Arctic Drift

90

Though far from a creature of habit, Mitchell Goyette did have one conspicuous ritual. While in Vancouver, he lunched every Friday afternoon at the Victoria Club. A posh private golf club in the hills north of town, the secluded enclave offered a stunning view of Vancouver Harbor from its ornate clubhouse near the eighteenth green. As a young man, Goyette had his membership application unconditionally rejected by the haughty high-society icons that controlled the club. But he had exacted revenge years later when he acquired the golf course and club in a major land deal. Promptly tossing out all of the old members, he’d repopulated the private club with bankers, politicians, and other power brokers whom he could exploit to augment his fortune. When not pressing the flesh to close a business deal, Goyette would relax over a three-martini lunch with one of his girlfriends in a corner booth overlooking the harbor.

At exactly five minutes to noon, Goyette’s chauffeur-driven Maybach pulled up to the front guard gate and was promptly waved through to the clubhouse entrance. Two blocks down the road, a man in a white panel van watched the Maybach enter the grounds, then started his own car. With a magnetic sign affixed to the side reading COLUMBIA JANITORIAL SUPPLY, the van pulled up to the guard gate. The driver, wearing a work hat and sunglasses, rolled down the window and stuck out a clipboard that had a printed work order attached.

“Delivery for the Victoria Club,” the driver said in a bored voice.

The guard glanced at the clipboard, then passed it back without reading it.

“Go on in,” he replied. “Service entrance is to your right.”

Trevor Miller smiled faintly as he tossed the clipboard with the phony work order onto the passenger seat.

“Have a good one,” he told the guard, then sped on down the lane.

Trevor had never imagined that the day would come when he would be compelled to take the life of another. But the death of his brother and countless others in the wake of Goyette’s industrial greed was tantamount to murder. And the murders would continue, he knew, accompanied by continued environmental devastation. There might be public retribution against Goyette’s entities, but the man himself would always be protected by a veneer of corrupt politicians and high-priced attorneys. There was only one way to put an end to it and that was to put an end to Goyette. He knew the system was incapable of doing the job, so he rationalized that it was up to him. And who better to carry out the act than a nondescript state employee who aroused little suspicion and had little to lose?

Trevor pulled the van around to the back of the clubhouse kitchen, parking next to a produce truck that was delivering fresh organic vegetables. Opening the back door, he removed a dolly, then loaded four heavy boxes onto the hand truck. Wheeling it through the back door, he was apprehended by the club’s head chef, a plump man with a lazy right eye.

“Restroom and cleaning supplies,” Trevor stated as the chef blocked his path.

“I thought we just had a delivery last week,” the chef replied with a puzzled look. Then he waved Trevor toward a set of swinging doors at the side of the kitchen.

“Restrooms are out the doors and to the left. The storage closet is right alongside,” he said. “The general manager should be working the reservations desk. You can get him to sign for it.”

Trevor nodded and proceeded out the kitchen and down a short hall, which ended at the men’s and ladies’ restrooms. He poked his head inside the windowless men’s room, then stepped back out and waited until a club member in a gold polo shirt exited. He wheeled the dolly in and stacked the boxes onto the toilet seat in the last stall, then closed the door. He returned to the van and quietly wheeled in four more loads, stacking the additional boxes against the back wall. He opened one of the boxes and removed a portable space heater, which he plugged in beneath a sink but left turned off. He then slid one of the boxes across the floor to the center of the room. Using it as a step stool, he reached up with a wad of paper towels and unscrewed half of the overhead lightbulbs, casting the bathroom in a dim glow. Locating the room’s single air-conditioning vent, he closed the levers, then sealed the vent with duct tape.

Satisfied with his initial work, he stepped into a stall and took off his hat and unzipped his workman’s jumpsuit. Underneath, he was dressed in a silk shirt and dark slacks. Reaching into the opened box, he pulled out a blue blazer and dress shoes, which he quickly slipped on. Checking himself in a mirror, he figured he would easily pass muster as a member or guest. He had shaved his thin beard and cut his hair short, greasing it back with a temporary dye that gave it a raven sheen. He slipped on a pair of stylish-looking eyeglasses, then proceeded to the clubhouse bar.

The bar and adjacent restaurant were lightly crowded with businessmen and overdressed golfers taking a noontime lunch. Catching sight of Goyette in his corner booth, Trevor took a seat at the bar that offered an unimpeded view of the tycoon.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender, an attractive woman with short black hair.

“A Molson, please. And I wonder if you can send one over to Mr. Goyette as well,” he said, pointing to the corner.

