Polar Melt: A Novel Read online

The voice of Leland Strange stirred Gates from his memories and drew him back from the Persian Gulf to the Arctic Ocean.

  "Oh, Leland," Gates said. "I didn't hear you coming."

  "Can't sleep, sir?" Strange asked.

  Gates nodded, not feeling like explaining his dream to the young man. "Must be this midnight sun. All this light screws up my sleep cycle."

  "It's pitch black below decks, sir. No electricity."

  Gates had no reply. His lips opened and closed like a fish's mouth.

  "It's okay, sir," Strange said. "With me being the new kid on the block and this my first mission, I figured you'd be checking up on me and make sure I didn't screw up on my first watch by falling asleep or something."

  Gates felt relief. The young lieutenant had given him a way to change the topic.

  "Yes, well, speaking of which," Gates said. "You handled yourself well today. I want you to know the only reason I wanted you with me when we searched ship was simply because it is your first mission. To break you in. It wasn't because I think you're inexperienced or—"

  "Too young, sir?"

  Gates looked at Strange. Even in the dusk of the midnight sun, he looked too young—younger than Gates could ever remember being.

  "How old are you again?" Gates asked.

  "Twenty-one, sir."

  Gates did the math in his head. To receive a commission in the Coast Guard—or any other branch of the service—you needed at least a bachelor's degree. For most people, that meant not being eligible until they were at least twenty-one or twenty-two. And Leland Strange had far more than a bachelor's degree.

  "And you already have a doctorate in oceanography?"

  Strange nodded.

  "And a master's in marine biology and another master's in chemistry?"

  "How old were you when you graduated from high school?"

  "Thirteen and a half, sir," Strange said, embarrassed by the question. "Almost fourteen, sir."

  "Why aren't you teaching college somewhere?" Gates asked.

  Strange leaned his arms on the ship's railing. The question was not new to him.

  "Well, sir, I was offered two professorships," he said. "But I realized I'd spend the rest of my life in a classroom and . . . well, I've already spent my life up to now in classrooms. As a professor, I'd spend much of my time trying to raise grant money so I could spend two or three weeks at sea each year doing research—and then only if I was lucky enough to raise the money. The Coast Guard seemed a better way to get underway and perform research. The Guard does a lot of oceanic research and protection."

  "Admiral Rickert recruited you, didn't he?"

  "Yes, sir," Strange said. "I met him when I was doing my doctoral thesis. He was on my review board. How did you know?"

  "It sounded like the same talk he gave me when he recruited me for this team."

  Both men chuckled. Admiral Rickert was long retired from the Coast Guard, but no one dared not call him by his former rank. Rickert worked for the service as a civilian employee, and Deployable Specialized Force–Papa was his special project.

  As a young officer, Rickert commanded a Coast Guard 82-foot patrol boat in Vietnam. On the night of June 15, 1968, two unknown aircraft attacked and sank a Navy swift boat while it was on coastal patrol. Rickert's boat was nearby and picked up the only two survivors. As the Coast Guard vessel hove to, another Navy Swift boat arrived.

  Then the mysterious aircraft returned.

  They appeared as lights hovering at low altitude a few hundred yards away. No one waited for another attack. Both boats opened fire on the objects. The heavy machine gun and cannon fire had little impact on the intruders, which turned and moved out to sea at high speed. Later that night, unidentified aircraft attacked an Australian Navy ship, killing one crewman and wounding several more. The Australian sailors never saw their attackers, neither by sight nor by radar.

  Investigations into the events failed to identify the attackers. Friendly fire attacks by Navy and Air Force aircraft on allied patrol boats and ships were not unknown. But there were no friendly aircraft in the area at the time. Investigators concluded the attackers were "enemy helicopters," a conclusion that was no conclusion at all.

  The fact was the small North Vietnamese air force had few helicopters, and those it had were lumbering transports, not high-speed gunships. Even if it had attack choppers, no combat aircraft flies at night in a war zone with their navigation lights illuminated. The victims of the attacks also knew "enemy helicopters" was the military code word for unidentified flying objects—UFOs—precisely because the North Vietnamese choppers never engaged in combat. The experience left Admiral Rickert with a life-long belief that mysterious things occurred at sea, things that required investigation if for no other reason than to maintain the safety of mariners.

