Franklin’s beloved wife, more than anyone, had resolved the fate of the lost expedition. Through tireless appeal and expense, she had personally outfitted no fewer than five relief expeditions on her own. Scouring the Arctic in search of her husband and his ships, the early expeditions had failed, along with those sent by the British government. It was another Arctic explorer, Francis McClintock, who had ultimately discovered Franklin’s fate. Sailing the steam yacht Fox on Lady Franklin’s behalf, he’d found important relics and a note on King William Island that revealed Franklin’s death in 1847 and the crew’s subsequent abandonment of the ships trapped in the ice.

It had taken one hundred and sixty-eight years since kissing her good-bye on the shores of the Thames, but John Franklin was reunited with his wife once more.

His soul would have been happy for another reason, as he was laid to rest beside Jane. When a Royal Navy frigate had retrieved his coffin from the Erebus and transported it back to England, the ship had traveled the long route, through the Bering Strait and down the Pacific to the Panama Canal.

In death, if not in life, Sir Franklin had finally sailed the Northwest Passage.

94

Pitt stared out his office window at the Potomac River far below, his mind drifting aimlessly like the river’s current.

Since returning from the Arctic, he had been out of sorts, carrying a mild angst mixed with disappointment. Part of it was his injuries, he knew. His leg and arm wounds were healing well, and the doctors said he would make a full recovery. Though the pain was mostly absent, he still hated the loss of mobility. He had long since abandoned the crutch but still required the use of a cane at times. Giordino had lightened the need by providing a walking stick that contained a hidden vial of tequila inside. Loren had stepped up as well, performing her best Florence Nightingale routine by nursing him at every opportunity. But something still held him back.

It was the failure, he knew. He just wasn’t used to it. The quest for the ruthenium had momentous importance, yet he had come up dry. He felt like he had let down not only Lisa Lane but also every person on the planet. It wasn’t his fault, of course. He’d followed the clues as he found them, and would have done nothing differently. Crack geologists throughout the government were already on the hunt for new sources of ruthenium, but the near-term prospects were grim. The mineral just didn’t exist in quantity, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His instincts had been wrong for a change and it gave him doubts. Maybe he’d been at the game too long. Maybe it was time for a younger generation to take the reins. Perhaps he should go back to Hawaii with Loren and spend his days spearfishing.

He tried to conceal his melancholy when a knock came to the door and he called for the visitor to enter.

The door blew open and Giordino, Gunn, and Dahlgren came marching into his office like they owned it. Each man had a suppressed grin on his face, and Pitt noticed they were all hiding something behind their backs.

“Well, if it isn’t the three wise men. Or wise guys, in this case,” Pitt said.

“Do you have a minute?” Gunn asked. “There’s something we’d like to share with you.”

“My time is yours,” Pitt said, hobbling over to his desk and taking a seat. Eyeing the men suspiciously, he asked, “What is it that you are all trying to conceal?”

Dahlgren waved a short stack of plastic cups that he was carrying.

“Just thought we’d have a little drink,” he explained.

Giordino pulled out a bottle of champagne that he was hiding behind his stubby arms.

“I’m a bit thirsty myself,” he added.

“Hasn’t anyone told you about the rules regarding alcohol in a federal building?” Pitt admonished.

“I seem to have misplaced those,” Giordino replied. “Jack, do you know anything about that?”

Dahlgren attempted to look dumb and shook his head.

“All right, what is this all about?” Pitt asked, losing patience with the antics.

“It’s really Jack’s doing,” Gunn said. “He sort of saved the day.”

“You mean, he saved your rear,” Giordino said, grinning at Gunn. He slipped the foil off the neck of the champagne bottle and popped the top. Grabbing Dahlgren’s cups, he poured everyone a glass.

“It came down to the rock,” Gunn tried to explain.

“The rock…” Pitt repeated with growing suspicion.

“One of the samples from the thermal vent that we located off Alaska,” Giordino interjected, “just before the Canadian ice camp business. We put all of the rock samples in a bag that Rudi was supposed to bring here to headquarters for analysis. But he left the bag on the Narwhal when he departed Tuktoyaktuk.”

“I remember that bag,” Pitt replied. “Almost tripped over it every time I stepped onto the bridge.”

“You and me both,” Dahlgren muttered.

“Wasn’t it still on the bridge?” Pitt asked.

“Was and is,” Giordino said. “It’s still sitting with the Narwhal at the bottom of Victoria Strait.”

“That still doesn’t explain the champagne.”

“Well, it seems our good buddy Jack found a rock in his pocket when he got home,” Gunn said.

“I’m really not a klepto, I swear,” Dahlgren said with a grin. “I tripped over that bag, too, and happened to pick up one of the loose rocks and stick it in my pocket. Forgot all about it until I was changing clothes on the Santa Fe and thought I better hang on to it.”

“A very wise decision,” Gunn agreed.

“I took it down to the geology lab last week to have it assayed and they called this morning with the results.”

Gunn produced the rock sample and slid it across the desk to Pitt. He picked it up and studied it, noting its heavy weight and dull silver color. His heart began to race as he recalled the similar characteristics of the ore sample the old geologist at the Miners Co-op had given him.

“It doesn’t look like gold to me,” he said to the trio, eyeing their reaction.

The three men looked at one another and grinned. Giordino finally spoke.

“Would you consider ruthenium?”

Pitt’s eyes twinkled as he immediately sat up in his chair. He studied the rock carefully, then looked at Gunn.

“Is it true?” he asked quietly.

Gunn nodded. “High-grade, no less.”

“How do we know if it is there in any quantity?”

“We pulled the sensor records from the Bloodhound and took a second look. Though she is not configured to sense ruthenium, she can identify its platinum-based grouping. And according to the Bloodhound, the thermal vent has more platinum and platinum derivatives lying around than Fort Knox has gold. It’s a sure bet that a significant quantity of that platinum-based ore around the vent is ruthenium.”

Pitt couldn’t believe the news. He felt like he’d been injected with a shot of adrenaline. His whole demeanor perked up, and a glisten returned to his intelligent green eyes.

“Congratulations, boss,” Gunn said. “You’ve got your very own ruthenium mine a thousand feet under the sea.”

Pitt smiled at the men, then grabbed one of the champagnes.

“I think I will drink to that,” he said, hoisting his cup up and toasting the others.

After they each took a sip, Dahlgren looked at his glass and nodded.

“You know,” he said in his slow Texas drawl, “this stuff is almost as good as Lone Star.”

95

It was a rare cloudless spring day in kitimat, the kind that turned the waters cerulean blue and made the crisp air taste of pure oxygen. On the grounds of the former Terra Green sequestration plant, a small group of dignitaries and media reporters was gathered for a ribbon-cutting ceremony. A cherub-faced man in a beige suit, Canada’s newly appointed minister of natural resources, bounded up to a podium placed before the seated crowd.