“Certainly. Whom may I say it is from?” she asked.

“Just tell him the Royal Bank of Canada appreciates his business.”

Trevor watched as the beer was delivered and was thankful when Goyette made no acknowledgment or even bothered looking toward the bar. Goyette was already on his second martini and downed the beer as his lunch was served. Trevor waited until Goyette and his girlfriend started their meal, then he returned to the restroom.

Trevor held the door open as an old man exited, grumbling about the poor lighting, then he placed a cardboard sign on the outside that read CLOSED FOR REPAIRS — PLEASE USE CLUBHOUSE RESTROOM. Returning inside, he placed a strip of yellow caution tape across the urinals, then slipped on a pair of gloves. With a utility knife in hand, he went from box to box, slicing open the seams and dumping the contents upside down. Out of each box tumbled four eleven-pound blocks of commercial-grade dry ice, frozen carbon dioxide, that was wrapped in plastic. Flattening the cardboard boxes and stashing them in the end stall, he stacked the dry ice around the back of the bathroom, then methodically shredded open their plastic wrappings. Gaseous vapor began to rise immediately, but Trevor covered the blocks with the flattened boxes to limit their melting. Under the dim lighting, he was relieved to see that the vapor was barely noticeable.

Checking his watch, he hurriedly placed a small toolbox and his hat and jumpsuit near the door. With a penlight and screwdriver, he unscrewed the interior door handle until it hung just barely attached. Throwing the tools in the box, he carefully opened the door and returned to the bar.

Goyette was nearly done with his meal, but Trevor sat and casually ordered another beer, keeping a sharp eye on his intended victim. Guffawing loudly, Goyette was everything that Trevor expected the tycoon to be. Vulgar, selfish, and savagely arrogant, he was a walking psychiatric ward of deep-seated insecurities. Trevor looked at the man and fought the temptation to walk over and stick a butter knife in his ear.

Goyette finally pushed his lunch plate away from his belly and rose from the table. Trevor instantly left some bills for the barmaid and hurried down the hall. Pulling the CLOSED sign from the door, he ducked inside and slipped back into his jumpsuit, just barely affixing his hat when Goyette walked in. Eyeing Trevor in his workman’s attire, the industrialist scowled.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” he huffed. “And where’s that steam coming from?” He pointed to a low cloud of vapor visible at the back of the restroom.

“Plumbing leak,” Trevor replied. “Condensation is creating the vapor. I think the leak may have shorted out some of the lights as well.”

“Well, get it fixed,” Goyette barked.

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

Trevor watched Goyette as he eyed the barricaded urinals then made his way to the first stall. As soon as the door clicked shut, Trevor stepped over and turned the portable heater on to HIGH. Then he stripped away the flattened cardboard boxes, exposing the stacked blocks of dry ice. He quickly spread a few of the blocks around the rapidly warming room, as the melting vapor began to quickly rise.

Moving to the doorway, Trevor opened his toolbox and retrieved his screwdriver and a triangular rubber doorstop with a string attached to the narrow end. Pulling the door open a few inches, he inserted the doorstop to hold it in place. He then finished unscrewing the interior door handle and tossed it into the toolbox.

Turning to face the interior, he could feel the temperature already rising from the space heater and, with it, the billowing clouds of carbon dioxide gas. He heard the sound of Goyette zipping his pants and called out.

“Mr. Goyette?”

“Yes?” came the reply in an annoyed voice. “What is it?”

“Steve Miller sends his regards.”

Trevor stepped to the door and turned off the lights, then smashed the plastic flip lever to bits with the base of his toolbox. Slipping out the door, he knelt down and reversed the doorstop, placing it inside the restroom and sliding the string under the door. Letting the door close, he yanked the string from the outside, pulling the rubber wedge tight against the interior door.

As he placed the CLOSED sign back on the door, he could hear Goyette cursing inside. With a grin of accomplishment, Trevor picked up his toolbox and exited through the kitchen. Within minutes, he was off the club’s grounds and headed toward a local rental-car company in neighboring Surrey.

With a sublimation temperature of minus one hundred and nine degrees Fahrenheit, dry ice converts directly to a gaseous state at room temperature. The six hundred pounds of dry ice in the restroom began vaporizing rapidly as the space heater warmed the confined space to over ninety degrees. Stumbling around blindly in the darkened room, Goyette could feel a cold dampness in his lungs with each breath he took. Feeling his way to the door with increasing dizziness, he fumbled for the light switch with his left hand while reaching for the door handle with his right. In a sudden moment of terrifying comprehension, he realized they were both absent. Trying without success to work the door open with his fingertips, he finally began pounding his fists against the thick wood while screaming for help. He began to cough as the air grew colder and heavier, and, with a fearful sense of panic, he realized something was dreadfully wrong.

