to admit, was the disappointment he felt with their geological assessment of the Mid-America mining camp.
While it was hardly a surprise when they confirmed the rich ground content of zinc and iron on the south side of the island, he had expected that some trace elements of ruthenium might be present. But none were found. The geologists in fact found no evidence of any platinum-related elements in the exposed stratum.
It meant nothing, he assured himself, since he knew exactly where the ruthenium would be found. Digging into the pocket of his parka, he pulled out the journal pages that he had stolen from the Miners Co-op. In heavy charcoal was a hand-drawn circular diagram that clearly resembled West Island. A small X was marked on the northern shore of the island. At the top of the page, a different hand had written “Royal Geographical Society Islands” with a quill pen in a Victorian script. It was, according to an earlier page in the journal, the copied diagram of an Inuit map where the Adelaide seal hunters had obtained the ruthenium they oddly called Black Kobluna.
Zak matched the contours with a modern map of the islands and identified the targeted spot slightly west of their landing site.
“The mine should be a half mile or so down the coastline,” he announced after the group had hiked over the ice to a rock-covered beachfront. “Keep your eyes open.”
Zak marched off down the beach ahead of the geologists, anxious to make the discovery himself. The cold seemed to fade away as he envisioned the potential riches that waited just down the coast. Goyette would already owe him for ridding the Canadian Arctic of American investors. Finding the ruthenium would be frosting on the cake.
The rugged shoreline was fronted by an undulating series of gullies and bluffs that climbed toward the island’s interior. The ravines were filled with hard-packed ice, while the hilltops were bare, creating a mottled pattern like the dappled coat of a gray mare. Trudging well behind Zak, the geologists moved tentatively in the cold weather, stopping frequently to examine exposed sections of the hillsides and collect samples of rock. Reaching his target area without finding physical evidence of a mine, Zak anxiously paced back and forth until the geologists drew near.
“The mine should be in this vicinity,” he shouted. “Search the area thoroughly.”
As the geologists fanned out, the security guard waved Zak over to the edge of the sea ice. Splayed at the man’s feet, he found the mutilated carcass of a ringed seal. The mammal’s flesh had been torn from its skin in large, jagged chunks. The guard pointed to the animal’s skull, where a wide set of claw marks had scratched through the skin.
“Only a bear would have left a mark like that,” the guard said.
“By the look of the decay, it was a fairly recent meal,” Zak replied. “Keep a sharp lookout, but don’t mention this to our scientific friends. They’re already distracted enough by the cold.”
The polar bear never materialized, and, to Zak’s dismay, neither did the ruthenium. After an hour of diligent searching, the frozen geologists staggered to Zak with confused looks on their faces.
“The visual results are on par with the south side of the island,” said one of the geologists, a bearded man with droopy hazel eyes. “We see some outcrop mineralization with signs of iron, zinc, and a bit of lead content. There’s no obvious evidence of platinum-group ores, including ruthenium. However, we’ll have to assay our samples back on the ship to definitely rule out its presence.”
“What about indications of a mine?” Zak asked.
The geologists all looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Any mining performed by the Inuit one hundred and sixty years ago would be by primitive means at best,” the lead geologist said. “There would have been evidence of surface disruptions. Unless it is under one of these ice sheets, we didn’t see any such indications.”
“I see,” Zak said in a pallid tone. “All right, back to the ship, then. I want to see your assay results as soon as possible.”
As they marched across the sea ice to their pickup site, Zak’s mind churned in bewilderment. It didn’t make sense. The journal was clear that the ruthenium had come from the island. Was it possible that the ore had all been played out in a small quantity? Was there a mistake in the journal or was it all a ruse? As he stood waiting for the Zodiac to arrive, he stared offshore, suddenly spotting a turquoise research ship bearing down on the island.
His bewilderment quickly turned to rage.
62
PITT AND GIORDINO WERE THREE HOURS INTO their review of the sonar data when the shipwreck appeared. Giordino had set the viewing speed at double the capture rate, so they were nearly complete with the first grid’s results. The rapidly scrolling seabed images had turned the men glassy-eyed, but they both popped out of their seats when the wreck appeared. Giordino immediately hit a keyboard command that froze the image.
