Текст книги "Raise the Titanic"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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    "This wasn't the first time Admiral Sandecker called upon me for a dirty job outside my normal duties," Pitt said.

    "Before you flew Koplin to your ship, I take it you destroyed his sloop," Seagram said.

    "Rather cleverly, I think," Pitt replied. There was no inflection of conceit in his tone. "I bashed a hole in the hull, raised the sail, and sent her on her way. I should judge that she found a watery grave about three miles from shore."

    "You were far too confident," Seagram said testily. "You dared to meddle in something that didn't concern you. You taunted Russian vigilance by taking a grave risk without authority. And, you cold-bloodedly murdered a man and his animal. If we were all like you, Mr. Pitt, this would be a sorry nation indeed."

    Pitt rose and leaned across the table until he was eyeball to eyeball with Seagram. "You don't do me justice," he said, his eyes cold as glaciers. "You left out the best parts. It was I who gave your friend Koplin two pints of blood during his operation. It was I who ordered the ship to bypass Oslo and lay a course for the nearest U.S. military airfield. And it was I who talked the base commander out of his private transport plane for Koplin's flight back to the States. In conclusion, Mr. Seagram, bloodthirsty, mad-dog Pitt pleads guilty . . guilty of salvaging the broken pieces of your sneaky little spy mission in the Arctic. I didn't expect a ticker-tape parade down Broadway or a gold medal; a simple thank you would have done nicely. Instead, your mouth flows with a diarrheal discharge of rudeness and sarcasm. I don't know what your' fang-up is, Seagram, but one thing comes through loud and clear. You are a Grade-A asshole. And, as kindly as I can put it, you can go fuck yourself."

    With that, Pitt turned and walked into the shadows and was gone.

17

    Professor Peter Barshov pushed a leathery hand through his graying hair and pointed the stem of his meerschaum pipe across the desk at Prevlov.

    "No, no, let me assure you, Captain, that the man I sent to Novaya Zemlya is not subject to hallucinations."

    "But a mine tunnel . . ." Prevlov muttered incredulously. "An unknown, unrecorded mine tunnel on Russian soil? I wouldn't have thought it possible."

    "But nonetheless a fact," Barshov replied. "Indications of it first appeared on our aerial contour photos. According to my geologist, who gained entrance, the tunnel was very old, perhaps between seventy and eighty years."

    "Where did it come from?"

    "Not where, Captain. The question is who. Who excavated it and why?"

    "You say the Leongorod Institute of Geology has no record of it?" Prevlov asked.

    Barshov shook his head. "Not a word. However, you might find a trace of it in the old Okhrana files."

    "Okhrana . . . oh yes, the secret police of the czars." Prevlov paused a moment. "No, not likely. Their sole concern in those days was revolution. They wouldn't have bothered with a clandestine mining operation."

    "Clandestine? You can't be sure of that."

    Prevlov turned and gazed out the window. "Forgive me, Professor, but in my line of work, I attach Machiavellian motives to everything."

    Barshov removed the pipe from between his stained teeth and tamped its bowl. "I have often read of ghost mines in the Western Hemisphere, but this is the first such mystery I've heard of in the Soviet Union. It is almost as if this quaint phenomenon was a gift of the Americans."

    "Why do you say that?" Prevlov turned and faced Barshov again. "What have they got to do with it?"

    "Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. The equipment found inside the tunnel' was manufactured in the United States."

    "Hardly proof positive," Prevlov said skeptically. "The equipment could merely have been purchased from the Americans and used by other parties."

    Barshov smiled. "A valid assumption, Captain, except for the fact that the body of a man was discovered in the tunnel. I have it on reliable authority that his epitaph was written in the American vernacular."

    "Interesting," Prevlov said.

    "I apologize for not providing you with more in-depth data," Barshov said. "My remarks, you understand, are purely secondhand. You will have a detailed report on your desk in the morning concerning our findings at Novaya Zemyla, and my people will be at your disposal for any further investigation."

    "The Navy is grateful for your cooperation, Professor."

    "The Leongorod Institute is always at the service of our country." Barshov rose and gave a stiff bow. "If that is all for now, Captain, I will get back to my office."

    "There is one more thing, Professor."

    "Yes?"

    "You didn't mention whether your geologists found any trace of minerals?"

    'Nothing of value."

    Nothing at all?"