It was several minutes before a busboy heard his cries and discovered that the door was jammed from the inside. It took another twenty minutes before a maintenance worker was summoned with some tools to take the door off its hinges. The assembled crowd was aghast when a white plume of vapor poured out of the restroom and Goyette’s lifeless body was found lying in the doorway.

It was a week later when the Vancouver District Coroner’s Office released its autopsy report, revealing that the billionaire had died of asphyxiation from exposure to acute levels of carbon dioxide.

“Used to call it ‘chokedamp,’ ” the veteran medical examiner told reporters at an assembled press briefing. “Haven’t seen a case of it in years.”

91

Nearly a hundred members of the media, more than half from the Canadian press, pushed and jostled on the Coast Guard pier in Anchorage as the Otok appeared in the harbor. The big icebreaker approached slowly, allowing the press an ample photo opportunity to capture her smashed bow and multiple paint jobs, before tying up behind a Coast Guard cutter named Mustang.

The White House and the Pentagon wasted no time in diffusing the hostility between Canada and the U.S., bypassing diplomatic channels by taking their case directly to the public. Press briefings had already been distributed, documenting the Otok’s role in destroying the Canadian ice camp under the guise of an American warship. Enlarged color photos of her hull, taken by the Santa Fe, revealed the gray undercoat and the Ford ’s number 54 hidden beneath a coat of red paint. An eyewitness had even been produced, who testified about seeing a gray ship entering a Goyette-owned dry dock near Kugluktuk in the dead of night, only to reappear a few days later painted red.

The press delighted in photographing the captain and crew of the icebreaker as they were marched off the ship under armed guard and placed in immediate custody until later extradition by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Word was quickly leaked of the crew’s admission to destroying the ice camp, as well as their kidnapping of the Polar Dawn’s crew.

Captain Murdock and his crew then met with the reporters, who were stunned to learn of their abduction in Kugluktuk and their near-death ordeal in the barge. Roman and Stenseth took their turns at answering questions until the overwhelmed journalists and broadcasters began trickling off to file their stories. Within hours, a horde of investigative reporters began descending on Terra Green Industries to scrutinize Mitchell Goyette’s corrupt activities in the Arctic.

The press was long gone when Pitt hobbled off the ship with a crutch under one arm. Giordino walked by his side, hefting two small duffel bags and the logbook from the Erebus. As they reached the end of the dock, a slate-colored Lincoln Navigator with black-tinted windows pulled up in front of them. The driver’s window lowered just a crack, revealing a thickheaded man in a crew cut who gazed at them with unblinking eyes.

“The Vice President requests that you climb in back,” the driver said without pleasantry.

Pitt and Giordino gave each other a look of trepidation, then Pitt opened the rear door and threw in his crutch, then climbed inside as Giordino entered from the opposite door. Sandecker eyed them from the front passenger seat, a thick cigar protruding from his lips.

“Admiral, this is a nice surprise,” Giordino said with his usual sarcasm. “But we could have taken a cab to the airport.”

“I was about to say that I’m glad to see you jokers alive, but I may have to rethink that,” Sandecker replied.

“It’s good to see you, Admiral,” Pitt said. “We weren’t expecting to find you here.”

“I promised both Loren and the President that I’d get you two home in one piece.”

He nodded to the driver, who exited the Coast Guard station and began driving across the city to the Anchorage International Airport.

“You promised the President?” Giordino asked.

“Yes. I caught hell when he found out that the Narwhal, with NUMA’s Director aboard, was smack in the middle of the Northwest Passage.”

“By the way, thanks for sending in the Santa Fe when you did,” Pitt said. “They’re the ones who saved our bacon.”

“We were fortunate that they happened to be in the northern Arctic and could reach the area quickly. But the President is well aware that the Polar Dawn’s crew would have been lost if you hadn’t sailed into harm’s way.”

“Stenseth and Dahlgren are to thank for saving the Polar Dawn’s crew,” Pitt replied.

“More important, you pegged the ruse of the icebreaker. I can’t tell you how close we were to a hot fight with the Canadians. The President rightly credits you with averting a major crisis.”

“Then the least he can do is fund us a replacement vessel for the Narwhal,” Giordino said.

