Текст книги "Arctic Drift"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

Pitt’s eyes sparkled with optimism. “It just so happens that I have a vessel in the neighborhood and the man in place to find the way,” he said with a confident grin.

Perlmutter located a dusty bottle of vintage port wine and poured small glasses all around.

“Godspeed to you, my boy,” he toasted. “May you shed some light on the darkened Erebus.”

After thanking Perlmutter for the meal and receiving a promise from the marine historian that he would provide copies of any materials he had on the ship’s likely position, Loren and Pitt stepped out of the carriage house and returned to the car. Climbing into the car, Loren was unusually quiet. Her sixth sense had kicked in, warning of an unseen danger. She knew she couldn’t stand in the way of Pitt pursuing a lost mystery, but it was always hard for her to let him go.

“The Arctic is a dangerous place,” she finally said in a low voice. “I’ll worry about you up there.”

“I’ll be sure to pack my long underwear and stay well clear of icebergs,” he said with cheery comfort.

“I know this is important, but, still, I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Pitt smiled in reassurance, but in his eye there was a distant and determined look. Loren took one look at her husband and knew that he was already there.

42

Mitchell Goyette was sitting on the fan-tail of his yacht reviewing an earnings report when his private secretary appeared with a secure portable phone.

“Natural Resources Minister Jameson is on the line,” the winsome brunette said as she handed him the phone.

Goyette gave her a smug leer, then picked up the receiver.

“Arthur, good of you to call. Tell me, how are you coming along with my Arctic exploration licenses?”

“It is the purpose of my call. I received the maps of your desired Arctic resource exploration zones. The requested regions encompass over twelve million acres, I was rather shocked to find. Quite unprecedented, I must say.”

“Yes, well, there are riches to be had. First things first, however. Where are we on those mining claims for the Royal Geographical Society Islands?”

“As you know, a portion of the islands’ exploration and production rights are held by the Mid-America Mining Company. My office has drafted up a revocation of their license for due cause. If they fail to meet production output quotas in the next three months, then we can rescind their license. If this political crisis with the U.S. heats up, then we may be able to act sooner.”

“I think we can be assured that they won’t meet their summer quota,” Goyette said slyly.

“The rescission can be accelerated if signed by the Prime Minister. Is that a course you wish to pursue?”

“Prime Minister Barrett will be no impediment,” Goyette laughed. “You might say he is something of a silent partner in the venture.”

“He’s publicly promoted a policy of Arctic wilderness protectionism,” Jameson reminded him.

“He will sign anything I want him to. Now, what about my other license request?”

“My staff has found just a small portion of the Melville Sound area currently under license. Apparently, you’ve beaten most everyone to the mark.”

“Yes, because a large part of the area has been inaccessible. With the warming temperatures and my fleet of icebreakers and barges, I’ll be able to exploit those regions before anyone else can get their foot in the door. With your aid, of course,” he added acidly.

“I’ll be able to assist with your Arctic marine exploration licenses, but a portion of the terrestrial areas will have to be approved by the Indian and Native Affairs Division.”

“Is the head of the division appointed by the Prime Minister? ”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Goyette laughed again. “Then there will be no problem. How long before I can lock up the marine sites?”

“It is a significant amount of territory to review and approve,” Jameson said with hesitation.

“Don’t you worry, Minister. A fat wire transfer will be headed your way shortly, and another one once the licenses are issued. I never forget to pay those who assist me in my business ventures.”

“Very well. I’ll try to have the documents completed within the next few weeks.”

“That’s my boy. You know where to find me,” Goyette said, then hung up the phone.

In his office in Ottawa, Jameson hung up the phone and looked across his desk. The commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police turned off a recording device, then hung up the second handset on which he had been listening in.

“My God, he has indicted the Prime Minister as well,” the commissioner muttered, shaking his head.

“Deep pockets easily corrupt,” Jameson said. “You will have my immunity agreement by tomorrow?”

“Yes,” the commissioner replied, visibly shaken. “You agree to turn state’s evidence and there will be no criminal charges filed against you. You will, of course, be expected to resign your post immediately. I’m afraid your career in public service will effectively be over.”

“I can accept that fate,” Jameson replied with a sullen look. “It will be preferable to continuing as an indentured servant to that greedy swine.”

“Can you live with taking down the Prime Minister as well?”