  "Is it true what I heard about why the admiral chose you, sir?" Strange asked.

  Though unseen in the dim light, the smile fled Gates' face.

  "What have you heard?" he asked, teeth clenched.

  "That you have a psychic gift," the lieutenant said. "That at the Battle of the GOPLAT, you had a forewarning of the attack that allowed you to prepare for it."

  "And who told you that?"

  "Members of the team," Strange said. "They say you saw the Flying Dutchman and recognized it as a sign of foreboding."

  In the aftermath of the battle, Gates never mentioned the mysterious ship in his after-action report. There was an alert from the Navy MIUW unit, he wrote. He deployed his boats and manned defenses on the platform and destroyed the enemy. Injuries to personnel were slight and damage to the platform inconsequential. But Gates' commander knew Gates deployed his people before the Navy unit issued its warning and demanded to know how he anticipated the attack. Trying to avoid the truth, Gates said he simply had a hunch. That's all, a hunch.

  Yet, that was enough to earn him a reputation as a soothsayer, the junior officer who could tell the future. During a night of drinking after his deployment, Gates let slip his sighting of the Flying Dutchman. The Coast Guard is a small service. Five deployed Navy aircraft carriers have more people on board them than the entire Coast Guard has uniformed personnel. It wasn't long before word spread about Gates' experience with the paranormal. Gates assumed his career was finished. Instead, it brought him to Admiral Rickert's attention.

  He sighed.

  "Lieutenant," he said, "I have no idea what I saw that night—if anything at all. I was tired and under a lot of stress. We all were. It's possible, in my exhaustion, I had a hallucination or maybe saw a mirage. In that part of the world, people see Fata Morganas all the time."

  A Fata Morgana was an optical illusion, seen along the ocean's horizon, created by the refraction of light through layers of air with differing temperatures. A Fata Morgana can make an unseen ship far below the horizon appear as a ghostly specter floating above it.

  "Whatever it was," Gates continued, "hallucination or mirage, it created in me a deep foreboding. And that was what I acted on—the foreboding, not the sighting."

  "Yes, sir," Strange said. He fell silent for a while, then said, "But it could have been."

  "Could have been what?" Gates snapped. His hands gripped the railing. Rickert had said the same thing.

  "The Flying Dutchman," the young officer said. "Mysterious things happen at sea, don't they, sir? I mean, that's why we're standing here on the deck of a ship that disappeared five days ago and reappeared without its crew. Add to that a submersible that disappeared and reappeared without its crew."

  "You're making my head hurt, Leland."

  "Sorry, sir."

  Gates let the topic drop and brought up another. He nodded toward a bright light in the distance.

  "That must be that Russian oil-drilling platform," he said. "What's it called again?"

  "The Vilanovsky, sir," Strange said. He had no problem with the pronunciation. "It's one of Russia's new year-round, ice-resistant rigs they designed to take advantage of polar melting due t
o climate change."

  "Came up here once on an ice breaker years ago," Gates said, shaking his head. "It was beautiful, pristine. The ice shelves thick and awe-inspiring. A few more years of this and it'll look like the Gulf of Mexico."

  "Worse, sir," Strange said. "There's less water circulation in the Arctic than in the gulf. If there's a spill here, it will stay here."

  Chapter 6

  THE FIRST AIRLIFT OF CIVMARS arrived as soon as there was enough light to land. CIVMARs, or civilian mariners, were government employees hired by the Navy's Military Sealift Command, or MSC, to operate its auxiliary ships. Chief among these were the tankers and cargo ships that sailed with strike groups and task forces, and kept the warships fed, fueled, and stocked with ammunition. However, they also included hospital ships, submarine tenders, rescue and salvage vessels, and test and research ships.

  The CIVMARs came in a helicopter able to land on the small helo pad forward of the bridge. Four people stepped from the aircraft. Three wore khaki uniforms covered by foul-weather jackets; one wore a blue jumpsuit, also covered by a cold-weather coat. They took sea bags, rucksacks, and well-worn luggage from the helicopter, hefted them and, stooping, moved out from under the aircraft's rotating blades toward where Gates and Strange waited. The man in the lead was older than the rest, with a short white beard that stood out against his sun-bronzed face. His eyes were a shade of sea gray. He wore a blue ball cap on which Gates recognized the silver eagle showing the rank of captain in both the Coast Guard and Navy, though this eagle had a bar across it, engraved with the letters MSC. Gates wasn't certain he needed to salute the man—who was technically a civilian—but he did so as a courtesy.

