Arctic Drift Part 31

A pair of thick hands appeared and scooped away more of the dirt and gravel that had buried Pitt's head and torso. Pitt's arms finally broke free, and he helped push the small mountain of dirt away from his body. Reaching up with his sleeve, he wiped away the matted blood and dust from his eyes and finally took a look at his surroundings. With the seat belt tugging uncomfortably across his chest, he finally realized that he was the one upside down, not the dachshund. The helping pair of hands reached in and found the release b.u.t.ton on the seat belt, dropping Pitt to the ceiling of the car. Pitt shuffled toward the driver's-side window, but the hands yanked him toward the open pa.s.senger door.

"You don't want to go that way, mister. The first step is a doozy."

Pitt heeded the voice and crawled toward the pa.s.senger door, where he was helped out and onto his feet. The pounding in his head eased as he stood upright, but a light trickle of blood still rolled down his cheek. Looking at the damaged car, he shook his head at the good fortune that had saved him.

The sliding ma.s.s of rock and gravel that had battered the car and flipped it on its roof had also pushed it across the road, to the very edge of the steep chasm that fell to the river below. The car would have easily gone over the edge, taking Pitt to his death, but for a firmly cemented mileage signpost. The slim metal post caught the car just behind the front fender, pinning it to the edge of the road, as tons of loose rock plunged down the hill around both ends of the car. The road itself was buried under a mound of dirt and rocks for a stretch of fifty yards.

"Must be some clean living that kept you from going over the edge," Pitt heard his rescuer say.

He turned to face a robust older man with white hair and beard who stood gazing at Pitt through a pair of jovial gray eyes.

"It wasn't clean living that saved me, I can a.s.sure you," Pitt replied. "Thank you for pulling me out. I would have suffocated in there if you hadn't dug your way in."

"Don't mention it. Why don't you come on back to the RV and let me patch you up," the man said, pointing to a motor home parked on unblemished asphalt a few yards away. It was the same motor home that Pitt had pa.s.sed earlier on the road.

Pitt nodded and followed the man and the little black-and-tan dachshund as they climbed into an open side door of the RV. Pitt was surprised to find the interior finished in teak and polished bra.s.s, which gave the look of a luxury cabin on a sailing ship. On one wall he curiously noticed a bookcase filled with reference guides on mining and geology.

"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up while I find my medical kit?" the man said.

Pitt washed his hands and face in a porcelain sink as a Royal Canadian Mounted Police car raced up with its lights flashing. The old man stepped out and spoke to the police, then returned a few minutes later and helped Pitt apply a bandage to a thin gash that zigzagged across the left side of his scalp.

"The Mounties said there's a highway construction crew working just a few miles away. They can get a front-end loader over here pretty quick, and should have a lane cleared through the rocks in just an hour or two. They'll want to take a report from you when you feel up to it."

"Thanks for putting them off. I'm just starting to get my bearings back."

"Forgive me for not asking earlier, you must surely need a drink. What can I get you?"

"I'd kill for a tequila, if you have any," Pitt replied, sagging into a small leather-upholstered chair. The dachshund immediately jumped into his lap and coaxed Pitt to pet him behind the ears.

"You are in luck," the man replied, pulling a stubby bottle of Don Julio tequila out of a cabinet. Swirling the bottle around, he said, "Still a few shots left."

"I'm lucky twice today. That's a fine brand of tequila," Pitt remarked, recognizing the expensive label of blue agave cactus juice.

"Mauser and I like to travel well," the man said with a grin as he poured two healthy shots for Pitt and himself.

Pitt let the warm liquid trickle down his throat, admiring its complex flavor. He felt his head clear almost immediately.

"That was quite a slide," the man said. "Good thing you weren't a few yards farther down the road."

"I saw it coming and tried to back away from it but came up a little short."

"I don't know what kind of fool would be blasting above an open highway," he said, "but I sure hope they catch the b.u.g.g.e.r."

"Blasting?" Pitt asked, suddenly recalling the white sedan he saw parked up the road.

"I heard the pop and noticed a puff of white smoke up the hill right before those boulders started dancing. I told the Mounties about it, but they said there are no blasting crews working anywhere around here."

"You don't think it was just a large boulder that let go and kicked up the rest?"