    Trace elements of nickel and zinc, plus slight radioactive indications of uranium, thorium, and byzanium."

    "I'm not familiar with the last two."

    "Thorium can be converted into nuclear fuel when bombarded by neutrons," Barshov explained. "It's also used in the manufacture of different magnesium alloys."

    "And byzanium?"

    "Very little is known about it. None has ever been discovered in enough quantity to conduct constructive experiments." Barshov tapped his pipe in an ashtray. "The French are the only ones who have shown interest in it over the years."

    Prevlov looked up. "The French?"

    "They have spent millions of francs sending geological expeditions around the world looking for it. To my knowledge, none of them was successful."

    "It would seem then that they know something our scientists do not."

    Barshov shrugged. "We do not lead the world in every scientific endeavor, Captain. If we did, we, and not the Americans, would be driving autos over the moon's surface."

    "Thank you again, Professor. I look forward to your final report."

18

    Four blocks from the Naval Department building, Lieutenant Pavel Marganin relaxed on a park bench, casually reading a book of poems. It was noontime and the grassy areas were crowded with office workers eating their lunch beneath the evenly spaced rows of trees. Every so often he looked up and cast an appraising eye on the occasional pretty girl who wandered by.

    At half past twelve, a fat man in a rumpled business suit sat down on the other end of the bench and began unwrapping a small roll of black bread and a cup of potato soup. He turned to Marganin and smiled broadly.

    "Will you share a bit of bread, sailor?" the stranger said jovially. He patted his paunch. "I have more than enough for two. My wife always insists on feeding me too much and keeping me fat so the young girls won't chase after me."

    Marganin shook his head no, and went back to his reading.

    The man shrugged and seemed to bite off a piece of the bread. He began chewing vigorously, but it was an act; his mouth was empty.

    "What have you got for me?" he murmured between jaw movements.

    Marganin stared into his book, raising it slightly to cover his lips. "Prevlov is having an affair with a woman who has black hair, shortly cropped, wears expensive, size six low-heeled shoes, and is partial to Chartreuse liqueur. She drives an American embassy car, license number USA-one-four-six."

    "Are you sure of your facts?"

    "I don't create fiction," Marganin muttered while nonchalantly turning a page. "I suggest you act on my information immediately. It may be the wedge we have been looking for."

    "I will have her identified before sunset." The stranger began slurping his soup noisily. "Anything else?"

    "I need data on the Sicilian Project."

    "I never heard of it."

    Marganin lowered the book and rubbed his eyes, keeping a hand in front of his lips. "It's a defense project connected somehow with the National Underwater and Marine Agency."

    "They may prove fussy about leaks on defense projects."

    "Tell them not to worry. It will be handled discreetly."

    "Six days from now. The men's toilet of the Borodino Restaurant. Six-forty in the evening." Marganin closed his book and stretched.

    The stranger slurped another spoonful of soup in acknowledgment and totally ignored Marganin, who rose and strolled off in the direction of the Soviet Naval Building.

19

    The President's secretary smiled courteously and got up from behind his desk. He was tall and young, and had a friendly, eager face.

    "Mrs. Seagram, of course. Please step this way."

    He led Dana to the White House elevator and stood aside for her to enter. She put on a show of indifference, staring straight ahead. If he knew or suspected anything, he'd be mentally stripping her to the skin. She sneaked a quick glance at the secretary's face; his eyes remained inscrutably locked on the blinking floorlights.

    The doors opened and she followed him down the hall and into one of the third-floor bedrooms.

    "There it is on the mantel," the secretary said. "We found it in the basement in an unmarked crate. A beautiful piece of work. The President insisted we bring it up where it can be admired."

    Dana's eyes narrowed as she found herself looking at the model of a sailing ship that rested in a glass case above the fireplace.

    "He was hoping you might be able to shed some light on its history," the secretary continued. "As you can see, there is no indication of a name either on the hull or the dust case."

    She moved uncertainly toward the fireplace for a closer look. She was confused; this was hardly what she had expected. Over the telephone earlier that morning, the secretary had simply said, "The President wonders if it would be convenient for you to drop by the White House about two o'clock?" A strange sensation passed through her body. She wasn't sure if it was a feeling of letdown or relief.

    "Early-eighteenth-century merchantman by the look of her," she said. "I'd have to make some sketches and compare them with old records, in the Naval Archives."

