Arctic Enemy Part 1

Arctic Enemy.

By Linda Harrel.

CHAPTER ONE.

Sarah Grey placed a neat sheaf of papers on the secretary's desk. 'Done,' she said, 'and I've never been so delighted to have an a.s.signment behind me.'

The young girl smiled and shook a halo of blonde curls. 'Complaints, Sarah? Not from you, surely!'

Sarah knew her boss's secretary held a resolutely romantic view of the life of a science reporter. 'Trish,' she said firmly, 'a study of recycling our mountains of waste is hardly a glamorous a.s.signment. Not that I'm against it, mind you, but days spent in rubber boots prowling catwalks while miles of garbage-laden conveyor belts rumble on beneath you is not my idea of fun. Nor, I might add, is it likely to win me national acclaim as a scintillating writer.'

Trish, unmoved, grinned and flicked an impatient wrist. 'No matter,' she said breezily, 'your next story should more than make up for your days on the trash circuit.'

Sarah straightened her back, alert as a doe. 'D'Arcy's got something for me?'

'Yes-but I can't say another word. He practically made me take a vow of silence on this one. So do me a favour, will you, and go in there and speak to him? I'll see that your story gets filed.'

Sarah slid off the corner of Trish's desk, revealing a trim curve of calf beneath the tailored wool skirt-a fact not unnoticed by Terry West, filing a story on pre-season hockey training in Montreal, nor half a dozen other males busy that morning in the Herald's' editorial offices. But Sarah, as usual, had her mind on work and was blind to the wistful glances. She knocked, waited for the usual barked reply, and went into her employer's office, instantly shutting out the clangour of telephones and typewriters, and shouts for copy boys.

The Herald's managing editor looked up from under an untidy shock of salt and pepper hair, smiled ever so briefly, and indicated with a stab of his finger the chair across from him.

As she settled into the leather chair, she said easily, 'Trish has been tantalising me with hints of a new a.s.signment, D'Arcy. Is this more of her irrepressible romanticism, or have you got a real plum?'

He hesitated just a second. 'It's possible,' he conceded gruffly. 'Does the name Tony Freeland ring a bell?'

Sarah frowned, then brightened. 'In shipping, isn't he?... Wait a second... of course! He was the one who represented Freeland Shipping at that big news conference last year on the Arctic gas project, wasn't he?'

'He was,' D'Arcy agreed. 'Stood in for his uncle, Julian Freeland, the chairman of the board, who was ill. Well, he was back in Ottawa last week while you were off poking around in people's trash pails.'

'About the gas project again?'

'Yes-last-minute details with some government types about the maiden voyage of Freeland's ice-breaking super-tanker. And, being the aggressive newsman that I am, I cornered him over at the Parliament Building to feel him out about press coverage of their first trip into the Arctic.'

The implications of D'Arcy's news were not lost on Sarah, who leaned towards him intently. 'Oh, D'Arcy, you didn't get him to agree, did you? What a scoop-this has got to be one of the biggest stories in the world right now!'

Her boss allowed himself a rare smile. 'I did, as a matter of fact. And between you and me, I'm still somewhat stunned myself. This voyage, as you well know, is the most controversial in seafaring history. I expected Freeland to be leery, if not downright hostile, to the idea of close press coverage.'

'Close... just how close, D'Arcy?' Sarah's voice was very quiet.

D'Arcy Turner picked up his pipe and studied it. 'What would you say, Sarah, to accompanying the Arctic Enterprise on her maiden voyage. With an exclusive on the entire story?'

For once, Sarah Grey was speechless. She sank back into the chair, the wide lavender eyes enormous.

Her boss chuckled and picked up the slack. 'I know,' he said nodding. 'The most I'd hoped for was some pre-sailing interviews, a tour of the ship. And I'd planned to fly a reporter and photographer up to the Arctic to cover the docking and loading operations, of course. But Freeland is actually willing to have a reporter on board.'