  "Welcome aboard, captain," Gates said. His salute returned, the two men shook hands. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Gates, U.S. Coast Guard. This is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Strange."

  "T. L. Gunnar," the man said. His voice was strong and powerful, a voice used to the sea. The second man in khaki stepped up beside Gunnar. He had dark, clean-cut, Hispanic features and black hair flecked with gray. "My chief mate, Geraldo Salcedo."

  Salcedo shook Gates' and Strange's hands. "Call me Gerry."

  "We're a bit less formal with titles in the CIVMARs," Gunnar said.

  "Doug," Gates said. He gestured to Strange. "Leland."

  "But you can still call me 'Captain,'" Gunnar added, with a wry smile. He looked Strange over and said, "They cut them young these days, don't they?"

  "I think you'll find Lieutenant Strange is a young man with multiple talents. I don't even know them all yet." Gates paused as the last two civilian mariners approached. "This isn't your entire crew, is it, captain?"

  "No, no," said Gunnar, "just my advanced team to pave the way for the rest of my crew. They'll be coming in relays over the next few hours. Twenty-four of us, all together."

  The third man in khakis stepped up, and Gates saw by the cut of his side pockets he wore a coverall rather than shirt and pants. He had a light-brown, unruly beard and faded blue eyes. A navy-blue wool watch cap pulled low over his ears displayed a ship's propeller surrounded by a wreath.

  "My chief engineer, Jack Weil," Gunnar said. "And this . . ." The captain gestured to the fourth and final CIVMAR. ". . . is my DSV operator, Sarah Sandford."

  Gates did his best to hide his reaction to the tall, beautiful, black woman. Her skin was a rich mahogany, and her eyes deep, dark, and fathomless. Despite the blue coveralls and foul-weather jacket she wore, it was obvious she was slender and athletic, and, from her handshake, strong. She removed a dark-blue watch cap and ran fingers through short, black curls flecked with red. Her smile was wide, sensuous, and inviting. It nearly took Gates' breath away.

  "I brought Sarah in early to look at that DSV," Gunnar said, "and try to get a grasp on what happened to its crew. That is how this started, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is, captain," Gates stammered. "Good idea. Welcome aboard, Miss Sanford."

  "Just call me Sarah," Sandford said. "And you, lieutenant, can stop staring at me like that."

  Gates glanced at the young officer. His mouth was slack and the eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses bulged.

  "Lieutenant Strange," Gates said, snapping the young man out of his catatonia, "why don't you help Miss Sandf—Sarah with her gear?"

  Sandford had a duffel, a rucksack, and what appeared to be a laptop case draped over her shoulders. Leland Strange rushed the woman, eager to relieve her of her burden.

  "At ease, lieutenant," Sandford said, stepping back. "I can carry my own gear." She side-stepped Strange, who stood frozen with his arms outstretched, and smiled at Gates. "But I appreciate the offer, commander. I don't get such consideration from the men I usually work with." She smiled again, glancing at Gunnar and the other CIVMARs. Then she slipped past Gates and headed inside the ship.

  "Don't believe her," Gunnar said, chuckling. "Sarah doesn't need help for anything. Born to the sea, that one. Now, if you don't mind, Doug, let's get our gear stowed in quarters and then you can brief us on what we have here."

  ☼

  Fifteen minutes later the CIVMARs, Gates, and Strange were sitting in the ship's conference room. Gates had given up to Gunnar the captain's quarters he slept in the night before and took one of the scientists' cabins. Gunnar—used to being the one in charge—had taken the chair at the head of the conference table.

  "As far as we can tell, the ship is totally dead," Gates said. "The generators aren't working and, of course, neither are the engines. She's adrift and not under command."

  As if to stress the point, the Franklin—pushed by a beam sea—took a steep roll to starboard. Gunnar turned toward his chief mate.

