Clive Cussler, Dirk Cussler Arctic Drift
DEDICATION
And yes, there really was a Leigh Hunt.
A dear friend, bon vivant, wit, and madcap Don Juan who had a way with women that made him the envy of every man in town.
I killed him off in the prologues of ten Dirk Pitt books. He always wanted to play a bigger role in the stories but didnt complain because he enjoyed the fame.
So long, old pal, you are sorely missed.
PROLOGUE PASSAGE TO DEATH
In his cabin, Commander James Fitzjames listened as he squeezed a clump of silver rock in his hand. Holding the cold shiny mineral to his eye, he swore at its luster. Whatever the composite was, it seemed to have cursed his ship. Even before it had been brought aboard, the mineral carried with it an essence of death. Two crewmen in a whaleboat had fallen overboard while transporting the first sample rocks, quickly freezing to death in the icy Arctic waters. Another sailor had died in a knife fight, after trying to barter some of the rocks for tobacco with a demented carpenters mate. Now in the last few weeks, more than half his crew had gone slowly and inexorably mad. The winter confinement was no doubt to blame, he mused, but the rocks somehow played a role as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by a harsh banging on the cabin door. Conserving the energy needed to stand and answer, he simply responded with a raspy, Yes?
The door swung open to reveal a short man in a soiled sweater, his ruddy face lean and dirty.
Capn, one or two of em are trying to breach the barricade again, the ships quartermaster stated in a thick Scottish accent.
Call Lieutenant Fairholme, Fitzjames replied, rising slowly to his feet. Have him assemble the men.
Fitzjames tossed the rock onto his bunk and followed the quartermaster out the door. They stepped down a dark and musty passageway, illuminated by a few small candle lanterns. Passing the main hatchway, the quartermaster disappeared as Fitzjames continued forward. He soon stopped at the base of a tall pile of debris that blocked his path. A mass of barrels, crates, and casks had been strategically wedged into the passageway, piled to the overhead deck and creating a temporary barricade to the forward compartments. Somewhere on the opposite side of the mound, the sound of shifting crates and human grunts resonated through the mass.
Theyre at it again, sir, spoke a sleepy-eyed marine who stood watch over the pile with a Brown Bess musket. Barely nineteen, the guard had a dirty growth of beard that sprouted off his jaw like a patch of briar.
Well be leaving the ship to them soon enough, Fitzjames replied in a tired voice.
Behind them a wooden ladder creaked as three men climbed up the main hatchway from the orlop deck below. A cold blast of frigid air surged through the passageway until one of the men tugged a canvas hatch cover in place, sealing it shut. A gaunt man in a heavy wool officers jacket emerged from the shadows and addressed Fitzjames.
Sir, the arms locker is still secure, Lieutenant Fairholme reported, a frozen cloud of vapor rising from his mouth as he spoke. Quartermaster McDonald is assembling the men in the officers Great Cabin. Holding up a small percussion-cap pistol, he added, We retrieved three weapons for ourselves.
Fitzjames nodded as he surveyed the other two men, haggard-looking Royal Marines who each clutched a musket.
Thank you, Lieutenant. There shall be no firing except by direct order, the commander said quietly.
A shrill cry erupted from behind the barrier, followed by a loud clanging of pots and pans. The sounds were becoming more manic, Fitzjames thought. Whatever abominations were taking place on the other side of
the barricade, he could only imagine.
Theyre turning increasingly violent, the lieutenant said in a hushed tone.
Fitzjames nodded grimly. Subduing a crew gone mad was a prospect he could never have imagined when he first signed on for the Arctic Discovery Service. A bright and affable man, he had quickly risen through the ranks of the Royal Navy, attaining command of a sloop of war by age thirty. Now thirty-six and in a fight for survival, the officer once referred to as the best-looking man in the Navy faced his toughest ordeal.
Perhaps it was no surprise that part of the crew had become deranged. Surviving an Arctic winter aboard an icebound ship was a frightful challenge. Bound for months in darkness and unrelenting cold, the men were trapped in the cramped confines of the ships lower deck. There they battled rats, claustrophobia, and isolation, in addition to the physical ravages of scurvy and frostbite. Passing a single winter was difficult enough, but Fitzjamess crew was coming off a third consecutive Arctic winter, their ills compounded by short rations of food and fuel. The death of their expedition leader, Sir John Franklin, earlier only added to the fading sense of optimism.
Yet Fitzjames knew there was something more sinister at work. When a bosuns mate tore off his clothes, climbed topside, and ran screaming across the ice floes, it could have been marked down as a single case of dementia. But when three-fourths of the crew began yelling in their sleep, staggering around listlessly, mumbling in confused speech patterns, and hallucinating, there was clearly something else at play. When the behaviors gradually turned violent, Fitzjames had the afflicted quietly moved to the forward deck and sequestered.