“The Canadian demand is being treated seriously,” Sandecker continued. “You need to collect your vessel and get on over to Alaska, assuming the Canadians will let you leave port. Don’t mess around, Dirk. I can’t give you any support in Canadian waters. This thing will likely blow over in a few weeks and you can resume your search then.”

A few weeks could easily turn into months, and the summer season in the Arctic would be lost. Add an early cold snap and they would be shut out from searching around King William Island until the following spring thaw.

“You’re right, Admiral. I’ll take the Narwhal and sail her to calmer waters.”

“Do it, Dirk. And don’t delay.”

Pitt hung up the phone with no intention of sailing the Narwhal to Alaska. If his phone conversation was being monitored, he could say nothing different. And he had not lied to Sandecker. Taking the Narwhal farther along the passage would indeed be sailing into much calmer waters than the Beaufort Sea.

At the other end of the line, Sandecker hung up the phone and shook his head. He knew Pitt almost like a son. And he knew full well that he wasn’t about to sail the Narwhal to Alaska.

Chapter 49

49

THE WHITE FLECKS FLOATED LAZILY IN THE DARK sky, growing larger to the eye as they approached the earth. It was only when they reached an altitude of a hundred feet or so that their rapid speed of descent became apparent. A few seconds later, they struck the ice-covered ground, landing with a crackling thud. First to touch down was a trio of large wooden boxes, painted flat white to blend with the surroundings. Then human forms followed, ten in all, each recoiling into a ball as their feet touched the ground. Instantly, each man stripped off his harness and rolled his parachute into a ball, then quickly buried the entirety beneath a foot of ice.

A moderate breeze had scattered the men over a half-mile swath, but within minutes they had assembled near one of the crates. Though it was a moonless night, visibility was better than a hundred yards because of the stars that twinkled brightly overhead. The men quickly lined up in front of their commander, a tall, deeply tanned man named Rick Roman. Like the men under him, Roman was dressed in a white camouflage snowsuit with matching helmet and drop-down night vision goggles. On his hip, he carried a holstered Colt .45 automatic pistol.

“Quality drop, men. We’ve only got an hour of darkness ahead of us, so let’s get to work. Green Squad has runway detail, and Blue Squad has Zodiac and base assembly. Let’s move.”