Arctic Drift dp-20 Page 12

  “You brazen bastard,” he muttered. “You’ll pay for this.”

  * * *

  Weber’s words would prove to ring hollow. A fast-moving storm front south of Baffin Island grounded the Canadian Air Command CP-140 Aurora reconnaissance plane called in by the Coast Guard. When the aircraft finally lifted off from its base in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, and arrived over Lancaster Strait, more than six hours had elapsed. Farther west, a Navy icebreaker and another Coast Guard cutter blocked the passage off Prince of Wales Island, waiting for the belligerent freighter to arrive. But the large black ship never appeared.

  The Canadian Coast Guard and Air Force scoured the navigable seas around Lancaster Strait for three days in search of the rogue vessel. Every available route west was scrutinized several times over. Yet the American merchant ship was nowhere to be seen. Baffled, the Canadian forces quietly called off the search, leaving Weber and his crew to wonder how the strange ship had somehow disappeared into the Arctic ice.

  23

  Dr. Kevin Bue peered at the blackening sky to the west and grimaced. Only hours earlier, the sun had shone brightly and the air was still while the mercury in the thermometer tickled twenty degrees Fahrenheit. But then the barometer had dropped like a stone in a well, accompanied by a gradual building of the westerly winds. A quarter of a mile away, the gray waters of the Arctic now rolled in deep swells that burst against the ragged edge of the ice pack with billowing fountains of spray.

  Tugging the hood of his parka tighter, he turned away from the stinging winds and surveyed his home of the last few weeks. Ice Research Lab 7 wouldn’t rate many stars in the Mobil Travel Guide for luxury or comfort. A half dozen prefabricated buildings made up the camp, huddled in a semicircle with their entrances facing south. Three tiny bunkhouses were jammed together on one side next to the largest building, a combination galley, mess hall, and meeting area. A squat structure just opposite housed a joint lab and radio room, while a snow-covered storage shed rounded out the camp at the far end.

  The research lab was one of several Canadian Fisheries and Oceans Department temporary ice camps established as floating research labs to track and study the movements of the Arctic ice pack. Since the time Ice Research Lab 7 had been set up a year earlier, the camp had moved nearly two hundred miles, riding a mammoth sheet of polar ice south across the Beaufort Sea. Now positioned one hundred and fifty miles from the North American coastline, the camp sat on the edge of the ice shelf almost due north of the Yukon Territory. The camp faced a short life, however. The approaching summer meant the breakup of the pack ice where the camp now found itself. Daily measurements of the ice beneath their feet revealed a steady melting already, which had reduced the pack thickness from three feet to fourteen inches. Bue figured they had maybe two more weeks before he and his four-man team would be forced to disassemble the camp and wait for evacuation by Twin Otter ski-plane.

  The Arctic oceanographer trudged through ankle-deep snow toward the radio shack. Over the blowing rustle of ice particles bounding across the ground, he heard the whine of a diesel engine revving up and down. Looking past the camp’s structures, he spotted a yellow front-end track loader racing back and forth, its blunt blade piling up high mounds of drifted snow. The plow was keeping clear a five-hundred-foot ice runway that stretched along the back of the camp. The crude landing strip was the camp’s lifeline, allowing Twin Otters to bring in food and supplies on a weekly basis. Bue made sure that the makeshift runway was kept clear at all times.

  Ignoring the roving track loader, Bue entered the joint lab and radio hut, shaking the snow off his feet in an inner doorway before entering the main structure. Making his way past several cramped bays full of scientific journals and equipment, he turned into the closet-sized cubby that housed the satellite radio station. A wild-eyed man with sandy hair and a mirthful grin looked up from the radio set. Scott Case was a brilliant physicist who specialized in studying solar radiation at the poles. Like everyone else in the camp, Case wore multiple hats, including that of chief communications operator.

  “Atmospherics are playing havoc with our radio signals again,” he said to Bue. “Satellite reception is nil, and our ground transmitter is little better.”

  “I’m sure the approaching storm isn’t helping matters any,” Bue replied. “Does Tuktoyaktuk even know that we are trying to hail them?”

  Case shook his head. “Can’t tell for sure, but I’ve detected no callbacks.”

