Текст книги "Arctic Drift"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

54

Gunnery Sergeant Mike Tipton stared intently through the night vision binoculars, scanning the jagged ice ridge that descended to Coronation Gulf. Though the frozen eyepiece numbed his brow, he held his gaze, hoping for some sign of movement. He finally lowered the glasses when another man crawled up the ice ridge beside him.

“Any sign of the captain?” the soldier asked, a young corporal whose face was hidden behind a cold-weather mask.

Tipton shook his head, then looked at his watch. “They’re late, and our aircraft are due in twenty minutes.”

“Do you want me to break radio silence and issue a call?”

“Go ahead. Find out what’s going on and when they’ll be here. We can’t keep those birds on the ground for long.”

He rose to his feet and turned toward the makeshift airfield. “I’m going to activate the beacons.”

Tipton walked quietly away. He didn’t want to hear the radio call. Instinctively, he knew that something had gone wrong. Roman had made an early start. He should have been back with the Polar Dawn’s crew nearly an hour ago. They certainly should have been within sight by now. Roman was too good a commander, the team too well trained for something not to have gone dramatically wrong.

Tipton reached one end of the airfield and turned on a pair of battery-operated blue lights. He then paced to the opposite end of the coarsely graded runway and activated a second pair of lights. Returning to the base camp, he found the corporal vainly calling the assault team over a portable radio, as one other soldier stood lookout nearby.

“I’m not getting any response,” the corporal reported.

“Keep trying until the planes have landed.” Tipton faced both men. “We have our orders. We’ll evacuate whether the rest of the team is here or not.”

Tipton stepped closer to the soldier on lookout, who was barely distinguishable from the corporal in his heavy white parka.

“Johnson, instruct the pilots to hold for five minutes. I’ll be on the ridge keeping lookout for the captain. Just don’t leave without me,” he glowered.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

A minute later, a faint buzz split the frozen night air. The sound grew louder until evolving into the recognizable whine of an aircraft, followed by another. The two Ospreys flew without navigation lights and were invisible against the black sky. Specially modified for expanded range, the two aircraft had flown nearly seven hundred miles from an airstrip in Eagle, Alaska, just over the Yukon border. Skimming low over the tundra, they had easily evaded detection flying over one of Canada’s most remote regions.

Tipton reached the top of the ridge and looked back toward the runway as the first plane made its approach. Waiting until it was just fifty feet off the ground before hitting its landing lights, the Osprey came in low and slow, jostling to a quick stop on the uneven surface well short of the perimeter blue lights. The pilot quickly gunned the plane to the end of the runway and whipped it around in a tight arc. An instant later, the second Osprey touched down, bouncing roughly over the ice, before taking its place in line for takeoff behind the first Osprey.

Tipton turned his attention to the gulf, scanning the shoreline again with his binoculars.

“Roman, where are you?” he hissed aloud, angry at the team’s disappearance.

But there was no sign of the rubber boats or the men who had sailed off in them. Only an empty expanse of sea and ice filled the lenses. He patiently waited five minutes and then five more, but it was a futile gesture. The assault team was not coming back.

He heard one of the idling aircraft rev its engines and he pulled himself away from the frozen vigil. Running clumsily in his heavy cold-weather gear, he made for the open side door of the first airplane. Jumping in, he caught a dirty look from the pilot, who immediately jammed the throttle forward. Tipton staggered to an empty seat next to the corporal as the Osprey bounced down the runway and lunged into the air.

“No sign?” the corporal yelled over the plane’s noisy motors.

Tipton shook his head, painfully reciting the mantra “no man left behind” in his head. Turning away from the corporal, he sought solace by staring out a small side window.

The Osprey, with its sister ship following close behind, flew over Coronation Gulf to gain altitude, then slowly banked around to the west in the direction of Alaska. Tipton absently stared down at the lights of a ship steaming to the east. In the first rays of dawn, he could see it was an icebreaker towing a large barge in its wake.

“Where are they?” Tipton murmured to himself, then closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

55

Tipton never knew that he had gazed down upon his Delta Force comrades. What he also didn’t know was that the men were suffering all the creature comforts of a medieval dungeon.

Zak’s security team had carefully stripped the commandos of their weapons and communication gear before marching them onto the deck of the barge, along with the Polar Dawn’s crew. The Americans were then unceremoniously forced at gunpoint into a small storage hold at the bow of the barge. As the last captive was forced down the hold’s steel steps, Roman glanced back to see two men hoisting the Zodiac inflatables aboard and securing them along the stern rail.

In the only sign of pity shown the captives, two cases of bottled water, frozen solid in the cold, were tossed into the hold before its heavy steel door was slammed shut. The door’s locking turn lever was flung over, then the rattling of a chain could be heard securing the lever in place. Standing silently inside the freezing black bay, the men felt an impending sense of doom hanging over them.