“If Prime Minister Barrett is in Goyette’s pocket, then he deserves no less.”

The commissioner rose from his chair and packed the listening device and a notepad into an attaché case.

“Don’t look so distraught, Commissioner,” Jameson said, observing his troubled expression. “Once the truth about Goyette is revealed, you’ll be a national hero for putting him away. In fact, you would make a good law-and-order candidate for the Prime Minister’s replacement.”

“My aspirations don’t run that high. I’m just dreading the havoc a billionaire will wreak on the criminal justice system.”

As he stepped toward the door, Jameson called out to him once more.

“Right will win out eventually.”

The commissioner kept on walking, knowing it wasn’t always the case.

43

The exposed portion of Trevor’s boat was still smoldering when a lift barge borrowed from the aluminum smelter moored alongside and hoisted the wrecked vessel aboard. Chugging to a nearby boatyard, the barge deposited the waterlogged hulk onto a cement pad, where it would await investigation by the police and an insurance claims adjuster. His cuts bandaged and his report to the police completed, Trevor poked through the charred hull, then made his way back over to the NUMA research boat. Dirk waved him aboard, inquiring about the police response.

“The chief isn’t ready to concede that it was a planted explosion until his arson investigator can have a look,” Trevor said.

“Boats just don’t blow up, certainly not in that fashion,” Dirk replied.

“He asked if I had any suspicions, but I told him no.”

“You don’t think he can help?” Summer asked.

“Not yet. There’s just not enough evidence to be able to point fingers.”

“We all know someone from the sequestration plant is behind it.”

“Then we need to find out what the mystery is all about,” Trevor replied. He looked at Dirk and Summer steadfastly. “I know you’re short on time, but can you still oblige me with a search off Gil Island before you have to leave?”

“Our boat is loaded, and we’re more than ready,” Dirk replied. “Man the lines and we’ll be on our way.”

The ride down Douglas Channel was made in relative silence, with each wondering what sort of danger they had stumbled into. As they passed the sequestration facility, Dirk took note that the LNG tanker had departed the covered dock. He nudged the throttle to its stops, anxious to get on-site and see what lay beneath the waters off Gil Island.

They were nearly to the sound when Summer stood and pointed out the windshield. The black LNG tanker loomed up around the next bend, steaming slowly down the channel.

“Look how low she’s sitting,” Dirk said, noting that the tanker rode near her waterline.

“You were right, Summer,” Trevor said. “She was in fact taking on liquid CO ₂at the plant. It doesn’t make any sense.”

The NUMA vessel charged past the tanker, quickly reaching the open strait. Dirk steered to the southern end of the strait, stopping the boat when he was even with the tip of Gil Island. He moved to the stern and lowered a sonar fish over the rail while Summer programmed a search grid into the navigation system. Within a few minutes they were under way again, moving back and forth across the strait, with the sonar fish tailing behind.

The sonar images revealed a steep and rocky bottom, which dropped from a fifty-foot depth near the shoreline to over two hundred feet in the center of the strait. Dirk had to play yo-yo with the sonar cable, raising and lowering the fish to match the changing depths.

Their first hour of searching revealed little of interest, simply a uniform sea bottom littered with rocks and an occasional sunken log. Trevor quickly grew bored watching the repetitive sonar image and turned his attention to the LNG tanker. The big ship had finally lumbered into the strait, cruising to the north of them at a snail’s pace. It eventually inched around the northern tip of Gil Island and disappeared from sight.

“I’d love to know where she’s headed,” Trevor said.

“When we get back to Seattle, I’ll see if our agency resources can find out,” Summer said.

“I’d hate to think she’s dumping that CO ₂at sea.”

“I can’t imagine that would be the case,” she replied. “It would be too dangerous for the crew if the winds shifted.”

“I suppose you’re right. Still, something just doesn’t add up.”

They were interrupted by Dirk’s voice from the cabin.

“Got something.”

Summer and Trevor poked their heads in and gazed at the sonar monitor. The screen showed a thin spindly line on the seafloor that ran off to the side.

“Might be a pipe,” Dirk said. “Definitely appears man-made. We should pick up more on the next lane.”

They had to wait ten minutes, turning in front of the island and heading back into the strait on the next lane before they spotted it again. The thin line angled across the monitor, running in a northwesterly direction.

“Looks too big to be a communications line,” Summer said, studying the monitor.