    "Admiral Sandecker said if anybody could identify her, you could."

    "Admiral Sandecker?"

    "Yes, it was he who recommended you to the President." The secretary, moved toward the doorway. "There is a pad and pencil on the nightstand beside the bed. I have to get back to my desk. Please feel free to take as much time as you need."

    "But won't the President? . . ."

    "He's playing golf this afternoon. You won't be bothered. Just take the elevator down to the main floor when you're finished." Then, before Dana could reply, the secretary turned and left.

    Dana sat heavily on the bed and sighed. She had rushed home after the phone call, taken a perfumed bath, and carefully donned a girlish, virginal white dress over black lingerie. And it had all been for nothing. The President didn't want sex; he simply wanted her to put the make on some damned old ship's model.

    Utterly defeated, she went into the bathroom and checked her face. When she came out, the bedroom door was closed and the President was standing by the fireplace, looking tanned and youthful in a polo shirt and slacks.

    Dana's eyes flew wide. For a moment she couldn't think of anything to say. "You're supposed to be golfing," she finally said stupidly.

    "That's what it says in my appointment book."

    "Then this model ship business . . ."

    "The brig Roanoke out of Virginia," he said, nodding at the model. "Her keel was laid in 1728, and she went on the rocks off Nova Scotia in 1743. My father built the model from scratch about forty years ago."

    "You went to all this trouble just to get me alone?" she said dazedly.

    "That's obvious, isn't it?"

    She stared at him. He met her eyes steadily and she blushed.

    "You see," he went on, "I wanted to have a little informal chat, just the two of us, without interference or interruption from the hassles of my office."

    The room reeled about her. "You . . . you just want to talk?"

    He looked at her curiously for a moment and then he began to chuckle. "You flatter me, Mrs. Seagram. It was never my intent to seduce you. I fear my reputation as a ladies' man is somewhat exaggerated."

    "But at the party-"

    "I think I understand." He took her by the hand and led her to a chair. "When I whispered, 'I must meet you alone,' you took it as a proposition from a lecherous old man. Forgive me, that was not my intent."

    Dana sighed. "I wondered what a man who could have any one of a hundred million women just by snapping his fingers could possibly see in a drab, married, thirty-one year old marine archaeologist."

    "You don't do yourself justice," he said, suddenly serious. "You are really quite lovely."

    Again she found herself blushing. "No man has made a pass at me in years."

    "Perhaps it is because most honorable men do not make passes at married women."

    "I'd like to think so."

    He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her. She sat primly, her knees pressed together, hands in lap. The question, when it came, caught her totally unprepared.

    "Tell me, Mrs. Seagram, are you still in love with him?"

    She stared at him, incomprehension written in her eyes. "Who?"

    "Your husband, of course."

    "Gene?"

    "Yes, Gene," he said, smiling. "Unless you have another spouse hidden away somewhere."

    "Why must you ask that?" she said.

    "Gene is cracking at the seams."

    Dana looked puzzled. "He works hard, but I can't believe he is on the verge of a mental breakdown."

    "Not in the strict clinical sense, no." The President's expression was grim. "He is, however, under enormous pressure. If he is faced with serious marital problems on top of his workload, he might fall over the brink. I cannot allow that to happen, not yet, not until he completes a highly secret project that is vital to the nation."

    "It's that very damned secret project that's come between us," she burst out angrily.

    "That and a few other problems-such as your refusal to bear children."

    She looked at him thunderstruck. "How could you possibly know all this?"

    "The usual methods. It makes no difference how. What matters is that you stick with Gene for the next sixteen months and give him all the tender loving care you can find in your soul to give."

    Nervously, she folded and unfolded her hands. "It's that important?" she asked in a faint voice.

    "It's that important," he said. "Will you help me?"

    She nodded silently.

    "Good." He patted her hands. "Between us, maybe we can keep Gene on the track."

    "I'll try, Mr. President. If it means so much, I'll try. I can promise no more."

    "I have complete confidence in you."

    "But I draw the line at having a baby," she said defiantly.

    He grinned the famous grin so often captured by photographers. "I can order a war, and I can order men to die, but not even the President of the United States has the power to order a woman to become pregnant."

    For the first time, she laughed. It seemed so strange, talking intimately with a man who wielded such incredible power. Power was indeed an aphrodisiac and she began to feel the bitter disappointment of not being taken to bed.

