THE SIXTY-FOOT STEEL-HULLED TRAWLER WAS what all commercial fishing boats ought to look like but seldom did. Her nets were stowed neatly on their rollers, the deck was free of clutter. The boat's hull and topside were absent of rust and grime, while a fresh coat of paint covered the most weathered areas. Even the boat's worn dock fenders had been regularly scrubbed of grit. While not the most profitable fishing boat plying the northern waters of British Columbia, the Ventura was easily the best maintained.
Her shipshape appearance reflected the character of her owner, a meticulous and hardworking man named Steve Miller. Like his boat, Miller didn't fit the bill of the average independent fisherman. A trauma doctor who'd grown tired of patching up mangled auto accident victims in Indianapolis, he'd returned to the small Pacific Northwest town of his youth to try something different. Possessing a secure bank account and a love of the water, commercial fishing had seemed the perfect fit. Steering the boat through an early morning drizzle now, he wore his happiness in the form of a wide grin.
A young man with shaggy black hair poked his head into the wheelhouse and called to Miller.
"Where they biting today, skipper?" he asked.
Miller gazed out the forward window, then poked his nose up and sniffed the air.
"Well, Bucky, I'd say the west coast of Gil Island, without a doubt," he grinned, taking the bait. "Better grab some shut-eye now, as we'll be reeling them in soon enough."
"Sure, boss. Like, a whole twenty minutes?"
"I'd say closer to eighteen." He smiled, gazing at a nearby nautical chart. He cinched the wheel a few degrees, aiming the bow toward a narrow slot dividing two green landmasses ahead of them. They were cutting across the Inside Passage, a ribbon of protected sea that stretched from Vancouver to Juneau. Sheltered by dozens of pine-covered islands, the winding waterway inspired comparisons to the scenic fjords of Norway.
Only the occasional commercial or tourist fishing boat, casting its lines for salmon or halibut, was found dodging the Alaska-bound cruise ship traffic. Like most independent fishermen, Miller chased after the more valuable sockeye salmon, utilizing purse seine nets to capture the fish near inlets and in ocean waters. He was content to break even with his catches, knowing few got rich fishing in these parts. Yet despite his limited experience, he still managed a small profit due to his planning and enthusiasm. Sipping a mug of coffee, he glanced at a flush-mounted radar screen. Spotting two vessels several miles to the north, he let go of the wheel and walked outside the pilothouse to inspect his nets for the third time that day. Satisfied there were no holes in the mesh, he climbed back to the bridge.
Bucky was standing by the rail, forgoing his bunk for a cigarette instead. Puffing on a Marlboro, he nodded at Miller, then looked up at the sky. An ever-present blanket of gray clouds floated in an airy mass yet appeared too light to dispense more than a light drizzle. Bucky peered across Hecate Strait at the green islands that bound it to the west. Ahead off the port bow, he noticed an unusually thick cloud rolling along the water's surface. Fog was a common companion in these waters, but there was something peculiar about this formation. The color was a brighter white than that of a normal fogbank, its billows heavier. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Bucky exhaled deeply, then walked to the wheelhouse.
Miller had already taken note of the white cloud and had a pair of binoculars trained on the mist.
"You seen it too, boss? Kind of a funky-looking cloud, ain't it?" Bucky drawled.
"It is. I don't see any other vessels around that could have discharged it," Miller replied, scanning the horizon. "Might be some sort of smoke or exhaust that drifted over from Gil."
"Yep, maybe somebody's fish smoker blew," the deckhand replied, his crooked teeth in a wide grin.
Miller set down the binoculars and grabbed the wheel. Their path around Gil Island led directly through the center of the cloud. Miller rapped his knuckles on the worn wooden wheel in uneasiness, but he made no effort to alter course.
There was no argument from the others. Dirk slipped into a dry suit as Summer repositioned the boat over a marked spot where the seven lines had converged.
"Depth is ninety-five feet," she said. "Be aware there is a large vessel on the radar headed our way, about fifteen miles to the north." She turned to Trevor and asked, "I thought you said there's no midweek cruise line traffic through here?"
Trevor gave her a confused look. "That has been my experience. They follow the schedules pretty tight. Must be a wayward freighter."
Dirk poked his head in and eyed the radar screen. "I'll have time for a good look before she gets too close."
Summer turned the boat into the current while Trevor tossed an anchor off the bow and secured their position. Dirk adjusted his tank and weight belt, then stepped over the side.
He hit the water at nearly slack tide and was relieved to find the current minimal. Swimming toward the boat's bow, he wrapped his fingers around the anchor line, then kicked to the bottom.
The cold green water gradually swallowed the surface light, forcing him to flick on a small headlamp strapped over his hood. A brown stony bottom dotted with urchins and starfish materialized out of the gloom, and he confirmed the depth at ninety-three feet as he adjusted his buoyancy. He let go of the anchor line and swam a wide circle around it until he found the object observed by the sonar.
