Arctic Drift dp-20 Page 17

  “Are there any unique demands for or uses of the mineral?” Pitt asked.

  “Its qualities as a hardener, especially when combined with other elements such as titanium, were highly valued in industry. Supply irregularities have produced a sharp rise in prices recently, forcing manufacturers to turn to other compounds.”

  “How expensive can it be?” asked Yaeger.

  “It is one of the rarest minerals found on earth. Recent spot market prices have exceeded twelve thousand dollars an ounce.”

  “Wow,” Yaeger replied. “That’s ten times the price of gold. Wish I owned a ruthenium mine.”

  “Hiram raises a good question,” Pitt said. “Where is the stuff mined? ”

  Max frowned for a moment as her computer processors sifted through the databases.

  “The supplies are rather unsettled at the moment. South Africa and the Ural Mountains of Russia have been the historical sources for mined ruthenium in the last century. Approximately ten metric tons a year was mined in South Africa from a single mine in Bushveld, but their output peaked in the 1970s and fell to nearly zero by 2000. Even with the run-up in price, they’ve had no new production.”

  “In other words, their mines have played out,” Pitt suggested.

  “Yes, that is correct. There have been no significant discoveries made in the region in over forty years.”

  “That still leaves the Russians,” Yaeger said.

  Max shook her head. “The Russian ruthenium came from just two small mines adjacent to each other in the Vissim Valley. Their production had actually peaked back in the 1950s. A severe landslide destroyed and buried both mining operations several years ago. The Russians have abandoned both sites, stating it would take many years to return either mine to operation.”

  “No wonder the price is so steep,” Yaeger said. “What’s your interest in the mineral, Dirk?”

  Pitt described Lisa Lane’s artificial photosynthesis discovery and the role of ruthenium as a catalyst, along with the explosion in the lab. Yaeger let out a low whistle after digesting the implications.

  “That’s going to make an unsuspecting mine owner a rich man,” he said.

  “Only if the stuff can be found,” Pitt replied. “Which makes me wonder, Max, where would I go to purchase a bulk quantity of ruthenium?”

  Max looked up toward the ceiling. “Let’s see… there are one or two Wall Street precious-commodities brokers that would be able to sell you some for investment purposes, but the quantities available are quite small. I’m only finding a small platinum mine in South America that has trace by-product quantities for sale, which would require further processing. The present known stocks of the mineral appear to be quite meager. The only other publicized source is the Ontario Miners Co-op, which lists a limited quantity of high-grade ruthenium available by the troy ounce.”

  “The Co-op is where Lisa obtained her sample,” Pitt stated. “What more can you tell me about it?”

  “The Miners Co-op represents independently owned mines across Canada, acting as wholesale outlet for mined ore. Their headquarters is in the town of Blind River, Ontario.”

  “Thank you, Max. You’ve been a great help, as always,” Pitt said. He had long ago transcended his uneasiness at speaking to the computerized image and, like Yaeger, almost felt like Max was a real person.

  “A pleasure anytime,” Max replied with a nod. Turning to Yaeger, she admonished, “Now, don’t you forget about my advice for your wife.”

  “Good-bye, Max,” Yaeger replied, tapping at a keyboard. In an instant, Max disappeared from view. Yaeger turned to Pitt.

  “A shame your friend’s discovery may be for naught if there’s no ruthenium around to power the process.”

  “As important as the ramifications are, a source will be found,” Pitt said confidently.

  “If your hunch about the lab explosion is correct, then somebody else already knows about the scarcity of the mineral.”

  Pitt nodded. “My fear as well. If they are willing to kill to halt the research, then they are probably willing to try and monopolize the remaining supplies.”

  “So where do you go from here?”

  “There’s only one place to go,” he said. “The Ontario Miners Co-op, to see how much ruthenium really is left on the planet.”

  PART II

  BLACK KOBLUNA

  35

  Summer was waiting at the dock when she spotted Trevor’s boat motoring across the harbor. She wore a tight-fitting saffron-colored sweater, which accentuated the radiant red hair that dangled loose beneath her shoulders. Her gray eyes softened as the boat approached the dock and Trevor leaned out of the wheelhouse and waved.

