"Commander! Commander Gates!"
Gates thumbed the push-to-talk button. "We're okay. We're okay," he assured everyone on the net. "That was just a blasting cap. The bombs are overboard."
He glanced at Brown.
"Lieutenant Strange, send Chee to the fantail with his aid bag. Jess caught a piece of shrapnel in his cheek. And I want you to organize a thorough search of this ship, stem to stern. I want to know if there are any more bombs on board."
Gates dropped beside Brown, his back against the bulkhead. Brown was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his cheek with a gloved hand. Tension relieved, the sweat the both men produced in the engine room chilled their faces and necks. Looking at each other, they did what so many people do when they've come close to death.
They laughed.
Chapter 9
GATES HUNG UP THE sat phone, glanced at the drift ice surrounding the Franklin, then went into the ship's conference room. Captain Gunnar was sitting at the head of the table, typing on a laptop, the light from the computer screen illuminating his white beard. The only other light came from sunlight filtering through the portholes. Gates noticed a cable connecting the captain's laptop to his own sat phone, using it as a modem.
"I need to do that," he said. "I'm sick of filing SITREPS by text messages."
Gunnar chuckled.
"You have no idea how much paperwork this job involves, especially on a skeleton crew salvage like this," he said. "Speaking of which, my second flight of CIVMARs arrived. I've got Gerry getting them quartered, then they'll get to work on the anchor. Without propulsion, we'll have to let it drag until it catches, but it's the best we can do."
Gates nodded. "I saw the helo coming in when I was talking to the admiral."
"How is the admiral?"
"Not happy after hearing about those bombs," Gates said. "And the Navy is trying to horn in on our mission. Something about wanting to send their own team out to the Franklin. The admiral is pushing back hard on that."
"If I know Admiral Rickert, he'll win the pushing contest."
"I hope so," Gates said, his voice uncertain.
"Anyway, another helicopter is en route with the last of my crew," Gunnar said. "Then we can get some work done."
"Let me know if you need help from any of my people," Gates said.
"You've got enough headaches of your own to take care of, Doug," the merchant captain said. "Like making sure there's not another bomb on board. By the way, you handled that situation well. Bravo Zulu."
Bravo Zulu was the flag code abbreviation for "well done."
"Well, Jess Brown did the work," Gates said. "Guess I need to write him up for a commendation or something."
"I always thought a good bottle of whiskey was a better reward than a piece of colored ribbon."
"You may be right, captain."
"Any idea who planted the explosives?" Gunnar asked.
Gates rolled his stiff neck, then shook his head.
"I've been trying to figure that out," he said. "Down in the engine room, the senior chief speculated the explosives might be the reason the Franklin was abandoned. Perhaps like the crew of the Mary Celeste, the crew only meant to wait out the danger but got separated from the ship in a fog."
"That means a crew member placed the bombs," Gunnar said. "But why? An act of terrorism?"
"No," said Gates. "Terrorists prefer big audiences. Sinking a research ship at the remote top of the world wouldn't have the impact they seek from their acts. What about a disgruntled crewman?"
Gunnar set his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clenched hands. "Maybe, but everyone on that crew was a licensed U.S. mariner. After 9/11, everyone gets a thorough background check. Each of my people have a security clearance."
"Your people work for the Navy," Gates said. "Most civilian jobs in the military required security clearances. But the Franklin was operated by an oceanographic institute. I can see its crew members having background checks, but security clearances?"
"The crew wasn't Navy, Doug, but the ship is owned by the Navy. It was only leased to the institute. That's why a Navy MSC salvage crew was sent bring her back."
Gunnar sat back in his chair and crossed his arms.
"Here's something else to consider, Doug," he said. "Those bombs were placed on the servos of the propulsion pods, right?"
Gates nodded.
"How could someone place those bombs without being seen by the engineering watch?"
Gates pictured the layout of main engineering. Unless he was part of the engineering staff, the saboteur had to pass the control room and the engineer on watch, cross to the servos, and place the bombs—all the time exposed in a well-lit machinery space. Not easy to do.
