Clive Cussler - Arctic Drift

“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said softly.

He squeezed her hand but continued staring off in the distance. His eyes suddenly sharpened as he focused on something nearby. A white cloud had materialized on the water a few dozen yards off the bow. The vapor grew rapidly until it encroached upon the boat.

“Awfully white for a fogbank,” Summer said with a curious look. She noted that the air took on a pungent odor as the mist drew closer.

The cloud had billowed to the tip of the bow when the light drizzle overhead suddenly thickened into a downpour. Trevor and Summer ducked into the wheelhouse as a deluge of rainwater pelted the boat. Through the window, they watched the approaching white cloud disappear under the gray canopy of falling water.

“That was odd,” Summer remarked as Trevor fired up the motor. He aimed the boat toward Kitimat, applying a heavy throttle, as he noticed a scattering of dead fish whir by in the water.

“Devil’s Breath,” he said quietly.

“Devil’s what?”

“Devil’s Breath,” he repeated, turning a troubled eye toward Summer. “A local native Haisla was fishing in this area a few weeks ago and washed up dead on one of the islands. The authorities said he drowned, possibly run over by a vessel that didn’t see him in the fog. Maybe he had a heart attack, I don’t really know.” The rain outside had let up, but Trevor kept his eyes on the boat’s path ahead.

“Go on,” Summer prodded after a lengthy pause.

“I never thought much about it. But a few days ago, my brother recovered the man’s skiff while fishing out here and asked me to return it to the family. The man had lived in Kitamaat Village, a Haisla settlement. I had done some water studies for the village, so I was friendly with a number of residents. When I met with the family, the deceased man’s uncle kept crying that Devil’s Breath had killed him.”

“What did he mean?”

“He said that the devil had decided his time had come and cast down a cold white breath of death that killed him and everything around him.”

“The reported fish and marine life kills?”

Trevor turned and gave Summer a half grin. “I’m pretty sure the old guy was drunk when he told me that. The Haisla have no shortage of supernatural deeds in their storytelling.”

“It does sound like an old wives’ tale,” Summer agreed.

But her words didn’t stop a sudden chill from tingling up her spine. The rest of the journey was made in silence, as they both contemplated the strange words of the Haisla native and how it fit with the things they had seen.

They were within a few miles of Kitimat when an executive helicopter whisked across their bow low overhead. The chopper angled toward a protruding chunk of land on the north bank, where an industrial facility was nestled in the trees. A wooden pier stretched into the sound, berthing several small boats and a large luxury yacht. On an adjacent grass clearing was pitched a large white party tent.

“Private hunting lodge for the rich and famous?” Summer asked with a tilt of her head.

“Nothing that glamorous. It’s actually a prototype carbon sequestration plant, built by Terra Green Industries. I was involved in some of the site approval and inspection work as it was being built.”

“I’m familiar with the concept of carbon sequestration. Collecting and liquefying industrial carbon dioxide gases and pumping them deep into the earth or beneath the ocean floor. Seems like an expensive way to keep pollutants out of the atmosphere.”

“The new greenhouse gas emission limits make it a hot technology. The clampdown on industrial carbon dioxide releases in Canada is especially stringent. Companies can now trade carbon credits, but the cost is much higher than many had anticipated. Mining and power companies are particularly desperate to find lower-cost alternatives. Goyette expects to make a lot of money from his sequestration technology if he is allowed to expand the process.”

“Mitchell Goyette, the environmental magnate?”

“Yes, he’s the owner of Terra Green. Goyette is something of a cultural hero to many Canadians. He’s built dams, wind farms, and solar panel fields all over the country while touting hydrogen fuel technologies.”

“I’m familiar with his call for offshore wind farms along the Atlantic seaboard to produce clean energy. I have to tell you, that doesn’t exactly look like a hydrogen-powered yacht,” Summer said, pointing toward the Italian-built luxury vessel.

“No, he doesn’t live the self-deprived life of a true greenie. He’s become a billionaire off the environmental movement, yet nobody holds it against him. Some people say that he doesn’t even believe in the movement, that it’s just a means for him to make money.”

“Apparently he has succeeded,” she said, still eyeing the yacht. “Why did he build a sequestration facility here?”

“In a word, Athabasca. The oil sands of Athabasca, Alberta, require a tremendous amount of energy to refine into crude oil. A by-product of the process is carbon dioxide, apparently in large quantities. The new greenhouse gas agreement will shut down the refinery operations unless they can find a way around their CO 2problem. Enter Mitchell Goyette. The oil companies were already building a small pipeline from the oil fields to Kitimat. Goyette convinced them to build an extra pipeline to run liquefied carbon dioxide.”

“We noticed a pair of small oil tankers in the channel,” Summer said.

“We fought the pipelines hard for fear of oil spills, but the commerce powers won out. Goyette, meanwhile, convinced the government that a coastal location was key for his facility, and even received a land grant from the Natural Resources Department.”

“A shame it ended up in such a pristine location.”

“There was a lot of dissent in the department, but the natural resources minister ultimately signed off on it. In fact, I’m told he is one of the guests visiting the official grand opening today.”

“And you didn’t make the cut?” Summer asked.

“My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. No, wait, the dog ate it.” He laughed. It was the first time Summer had caught Trevor in a light moment, and she observed a sudden warmth in his eyes.

They sped on into Kitimat, Trevor easing the boat to berth behind the docked NUMA vessel. Dirk could be seen inside the research vessel’s cabin, typing on a laptop computer. He closed the computer and stepped out with a morose look on his face as Summer and Trevor tied up the other vessel, then walked alongside.

“Back before three, with room to spare,” Summer greeted, eyeing her wristwatch.

“I think the police chief’s visit is the least of our worries,” Dirk replied. “I just downloaded the lab results from the water samples we sent to Seattle yesterday.”

“Why so glum?”

Dirk handed the printout to Summer, then gazed across the waters of the sound. “The pristine-looking waters lying off Kitimat are threatening to kill anything that swims through them.”

Mitchell Goyette drained the glass of Krug Clos du Mesnil champagne with a smug look of satisfaction. He placed the empty crystal flute on a cocktail table just as the wash from the helicopter’s rotor rippled the tent overhead.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a deep voice. “That would be the Prime Minister.” Extricating himself from a small group of province politicians, Goyette exited the tent and strode toward a nearby landing pad.

A large and imposing man, Goyette had a polished demeanor that bordered on slick. With wide eyes, greased-back hair, and a permanent grin, he had the look of a wild boar. Yet he moved in a fluid, almost graceful manner that belied his simmering arrogance. It was the conceit of a man who had amassed his wealth through shrewdness, deceit, and intimidation.