Arctic Drift

“Never have to worry about it going bad,” Dirk defended. He walked into the wheelhouse and started the boat’s motor, then returned to the stern deck.

“I’ll need to refuel before we head out,” he a

“There’s a fuel dock just around the bend,” Trevor replied. “It’s a little cheaper than the gas at the city marina.” He thought for a moment. “I’m a little low myself. Why don’t you follow me over, and we can drop off my boat on the way out of the cha

Dirk nodded in agreement, and Trevor hopped onto the deck and strolled down to his boat moored just behind the NUMA vessel. He unlocked the door to the wheelhouse, then fired up the inboard diesel, listening to its deep throaty idle. Checking his fuel gauge, he noted a pair of sunglasses on the dashboard that Summer had left behind. Looking up, he saw her untying the dock lines to the NUMA boat. Grabbing the glasses, he hopped off the boat and jogged down the dock.

“Some protection for those pretty gray eyes?” he asked.

Summer tossed the bow line aboard, then looked up to see Trevor standing with her sunglasses in an outstretched hand. She gazed skyward for a moment, taking in a thick layer of rain clouds overhead, before locking eyes with him.

“A tad overkill for today, but thanks for proving you are not a thief.”

She reached over and grabbed the sunglasses as a sharp crack suddenly erupted behind them. The report was followed by a thunderous blast that flung them to the dock, a shower of splinters tearing over their heads. Trevor fell forward and onto Summer, protecting her from the debris, as several small chunks of wood and fiberglass struck him in the back.

A simple five-minute timed safety fuse, attached to four cartridges of nitroglycerin dynamite and wired to the ignition switch of Trevor’s boat, had initiated the inferno. The blast nearly ripped the entire stern section off the Canadian boat, while flattening most of the wheelhouse. The stern quickly sank from sight while the mangled bow clung stubbornly to the surface, dangling at a grotesque angle by the attached dock line.

Dirk was standing in the cabin of his own vessel when the blast struck and was unscathed by any flying debris. He immediately scrambled onto the dock and found Summer, being helped to her feet by Trevor. Like Dirk, she was unhurt by the blast. Trevor was less fortunate. His back was soaked with blood from a large splinter embedded in his shoulder, and he limped from a timber that had slammed into his leg. He ignored the injuries and hobbled over to the smoldering remains of his boat. Summer and Dirk checked each other to ensure they were uninjured, then Dirk jumped back aboard and grabbed a fire extinguisher, dousing several smoldering piles of debris that threatened to start a larger fire.

Summer found a towel and hurried over to Trevor, who was compressing the cut on his shoulder as he stared blankly at the ruins of his boat. As a police siren wailed its imminent approach, Trevor turned and gazed at Summer with a look of hurt and anger.

“It has to be Terra Green,” he muttered quietly. “I wonder if they killed my brother, too?”

At a harborside coffee shop two miles away, Clay Zak stared out the window, admiring the plume of smoke and flame that rose above the water in the distance. Finishing an espresso and Danish, he left a large tip on the table, then walked to his brown rented Jeep parked up the street.

“Smoke on the water,” he muttered aloud, humming the Deep Purple rock tune before climbing into the car. Without the least concern, he drove to the airport outside of town, where Mitchell Goyette’s private jet waited for him on the tarmac.

37

The business jet circled the airfield once, waiting for a small plane to take off and clear the field, before the control tower gave approval to land. Painted in the same shade of turquoise as its fellow sea vessels, the NUMA Hawker 750 touched down lightly on the runway. The small jet taxied to a redbrick building before pulling to a halt alongside a much larger Gulfstream G650. The fuselage door opened and Pitt quickly stepped out, slipping on a jacket to ward off a brisk chill in the air. He walked into the terminal building, where he was greeted by a rotund man standing behind a counter.

“Welcome to Elliot Lake. It’s not often we have two jets in on the same day,” he said in a friendly rural voice.

“A little short for the carriers?” Pitt asked.

“Our runway is only forty-five hundred feet, but we hope to expand it next year. Can I fix you up with a rental car?”

Pitt nodded, and soon left the terminal with a set of keys to a blue Ford SUV. Spreading a map on the hood of the car, he studied his new surroundings. Elliot Lake was a small town near the northeast shores of Lake Huron. Situated some two hundred and seventy-five miles due north of Detroit, the town lay in the Algoma District of Ontario Province. Surrounded by Canadian wilderness, the landscape was a lush mix of rugged mountains, winding rivers, and deep lakes. Pitt found the airport on his map, carved out of the dense forest a few miles south of the town. He traced a lone highway that traveled south through the mountains, culminating on the shores of Lake Huron and the Trans-Canada Highway. About fifteen miles to the west was Pitt’s destination, an old logging and mining town called Blind River.

The drive was scenic, the road winding past several mountain lakes and a surging river that dropped over a steep waterfall. The terrain flattened as he reached the shores of Lake Huron and the town of Blind River. He drove slowly through the small hamlet, admiring the quaint wooden homes, which were mostly built in the 1930s. Pitt continued past the city limits until he spotted a large steel warehouse adjacent to a field littered with high mounds of rock and ore. A large maple leaf flag flew above a weathered sign that read ONTARIO MINERS CO-OP AND REPOSITORY. Pitt turned in and parked near the entrance as a broad-shouldered man in a brown suit walked down the steps and climbed into a late-model white sedan. Pitt noticed the man staring at him through a pair of dark sunglasses as he climbed out of his own rental car and entered the building.

The dusty interior resembled a mining museum. Rusty ore carts and pickaxes jammed the corners, alongside high shelves that overflowed with mining journals and old photographs. Behind a long wooden counter sat a massive antique banker’s safe that Pitt guessed held the more valuable mineral samples.

Seated behind the counter was an older man who appeared almost as dusty as the room’s interior. He had a bulb-shaped head, and his gray hair, eyes, and mustache matched the faded fla

“Good morning,” Pitt said, introducing himself. Gazing up at a polished tin container that resembled a large liquor flask, he remarked, “Beautiful old oil cadger you have there.”

The old man’s eyes lit up as he realized Pitt wasn’t a lost tourist looking for directions.

“Yep, used to refill the early miners’ oil lamps. Came from the nearby Bruce Mines. My grandpappy worked the copper mines there till they shut down in 1921,” he said in a wheezy voice.

“A lot of copper in these hills?” Pitt asked.

“Not enough to last long. Most of the copper and gold mines shut down decades ago. Attracted a lot of dirt diggers in their day, but not too many folks got rich from it,” he replied, shaking his head. Looking Pitt in the eye, he asked, “What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to know about your stock of ruthenium.”

“Ruthenium?” he asked, looking at Pitt queerly. “You with that big fellow that was just in here?”

“No,” Pitt replied. He recalled the odd behavior of the man in the brown suit and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity.