Arctic Drift dp-20 Page 15

  “We can’t afford to jeopardize those gas imports,” the President said. “They are critical to overcoming this oil crisis and stabilizing the economy.”

  “The Prime Minister’s actions boost the Canadian sovereignty rhetoric he has been touting recently to reverse his waning popularity,” noted Moss. “He seized on the commercial possibilities of an ice-free Northwest Passage some years ago and has strongly argued Canada’s ownership claims. It fits in nicely with his newfound appeal to the country’s traditionalists.”

  “There’s a good deal of power to be had in those Arctic resources,” Meade noted.

  “The Russians are clamoring over the same thing,” Sandecker said. “The U.N. Law of the Sea Treaty opened the door for additional Arctic empire building based on the undersea extensions of existing territorial claims. We in fact have joined the same subsurface land rush as the Canadians, Russians, Danes, and Norwegians.”

  “That is true,” Moss replied. “But our potential claims don’t really impose much into Canadian waters. It’s the passage that is creating all the hysteria. Perhaps because it is the key to accessing and transporting all those Arctic resources.”

  “It seems to me that the Canadians have a pretty sound legal basis for calling the passage part of their internal waters,” the President said.

  The Secretary of Defense bristled. An ex-Navy man like Sandecker, he had managed one of the major oil companies before returning to public service.

  “Mr. President,” he said in a deep voice, “it has always been the position of the U.S. that the Northwest Passage constitutes an international strait. The Law of the Sea Convention, I might add, also calls for the right of transit passage through waterways deemed international straits.”

  “Assuming we are on friendly terms with Canada, why do we care if they claim the strait as territorial waters?” asked the President.

  “Doing so would undermine the precedents already set in the Strait of Malacca, Gibraltar, and Bab el-Mandeb in the Red Sea,” Moss recited. “Those waterways are open to commercial ships of all nations, not to mention free passage by our own Navy ships.”

  “Not to mention the Bosporus and Dardanelles,” Sandecker added.

  “Indeed,” replied Moss. “If we were to treat the Northwest Passage in a different light, that could offer legal encouragement for the Malaysians to direct traffic through the Malacca, for example. It’s just too risky a proposition.”

  “Don’t forget our submarine fleet,” Sandecker added. “We can’t very well walk away from the Arctic area of operations.”

  “Jim’s absolutely right,” said the Secretary of Defense. “We’re still playing tag with the occasional Russian Delta up there, and now we have the Chinese fleet to worry about. They’ve just tested a new class of sub-launched ballistic missile with a range of five thousand miles. It only makes sense that they’ll follow the tack of the Russians by hiding their subs under the ice, in order to preserve a first-launch capability. Mr. President, the Arctic will remain a critical mission area for purposes of our national defense. We can’t afford to be shut out of the seaways that are within spitting distance of our own borders.”

  The President quietly strolled over to the east window and gazed out at the Rose Garden. “I suppose there is no walking away. But there is also no need to fan the flames of distrust. Let’s voluntarily abide by the ban for ninety days. I want no American-flagged vessels, including submarines, even to encroach on Canadian Arctic waters during that period. That should give everyone time to cool their heels. Then I’ll have State work up a meeting with Prime Minister Barrett, and we’ll try to reintroduce some sanity back into the equation.”

  “An excellent suggestion,” Meade demurred. “I’ll put a call in to the Secretary of State right away.”

  “Mr. President, there is one other thing,” the Secretary of Defense stated. “I’d like to war-plan a few counterstrike scenarios, should events dictate.”

  “Good God,” the President thundered. “We’re talking about Canada here.”

  The room fell silent while Garner glared at the Secretary of Defense. “Do what you have to do. If I know you, you probably already have a full-blown invasion plan all worked out.”

  The Secretary of Defense sat stone-faced, unwilling to deny the President’s accusation.