The Lincoln motored down the rain-slicked streets, turning past Delaney Park, a wide strip of grass and trees that had been the city’s original airfield. Anchorage International Airport had been built later on a flat to the southwest of downtown.

“How did the press briefings go?” Pitt asked.

“Just as we hoped. The Canadian press is all over the story. They’re already fighting to get to Ottawa to grill the Prime Minister over his mistaken claims about the Arctic incidents. He and his party will have no choice but to face the music and retract their earlier blame against us.”

“I certainly hope this all catches up to Mitchell Goyette in a big way,” Giordino said.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for him,” Sandecker replied.

“Too late?” Giordino asked.

“Goyette was found dead in Vancouver yesterday. He apparently died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Justice served,” Pitt said quietly.

“The CIA acted that fast?” Giordino asked.

Sandecker gave him a withering stare. “We had nothing to do with it.”

The Vice President turned back to Pitt with an anxious look. “Did you find the ruthenium?”

Pitt shook his head. “Al’s got the Erebus logbook right here. The Franklin ruthenium was real, but it was obtained in trade with a whaler from South Africa. There is no ruthenium source in the Arctic, and the South African mines played out years ago. I’m afraid we came up empty.”

There was a long silence in the car.

“Well, we will just have to find another way,” Sandecker finally said quietly. “At least you found Franklin,” he added, “and put to bed a one-hundred-and-sixty-five-year-old mystery.”

“I just hope he finally makes it home himself,” Pitt said solemnly, staring at the distant peaks of the Chugach Mountains as the Lincoln pulled alongside Air Force Two.

92

Mitchell Goyette’s death did little to quell the media tempest swirling about his empire. A number of environmental reporters had already uncovered the carbon dioxide dumping associated with the Kitimat sequestration plant and the near accident with the Alaskan cruise ship. Investigators from Canada’s Environment Ministry had swarmed the facility, closing it down and removing its workers as criminal and civil charges against Terra Green were prepared. Though it took several weeks, the LNG tanker responsible for the carbon dioxide dumping was ultimately tracked down to a Singapore shipyard. Local authorities promptly impounded the Goyette-owned ship.

The mogul’s illicit activities became repeated headline news across both Canada and the U.S. It wasn’t long before the police investigation into Goyette’s years of corrupt bidding for oil, gas, and mineral rights came to light. With an immunity deal in place for Resources Minister Jameson, incriminating details began toppling forward like a string of dominoes. A series of high-dollar wire transfers made to the Prime Minister was exposed, bribes paid by Goyette to further the expansion of carbon sequestration plants across Canada. The money trail led to dozens of other underhanded deals between Goyette and Prime Minister Barrett to jointly exploit the country’s natural resources.

Opposition leaders quickly jumped on the news accounts and investigations, inciting a full-blown witch hunt against the Prime Minister. Already beleaguered by his false accusations in the Arctic incidents, the criminal allegations fell like a ton of bricks. Abandoned of all support, Prime Minister Barrett resigned from office a few weeks later, along with most of his cabinet. Publicly despised, the ex-Prime Minister would fight criminal charges for years until finally agreeing to a nonsentencing plea bargain. His reputation shattered, Barrett quietly faded into obscurity.

Goyette’s Terra Green Industries would face a similar demise. Investigators pieced together his strategy of dominating the Arctic resources by expelling the American presence, monopolizing the local transportation, and bribing his way to controlling rights. Beset by corruption fines and environmental penalties that rose into the hundreds of millions, the private company quietly fell into receivership. Some of the company’s assets, including the LNG tanker, the Victoria Club, and Goyette’s personal yacht, were sold at public auction. Most of the energy assets and the fleet of vessels were acquired by the government, which operated the properties at cost. One icebreaker and a fleet of barges were leased to a nonprofit food bank for a dollar a year. Relocated to Hudson Bay, the barges hauled surplus Manitoba wheat to starving regions of East Africa.

Among the Terra Green fleet holdings, analysts discovered a small containership called the Alberta. An astute team of Mountie investigators proved that it was the same vessel that had rammed the Coast Guard patrol boat Harp in Lancaster Strait, with a few letters in its name repainted to read Atlanta. Like the crew of the Otok, the men who served aboard the Alberta readily testified at the mercy of the court that they were acting on direct orders from Mitchell Goyette.