It was a dark metal pipe that stretched across the seafloor, running beyond his field of vision. The pipe was about six inches in diameter, and Dirk could tell it had been placed on the bottom recently, as there was no growth or encrustation evident on its smooth surface. He kicked back to the anchor and dragged it over the pipe, resetting it in some adjacent rocks. He then followed the pipe down a gradual slope into deeper water until he found its open end twenty yards later. A small crater had been blasted into the seafloor around the opening, and Dirk noted a complete absence of marine life in the surrounding area.
He followed the pipe in the other direction, swimming into shallower water, until meeting the conjunction. It was actually three joints welded in tandem that fed six lines fanning to either side, plus one line out the end. A thicker, ten-inch pipe fed into the conjunction, trailing back toward Gil Island. Dirk followed the main pipe for several hundred feet until a ninety-degree joint sent it running north at a depth of thirty feet. Tracking it farther, he found it partially buried in a slit trench that had obscured its view from the sonar. He followed the pipe for several more minutes before deciding to give up the chase and turn back, his air supply starting to dwindle. He'd just reversed course when he suddenly detected a rumble under the surface. It was a deep sound, but in the water he could not tell which direction it came from. Following along the pipe, he noticed that sand started to fall away from its sides. He placed a gloved hand on the pipe and felt a strong vibration rattling down its length. With a sudden apprehension, he began kicking urgently toward the junction.
On the deck of the boat, Summer looked at her watch, noting that Dirk had been underwater nearly thirty minutes. She turned to Trevor, who sat on the rail watching her with an admiring gaze.
"I wish we could stay here longer," she said, reading his mind.
"Me, too. I've been thinking. I'll have to travel to Vancouver to file my report on the boat and see about getting a replacement. It might take me a few days, longer if I can milk it," he added with a grin. "Any chance I can come see you in Seattle?"
"I'll be angry if you don't," she replied with a smile. "It's only a three-hour train ride away."
Trevor started to reply when he noticed something in the water over Summer's shoulder. It was a rising surge of bubbles about twenty yards from the boat. He stood to take a better look when Summer pointed to another mass of bubbles a short distance off the bow. In unison, they scanned the surrounding water, spotting a half dozen eruptions at various spots around the boat.
The rising bubbles expanded into a boiling tempest that began emitting white puffs of vapor. The vapor built rapidly, as billowing clouds of white mist emerged from the depths and expanded across the surface. Within seconds, the growing clouds had formed a circular wall around the boat, trapping Summer and Trevor in its center. As the vapor drew closer, Trevor said with alarm:
"It's the Devil's Breath."
"Thanks to the efforts of Loren and the Vice President, thirty plants have been funded, with plans for an additional fifty facilities to be built over the next three years. We are starting with our coal-fired power plants, which emit the most pollution. There is excitement that we will finally be able to safely burn coal, fueling our utilities for decades to come."
"Perhaps as important, we have a signed agreement with the Chinese as well," Loren said. "They have promised to build seventy-five plants over the next eight years."
"My, that is good news, since the Chinese are now the largest emitters of greenhouse gases. It's a fortunate thing that the technology is easily replicated," the minister said.
"And that we have an abundant supply of the catalyst to make the process work," Lisa added. "If Mr. Pitt's NUMA organization hadn't made the discovery of ruthenium off the coast of Alaska, none of this would be possible."
"A lucky break," Pitt acknowledged. "Our undersea mining operation is now up and running, and the yield is very encouraging so far. We hope to mine enough of the mineral to supply thousands of plants like this around the world."
"Then we can look forward to a possible end to global warming in our lifetime. A remarkable accomplishment," the minister said, before being pulled aside by an aide.
"It looks like your days of scientific anonymity are over," Loren quipped to Lisa.
"It is all exciting, but the truth is I'd rather be back in the lab. There are plenty of refinements that can be made, and we still haven't perfected the efficient conversion to hydrogen yet. Thankfully, I've got a new and even better lab at the university. Now I just need to find a new lab assistant."
"Bob has been officially charged?" Loren asked.
"Yes. He had over two hundred thousand dollars in various places that were traced back to Goyette. I can't believe that my own friend sold me out."
"As Goyette proved, unmitigated greed will catch up to you in the end."
A horde of reporters suddenly appeared, surrounding Lisa and barraging her with questions about the facility and her scientific discovery. Pitt and Loren slipped off to the side, then strolled across the grounds. Pitt had recovered fully from his injuries and enjoyed stretching his legs outdoors.
"It's so beautiful here," Loren remarked. "We should stay a few extra days."
"You forget your congressional panel hearings next week. Besides, I need to get back to Washington and ride roughshod over Al and Jack. We have a new submersible to test in the Mediterranean next month that we need to prepare for."
"Already on to the next project, I see."
Pitt simply nodded, a twinkle in his green eyes. "As somebody once said, it's in my blood."
They walked past the facility until reaching the shoreline.
"You know, there is a potential downside to this technology," she noted. "If global warming can one day be reversed, the Northwest Passage is liable to permanently freeze over again."