“Hard to figure what would be out here,” Trevor remarked. “Outside of a few primitive hunting-and-fishing cabins, Gil Island is uninhabited.”

“Has to lead somewhere,” Dirk said. “As long as it’s not buried, we’ll be able to find out where.”

They continued sweeping through the grid, but rather than solve the underwater mystery they only added to it. A second line soon appeared, and then a third, all aligned in a converging angle to the north. Working their way through several more search lanes, they reached the conjunction. Like a giant seven-fingered hand lying on the bottom, the sonar revealed four additional lines that joined the others in a mass convergence. Piecing the images together, they could see that the lines all fanned out for approximately fifty yards, then ended abruptly. A single, heavier line extended north from the conjunction, running parallel to the shoreline. The sonar was able to track it for a short distance before it suddenly disappeared into the sediment close to shore. When they reached the end of the search grid, Dirk stopped the motor, then pulled in the sonar fish with Trevor’s assistance.

“It’s nearly seven,” Summer said. “We need to head back within the hour if we want to avoid running up the channel in the dark.”

“Plenty of time for a quick dive,” Dirk replied. “Might be our only chance.”

There was no argument from the others. Dirk slipped into a dry suit as Summer repositioned the boat over a marked spot where the seven lines had converged.

“Depth is ninety-five feet,” she said. “Be aware there is a large vessel on the radar headed our way, about fifteen miles to the north.” She turned to Trevor and asked, “I thought you said there’s no midweek cruise line traffic through here?”

Trevor gave her a confused look. “That has been my experience. They follow the schedules pretty tight. Must be a wayward freighter.”

Dirk poked his head in and eyed the radar screen. “I’ll have time for a good look before she gets too close.”

Summer turned the boat into the current while Trevor tossed an anchor off the bow and secured their position. Dirk adjusted his tank and weight belt, then stepped over the side.

He hit the water at nearly slack tide and was relieved to find the current minimal. Swimming toward the boat’s bow, he wrapped his fingers around the anchor line, then kicked to the bottom.

The cold green water gradually swallowed the surface light, forcing him to flick on a small headlamp strapped over his hood. A brown stony bottom dotted with urchins and starfish materialized out of the gloom, and he confirmed the depth at ninety-three feet as he adjusted his buoyancy. He let go of the anchor line and swam a wide circle around it until he found the object observed by the sonar.

It was a dark metal pipe that stretched across the seafloor, running beyond his field of vision. The pipe was about six inches in diameter, and Dirk could tell it had been placed on the bottom recently, as there was no growth or encrustation evident on its smooth surface. He kicked back to the anchor and dragged it over the pipe, resetting it in some adjacent rocks. He then followed the pipe down a gradual slope into deeper water until he found its open end twenty yards later. A small crater had been blasted into the seafloor around the opening, and Dirk noted a complete absence of marine life in the surrounding area.

He followed the pipe in the other direction, swimming into shallower water, until meeting the conjunction. It was actually three joints welded in tandem that fed six lines fanning to either side, plus one line out the end. A thicker, ten-inch pipe fed into the conjunction, trailing back toward Gil Island. Dirk followed the main pipe for several hundred feet until a ninety-degree joint sent it running north at a depth of thirty feet. Tracking it farther, he found it partially buried in a slit trench that had obscured its view from the sonar. He followed the pipe for several more minutes before deciding to give up the chase and turn back, his air supply starting to dwindle. He’d just reversed course when he suddenly detected a rumble under the surface. It was a deep sound, but in the water he could not tell which direction it came from. Following along the pipe, he noticed that sand started to fall away from its sides. He placed a gloved hand on the pipe and felt a strong vibration rattling down its length. With a sudden apprehension, he began kicking urgently toward the junction.

On the deck of the boat, Summer looked at her watch, noting that Dirk had been underwater nearly thirty minutes. She turned to Trevor, who sat on the rail watching her with an admiring gaze.

“I wish we could stay here longer,” she said, reading his mind.

“Me, too. I’ve been thinking. I’ll have to travel to Vancouver to file my report on the boat and see about getting a replacement. It might take me a few days, longer if I can milk it,” he added with a grin. “Any chance I can come see you in Seattle?”

“I’ll be angry if you don’t,” she replied with a smile. “It’s only a three-hour train ride away.”