It was a distinct shadow image of a large wreck sitti
ng upright on the bottom, tilted at just a slight angle. The perimeter of the wreck appeared fully intact, except for a mangled crevice running horizontally across the bow.
“She’s a wooden ship,” Pitt remarked, pointing to a trio of long, tapering masts that stretched across the deck and onto the adjacent seafloor. “Looks to have a blunt-shaped bow, characteristic of the bomb ships that the Erebus and Terror were originally built to be.”
Giordino used the computer’s cursor to measure the wreck’s dimensions.
“How does thirty-two meters in length fit?” he asked.
“Like a glove,” Pitt replied, flashing a tired smile. “That’s got to be one of the Franklin ships.”
The door to the viewing room burst open and Dahlgren strode in, carrying a hard drive under his arm.
“Second AUV is back on board, and here’s what she’s got to say,” he declared, handing Giordino the device. He glanced at the screen, then stared with bulging eyes.
“Shoot, you already found her. Mighty fine-looking wreck,” he added, nodding at the clear image.
“Half of the pair,” Pitt said.
“I’ll start getting the submersible prepped. That will make for a sweet dive to the bottom.”
Pitt and Giordino finished reviewing the first AUV’s imagery, then tore through the data from the second vehicle. The remaining data came up empty. The sister shipwreck was somewhere outside the two initial search grids. Pitt decided against expanding the grids until they determined which wreck they had found.
He made his way to the bridge with the wreck coordinates, where he found Captain Stenseth gazing out the starboard wing. Less than two miles away, the icebreaker Otok came steaming north with its empty barge in tow.
“Lo and behold, a match for one of your friend Goyette’s barges,” Stenseth remarked.
“A coincidence?” Pitt asked.
“Probably,” Stenseth replied. “The barge is riding high, so she’s empty. Likely headed for Ellesmere Island for a load of coal, then back through the passage to China.”
Pitt studied the vessels as they moved closer, marveling at the massive size of the barge. He stepped over to the chart table and retrieved the photograph Yaeger had provided of the Goyette barge under construction in New Orleans. He looked at the picture and saw it was an exact duplicate of the vessel approaching off the starboard beam.
“We have a match,” Pitt remarked.
“You think they’ll report our position to the Canadian authorities? ”
“I doubt it. But there’s a chance they’re here for the same reason we are.”
Pitt kept a wary eye on the icebreaker as it steamed past a quarter mile away. There was no friendly chitchat over the radio, just the silent rocking from the barge’s wake as the vessels passed by. Pitt continued to watch as the icebreaker held a steady north-bound course.
Stenseth must be right, he thought. It only made sense that an empty barge in these parts was headed to pick up a shipment, and Ellesmere Island was well to the north of them. Still, there was something uncomfortable about the appearance of the two vessels. Somehow, he knew, their appearance was no simple coincidence.
63
HER NAME’S THE NARWHAL. SHE’S CANADIAN.” Zak reached over and snatched the binoculars out of the captain’s hands and looked for himself. Studying the research ship, he read her name in white letters across the transom. Peering astern, he found a yellow submersible on the rear deck with NUMA painted on the side. He noted with chagrin a maple leaf flag flying atop the bridge.
“A bold move, Mr. Pitt,” he muttered. “That’s no Canadian ship, Captain. That is an American research ship operated by NUMA.”
“How could an American research ship make its way here?”
Zak shook his head. “With some measure of deception, apparently. I have no doubt that they are here after the ruthenium. The fools must think that it is underwater.”
He watched the NUMA ship fade from view as they continued steaming north.
“Hold our course until we are clear of radar coverage. Stay out of range for an hour or two, then creep back just to the point where you can detect them. If they move, then tail them.” He glanced at the bridge clock. “I’ll return shortly before nightfall with our next move.”
Zak climbed down a companionway to his cabin, intending to take a nap. Failure was making him irritable, however. The mineral assays for the rocks collected on the north shore had come back negative for ruthenium, and now there was the presence of the NUMA ship. Reaching for a bottle of bourbon, he poured himself a glass but spilled a shot when the ship took a sudden roll. A few drops landed on the Inuit map, which he had set on his nightstand. He grabbed the map, holding it up as a trail of bourbon ran down the page. The liquid bisected the island like a brown river, making it appear to be two separate islands. Zak stared at the map a long while, then hurriedly yanked out a satellite image of the island grouping. Comparing the images of West Island, he matched the south and west coastlines exactly but not the eastern shoreline. Sliding the Inuit map over, he then compared its shape to the satellite image of East Island. The eastern coastlines matched perfectly, but there the similarities ended.