"I see your point," Gates said. "Maybe he disabled the engineering watch?"
"Then trashed the main engines and destroyed the electrical switch boxes, and calmly joined the rest of the crew—including the disabled watch staff since we haven't found them—and abandoned the ship in the lifeboat?"
Gates lips pursed as he nodded.
"Too much for one man?"
"Unless you believe President Kennedy was killed by a lone gunman," Gunnar said.
"That's what the history books say," Gates said, smiling.
The overhead florescent lights flickered once, twice, then caught, filling the dim compartment with light.
"Now we're making headway," said Gunnar, looking up at the brilliant overhead.
"Gates to Hopper," Gates said into his mini-boom mic. "Well done, senior chief."
"Don't thank me yet, skipper," Hopper said. "The latest group of CIVMARs brought the spare parts we needed to fix the electrical boards, and Mr. Weil and I got one emergency generator going, but not the main diesel electrics. We got electricity but not enough to power the thrusters."
"Keep at it, senior," Gates said, adding with a wink toward Gunnar, "And give Mr. Weil my compliments."
"Aye, sir," the senior chief said.
Gates turned back to Gunnar.
"I don't suppose you subscribe to the UFO theory?" he said.
"That the crew was kidnapped by aliens?" Gunnar gave Gates a bemused shake of his head. "I've told you before, Doug, mysterious things happen at sea. But in this case, I'm sure if someone boarded the Franklin, they were terrestrial, not extraterrestrial."
"But boarded by who? Pirates?"
Gunnar shrugged.
"Pirates infest every ocean on earth," he said. "Now that the polar melt is allowing more commercial traffic to ply these waters, why wouldn't piracy follow?"
Gates pondered the possibility. Gunnar was right. Modern day piracy was rampant throughout the world. Merchant ships often carried professional, well-armed security teams to protect the ships. Repel boarder drills were held as often as firefighting drills. There was no reason piracy wouldn't raise its ugly head in Arctic waters as commercial traffic increased.
"The problem with that, captain, is pirates usually hold the crew of captured ships for ransom. Or they kill the crew and sell the cargo, even the ship itself, on the black market. They don't sink the ships they capture."
Gunnar raised his hands in a gesture of frustration, a grin stretching beneath his snowy beard.
"Then I guess we're left with UFOs."
Gates chuckled. He stood and stepped to a porthole and stared out across the drift ice. "Maybe."
Lieutenant Strange entered the conference room, out of breath from running up ladders and stairs.
"I've got the team minus Senior Chief Hopper searching for more bombs, commander," he said, "but it's been slow going without light."
"How much have you cleared?"
"I had them concentrate on the third deck first," Strange said. "That deck is below the waterline and most vulnerable to a breach. They're nearly finished there and haven't found anything unusual. Now we have lights, it should go faster."
"Good thinking, Leland. Sit down."
The lieutenant pulled out a chair an
d sat.
"I just got off the sat phone with the admiral," Gates said. "I'm curious about that Russian drilling platform." He glanced at Gunnar, who raised his eyebrows and formed his mouth into an O as he understood Gates' reasoning. "As close as they are, they may have seen something around the Franklin before she disappeared. I thought I'd take one of the work boats and visit them. I asked the admiral to work with the State Department to get permission."
Strange nodded in agreement.
"I should go with you, sir."
"Negative. You should stay here in charge of the team," Gates said. "I'll take the senior chief. He might like to get a look at the engineering in that rig."
"Sir, I spent a summer studying oceanography in Moscow," the lieutenant said. "I spent several weeks on a Russian arctic oil rig studying its impact on the surrounding sea life. I know my way around a rig. Plus, I speak fluent Russian—one of several languages I speak."
Gates looked at the young officer, then at Gunnar. The old man's mouth curled with a wry smile.
"Of course, you do, lieutenant," Gates said. "I suspect that had something to do with the admiral recruiting you." Strange nodded. "Very well. It'll be a day or two before we receive permission to visit. Soon as we do—if we do—we'll head out."
