With all eyes turned his way, Neddermeyer then set out to do what most vessels in the Arctic specifically avoid: to be frozen into the ice.
His crew would then follow the movement of the pack as it drifted this time past Ellesmere and Baffin Islands, including Fury and Hecla Strait for up to two years. But unlike other vagabonds who used press agents, satellite phones, and laptop computers, Neddermeyer insisted he would not contact the outside world until the Sverdrup Explorer sailed back into Oslo Harbor, as the original Fram had done more than a century before. Though the expedition’s sponsors initially complained, the mystique and uncertainty of the Explorer’s success eventually added a kind of collector’s fervor to merchandise created for the event and a serial adventure quality to the infrequent news of the ship’s progress around the pole. Not since Thor Heyerdahl’s 1947 South Pacific voyage in the Kon-Tiki had the public been so forcefully engaged by such an event, which amounted more to a high-priced gimmick than to any research experiment.
Now, some twenty months after the Sverdrup Explorer had sailed into the known-but-unknown, its emergency beacon had broken the prolonged silence.
The Sverdrup Explorer appeared on the Phoenix’s radar screen just after midnight. Over the next hour, the Nolan Group vessel approached to within half a mile of the Explorer before anchoring. Although the Phoenix’s sensor array could provide a detailed description of the surrounding obstructions even in complete darkness, Carol wanted her crew to have nothing to do with the vessel until 5:00 a.m. That would give them at least twelve hours of solid daylight before the sun once again began to slip below the horizon.
Frisch had tried to hail the Explorer for the first hour after they came into range, then again before he retired for the night, to no avail. If the crew of the Explorer had seen the Phoenix’s approach, they had no interest in communication, even if it meant avoiding a possible collision with another vessel. Until full dawn, the glow of the Phoenix would have to serve as a night-light for both vessels.
Garner studied the Explorer from his position on the bridge of the Phoenix.
Though there was little moonlight, the distinctive silhouette of the Explorer could easily be seen against the silvery cast of the floating ice. Garner had heard how Neddermeyer, ever the megalomaniac, had waged a jurisdictional war to build his ship exactly to the original specifications. As construction progressed, some unexpected concessions had to be made — for example, the sturdy oak and greenheart timbers used to construct the original Fram had been virtually logged out of Europe and so were imported. But the belligerent captain remained steadfast in his goal, even disputing the twentieth century’s more rigorous requirements for lifesaving, navigation, and communication equipment for the sake of historical consistency. Garner didn’t know the official outcome of that dispute, but the Explorer now floated on the ice as silent and dark as a ghost ship. Only the persistent beeping of the vessel’s distress beacon let them know she contained any electronics at all.
“What do you make of it?” Zubov asked him.
“There’s no way they couldn’t have heard or seen us approach,” Garner replied. “They may be living in a floating log cabin, but we’re lit up like a parade float. If they really were in some kind of distress, they would have sent up a flare by now.”
Zubov wondered if the Explorer’s crew was foolish enough to leave even their flares behind.
Daybreak revealed a carpet of broken ice floating between the two ships. As Captain Parsons had relayed, it was too small an ice formation to permit any sort of helicopter landing, but the Explorer itself looked in good condition.
The sails on all three of her masts had been secured, her sturdy windmill stood silent, and the gear on the deck was lashed in place.
There was still no sign of any activity on the boat and all hailings were ignored.
“Okay, now I’m worried,” Byrnes said, as Garner, Zubov, and Junko joined him on the deck of the Phoenix.
“What are the odds those Norwegian bastards froze to death out here? Or starved?”
“If you believe the press on Neddermeyer, he wouldn’t ask for a glass of water if his beard was on fire,” Garner said. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he abandoned ship rather than face the humiliation of failing in the face of his promises or to add drama to his tale.”
“Maybe they set out for the pole on foot and forgot to set the parking brake,” Byrnes said. In 1895, Nansen had made a similar attempt, leaving the Fram and trekking on foot for several weeks.
To Zubov, the silent vessel brought back too many eerie memories of the Sato Maru, a freighter that he and Garner had found adrift and whose crew had all succumbed to a then-unknown plague.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Zubov asked his friend.
“I’m trying not to,” Garner admitted.
Carol joined them last. All were dressed in their cold-weather gear, full radiation field suits pulled over that. Looking every bit like astronauts from some 1950s science-fiction movie, the team gathered together some rudimentary emergency and first-aid equipment, then waited as one of the deck cranes lowered a Zodiac inflatable boat into the water.
“How are the rad levels?” Garner asked.
“Actually, much lower than where we were yesterday,” Junko answered. “Still high, but the main contamination seems to be localized behind us for now.”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Carol said testily. She hated the claustrophobic sensation produced by the radiation suits, the binding of the locking collars at her neck, wrists, and ankles, and the ridiculously small plastic window that served as her viewport to her surroundings. The knowledge that she was breathing recirculated air only increased the feeling of being wrapped in a dry-cleaning bag.
“Come on, troops,” she said, stepping into the Zodiac. “Let’s go see what’s what.”
Garner, Zubov, Junko, and Byrnes followed her into the boat and Byrnes started the outboard motor. A straight-line route to the Explorer was not possible through the floating ice, so they circled around the other vessel until it was between them and the Phoenix.
As Byrnes nosed the Zodiac into the ice, Zubov leaned his bulk over the gunwale, testing the floe for strength.
“If it’ll hold me, it’ll hold you,” he announced to the others and climbed out of the boat.
“This is really strange,” Byrnes muttered as he climbed after him. They were no more than fifteen yards from the side of the Explorer, yet no one aboard had come on deck. The sound of the Zodiac’s outboard motor alone should have been enough to draw the attention of all hands.
“No lifeboats?” he asked, nodding at the Explorer.
“Longboats and sledges,” Garner replied.
“True to the original.” The longboats, at least, appeared to be in place. Why?
“Stick close and watch your footing,” Carol cautioned. She dropped down several inches as she stepped into a patch of soft pack, then regained her stride.
“Ahoy!” Garner called out as they neared the ship.
“Hello?”
Garner led them aboard. Of course he had seen pictures of the Explorer in the news — all of them had — but this was the first time any of them had seen it in person. Only Garner had seen the original Fram enshrined in its museum in Bygdeynes. The two vessels were, as reported, identical, but seeing the Explorer here in the Arctic brought history to life in a way that no landlocked memorial ever could. Garner could see how Neddermeyer had been so persuasive in convincing anyone with the slightest nautical bent to follow his dream.