As moderate forces of influence regained power in the Canadian government, relations with the U.S. warmed quickly. The Polar Dawn was quietly returned to the Americans, along with a small remuneration for its crew. The ban on U.S.-flagged vessels sailing the Northwest Passage was lifted and a strategic security agreement signed a short time later. For purposes of a shared mutual defense, the agreement stated, Canada pledged that American military vessels would forever be granted unrestricted transit through the passage. More important to the President, the Canadian government opened up access to the Melville Sound gas field. Within months, major quantities of natural gas were flowing unabated to the United States, quickly suppressing the economic disruption caused by the spike in oil prices.

Behind the scenes, the FBI and Royal Canadian Mounted Police jointly reopened their files on Clay Zak. The bombings at the George Washington University lab and the zinc-mining camp in the Arctic were easily pinned on him, but his other crimes were not so traceable. Although suspicions were raised, he was never fully linked to Elizabeth Finlay’s death in Victoria. He was, however, suspected in a dozen more unsolved deaths involving known opponents of Mitchell Goyette. Even though he was buried in a pauper’s grave at the North Vancouver Cemetery, his murderous activities would keep investigators busy for years to come.

The only Goyette associate to successfully navigate the flood of judicial and media probes was the natural resources minister, Arthur Jameson. Despite his deep involvement in the corruption, Jameson survived the ordeal with an odd mark of public admiration. Contempt for Goyette was so great, even in death, that Jameson’s crimes were overlooked by his act of turning evidence and blowing open the entire case.

Resigning his minister’s post, Jameson was offered a provost position at a respected private college in Ontario, where he was called upon to teach a popular course in ethics. His stature grew as his past misdeeds were eventually forgotten, and Jameson soon embraced the scholarly life and a modestly downsized life-style. Only his four children were starkly reminded of his past activities, when, upon reaching the age of thirty-five, they each inherited a Cayman Islands trust account worth ten million dollars.

As for Goyette himself, he gained little sympathy in death. His bribery, vice, and greed, as well as his total disregard for the environmental impact of his pursuits, created a universal spite. The attitude pervaded even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who assigned only a cursory investigation into his death. Officials knew his murderer would be lionized and downplayed the circumstances of his death as potentially accidental. Public interest in the crime quickly waned, while internally the police cited few clues and an endless enemies list that precluded a solution to the crime. With little fanfare, the death of Mitchell Goyette quickly became a cold case that nobody cared to solve.

93

An elite Royal Navy color guard unit carried the dark-wood casket down the steps of the neoclassic Anglican chapel and carefully placed it onto an ornate nineteenth-century gun carriage. The eulogy had been long, as was the norm for a royal ceremonial funeral, with obligatory remarks recited by the Prime Minister and the Prince of Wales, among other notables. The sentiments were blustery and patriotic but not very personal, for no one still living had even known the deceased.

The funeral of Sir John Alexander Franklin was a grand and noble affair and, at the same time, an uplifting event. The discovery of Franklin’s body aboard the Erebus had aroused a nostalgic romance amongst the British people, rekindling the days of glory when Wellington commanded the ground and Nelson ruled the seas. Franklin’s exploits in the Arctic, a largely forgotten historical footnote to modern generations, was regaled in detail to a suddenly enthralled public that clamored for more.

The public fascination had placed great pressure on the team of archaeologists and forensic specialists tasked with examining the ship and retrieving his body. Working round the clock, they solved two key mysteries, even before Franklin’s body arrived in London and was placed on view in Westminster Abbey.

Though a variety of ails contributed to his death at age sixty-one, the scientists determined that a case of tuberculosis, easily contracted within the tight confines of a winter-bound ship, most likely finished him off. More intriguing was the revelation as to why a large portion of the Erebus’s crew had turned mad. Based on the account in the ship’s log, which Pitt had sent to British authorities, the scientists tested a sample of ruthenium found in an officer’s cabin. Assay testing revealed that the South African ore contained high quantities of mercury. When heated on the cookstove in buckets and bedpans, the ore released toxic fumes that accumulated in the galley and crew’s quarters. As with the mad hatters of later years, mercury poisoning created neurological damage and psychotic reactions after months of exposure.

The tragic myriad events just added to the allure of the story, and the public flocked to pay their respects to Franklin. The gates of Kensal Green, an ancient, sprawling cemetery west of London akin to Forest Lawn, had to be closed on the day of his funeral after thirty thousand people congregated on its storied grounds.

It was a hot and humid summer day, far removed from the Arctic conditions in which he had died. The horse-drawn caisson pulled slowly away from the chapel, rattling over a cobble-stone path, as the steel-shod hooves of the black shire mares clacked loudly with each dropped step. With a long procession following behind on foot, the caisson rolled slowly toward a secluded section of the cemetery crowned by towering chestnut trees. The driver pulled to a stop next to a family plot fronted by an open gate. A freshly dug grave lay empty alongside a tomb marked LADY JANE FRANKLIN, 1792–1875.

