Bering Sea, November 2012

The fifty foot trawler, Orlovsky Star, pushed on through frigid arctic waters and a lingering fog that seemed to have no end. The sea was unusually calm and the wind non-existent but with the outside temperature dipping to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit and the water holding just above the freezing point, the conditions were anything but benign.

Alexander Petrov stood at the wheel inside the darkened pilothouse, a grim air surrounding him. His weathered face, shaven head and clenched jaw all suggested a burden his broad shoulders were struggling to carry. He stared into the darkness ahead of the boat, listening to thrum of the heavy diesel engine and the occasional muted thump of ice banging against the hull.

So far the ice had been thin, small free floating chunks that his ship could slide through at half speed. But the pack ice formed quickly at this time of year, spreading south like a plague, and just an hour before there had been no ice at all.

Guiding the boat on feel as much as sight, Petrov knew the danger: if the ship didn't reach warmer waters soon, they'd be trapped and the thin hull ground into metal filings long before any rescuer could reach them. Then again, perhaps they deserved such a fate for what they were attempting to do.

A voice spoke from behind him. "It's getting thicker. We need to make better speed."

Petrov glanced backward into the recesses of the darkened pilothouse. A heavy set man gazed back at him. His was Vasili, a Russian of mixed European and Asian descent and the broker of their unholy deal, the keeper of their unusual human cargo.

Despite the cold, Petrov could see a thin sheen of perspiration on Vasili's upper lip. If Petrov was right Vasili's mind was reeling in a battle between greed and fear, between the possibility of life altering wealth just days away and a horrible death in the crushing embrace of the ice.

"What are you really worried about, Vasili?"

"That we're lost," he said bluntly, glancing at an exposed circuit board and what had been their navigation system.

The GPS receiver had shorted out eight hours before, the screen flashing and the casing catching fire in a shower of sparks. Petrov had examined it briefly but saw that it was clearly beyond repair. For an hour he'd used the stars to guide them, but the fog had thickened and he'd been forced to rely on the vessel's compass.

"I was a fisherman before I joined the Navy. I leaned to navigate at the hands of my father," Petrov assured him. "I know what I'm doing,"

Vasili stepped closer to him. "The crew is worried," he whispered. "They talk of our journey is cursed."

"Cursed?"

"Orcas followed us down the channel," Vasili explained. "And we've seen sharks every morning. Far too many for such northern waters."

It had seemed odd, Petrov thought, as if the predators of the sea were shadowing them, waiting for a meal to be delivered into their hungry bellies. But he hoped it was mere coincidence.

"It's almost dawn," Petrov said, changing the subject. "We'll have a few hours of light, nothing more, but it should be enough. The fog will lift and we'll make a better time."

Petrov's statement was designed to ease Vasili's fears, but even as he spoke, they found another mass of ice and a grinding resonance traveled down the starboard side. This was the trap he'd been hoping to avoid—one he'd warned Vasili about—thicker ice meant slower speed and thus more time for the ice to form up in the waters ahead of them.

He switched on the overhead lights, but the fog swallowed the beams and reflected the energy back, blinding him. He shut them off.

"We need a spotter," he said.

Before he could call the crew, they slammed something head on. The nose of the boat pitched upward and their momentum died. Petrov cut the throttles. It was as if they'd run aground.

Petrov cut the throttles.

In utter silence he waited. Finally the boat began to move, sliding backwards a foot at a time and then settling once again. Petrov breathed a sigh of relief.

"We cannot stop here," Vasili said.

A crewman popped his head into the control room from the lower deck. "We're leaking captain," the man said. "Starboard, forward."

"How bad?" Petrov asked him.

"I think I can seal it," the crewman said. "But we don't want any more of that."

"Wake the others," Petrov said. "Get them into their survival suits. Then do what you can."

It was a precaution only, and also a bluff meant to calm the fears of the men. But even in their suits they would not last long in the water.

He turned to Vasili. "Give me your key."

"I don't think so," the broker replied.

"So you will take him, then?" Petrov asked. "If we have to leave the ship?"

Vasili hesitated, then reached under his sweater and pulled out a key that dangled around his neck.

Petrov snatched it from his hand and then pushed his way outside.

The fog hung in the air, cutting at his face like shards of suspended glass. Not a breath of wind could be felt and with the engines shut down the silence was as complete.

He looked around. A thick layer of frost covered the deck while daggers of ice hung from the bridge and the ladder and the rail. Every surface, every line, every inch of the vessel had become encrusted in ice.

The ship looked dead already.