Clive Cussler: Arctic Drift

“Watch out for Flipper when you cast that thing,” Dirk said, walking onto the deck. “Beaning a porpoise brings bad karma.”

“How about beaning your brother?”

“Much, much worse.” He smiled as the marine mammals ducked under the surface. He scanned the surrounding waters, waiting for them to resurface, when he noticed the fishing boat again. She had gradually changed course and was now turning south. Dirk noted that it sailed on a circular course and would soon bear down on his own craft.

“You better make it quick, Summer. I don’t think this guy is watching where he’s going.”

Summer glanced at the approaching boat, then tossed the water vial over the side. The weighted apparatus quickly sank into the murk as a dozen feet of loose line was let out. When the line drew taut, Summer jerked it, causing the inverted vial to flip over and fill with subsurface water. Reeling in the line, she looked toward the fishing boat. It continued to turn in a lazy arc barely a hundred feet away, its bow easing toward the NUMA vessel.

Dirk had already returned to the wheelhouse and hit a button on the cowl. A honking blast erupted from a pair of trumpeted air horns mounted on the bow. The loud bellow echoed across the water but incited no reaction from the fishing boat. It continued to turn lazily toward a rendezvous with the research boat.

Dirk quickly fired up the engine and shoved the throttle forward as Summer finished pulling in the water sample. With a quick surge, the boat knifed to port a few yards, then slowed as the fishing boat edged by just a few feet away.

“Doesn’t look like anyone is on the bridge,” Summer shouted. She saw Dirk hang up the radio transmitter.

“I get no reply on the radio,” he confirmed with a nod. “Summer, come take the wheel.”

Summer rushed into the cabin and stowed the water sample, then slid into the pilot’s seat.

“You want to get aboard?” she asked, gauging her brother’s intent.

“Yes. See if you can match speed with her, then bring us alongside.”

Summer chased after the fishing boat, following in its wake, before pulling up alongside. She could tell that the fishing boat was traveling in ever-widening circles, then looked in alarm at its projected path. A widening arc along with a peaking flood tide was driving it in a loop toward Gil Island. In just a few minutes, the boat would reach the fringe of the island and rip its hull out on the rocky shoreline.

“Better act quick,” she yelled to her brother. “She’ll be on the rocks in no time.”

Dirk nodded and motioned with his hand to bring the boat closer. He had scrambled onto the bow and hunched with his feet over the low side railing. Summer held steady for a moment, getting a feel for the other boat’s speed and turning radius, then inched closer. When she pulled within two feet of the other boat, Dirk leaped, landing on the deck beside a net roller. Summer instantly pulled away, then followed the fishing boat a few yards behind.

Scrambling past the nets, Dirk headed straight for the fishing boat’s wheelhouse, where he found a scene of horror. Three men were sprawled on the deck, a look of agony etched on their faces. One of the men stared through open, glassy eyes and oddly clutched a pencil with a frozen hand. Dirk could tell by their gray pallor that the men were dead, but he quickly checked for pulses all the same. He noted curiously that the bodies were unmarked, with no visible blood or open wounds. Finding no signs of life, he grimly took the wheel and straightened the boat’s course, calling Summer over the radio to follow him. Shaking off a chill, he anxiously piloted the vessel toward the nearest port, silently wondering what had killed the men lying dead at his feet.

The White House security guard stood at the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance and stared in puzzlement at the man approaching on the sidewalk. He was short yet walked with a bold stride, his chest out and chin up, with an air of command. With fire-red hair and matching goatee, he reminded the guard of a bantam rooster stalking the henhouse. But it wasn’t his appearance or demeanor that most caught the guard’s attention. Rather, it was the large unlit stogie that protruded from the man’s lips.

“Charlie… isn’t that the VP? ” he asked his companion in the guard box. But his fellow agent was on the telephone and didn’t hear him. By now, the man had approached the small entryway alongside the guardhouse.

“Good evening,” he said in a gritty voice. “I have an eight o’clock appointment with the President.”

“May I see your credentials, sir?” the guard asked nervously.

“I don’t carry that nonsense around,” the man replied gruffly. He stopped and took the cigar out of his mouth. “The name’s Sandecker.”

“Yes, sir. But I still need your credentials, sir,” the guard replied, his face turning bright red.

Sandecker squinted at the guard, then softened. “I understand that you are just doing your job, son. Why don’t you call Chief of Staff Meade and tell him I’m at the gate?”

Before the disheveled guard could respond, his partner stuck his head out of the guard box.

“Good evening, Mr. Vice President. Another late meeting with the President?” he asked.

“Good evening, Charlie,” Sandecker replied. “Yes, I’m afraid this is the only time we can talk without interruption.”

“Why don’t you go on in,” Charlie said.

Sandecker took a step, then stopped. “See you’ve got a new man on the job,” he said, turning to the numb guard who had stopped him. The Vice President then reached out and shook hands with the man.

“Keep up the good work, son,” he said, then turned and ambled up the drive to the White House.

Though he had spent the better part of his career in the nation’s capital, James Sandecker was never one for official Washington protocol. A retired admiral, Sandecker was well known within the Beltway for the blunt manner in which he had administered the National Underwater and Marine Agency for many years. He’d been startled when the President asked him to replace his elected running mate, who had died in office. Though he lacked a political bone in his body, Sandecker knew he could be a stronger proponent for the environment and the oceans that he loved and so had readily accepted the offer.

As Vice President, Sandecker tried his best to shun the trappings that came with the office. He continually frustrated his Secret Service contingent by ditching them at will. A physical-fitness fanatic, he was often seen out jogging solo along the Mall. He worked out of an office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building rather than utilizing a similar space in the West Wing, preferring to avoid the political haze that enveloped all White House administrations. Even in poor weather he would stroll down Pennsylvania Avenue for meetings in the White House, preferring a dose of fresh air to the underground tunnel that connected the two buildings. In good weather, he was even known to hike up to Capitol Hill for congressional meetings, tiring the Secret Service agents assigned to keep up with him.

Passing through another security checkpoint at the entrance to the West Wing, Sandecker was escorted by a White House staffer to the Oval Office. Shown through the northwest doorway, he crossed the blue-carpeted room alone and took a seat across from the President at his desk. It wasn’t until he was seated that he took a good look at the President and nearly winced.

President Garner Ward was a mess. The populist independent from Montana, who bore a passing resemblance in character and appearance to Teddy Roosevelt, looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Puffy sandbags of flesh protruded beneath his blotchy red eyes while his facial skin appeared sullen and gray. He stared at Sandecker with a grim demeanor that was uncharacteristic of the normally jocular Chief Executive.