  “Going my way, sailor?” she asked with a grin.

  “If I wasn’t before, I am now,” he replied with an approving look. He reached up and gave Summer a hand as she climbed onto the boat.

  “Where’s Dirk?” he asked.

  “His head was still pounding this morning, so he took some aspirin and went back to bed.”

  Trevor shoved the boat away from the pier and motored past the municipal dock before turning into the harbor. Had he glanced at the dock’s small dirt parking lot, he might have noticed a sharp-dressed man sitting in a brown Jeep observing their departure.

  “Did you finish your inspection this morning?” Summer asked, as they cruised past a heavily loaded lumber ship.

  “Yes. The aluminum smelter is just looking at a minor expansion of their receiving yard. Mandatory environmental impact statement sort of stuff.” He looked at Summer with a twisted grin. “I was relieved not to find the police waiting for me at the boat this morning.”

  “I doubt anybody saw you at the Terra Green facility. It’s Dirk and me who are most likely to end up on a WANTED poster at the Kitimat post office,” she replied with an uneasy laugh.

  “I’m sure the plant security is not going to file a report with the police. After all, as far as they know, they’re responsible for Dirk’s murder.”

  “Unless a surveillance camera caught you fishing him out alive.”

  “In which case, we’re all in a bit of trouble.” He turned and gave Summer a concerned look. “Maybe it would be a good idea if you and Dirk kept a low profile around town. A tall, gorgeous redhead tends to stand out in Kitimat.”

  Rather than blush, Summer moved closer to Trevor and looked deep into his eyes. He let go of the boat’s wheel and slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her tight. Returning her gaze, he kissed her once, long and passionately.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he whispered.

  The pilot of a small freighter passing the other way happened to witness the embrace and blew his horn at the two. Trevor casually released one hand and waved at the freighter, then retook the wheel. Sailing briskly down Douglas Channel, he kept his other arm locked tightly around Summer’s thin waist.

  The turquoise NUMA boat was moored as they had left it, and Summer quickly had the vessel under way. The two boats playfully raced each other back to Kitimat, passing far around the Terra Green facility without incident. They had just tied up at the municipal pier when Dirk came rambling down the dock. His gait was slow, and he wore a baseball cap to cover the bandage across his skull.

  “How’s the head?” Trevor inquired.

  “Better,” Dirk replied. “The pounding has gone down from dynamite to sledgehammer strength. The Bells of St. Mary’s are still ringing loud and clear, though.”

  Summer finished tying up the NUMA boat and walked over to the two men with a thick case in her hand.

  “You ready to get to work?” she asked.

  “The water samples,” Trevor said.

  “Yes, the water samples,” she replied, holding up the Kitimat municipal pool water-analyzing kit.

  She stepped onto Trevor’s boat and helped gather up the water samples taken the night before. Dirk and Trevor took a seat on the gunwale as Summer opened the test kit and began checking the acidity of the wa
ter samples.

  “I’m showing a pH of 8.1,” she said after testing the first sample. “The acidity is just a hair above the levels in the surrounding waters but not significant.”

  She proceeded to test all of her water samples and then the vials collected by Trevor. The results were nearly uniform for each vial tested. As she checked the results of the last sample, a defeated look crossed her face.

  “Again, the pH level is reading about 8.1. Remarkably, the water around the Terra Green facility shows no abnormal levels of acidity.”

  “That seems to blow our theory that the plant is dumping carbon dioxide,” Trevor said.

  “A gold star for Mitchell Goyette,” Dirk said sarcastically.

  “I can’t help but wonder about the tanker ship,” Summer said.

  Trevor gave her a quizzical look.

  “We got sidetracked and couldn’t prove it, but Dirk and I both thought the tanker might be taking on CO2 rather than unloading it.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense, unless they are transporting it to another sequestration facility. Or are dumping it at sea.”