Trevor started to reply when he noticed something in the water over Summer’s shoulder. It was a rising surge of bubbles about twenty yards from the boat. He stood to take a better look when Summer pointed to another mass of bubbles a short distance off the bow. In unison, they scanned the surrounding water, spotting a half dozen eruptions at various spots around the boat.

The rising bubbles expanded into a boiling tempest that began emitting white puffs of vapor. The vapor built rapidly, as billowing clouds of white mist emerged from the depths and expanded across the surface. Within seconds, the growing clouds had formed a circular wall around the boat, trapping Summer and Trevor in its center. As the vapor drew closer, Trevor said with alarm:

“It’s the Devil’s Breath.”

44

Thrusting his legs in a powerful scissors kick, Dirk skimmed rapidly along the main pipe. Though the visibility was too poor to see it, he could sense a nearby turbulence in the water and knew there something dangerous about the pipe’s emissions. The image of the Venturaand its dead crew flashed though his mind. Thinking of Summer and Trevor on the surface, he kicked his fins harder, ignoring the growing protest from his lungs.

He reached the pipe junction and immediately veered to his left, following the smaller pipe where he had first dropped down. He could now hear the turbulent rush of bubbles in the water from the high-pressure discharge. Chasing down the pipe, he finally caught sight of the anchor line ahead of him. He immediately shot toward the surface, angling toward the anchor line until joining it just below the boat’s bow.

When his head broke the surface, he felt like he was in a London fog. A thick white mist billowed low over the water. Keeping his face down, he swam along the hull to the stern, then stepped up a dive ladder Summer had dropped over the rail. He rose up on the lower rung just enough to peer over the transom. The white clouds of vapor floated across the deck, nearly obscuring the pilothouse just a few feet away.

Dirk pulled his regulator out of his mouth long enough to yell for Summer. An acrid taste immediately filled his mouth and he shoved the regulator back in and took a breath from his air tank. He stood and listened for several seconds, then stepped off the ladder and dropped into the water, his heart skipping a beat.

There had been no reply, he realized, because the boat was empty.

* * *

Two hundred yards to the west and ten feet under the water, Trevor thought he was going to die. He couldn’t believe how quickly the frigid water had sapped his strength and energy, and nearly his will to live. If not for the radiant pearl gray eyes of Summer visibly imploring him on, he might have given up altogether.

They were breathtaking eyes, he had to admit, as she shoved the regulator into his mouth for a breath of air. Those eyes, they almost provided warmth by themselves. He took a deep breath of air and passed the regulator back, realizing his mind was slipping. He tried to refocus on his tiring legs and kicked harder, reminding himself that they had to make it to shore.

It had been a snap decision, and the only one that would save their lives. With the expanding cloud of carbon dioxide gas completely surrounding them, they had to turn to the water. Summer considered cutting the anchor and making a frantic run through the vapor, but if there was any delay in starting the engine and fleeing they would die. Plus, there was Dirk’s life to consider. If he happened to surface under the stern as they got under way, he could be cut to ribbons. He might have little chance of surviving as it was, but there was always hope he could outswim the gas with his remaining air.

“We’ve got to get into the water,” she yelled as the gas erupted. Trevor saw her step toward a fully rigged dive tank on the side rail.

“Get into your dry suit. I’ll grab the tank,” he directed.

With less than a minute before the boat was engulfed by vapor, Summer jumped into her dry suit and grabbed a mask while Trevor hastily buckled on the tank. She barely had time to slip her arms through his buoyancy vest straps when the carbon dioxide wafted over the boat. They fell more than jumped over the side, splashing loudly into the cold water and submerging beneath the lethal cloud.

Unprotected from the cold, Trevor felt the immersion like an electric shock. But his adrenaline was pumping so hard that he didn’t freeze up. Clinging together face-to-face, they kicked awkwardly through the water, passing the regulator back and forth for shared air. They eventually worked into something of a rhythm and soon made good headway toward the island.

But the cold quickly caught up with Trevor. The effects were imperceptible at first, but then Summer noticed his kicking slow. His lips and ears showed a tinge of blue, and she knew he was drifting toward hypothermia. She increased her kicking pace, not wanting to lose their momentum. She struggled another hundred feet, realizing that he was slowly becoming a deadweight. She looked down, hoping to find the seafloor rising up beneath them, but all she could see was a few feet of murky water. She had no clue as to how far they were from the island or whether they had in fact been swimming around in circles. The time had come to risk surfacing.

