The Navigator - Cussler Clive - Страница 14

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“Smack into the great circle shipping lanes,” Austin said.

“You’ve been doing your homework,” Dawe said with a grin. “Yep. That’s where the trouble starts. You’ve got a steady flow of ships between Canada, the States, and Europe. The shipping companies want the voyages to be short and economical. The ships pass just south of the boundary of all known ice.”

“Which is where the Titanic discovered unknown ice,” Austin said.

Dawe’s genial smile dissolved. “You think a lot about the Titanic when you’re out here. It’s a constant reminder that bad seamanship can fetch you a one-way ticket to Davy Jones’s locker. The Titanic’s grave is near the Grand Banks, where the Labrador Current meets the Gulf Stream. There’s a twenty-degree water temperature difference that creates fog that’s as dense as steel wool. The ocean circulation in the area is pretty complex as well.”

“That must make your job hair-raising at times,” Austin observed.

“I wish it was something I could put in a bottle for bald-headed men. A berg can wander around the ocean like a drunk on his way home from a bender. North Atlantic icebergs are the fastest moving in the world. They’ll travel up to seven knots an hour. Fortunately, we’ve got a lot of help. The International Ice Patrol makes regular flights. Passing ships keep tabs on icebergs, and the Eriksson works with a fleet of small spotting planes hired by the oil and gas companies.”

“How’d you get into towing?” Zavala asked.

“We tried using water cannon to move bergs. That works with ‘growlers,’ chunks of ice about the size of a big piano. There isn’t a hose big enough to move a five-hundred-thousand-ton mountain of ice. Towing them to warmer water seems to work the best.”

“How many bergs do you actually lasso?” Austin said.

“Only those that are headed for an oil or gas drilling platform. Two or three dozen. Once a ship hears about a berg, it can adjust its course. A five-billion-dollar world-class rig doesn’t have that option. The floating platforms can move, but it takes time. There was a near collision a few years ago. Berg wasn’t sighted until it got about six miles from the platform. It was too late by then to tow the berg or evacuate the platform. The supply boats pulled it off at the last second. The berg went right over the wellhead.”

“With all the surveillance, I’m surprised the berg got that close,” Austin said.

“As I said, their course can be erratic, depending on shape, size, and wind. That one snuck by us. We’ll be keeping any eye out for a big lunker that disappeared in the fog after being sighted a few days ago. I’ve been calling her Moby-Berg.”

“Let’s hope that we’re not Captain Ahab chasing white whales,” Austin said.

“I’d prefer a white whale to an iceberg,” Dawe said. “By the way, did I ever tell you why Newfoundlanders like to drive in winter?”

Austin and Zavala exchanged blank looks at the odd shift in conversation.

“The snow fills in the potholes,” Dawe said. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks. The captain had a seemingly endless supply of “Newfie” jokes that poked fun at his heritage. The jokes continued through dinner.

The Leif Eriksson’s cook served up a meal that would have been worthy of a five-star diner. As Austin and Zavala dug into rare roast beef, canned green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes, covered with a layer of thick gravy, the captain unleashed his joke repertoire on his captive audience. Austin and Zavala weathered the barrage of marginal humor until they could take it no longer and excused themselves to turn in.

When they climbed to the bridge early the next morning, the captain must have felt sorry for them. He dispensed with the jokes and poured them mugs of hot coffee. “We’re making good time. We’ve seen a lot of growlers. That’s our first ‘bergy bit.’”

Dawe pointed to an iceberg floating about a quarter of a mile off the starboard bow.

“That’s bigger than any burger bit I’ve ever seen,” Austin said.

“It’s nothing compared to the stuff we’ll see later,” the captain said. “It isn’t considered an iceberg unless it’s nearly twenty feet above the water and fifty feet long. Anything smaller is a bergy or growler.”

“Looks like we’ll have to learn a whole new vocabulary out here,” Zavala commented.

Dawe nodded in agreement. “Welcome to Iceberg Alley, gentlemen.”

Chapter 7

SAXON PICKED UP HIS rental car at the CairoAirport and plunged into the automotive anarchy that passed for traffic flow in the ancient city of the Pyramids. The cacophony of beeping horns and the choking impact of dust and car exhaust was a strong antidote to weeks spent traveling in the lonely deserts of Yemen.

He drove to the outskirts of Cairo and parked on the Sharia Sudan. Pungent barnyard smells and inhuman sounds came from a nearby fenced-in area, the Souq al-Gamaal. The old Cairo camel market. The corrals that had once been surrounded by green fields were hemmed in by apartment houses.

Saxon had suggested the rendezvous. He wanted to meet Hassan in a public place for security. The dung-spattered oasis of old Egypt appealed to his sense of drama as well.

Saxon paid the small entrance fee required of non-Egyptians and strolled among the corrals. Hundreds of camels brought up from the Sudan awaited the slaughterhouse or an even worse fate carrying overweight tourists at the Pyramids.

Saxon paused to watch a protesting dromedary being loaded into the back of a compact pickup truck. He felt a gentle tug at his hand. One of the dirty-faced urchins who haunted the market begging for baksheesh was trying to get his attention.

Saxon followed the boy’s pointing finger. A man was standing under a makeshift awning near a group of haggling camel buyers. Saxon gave the boy a tip and walked across the corral. The man had a cafe au lait complexion typical of many Egyptians, and a neatly trimmed beard decorated his chin. He wore a circular knit cap and a matching white gallibaya, the long cotton gown favored by many Egyptian men.

“Sabaah ilkheer,” Saxon said. Good morning.

“Sabaah innuur, Mr. Saxon. I am Hassan.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You want to do business?” Hassan said. The offer should have made Saxon suspicious. Egyptians liked to linger over tea before talking business. But his eagerness overpowered his judgment.

“I’m told you might be able to help me find a certain lost property.”

“Maybe,” Hassan said. “If you can pay the price.”

“I will pay whatever is reasonable,” Saxon said. “When might I see this property?”

“I can show it to you now. I have a car. Come with me.”

Saxon hesitated. The Cairo underworld sometimes had ties to shadowy political groups. He thought it prudent to size Hassan up before he put himself in the stranger’s hands.

“Let’s go to Fishawi’s. We can talk and get to know each other,” he suggested. The popular outdoor cafe was near Cairo’s main bazaar and its oldest mosque.

Hassan frowned. “Too many people.”

“Yes, I know,” Saxon said.

Hassan nodded. He led the way out of the market to a battered white Fiat that was drawn up to the curb. He opened the door for Saxon.

“I’ll follow you in my car,” Saxon said.

He walked across the street and slipped behind the wheel of his rental car. He inserted the key in the ignition to start the engine just as another car squealed to a stop next to his.

Two men in black suits jumped out of the car and bulled their way into his vehicle. One sat in the back and the other next to Saxon. Both leveled guns at Saxon’s head.

“Drive,” said the man in the front passenger seat.

Saxon’s innards turned to ice water. But he reacted with characteristic calm. He had experienced many close calls in his years as an explorer and adventurer. He started the car, pulled away from the curb, and obeyed the order to follow Hassan’s car. He kept his mouth shut. Questions would only antagonize his uninvited passengers.

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