Clive Cussler - Fast Ice

“How could I forget,” Kurt said. “You had so much fun playing in the sand with them.”

“Once was enough,” Joe said. “I’m sure you’ve thought of this, but we probably shouldn’t be in the truck when it comes to a full stop. Even though they loaded this thing by hand, they’re not going to unload it that way.”

Joe had a point. Given the opportunity, Kurt would have ridden the truck into the shed and taken his chances, but lights coming on outside of the building and a man positioning a conveyer belt told him the truck wasn’t going inside.

He left the front of the truck and moved toward the end of the bed. Climbing over the tailgate, he stood on a rusted metal bumper. Fortunately, the big truck wasn’t moving all that fast. “Hit the ground and stay directly behind the truck.”

Joe gave a thumbs-up.

Kurt took one last look at the dirt speeding by and leapt into the air.

He hit the ground, tucked and rolled, tumbling a couple times before coming to a stop in the red dirt.

Joe landed a few yards away, grunting with the final impact and lying flat in the darkness, as the truck rumbled on toward its destination.

When it was clear no one had seen them, Joe propped himself up and looked over at Kurt. “I give you eight-point-five on the dismount,” Joe said.

“I give you a ten for not landing on me,” Kurt replied.

They watched the truck pull up to the building. It stopped, made a three-point turn and backed toward the loading dock.

As Joe had predicted, the ice was dumped onto the dock. Two men shoveled it onto a moving conveyor belt, which hauled it up and into the building through an opening at the upper level.

“That’s our way in,” Kurt said.

They moved closer, remaining outside the radius of the lights until the unloading was finished and the dump truck drove off. As the last of the ice was loaded on the belt, Ryland’s men moved inside.

“Looks clear,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”

They sprinted through the dark toward the conveyor belt. It was wet with meltwater and no longer active, but its rubberized surface made it easy to climb.

Kurt went up first, climbing up quickly and ducking through the opening. Joe followed a few paces behind.

Now inside, they found themselves in the rafters where the conveyor split into three separate tracks. Two of them were dry. Kurt followed the trail of water. It led to the far side of the building, where a large hopper made of stainless steel had collected the delivery.

A metal chute was connected to the far side of the hopper. It was in the upright and locked position at the moment, but there could be no doubt it was designed to empty ice into a long, rectangular pool down below.

“If someone starts swimming laps,” Joe said, “I’m going to be terribly embarrassed at all the conclusions you jumped to.”

Kurt pointed to an electronic board at the far end of the pool. It resembled the scoreboard on a playing field or a temporary highway sign telling drivers the ramp up ahead was closed. Glowing digital numbers recorded the time and temperature. The pool water was 32.1 degrees Fahrenheit. “No swimming tonight, unless someone’s training for the Polar Bear Plunge.”

The sound of voices became audible, accompanied by footsteps on the concrete below. A group of five walked out to a spot on the far side of the pool.

Ryland, Liang and Novikov were in the lead. A woman whom neither Kurt nor Joe had seen before was with them. A fifth member of the party, one of Ryland’s technicians, followed. He left the group, taking up a position behind a control panel near the lighted information board. He stood with his hands behind him, waiting for orders.

“No dragons or crocodiles,” Joe said. “But I think we’re about to get a show.”

21

Ryland strode around the pool, leading the party to the proper viewing area while fielding questions from his guests. Pointed, accusatory questions. He steeled himself to remain on the offensive, firing back with queries of his own.

“I’ll start with you, Ms. Tunstall,” he said. “When will the turbines be delivered to my technicians?”

The woman stared back at him. Eileen Tunstall was the matriarch of a wealthy Canadian family that owned three separate industrial companies. Her father had started them and she’d built them up after wresting control from her brothers. Fighting against the regulators and competitors every step of the way. She was the type who backed down from no one.

“The turbines have already been shipped,” she said. “But they won’t be delivered until you convince me this scheme is more than a pipe dream. And that you’re more than a second-rate con man.”

“I assure you,” Ryland said, “I’m second-rate at nothing. As for your demands, will you commit if I meet them?”

“Yes,” she said plainly. “But at this point the bar is very high.”

Ryland was fine with that. “And what about the rest of you,” he said. “Are you also committed?”

“We have demonstrated our commitment many times over,” Liang replied. “Six months ago, I provided this venture with thirty million dollars. That should be enough to prove my intentions.”

“Thirty million is a drop in the bucket,” Ryland said. “It buys a single oceangoing vessel. And a small one at that.”

Liang was not impressed. “The thirty million I speak of was only the latest transfer. I have made others beforehand. All told, you’ve received one hundred and fifty million dollars from my company.”

“And nearly as much from mine,” Novikov chimed in. His deep Russian accent came off as gruff and gravelly, a great contrast to Liang’s sharp, scolding voice.

“These were not gifts,” Ryland insisted. “They’re investments . Do you think I would include you in this venture without making sure you had skin in the game? There are plenty of others who would choose to be the first movers of the revolution, which I’m about to provide.”

The Russian cleared his throat. “My company has purchased vast tracts of land above the Arctic Circle. Land for drilling and mining. Not to mention rights of way for pipelines, railbeds and roads. We have optioned the prime coastal areas in which to build the new ports at great expense. We’ve had ‘skin in the game,’ as you call it, for two years now. At this moment, that investment is frozen, literally and figuratively. It’s buried under snow and locked up by permafrost, which sinks ten meters into the earth. It also sits on my balance sheet as a massive liability. One that requires monthly interest payments. You’ve been promising to turn that liability into an asset for some time, but, so far, we’ve seen nothing.”

“We’ve made similar purchases in Canada and Greenland,” Ms. Tunstall said. “None of us will give you another penny until we verify your claims. You insist you’ve made a breakthrough. Now prove it.”

“I intend to do just that,” Ryland said calmly. “You see the pool before you. It’s been cooled to a temperature of thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit. It represents the water above the Arctic Circle.”

“It’s not frozen,” Liang said.

“The depths are not frozen,” Ryland said, “but there is a layer of ice on the surface.”

Novikov dropped down beside it, dipping his hand in the pool. The ice, clear as glass, cracked with the slightest touch, allowing his hand to sink in.

Novikov pulled back, annoyed that the cuff of his shirt had been soaked. “It’s as he says,” he announced, while flicking the water from his hand.

“Surely you don’t expect to convince us by melting a paper-thin layer of ice?” Liang asked.

Ryland grinned. “Of course not.” He turned to his technician. “Open the slide.”