“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.

25

The Beaufort Sea was boiling with twelve-foot waves and near-gale-force winds when the Bloodhound burst through the surface of the Narwhal ’s moon pool. Water inside the pool sloshed onto the deck as the research ship pitched and rolled in the mounting seas. Twice the steel flanks of the submersible slapped against the cushioned rim of the moon pool before hoisting lines could be attached and the vessel yanked out of the water. Giordino and Dahlgren quickly climbed out of the Bloodhound and collected their rock samples before fleeing the elements into the adjacent operations center. Gunn stood waiting for them with a look of displeasure on his face.

“That’s a ten-million-dollar submersible that you nearly crushed like a beer can,” he said, glaring at Giordino. “You know we’re not allowed to launch and recover in these kinds of weather conditions.”

As if to emphasize his point, the ship’s driveshaft suddenly shuddered beneath their feet as the vessel wallowed heavily through a deep trough.

“Relax, Rudi.” Giordino beamed, then tossed one of the dripping rocks over to Gunn. NUMA’s Deputy Director fumbled to catch it, smearing his shirt with mud and seawater in the process.

“You’re on the trail?” he asked, his brows arching as he examined the rock.

“Better than that,” Dahlgren piped in. “We sniffed out some thermal deviations, and Al drove us right to the heart of the vent. A sweet mile-long rift pouring out hot soup with plenty of dumplings.”

Gunn’s face softened. “You’d better have found something for surfacing so late.” His gaze became like that of a kid in a candy store. “Did you see indications of a mineral field?”

“A large one, by the looks of it,” Giordino replied, nodding. “We only saw a section of it, but it appears widely dispersed.”

“And the electronic sensors? How did the Bloodhound perform? ”

“She was barking like a coyote under a full moon,” Dahlgren replied. “The sensors diagnosed over thirteen different elements.”

“We’ll have to leave it for the lab analysis to determine the Bloodhound’s accuracy,” Giordino added. “According to the sensors, that soggy rock you’re holding is chock-full of manganese and iron.”

“There’s probably enough of that stuff littering the bottom to buy you a thousand Bloodhounds, Rudi,” Dahlgren said.

“Did the sensors indicate any gold content?” Gunn asked.

Giordino’s eyes rolled skyward, then he turned to leave the ops center.

“Everybody thinks I’m Midas,” he grumbled before disappearing out the door.

26

The spring storm was not widespread but packed the concentrated punch of a heavyweight boxer as it rolled southeast across the Beaufort Sea. Pummeling wind gusts of over sixty miles per hour blew the falling snow in horizontal sheets, turning the flakes to hardened particles of ice. Gusting swirls spread thick curtains over the white ice, often plunging visibility down to zero. The already hostile environment of the Arctic north became a place of brutal savagery.

Kevin Bue listened to the frames of the mess hall creak and shudder under the bristling gale and idly contemplated the structure’s strength rating. Draining the remains of a cup of coffee, he tried to concentrate on a scientific journal spread open on the table. Though he had experienced a dozen storms during his tenure in the Arctic, he still found their ferocity unnerving. While the rest of the crew went about their jobs, Bue found it hard to focus when the entire camp sounded like it was about to blow away.

A heavyset cook and part-time carpenter named Benson sat down at the table across from Bue and sipped at his own steaming mug of coffee.

“Pretty good blow, eh?” he said, grinning through a thick black beard.

“Sounds like it’s about to take us along with it,” Bue replied, watching the roof overhead swaying back and forth.

“Well, if it does, I sure hope it deposits us somewhere where the weather is warm and the drinks taste better cold,” he replied, sipping at his coffee. Eyeing Bue’s empty cup, he reached over and grabbed the handle, then stood up.

“Here, let me get you a refill.”

Benson walked across the mess to a large silver urn and refilled the cup. He started back toward Bue, then suddenly froze with a quizzical look on his face. Above the din of the buffeting wind, he detected a low-pitched mechanical churn. That wasn’t what bothered him, though. It was the sharp crackling sound accompanying it that struck a nerve deep in his gut.

Bue glanced up at Benson, then picked up on the sound as well. The noise was drawing upon them rapidly, and Bue thought he heard a shout somewhere off in the compound before his whole world collapsed around him.

With a crunching jar, the back wall of the mess hall completely disintegrated, replaced by a massive gray wedge. The towering object quickly surged through the room, leaving behind a thirty-foot swath of destruction. Torn free from its supports, the hut’s roof flew off in a gust, while a blast of cold air flooded the interior. Bue looked on in horror as the gray mass devoured Benson in a spray of ice and froth. For one moment, the chef was standing there holding a mug of coffee. In the next instant, he was gone.

The floor buckled up beneath Bue, throwing him and the table toward the entry door. Struggling to his feet, he stood and stared at the gray behemoth that materialized before him. It was a ship, his jumbled mind finally fathomed, storming through the center of the camp and the thin ice beneath it.