The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

The captain slapped Austin and Zavala on the back. “Grab your harpoons, boys. We’ve found Moby-Berg.” He gazed in rapture at the enormous berg. “Real pretty, eh?”

“Quite the little ice cube,” Austin said. “And we’re only seeing about an eighth of the berg above water.”

“There’s must be enough ice there for a billion margaritas,” Zavala said with undisguised awe.

Dawe said, “She’s a castle berg. Like the one that sunk the Titanic. The average berg in this neighborhood runs a couple of hundred thousand tons and maybe two hundred feet in length. This one is around three hundred feet plus and maybe five hundred thousand tons. The Titanic iceberg was only around two hundred fifty thousand tons.”

The captain ordered the helmsman to circle the berg, coming no closer than one hundred feet. “We’ve got to be extra careful,” he explained.

“Those projections poking from the water look as if they could scrape the barnacles off our hull,” Austin said.

The captain kept a level gaze on the berg. “It’s the obstructions we can’t see that I worry about. Those blue cracks are weak spots. A gigantic piece of ice could break off at any time and the splash alone could sink us.” Dawe flashed a quick grin. “Still glad you hooked a ride with us?”

Nodding in agreement, Austin tried to absorb the deadly beauty of the majestic ice mountain.

Zavala had shed all his reservations about the trip and stared spellbound at the huge berg. “Fantastic!” he said.

“Glad to hear that, my friends, because his baby belongs to you. A NUMA ship helped me out of a jam some years ago. This is my way of paying you back. The ship’s owners say liability won’t be a problem as long as you sign on as temporary members of the crew, which you’ve already done. You showed yourself to be naturals rounding up bergy bits.”

Dawe had let his guests lend a hand lassoing th

e smaller bergs, loosely misnamed after the fast-food specialty. Their teamwork and the way they quickly picked up the technique had impressed him.

“Those bergy bits were the size of houses,” Austin said. “That thing out there is as big as the Watergate complex.”

“The principle’s the same. Spot ’em. Encircle ’em, rope ’em, and tow ’em. I’ll be watching over your shoulder in case you get into trouble. Get into your foul weather gear. Meet you on deck.”

Austin and Zavala grinned like kids getting their first two-wheeled bike. They thanked the captain and headed to their cabin. They pulled on extra layers of warm clothing and slipped into full suits of bright orange foul weather gear. By the time they stepped out onto the open, the wind had picked up. The patched surface of the sea was as rough as alligator skin.

The captain watched closely as the two men worked with the crew to shackle together twelve-hundred-foot-long sections of eight-inch-thick polypropylene towrope. The towrope was attached to a cylindrical bollard on the aft deck and was paid out through a wide opening in the stern rail. An orange buoy was attached to the free-floating end. Austin used a portable radio to contact the bridge to say all was ready.

The ship moved in a big circle, staying about two hundred feet away from the berg, stopping to allow the crew to shackle sections to the towline.

When the Eriksson came back to its starting point, a crewman grappled the buoy end floating in the water and hauled it on deck. Austin directed the seamen to attach a wire towline to keep the rope low in the water. The line might slip off the slippery surface of the berg otherwise. The captain inspected the setup.

“Good job,” Dawe said. “Now comes the fun part.”

He led Austin and Zavala back up to the bridge. About half a mile of open water separated the ship and the berg; Dawe considered this the minimum distance for safe towing.

“I’ll let you take over from here,” Austin said.

He knew that this was no place for an amateur. Towed bergs have been known to turn over, and there was always the danger of the towline being tangled in the propellers.

Under the captain’s direction, the ship increased power. The towline went taut. The water behind the boat boiled in a white, foamy patch. The berg reluctantly overcame the inertia holding it in place. The huge ice mountain became unstuck from the sea, and they began to make slow headway. It might take hours to reach a speed of a single knot.

With the iceberg under tow, Austin excused himself and came back from his cabin a few minutes later. He presented a cardboard box to the captain. Dawe opened the box and his mouth widened in a grin. He lifted a broad-brimmed Stetson from the box and placed the cowboy hat on his head.

“A little large, but I can stuff newspaper inside to make it fit. Thanks, guys.”

“Consider it a small token of appreciation for having us on board,” Austin said.

Zavala was staring at the iceberg, which dwarfed the ship. “What are we going to do with that thing?”

“We’ll tow it to a current that will take it away from the oil rig. It could take a few days.”

“Captain—” The radarman called Dawe over to the radar monitor. “I’ve been tracking a target. Looks like it’s heading toward the Great Northern.”

The radar man had drawn three Xs with a grease pencil on a transparent plastic overlay and connected them to show the object’s course and time. The captain took a straightedge and lined it up with the markings.