Читать книгу A Richard Rohmer Omnibus - Richard Rohmer - Страница 35

Byam Channel / 5:59 a.m., CDT

The Polar Gas helicopter levelled off at two hundred feet as it moved away from the base camp bound for the main dome in mid-channel between Melville and Byam Martin Islands. Across the twelve-mile stretch of snow, bathed in the Arctic dawn sunlight, the President could make out patches of turquoise-coloured ice — pure, hard, deep ice. Stretched out across the channel like beads on an invisible thread were the beet-red domes that covered each of the sealhole stations over the pipelines.

Magnusson, sitting behind the President, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the right. “That’s the pumping station, sir. The compressors will start at 6:10 sharp. We’ll be at the master sealhole in about three minutes, about two minutes after six, which will give us just enough time.”

Ahead of the aircraft the President saw the broad sweep of Byam Martin Island, a brownish, treeless tundra, rising to heights above the level of the swift-moving helicopter. Then out to his right beyond the southern tips of both Melville and Byam Martin, the broad expanse of whiteness disappeared into the horizon. High above, his eye caught the vapour trail of a high-flying jet leaving its impermanent white mark on the crystal blue of the cloudless Arctic sky.

The President turned to Magnusson and asked above the noise of the helicopter, “Get any polar bears in these parts?”

“Sure do, Mr. President. We don’t let our people get away from the domes on the ice any distance at all. The bears are mean creatures and, man, are they fast! Had a fellow killed over at Panarctic’s base camp last year, so we treat them with great respect.”

The helicopter pilot set the small machine down gently just a few feet from the red dome of the master sealhole and cut off his power. He would wait to fly the President back to the Polar Gas base camp and the Hercules transport which would take him to Resolute.

The President and Magnusson entered the dome through the entrance chamber which trapped the cold air like an igloo and then through another door into the dome itself. In the centre was the 10-foot wide sealhole that Magnusson had described to him, the water sitting just about two feet below the level of the ice. The ice surface inside the dome had been covered with plastic material to give a secure footing and also to minimize the heating required to maintain the interior of the dome at an acceptable working temperature of 60°.

In the sealhole a ladder had been attached to the lip of the ice so the divers could get in and out of the water. Mounted on a double A-frame rig directly over the hole was a cable drum carrying the cables from the television sets and pressure gauges mounted on the main control console to the cameras and sensors underwater. One of Magnusson’s men was at the pressure gauges checking them for readings prior to the start-up of pressurization. Magnusson introduced him to the President.

Near the sealhole was a rack from which two heavily-insulated diving wetsuits hung. Oxygen tanks, masks, flippers and gloves were neatly piled on the floor next to the rack.

The interior of the dome was bathed in a soft white light from the brilliant, rapidly rising sun, which filtered through two opaque panels in the centre of the dome.

Magnusson moved toward the hole, and the President followed him. They stood at the edge and looked down into the water.

“Because of the possibility one of the pipelines may fail, we’ve put this dome about a quarter of a mile away,” Magnusson said. “The ice here is about eight feet thick. You can see down quite a distance because the water’s perfectly clear and the ice lets a good deal of sunlight through. Just below the level of the ice you can see one of the control buoys for the television cable. We’ve run the cable just under the ice from here across to a point just above the pipes, then down to pipe level. Our divers have been checking the cable buoys and the control buoys for the tower system. In fact, you can just see one of the divers checking the cable buoy immediately under this hole. We also supply power from here to lights down at pipe level for the divers and the TV cameras. We get our electricity from portable generators. You can hear the one for this sealhole chugging away outside.”

Magnusson and the President moved to the television sets and the pressure gauges. Magnusson said to the technician, “How does it look, Oscar?”

“Everything checks O.K., Harold. The TV sets and cameras and everything are functioning well, as you can see from the pictures on the screens.”

The wide angle television cameras had been lowered until each was directly opposite the pipelines at mid-point of the twenty-yard distance between the two systems.

A 30-foot section of the “tower” pipeline was displayed on the left screen in colour. The right screen showed the “concrete” system.

The President said, “The insides of the pipes look as though they’re squashed.”

Magnusson responded, “They are, Mr. President. At a depth of 600 feet the water pressure — about 290 pounds per square inch — is sufficient to cause the neoprene pipe to collapse. The steel mesh sheath retains its shape. When the pressure is applied internally and the gas is fed in, the pipe will come out to its normal shape.”

He picked up the small phone on the console. “Compressor Station!”

A voice came back, “Go ahead, Harold.”

“Bill, have you confirmation that the checks have been done on all the buoys?”

“Yeah, everybody has reported in that everything is O.K. — that is, everybody except Joe Henderson, who should be at your sealhole.”

Magnusson turned toward the sealhole and the sound of splashing. He replied, “Just a minute. He’s coming out of the hole now.”

A black figure emerged from the water and climbed up the ladder. The diver turned toward Magnusson and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Magnusson continued: “Everything’s O.K. here, so we’re all set to go. Have you confirmed that the valves at the Byam Martin end are open for the blowout of water and set to shut off external venting when the water and the oil plugs have gone through?”

“I have.”

Magnusson said, “O.K., Bill. Turn her on and keep your fingers crossed.”

