Arctic Rising

The African and Mediterranean dumping had faded with the EU and East African naval buildups and public outrage. More dumping was going on off Arabic coasts these days. The post oil-boom nations were too busy trying to destroy each other for what little black gold was left to have the capability to worry about what was going on off their coastlines.

But now the Arctic was also seeing dumping. With the whole Northwest Passage open and free of ice, merchant ships could cross from Russia to Greenland, on through Canadian polar ports, and then to Alaska. Which also meant they crossed over some very deep Arctic water.

As nuclear power boomed across Eurasia and the Americas, with smaller corporations offering small pebble- bed nuclear reactors to energy-hungry towns and small cities demanding an alternative to oils needed in the plastics industries, the waste had to go somewhere.

Somewhere was more often than not … out here where Anika patrolled.

Hence the old, repurposed UNPG spotter airships with scatter cameras. Anika and her fellow pilots hung above the Northwest Passage helping monitor ship traffic that came from the world over. But mainly, they were hunting for ships with radioactive signatures.

The program had proven effective enough. Word had gotten out, thanks in part to a major UNPG advertising campaign online. For the past seven months Anika’s job had become rather routine.

Maybe even a little boring.

Which is why, for a moment, she didn’t notice the sound of the scatter camera alarm going off.

2

Anika gunned the turboprop engines to shove the airship down toward the choppy ocean.

“Do you have an ID on the ship?” she asked. The ship could be nuclear powered, she guessed. There were plenty of bulk carriers that were. But this one felt way too small for that.

Tom had a tablet in his lap and was paging through documentation.

“The transponder onboard claims it’s the Kosatka, registered out of Liberia. Papers are in order. She cleared herself in Nord Harbor.” He looked across at her. “She’s already been cleared by Greenland Polar Guard. We shouldn’t even be paying attention to her. If we hadn’t left the camera on, we would have just pinged the transponder and let them through.”

They’d dropped a couple hundred feet, and the Plover picked up speed in the still air as the four engines strained away.

“Is there anything about radioactive cargo when she cleared Greenland?”

Tom shook his head. “She’s clean on here. Do you still want to get in closer?”

That was Tom, following the letter of the law. The rules said the ship was cleared, that someone had checked it over in Greenland. They didn’t need to run a second check.

“Someone in Greenland could have slipped up,” Anika said. Or, she thought silently, been bribed. She picked up the VHF radio transmitter and held it to the side of her mouth. This was weird enough to warrant a closer look, either way. “Kosatka, Kosatka, Kosatka, this is UNPG 4975, Plover, over.”

Nothing but a faint crackle came from the channel.

Tom waved his tablet. “Says here it’s a private research vessel operating out of Arkhangel’sk.”

“So they are registered in Liberia for convenience,” Anika said. “But operating out of Russia. And they’re studying what?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“Search around online, see if you can find anything.”

“Already on it.”

Anika piloted them down through the black plume of smoke in the air behind the Russian vessel. They were catching up to it.

Once abreast, she would run the scatter camera again. This would get them better data for Baffin Island. This way whoever was doing this couldn’t then claim the camera flagged a false reading. Even if the ship dumped its waste, Anika could prove it had been carrying something obviously radioactive.

Then the gunships would get involved. And boarding parties.

But that wouldn’t be her problem. Which was why Anika liked flying. Back in the Sahara, after she’d put Lagos well behind her, she’d flown as a spotter for the miles of DESERTEC solar stations out in the middle of nowhere. High over the baking sand, she’d run patrols looking for trouble.

Like a god looking down from the clouds, she’d directed guards out to the perimeter to make sure Berber tribesmen weren’t really disguised terrorists looking to blow up the solar mirrors that ran most of North Africa and Europe.

Anika throttled back as she matched speed with the Kosatka and glanced portside, down at the ship. It was a few hundred feet away. She could see the silhouettes of figures behind the glass panes of the cockpit windows looking over the ship’s decks. The gasbag of the Plover had blocked the sun out for Kosatka. Surely the bridge crew had noticed her by now.

They had. Two men opened a rusty door on the side of the bridge and looked at her, shading their eyes as they did so.

They ran back inside.

“Well, they’re paying attention now,” she laughed.

Kosatka was a beater. Rust showed everywhere, and where it didn’t, it had been sanded away and covered in gray primer. Patches of the stuff blotched the entire ship.

“Kosatka, Kosatka, Kosatka, this is UNPG Plover off your starboard side, over.”

“Case of beer says they’re dumping,” Tom said, standing up and looking over her to the ship.

“What kind of beer are we talking about?” Anika asked as she fired up the scatter camera again. She backed the readings up to a chip and slipped them into a pocket on her shoulder. Old habits. Hard copy trumped all. Half the equipment on the airship broke down, and she didn’t want to lose the data. Dumpers deserved nothing more than to rot in jail, she figured. And she’d be really annoyed if some slipup of hers let one of them slip through. “If it is that cheap ‘lite’ beer you had at your barbecue last month, I don’t want to win a bet with you.”

Tom looked wounded. “Jenny picked that out, not me. I was stuck in the air with you all that week, remember?”

“I remember.” Anika looked over at the radio. Still static.

“What kind of good Nigerian beer should I bet, then?” Tom asked, sitting back down and looking up his results for the search on the ship.

“Guinness will do.”

“Guinness?”

“Number one in the mother country,” Anika said. “Someone told me they sell more of it back home than in Ireland.” She tapped the picture of her and her father sitting on a blanket on Lekki Beach just outside Lagos. Each was wearing a crisp white shirt, holding a pint. Big smiles. Hot sun. Cool ocean.

“No shit?”

“None at all.” Anika grabbed the mic. “Let’s see if we can raise them and get them to heave to, okay? Next step: we call in the nearest cutter and get this over with. The camera still thinks they are hot.”

Before she could call again, a heavy Russian voice crackled over the radio. “Yes, yes, hello. You are United Nations Polar Guard. Correct?”

Anika sighed. “The crew doesn’t know how to respond to us on the radio properly.” She keyed the mic. “Kosatka, switch to channel forty-five, repeat, four-five. Over.”

She waited for confirmation, but none came. She was considering switching to channel forty-five when Tom tapped her shoulder. “What’s that?” He sounded as if knew, though, but just couldn’t believe what he was seeing and wanted confirmation.

Anika glanced over. The two men had pulled a small crate out onto the metal deck around the bridge. Anika