"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant.
☼
The third and final airlift of CIVMARS included a ship's cook, a middle-aged woman with blond hair streaked with gray who set to work inventorying the Franklin's supplies. Her name was Sandra but everyone called her Cookie. That night the Coast Guardsmen had their first real meal in two days. Each of them complimented Cookie, telling her that if MSC crews ate that well, then by god, they were joining the CIVMARS once they retired.
Restoration of electrical power restored the ship's Internet satellite connection, too. After dinner, Gates and Strange researched the Russian rig on their laptops.
Called the Vilanovsky, it was the newest in a class of Russian Arctic-hardened drilling platforms called Offshore Ice-Resistant Fixed Platforms, or ORIRFP. It was the sister platform to the Prirazolmnaya which operated in the Pechora Sea's Prirazlomnoye oil field. That rig had been plagued by controversy and protests from environmentalists when towed to sea several years earlier. Gazprom, the Russian oil company that owned the Prirazolmnaya, tried to allay fears with a massive public relations program, inviting journalists from around the world to visit the rig. It did little to allay the fears of environmentalists.
A different company, Aelsalon Energy, owned the Vilanovsky. Aelsalon was privately held, which, according to their research, meant the company was owned by undisclosed Russian political interests. Their research also showed the movement and placement of Vilanovsky was done in secret, with no publicity and no invitations for media tours.
"My bet is it will be a no-go for us, too," Gates said.
☼
Gates stood on the fantail of the Franklin, next to the giant A-crane. The CIVMARS had succeeded in deploying an anchor, and, with her bow turned into the sea, the Franklin rode much better. The ship rolled gently. Flowing water hissed softly as it rushed along its sides, joined now and then by the hollow thunk of drift ice banging against the hull.
In the dim light of the Arctic night, the Vilanovsky was a small star on the surface of the sea. It sat close to the maritime boundary between Russian and American waters, well outside the Arctic's normal oil fields. That struck Gates as strange, but since the polar melt every country with an Arctic border was exploring the sea bed for new mineral riches.
"Commander Gates?"
He turned at the voice and found a short, dark-skinned woman holding a coffee mug and insulated pitcher. She was Asian. Or was she Inuit? Gates wasn't sure. Her eyes were large and spaced wide apart. Both her nose and mouth small, but her smile displayed beautiful white teeth set against her reddish-brown complexion. Long, raven-black hair parted in the middle and made up in twin braids fell across each shoulder. She was young and quite pretty.
"My name is Panik Ublureak," she said with a slight accent Gates couldn't place. She laughed at the sound of her own name. "Everyone calls me Nikki. I am the ship's steward. Captain Gunnar thought you might need coffee."
Gates took the proffered cup.
"Thank you," he said. The ceramic mug warmed his hands and steam wafted from its contents. He blew on it, then took a sip. It was hot and strong. "I didn't see you come aboard with the others."
Nikki smiled. "I am small," she said, "among big people. It is easy to miss me."
"Are you from around here," Gates said, realizing how stupid that sounded. "I mean, are you Inuit?"
"My family goes way back," she said. "From here and there. We have been here for a long time."
"Well, thank you for the coffee," he said. "It's delicious."
"You are different than the others," she said. "You see things differently."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You have greater vision," she said. "Where I come, we say you see more than others."
Gates tensed.
"Did Captain Gunnar tell you that?"
"He only told me you are here to solve a mystery," Nikki said. "The mystery of how the people on this ship disappeared."
"Yes, that's true," Gates said, and he sipped more coffee.
"There are many stories of strange things in this area," she said.
"What kind of strange stories?"
Nikki pointed to the star-flecked sky. "They say sometimes the stars change. One will move. Another will fall from the sky. Sometimes, people disappear. Even entire villages."
"Well, there are meteors in the sky," Gates said, "and sometimes they fall to earth as meteorites. And there are satellites, too."
