Clive Cussler - Arctic Drift

The Narwhal arrived at the ice camp’s reported position, and Stenseth brought the Narwhal to within a hundred feet of the ice sheet. The research ship cruised slowly along the jagged border, dodging around numerous icebergs that had recently severed from the ice field. The captain ordered every light on board illuminated and repeatedly let loose a blast from the ship’s deafening Kahlenberg air horns as a possible rescue beacon. The powering winds began to abate slightly, allowing brief glimpses through the swirling snow. All eyes scanned the thick shelf of the sea ice as well as the frozen waters for signs of the ice camp or its inhabitants. Drifting over the camp’s reported position, not a sign was detected. If anything or anybody was left at the scene, they were now residing two thousand feet beneath the dark gray waters.

Kevin Bue had watched their perch on the ice dissolve from a battleship-sized sheet of ice to that of a small house. The battering sea waves would rip and shove at the iceberg, splintering it into smaller fragments that would be subject to the same dissecting forces. While their refuge grew smaller, the ride grew rougher as they drifted farther into the Beaufort Sea. The shrinking berg wallowed and dipped in the churning seas, while surging waves repeatedly swept over the lower reaches. Shivering in the bitter cold, Bue found himself suffering the added discomfort of seasickness.

Looking at the two men beside him, he could hardly complain. Quinlon was close to slipping into a hypothermia-induced unconsciousness, while Case seemed to be headed down the same path. The radio operator sat curled in a ball, his glazed eyes staring blankly ahead. Bue’s efforts at conversation were met with nothing more than a blink of the eyes.

Bue considered stripping the parkas off Quinlon so that he and Case might regain some warmth but thought better of it. Although Quinlon was as good as dead, their own outlook for survival was no better. Bue stared at the turbulent gray water surrounding their frozen raft and contemplated diving into the sea. At least it would end things quickly. The idea passed when he decided it would take too much energy to walk the dozen paces to the water’s edge.

A large swell rocked the ice platform, and he heard a sharp thump beneath his feet. A crack suddenly materialized beneath his snow-carved seat, extending rapidly across the berg. With a jolt from the next oncoming wave, the entire section of ice beneath him abruptly fell away, dissolving into the dark sea. Bue instinctively grabbed on to the sharp face of the snowbank, lodging a foot on the small ledge that held Quinlon. Case, sitting on the opposite side, never moved a muscle as Bue desperately clung to a vertical cleft of the ice, dangling just a few feet above the stinging waves.

Bue felt his heart pounding wildly, and with a desperate lunge he jabbed his fingers into the ice and pulled himself up and on top of the remaining snow mound. Their haven had shrunk to the size of a minivan and now rocked violently in the rough seas. Bue teetered on the top, waiting for the whole mound to turn turtle and send the three men on an icy plunge to their deaths. It would be a matter of minutes now, he knew, before their ride would come to an end.

Then through the windswept snow he saw a bright light, beaming like the sun behind a rainsquall. It blinded his eyes, and he shut his lids tightly to escape the searing beam. When he opened them a few seconds later, the light had vanished. All he could see was the white of the dry ice that peppered his face in the fierce wind. He strained to detect the light again, but there was nothing to see but the storm. Slowly, he closed his eyes in defeat, sagging as the strength ebbed from his pores.

Jack Dahlgren already had a fueled Zodiac winched above the gunwale when the call came from the bridge to launch. Dressed in a bright yellow Mustang survival suit, he climbed aboard and checked that a portable GPS unit and a two-way radio were stowed in a watertight bin. He started the outboard engine, then waited as a squat figure came charging across the deck.

Al Giordino didn’t have time to put on an exposure suit; he simply grabbed a parka on the bridge and hustled down to the Zodiac. As Giordino leaped in, Dahlgren gave a thumbs-up sign to a waiting crewman, who quickly lowered the inflatable boat into the sea. Dahlgren waited until Giordino released the drop hook, then gunned the motor. The small inflatable burst over and through a high-rolling wave, sending plumes of icy spray skyward. Giordino ducked from the spray, then pointed an arm ahead of the Narwhal .

“We’re after a small berg about two hundred yards off the port bow,” he yelled. “There’s an ice sheet dead ahead, so you’ll have to go hard around,” he added, waving to the left.

Though the blinding snow, Dahlgren could just make out a fuzzy mass of white on the surface directly ahead. Taking a quick compass bearing, he eased the Zodiac to port until the ice sheet loomed up a few yards in front of him. Turning sharply, he sped along the perimeter, slowing slightly when he figured that he had reached the opposite side.

The Narwhal was no longer in view behind them, while the ice sheet had given way to dozens of small icebergs rolling in the heavy seas. The pounding winds blew snow particles off the nearby ice sheet, reducing visibility to less than fifty feet. Giordino sat perched on the prow scanning the seas like an eagle in search of prey, motioning Dahlgren to turn this way, then that. They motored through trunk-sized chunks of ice mixed with larger bergs, all swaying and smashing into one another. Giordino had them circle several small bergs before frantically pointing at a tall, swaying spire of ice.

“That’s the one,” he yelled.

Dahlgren hit the throttle, racing over to the floating wedge of ice that looked to him like all the others. Only this one had a patch of darkness on the crest. As the Zodiac drew near, Dahlgren saw that it was a human body sprawled across the top. He quickly circled the berg, looking for a place to land the boat, but the ice showed only steep vertical slopes on all sides. Reaching the opposite end, he noticed two other men wedged into a crude dugout cut a few feet above the water.

“Ram it beneath that ledge,” Giordino yelled.

Dahlgren nodded, then replied, “Hang on.”

He circled the Zodiac around to garner momentum, then gunned the throttle while aiming straight for the berg. The inflatable boat’s prow skidded over a slight lip of ice before plunging hard into the snowbank just beneath the two hypothermic men. Both Dahlgren and Giordino barely kept from flying out of the boat as it jarred to an immediate halt.

Giordino quickly stood up, brushed some snow off his head and shoulders, then smiled at Case, who stared back through listless eyes.

“Just five minutes to some hot chicken soup, my friends,” Giordino said, grabbing Quinlon like a rag doll and laying him between two bench seats. He then took Case’s arm and helped the lethargic man crawl into the Zodiac. Dahlgren retrieved a pair of dry blankets from a storage locker and quickly covered both men.

“Can you reach the other one?” Dahlgren asked.

Giordino gazed at the rocking mound of snow that rose six feet over his head.

“Yes, but keep the engine running. I think this ice cube is on its last legs.”

Stepping off the inflatable, he kicked a toehold into the hardened snow and began to climb. With each step, he’d punch his fist into the crust for a handgrip and then foothold as he climbed higher. The iceberg rocked and swayed in the rolling swells, and several times he thought he might go flying off into the water. Ascending as quickly as he could, he popped his head over the top of the ridge, finding Bue spread out on the crest with his face down. Yanking Bue’s torso, Giordino pulled the limp body closer until he could slide him over his shoulder. Clamping an arm around the frozen man’s legs, he began the unsteady descent down the face of the berg.