Arctic Drift dp-20 Read online

  “How far to the next collection point?” Summer asked, taking a seat on a wooden stool and watching the waves roll by.

  Dirk peered at the computer monitor again, locating a small black triangle at the top of the screen. A HYPACK software program marked the previous collection sites and plotted a route to the next sample target.

  “We have about eight miles to go. Plenty of time for a bite before we get there.” He kicked open a cooler and pulled out a ham sandwich and a root beer, then tweaked the wheel to keep the boat on track.

  The forty-five-foot aluminum workboat skimmed over the flat waters of the passage like a dart. Painted turquoise blue like all National Underwater and Marine Agency research vessels, it was fitted with cold-water dive gear, marine survey equipment, and even a tiny ROV for underwater videotaping. Creature comforts were minimal, but the boat was the perfect platform for performing coastal research studies.

  Dirk swung the wheel to starboard, giving wide berth to a gleaming white Princess Lines cruise ship headed in the opposite direction. A handful of topside tourists waved heartily in their direction, whom Dirk obliged by waggling his arm out a side window.

  “Seems like one goes by every hour,” Summer remarked.

  “More than thirty vessels run the passage in the summer months, so it does seem like the Jersey Turnpike.”

  “You’ve never even laid eyes on the Jersey Turnpike.”

  Dirk shook his head. “Fine. Then it seems like Interstate H-1 in Honolulu at rush hour.”

  The siblings had grown up in Hawaii, where they developed a passion for the sea. Their single mother fostered an early interest in marine biology and encouraged both children to learn to dive at a young age. Fraternal twins who were both athletic and adventurous, Dirk and Summer spent much of their youth on or near the water. Their interest continued into college, where both studied ocean sciences. They somehow ended on opposite coasts, Summer obtaining an advanced degree from Scripps Institute while Dirk garnered a graduate degree in marine engineering from New York Maritime College.

  It was on their mother’s deathbed that they first learned the identity of their father, who ran the National Underwater and Marine Agency and shared the same name as Dirk. An emotional reunion led to a close relationship with the man they had never known. They now found themselves working under his tutelage in the special projects department of NUMA. It was a dream job, enabling them to travel the world together, studying the oceans and solving some of the never-ending mysteries of the deep.

  Dirk kept the throttle down as they passed a fishing boat headed north, then pulled up a quarter mile later. As the boat approached the designated target, he killed the engines and drifted over the position. Summer walked to the stern and rigged her fishing line with an empty vial as a pair of Dall’s porpoises broke the surface nearby and eyed the boat with curiosity.

  “Watch out for Flipper when you cast that thing,” Dirk said, walking onto the deck. “Beaning a porpoise brings bad karma.”

  “How about beaning your brother?”

  “Much, much worse.” He smiled as the marine mammals ducked under the surface. He scanned the surrounding waters, waiting for them to resurface, when he noticed the fishing boat again. She had gradually changed course and was now turning south. Dirk noted that it sailed on a circular course and would soon bear down on his own craft.

  “You better make it quick, Summer. I don’t think this guy is watching where he’s going.”

  Summer glanced at the approaching boat, then tossed the water vial over the side. The weighted apparatus quickly sank into the murk as a dozen feet of loose line was let out. When the line drew taut, Summer jerked it, causing the inverted vial to flip over and fill with subsurface water. Reeling in the line, she looked toward the fishing boat. It continued to turn in a lazy arc barely a hundred feet away, its bow easing toward the NUMA vessel.

  Dirk had already returned to the wheelhouse and hit a button on the cowl. A honking blast erupted from a pair of trumpeted air horns mounted on the bow. The loud bellow echoed across the water but incited no reaction from the fishing boat. It continued to turn lazily toward a rendezvous with the research boat.

  Dirk quickly fired up the engine and shoved the throttle forward as Summer finished pulling in the water sample. With a quick surge, the boat knifed to port a few yards, then slowed as the fishing boat edged by just a few feet away.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone is on the bridge,” Summer shouted. She saw Dirk hang up the radio transmitter.