  "Gerry, as soon as the deck department gets aboard, rig out an anchor. The sea depth isn't that deep. A couple of shackles worth—30 fathoms—should do it. That should stabilize the ship until we can get some way on."

  "Aye, sir," Salcedo said.

  Gunnar turned to Weil, his chief engineer.

  "Jack, get the generators on line," he said. "We can't fix anything until we get more light. We're blind and deaf, too, without radar or communications."

  "I have comms, captain." Gates pulled out the sat phone.

  "Yes, I have one, too," Gunnar said. "But at these latitudes even sat phones are problematic."

  Gates nodded, then said to Weil, "Senior Chief Hopper is my engineer. I'm certain he'd be happy to assist you."

  "Thank you, Doug," Weil said.

  "In the event we can't get the Franklin underway again, I've arranged for a sea-going tug to tow us in,” Gunnar said. “Unfortunately, the only tugs big enough and near enough are busy towing a damaged oil platform into Point Barrow. I'm afraid if we can't get underway ourselves, we could be here for several days."

  "Understood, captain," Gates said. "Of course, my team will stay aboard. We need to complete our investigation and, in light of what happened aboard this ship, I think you could use the security."

  "Thank you, Doug," Gunnar said. "Sarah, you know what I need you to do. Check over that DSV and see if you can find something that might clear up this mystery."

  Sandford nodded. "Yes, captain."

  "Captain, I'd like Lieutenant Strange to accompany Sarah," Gates said. "Anything she might find would have a direct bearing on our mission here."

  Gunnar nodded. "Make it so, Sarah."

  Sandford regarded Strange the way a parent would an upstart child.

  "I don't suppose you've ever been on a submersible, lieutenant?" she asked.

  "Yes, I have . . . Sarah," he said. "I made a couple of dives on Alvin when I was studying at Woods Hole. And please call me Leland."

  Sandford stared at Strange, her mouth agape.

  "Lieutenant Strange . . . Leland . . . has a PhD in oceanography," Gates said, struggling to contain his grin. "Along with a few other degrees and honors. If you have trouble calling him Leland, I'm sure doctor will suffice."

  The three remaining CIVMARs mimicked Sandford's face. Sand
ford nodded and shrugged. "All right then, let's go see the DSV."

  As they left, Salcedo and Weil also requested leave to depart. Gates stood, ready to leave, but Gunnar asked him to stay.

  The merchant captain settled back into his chair and regarded Gates with his sea-gray eyes.

  "Lieutenant Commander Douglas Munro Gates," he said, emphasizing Gate's first and middle names.

  "Sir?"

  "You know, Doug, when you graduate from the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy, as I did, you're required to hold a reserve commission in one of the armed forces for six years. I chose the Coast Guard, because it seemed best suited for the work I planned to do as a career. Got called up for Operation Desert Storm in '91. So, I'm well aware of who Douglas Munro was. A relative?"

  Signalman 1st Class Douglas Munro was a legend in the Coast Guard as the only member of the service ever awarded the Medal of Honor. After the Battle of Savo Island in 1942, the Navy retreated from Guadalcanal, leaving the Marines stranded. A large number of Coast Guardsmen, however, chose to remain with the Leathernecks. Those who crewed landing craft used their boats to shuttle troops and supplies around the island. Those without boats picked up rifles and joined infantry units.

  On September 27, a small flotilla of landing craft commanded by Munro landed three companies of Marines on the beach at Point Cruz. The Marines quickly found themselves outnumbered by Japanese troops and pushed back toward the sea. Munro led his small flotilla back to Point Cruz to evacuate the Americans. As the Marines were being loaded onto the boats, Munro positioned his own vessel between them and withering Japanese machine gun fire. Miraculously, every Marine was rescued. But as the boats made their escape, one became disabled and came under heavy fire. Munro again positioned his boat in the line of fire. Both Munro's boat and the disabled vessel escaped but Munro paid the ultimate price. The Navy had long refused to award the Medal of Honor to any Coast Guardsman going back to the Spanish-American War, but in Munro's case the Marines insisted the Navy award him the honor.

  "A distant cousin, sir," Gates said. "But how did you know my middle name, captain? I don't recall introducing myself that way when you came on board."