Summer thought of the strange cloud they had seen on the water, and the eerie Haisla tale of Devil’s Breath. “I don’t believe it either,” she said.
“I don’t know what the truth is. Maybe that will help tell us,” he said, staring at the water sample kit.
Dirk piloted the boat at top speed for over two hours until they reached the Hecate Strait. Tracking the navigation system, he cut the engine when they reached the GPS coordinates where the last water sample had been taken. Summer dropped a Niskin bottle over the side and scooped up a vial of seawater, then inserted a probe from the water analyzer.
“The pH reading is about 6.4. Not nearly the extreme we found two days ago, but still well below normal seawater levels.”
“Low enough to create havoc with the phytoplankton, which will ultimately sound a death knell up the food chain,” Dirk noted.
Summer gazed at the serene beauty of Gil Island and the surrounding passage inlets, then shook her head. “Hard to figure what could be causing the high acidity levels in such a pristine area,” she said.
“Maybe a passing freighter with a leaky bilge or one that outright dumped some toxic waste,” Dirk posed.
Trevor shook his head. “It’s not very likely here. Commercial traffic generally runs on the other side of Gil Island. Typically, the only traffic through here is fishing boats and ferryboats. And of course the occasional Alaskan cruise ship.”
“Then we’ve got to expand our sampling until we can pinpoint the source,” Summer said, labeling the specimen and preparing the Niskin bottle for another drop.
For the next several hours, Dirk steered the boat in ever-widening circles, while Summer and Trevor took dozens of water samples. To their chagrin, none of the samples approached the low pH levels reported by the Seattle lab. Letting the boat drift as they took a late-afternoon lunch, Dirk printed out a chart and showed it to the others.
“We’ve run a series of circles extending to an eight-mile radius from our initial sample. As it turns out, that was our peak reading. Everything south of there showed normal pH levels. But north of that point, it is a different story. We’re picking up reduced pH levels in a rough cone shape.”
“Flowing with the prevailing currents,” Trevor noted. “It might well have been a onetime spill of pollutants.”
“Perhaps it’s a natural phenomenon,” Summer suggested. “An underwater volcanic mineral that is creating a high acidity.”
“Now that we know where to look, we’ll be able to find the answer,” Dirk said.
“I don’t understand,” Trevor replied with a blank look.
“NUMA technology to the rescue,” Summer replied. “We’ve got side-scan sonar and an ROV aboard. If there is something on the bottom, we’ll be able to spot it one way or another.”
“But that will have to wait for another day,” Dirk said, noting the late hour. Restarting the motor, he nosed the research boat in the direction of Kitimat and accelerated to twenty-five knots. When they drew closer to Kitimat, Dirk let out a low whistle when he noticed an LNG tanker tucked under a covered dock off a small inlet.
“Can’t believe they run one of those babies in and out of here,” he said.
“She must be offloading at Mitchell Goyette’s carbon sequestration facility,” Summer replied. As she and Trevor explained to Dirk the function of the facility, he eased off the throttle and turned toward the docked tanker.
“What are you doing?” Summer asked.
“Carbon sequestration. Carbon dioxide and acidity go together like peanut butter and jelly — you said so yourself,” he replied. “Maybe there’s a connection with the tanker.”
“The tanker is bringing in CO 2to offload at the facility. An inbound ship could have had an accidental leakage in the passage,” Trevor said. “Though that particular tanker must have come in last night or early this morning.”
“Trevor’s right,” Summer added. “The tanker wasn’t there yesterday, and we didn’t see it in the channel before that.” She studied the facility’s pier, which stretched out into the channel, noticing that Goyette’s luxury yacht and the other visiting boats had all disappeared.
“No harm in collecting a few samples to make sure they’re honest,” Dirk countered.
Seconds later, a dark speedboat came roaring out of the covered dock and headed directly for the NUMA vessel. Dirk ignored the boat and held his course and speed.
“Somebody’s awake,” he muttered. “We’re not even within a mile of the place. A tad touchy, aren’t they?”
He watched as the speedboat veered off when it drew near, circling around in a loop before pulling alongside the research boat. There were three men seated aboard, dressed in innocuous brown security uniforms. But there was nothing innocuous about the Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles they each held across their laps.
“You are approaching private waters,” barked one of the men through a bullhorn. “Turn away immediately.” One of his partners, a stocky Inuit wearing a crew cut, waved his rifle toward the NUMA boat’s wheelhouse for added emphasis.
“I just want to fish off the inlet,” Dirk yelled back, pointing toward the waterway that led to the covered dock. “There’s a deep hole off the mouth teeming with coho.”
“No fishing,” blared the voice through the bullhorn. Crew Cut stood up and pointed his rifle at Dirk for a moment, then motioned with his barrel to turn away. Dirk casually spun the wheel to starboard and pulled away, feigning ignorance of the threat on his life as he tossed a friendly wave at the speedboat. As the boat turned away, Summer nonchalantly leaned over the stern deck gunwale and scooped up a vial of water.
“What’s with the heavy security?” Dirk asked Trevor, as they sped the last few miles to Kitimat.
“They claim they’re trying to protect their proprietary technology, but who knows for sure? The company has shown signs of paranoia from the first day that they broke ground. They brought in their own team of construction workers to build it and have their own team of people to run it. They’re mostly Tlingit, but not from around here. I’ve heard that not a single local resident has been hired for any phase of the operation. On top of that, the employees have their own housing on the grounds. They are never even seen in town.”
“Have you been through the facility?”
“No,” Trevor replied. “My involvement was upfront, with environmental impact statements and the like. I reviewed the plans and walked the site during construction, but was never invited back after they received all of their building approvals. I made several requests to make an on-site review after they went operational, but never got the backing from my higher-ups to press the issue.”
“A powerful guy like Mitchell Goyette can incite a lot of fear in the right places,” Dirk noted.
“You are exactly right. I heard rumors that his acquisition of the building site was accomplished by a great deal of coercion. His building and environmental approvals breezed through without a hiccup, which is nearly unheard-of around here. Somehow, somewhere, there were some skids greased.”
Summer interrupted the conversation by entering the bridge with a vial of water held up in front of her. “Acidity level is normal, at least from a mile outside the facility.”
“Too far off to tell us anything for sure,” Trevor said, looking back at the facility with a contemplative gaze.
Dirk had his own deliberate look about him. He liked to play by the rules but had little tolerance for authoritarian bullying tactics. Summer liked to joke that he was a jovial Clark Kent, who always gave a handout to a beggar or held a door open for a woman. But if someone told him he couldn’t do something, he was apt to turn into the Tasmanian Devil. The confrontation with the security boat rattled his sense of propriety and alerted his suspicions, while silently elevating his blood pressure a few millimeters. He waited until the boat was docked and Trevor waved good-bye, agreeing to meet for dinner in an hour. Then he turned to Summer.