The Polar Dawn’s crew was rounded up and marched off the cutter to a white dockside building that had formerly been a fish house, its weathered exterior peeling and blistered. Inside, several rows of makeshift bunks had been hastily set up to accommodate the imprisoned crew. The men were confined in relative comfort, however, their captors providing warm food, cold beer, and books and videos for entertainment. Murdock approached the Mountie in charge, a towering man with ice blue eyes.
“How long are we to be confined here?” the captain asked.
“I don’t really know myself. All I can tell you is that our government is demanding an apology and reparations for the destruction of the Beaufort Sea ice camp and an acknowledgment that the Northwest Passage is rightly part of Canada’s internal waters. It’s up to your government leaders to respond. Your men will be treated with all consideration, but I must warn you not to attempt an escape. We have been authorized to use force as necessary.”
Murdock nodded, suppressing a smile. The request, he knew, would go over in Washington like a lead balloon.
48
Pitt had just stepped off a commercial airline flight to Calgary when news of the Polar Dawn’s seizure hit the newswires. Mobs of passengers were crowded around airport televisions, trying to digest the impact of the event. Pitt stopped and watched briefly as a Canadian political commentator called for a shutdown of all oil, gas, and hydroelectric power exports to the U.S. until they agreed to Canada’s ownership of the Northwest Passage. Pitt stepped to a quiet corner by an empty gate and dialed a direct number to the Vice President’s office. A secretary immediately put the call through, and the businesslike voice of James Sandecker burst through the phone in an irritated tone.
“Make it quick, Dirk. I’ve got my hands full with this Canada situation,” he barked without preamble.
“I just caught the news here in Calgary,” Pitt replied.
“That’s a long ways from Washington. What are you doing in Calgary? ”
“Waiting for a flight to Yellowknife and then a puddle jumper to Tuktoyaktuk. The Narwhal has been sitting in port there since picking up the survivors of the Canadian Ice Lab.”
“That’s what started this whole mess. I’d like to get my hands on the real joker who smashed up that camp. In the meantime, you better get that vessel out of Canadian waters pronto, then return to Washington.”
“Rudi’s on his way back to D.C. with a directive to suspend all NUMA research projects around Canada and immediately move our vessels to neutral waters. I’ve just got a special job up here to close down personally.”
“This have anything to do with that pet science project your pretty wife keeps haranguing me about?”
Bless Loren’s heart, Pitt thought. She had already gone after the old man.
“Yes, it does. We need to find the source of the ore, Admiral.”
The line went silent, but Pitt could hear some papers being shuffled at the other end.
“Loren writes a bang-up policy paper,” Sandecker finally grunted. “Like to have her on my staff if she ever gets tired of serving in Congress.”
“I’m afraid her constituents wouldn’t let her.”
“This ruthenium… it’s the real deal?”
“Yes, conclusively proven. And there’s somebody else in the hunt for it, which confirms its worth.”
“If it can make this artificial photosynthesis fly, then it would be invaluable. I can’t begin to tell you how bad things are economically because of the energy crunch. The President’s carbon mandate puts us on even more of a tightrope. If we don’t find a way out, then we’re headed for a full-blown meltdown.”
“Finding the mineral might be our only chance,” Pitt replied.
“Loren’s cover letter says there may be a source linked to the lost Franklin Expedition?”
“There are some compelling clues in that direction. It seems to be the only real lead to a near-term supply of the mineral.”
“And you want to conduct a search?”
“Yes.”
“This is some poor timing on your part, Dirk.”
“Can’t be helped. It’s too important not to try. And it’s too important to come up second. I’d just like to know where things are headed with the Polar Dawn.”
“Are you on a secure line?”
“No.”
Sandecker hesitated. “The chickens want to lay some eggs, but the rooster is still pacing the henhouse.”
“How soon before breakfast?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
Pitt knew that Sandecker often referred to the Pentagon generals as chickens, due to the eagle insignias on their caps. The message was clear. The Secretary of Defense was pushing for a military response, but the President had not made up his mind yet. A decision would be forthcoming shortly.
“The Canadian demand is being treated seriously,” Sandecker continued. “You need to collect your vessel and get on over to Alaska, assuming the Canadians will let you leave port. Don’t mess around, Dirk. I can’t give you any support in Canadian waters. This thing will likely blow over in a few weeks and you can resume your search then.”
A few weeks could easily turn into months, and the summer season in the Arctic would be lost. Add an early cold snap and they would be shut out from searching around King William Island until the following spring thaw.
“You’re right, Admiral. I’ll take the Narwhal and sail her to calmer waters.”
“Do it, Dirk. And don’t delay.”
Pitt hung up the phone with no intention of sailing the Narwhal to Alaska. If his phone conversation was being monitored, he could say nothing different. And he had not lied to Sandecker. Taking the Narwhal farther along the passage would indeed be sailing into much calmer waters than the Beaufort Sea.
At the other end of the line, Sandecker hung up the phone and shook his head. He knew Pitt almost like a son. And he knew full well that he wasn’t about to sail the Narwhal to Alaska.
49
The white flecks floated lazily in the dark sky, growing larger to the eye as they approached the earth. It was only when they reached an altitude of a hundred feet or so that their rapid speed of descent became apparent. A few seconds later, they struck the ice-covered ground, landing with a crackling thud. First to touch down was a trio of large wooden boxes, painted flat white to blend with the surroundings. Then human forms followed, ten in all, each recoiling into a ball as their feet touched the ground. Instantly, each man stripped off his harness and rolled his parachute into a ball, then quickly buried the entirety beneath a foot of ice.
A moderate breeze had scattered the men over a half-mile swath, but within minutes they had assembled near one of the crates. Though it was a moonless night, visibility was better than a hundred yards because of the stars that twinkled brightly overhead. The men quickly lined up in front of their commander, a tall, deeply tanned man named Rick Roman. Like the men under him, Roman was dressed in a white camouflage snowsuit with matching helmet and drop-down night vision goggles. On his hip, he carried a holstered Colt.45 automatic pistol.
“Quality drop, men. We’ve only got an hour of darkness ahead of us, so let’s get to work. Green Squad has runway detail, and Blue Squad has Zodiac and base assembly. Let’s move.”
The men, members of the Army’s elite Delta Force, quickly attacked the large crates, spilling their contents. Two of the boxes each contained a Zodiac inflatable boat along with some cold-weather bivouac gear. The third crate contained two Bob-cat compact track loaders, converted to run on electric batteries. A smaller container inside held additional weapons, ammunition, meals, and medical kits.