Arctic Drift

Pitt was likewise staring at the mess but with a different reaction. His eyes suddenly turned bright, and a sly grin spread across his lips.

“A fortuitous disaster,” he said to the manager, who looked back at him blankly. “Thanks for your assistance. I need to make a couple of phone calls, then I’ll be right aboard.”

When he crossed the tarmac a few minutes later, Pitt had a spry step to his aching bones and the gash to his head had ceased hurting. Across his face, the sly grin was still firmly embedded in place.

39

Minister Jameson, I have Mitchell Goyette on line one,” the gray-haired secretary said, poking her head into Jameson’s office like a gopher.

Jameson nodded from his desk, then waited until his secretary closed the door on her way out before hesitantly picking up the phone.

“Arthur, how are things in our lovely capital city?” Goyette greeted with mock friendship.

“Ottawa is enjoying a warm spring, to accompany the hot jingoistic climate in Parliament.”

“It’s high time we retained Canada’s resources for Canadians,” Goyette snorted.

“Yes, so that we can sell them to the Chinese,” the minister replied drily.

Goyette promptly turned serious. “There’s a small pile of rocks in the Arctic southeast of Victoria Island called the Royal Geographical Society Islands. I’ll be needing the mineral rights to the entire landmass,” he said, as if asking for a cup of coffee.

“Let me take a look,” Jameson replied, pulling a bundle of maps from his desk drawer. Finding a map marked Victoria Strait, which was overlaid with numbered grid lines, he moved to a desktop computer. Inputting the grid numbers, he accessed the ministry’s records of exploration and extraction licenses issued by the government. Within a few minutes, he had an answer for Goyette.

“I’m afraid we already have a production license in place, which covers about thirty percent of the islands, primarily the southern portion of West Island. It’s a ten-year license, but they are only entering their second year of operations. The license is held by Kingfisher Holdings, a subsidiary of the Mid-America Mining Company out of Butte, Montana. They have built a small mining facility and are currently extracting small quantities of zinc, apparently just in the summer months.”

“An American firm holds the license?”

“Yes, but through a Canadian shell company. There’s technically no law against it, providing they post the required security bond and meet the other provisions of the license agreement.”

“I want the license rescinded and reissued to one of my entities,” Goyette said matter-of-factly.

Jameson shook his head at Goyette’s presumption. “There would have to be a violation of the license, such as environmental polluting or shortchanging the royalty payments. It can’t be done unilaterally, Mitchell, without setting the government up for a major lawsuit.”

“Then how do I obtain the rights?” he huffed.

“Mid-America is currently in compliance, according to the latest inspection report, so your only option would be to try and purchase the rights directly from them. They would no doubt gouge you for the pleasure.” He thought for a moment. “There may in fact be another possibility.”

“Go ahead,” Goyette urged impatiently.

“There is a national defense clause in the license. Should this brouhaha with the United States continue to escalate, there is a possibility of using it for grounds to terminate the license. The clause allows for the termination of foreign-held licenses in the event of war, conflict, or dissolution of state relations. A long shot, of course, but one never knows. What exactly is your interest in the islands?”

“Something that is as good as gold,” Goyette replied quietly. Regaining his brashness, he barked, “Prepare the necessary details for me to bid on a new license. I’ll figure out a way to have this Mid-America Corporation cough it up.”

“Very well,” Jameson replied, his teeth gritted. “I will await your results.”

“That’s not all. As you know, the Melville Sound site is showing extraordinarily rich reserves of natural gas, yet I only own rights to a tiny fraction of the fields. I will be needing to obtain the extraction rights to the entire region.”

The line fell silent for several seconds before Jameson finally muttered, “I’m not sure that will be possible.”

“Nothing is impossible, for the right price,” Goyette laughed. “You’ll find that most of the tracts are previously ice-covered regions that nobody was interested in. Until now.”

“That is the problem. Word is out that major shipments are already being made from Melville. We’re receiving dozens of exploration requests for the area.”

“Well, don’t bother responding to them. The Melville gas fields will be worth billions, and I’m not going to let them slip through my fingers,” he snapped. “I will be sending you several maps shortly. They delineate my desired exploration zones, which encompass large sections of Melville Sound and some other Arctic regions. I intend to dramatically expand my exploration business in the Arctic and want wholesale exploration licenses for the entire lot. There are incredible profits available there, and you’ll be aptly rewarded, so don’t blow it. Good-bye, Arthur.”

Jameson heard a click as the line went dead. The resources minister sat frozen for a moment until a seething anger welled up from within, then he slammed the phone down with a whack.

Two thousand miles to the west, Goyette punched off his speakerphone and leaned back in his chair. Gazing across his office desk, he stared into the cool eyes of Clay Zak.

“Nothing ever comes easy,” he griped. “Now, tell me again why this ruthenium is so bloody important.”

“It’s quite simple,” Zak replied. “If you can monopolize the supply of ruthenium, then you can control a primary solution to global warming. What you elect to do with the mineral is a matter of money… and ego, I suppose.”

“I’m listening,” Goyette grunted.

“Assuming that you control the principal supply, then you have a choice to make. Mitchell Goyette, the environmentalist, can become the savior of the planet and pocket a few bucks along the way, fueling the expansion of artificial photosynthesis factories around the world.”

“But there is a risk on the demand side,” Goyette argued. “We really don’t know how much ruthenium will ultimately be needed, so the profits could be enormous or they could be squat. I’ve staked most of my worth in developing control of the Northwest Passage. I have invested heavily in natural gas and oil sands infrastructure to be able to ship through the passage, supported by my fleet of Arctic vessels. I have long-term export agreements in place with the Chinese and will soon have the Americans pleading on their knees. And I’ve got a potential booming business in carbon dioxide sequestration. If global warming is reversed, or even halted, I could face extended ice issues that run counter to my entire business strategy.”

“In that case, I suppose we can turn to Mitchell Goyette the unrepentant capitalist, who can recognize a profit opportunity blindfolded and will stop at nothing to keep his financial empire expanding.”

“You flatter me,” Goyette replied sarcastically. “But you have made the decision easy. I can’t afford to have the Northwest Passage revert to a solid chunk of ice. The recent melting is what has allowed me to gain control of the Melville Sound gas fields and monopolize transportation in the region. Maybe ten or fifteen years from now, when the oil sands and gas reserves are nearing depletion, I can go save the planet. By then, the ruthenium may even be exponentially more valuable.”

“Spoken like a true capitalist.”

Goyette reached over and picked up two thin pages of paper lying on his desk. They were the journal entries Zak had stolen from the Miners Co-op.