Then a penlight popped on, and soon another. Roman found his in a chest pocket and twisted it on, thankful that he had something of use that hadn’t been confiscated.

The multiple beams scanned the bay, taking in the scared faces of the forty-five other men. Roman noticed that the hold was not large. There was an open hatchway on the stern bulkhead in addition to the locked hatch through which they had entered. Two high coils of thick mooring line were stacked in one corner, while a small mountain of tires lined one bulkhead. The grimy, worn tires were extra hull bumpers, used to line the barge when at dock. As he took inventory, Roman heard the powerful diesel engines of the adjacent icebreaker fire up and then idle with a deep rumble.

Roman turned his light toward the crew of the Polar Dawn. “Is the captain amongst you?” he asked.

A distinguished-looking man with a gray Vandyke beard stepped forward.

“I’m Murdock, ex-captain of the Polar Dawn.”

Roman introduced himself and recited his mission orders. Murdock cut him off.

“Captain, it was an admirable effort to rescue us. But pardon me if I don’t thank you for freeing us from the hands of the Canadian Mounties,” he said drily, waving an arm around the dank confinement.

“We were obviously not anticipating outside interference,” Roman replied. “Do you know who these people are?”

“I might well ask you the same question,” Murdock replied. “I know that a private firm runs these icebreakers as commercial escort ships under license from the Canadian government. They evidently own the barges, too. Why they would have armed security and an interest in taking us hostage, I have no clue.”

Roman was equally stumped. His pre-mission intelligence outlined no threats besides the Canadian Navy and the Mounted Police. It just didn’t make sense.

The men heard the icebreaker’s engines throttle higher, then felt a slight jar as the lead ship pulled away from the dock, towing the barge with it. After clearing the port waters, the engine revolutions increased again, and the confined men could begin to feel the barge pitch and roll as they entered the choppy waters of Coronation Gulf.

“Captain, any speculation as to where they might be taking us?” Roman asked.

Murdock shrugged. “We are a considerable distance from any significant points of civilization. I wouldn’t think that they would leave Canadian waters, but that could still leave us in for a long, cold ride.”

Roman heard some grunting and kicking across the hold and shined his light up the entry steps. On the landing, Sergeant Bojorquez was wrestling with the door, slamming his weight against the hatch lever, before releasing a string of profanities. Noting the beam of light on him, he straightened up and faced Roman.

“No-go on the door, sir. The outside lever is chained tight. We’d need a blowtorch to get this thing off.”

“Thanks, Sergeant.” Roman turned to Murdock. “Is there another way out of here?”

Murdock pointed to the open hatchway facing the stern.

“I’m sure that leads down a ladder into the number 1 hold. This tub has four holds, each big enough to park a skyscraper in. There should be an interior passageway from one hold to the next, accessible by climbing down that ladder and up another on the opposite side.”

“What about the main hatch covers? Any chance of prying them off?”

“No way, not without a crane. Each one probably weighs three tons. I would think our only chance is out the stern. There’s probably a similar hold or separate access way to the main deck.” He stared at Roman with resolve. “It will take some time to search with just a penlight.”

“Bojorquez,” Roman called. The sergeant quickly materialized alongside.

“Accompany the captain aft,” Roman ordered. “Find us a way out of this rat hole.”

“Yes, sir,” Bojorquez replied smartly. Then with a wink to his superior, he added, “Worth a stripe?”

Roman smirked. “At least one. Now, get moving.”

A glimmer of hope seemed to inspire all of the men, Roman included. But then he remembered Murdock’s comment about a long voyage and realized the Arctic environment was still going to offer them a fight for survival. Walking about the hold once more, he began plotting how to keep everyone from freezing to death.

56

In the warm confines of the Otok’s bridge, Clay Zak sat comfortably in a high-back chair watching the ice-studded waters slip by. It had been an impulsive and dangerous act to capture the Americans, he knew, and equally impulsive to toss them into the barge and tow them along. He still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do with the captives, but he praised his own good luck. The Polar Dawn’s crew had fallen right into his lap and, with them, the opportunity to ignite the flames of contention between Canada and the U.S. The Canadian government would be seething in the belief that the Polar Dawn’s crew had escaped via an American military operation that had crossed its territorial borders. Zak laughed at the prospect, knowing that Canada’s contemptuous Prime Minister wouldn’t be letting the Americans set foot in the Canadian Arctic for quite some time to come.

It was more than Goyette could have hoped for. The industrialist had told him of the riches in the Arctic that were there for the taking, as global warming continued to melt the barriers of access. Goyette had already struck it rich with the Melville Sound natural gas field, but there was also oil to be had. By some estimates, potentially twenty-five percent of the planet’s total oil reserves were trapped under the Arctic. The rapid melt off in Arctic ice was making it all accessible now to those with foresight.

The first to grab the rights and lock up the resources would be the one to prosper, Goyette had said. The big American oil companies and mining conglomerates had already been expanding their influence in the region. Goyette could never hope to compete head-to-head. But if they were removed from the playing field, it was a different picture. Goyette could monopolize vast chunks of Arctic resources, setting himself up for billions in profits.

That would be a bigger payoff than the ruthenium, Zak thought. But he might well score on both fronts. Finding the mineral without interference was almost assured. Eliminating the American competition from future exploration was well within reach. Goyette would owe him and owe him big.

With a contented look on his face, Zak stared back at the passing ice and casually waited for the Royal Geographical Society Islands to draw closer.

PART III
NORTHERN PURSUIT

57

For a few brief weeks in late summer, Canada’s Arctic archipelago resembles the painted desert. Receding snow and ice lay bare a desolate beauty hidden beneath the frozen landscape. The rocky, treeless terrain is frequently laden with startling streaks of gold, red, and purple. Lichens, ferns, and a surprising diversity of flowers, fighting to absorb the waning summer sunlight, bloom with added bouquets of color. Hare, musk oxen, and birds are found in great numbers, softening the cold aura of morbidity. A richly diverse wildlife, in fact, thrives in the intense summer months, only to vanish during the long, dark days of winter.

For the rest of the year, the islands are a forbidding collection of ice-covered hills edged by rock-strewn shorelines – an empty, barren landscape that for centuries has drawn men like a magnet, some in search of destiny, others in search of themselves. Staring out the bridge at a ribbon of sea ice clinging to the tumbled shoreline of Victoria Island, Pitt could not help but think it was one of the loneliest places he had ever seen.

Pitt stepped to the chart table, where Giordino was studying a large map of Victoria Strait. The stocky Italian pointed to an empty patch of water east of Victoria Island.

“We’re less than fifty miles from King William Island,” he said. “What are your thoughts on a search grid?”

Pitt pulled up a stool, then sat down and studied the chart. The pear-shaped landmass of King William Island appeared due east of them. Pitt took a pencil and marked an “X” at a point fifteen miles northwest of the island’s upper tip.

“This is where the Erebusand Terrorwere officially abandoned,” he said.

Giordino noted a sense of disinterest in Pitt’s voice.

“But that’s not where you think they sank?” he asked.

“No,” Pitt replied. “The Inuit account, though vague, seemed to indicate that the Erebuswas farther south. Before I left Washington, I had some folks in the climatology department do some modeling for me. They attempted to re-create the weather conditions in April 1848, when the ships were abandoned, and predict the potential behavior of the sea ice.”

“So the ice didn’t just melt and the ships dropped to the bottom where X marks the spot?”

“It’s possible but not likely.” Pitt pointed to a large body of water north of King William called Larsen Strait.

“The winter freeze propels the pack ice in a moving train from the northeast, down Larsen Strait. If the sea ice off King William didn’t melt in the summer of 1848, which the climatologists suggest, then the ships would have been pushed south during the winter freeze of 1849. They might have been re-boarded by a small party of survivors, we just don’t know. But it is consistent with the Inuit record.”

“Swell, a moving target,” Giordino said. “Doesn’t make for a compact search zone.”

Pitt drew his finger down the western shore of King William Island, stopping at a conglomeration of islands located twenty miles off the southwest coast.

“My theory is that these islands here, the Royal Geographical Society Islands, acted as a rampart against the southerly moving ice pack. That rock pile probably diverted some of the ice floe, while breaking up a good deal more piling up on its northern shore.”

“That is a pretty direct path from your X,” Giordino noted.

“That’s the presumption. No telling how far the ships actually moved before falling through the ice. But I’d like to start with a ten-mile grid just above these islands and then move north if we come up empty.”

“Sounds like a good bet,” Giordino agreed. “Let’s just hope they dropped to the bottom in one piece so they’ll give us a nice, clean sonar image.” He looked at his watch. “I better rouse Jack and get the AUV prepped before we get on-site. We’ve got two aboard, so we can lay out two separate grids and search them simultaneously.”

While Pitt laid out the coordinates for a pair of adjoining search grids, Giordino and Dahlgren prepared the AUVs for launching. The acronym stood for autonomous underwater vehicles. Self-propelled devices that were shaped like torpedoes, the AUVs contained sonar and other sensing devices that allowed them to electronically map the seafloor. Preprogrammed to systematically scan a designated search grid, they would cruise a few meters above the seabed at nearly ten knots, adjusting to the changing contours as they ran.

As he passed just north of the Royal Geographical Society Islands, Captain Stenseth slowed the Narwhalas they entered the first of Pitt’s search grids. A floating transponder was dropped off the stern, then the ship raced to the opposite corner of the grid where a second buoy was released. Keyed to the orbiting GPS satellites, the transponders provided underwater navigation reference points for the roving AUVs to keep on course.