Sarah turned her head to one side on the delicate, ivory neck and looked askance at D'Arcy. 'And you're really giving the job to me?' she asked breathlessly.

At this, the amiable manner vanished and the gruff, irascible one for which D'Arcy Turner was both famed and feared returned. 'I'll tell you straight out, Sarah, that I'm not entirely happy with the thought of sending you out on this a.s.signment, for lots of reasons.'

'Is there someone else you'd prefer?' she asked, unsuccessfully trying to conceal her alarm.

D'Arcy knocked his pipe against the rim of the large, pottery ashtray. 'There's Ted Benson, of course, who's qualified. He's out in Calgary doing a piece on nuclear energy, but I could recall him.' Antic.i.p.ating her protest, he added quickly, 'But you are the one who's been covering the exploration for natural gas-you've got all the data at your fingertips. And there's another point in your favour-young Freeland himself.'

Sarah raised a perplexed eyebrow. 'Tony? In what way?'

'He remembered you from that press conference. I got the distinct impression that knowing you would land the job was a spur to giving his consent. He didn't say it in so many words, of course, but the implication was there.'

'There were dozens of us there that day. I don't see how he could remember me out of that sea of raised hands.'

D'Arcy smiled. 'You aimed some very good questions at the gentleman that day, my dear. Apparently he's not forgotten the reporter who did her homework.'

'He acquitted himself rather well, as I recall,' retorted Sarah. 'Perhaps a bit too smoothly, even. But my being a woman-that won't throw a monkey wrench into more practical shipboard matters?'

'No, he was quite definite about that. In fact, he said there'll be two other women, officers' wives, on board. But Sarah. I still don't know, on purely personal grounds, if I want you on that great monster of a super-tanker with its belly full of liquid gas up there in a sea mined with icebergs. It sounds b.l.o.o.d.y suicidal.'

Sarah set the firm little chin at a defiant angle. 'I thought the whole thrust of the engineers' arguments last year when this project was so hotly debated was the safety of the tanker. Because of the horrendous consequences of a gas explosion, this is supposed to be the most carefully orchestrated shipping adventure ever undertaken!'

'I know, I know.' He shrugged his shoulders.

Sarah crossed her legs and turned her eyes on her boss. 'You didn't show such touching concern for my safety last month when I flew to British Columbia on that logging industry story-there was a million times more chance of my plane crashing than there's supposed to be of this supertanker exploding. And besides,' she pressed, 'if it's safety you're really worried about, may I remind you that Ted Benson is the father of three young children while I'm alone in the world, independent and very unmarried. Besides, I'll not get anywhere in this business shrinking from the thought of what might happen. You're a dear to worry about me, D'Arcy, but please-I want this. Very much.'

Shrugging again, D'Arcy pulled open his top drawer.

'Time's a bit of a problem, so I've had Trish make the preliminary arrangements. She's been in touch with Freeland Shipping's executive offices in London. Here's your itinerary, plane ticket, plus a list of clothing they suggest. Trish also has an expenses cheque waiting for you.' He handed a plump manilla folder to her.

'Freeland finished construction of the Arctic Enterprise last month in their j.a.panese shipyards. They've just finished bringing her on sea trials from there to Rotterdam for some last-minute outfitting and taking on supplies. You're to fly to Rotterdam and board her there two days from now.'

Sarah scanned the itinerary, shaking the glossy curtain of hair. 'Through the English Channel, north past Greenland to Baffin Bay, and on to Melville Island. The old Northwest Pa.s.sage that every Canadian school child knows by heart! It makes you shiver, doesn't it, D'Arcy, just to think about those old sailing ships trying to find a pa.s.sage through the Arctic to the Orient? It's everybody's dream to really see it some day.'

'Well, not everyone's, perhaps. It's not exactly a tropical cruise. But it does have a certain adventuresome ring to it, I'll grant you.'

Sarah shot him a knowing look. 'You don't fool me for a minute. If you weren't saddled with managing this paper you'd have grabbed your pencil and parka and been off on this one yourself! Which reminds me: two days is nothing at all. I've got research to do, files to pull-not to mention all this shopping and packing!'