  “I get no reply on the radio,” he confirmed with a nod. “Summer, come take the wheel.”

  Summer rushed into the cabin and stowed the water sample, then slid into the pilot’s seat.

  “You want to get aboard?” she asked, gauging her brother’s intent.

  “Yes. See if you can match speed with her, then bring us alongside.”

  Summer chased after the fishing boat, following in its wake, before pulling up alongside. She could tell that the fishing boat was traveling in ever-widening circles, then looked in alarm at its projected path. A widening arc along with a peaking flood tide was driving it in a loop toward Gil Island. In just a few minutes, the boat would reach the fringe of the island and rip its hull out on the rocky shoreline.

  “Better act quick,” she yelled to her brother. “She’ll be on the rocks in no time.”

  Dirk nodded and motioned with his hand to bring the boat closer. He had scrambled onto the bow and hunched with his feet over the low side railing. Summer held steady for a moment, getting a feel for the other boat’s speed and turning radius, then inched closer. When she pulled within two feet of the other boat, Dirk leaped, landing on the deck beside a net roller. Summer instantly pulled away, then followed the fishing boat a few yards behind.

  Scrambling past the nets, Dirk headed straight for the fishing boat’s wheelhouse, where he found a scene of horror. Three men were sprawled on the deck, a look of agony etched on their faces. One of the men stared through open, glassy eyes and oddly clutched a pencil with a frozen hand. Dirk could tell by their gray pallor that the men were dead, but he quickly checked for pulses all the same. He noted curiously that the bodies were unmarked, with no visible blood or open wounds. Finding no signs of life, he grimly took the wheel and straightened the boat’s course, calling Summer over the radio to follow him. Shaking off a chill, he anxiously piloted the vessel toward the nearest port, silently wondering what had killed the men lying dead at his feet.

  3

  The White House security guard stood at the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance and stared in puzzlement at the man approaching on the sidewalk. He was short yet walked with a bold stride, his chest out and chin up, with an air of command. With fire-red hair and matching goatee, he reminded the guard of a bantam rooster stalking the henhouse. But it wasn’t his appearance or demeanor that most caught the guard’s attention. Rather, it was the large unlit stogie that protruded from the man’s lips.

  “Charlie… isn’t that the VP? ” he asked his companion in the guard box. But his fellow agent was on the telephone and didn’t hear him. By now, the man had approached the small entryway alongside the guardhouse.

  “Good evening,” he said in a gritty voice. “I have an eight o’clock appointment with the President.”

  “May I see your credentials, sir?” the guard asked nervously.

  “I don’t carry that nonsense around,” the man replied gruffly. He stopped and took the cigar out of his mouth. “The name’s Sandecker.”

  “Yes, sir. But I still need your credentials, sir,” the guard replied, his face turning bright red.

  Sandecker squinted at the guard, then softened. “I understand that you are just doing your job, son. Why don’t you call Chief of Staff Meade and tell him I’m at the gate?”

  Before the disheveled guard could respond, his partner stuck his head out of the guard box.

  “Good evening, Mr. Vice President. Another late meeting with the President?” he asked.


  “Good evening, Charlie,” Sandecker replied. “Yes, I’m afraid this is the only time we can talk without interruption.”

  “Why don’t you go on in,” Charlie said.

  Sandecker took a step, then stopped. “See you’ve got a new man on the job,” he said, turning to the numb guard who had stopped him. The Vice President then reached out and shook hands with the man.

  “Keep up the good work, son,” he said, then turned and ambled up the drive to the White House.

  Though he had spent the better part of his career in the nation’s capital, James Sandecker was never one for official Washington protocol. A retired admiral, Sandecker was well known within the Beltway for the blunt manner in which he had administered the National Underwater and Marine Agency for many years. He’d been startled when the President asked him to replace his elected running mate, who had died in office. Though he lacked a political bone in his body, Sandecker knew he could be a stronger proponent for the environment and the oceans that he loved and so had readily accepted the offer.

