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"Then how can you be sure she's out there?"
"One of our scientists dropped his underwater acoustic microphones over the side-- he uses them to record whale talk. We trailed the listening gear a quarter of a mile behind the ship. I then shut down the engines and drifted. She's not a modern nuclear attack sub that can run silent through the depths. We picked up the beat of her engines as clear as a barking dog."
"Not a bad concept, but I would have trailed a weather balloon with a magnetometer hanging from it."
Gillespie laughed. "Not a bad concept, either. We thought about sidescan, but you'd have to get your sensor alongside for a good reading, and that seemed too tricky. I was hoping that now you've come on board we might find some answers."
A warning light went off in the back of Pitt's brain. He was beginning to wonder if he hadn't entered the twilight zone. To even consider a connection between the assassins from the Fourth Empire and an antique U-boat was plain crazy. And yet nothing in the whole incredible scheme made sense.
"Brief the admiral," ordered Pitt. "Tell him we may need some help."
"Should we harass him?" said Gillespie, referring to the sub. "Double back on our track and play cat and mouse?"
Pitt gave a slight negative shake of the head. "I'm afraid our ghost will have to wait. Finding the Madras takes first priority."
"Was that her name?"
Pitt nodded. "An East Indiaman lost in 1779."
"And you think she's locked in the ice somewhere along the shore," Gillespie said doubtfully.
"I'm hoping she's still there."
"What's on board that's so important to NUMA?"
"Answers to an ancient riddle."
Gillespie did not require a lengthy explanation. If that was all Pitt was going to tell him, he accepted it.
His responsibility was to the ship and the people on board. He would follow an order from his bosses at NUMA without question, unless it ran counter to the safety of the Polar Storm.
"How far into the ice pack do you want me to run the ship?"
Pitt passed the captain a slip of paper. "I'd be grateful if you could place the Polar Storm on top of this position."
Gillespie studied the numbers for a moment. "It's been a while since I navigated by latitude and longitude, but I'll set you as close as I can."
"Compass headings, then loran, then Global Positioning. Next they'll invent a positioning instrument that tells you where the nearest roll of toilet paper is located and how many inches away."
"May I ask where you got these numbers?"
"The log of the Paloverde, a whaling ship that found the East Indiaman a long time ago. Unfortunately, there is no guaranteeing how accurate they are."
"You know," Gillespie said wistfully, "I'll bet you that old whaling ship skipper could put his ship on a dime, whereas I would be hard pressed to put mine on a quarter."
The Polar Storm entered the pack and plunged against the floating mantle of ice like a fullback running through a team of opposing linemen. For the first mile, the ice was no more than a foot thick and the massive reinforced bow pushed aside the frigid blanket with ease, but closer to shore, the pack began to gradually swell, reaching three to four feet thick. Then the ship would slow to a stop, move astern, and then plow into the ice again, forcing a crack and a fifty-foot path until the ice closed in and stopped her forward progress again. The performance was repeated, the bow thrusting against the resisting ice time and time again.
Gillespie was not watching the effects of the ice-ramming. He was sitting in a tall swivel chair studying the screen of the ship's depth sounder, which sent sonic signals to the seabed. The signals were bounced back and indicated the distance in feet between the ship's keel and the bottom. These were unsurveyed waters, and the bottom was unmarked on the nautical charts.
Pitt stood a few feet away, staring through Gillespie's tinted-lens binoculars, which reduced the glare of the ice. The ice cliffs just back of the shoreline soared two hundred feet high before flattening into a broad plateau. He swept the glasses along the base of the cliffs, attempting to spot some hint of the ice-locked Madras. No telltale sign was obvious, no stern frozen in the ice, no masts thrusting above the top of the cliffs.
"Mr. Pitt?"
He turned and faced a smiling stubby man who was a few years on the low side of forty. His face was pink and cherubic, with twinkling green eyes and a wide mouth that smiled crookedly. A small, almost delicate hand was thrust out.
"Yes" was all Pitt replied, surprised at the firmness of the hand that gripped his.
"I'm Ed Northrop, chief scientist and glaciologist. I don't think I've had the pleasure."