Franklin’s beloved wife, more than anyone, had resolved the fate of the lost expedition. Through tireless appeal and expense, she had personally outfitted no fewer than five relief expeditions on her own. Scouring the Arctic in search of her husband and his ships, the early expeditions had failed, along with those sent by the British government. It was another Arctic explorer, Francis McClintock, who had ultimately discovered Franklin’s fate. Sailing the steam yacht Fox on Lady Franklin’s behalf, he’d found important relics and a note on King William Island that revealed Franklin’s death in 1847 and the crew’s subsequent abandonment of the ships trapped in the ice.

It had taken one hundred and sixty-eight years since kissing her good-bye on the shores of the Thames, but John Franklin was reunited with his wife once more.

His soul would have been happy for another reason, as he was laid to rest beside Jane. When a Royal Navy frigate had retrieved his coffin from the Erebus and transported it back to England, the ship had traveled the long route, through the Bering Strait and down the Pacific to the Panama Canal.

In death, if not in life, Sir Franklin had finally sailed the Northwest Passage.

94

Pitt stared out his office window at the Potomac River far below, his mind drifting aimlessly like the river’s current.

Since returning from the Arctic, he had been out of sorts, carrying a mild angst mixed with disappointment. Part of it was his injuries, he knew. His leg and arm wounds were healing well, and the doctors said he would make a full recovery. Though the pain was mostly absent, he still hated the loss of mobility. He had long since abandoned the crutch but still required the use of a cane at times. Giordino had lightened the need by providing a walking stick that contained a hidden vial of tequila inside. Loren had stepped up as well, performing her best Florence Nightingale routine by nursing him at every opportunity. But something still held him back.

It was the failure, he knew. He just wasn’t used to it. The quest for the ruthenium had momentous importance, yet he had come up dry. He felt like he had let down not only Lisa Lane but also every person on the planet. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He’d followed the clues as he found them, and would have done nothing differently. Crack geologists throughout the government were already on the hunt for new sources of ruthenium, but the near-term prospects were grim. The mineral just didn’t exist in quantity, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His instincts had been wrong for a change and it gave him doubts. Maybe he’d been at the game too long. Maybe it was time for a younger generation to take the reins. Perhaps he should go back to Hawaii with Loren and spend his days spearfishing.

He tried to conceal his melancholy when a knock came to the door and he called for the visitor to enter.

The door blew open and Giordino, Gunn, and Dahlgren came marching into his office like they owned it. Each man had a suppressed grin on his face, and Pitt noticed they were all hiding something behind their backs.

“Well, if it isn’t the three wise men. Or wise guys, in this case,” Pitt said.

“Do you have a minute?” Gunn asked. “There’s something we’d like to share with you.”

“My time is yours,” Pitt said, hobbling over to his desk and taking a seat. Eyeing the men suspiciously, he asked, “What is it that you are all trying to conceal?”

Dahlgren waved a short stack of plastic cups that he was carrying.

“Just thought we’d have a little drink,” he explained.

Giordino pulled out a bottle of champagne that he was hiding behind his stubby arms.

“I’m a bit thirsty myself,” he added.

“Hasn’t anyone told you about the rules regarding alcohol in a federal building?” Pitt admonished.

“I seem to have misplaced those,” Giordino replied. “Jack, do you know anything about that?”

Dahlgren attempted to look dumb and shook his head.

“All right, what is this all about?” Pitt asked, losing patience with the antics.

“It’s really Jack’s doing,” Gunn said. “He sort of saved the day.”

“You mean, he saved your rear,” Giordino said, grinning at Gunn. He slipped the foil off the neck of the champagne bottle and popped the top. Grabbing Dahlgren’s cups, he poured everyone a glass.

“It came down to the rock,” Gunn tried to explain.

“The rock…” Pitt repeated with growing suspicion.

“One of the samples from the thermal vent that we located off Alaska,” Giordino interjected, “just before the Canadian ice camp business. We put all of the rock samples in a bag that Rudi was supposed to bring here to headquarters for analysis. But he left the bag on the Narwhal when he departed Tuktoyaktuk.”

“I remember that bag,” Pitt replied. “Almost tripped over it every time I stepped onto the bridge.”

“You and me both,” Dahlgren muttered.

“Wasn’t it still on the bridge?” Pitt asked.