“You idiot,” he muttered to himself. “You’re looking in the wrong spot.”
The answer was right in front of him. The narrow waterway that had split the West and East islands had obviously been frozen solid one hundred and fifty years ago. The Inuit map had actually represented both islands, drawn as one landmass. The difference shifted the position of the ruthenium source nearly two miles farther east than he had estimated.
Climbing into his bunk, he swallowed the glass of bourbon, then lay down with a renewed sense of hope. All was not lost, for the ruthenium mine must still be there. It had to be. Content in the knowledge, he turned his thoughts to more immediate issues. First, he reasoned, he had to figure out what to do with Pitt and the NUMA ship.
64
THE STRONG WESTERLY WINDS FINALLY BEGAN TO abate, reducing the seas to a moderate chop. The settling winds brought with it a wispy gray fog that was common to the region during the spring and summer months. The thermometer finally climbed into double digits, prompting shipboard jokes about the balmy weather.
Pitt was just thankful that the weather had calmed enough to launch the submersible without risk. Climbing through the hatch of the Bloodhound, he settled into the pilot’s seat and began checking a bank of power gauges. Beside him in the copilot’s seat, Giordino reviewed a predive checklist. Both men wore just light sweaters, shivering in the cold cabin they knew would soon turn toasty from the electrical equipment aboard.
Pitt looked up as Jack Dahlgren stuck his poker face into the hatch.
“You boys remember, those batteries don’t hold their charge so well in this cold weather. Now, you go bring me back the ship’s bell and I might just leave the lights on for you.”
“You leave the lights on and I just might let you keep you job,” Giordino uttered back.
Dahlgren smiled and started humming the Merle Haggard standard “Okie from Muskogee,” then closed and sealed the hatch. A few minutes later, he worked the controls of a small crane, lifting the submersible off the deck and depositing it in the center of the ship’s brightly illuminated moon pool. Inside, Pitt signaled for its release, and the yellow cigar-shaped submersible began its descent.
The seafloor was just over a thousand feet deep, and it took the slowly drifting Bloodhound almost fifteen minutes to reach the bottom. The gray-green waters quickly melded to black outside the submersible’s large viewing port, but Pitt waited until they passed the eight-hundred-foot mark before powering up the bright bank of exterior high-intensity lights.
Rubbing his hands together in the slowly warming cabin, Giordino looked at Pitt with mock suffering.
“Did I ever tell you that I’m allergic to the cold?” he asked.
“At least a thousand times.”
“My mama’s thick Italian blood just doesn’t flow righ
t in these icebox conditions.”
“I’d say the flow of your blood has more to do with your affinity for cigars and pepperoni pizzas than with your mother.”
Giordino gave him a thankful look for the reminder and pulled the stubby remains of an unlit cigar out of his pocket and slid it between his teeth. Then he retrieved a copy of the shipwreck’s sonar image and spread it across his lap.
“What’s our plan of attack once we reach the wreck site?”
“I figure we have three objectives,” Pitt replied, having earlier planned the dive. “First, and most obvious, is to try and identify the wreck. We know that the Erebus had a role in the ruthenium that was obtained by the Inuit. We don’t know if the same holds true for the Terror. If the wreck is the Terror, there may well be no clues whatsoever aboard. The second objective is to penetrate the hold and determine if there are any significant quantities of the mineral still there. The third objective is the most tenuous. That would be to search the Great Cabin and the captain’s cabin to determine if the ship’s log still exists.”
“You’re right,” Giordino agreed. “The log of the Erebus would be the holy grail. It surely would tell us where the ruthenium was found. Sounds like a long shot to hope that it survived intact, though.”
“Admittedly, but far from impossible. The log was probably a heavy leather-bound book stored in a chest or locker. In these cold waters, there’s at least a chance that it’s still in one piece. Then it would be up to the preservationists to determine if it could be conserved and ultimately deciphered.”
Giordino eyed the depth gauge. “We’re coming up on nine hundred and fifty feet.”
Arctic Drift (A Dirk Pitt Novel, #20) Page 29