Arctic Drift (Dirk Pitt 20)

“We might just be chasing a few hiccups from down under,” replied the pilot. Turning a sharp eye toward Dahlgren, he added, “A bum steer, you might say.”

Al Giordino grinned at the jest of the much younger Texan, nearly losing an unlit cigar that dangled from his mouth. A short, burly Italian with arms the size of tree trunks, Giordino was most at home riding a pilot’s seat. After spending years in NUMA’s Special Projects group, where he had piloted everything from blimps to bathyscaphes, he now headed the agency’s underwater technology division. For Giordino, building and testing prototype vessels such as the Bloodhound was more of a passion than a job.

He and Dahlgren had already spent two weeks scouring the Arctic seabed in search of thermal vents. Utilizing prior bathymetric surveys, they targeted areas of subsurface rifts and uplifts that were outgrowths of volcanic activity and potential home ground for active thermal vents. The search had been fruitless so far, discouraging the engineers, who were anxious to test the submersible’s capabilities.

Dahlgren ignored Giordino’s remark and looked at his watch.

“It’s been twenty minutes since Rudi gave us the callback. He’s probably a sack of nerves by now. We probably ought to think about punching the UP button or else there will be two storms facing us topside.”

“Rudi’s not happy unless he has something to fret about,” Giordino replied, “but I guess there’s no upside in tempting the weather gods.” He turned the pilot’s yoke left, angling the submersible to the west while keeping it hovering just above the seafloor. They had traveled several hundred yards when the bottom became flecked with a succession of small boulders. The rocks grew larger as Giordino noted that the seafloor was gradually rising. Dahlgren picked up a bathymetric chart and tried to pinpoint their position.

“There looks to be a small seamount in the neighborhood. Didn’t look too promising to the seismic boys for some reason.”

“Probably because they’ve been sitting inside a climate-controlled office for too many years.”

Dahlgren set aside the chart and gazed at the computer monitor, suddenly jumping up in his seat.

“Hot damn! The water temperature just spiked ten degrees.”

A slight grin spread across Giordino’s face as he noted the cluster of rocks on the seabed growing in size and mass.

“The seafloor geology is changing as well,” he said. “The profile looks good for a vent. Let’s see if we can trace the water temperature to its core.”

He adjusted the submersible’s path as Dahlgren read out the water temperature readings. The higher temperatures led them up a sharp rise in the seafloor. A high mound of boulders blocked their path, and Giordino drove the submersible upward like an airplane, ascending nose first until they cleared the summit. As they descended down the opposite side, the scene before them suddenly changed dramatically. The gray, drab moonscape transformed into an iridescent underwater oasis. Yellow mollusks, red tube worms, and bright gold spider crabs littered the seafloor in a rainbow of color. A blue squid squirted past the view port, followed by a school of silver-scaled polar cod. Almost instantaneously, they had traveled from a desolate world of black-and-white to an electric-colored plantation teeming with life.

“Now I know how Dorothy felt when she landed in Oz,” Dahlgren muttered.

“What’s the water temperature now?”

“We’ve jetted to seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit and rising. Congratulations, boss, you’ve just bought yourself a thermal vent.”

Giordino nodded with satisfaction. “Mark our position. Then let’s exercise the mineral sniffer before . . .”

The radio suddenly crackled with a transmission sent via a pair of underwater transponders. “Narwhal to Bloodhound . . . Narwhal to Bloodhound,” interrupted a tense voice over the radio. “Please ascend immediately. Seas are running at ten feet and building rapidly. I repeat, you are directed to ascend immediately.”

“. . . before Rudi calls us home,” Dahlgren said, finishing Giordino’s sentence.

Giordino grinned. “Ever notice how Rudi’s voice goes up a couple of octaves when he’s nervous?”

“Last time I looked, he was still signing my paycheck,” Dahlgren cautioned.

“I suppose we don’t want to scratch the paint on our new baby here. Let’s grab a few quick rock samples first, then we can head topside.”

Dahlgren radioed a reply to Gunn, then reached over and grabbed the controls to an articulated arm that rested upright on the submersible’s exterior hull. Giordino guided the Bloodhound to a patch of grapefruit-sized nodules, hovering the sensor pod over the rocks. Using the stainless steel arm as a broom, Dahlgren swept several of the rocks into a basket beneath the sensor head. Onboard computers quickly assayed the density and magnetic properties of the rock samples.

“Composition is igneous, appears consistent with pyroxene. I’m seeing concentrations of manganese and iron. Also reading elements of nickel, platinum, and copper sulfides,” Dahlgren reported, eyeing a computer readout.

“That’s a pretty high-octane start. Save the assessment. We’ll have the lab boys crack open the samples and see how accurate the sensor readings are. Once the storm passes, we can give the site a thorough inspection.”

“She looks like a sweet one.”

“I am still a bit disappointed, my west Texas friend,” Giordino replied with a shake of his head.

“No gold?”

“No gold. I guess the closest I can get is just riding to the surface with a goldbricker.”

To Dahlgren’s chagrin, Giordino’s laughter echoed off the interior walls of the submersible for the better part of their ascent.