  “Seems to me we should be focusing our resources on investigating who’s roughing up the Canadians and why,” injected Sandecker. “What exactly do we know about the two incidents in question?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid, since they both occurred in remote areas,” replied Moss. “The first incident involved a commercial vessel flying the American flag that rammed a Canadian Coast Guard cutter. All we know from the Canadians is that the vessel was a small containership carrying the name Atlanta. The Canadians thought they would nab her farther into the passage, near Somerset Island, but the ship never materialized. They believe she may have sunk, but our analysts believe it is possible she could have backtracked to the Atlantic without being seen. The marine registries show a dozen ships named Atlanta, although only one is of comparable size and configuration. It is sitting in a dry dock in Mobile, Alabama, where it has been parked for the last three weeks.”

  “Perhaps the Canadians were right, and she sank from her own damage caused by the ramming incident,” the President said. “Otherwise, we have to assume it’s a case of mistaken identity.”

  “Odd that they would aim to run the passage and then disappear,” Sandecker noted. “What about the Beaufort Sea ice camp? I’ve been told that we had no vessels anywhere near the area.”

  “That is correct,” Moss replied. “All three of the ice camp survivors claim they saw a gray warship flying American colors burst through the camp. One of the men identified the ship as carrying the number 54. As it happens, FFG-54 is currently on station in the Beaufort Sea.”

  “One of our frigates?”

  “Yes, the Ford, out of Everett, Washington. She was supporting a submarine exercise off Point Barrow at the time of the incident, but that was over three hundred miles away. Aside from that, the Ford is not ice-rated, so she would have had no business plowing through the thick sea ice that supported the camp.”

  “Another case of mistaken identity?” the President asked.

  “Nobody knows for sure. There’s just not much in the way of traffic in that area, and there was a heavy storm at the time that obscured things.”

  “What about satellite imagery?” Sandecker asked.

  Moss flipped through a folder, then pulled out a report.

  “Satellite coverage in that region is pretty sporadic, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately, we don’t have any imagery available within twelve hours of the incident.”

  “Do we know for sure it wasn’t the Ford? Could they have made a mistake?” the President probed.

  “No, sir,” the Secretary of Defense replied. “I had Pacific Command review their navigation records. The Ford never traveled anywhere near the position of the ice camp.”

  “And we’ve shared that information with the Canadians?”

  “The Chief of the Defence Staff has seen the data and concurs off the record that the Ford was likely not responsible,” replied the Secretary of Defense. “But the politicians don’t trust what we are giving them, quite frankly. Given the mileage they have gotten out of the incident, they have no reason to backtrack now.”

  “Find those ships and we find our way out of this mess,” the President stated.

  His advisers fell silent, knowing that the window of opportunity had likely already passed. Without direct access to the Canadian Arctic, there was little they could even hope to do.

  “We’ll do what we can,” the Secretary of Defense promised.

  The chief of staff noted the time, then ushered everyone out of the Oval Office in preparation for the President’s next meeting. After the others had left the room, Ward stood at the window and gazed out at the Rose Garden.

  “War with Cana
da,” he muttered to himself. “Now, there’s a real legacy.”

  32

  Mitchell Goyette peered out of the glass-walled office on the top deck of his yacht and idly watched a silver seaplane taxiing across the harbor. The small plane quickly hopped off the water and circled south, bypassing the tall buildings lining Vancouver Harbor. The magnate took a sip from a martini glass, then turned his gaze to a thick contract sitting on the desk.

  “The terms and conditions are acceptable?” he asked.

  A small man with black hair and thick glasses seated opposite Goyette nodded his head.

  “The legal department has reviewed it and found no issues with the changes. The Chinese were quite pleased with the initial test shipment and are anxious to receive an ongoing supply stream.”

  “With no change in price or limits on quantity?”

  “No, sir. They agreed to accept up to five million tons a year of unrefined Athabasca crude bitumen and all the Melville Sound natural gas we can deliver, both at prices ten percent above the spot market, provided that we agree to extended terms.”