    The President rose and took her arm. "I must go now. I have a meeting with my economic advisers in a few minutes." He began guiding her toward the door. Then he stopped and drew her face to his and she felt the firmness of his lips. When he let her go, he looked into her eyes and said, "You are a very desirable woman, Mrs. Seagram. Don't you forget that."

    He escorted her to the elevator.

20

    Dana was waiting on the concourse when Seagram departed his plane.

    "What gives?" He eyed her questioningly. "You haven't met me at the airport in ages."

    "An overwhelming impulse of affection." She smiled.

    He claimed his luggage and they walked to the parking lot. She held his arm tightly. The afternoon seemed a faraway dream now. She had to keep reminding herself that another man had found her alluring and had actually kissed her.

    She took the wheel and drove onto the highway. The last of the rush-hour traffic had faded away, and she made good time through the Virginia countryside.

    "Do you know Dirk Pitt?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Yes, he's Admiral Sandecker's special projects director. Why?"

    "I'm going to burn the bastard's ass," he said.

    She glanced at him in astonishment. "What's your connection with him?"

    "He screwed up an important part of the project."

    Her hands tightened on the wheel. "You'll find him a tough ass to burn," she said.

    "Why do you say that?"

    "He's considered a legend around NUMA. His list of achievements since he joined the agency is second only to his outstanding war record."

    "So?"

    "So, he's Admiral Sandecker's fair-haired boy."

    "You forget, I carry more weight with the President than Admiral Sandecker."

    "More weight than Senator George Pitt of California?" she said flatly.

    He turned and looked at her. "They're related?"

    "Father and son."

    He slouched in a morose silence for the next several miles.

    Dana put her right hand on his knee. When she stopped at a red light, she leaned over and kissed him.

    "What was that for?"

    "That's a bribe."

    "How much is it going to cost me?" he grumbled.

    "I have this great idea," she announced. "Why don't we take in that new Brando film, and afterward we can have a scrumptious lobster dinner at the Old Potomac Inn, then go home, turn out the lights and-"

    "Take me to the office," he said. "I have work to do."

    "Please, Gene, don't push yourself," she pleaded. "There's time for your work tomorrow."

    "No, now!" he said.

    The chasm between them was uncrossable, and from now on, things would never be the same again.

21

    Seagram looked down at the metal attaché case on his desk, then up at the colonel and the captain who were standing across from him. "There's no mistake on this?"

    The colonel shook his head. "Researched and verified by the Director of Defense Archives, sir."

    "That was fast work. Thank you."

    The colonel made no attempt to leave. "Sorry, sir, I am to wait and return to the Department of Defense with the file on my person."

    "By whose orders?"

    "The Secretary," the colonel answered. "Defense Department policy dictates that all material classified as Code Five Confidential must be kept under surveillance at all times."

    "I understand," Seagram said. "May I study the file alone?"

    "Yes, sir. My aide and I will wait outside, but I must respectfully request that no one be allowed to enter or leave your office while the file is in your possession."

    Seagram nodded. "All right, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable. My secretary will be at your service for coffee and refreshments."

    "Thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Seagram."

    "And, one more thing," Seagram said, and smiled faintly. "I have my own private bathroom, so don't expect to see me for a while."

    Seagram sat motionless for several moments after the door closed. The final vindication of five years work lay before his eyes. Or did it? Maybe the documents within the case would only lead to another mystery, or, worse yet, a dead end. He inserted the key into the case and opened it. Inside there were four folders and a small notebook. The labels on the folders read:

CD5C 7665 1911  Report on the scientific and monetary value of the rare element byzanium.

CD5C 7687 1911  Correspondence between Secretary of War and Joshua Hays Brewster examining the possible acquirement of byzanium.

CD5C 7720 1911  Memorandum by Secretary of War to the President regarding funds for Secret Army Plan 371-990-R85.

CD5C 8039 1912  Report of closed investigation into the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of Joshua Hays Brewster.

    The notebook was simply entitled "Journal of Joshua Hays Brewster."

    Logic dictated that Seagram study the folders first, but logic was set aside as he settled back in his chair and opened the journal.

    Four hours later, he stacked the book neatly on top of the folders and pushed a button on the side of his intercom. Almost immediately a recessed panel in a side wall swung open and a man in a white technician's coat entered.