  The sound of the track loader shoving a load of ice just outside the structure echoed off the thin walls.

  “You keeping the field clean just in case?” he asked Bue.

  “Tuktoyaktuk has us scheduled for a supply drop later today. They may not know that we’ll be in the middle of a gale-force blizzard in about an hour. Keep trying, Scott. See if you can wave off the flight for today, for the safety of the pilots.”

  Before Case could transmit again, the radio suddenly cackled. An authoritative voice backed by static interference blared through the speaker.

  “Ice Research Lab 7, Ice Research Lab 7, this is NUMA research vessel Narwhal. Do you read, over?”

  Bue beat Case to the transmitter and replied quickly. “Narwhal, this is Dr. Kevin Bue of Ice Research Lab 7. Go ahead, please.”

  “Dr. Bue, we’re not trying to eavesdrop, but we’ve heard your repeated calls to the Coast Guard station at Tuktoyaktuk, and we’ve picked up a few unanswered calls back from Tuktoyaktuk. It sounds like the weather is keeping you two from connecting. Can we assist in relaying a message for you?”

  “We’d be most grateful.” Bue had the American ship forward a message to Tuktoyaktuk to delay sending the supply plane for twenty-four hours on account of the poor weather. A few minutes later, the Narwhal radioed a confirmation back from Tuktoyaktuk.

  “Our sincere thanks,” Bue radioed. “That will save some poor flyboy a rough trip.”

  “Don’t mention it. Where’s your camp located, by the way?”

  Bue transmitted the latest position of the floating camp, and the vessel responded in kind.

  “Are you boys in good shape to ride out the approaching storm? Looks to be a mean one,” the Narwhal radioed.

  “We’ve managed everything the Good Witch of the North has thrown at us so far, but thanks all the same,” Bue replied.

  “Farewell, Ice Lab 7. Narwhal out.”

  Bue set down the transmitter with a look of relief.

  “Who says the Americans don’t belong in the Arctic after all?” he said to Case, then slipped on his parka and left the building.

  * * *

  Thirty-five miles to the southwest, Captain Bill Stenseth examined a local meteorological forecast with studious concern. An imposing man with Scandinavian features and the build of an NFL linebacker, Stenseth had weathered storms in every ocean of the world. Yet facing a sudden blow in the ice-studded Arctic still made the veteran captain of the Narwhal nervous.

  “The winds seem to be ratcheting up a bit in the latest forecast,” he said without looking up from the document. “I think we’re in for a pretty good gale. Wouldn’t want to be those poor saps hunkered down on the ice,” he added, pointing toward the radio.

  Standing beside Stenseth on the ship’s bridge, Rudi Gunn suppressed a pained grin. Sailing through the teeth of a powerful Arctic storm was going to be anything but pleasant. He would gladly trade places with the ice camp members, who would likely sit out the storm in a warm hut playing pinochle, Gunn thought. Stenseth’s preference for battling the elements at sea was clearly the mark of a lifelong sailor, one who never felt comfortable with his feet on the shore.

  Gunn shared no similar propensity. Though he was an Annapolis graduate who had spent several years at sea, he now spent more time sailing a desk. The Deputy Director for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, Gunn was usually found in the headquarters building in Washington, D.C. With a short, wiry build and horn-rimmed glasses on his nose, he was the physical opposite of Stenseth. Yet he
shared the same adventurous pursuit of oceanographic challenges and was often on hand when a new vessel or piece of underwater technology was sea-tested for the first time.

  “I’d have more pity for the polar bears,” Gunn said. “How long before the storm front arrives?”

  Stenseth eyed a growing number of whitecaps cresting off the ship’s bow. “About an hour. No more than two. I would suggest retrieving and securing the Bloodhound within the next thirty minutes.”

  “They won’t like returning to the kennel so soon. I’ll head down to the operations room and pass the word. Captain, please let me know if the weather deteriorates any sooner than predicted.”