"But you know there is more than that," Nikki said. "More coffee?"
"No," Gates said, uneasy with the discussion. "Thank you."
Nikki smiled, dipped her head, and walked away.
Gates turned to the Vilanovsky again. His mug banged into the A-crane, spilling much of the coffee. Gates cursed, his hand burning from the hot liquid.
"Hey, Nikki." He turned to look for the girl, but she was gone. He trotted across the deck, looked up the starboard air castle, the open walkway that ran the length of the ship, then the port, seeing no one.
How did she disappear so fast?
Gates shrugged, took one last look at the Vilanovsky, then walked to his cabin.
Chapter 10
THE KAMOV KA-62 HELICOPTER flared its approach to the Vilanovsky, hovered outboard of the helo pad, side-slipped over it, and settled within the yellow safety circle. The twin-engine, single-rotor Kamov was painted burnt orange, typical of aircraft operating in the Arctic, save for a blue-and-red pinstripe stretching from the bottom of its nose to its multi-bladed rotor in the tail ring. As the whine of the dual turbines quieted, the fuselage door opened and a set of steps dropped into place.
Aleksandr Konstantin, chief executive officer of the Russian energy giant Aelsalon Energy, stepped from the Kamov. Konstantin was approaching seventy and heavy set. A heavy, fur ushaka covered his head. The collar of his parka matched the hat's fur, and he turned it up against the Arctic chill as he stooped beneath the still-revolving blades and hurried toward the two men waiting for him. Behind Konstantin, the two pilots emerged from the helicopter, carrying his luggage.
The men waiting for Konstantin were Sergey Novikov, the Vilanovsky's director of operations, and Pyotr Praskovya, chief of security. Praskovya, a tall, dark man with black, gray-flecked hair, stood to Novikov's right and a step or two behind the ops chief. This was in deference to the short, thin, and bespectacled man's position on the Vilanovsky, though the security chief knew full well he carried far more authority over operations than Novikov. Konstantin greeted Novikov first, grasping his hand and patting the director's shoulders, then turned to the security chief.
"Petya!" he cried, addressing Praskovya with the diminutive of his given name. He embraced the security man in a bear hug,
then held him at arm's length. "How long has it been, Petya?"
"Far, far too long, Aleks," Praskovya said. He took Konstantin by the shoulder and led him away from the helicopter platform. "Come, come. We must eat and drink. Afterward, we can brief you on our operations here."
The Vilanovsky, like its sister platform, was a veritable battleship among oil rigs. The platform was 126 square meters—more than 1,300 square feet—and displaced 117,000 tons without ballast. Ballasted, it weighed some 506,000 tons. The operations platform sat on a massive steel caisson designed to withstand the crushing force of Arctic ice. The caisson sat on the ocean floor, secured by its own weight. Its top section still rose many feet above the surface. Perched on the caisson was the intermediate deck, its dark orange walls rising bunker-like above the drift ice. The operations platform and accommodations module sat atop the intermediate deck. Above them stretched an enclosed drilling tower, looking more like a high-rise building than a derrick. Like the tower, all work areas aboard the Vilanovsky were protected against the elements.
Novikov and Praskovya led Konstantin into the enclosed drilling deck, and up a ladder to the accommodations module, which contained berthing for the crew, offices and laboratories, a conference room and canteen, and the platform's control center. Konstantin removed his parka and fur cap, and ran his hand through his thick, white hair. They settled in the conference room where they exchanged small talk while they lunched on hot cabbage soup and fried pirozhki pies filled with meat and sautéed onions, and washed down with vodka and Scotch.
A worker came in and cleared away the plates and glasses, then served spiced coffee.
"Gentlemen, thank you for a meal fit for a tsar," Konstantin said as the servers left. "But now, we must speak business. Sergey, how much progress have we made?"
The operations director's shoulders sagged.
"I am afraid I must report not much, sir," he mumbled. He wore narrow, black-rimmed reading glasses which he adjusted on his nose. "We are still having difficulties with the equipment."
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