“Was and is,” Giordino said. “It’s still sitting with the Narwhal at the bottom of Victoria Strait.”

“That still doesn’t explain the champagne.”

“Well, it seems our good buddy Jack found a rock in his pocket when he got home,” Gunn said.

“I’m really not a klepto, I swear,” Dahlgren said with a grin. “I tripped over that bag, too, and happened to pick up one of the loose rocks and stick it in my pocket. Forgot all about it until I was changing clothes on the Santa Fe and thought I better hang on to it.”

“A very wise decision,” Gunn agreed.

“I took it down to the geology lab last week to have it assayed and they called this morning with the results.”

Gunn produced the rock sample and slid it across the desk to Pitt. He picked it up and studied it, noting its heavy weight and dull silver color. His heart began to race as he recalled the similar characteristics of the ore sample the old geologist at the Miners Co-op had given him.

“It doesn’t look like gold to me,” he said to the trio, eyeing their reaction.

The three men looked at one another and grinned. Giordino finally spoke.

“Would you consider ruthenium?”

Pitt’s eyes twinkled as he immediately sat up in his chair. He studied the rock carefully, then looked at Gunn.

“Is it true?” he asked quietly.

Gunn nodded. “High-grade, no less.”

“How do we know if it is there in any quantity?”

“We pulled the sensor records from the Bloodhound and took a second look. Though she is not configured to sense ruthenium, she can identify its platinum-based grouping. And according to the Bloodhound, the thermal vent has more platinum and platinum derivatives lying around than Fort Knox has gold. It’s a sure bet that a significant quantity of that platinum-based ore around the vent is ruthenium.”

Pitt couldn’t believe the news. He felt like he’d been injected with a shot of adrenaline. His whole demeanor perked up, and a glisten returned to his intelligent green eyes.

“Congratulations, boss,” Gunn said. “You’ve got your very own ruthenium mine a thousand feet under the sea.”

Pitt smiled at the men, then grabbed one of the champagnes.

“I think I will drink to that,” he said, hoisting his cup up and toasting the others.

After they each took a sip, Dahlgren looked at his glass and nodded.

“You know,” he said in his slow Texas drawl, “this stuff is almost as good as Lone Star.”

95

It was a rare cloudless spring day in kitimat, the kind that turned the waters cerulean blue and made the crisp air taste of pure oxygen. On the grounds of the former Terra Green sequestration plant, a small group of dignitaries and media reporters was gathered for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. A cherub-faced man in a beige suit, Canada’s newly appointed minister of natural resources, bounded up to a podium placed before the seated crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct pleasure to officially declare open the Kitimat Photosynthesis Station, the first of its kind in the world. As you know, the Natural Resources Ministry inherited this facility last year, built as a carbon sequestration site, under less-than-ideal circumstances. But I am delighted to report that the facility has been successfully reengineered as the very first artificial-photosynthesis conversion plant in existence. The Kitimat Photosynthesis Station will safely and efficiently convert carbon dioxide to water and hydrogen without any risk to the environment. We are excited that the plant can use the existing pipeline to Athabasca to convert nearly ten percent of the carbon dioxide generated from the oil sands refineries. Here today we have the prototype for a new weapon against atmospheric pollutants, and ultimately global warming.”

The assembled crowd, including many Kitimat residents, applauded loudly. The resources minister smiled broadly before continuing.

“Like any historic venture, this facility conversion was accomplished by the work of a great many people. It has also been one of the more fruitful collaborative efforts that I have ever witnessed. The joint venture between the Natural Resources Ministry, the United States Department of Energy, and George Washington University stands as a testament to the great things that can be accomplished in the pursuit of the common good. I would like to especially recognize the achievements of Miss Lisa Lane, for whom credit can be given for the genesis of this facility.”

Seated in the first row, Lisa waved to the crowd while blushing deeply.

“I see momentous changes for all of mankind here today, and I look forward to the dawn of a new world from our humble beginnings here in Kitimat. Thank you.”

The crowd applauded again, then sat through the orations of several more politicians before a large ceremonial ribbon was cut for the cameras. As the speeches ended, the resources minister stepped over to the front row where Pitt and Loren were seated next to Lisa.

“Miss Lane, it is good to see you again,” he greeted warmly. “This must be a very exciting day for you.”

“It certainly is. I would not have imagined that a working artificial-photosynthesis facility would come on line so rapidly,” she said.

“Your President and our new Prime Minister showed great will in moving things forward.”

“Minister, I would like you to meet my dear friend Congresswoman Loren Smith, and her husband, Dirk Pitt.”