And so she thanked him, promised him the best exclusive he'd ever seen, blew him a kiss, and vanished into the windowless depths of the newspaper file room.

There, she snapped the plastic lid off her coffee container and took a small sip. In her quick, neat fashion she sorted the folders and stacks of microfilm the library clerk had piled on to the long wooden table, rejecting some, setting others aside.

With her chin resting on her tiny hand, she reread the story she herself had written the year before on the tapping of the Arctic's trillions of cubic feet of natural gas. The engineers she had interviewed were just completing work on a mammoth refrigeration plant on Melville Island that would liquify the gas at a temperature of minus a hundred and sixty degrees Celsius and pump it into waiting tankers.

At first, they had thought that the process could only take place during the brief period when the northern waters were relatively ice-free. But then they had devised the ambitious plan to build giant ice-breaking super-tankers that would turn a limited venture into a profitable year-round one.

Bitter controversy had swirled around the project from the beginning. Promoters claimed it heralded a new era of technology for the world while offering Canada security and independence at a time of frightening energy scarcity.

But detractors questioned the impact the project would have on the fragile ecology of the Arctic. Darkly, some even hinted that it was only a matter of time before there would be a catastrophic explosion of the liquid natural gas, or L.N.G. They likened it to a nuclear holocaust which would create unspeakable horror, wiping out wildlife and threatening the entire chain of life. And then there was the native peoples' concern for their rights and way of life, a sensitive and complex issue, to be sure.

After acrimonious debate, the project had won approval, although the conditions for it were to be stringent. The liquification plant was to be remote from human settlement. The route of the super-tanker would avoid as far as possible both the human population and the rich herds of whales, seals and caribou.

But in nothing would the safeguards be as extensive as they would be for the construction of the L.N.G. tankers. That, at least, was rea.s.suring, thought Sarah, slipping the article back into its folder and pulling the file on Freeland Shipping towards her.

The fact that Freeland Shipping had won the contract to produce and run the world's first ice-breaking super-tanker had been a surprise to everyone involved. The staggering construction and operating costs of super-tankers, running into millions of dollars, meant that they were almost always backed by giant financial consortiums. But Freeland was the exception-one of the last great family-owned shipping enterprises. Their ships were all of British registry, also a rarity at a time when more and more owners had 'flags of convenience' from countries where standards weren't as high as they remained in Britain. Freeland Shipping still stood for all that was best in the traditions of the sea. Its liners remained the grandes dames of the ocean, embodying the romantic mystique that others had abandoned long ago in favour of speed and efficiency.

But Freeland had been eclipsed during the previous ten years by the aggressive newcomers, the multi-billion dollar conglomerates that dominated the heady world of super-tankers. No one in that closed circle had thought that Freeland would reach the final round of fierce bidding for the contract.

But make it they did, with a superb presentation on the most expensive ship ever to be built. It was to be a Cla.s.s 7 ice-breaker, one able to navigate waters encrusted with ice up to seven feet in depth. No ship in the world was to have more sophisticated navigation or safety equipment gracing its decks.

The superiority of design and the best estimated date of completion, combined with Freeland's reputation for impeccable standards, had won them the contract hands down. There was a rash of raised eyebrows and tempers in the exclusive club of super-tanker owners.

'Impressive,' murmured Sarah, flipping through the pages of an obscure shipping industry quarterly. And even more impressive was the role played in the company's resurgence by Tony Freeland himself. Although his uncle was the major stockholder and dominant figure in the company, Julian Freeland's increasingly poor health had forced him to relinquish more and more control to his nephew. It was Tony, apparently, who was singlehandedly responsible for Freeland's furious fight for the L.N.G. contract and its bid to win back a leading role in world shipping.

Sarah's delicate fingers, the nails free of polish and buffed to a pearly glow, pulled a photographer's glossy proof out of the Herald's picture file. A group of government officials together with representatives of Freelands smiled out at her. They were gathered in an ornately panelled office for the contract signing ceremony.

