Arctic Drift Part 17

Sprawled across the stern bench, dazed and groggy, Dirk stared up at them through gla.s.sy eyes. With a laborious effort, he raised his head slightly and winked at his sister. Summer leaped into the boat and collapsed next to him in surprised relief.

"How did you make it out?" she asked, eyeing a trickle of dried blood along his temple.

Dirk weakly raised an arm and pointed at Trevor, who untied the lines and jumped into the boat.

"No time for plat.i.tudes, I'm afraid," Trevor said with a hurried smile. Starting the motor, he gunned the throttle and spun the small boat around the back side of the tanker and out the covered dock. Never looking back, he aimed the boat down the channel and pushed it to its top speed.

Summer tried to check Dirk's wound under the starlight, finding a large knot on the top of his skull that was still damp with blood. His dive hood had saved him from a deeper gouge to the skin, and perhaps a worse fate as well.

"Forgot to wear my hard hat," he mumbled, trying hard to focus his eyes on Summer.

"Your hard head is much too tough to break," she said, laughing aloud in an emotional release.

The boat plowed through the darkness, Trevor hugging the sh.o.r.eline until suddenly easing off the throttle. The darkened boat Summer had spotted earlier loomed ahead, now recognizable as Trevor's Canadian Resources vessel. Trevor brought the outboard alongside and helped Dirk and Summer aboard, then let the security boat drift. He quickly pulled anchor and motored the research craft down the channel. When they were well out of sight of the facility, he crossed to the opposite side of the channel, then turned and crept back toward Kitimat at slow speed.

Cruising past the Terra Green facility, they witnessed several flashlight beams crisscrossing the grounds but noticed no obvious alarms. The boat slipped unseen into the Kitimat dock, and Trevor killed its motor and tied it off. On the stern deck, Dirk had begun to regain form, save for some dizziness and a pounding head. He shook Trevor's hand after the ecologist helped him ash.o.r.e.

"Thanks for fishing me out. I would have had a long sleep underwater if not for you."

"Entirely good luck. I was swimming along the dock when I heard the small boat come in. I was actually hiding in the water beneath the gangplank when the guard came ash.o.r.e. I didn't even realize it was you until I recognized Summer's voice right before you went over the side. You hit the water just a few feet from me. When you didn't move, I immediately jammed my regulator in your mouth. The hard part was keeping us both submerged until we were out of view."

"Shame on a federal employee for trespa.s.sing on private property," Summer said with a grin.

"It's all your fault," Trevor replied. "You kept talking about the importance of the water samples, so I thought we needed to know if there was a link to the facility." He handed Summer a dive bag containing several small vials of water.

"Hope they match mine," Summer replied, showing her own samples. "Of course, I'll need to get our boat back to complete the a.n.a.lysis."

"Miller's taxi service is always open. I have a mining site inspection in the morning but can run you back down in the afternoon."

"That would be fine. Thanks, Trevor. Perhaps next time we should work a little closer together," Summer said with a beguiling smile.

Trevor's eyes twinkled at her words.

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

22

SCATTERED CHUNKS OF ICE DOTTED THE ROLLING waters of Lancaster Strait, appearing in the dusk like jagged marshmallows floating in a sea of hot chocolate. Against the dim background of Devon Island, a black behemoth crept along the horizon billowing a trail of dark smoke.

"Range twelve kilometers, sir. She's beating a path right across our bow." The helmsman, a red-haired ensign with jug ears, peered from a radarscope to the ship's captain and waited for a response.

Captain d.i.c.k Weber lowered a pair of binoculars without taking his gaze off the distant vessel.

"Keep us on intersect, at least until we obtain an identification," he replied without turning.

The helmsman twisted the ship's wheel a half turn, then resumed studying the radar screen. The eighty-foot Canadian Coast Guard patrol vessel plowed slowly through the dark Arctic waters toward the path of the oncoming vessel. a.s.signed to interdiction duty along the eastern approaches to the Northwest Pa.s.sage, the Harp had been on station just a few days. Though the winter ice had continued the trend of breaking up early, this was the first commercial vessel the patrol craft had seen in the frosty waters this season. In another month or two, there would be a steady stream of ma.s.sive tankers and containerships making the northerly transit accompanied by icebreakers.

Just a few years prior, the thought of policing traffic through the Northwest Pa.s.sage would have been laughable. Since man's earliest forays into the Arctic, major sections of the annual winter pack ice remained frozen solid for all but a few summer days. Only a few hardy explorers and the occasional icebreaker dared fight their way through the blocked pa.s.sage. But global warming had changed everything, and now the pa.s.sage was navigable for months out of the year.

Scientists estimate that over forty thousand square miles of Arctic ice have receded in just the past thirty years. Much of the blame for the rapid melt off is due to the ice albedo-feedback effect. In its frozen state, Arctic ice will reflect up to ninety percent of incoming solar radiation. When melted, the resulting seawater will conversely absorb an equal amount of radiation, reflecting only about ten percent. This warming loop has accounted for the fact that Arctic temperatures are climbing at double the global rate.