  “Before trailing a tanker halfway around the world, I think we need to take another look at the site where we measured the extreme water acidity,” Summer said, “and that’s Hecate Strait. We’ve got the gear to investigate,” she added, motioning toward the NUMA boat.

  “Right,” Dirk agreed. “We need to look at the seabed off Gil Island. The answer has to lie there.”

  “Can you stay and conduct a survey?” Trevor asked with a hopeful tone.

  Dirk looked at Summer. “I received a call from the Seattle office. They need the boat back by the end of the week for some work in Puget Sound. We can stay two more days, then we’ll have to hit the road.”

  “That will allow us time to examine a good chunk of territory off Gil Island,” Summer said. “Let’s plan for an early start tomorrow. Will you be able to join us, Trevor?” It was her turn to give a hopeful look.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” he replied happily.

  As they were leaving the dock together, the brown Jeep with a rental-agency sticker on its bumper cruised slowly along the adjacent roadway. The driver stopped briefly at a clearing, which gave an unobstructed view of the municipal dock and harbor. Behind the wheel, Clay Zak gazed out the windshield, studying the two boats at the end of the dock tied up one behind the other. He nodded to himself, then continued driving slowly down the road.

  36

  When Trevor arrived at the dock around seven the next morning, Dirk and Summer were already laying out their sonar equipment on the stern deck. He gave Summer a quick peck while Dirk was occupied coiling a tow cable, then he pulled a small cooler onto the boat.

  “Hope everyone can stomach some fresh smoked salmon for lunch,” he said.

  “I’d say that’s a vast improvement over Dirk’s stockpile of peanut butter and dill pickles,” Summer replied.

  “Never have to worry about it going bad,” Dirk defended. He walked into the wheelhouse and started the boat’s motor, then returned to the stern deck.

  “I’ll need to refuel before we head out,” he announced.

  “There’s a fuel dock just around the bend,” Trevor replied. “It’s a little cheaper than the gas at the city marina.” He thought for a moment. “I’m a little low myself. Why don’t you follow me over, and we can drop off my boat on the way out of the channel.”

  Dirk nodded in agreement, and Trevor hopped onto the deck and strolled down to his boat moored just behind the NUMA vessel. He unlocked the door to the wheelhouse, then fired up the inboard diesel, listening to its deep throaty idle. Checking his fuel gauge, he noted a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard that Summer had left behind. Looking up, he saw her untying the dock lines to the NUMA boat. Grabbing the glasses, he hopped off the boat and jogged down the dock.

  “Some protection for those pretty gray eyes?” he asked.

  Summer tossed the bow line aboard, then looked up to see Trevor standing with her sunglasses in an outstretched hand. She gazed skyward for a moment, taking in a thick layer of rain clouds overhead, before locking eyes with him.

  “A tad overkill for today, but thanks for proving you are not a thief.”

  She reached over and grabbed the sunglasses as a sharp crack suddenly erupted behind them. The report was followed by a thunderous blast that flung them to the dock, a shower of splinters tearing over their heads. Trevor fell forward and onto Summer, protecting her from the debris, as several small chunks of wood and fiberglass struck him in the back.

  A simple five-minute timed safety fuse, attached to four cartridges of nitroglycerin dynamite and wired to the ignition switch of Trevor’s boat, had initiated the inferno. The blast nearly ripped the entire stern section off the Canadian boat, while flattening most of the wheelhouse. The stern quickly sank from sight while the mangled bow clung stubbornly to the surface, dangling at a grotesque angle by the attached dock line.

  Dirk was standing in the cabin of his own vessel when the blast struck and was unscathed by any flying debris. He immediately scrambled onto the dock and found Summer, being helped to her feet by Trevor. Like Dirk, she was unhurt by the blast. Trevor was less fortunate. His back was soaked with blood from a large splinter embedded in his shoulder, and he limped from a timber that had slammed into his leg. He ignored the injuries and hobbled over to the smoldering remains of his boat. Summer and Dirk checked each other to ensure they were uninjured, then Dirk jumped back aboard and grabbed a fire extinguisher, dousing several smoldering piles of debris that threatened to start a larger fire.