Sarah was suddenly and intensely curious about the man who had approved her presence aboard the Enterprise at such a critical time, and who was to be her host for the voyage. She bent over the picture, her arched eyebrows coming together in a tiny frown of concentration, and tried to pick out the frustratingly small details. With her reporter's training, she scanned the faces, searching for expression, gestures, anything that might give her an insight into what was really going on behind the amiable public facade.

Seated in the centre of the group was an elderly, distinguished gentleman who the caption confirmed was Julian. Beside him, doc.u.ments in hand and obviously in charge, sat the urbane and darkly handsome man she recognised as Tony. The rest were identified only as other government and company representatives.

They all, with one glaring exception, looked jubilant. The exception stood towards the rear of the a.s.semblage, his bearing stiff and his otherwise attractive face askew with a slight grimace. An unfortunate camera angle, Sarah concluded, for surely everyone at that signing must have been dizzy with elation.

She turned her attention back to Tony Freeland and discovered that the prospect of being his guest for a few weeks was not entirely unpleasant. He had handled himself beautifully at their encounter the year before, smoothly fielding difficult and frequently hostile questions from the press.

She had wondered at the time if his manner wasn't too unruffled to be genuine. But then, she reasoned, he had ample cause for that supreme confidence. If the rumours were true that his company had been on the verge of bankruptcy and he alone had saved it with this staggeringly ambitious venture, who could fault him for crowing a bit? He had to be a remarkable man. With any luck at all, she was going to have a blockbuster story on her hands.

CHAPTER TWO.

The Arctic Enterprise had grown and grown, as the taxi picked its way down the littered dock at dawn, until she seemed to fill the horizon. She blotted out the pale slice of sun rising over Rotterdam's Europort and even seemed to m.u.f.fle the squalling, reeling gulls.

Empty of cargo and riding high, her steel walls formed a cold, grey canyon. Sarah stood at the bottom of that canyon, her neck tipped painfully back as she strained to catch a glimpse of the living and navigational superstructure that loomed like a modern office tower high over the stern.

'Designed for beauty you weren't,' she murmured, noting critically the graceless and utilitarian lines. Only the fine gold lettering of the Freeland crest emblazoned on the rakish funnel and the regal crimson of the house flag snapping smartly in the breeze were reminders of the flair and elegance that marked Freeland's pa.s.senger liners. Had it pained that traditionalist, Julian Freeland, to put his seal on so exotic yet oddly plain a ship? Sarah wondered.

The driver deposited the last of her luggage at her feet and slammed the car boot shut. Sarah puzzled a moment over the strange currency, then produced the fare from her change purse. 'Bedankt,' she said, smiling.

The man touched his hand to the peak of his cap and then drove off, tossing a last, perplexed glance over his shoulder. Stylish young foreigners were not his usual pa.s.sengers to this part of town.

One thing that had not changed on Freeland ships, Sarah observed, was discipline. Around her buzzed intense preparations for departure. A drove of uniformed men scurried about and shouted orders. But it was a controlled chaos, cheerful and expectant, that contrasted sharply with the confused and ill-tempered activity across the pier where another outward bound tanker was preparing to sail.

'Miss Grey?' A smartly uniformed officer with a crewman in tow had appeared out of nowhere. 'I was told to keep a very sharp eye out for you. Your flight was pleasant, I hope?'

'Yes-very, thank you, although a bit rushed.'

The young man grinned shyly. 'You'll have lots of time to unwind once we're under way. That's the beauty of ships.' He motioned to the cadet, who moved briskly to heft her luggage. 'If you'll come with me, please, I have instructions to take you directly to Mr Freeland's suite.'

Sarah took one last look skyward at the Enterprise before leaving the ground she would not touch again for many days.

'A bit daunting the first time, isn't it?' the officer acknowledged, noting her hesitation at the gangplank.