  As Vice President, Sandecker tried his best to shun the trappings that came with the office. He continually frustrated his Secret Service contingent by ditching them at will. A physical-fitness fanatic, he was often seen out jogging solo along the Mall. He worked out of an office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building rather than utilizing a similar space in the West Wing, preferring to avoid the political haze that enveloped all White House administrations. Even in poor weather he would stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue for meetings in the White House, preferring a dose of fresh air to the underground tunnel that connected the two buildings. In good weather, he was even known to hike up to Capitol Hill for congressional meetings, tiring the Secret Service agents assigned to keep up with him.

  Passing through another security checkpoint at the entrance to the West Wing, Sandecker was escorted by a White House staffer to the Oval Office. Shown through the northwest doorway, he crossed the blue-carpeted room alone and took a seat across from the President at his desk. It wasn’t until he was seated that he took a good look at the President and nearly winced.

  President Garner Ward was a mess. The populist independent from Montana, who bore a passing resemblance in character and appearance to Teddy Roosevelt, looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Puffy sandbags of flesh protruded beneath his blotchy red eyes while his facial skin appeared sullen and gray. He stared at Sandecker with a grim demeanor that was uncharacteristic of the normally jocular Chief Executive.

  “Garner, you’ve been burning the midnight oil a bit too much,” Sandecker said in a concerned tone.

  “Can’t be helped,” the President replied in a weary voice. “We’re in a helluva state at the moment.”

  “I saw the news that the price of gasoline has hit ten dollars a gallon. This latest oil shock is hitting quite hard.”

  The country was facing yet another unexpected spike in oil prices. Iran had recently halted all oil exports in response to Western sanctions, while labor strikes in Nigeria had reduced African oil exports to nearly zero. Worse for the U.S. was the suspension of oil exports from Venezuela, orchestrated by the country’s volatile President. The price of gasoline and fuel oil quickly skyrocketed while shortages erupted nationwide.

  “We haven’t seen the worst of it,” the President replied. He slid a letter across his desk for Sandecker to read.

  “It’s from the Canadian Prime Minister,” Ward continued. “Because of legislation passed by Parliament that drastically curtails greenhouse gas emissions, the Canadian government is forcing closure of most of the Athabasca oil sands operations. The Prime Minister regrets to inform us that all associated oil exports to the U.S. will be halted until they can solve the carbon emission problem.”

  Sandecker read the letter and slowly shook his head. “Those sands account for nearly fifteen percent of our imported oil. That’ll be a crushing blow to the economy.”

  The recent price surge had already been felt hard across the country. Hundreds of people in the Northeast had died during a winter cold snap when fuel oil stocks ran dry. Airlines, trucking companies, and related transport businesses were driven toward bankruptcy, while hundreds of thousands of workers in other industries had already been laid off. The entire economy seemed on the brink of collapse, while public outrage swelled at a government that could do little to alter the forces of supply and demand.

  “There’s no sense in getting angry at the Canadians,” the President said. “Shutting down Athabasca is a rather noble gesture, in light of the accelerated global-warming figures we keep seeing.”

  Sandecker nodded. “I just received a National Underwater and Marine Agency report on ocean temperatures. The seas are warming much faster than previously predicted, while rising at the same pace. There seems to be no stopping the melting of the polar ice caps. The rise in sea level is going to create a global upheaval that we can’t even imagine.”

  “As if we don’t have enough problems,” the President muttered. “And not only that, we’re also facing potentially devastating economic repercussions. The global anti-coal campaign is gaining real support. A lot of countries are considering the proposed boycott of American and Chinese goods unless we give up burning coal.”

  “The problem is,” Sandecker noted, “coal-fired power plants are the largest single source of greenhouse gas emissions — but they also provide half of our electricity. And we have the largest coal reserves in the world. It’s a painful dilemma.”