    "How soon can you copy all this?"

    The technician thumbed through the book and peeked in the folders. "Give me forty-five minutes."

    Seagram nodded. "Okay, get right on it. There's someone in my outer office who's waiting for the originals."

    After the panel closed, Seagram pushed himself wearily from his chair and staggered into the bathroom. He closed the door and leaned against it, his face twisted in a grotesque mask.

    "Oh God, no," he moaned. "It's not fair, it's not fair."

    The he leaned over the sink and vomited.

22

    The President shook hands with Seagram and Donner in the doorway of his study at Camp David.

    "Sorry to ask you up here at seven in the morning, but it's he only time I could squeeze you in."

    "No problem, Mr. President," said Donner. "I'm usually out jogging about this time anyway."

    The President stared at Donner's rotund frame with mused eyes. "Who knows? I may have saved you from a coronary." He laughed at Donner's woeful expression and motioned them into the study. "Come, come, sit down and make yourselves at home. I've ordered a light breakfast."

    They grouped themselves about on a sofa and chair in front of a spacious picture window overlooking the Maryland hills. Coffee came with a tray of sweet rolls and the President passed them around.

    "Well, Gene, I hope the news is good for a change. The Sicilian Project is our only hope of stopping this crazy arms race with the Russians and Chinese." The President rubbed his eyes wearily. "It has to be the greatest display of stupidity since the dawn of man, particularly when you consider the tragic and absurd fact that we can each blow the other's country to ashes at least five times over." He gestured helplessly. "So much for the sad facts of life. Suppose you tell me where we stand."

    Seagram looked bleary-eyed across the coffee table, holding the copy of the Defense Archive file. "You are, of course, Mr. President, aware of our progress to date."

    "Yes, I've studied the reports of your investigation."

    Seagram handed the President a copy of Brewster's journal. "I think you'll find this an absorbing account of early-twentieth-century intrigue and human suffering. The first entry is dated July 8, 1910, and opens with Joshua Hays Brewster's departure from the Taimyr mountains near the north coast of Siberia. There, he spent nine months opening a lead mine under contract with his employer, the Societe des Mines de Lorraine, for the czar of Russia. He then goes on to tell how his ship, a small coastal steamer bound for Archangel, became lost in fog and ran aground on the upper island of Novaya Zemlya. Fortunately, the ship held together and the survivors managed to exist within its freezing steel hull until they were rescued by a Russian naval frigate nearly a month later. It was during this sojourn that Brewster spent his time prospecting the island. Sometime during the eighteenth day, he stumbled on an outcropping of strange rock on the slopes of Bednaya Mountain. He had never seen that type of composition before, so he took several samples back with him to the United States, finally reaching New York sixty-two days after he left the Taimyr Mine."

    "So now we know how the byzanium was discovered," the President said.

    Seagram nodded and continued. "Brewster turned all his samples over to his employer save one; that he kept purely as a souvenir. Some months later, having heard nothing, he asked the United States director of the Societe des Mines de Lorraine what had become of his Bednaya Mountain ore samples. He was told they had assayed out as worthless and had been thrown away. Suspicious, Brewster took the remaining sample to the Bureau of Mines in Washington for analysis. He was astounded when he learned it was byzanium, hitherto a virtually unknown element, seen only rarely through a high-powered microscope."

    "Had Brewster informed the Societe as to the location of the byzanium outcropping?" the President asked.

    "No, he played it shrewd and merely gave them vague directions to the site. In fact, he even suggested that it lay on the lower island of Novaya Zemlya, many miles to the south."

    "Why the subterfuge?"

    "A common tactic among prospectors," Donner answered. "By withholding the exact location of a promising find, the discoverer can negotiate a higher percentage of the profits against the day the mine becomes operational."

    "Makes sense," the President murmured. "But what cited the French to secrecy back in 1910? What could they possibly have seen in byzanium that no one else saw for the next seventy years?"

    "Its similarity to radium, for one thing," Seagram said. The Societe des Mines passed Brewster's samples on to the Radium Institute in Paris, where their scientists found that certain properties of byzanium and radium were identical."

    "And since it cost fifty thousand dollars to process one gram of radium," Donner added, "the French government suddenly saw a chance to corner the world's only known supply of a fantastically expensive element. Given enough time, they could have realized hundreds of millions of dollars on a few pounds of byzanium."