  Goyette leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Our oceangoing barges have proven their worth at transporting both cargoes in bulk. We’ve got our fifth string of LNG barges coming on line next week. The potential revenue stream from the Chinese is shaping up quite nicely.”

  “The gas strike at Melville Sound promises to be quite a windfall. Our projections show a net profit of nearly five million dollars is possible with each shipment to China. Provided that the government doesn’t initiate restrictions on natural resource sales to China, you are well positioned to capitalize on their growing appetite for energy.”

  “The unfortunate death of MP Finlay seems to have alleviated that concern,” Goyette replied with a knowing grin.

  “With the reduction of Athabasca refining due to the restrictive carbon dioxide mandate, the Chinese deal is lucrative for your Alberta holdings as well. You will of course be defaulting on the agreements just signed with the Americans to provide them the Melville natural gas.”

  “The Chinese are paying me ten percent more.”

  “The President was relying on an influx of natural gas to halt their energy crisis,” the attorney said with a cautionary tone.

  “Yes, and they’ve called on me and my Melville Sound reserves to save them,” Goyette said with a laugh. “Only we’re going to turn up the heat a bit.” A fire suddenly burned in his eyes. “Let them stew in their own juices until they reach a state of true desperation. Then they’ll play it my way and pay my prices in order to survive. We’ll have our tankers carry gas to them and haul away their liquid carbon wastes on the return trip, and we’ll charge a premium for both. Of course, that will be after they finance a major expansion of our barge fleet. They’ll have no choice but to accept.” A grin slowly crossed his lips.

  “I still worry about the political trouble. There’s talk of anti-American legislation that could spill over and impact our business with China. Some of the more rabid members of Parliament are practically ready to declare war.”

  “I can’t control the idiocy of politicians. The important point was to remove the Americans from the Arctic while we expand our acquisition of gas, oil, and mineral rights. We happened to get lucky with the Melville strike, but the strategy is clearly working quite nicely so far.”

  “The geophysics team is close to identifying the necessary tracts to encompass the Melville gas field, as well as some other promising locations. I just hope that the natural resources minister continues to accommodate our requirements.”

  “Don’t you worry about Minister Jameson, he will do anything I ask. By the way, what is the latest from the Alberta?”

  “She arrived in New York without incident, took on a commercial shipment, and is presently eastbound to India. There appear to be no suspicions raised.”

  “Good. Have her sent on to Indonesia for a repaint in new colors before she returns to Vancouver.”

  “It will be done,” the attorney replied.

  Goyette sat back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. “Have you seen Marcy about?”

  One of a handful of ex-strippers Goyette kept on the payroll, Marcy usually wandered the boat in revealing attire. The aide shook his head firmly, taking the cue that it was time to leave.

  “I’ll inform the Chinese that we have a deal,” he said, taking the signed contract from Goyette and quickly exiting the office.

  Goyette drained his glass, then reached for a shipboard phone to call the master stateroom, when a familiar voice froze his movements.

  “Another drink, Mitchell?”

  Goyette turned to the far side of the office, where Clay Zak stood with a couple of martinis in one hand. He was dressed in dark slacks and a taupe turtleneck sweater, nearly blending in with the room’s earth-toned walls. Casually walking closer, he set one glass down in front of Goyette, then took a seat opposite him.

  “Mitchell Goyette, King of the Arctic, eh? I must say, I have seen photographs of your oceangoing barges and am quite awed. A stirring display of naval architecture.”

  “They were specifically designed for the task,” Goyette said, finally finding his voice. A look of annoyance remained etched on his face, and he made a mental note to have a word with his security detail. “Fully loaded, they can sail through a Category 2 hurricane without risk.”

  “Impressive,” Zak replied, between sips of his martini.