  “I’m not sure that our nation could survive economically if an international boycott gained momentum,” the President replied in a low voice. The exhausted Chief Executive leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “I fear we are at a tipping point, Jim, in terms of both the economy and the environment. Disaster awaits if we don’t take the right steps.”

  The pressures of the situation were building, and Sandecker could see that they were clearly taking a toll on the President’s health. “We’re in for some tough choices,” Sandecker replied. Taking pity on a man he considered a close friend, he added, “You can’t solve it all yourself, Garner.”

  An angry fire suddenly lit in the President’s tired eyes. “Maybe I can’t. But I shouldn’t have to try. We’ve seen this coming for a decade or more yet nobody had the will to act. Prior administrations spent their time propping up the oil companies while throwing peanuts at renewable-energy research. The same goes for global warming. Congress was too busy protecting the coal industry to see that they were setting the planet up for destruction. Everyone knew that our economic reliance on foreign oil would someday come to haunt us, and now that day has arrived.”

  “There’s no debating the shortsightedness of our predecessors,” Sandecker agreed. “Washington has never been a town known for its courage. But we owe it to the American people to do what we can to right the wrongs of the past.”

  “The American people,” the President replied with anguish. “What am I supposed to tell them now? Sorry, we had our head in the sand? Sorry, we’re now facing rampant fuel shortages, hyperinflation, staggering unemployment, and an economic depression? And, sorry, the rest of the world wants us to stop burning coal, so the lights are going out, too?”

  The President slumped in his chair, staring at the wall in a lost gaze.

  “I can’t offer them a miracle,” he said.

  A long silence lingered over the office before Sandecker responded in a low tone. “You don’t need to offer a miracle, just a sharing of the pain. It will be a tough pill to swallow, but we’ll have to take a stand and redirect our energy use away from oil. The public is resilient when it counts. Lay it on the line, Garner, and they will stand with us and accept the sacrifices to come.”

  “Perhaps,” the President replied in a defeated tone. “But will they stand with us when they figure out that it may be too late? ”

  4

  Elizabeth Finlay stepped to the bedroom window and glanced at the sky. A light drizzle beat down, as i
t had for most of the day, and showed no signs of letting up. She turned and gazed at the waters of Victoria Harbor, which lapped at a stone seawall behind her house. The harbor waters appeared calm, broken by a sprinkling of whitecaps kicked up by the light breeze. It was about as good a spring sailing day as it got in the Pacific Northwest, she thought.

  Pulling on a thick sweater and a weathered yellow rain slicker, she padded down the stairs of her expansive shoreline home. Built by her late husband in the 1990s, it featured a honeycomb of broad glass windows, which captured a dramatic view of downtown Victoria across the harbor. T. J. Finlay had planned it that way, as a constant reminder of the city he loved. A larger-than-life character, Finlay had dominated the local political scene. An heir to the Canadian Pacific Railway fortune, he had entered politics at an early age, becoming a popular and long-standing MP for greater Victoria. He had died unexpectedly of a heart attack but would have been delighted to know that his wife of thirty-five years had easily won election to his seat in Parliament.

  A delicate yet adventurous woman, Elizabeth Finlay came from a long line of Canadian settlers and was fiercely proud of her heritage. She was troubled by what she saw as unjust external influences on Canada and was a vocal critic for tougher immigration standards and tighter restrictions on foreign ownership and investment. While ruffling feathers in the business community, she was widely admired for her courage, bluntness, and honesty.

  Stepping out a back door, she made her way across a manicured lawn and down a flight of steps to a heavy wooden dock that marched into the bay. A happy black Lab followed at her heels, wagging its tail in tireless bliss. Moored at the dock was a sleek sixty-five-foot offshore motor yacht. Though nearly twenty years old, it sparkled like new, the product of impeccable care. Opposite the yacht was a small wooden Wayfarer sailboat of sixteen feet, emblazoned with a bright yellow hull. Like the yacht, the vintage racing sailboat was kept looking new with polished brightwork and fresh lines and sails.