    The President shook his head in disbelief. "My God, if I remember my weights and measures correctly, there are about twenty-eight grams to the ounce."

    "That's right, sir. One ounce of byzanium was worth one million four hundred thousand dollars. And that's at 1910 prices."

    The President slowly stood up and gazed out the window. "What was Brewster's next move?"

    "He turned over his information to the War Department." Seagram pulled out the folder on the funds for Secret Army Plan 371-990-R85 and opened it. "If they knew the full story, the boys over at CIA would be proud of their ancestor organization. Once the generals of the old Army Intelligence Bureau saw what Brewster was onto, they dreamed up the grandest double-cross of the century. Brewster was ordered to inform the Societe des Mines that he had identified the ore samples and bluff them into thinking he was going to form a mining syndicate and go after the byzanium on his own. He had the Frenchies by the balls, and they knew it. By this time, they'd figured that his directions to the outcropping were off the mark. No Brewster, no byzanium. It was that simple. They had no choice but to sign him on as chief engineer for a piece of the profits."

    "Why couldn't our own government have backed a mining operation?" the President asked. "Why let the French into the picture?"

    "Two reasons," Seagram replied. "First, since the byzanium was on foreign soil, the mine would have to be operated in secret. If the miners were caught by the Russians, the French government would get the blame, not the Americans. Second, the Congress in those days penny pinched the Army to death. There were simply not enough funds to include a mining venture in the Arctic, regardless of the potential profit."

    "It would seem the French were playing against a stacked deck."

    "It was a two-way street, Mr. President. There was no doubt in Brewster's mind that once he opened the Bednaya Mountain Mine and began shipping the ore, he and his crew of men would be murdered by paid assassins of the Societe des Mines de Lorraine. That was obvious from the Society's fanatical insistence on secrecy. And one other little matter. It was the French and not Brewster who masterminded the Little Angel Mine tragedy."

    "You have to give them credit for playing a good game," said Donner. "The Little Angel hoax was the perfect cover for eventually killing off Brewster and his entire crew. After all, how could anyone be accused of murdering nine men in the Arctic when it was a matter of public record that they had all died six months earlier in a Colorado mining accident?"

    Seagram continued, "We're reasonably certain that the Societe des Mines spirited our heroes to New York in a private railroad car. From there, they probably took passage on a French ship under assumed names."

    "One question I wish you'd clear up," the President said. "In reading over your report, Donner here stated that the mining equipment found at Novaya Zemlya was ordered through the U.S. government. That piece doesn't fit."

    "Again, a cover story by the French," Seagram replied.

    "The Jensen and Thor files also showed that the drilling equipment was paid for by a check drawn on a Washington, D.C., bank. The account, as it turns out, was under the name of the French ambassador. It was simply one more ruse to cloud the true operation."

    "They didn't miss a trick, did they?"

    Seagram nodded. "They planned well, but, for all their insight, they had no idea they were being led down the garden path."

    "After Paris, then what?" the President persisted.

    "The Coloradans spent two weeks at the Societe office, ordering supplies and making final preparations for the dig. When at last all was in readiness, they boarded a French naval transport in Le Havre and slipped into the English Channel. It took twelve days for the ship to pick its way through the Barents Sea ice floes before it finally anchored off Novaya Zemlya. After the men and equipment were safely ashore, Brewster shifted the Secret Army Plan into first gear and ordered the captain of the supply ship not to return for the ore until the first week in June, nearly seven months away."

    "The plan being that the Coloradans and the byzanium would be long gone by the time the Societe des Mines ship returned."

    "Exactly. They beat the deadline by two months. It took only five months for the gang to pry the precious element from the bowels of that icy hell. It was body-breaking work, drilling, blasting, and digging through solid granite while stabbed by fifty-degree-below-zero temperatures. Never, during the long winter months high along the Continental Divide of the Rockies, had they ever experienced anything like the frigid winds that howled down across the sea from the great polar ice cap to the north; winds that paused only long enough to deposit the terrible cold and replenish Bednaya Mountain's permanent ice sheet before sweeping on toward the Russian coast just over the horizon to the south. It took a frightful toll on the men. Jake Hobart died from exposure when he became lost in a snowstorm, and the others all suffered terribly from fatigue and frostbite. In Brewster's own words, `it was a frozen purgatory, not fit to waste good spit on."'