Watching the bow of his patrol boat slice through a small ice floe, Weber silently cursed what global climate change had done to him. Transferred from Quebec and comfortable sea duty along the Saint Lawrence River, he now found himself in command of a ship at one of the most remote locations on the planet. And his job, he thought, had been relegated to little more than that of a tollbooth operator.

Weber could hardly blame his superiors, though, for they were just following the mandate of Canada's saber-rattling Prime Minister. When historically frozen sections of the Northwest Pa.s.sage began to melt clear, the Prime Minister was quick to act, affirming the pa.s.sage as Canadian Internal Waters and authorizing funds for a deepwater Arctic port at Nanisivik. Promises to build a fleet of military icebreakers and establish new Arctic bases soon followed. Powerful lobbying by a shadowy interest group propelled the Parliament to support the Prime Minister by pa.s.sing tough restrictions on foreign vessels transiting the pa.s.sage.

By law, all non-Canadian-flagged ships seeking transit through the pa.s.sage were now required to notify the Coast Guard of their planned route, pay a pa.s.sage fee similar to that imposed at the Panama Ca.n.a.l, and be accompanied by a Canadian commercial icebreaker through the more restrictive areas of the pa.s.sage. A few countries, Russia, Denmark, and the United States among them, refuted Canada's claim and discouraged travel through the waters. But other developed nations gladly complied in the name of economics. Merchant ships connecting Europe with East Asia could trim thousands of miles off their shipping routes by avoiding the Panama Ca.n.a.l. The savings were even more dramatic for ships too large to pa.s.s through the ca.n.a.l that would otherwise have to sail around Cape Horn. With the potential to cut the shipping cost of an individual storage container by a thousand dollars, merchant fleets large and small were quick to eye the Arctic crossing as a lucrative commercial path.

As the ice melt off expanded more rapidly than scientists antic.i.p.ated, the first few shipping companies had begun testing the frigid waters. Thick sheets of ice still clogged sections of the route for much of the year, but during the heat of summer the pa.s.sage had regularly become ice-free. Powerful icebreakers aided the more ambitious merchant fleets that sought to run the pa.s.sage from April through September. It was becoming all too evident that within a decade or two, the Northwest Pa.s.sage would be a navigable waterway year-round.

Staring at the approaching black merchant ship, Weber wished the whole pa.s.sage would just freeze solid again. At least the presence of the ship broke up the monotony of staring at icebergs, he thought drily.

"Four kilometers and closing," the helmsman reported.

Weber turned to a lanky radioman wedged into a corner of the small bridge.

"Hopkins, request an identification and the nature of her cargo," he barked.

The radioman proceeded to call the ship, but all his queries were met with silence. He checked the radio, then transmitted several more times.

"She's not responding, sir," he finally replied with a perplexed look. His experience with pa.s.sing vessels in the Arctic was that they were usually p.r.o.ne to excessive chitchat from the isolated crews.

"Keep trying," Weber ordered. "We're nearly close enough for a visual ID."

"Two kilometers off," the helmsman confirmed.

Weber retrained his binoculars and examined the vessel. She was a relatively small containership of no more than four hundred feet. She was by appearance a newer vessel but oddly showed only a few containers on her topside deck. Similar ships, he knew, often carried containers stacked six or seven layers high. Curious, he studied her Plimsoll line, noting the mark was several feet above the water. Moving his gaze vertically, he looked at a darkened bridge, then at a masthead behind the superstructure. He was startled to see the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the stiff breeze.

"She's American," he muttered. The nationality surprised him, as American ships had informally boycotted the pa.s.sage at the urging of their government. Weber focused the gla.s.ses on the ship's bow, just making out the name ATLANTA in white lettering as the evening light began to fade.

"Her name is the Atlanta," he said to Hopkins. The radio operator nodded and tried hailing the ship by name, but there was still no response.

Weber hung the binoculars on a metal hook, then located a binder on the chart table and flipped it open, searching for the name Atlanta on a computer printout. All non-Canadian vessels making a transit of the Northwest Pa.s.sage were required to file notification with the Coast Guard ninety-six hours in advance. Weber checked to see that his file had been updated by satellite link earlier in the day but still found no reference to the Atlanta.

"Bring us up on her port bow. Hopkins, tell them that they are crossing Canadian territorial waters and order her to stop for boarding and inspection."

While Hopkins transmitted the message, the helmsman adjusted the ship's heading, then glanced at the radar screen.

"The channel narrows ahead, sir," he reported. "Pack ice encroaching on our port beam approximately three kilometers ahead."

Weber nodded, his eyes still glued to the Atlanta. The merchant ship was moving at a surprisingly fast clip, over fifteen knots, he guessed. As the Coast Guard vessel edged closer, Weber again observed that the ship was riding high on the water. Why would a lightly laden ship be attempting the pa.s.sage? he wondered.

"One kilometer to intercept," the helmsman said.

"Come right. Bring us to within a hundred meters," the captain ordered.