The prop plane lurched and dropped among the mountains. Lauren was glad she’d skipped lunch. When it landed at the airstrip beside the mine, she darted ahead of the twelve workers commuting from Kotzebue to be the first off the company plane. Outside, the manager of public relations introduced himself as Prince Hall and escorted her to a plain office.
“This is all spur of the moment, isn’t it?” Hall said. “The home office called this morning to tell me you were coming. They said you’re doing a piece for the Sports Network. I didn’t quite get the context.”
“We’ve been covering the Iditarod for years,” Lauren said. “But now we’re thinking about adding the Kobuk 440, too.”
“Why, that’s fantastic.”
“Since the race starts in Kotzebue, I’m working on a background piece about the local area. The Inupiaq, their culture, their lifestyle. Given you’re one of the biggest private employers in the region—what are we, a hundred miles away?”
“Less. Only eighty.”
“Only eighty. You’re even closer than I thought. You’re vital to the local economy. Your track record for environmental responsibility seems beyond reproach. At least from what I’ve read.”
“And everything you’ve read is true. The Arctic is a national treasure. We’re the world’s largest zinc mine. We hold ourselves to the highest standards where emissions and waste management are concerned. I would love to give you a tour of our facilities and tell you all about it.”
“That would be great. And perhaps I could meet an employee or two.”
Lauren suffered through a tour of the mine, zinc processing plant, residences, and even the cafeteria. She pretended to care about the difference between drill and blast mining, and grinding and sulphide flotation methods. She even studied an ISO 14001 environmental certification report. It was torture.
“You mentioned meeting an employee or two,” Hall said, when he was done with his dog and pony show. “I thought you might enjoy meeting one of our plant managers. She’s a woman, like yourself.”
“That sounds interesting, but I had someone else in mind. You have a musher on staff who placed third in the Kobuk 440 five years ago.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. I was rotated in from Anchorage eighteen months ago. What’s his name?”
“Dave Ambrose. He writes a blog on dog sled and snowmobile racing. He’s good. I’d like to get his perspective on a few things. And see if he’s interested in doing some writing online for us. Nothing that would interfere with his career here, of course. Just a hobby.”
“Let’s see if he’s working today. Workers in the mine work four days on, three days off. On account of the exposure to lead. If he’s in, I’ll ask the supervisor.”
The laws of probability prevailed. Twenty minutes later, Ambrose walked into a conference room with a gray respirator hanging below his chin, and matching pads strapped to his knees. He appeared to be in his late twenties. Lauren repeated what she told Hall when she met him.
Ambrose’s eyes lit up. “You’re going to cover the 440?”
“We’re considering it.”
He thrust his fists over his head. “Awesome. That would be so awesome.” He dropped his hands and slumped. “But I’m not going to be of any use to you.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You want to follow a team up close and personal, right? My racing days are over. The mine’s tough on the knees. Tendonitis. It never goes away. I know some of the other fellows, though. I know Jimmy Hines. He placed third in the Iditarod last year. I can introduce you.”
“Dave, I didn’t ask to speak with you because I want you to race. I asked to speak with you because I read your blog last night.”
“You read my blog?”
“You’re a good writer. You know the sport and you have a good sense of humor. What’s your blog called? Plains, Strains, and Snow Machines ?”
He nodded.
“I wanted to see if you’re interested in working with me on this.”
Ambrose blinked a few times. “Work with you?”
“Yeah. With the Sports Network. Be a local resource. Provide us with introductions to the people you know. And most importantly, be our reporter online. On the Network’s website.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“Are you kidding me? That would be—That would be unbelievable. But the job. I couldn’t give up my job.”
“I would never ask you to. This would be more of a hobby. An extra gig that supplements your income. I’m sure you could arrange your schedule to take some vacation time around the actual race. Couldn’t you?”
“I do it every year.”
“So there’s no problem. Apart from the race, you can write wherever, whenever you want and post your articles online anytime.”
“Oh my God. I won’t let you down, I promise. I have all sorts of ideas already. I could start with the origins of the Iditarod. It commemorates the 1925 serum run from Nenana to Nome. An outbreak of diphtheria threatened Nome. A hundred dogs ran relays for 674 miles to deliver the serum. The lead dog’s name was Balto. He ran ninety-one miles in a blizzard. Complete whiteout conditions. There’s a statue of him in Central Park. In New York City. You’re from New York, right? Have you seen it? Have you seen it?”
“I’ve probably walked by it a hundred times but never paid attention to it. Before you get too excited, Dave, I need you to help me with something else first.”
“Okay. Name it.”
“I’m working on another story. It’s about a boy from Kotzebue. His name is Bobby Kungenook. Does that name ring a bell?”
“No.”
“He’s seventeen years old and he lives in New York, too.”
“And he’s from Kotzebue?” Ambrose laughed. “Get out of town.”
The phrase caught Lauren off guard, even though it was just an expression. She remembered the rifle pressed to the back of her head. She really did need to get out of town.
“I can’t seem to find out much about him,” she said. “You know how people guard each other’s secrets in a small town.”
“In a small town, sometimes secrets are all you have. Why are you interested in this kid?”
“He’s a hockey player at a prep school. He’s good. A can’t miss prospect. You guys follow hockey up here?”
“Sure. Scotty Gomez is from Anchorage. He played for the Devils when they won the Cup.”
“I’m doing a background piece on him. That’s all. Seems he was born in Kotzebue but disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Lauren shrugged. “Supposedly he was home schooled around here but I can’t seem to find any trace of him. Maybe you can do better.”
Ambrose considered her question. “And that’s all this is? A routine background piece?”
“That’s all.”
“Okay. I can do that. I can make some calls for you.”
It was a lie, of course. Lauren’s assistant had stayed up half the night trolling the Internet on her behalf, reading the online archives of the Arctic Sounder and checking local links looking for an angle that Lauren could leverage. Then she found Ambrose’s blog and read his bio. Ambrose was from Kotzebue. If he didn’t know the Kungenooks, he knew someone who did. And his passion for dog sled racing and writing could be leverage. It was Lauren’s best chance to cajole a local into revealing a secret.
The only place in Kotzebue with Internet access was the Arctic Blues Espresso coffee shop. Lauren had been there at 7:30 a.m. when it opened. After studying Ambrose herself, she’d called the folks at Red Dog and told them she was working on a story that might cast the company in a favorable light. She’d emphasized that the Sports Network was considering covering the Kobuk 440, but didn’t promise it would happen.
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