  Summer found a towel and hurried over to Trevor, who was compressing the cut on his shoulder as he stared blankly at the ruins of his boat. As a police siren wailed its imminent approach, Trevor turned and gazed at Summer with a look of hurt and anger.

  “It has to be Terra Green,” he muttered quietly. “I wonder if they killed my brother, too?”

  * * *

  At a harborside coffee shop two miles away, Clay Zak stared out the window, admiring the plume of smoke and flame that rose above the water in the distance. Finishing an espresso and Danish, he left a large tip on the table, then walked to his brown rented Jeep parked up the street.

  “Smoke on the water,” he muttered aloud, humming the Deep Purple rock tune before climbing into the car. Without the least concern, he drove to the airport outside of town, where Mitchell Goyette’s private jet waited for him on the tarmac.

  37

  The business jet circled the airfield once, waiting for a small plane to take off and clear the field, before the control tower gave approval to land. Painted in the same shade of turquoise as its fellow sea vessels, the NUMA Hawker 750 touched down lightly on the runway. The small jet taxied to a redbrick building before pulling to a halt alongside a much larger Gulfstream G650. The fuselage door opened and Pitt quickly stepped out, slipping on a jacket to ward off a brisk chill in the air. He walked into the terminal building, where he was greeted by a rotund man standing behind a counter.

  “Welcome to Elliot Lake. It’s not often we have two jets in on the same day,” he said in a friendly rural voice.

  “A little short for the carriers?” Pitt asked.

  “Our runway is only forty-five hundred feet, but we hope to expand it next year. Can I fix you up with a rental car?”

  Pitt nodded, and soon left the terminal with a set of keys to a blue Ford SUV. Spreading a map on the hood of the car, he studied his new surroundings. Elliot Lake was a small town near the northeast shores of Lake Huron. Situated some two hundred and seventy-five miles due north of Detroit, the town lay in the Algoma District of Ontario Province. Surrounded by Canadian wilderness, the landscape was a lush mix of rugged mountains, winding rivers, and deep lakes. Pitt found the airport on his map, carved out of the dense forest a few miles south of the town. He traced a lone highway that traveled south through the mountains, culminating on the shores of Lake Huron and the Trans-Canada Highway. About
fifteen miles to the west was Pitt’s destination, an old logging and mining town called Blind River.

  The drive was scenic, the road winding past several mountain lakes and a surging river that dropped over a steep waterfall. The terrain flattened as he reached the shores of Lake Huron and the town of Blind River. He drove slowly through the small hamlet, admiring the quaint wooden homes, which were mostly built in the 1930s. Pitt continued past the city limits until he spotted a large steel warehouse adjacent to a field littered with high mounds of rock and ore. A large maple leaf flag flew above a weathered sign that read ONTARIO MINERS CO-OP AND REPOSITORY. Pitt turned in and parked near the entrance as a broad-shouldered man in a brown suit walked down the steps and climbed into a late-model white sedan. Pitt noticed the man staring at him through a pair of dark sunglasses as he climbed out of his own rental car and entered the building.

  The dusty interior resembled a mining museum. Rusty ore carts and pickaxes jammed the corners, alongside high shelves that overflowed with mining journals and old photographs. Behind a long wooden counter sat a massive antique banker’s safe that Pitt guessed held the more valuable mineral samples.

  Seated behind the counter was an older man who appeared almost as dusty as the room’s interior. He had a bulb-shaped head, and his gray hair, eyes, and mustache matched the faded flannel shirt he wore beneath a pair of striped suspenders. He peered at Pitt through a pair of Ben Franklin glasses perched low on his nose.

  “Good morning,” Pitt said, introducing himself. Gazing up at a polished tin container that resembled a large liquor flask, he remarked, “Beautiful old oil cadger you have there.”

  The old man’s eyes lit up as he realized Pitt wasn’t a lost tourist looking for directions.

  “Yep, used to refill the early miners’ oil lamps. Came from the nearby Bruce Mines. My grandpappy worked the copper mines there till they shut down in 1921,” he said in a wheezy voice.