Taking a deep breath from the regulator before forcing it back into Trevor’s mouth, she kicked to the surface, yanking him with her. Breaking the calm surface, she quickly spun her head in all directions, trying to get her bearings. Her worst fear proved to be unfounded. They had escaped, at least temporarily, the thick clouds of carbon dioxide, which still billowed into the sky a short distance away. In the opposite direction, the green hills of Gil Island beckoned less than a quarter mile away. Although they had not swum in a direct line, their course had been true enough to approach the shoreline.

Summer sampled a few breaths of air without consequence, then reached under Trevor’s arm and pressed the INFLATE button on his buoyancy compensator. The vest quickly inflated, raising Trevor’s torso from beneath the water. She looked at his face and he winked in reply, but his eyes were dull and listless. Grabbing the back of the BC, she kicked toward shore, towing him behind her while he loosely flopped his feet.

The island seemed to keep its distance as fatigue caught up with Summer, who was already burdened by a sense of desperation to get Trevor ashore. She tried to keep her eyes off the shoreline and just focus on kicking, but that only made her realize how leaden her legs felt. She was struggling to keep her pace when Trevor’s BC suddenly jerked out of her hands and his body moved ahead of hers. Startled by his movements, she let go in surprise, observing that his limbs still hung limp. Then a head emerged from the water alongside Trevor’s chest.

Dirk turned and gazed at Summer, then spat out his regulator.

“He must be frozen. Did he inhale the gas?” he asked.

“No, it’s just the cold. We’ve got to get him to shore. How did you find us?”

“I saw a dive tank was missing from the boat and figured you were making for shore. I surfaced a little to the south and spotted you.”

Without another word, they made for the island as quickly as they could. Dirk’s appearance served as a morale boost to Summer and she suddenly swam with renewed vigor. Together they moved briskly through the water with Trevor in tow and soon yanked him up onto a thin band of rocky beachfront. Shivering uncontrollably, Trevor sat up on his own but stared off into space.

“We’ve got to get his wet clothes off. I’ll give him my dry suit to wear,” Dirk said.

Summer nodded in agreement, then pointed down the beach. A small wooden structure sat perched over the water a hundred yards down the shoreline.

“Looks like a fishing hut. Why don’t you check it out, and I’ll get his clothes off?”

“Okay,” Dirk said, slipping off his tank and weight belt. “Don’t enjoy yourself too much,” he chided, then turned and headed down the beach.

He wasted no time, realizing Trevor was in real danger. Jogging in his dry suit, he crossed the distance to the structure in short order. Summer was right, it was a small fishing hut, used for overnight excursions by members of a local fishing club. A simple log structure, it was smaller than a one-car garage. Dirk noted a fifty-five-gallon drum and a cord of chopped wood stacked along an exterior wall. He approached the front door and promptly kicked it open, finding a single cot, a wood-burning stove, and a fish smoker. Spotting a box of matches and a small stack of dry wood, he promptly ignited a small fire in the stove, then hustled back down the beach.

Trevor was sitting on a log shirtless as Summer removed his soaking pants. Dirk helped him to his feet, and with Summer on the other side, they half dragged him toward the cabin. As they moved, Dirk and Summer both gazed out at the strait. The white clouds of CO ₂were still surging from the water like a volcanic eruption. The vapor had swelled into a towering mass that stretched across the strait, rising over fifty feet into the air. They noted a reddish tinge in the water and saw dozens of dead fish bobbing on the surface.

“It must be the LNG tanker,” Dirk said. “They’re probably pumping it from a terminal on the other side of the island.”

“But why do it in broad daylight?”

“Because they know we’re here,” he said quietly, a touch of anger in his voice.

They reached the cabin and lay Trevor down on the cot. Summer covered him with an old wool blanket while Dirk brought in some of the cut wood from outside. The stove had already started warming the small hut, and Dirk fed more wood on the fire until a small blaze was roaring. He stood to fetch some more wood, when a deep bellow echoed in the distance, reverberating off the island hillsides.

Dirk and Summer rushed outside and looked up the strait in horror. Two miles to the north, a large Alaskan cruise liner was making its way down the passage, heading directly toward the lethal bank of carbon dioxide gas.