  Stenseth nodded as Gunn left the bridge and made his way aft. The two-hundred-foot research ship was rolling steadily through a building sea, and Gunn had to grasp a handrail several times to steady himself. Nearing the stern, he looked down at a large moon pool cut through the vessel’s hull. Surface water was already sloshing back and forth, spilling onto the surrounding deck. Stepping down a companionway, he entered a door marked LAB, which opened up into a large bay. At the far end was a sectioned area with numerous video monitors mounted on the bulkhead. Two technicians sat tracking and recording a data feed from underwater.

  “Are they on the bottom?” Gunn asked one of the technicians.

  “Yes,” the man replied. “They’re about two miles east of us. Actually crossed the border into Canadian waters, as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you have a live transmission?”

  The man nodded and passed his communication headset to Gunn.

  “Bloodhound, this is Narwhal. We’re seeing a rapid deterioration in the weather conditions up here. Request you break off survey and return to the surface.”

  A long pause followed Gunn’s transmission, and then a static-filled reply was heard.

  “Roger, Narwhal,” came a gruff voice with a Texas accent. “Breaking off survey in thirty minutes. Bloodhound, over and out.”

  Gunn started to reply, then thought better of it. It was pointless to argue with the pair of hardheads at the other end, he thought. Yanking off the headset, he silently shook his head, then sank into a high-back chair and waited for the half hour to pass.

  24

  Like the canine it was named for, the Bloodhound scoured the earth with its nose to the ground, only the ground was two thousand feet beneath the surface of the Beaufort Sea and its nose was a rigid electronic sensor pod. A titanium-hulled two-man submersible, the Bloodhound was purpose-built to investigate deepwater hydrothermal vents. The submerged geysers, which spewed superheated water from the earth’s crust, often spawned a treasure trove of unusual plant and sea life. Of greater interest to the men in the NUMA submersible were the potential mineral deposits associated with many hydrothermal vents. Discharged from deep under the seabed, the vents often spewed a mineral-rich concoction of small nodules containing manganese, iron, and even gold. Advances in underwater mining technology made the thermal vent fields potentially significant resources.

  “Water temperature is up another degree. That ole smoke-stack has got to be down here somewhere,” drawled the deep voice of Jack Dahlgren.

  Sitting in the submersible’s copilot seat, the muscular marine engineer studied a computer monitor through steely blue eyes. Scratching his thick cowboy mustache, he gazed out the Plexiglas view port at a drab, featureless bottom starkly illuminated by a half dozen high-intensity lights. There was nothing in the subsea physical landscape to indicate that a hydrothermal vent was anywhere nearby.

  “We might just be chasing a few hiccups from down under,” replied the pilot. Turning a sharp eye toward Dahlgren, he added, “A bum steer, you might say.”

  Al Giordino grinned at the jest of the much younger Texan, nearly losing an unlit cigar that dangled from his mouth. A short, burly Italian with arms the size of tree trunks, Giordino was most at home riding a pilot’s seat. After spending years in NUMA’s Special Projects group, where he had piloted everything from blimps to bathyscaphes, he now headed the agency’s underwater technology division. For Giordino, building and testing prototype vessels such as the Bloodhound was more of a passion than a job.

  He and Dahlgren had already spent two weeks scouring the Arctic seabed in search of thermal vents. Utilizing prior bathymetric surveys, they targeted areas of subsurface rifts and uplifts that were outgrowths of volcanic activity and potential home ground for active thermal vents. The search had been fruitless so far, discouraging the engineers, who were anxious to test the submersible’s capabilities.

  Dahlgren ignored Giordino’s remark and looked at his watch.

  “It’s been twenty minutes since Rudi gave us the callback. He’s probably a sack of nerves by now. We probably ought to think about punching the UP button or else there will be two storms facing us topside.”

  “Rudi’s not happy unless he has something to fret about,” Giordino replied, “but I guess there’s no upside in tempting the weather gods.” He turned the pilot’s yoke left, angling the submersible to the west while keeping it hovering just above the seafloor. They had traveled several hundred yards when the bottom became flecked with a succession of small boulders. The rocks grew larger as Giordino noted that the seafloor was gradually rising. Dahlgren picked up a bathymetric chart and tried to pinpoint their position.

  “There looks to be a small seamount in the neighborhood. Didn’t look too promising to the seismic boys for some reason.”