“A pleasure to meet you both. Mr. Pitt, it was you who recommended converting the sequestration plant, was it not?”

“It was my kids’ idea, actually,” he said, pointing to Dirk and Summer, who were making their way to the bar. “We all figured that a positive light might be shone on one of Mitchell Goyette’s past sins.”

The minister shuddered at the mention of Goyette’s name but soon smiled again. “Your discovery has proved a blessing on many fronts, Miss Lane,” he said to Lisa. “We’ll be able to expand our oil sands operations in Athabasca now, as additional photosynthesis facilities are brought online to capture the greenhouse gas emissions. That will go a long way in abating oil shortages in both our countries. I am pushing the Prime Minister to authorize funding for twenty more plants. How are things progressing in the States?”

“Thanks to the efforts of Loren and the Vice President, thirty plants have been funded, with plans for an additional fifty facilities to be built over the next three years. We are starting with our coal-fired power plants, which emit the most pollution. There is excitement that we will finally be able to safely burn coal, fueling our utilities for decades to come.”

“Perhaps as important, we have a signed agreement with the Chinese as well,” Loren said. “They have promised to build seventy-five plants over the next eight years.”

“My, that is good news, since the Chinese are now the largest emitters of greenhouse gases. It’s a fortunate thing that the technology is easily replicated,” the minister said.

“And that we have an abundant supply of the catalyst to make the process work,” Lisa added. “If Mr. Pitt’s NUMA organization hadn’t made the discovery of ruthenium off the coast of Alaska, none of this would be possible.”

“A lucky break,” Pitt acknowledged. “Our undersea mining operation is now up and running, and the yield is very encouraging so far. We hope to mine enough of the mineral to supply thousands of plants like this around the world.”

“Then we can look forward to a possible end to global warming in our lifetime. A remarkable accomplishment,” the minister said, before being pulled aside by an aide.

“It looks like your days of scientific anonymity are over,” Loren quipped to Lisa.

“It is all exciting, but the truth is I’d rather be back in the lab. There are plenty of refinements that can be made, and we still haven’t perfected the efficient conversion to hydrogen yet. Thankfully, I’ve got a new and even better lab at the university. Now I just need to find a new lab assistant.”

“Bob has been officially charged?” Loren asked.

“Yes. He had over two hundred thousand dollars in various places that were traced back to Goyette. I can’t believe that my own friend sold me out.”

“As Goyette proved, unmitigated greed will catch up to you in the end.”

A horde of reporters suddenly appeared, surrounding Lisa and barraging her with questions about the facility and her scientific discovery. Pitt and Loren slipped off to the side, then strolled across the grounds. Pitt had recovered fully from his injuries and enjoyed stretching his legs outdoors.

“It’s so beautiful here,” Loren remarked. “We should stay a few extra days.”

“You forget your congressional panel hearings next week. Besides, I need to get back to Washington and ride roughshod over Al and Jack. We have a new submersible to test in the Mediterranean next month that we need to prepare for.”

“Already on to the next project, I see.”

Pitt simply nodded, a twinkle in his green eyes. “As somebody once said, it’s in my blood.”

They walked past the facility until reaching the shoreline.

“You know, there is a potential downside to this technology,” she noted. “If global warming can one day be reversed, the Northwest Passage is liable to permanently freeze over again.”

Pitt stared out at the nearby channel.

“I think Franklin would agree with me; that’s as it should be.”

Across the compound, a white boat motored up to the channel front dock and tied up behind a rented press boat. Trevor Miller stepped onto the pier and studied the large crowd spread across the grounds before spotting a tall woman with flowing red hair. Snatching a beer along the way, he walked up to Dirk and Summer, who stood laughing near the former security hut.

“Mind if I steal your sister?” he said to Dirk.

Summer turned to him with a look of relief, then quickly kissed him.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I had to put gas in my new boat,” he tried to explain.

Dirk looked at him with a grin. “Go ahead and take my sister. Keep her for as long as you like.”

Trevor walked Summer back to the boat and released the dock line. Gunning the throttle, he shot off the dock and was soon racing down Douglas Channel. He ran the boat all the way to Hecate Strait before cutting the motor and letting the boat drift as the sky overhead began to darken. Slipping an arm around Summer, he moved to the stern with her at his side and looked out toward Gil Island. They stood together, staring across the calm waters for a long while.

“The best and worst things in my life seem to happen out here,” he finally whispered in her ear.

She slipped an arm around his waist and held him tight as they watched the crimson sun sink slowly beneath the horizon.