The man knelt down and opened a wide drawer beneath the bookshelf. Digging beneath a thick blanket, he exposed a small wooden box marked DYNO n.o.bEL. Pitt recognized the manufacturer's name as the offshoot of Alfred n.o.bel, inventor of dynamite. Opening the lid, the man showed Pitt a number of eight-inch-long yellow cartridges packed inside.

"I do a little blasting myself now and then, when investigating a potential mineral vein."

"You're a prospector?" Pitt asked, nodding toward the shelf of geology books.

"More of a hobby than a profession," the man replied. "I just like searching for things of value. I would never be blasting near civilization, but that's probably what happened here. Some fool found something shiny up the hill and decided he had to have a closer look. I wouldn't want to foot his cleanup bill if he gets caught."

Pitt nodded silently, suspecting that the blast hadn't originated from an innocent miner.

"What brings you to this area?" Pitt asked.

"Silver," the prospector replied, holding up the tequila bottle and pouring Pitt a second shot. "There used to be a working silver mine up near Algoma Mills, before everyone went crazy around here for uranium. I figure if they had one big strike in the area, there's bound to be a few sc.r.a.ps around for a small-timer like me." He shook his head, then grinned. "So far, my theory hasn't panned out."

Pitt smiled, then downed the gla.s.s of tequila. He turned to the prospector and asked, "What do you know about the mineral ruthenium?"

The prospector rubbed his chin for a moment. "Well, it's a relative of platinum, though not a.s.sociated with deposits in these parts. I know the price has skyrocketed, so there's probably a lot more folks out searching for the stuff, but I've never run across any. Can't say that I know anybody else who has either. As I recall, there are only a few places in the world where they mine it. My only other recollection about ruthenium is that some folks thought it had something to do with the old Pretoria Lunatic Mill."

"I'm not familiar with the story," Pitt replied.

"An old miners' tale out of South Africa. I read about it while doing some research on diamonds. Apparently, there was a small weaving mill built near the turn of the century near Pretoria, South Africa. After operating for about a year, they started finding the mill workers going batty. It got so bad they had to close down the factory. The lunacy probably had something to do with the chemicals they used, but it never was clearly identified. It was later noted that the plant was built next to a platinum mine rich with ruthenium, and that ruthenium ore, which had little value back then, was stockpiled in great mounds next to the mill. At least one historian thought that the unusual mineral had something to do with the crazy behavior."

"It's an interesting story," Pitt replied, recalling his discussion at the Co-op. "Have you by chance heard of any mining done by the Inuit up north in the old days?"

"Can't say that I have. Of course, the Arctic is considered a mining candy land these days. Diamonds in the Northwest Territories, coal on Ellesmere Island, and of course oil and natural gas prospects all over the place."

They were interrupted by a granite-faced Mountie, who poked his head in the door and asked Pitt to fill out a police report on his damaged rental car. The road construction crew arrived shortly after and went to work clearing a path through the debris. The loose rock and gravel was quickly pushed aside, and it was only a short while before a single lane of traffic was opened through the landslide area.

"Any chance I could b.u.m a ride with you to the Elliot Lake airport?" Pitt asked the old prospector.

"I'm headed to the Sudbury region, so you're pretty much on my way. Grab a seat up front," he replied, taking a seat behind the wheel.

The big RV barely squeezed through the debris before finding open road on the far side of the landslide. The two men chatted about history and mining until the motor home pulled to a stop outside the tiny airport terminal.

"There you go, mister, ah ..."

"Pitt. Dirk Pitt."

"My name's Clive Cussler. Happy trails to you, Mr. Pitt."

Pitt shook the old prospector's hand, then gave the dachshund a pat on the head, before climbing out of the RV.

"I'm obliged to you for your help," Pitt said, looking at the prospector with a familiar sense of kinship. "Good luck in finding that beckoning mother lode."

Pitt walked into the building and approached the terminal manager, whose mouth gaped when he turned his way. Pitt looked like he had just been run over by a Greyhound bus. His hair and clothes were caked in dust, while a bloodied bandage crossed his scalp. When Pitt relayed how the rental car was sitting on the highway upside down and filled with rocks, the manager nearly went into convulsions.

While filling out an endless stack of insurance papers, Pitt glanced out the window and noticed that the Gulfstream jet was no longer parked on the tarmac.

"How long ago did our fellow jet depart?" he asked the manager.