  “Probably because they’ve been sitting inside a climate-controlled office for too many years.”

  Dahlgren set aside the chart and gazed at the computer monitor, suddenly jumping up in his seat.

  “Hot damn! The water temperature just spiked ten degrees.”

  A slight grin spread across Giordino’s face as he noted the cluster of rocks on the seabed growing in size and mass.

  “The seafloor geology is changing as well,” he said. “The profile looks good for a vent. Let’s see if we can trace the water temperature to its core.”

  He adjusted the submersible’s path as Dahlgren read out the water temperature readings. The higher temperatures led them up a sharp rise in the seafloor. A high mound of boulders blocked their path, and Giordino drove the submersible upward like an airplane, ascending nose first until they cleared the summit. As they descended down the opposite side, the scene before them suddenly changed dramatically. The gray, drab moonscape transformed into an iridescent underwater oasis. Yellow mollusks, red tube worms, and bright gold spider crabs littered the seafloor in a rainbow of color. A blue squid squirted past the view port, followed by a school of silver-scaled polar cod. Almost instantaneously, they had traveled from a desolate world of black-and-white to an electric-colored plantation teeming with life.

  “Now I know how Dorothy felt when she landed in Oz,” Dahlgren muttered.

  “What’s the water temperature now?”

  “We’ve jetted to seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit and rising. Congratulations, boss, you’ve just bought yourself a thermal vent.”

  Giordino nodded with satisfaction. “Mark our position. Then let’s exercise the mineral sniffer before…”

  The radio suddenly crackled with a transmission sent via a pair of underwater transponders. “Narwhal to Bloodhound… Narwhal to Bloodhound,” interrupted a tense voice over the radio. “Please ascend immediately. Seas are running at ten feet and building rapidly. I repeat, you are directed to ascend immediately.”

  “… before Rudi calls us home,” Dahlgren said, finishing Giordino’s sentence.

  Giordino grinned. “Ever notice how Rudi’s voice goes up a couple of octaves when he’s nervous?”

  “Last time I looked, he was still signing my paycheck,” Dahlgren cautioned.

  “I suppose we don’t want to scratch the paint on our new baby here. Let’s grab a few quick rock samples first, then we can head topside.”

  Dahlgren radioed a reply to Gunn, then reached over and grabbed the controls to an articulated
arm that rested upright on the submersible’s exterior hull. Giordino guided the Bloodhound to a patch of grapefruit-sized nodules, hovering the sensor pod over the rocks. Using the stainless steel arm as a broom, Dahlgren swept several of the rocks into a basket beneath the sensor head. Onboard computers quickly assayed the density and magnetic properties of the rock samples.

  “Composition is igneous, appears consistent with pyroxene. I’m seeing concentrations of manganese and iron. Also reading elements of nickel, platinum, and copper sulfides,” Dahlgren reported, eyeing a computer readout.

  “That’s a pretty high-octane start. Save the assessment. We’ll have the lab boys crack open the samples and see how accurate the sensor readings are. Once the storm passes, we can give the site a thorough inspection.”

  “She looks like a sweet one.”

  “I am still a bit disappointed, my west Texas friend,” Giordino replied with a shake of his head.

  “No gold?”

  “No gold. I guess the closest I can get is just riding to the surface with a goldbricker.”

  To Dahlgren’s chagrin, Giordino’s laughter echoed off the interior walls of the submersible for the better part of their ascent.

  25

  The Beaufort Sea was boiling with twelve-foot waves and near-gale-force winds when the Bloodhound burst through the surface of the Narwhal ’s moon pool. Water inside the pool sloshed onto the deck as the research ship pitched and rolled in the mounting seas. Twice the steel flanks of the submersible slapped against the cushioned rim of the moon pool before hoisting lines could be attached and the vessel yanked out of the water. Giordino and Dahlgren quickly climbed out of the Bloodhound and collected their rock samples before fleeing the elements into the adjacent operations center. Gunn stood waiting for them with a look of displeasure on his face.

  “That’s a ten-million-dollar submersible that you nearly crushed like a beer can,” he said, glaring at Giordino. “You know we’re not allowed to launch and recover in these kinds of weather conditions.”