On the stern of the ship, Pitt helped Giordino and Dahlgren download the search plan into the first AUV’s processor, then watched as a crane hoisted the large yellow fish over the side. With its small propeller spinning, the AUV was released from its cradle. The device shot forward and quickly dived beneath the dark, rolling waters. Guided by the bobbing transponders, the AUV scooted to its starting point, then began weaving back and forth, scanning the bottom with its electronic eyes.

With the first vehicle safely released, Stenseth piloted the ship north to the second grid area and repeated the process. A biting wind cut through the men on the deck as they released the second AUV, and they hurried to the warmth of the nearby operations center. A seated technician already had both search grids displayed on an overhead screen, with visual representations of both AUVs and the transponders. Pitt slipped out of his parka as he eyed several columns of numbers quickly being updated on the side of the screen.

“Both AUVs are at depth and running true,” he said. “Nice work, gentlemen.”

“They’re out of our hands now,” Giordino replied. “Looks like it will take about twelve hours for the fish to run their course before surfacing.”

“Once we get them back aboard, it won’t take long to download the data and swap batteries, then we can set ’em loose again on the next two grids,” Dahlgren noted.

Giordino raised his brows while Pitt shot him a withering look.

“What did I say?” he asked in a bewildered tone.

“On this ship,” Pitt replied, a razor-sharp grin crossing his face, “the first time’s the charm.”

58

Sixty miles to the west, the Otokchurned through the wind-whipped waters on a direct path to the Royal Geographical Society Islands. In the wheelhouse, Zak studied a satellite image of the islands through a magnifying glass. Two large islands dominated the chain, West Island separated by a thin channel from the smaller East Island. The Mid-America mining operation was located on the southern coast of the West Island, facing Queen Maud Gulf. Zak could make out two buildings and a long pier in the photograph, as well as evidence of an open-pit mine nearby.

“A message came in for you.”

The Otok’s unshaven captain approached and handed Zak a slip of paper. Opening it up, Zak read the contents:

Pitt arrived Tuktoyaktuk from D.C. early Saturday. Boarded NUMA research vessel Narwhal. Departed 1600, presumed destination Alaska. M.G.

“Alaska,” he said aloud. “They can’t very well go anywhere else now, can they?” he added with a smile.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, just a tardy effort by the competition.”

“What’s our approach to the islands?” the captain asked, peering over Zak’s shoulder.

“The south coast of West Island. We’ll make for the mining operation first. Let’s run right up to the pier and see if anyone is home. It’s early in the season, so they may not have opened up summer operations yet.”

“Might be a good place to dump our captives.”

Zak gazed out the aft window, watching the barge that was tailing behind wallow in the turbulent seas.

“No,” he replied after contemplation. “They should be quite comfortable where they are.”

* * *

Comfortable was hardly the sentiment that came to Rick Roman’s mind. But under the circumstances, he had to admit they had made the best of things.

The cold steel deck and bulkheads of their floating prison quickly sapped their efforts to keep warm, but a solution lie in the debris left behind. Roman organized the men under penlight and had them attack the mound of tires. First, a layer of the old rubber was laid on the deck, then a series of walls were built up, creating a smaller den where all the men could still fit. The mooring ropes were then unwound and draped over the tire walls and floor, creating an extra layer of insulation, as well as padding for the men to lie on. Huddled into the tight enclave, the men had a combined body heat that gradually forced a rise in the temperature. After several hours, Roman flashed his light on a bottle of water at his feet and noted an inch or two of liquid sloshed atop the frozen contents. The insulated den had warmed above freezing, he noted with some satisfaction.

It was the only satisfaction he had received in some time. When Murdock and Bojorquez returned after a two-hour inspection of the barge’s interior, the news was all bleak. Murdock had found no other potential exit points astern of their storage hold, save for the cavernous holds themselves. The mammoth overhead hatch covers might as well have been welded shut for the chance they had at moving them.

“I did find this,” Bojorquez said, holding up a small wood-handled claw hammer. “Somebody must have dropped it in the hold and didn’t bother to retrieve it.”

“Even a sledgehammer wouldn’t do us a lot of good on that hatch,” Roman replied.

Undeterred, Bojorquez began attacking the locked hatch lever with the small tool. Soon the tap-tap-tapof the pounding hammer became a constant accompaniment to the creaking sounds of the moving barge. Men lined up to have a go at the hammer, mostly out of boredom, or in an attempt to warm themselves from the exertion. Against the incessant rapping, Murdock’s voice suddenly raised over the din.

“The tow ship is slowing.”

“Cease the hammering,” Roman ordered.

Ahead of them, they could hear the engines of the icebreaker slow their deep-throated drone. A few minutes later, the engines dropped to an idle, then the barge bumped against a stationary object. Listening in silence, the men anxiously hoped that their frozen imprisonment was over.