Free The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos Page A

think a lot about the
Titanic
when you’re out here. It’s a constant reminder that bad seamanship can fetch you a one-way ticket to Davy Jones’s locker. The
Titanic
’s grave is near the Grand Banks, where the Labrador Current meets the Gulf Stream. There’s a twenty-degree water temperature difference that creates fog that’s as dense as steel wool. The ocean circulation in the area is pretty complex as well.”

    “That must make your job hair-raising at times,” Austin observed.

    “I wish it was something I could put in a bottle for bald-headed men. A berg can wander around the ocean like a drunk on his way home from a bender. North Atlantic icebergs are the fastest moving in the world. They’ll travel up to seven knots an hour. Fortunately, we’ve got a lot of help. The International Ice Patrol makes regular flights. Passing ships keep tabs on icebergs, and the
Eriksson
works with a fleet of small spotting planes hired by the oil and gas companies.”

    “How’d you get into towing?” Zavala asked.

    “We tried using water cannon to move bergs. That works with ‘growlers,’ chunks of ice about the size of a big piano. There isn’t a hose big enough to move a five-hundred-thousand-ton mountain of ice. Towing them to warmer water seems to work the best.”

    “How many bergs do you actually lasso?” Austin said.

    “Only those that are headed for an oil or gas drilling platform. Two or three dozen. Once a ship hears about a berg, it can adjust its course. A five-billion-dollar world-class rig doesn’t have that option. The floating platforms can move, but it takes time. There was a near collision a few years ago. Berg wasn’t sighted until it got about six miles from the platform. It was too late by then to tow the berg or evacuate the platform. The supply boats pulled it off at the last second. The berg went right over the wellhead.”

    “With all the surveillance, I’m surprised the berg got that close,” Austin said.

    “As I said, their course can be erratic, depending on shape, size, and wind. That one snuck by us. We’ll be keeping any eye out for a big lunker that disappeared in the fog after being sighted a few days ago. I’ve been calling her Moby-Berg.”

    “Let’s hope that we’re not Captain Ahab chasing white whales,” Austin said.

    “I’d prefer a white whale to an iceberg,” Dawe said. “By the way, did I ever tell you why Newfoundlanders like to drive in winter?”

    Austin and Zavala exchanged blank looks at the odd shift in conversation.

    “The snow fills in the potholes,” Dawe said. He laughed so hard that tears streamed down his cheeks. The captain had a seemingly endless supply of “Newfie” jokes that poked fun at his heritage. The jokes continued through dinner.

    The
Leif Eriksson
’s cook served up a meal that would have been worthy of a five-star diner. As Austin and Zavala dug into rare roast beef, canned green beans, and garlic mashed potatoes, covered with a layer of thick gravy, the captain unleashed his joke repertoire on his captive audience. Austin and Zavala weathered the barrage of marginal humor until they could take it no longer and excused themselves to turn in.

    When they climbed to the bridge early the next morning, the captain must have felt sorry for them. He dispensed with the jokes and poured them mugs of hot coffee. “We’re making good time. We’ve seen a lot of growlers. That’s our first ‘bergy bit.’”

    Dawe pointed to an iceberg floating about a quarter of a mile off the starboard bow.

    “That’s bigger than any burger bit I’ve ever seen,” Austin said.

    “It’s nothing compared to the stuff we’ll see later,” the captain said. “It isn’t considered an iceberg unless it’s nearly twenty feet above the water and fifty feet long. Anything smaller is a bergy or growler.”

    “Looks like we’ll have to learn a whole new vocabulary out here,” Zavala commented.

    Dawe nodded in agreement. “Welcome to