“I hope we haven’t crowded anyone out,” Austin said as he tossed his duffel on a bunk.
Dawe shook his head. “We’ve got a crew of twelve on this cruise—two short of our normal contingent.”
“In that case, we’ll be glad to lend a hand,” Zavala said.
“I’m counting on it, gentlemen.”
Dawe conducted a quick stem-to-stern tour of the ship, and then they went up to the bridge, where he gave the order to get under way. The deckhands cast off the mooring lines, and the ship steamed out of St. John’s harbor. After passing between FortAmherst and Point Spear, the most northeasterly spit of land in North America, the ship headed up along the Newfoundland coast under layers of slag-gray clouds.
Once the ship hit the open sea and settled on its course, Dawe turned over command to his first mate and spread a satellite photo out on a chart table.
“The Eriksson delivers food and equipment to the drilling rigs in the warm months. From February to July, we’re looking for big stuff floating down from Baffin Bay.” He tapped the photo with his forefinger. “This is where most of our North Atlantic bergs originate. Got around a hundred glaciers in West Greenland that turn out some ninety percent of the Newfoundland icebergs.”
“How’s that translate into the actual number of icebergs?” Austin said.
“I’d guess that about forty thousand medium-to-large bergs calve in Greenland. Only a fraction of that total comes this far south. Between four hundred and eight hundred make it to Iceberg Alley, the area forty-eight degrees north latitude off St. John’s. They drift for around a year after calving, and then they pass through the Davis Strait into the Labrador Current.”
“Smack into the great circle shipping lanes,” Austin said.
“You’ve been doing your homework,” Dawe said with a grin. “Yep. That’s where the trouble starts. You’ve got a steady flow of ships between Canada, the States, and Europe. The shipping companies want the voyages to be short and economical. The ships pass just south of the boundary of all known ice.”
“Which is where the Titanic discovered unknown ice,” Austin said.
Dawe’s genial smile dissolved. “You think a lot about the Titanic when you’re out here. It’s a constant reminder that bad seamanship can fetch you a one-way ticket to Davy Jones’s locker. The Titanic’s grave is near the Grand Banks, where the Labrador Current meets the Gulf Stream. There’s a twenty-degree water temperature difference that creates fog that’s as dense as steel wool. The ocean circulation in the area is pretty complex as well.”
“That must make your job hair-raising at times,” Austin observed.
“I wish it was something I could put in a bottle for bald-headed men. A berg can wander around the ocean like a drunk on his way home from a bender. North Atlantic icebergs are the fastest moving in the world. They’ll travel up to seven knots an hour. Fortunately, we’ve got a lot of help. The International Ice Patrol makes regular flights. Passing ships keep tabs on icebergs, and the Eriksson works with a fleet of small spotting planes hired by the oil and gas companies.”
“How’d you get into towing?” Zavala asked.
“We tried using water cannon to move bergs. That works with ‘growlers,’ chunks of ice about the size of a big piano. There isn’t a hose big enough to move a five-hundred-thousand-ton mountain of ice. Towing them to warmer water seems to work the best.”
“How many bergs do you actually lasso?” Austin said.
“Only those that are headed for an oil or gas drilling platform. Two or three dozen. Once a ship hears about a berg, it can adjust its course. A five-billion-dollar world-class rig doesn’t have that option. The floating platforms can move, but it takes time. There was a near collision a few years ago. Berg wasn’t sighted until it got about six miles from the platform. It was too late by then to tow the berg or evacuate the platform. The supply boats pulled it off at the last second. The berg went right over the wellhead.”
“With all the surveillance, I’m surprised the berg got that close,” Austin said.
“As I said, their course can be erratic, depending on shape, size, and wind. That one snuck by us. We’ll be keeping any eye out for a big lunker that disappeared in the fog after being sighted a few days ago. I’ve been calling her Moby-Berg.”
“Let’s hope that we’re not Captain Ahab chasing white whales,” Austin said.
“I’d prefer a white whale to an iceberg,” Dawe said. “By the way, did I ever tell you why Newfoundlanders like to drive in winter?”
Austin and Zavala exchanged blank looks at the odd shift in conversation.
“The snow fills in the potholes,” Dawe said. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks. The captain had a seemingly endless supply of “Newfie” jokes that poked fun at his heritage. The jokes continued through dinner.
The Leif Eriksson’s cook served up a meal that would have been worthy of a five-star diner. As Austin and Zavala dug into rare roast beef, canned green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes, covered with a layer of thick gravy, the captain unleashed his joke repertoire on his captive audience. Austin and Zavala weathered the barrage of marginal humor until they could take it no longer and excused themselves to turn in.
When they climbed to the bridge early the next morning, the captain must have felt sorry for them. He dispensed with the jokes and poured them mugs of hot coffee. “We’re making good time. We’ve seen a lot of growlers. That’s our first ‘bergy bit.’”
Dawe pointed to an iceberg floating about a quarter of a mile off the starboard bow.
“That’s bigger than any burger bit I’ve ever seen,” Austin said.
“It’s nothing compared to the stuff we’ll see later,” the captain said. “It isn’t considered an iceberg unless it’s nearly twenty feet above the water and fifty feet long. Anything smaller is a bergy or growler.”
“Looks like we’ll have to learn a whole new vocabulary out here,” Zavala commented.
Dawe nodded in agreement. “Welcome to Iceberg Alley, gentlemen.”
Chapter 7
SAXON PICKED UP HIS rental car at the CairoAirport and plunged into the automotive anarchy that passed for traffic flow in the ancient city of the Pyramids. The cacophony of beeping horns and the choking impact of dust and car exhaust was a strong antidote to weeks spent traveling in the lonely deserts of Yemen.
He drove to the outskirts of Cairo and parked on the Sharia Sudan. Pungent barnyard smells and inhuman sounds came from a nearby fenced-in area, the Souq al-Gamaal. The old Cairo camel market. The corrals that had once been surrounded by green fields were hemmed in by apartment houses.
Saxon had suggested the rendezvous. He wanted to meet Hassan in a public place for security. The dung-spattered oasis of old Egypt appealed to his sense of drama as well.
Saxon paid the small entrance fee required of non-Egyptians and strolled among the corrals. Hundreds of camels brought up from the Sudan awaited the slaughterhouse or an even worse fate carrying overweight tourists at the Pyramids.
Saxon paused to watch a protesting dromedary being loaded into the back of a compact pickup truck. He felt a gentle tug at his hand. One of the dirty-faced urchins who haunted the market begging for baksheesh was trying to get his attention.
Saxon followed the boy’s pointing finger. A man was standing under a makeshift awning near a group of haggling camel buyers. Saxon gave the boy a tip and walked across the corral. The man had a café au lait complexion typical of many Egyptians, and a neatly trimmed beard decorated his chin. He wore a circular knit cap and a matching white gallibaya, the long cotton gown favored by many Egyptian men.