  “Though I suspect your environmental worshippers would be disappointed to know that you are raping the country’s pristine landscape of natural resources strictly to make a buck off the Chinese.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Goyette replied, ignoring the remark. “Your project to the States was accomplished with success?”

  “Indeed. You were correct in taking an interest in the lab’s work. I had a remarkable conversation about artificial photosynthesis with your research mole.”

  Zak proceeded to describe the details of Lisa Lane’s work and her recent discovery. Goyette felt his anger at Zak diminish as the magnitude of Lane’s scientific breakthrough sank in. He peered out the window once more.

  “Sounds like they could build an industrial carbon dioxide conversion facility that could be easily replicated,” he said. “Still, they’ve got to be talking years or decades in the future.”

  Zak shook his head. “I’m no scientist, but according to your boy on the inside that is not the case. He claims the actual working process requires little in the way of capital resources. He suggested that within five years, you might have hundreds of these facilities built around major cities and key industrial emission sites.”

  “But you put an end to such possibilities? ” Goyette asked, his eyes boring into Zak.

  The assassin smiled. “No bodies, remember? The lab and all their research materials are history, as you requested. But the chief researcher is still alive and she knows the formula. I’d venture there’s a good chance plenty more people know the recipe by now.”

  Goyette stared at Zak without blinking, wondering if it had been a mistake to rein in the assassin this one time.

  “Your own mole is probably off selling the results to a competitor as we speak,” Zak continued.

  “He won’t live long if he does,” Goyette replied. His nostrils flared as he shook his head. “This could kill my carbon sequestration plant expansion. Worse still, it would permit the Athabasca refineries to come back on line, even expand. That’d drive down the price of Athabasca bitumen, it’d ruin my contract with the Chinese! I won’t have it!”

  Zak laughed at Goyette’s greed-induced anger, which drove the mogul to more fury. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small gray pebble and bounced it across the desk. Goyette instinctively caught it against his chest.

  “Mitchell, Mitchell, Mitchell… You are missing the big picture. Where’s the grand environmentalist, the King of Green, the tree hugger’s best friend?”

  “What
are you babbling about?” Goyette sneered.

  “You’re holding it in your hand. A mineral called ruthenium. Otherwise known as the catalyst to artificial photosynthesis. It is the key to the whole thing.”

  Goyette studied the stone with quiet regard.

  “Go on,” he replied curtly.

  “It is rarer than gold. There are only a few places on earth where the stuff has ever been mined and every one of those mines has gone kaput. This sample came from a geology warehouse in Ontario, and they might well be the last source of the stuff. Without ruthenium, there can be no artificial photosynthesis, and your problem is solved. I’m not saying it can be done, but whoever owns the supply of the mineral will own the solution to global warming. Think how your green friends would worship you then?”

  It was the perfect tonic of greed and power that made Goyette tick. Zak could almost see the dollar signs light up in his eyes as he digested the possibilities.

  “Yes,” Goyette nodded hungrily. “Yes, we’ll have to explore the market. I’ll get some people on it at once.”

  Staring back at Zak, he asked, “You seem to have a bit of the bloodhound in you. How would you like to visit this warehouse in Ontario and find out where this ruthenium came from and how much of a supply is left?”

  “Providing Terra Green Air is operating a scheduled flight,” Zak replied with a smile.

  “You can use the jet,” Goyette grumbled. “But there’s another matter of minor importance that requires your attention beforehand. It seems I have a small annoyance in Kitimat.”

  “Kitimat. Isn’t that near Prince Rupert?”

  Goyette nodded and handed Zak the fax he had received from the natural resources minister. Reading the document, Zak nodded, then gulped down his martini.

  “I’ll take care of it on the way to Ontario,” he said, stuffing the fax into his pocket and rising from the chair. He moved toward the door, then turned back toward Goyette.

  “You know, that research mole of yours, Bob Hamilton? You might consider posting him a nice bonus for the information he provided. Might make you a bit of money down the road.”