'A little,' she conceded. 'I memorised all the statistics-the length and tonnage and so on. But it didn't prepare me for the impact of its size at all! I suppose you've become very blase about it by now.'

'No,' he replied bluntly. 'I don't think we ever get used to these monsters.' The smile touched his lips but not his eyes.

Suddenly Sarah recalled an expression from a book she had read, that ships sometimes use when they see another headed for trouble. 'You are standing into danger,' they flash. What a thing to have pop into her mind! she thought. She shrugged it off, raised her tiny chin, and began the long climb into the bowels of the Arctic Enterprise.

Great, seemingly endless lengths of gleaming corridor shot off into the distance. Down one of them, her luggage had vanished. She would never orientate herself, she fretted. The windowless maze gave no hint of level or direction. What she needed, she concluded, was one of those 'You Are Here' signs they post in huge buildings. Or perhaps a trail of breadcrumbs.

Around one corner was the surprise of a sleek rosewood and smoked gla.s.s, elevator that shot them silently into the giddy height of the stern living tower. She had been half skipping to keep pace with the energetic gait of the officer, and now she braked herself to keep from crashing into him. He had stopped at a door that was the stunning exception to the row upon row of anonymous beige metal ones they had pa.s.sed.

This was a broad, double door, carved from polished teak and rich with heavy bra.s.s fittings. The officer rapped smartly.

'Come!'

He entered, stood back respectfully, and presented her with a remarkable scene. In contrast to the artificial glow of the halls, this room was awash with the dazzling pink light of the sunrise, admitted by a wall of broad windows. Before the windows was a grouping of opulent modern sofas and chairs of tobacco brown leather. Under foot was thick cream broadloom. The panelled walls were hung with ornately framed oils of sailing ships. At the far side of the room, a doorway revealed a glimpse of hallway and bedrooms opening off of it. In this arch stood the man who had brought her here, Anthony Freeland.

His smile was immediate and disarming. 'You've made it, Miss Grey! How delightful to see you again after-what is it-almost two years now? Welcome aboard the Arctic Enterprise!'

He came towards her, a slim, well-manicured hand outstretched.

'Thank you, Mr Freeland. I'm very pleased, and grateful, to be here.'

'It's Tony-please,' he said. 'We're going to be travelling companions for some time. And may I call you Sarah?'

She smiled her a.s.sent and took the seat he indicated on the sofa nearest the windows. As he dismissed her escort, she took him in with a sweep of her professional eye. He was the first man she'd seen in civilian dress, a superbly tailored dark suit that fitted the tall, thin body to perfection. His finely chiselled features were framed by longish black hair swept back from greying temples.

Nothing out of place, she noted. A man to whom control was very important. The patrician accent, the refinement, gave him an aura of tremendous power and success. Physically, at least, Tony Freeland seemed equal to the legend that had sprung up about him recently.

The greying hair, the purposefulness and confidence of his manner were usually marks of the older man. But up close, Sarah could see that he was probably no more than thirty-five or six. That much was a shock.

He settled beside her, one leg crossed casually over the other, and locked his eyes on her. She realised with a start that he was genuinely pleased to see her. Oddly, that knowledge unsettled rather than rea.s.sured her. She was so accustomed to the objects of her interviews treating her with suspicion, or at least a touch of nervousness. Tony Freeland was very sure of himself.

They exchanged polite small talk and accepted coffee from a white-jacketed steward who served them and vanished as silently as he had appeared. It was a seductively relaxed and luxurious atmosphere that invited lingering. But Sarah was growing increasingly restive. Outside that hushed suite, she knew the ship was vibrating with the preparations for departure, and she wanted to be a witness to all of it.

Setting her gold-rimmed cup down beside the sterling coffee service, she tactfully shifted the tone of their conversation.

'This is delightful, Tony, but I'm afraid this is a working day for me-D'Arcy indicated that my capacity here is to be that of an independent reporter, covering the voyage as I see fit. Would it be fair to say that this is your understanding as well?'