Henderson, the diver, had taken off his wet suit and put on his parka. He was introduced and joined the President, Magnusson and Oscar at the instrument table.

As Magnusson busied himself with the instruments and the television set, the President asked Henderson, “What’s it like working under ice? Is it uncomfortable? Do you feel trapped with all that mass of ice over you?”

“Not a bit, sir,” Henderson replied. “It’s the most interesting work I’ve ever done. I’m not really a diver by profession, but like the rest of the gang I took special training, not only in diving but on pipelines and all the new fangled equipment we’ve got here.”

“You mean you didn’t do any diving before you started this job?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct,” replied Henderson.

“And how long have you been at it now?”

“Just a little over six months. That’s how long it’s taken us to get these two pipeline systems organized and put together in position. When you first start at this business it’s difficult to get used to the weightlessness condition under which we have to work, but once you get used to it, there’s no problem. One of the things that really helps us is the sub-igloo. I don’t really know how to describe it except that it’s a big plastic ball into which a diver can go to rest at fifty or a hundred or two hundred feet down and get a new supply of oxygen rather than having to come up all the way to the surface. It’s an invention of Dr. Joe MacInnis. He’s one of the world’s leading underwater scientists — a Canadian.”

“What about underwater wildlife around here?” the President said. “I’d guess there really isn’t anything.”

“That isn’t the case at all, Mr. President. I’ve seen all kinds of seals, walrus and whales, particularly the beluga whale and the narwhal—that’s a small whale with a great spear on its nose. The water is as clear as a bell, and with the strong sunlight even through the ice you can see for a long distance. It’s really something to be working just a few feet under water and see these great beasts swimming by. As a matter of fact, this whole area is just teeming with wildlife. It’s incredible.”

Magnusson interrupted. “Pressurization has started!”

Pressurization began at 6:10 exactly, with the flow of gas following a 50-gallon oil plug through each of the pipes. All of them had immediately resumed their normal circular shape.

By 6:20 the instruments indicated that gas now filled each of the pipes 50 per cent of the way across, by 6:25 three-quarters of the way.

On the left-hand television screen the tower line sat stable.

On the right-hand screen the pipeline of the concrete system started to move. Slowly at first, then more and more rapidly it twisted and tugged at the cable locking it to the channel floor.

The four men watched the screen in fascination. Magnusson muttered, “Christ, I hope the cable holds.”

At that very instant the winch lock on the ballast block was ripped apart by a mighty upward pull. Unleashed, the pipe gathered speed and instantly disappeared from the view of the television camera. Magnusson’s computer-like mind told him that the loosened pipe would surface at almost 150 miles an hour, and would take only six or seven seconds before it smashed against the bottom of the ice with incredible force.

He shouted at the President, “Let’s get out of here fast!” All four men made a rush for the entrance of the dome. In a near-panic they broke from it into the crisp sun-filled cold of the Arctic morning. The ice beneath their feet shook, vibrated and lifted. Four hundred yards to the south the frozen white surface under the long line of red plastic domes exploded upwards, lifting and showering cascades of shattered ice high into the air, spinning domes off in every direction. The noise was like a massive clap of rolling, unceasing thunder, deafening and continuing as the huge pipeline, moving with the force and speed of a projectile, burst through the ice, still whipping and thrashing about like a reptile gone mad.

As the thick ice rose in front of them, the President stood transfixed by the fantastic sight.

As the ice rose to its peak and the pipeline broke past it into the air, fissures began to race outward from the point of impact.

The President could see the crack coming, but it was moving so rapidly he had no time to move. In an instant it was by him. The ice almost under his right foot opened to a fissure about a yard wide. As he turned, startled, to look into the frigid water which had suddenly appeared, his right foot slipped. Thrashing wildly to regain his balance the President of the United States of America fell toward the crevasse.

Magnusson, standing just to his left, using all his power — and using it roughly — caught the President’s parka. With a mighty heave he pulled the President back from the edge just as he was going to fall into the water.

As the President hit the ice flat on his back, the crevasse slammed closed as quickly as it had opened.

The writhing pipeline had broken clear of the ice and rose about a hundred feet in the air, where it hung momentarily. The thundering noise of the cascade of ice falling back to the surface was joined by a piercing, whistling sound like a balloon deflating, as the holes in the pipe ripped by the ice allowed the natural gas to escape. The enormous pressure in the pipes was gradually relieved. The rampaging snake slowly fell back onto the water and its fractured cover of ice fragments, then disappeared through it. As the pipe, still hissing and losing pressure, sank beneath the surface, the massive upheaval totally subsided.

Magnusson helped the President to his feet. His face was white. “Are you O.K.? I didn’t think I’d be able to grab you.”

The President took a deep breath. “God Almighty, what a sight! Son, I haven’t been so close since the war. You saved my life for sure. You shook me up some, but I’m all right now. Let’s go and have a look.”

The four men ran quickly back into the dome. On the television monitor the tower pipe was still where it had been. Magnusson hurriedly scanned the gauges. “Sir, it’s looking good. The towers are rock-solid on the bottom and the pipe is up to full pressure. We’ve got a pipeline!”

The President shook his hand and placed his arm on Magnusson’s shoulder. “Harold, you and your team have really done a job up here. A whole lot of people are going to know about it before I’m through.”