Clive Cussler - Arctic Drift

The prospector rubbed his chin for a moment. “Well, it’s a relative of platinum, though not associated with deposits in these parts. I know the price has skyrocketed, so there’s probably a lot more folks out searching for the stuff, but I’ve never run across any. Can’t say that I know anybody else who has either. As I recall, there are only a few places in the world where they mine it. My only other recollection about ruthenium is that some folks thought it had something to do with the old Pretoria Lunatic Mill.”

“I’m not familiar with the story,” Pitt replied.

“An old miners’ tale out of South Africa. I read about it while doing some research on diamonds. Apparently, there was a small weaving mill built near the turn of the century near Pretoria, South Africa. After operating for about a year, they started finding the mill workers going batty. It got so bad they had to close down the factory. The lunacy probably had something to do with the chemicals they used, but it never was clearly identified. It was later noted that the plant was built next to a platinum mine rich with ruthenium, and that ruthenium ore, which had little value back then, was stockpiled in great mounds next to the mill. At least one historian thought that the unusual mineral had something to do with the crazy behavior.”

“It’s an interesting story,” Pitt replied, recalling his discussion at the Co-op. “Have you by chance heard of any mining done by the Inuit up north in the old days?”

“Can’t say that I have. Of course, the Arctic is considered a mining candy land these days. Diamonds in the Northwest Territories, coal on Ellesmere Island, and of course oil and natural gas prospects all over the place.”

They were interrupted by a granite-faced Mountie, who poked his head in the door and asked Pitt to fill out a police report on his damaged rental car. The road construction crew arrived shortly after and went to work clearing a path through the debris. The loose rock and gravel was quickly pushed aside, and it was only a short while before a single lane of traffic was opened through the landslide area.

“Any chance I could bum a ride with you to the Elliot Lake airport?” Pitt asked the old prospector.

“I’m headed to the Sudbury region, so you’re pretty much on my way. Grab a seat up front,” he replied, taking a seat behind the wheel.

The big RV barely squeezed through the debris before finding open road on the far side of the landslide. The two men chatted about history and mining until the motor home pulled to a stop outside the tiny airport terminal.

“There you go, mister, ah…”

“Pitt. Dirk Pitt.”

“My name’s Clive Cussler. Happy trails to you, Mr. Pitt.”

Pitt shook the old prospector’s hand, then gave the dachshund a pat on the head, before climbing out of the RV.

“I’m obliged to you for your help,” Pitt said, looking at the prospector with a familiar sense of kinship. “Good luck in finding that beckoning mother lode.”

Pitt walked into the building and approached the terminal manager, whose mouth gaped when he turned his way. Pitt looked like he had just been run over by a Greyhound bus. His hair and clothes were caked in dust, while a bloodied bandage crossed his scalp. When Pitt relayed how the rental car was sitting on the highway upside down and filled with rocks, the manager nearly went into convulsions.

While filling out an endless stack of insurance papers, Pitt glanced out the window and noticed that the Gulfstream jet was no longer parked on the tarmac.

“How long ago did our fellow jet depart?” he asked the manager.

“Oh, about an hour or two ago. His stay wasn’t much longer than yours.”

“I think I saw him in town. Kind of a burly guy in a brown suit? ”

“Yes, that was the customer.”

“Mind if I ask where he was headed?”

“You two are both nosy. He asked who you were,” he said, picking up a clipboard and running his finger down a short list of aircraft arrivals and departures. Pitt casually leaned over the manager’s shoulder, catching the plane’s tail number, C-FTGI, which he committed to memory.

“While I can’t tell you who is aboard, I can tell you that the plane is bound for Vancouver, with a scheduled fuel stop in Regina, Saskatchewan.”

“They visit Elliot Lake often?”

“No, I can’t say I’ve seen that plane here before.” The manager tilted his head toward a small room in the corner of the terminal. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, and I’ll notify your flight crew that you are here.”

Pitt agreed and made his way to the lounge, where he poured a cup of coffee from a stained glass pot. A corner-mounted television was tuned to a Calgary rodeo, but Pitt stared past the bronco riders, toying with the scattered puzzle pieces of the last few days. His trip to the Miners Co-op had been made on a lark, yet his hunch had been right. Sourcing a supply of ruthenium was of global importance, and somebody else was in on the hunt. He thought back to the well-dressed man in the white sedan, John Booth. There was something familiar about the man, but Pitt knew no one in Vancouver who had the means to fly in a corporate jet.

The terminal manager popped into the lounge, refilling a large coffee cup as he spoke to Pitt.

“Your flight crew is on their way to your aircraft. I told them you would be right out.”

As he spoke, he ripped open a packet of sugar to pour into his coffee. The bag ripped completely in half, though, showering the carpeted floor in white granules.

“Jeez,” he groaned, tossing the empty packet aside. “Well, that will give the night janitor something to do,” he muttered, staring at the mess.

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.

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.”