Part Two:
A Novel with No Title (as yet)
A work in progress
Alex Ferguson, editor-in-chief of National Geographic, is an editor, not unlike many editors, upon whose gut instincts rely on experience and swirling cigar smoke. Katherine Robinson, a niece to Ferguson, following the release of her second book, ‘The Ultimate Decision’, a photographic journal based on Shackleton’s last Antarctic expedition, made the kind of impression that had nothing to do with gut instinct: a vivacious woman lacking nothing in confidence.
“I’m going to Alaska,” she said, directing the statement at Ferguson, caring less that he was surrounded by publishing moguls debating Clinton’s claim whether oral sex is sex. “Depending on your response, the magazine will have a world scoop.”
Ferguson, puffing on a large cigar, didn’t immediately laugh it off but was reticent, feeling suspicious. A statement of that magnitude, in the company it was made, took spunk. Being wrong would ruin her credibility as if her name was Brokaw. Spunk, especially the kind that brought forward positive results, and for a reason unbeknown to himself, he agreed. A contract was drawn up.
“Only when I have no work for you, Katherine. When I do, you’ll return immediately. In return, I’ll keep your identity confidential.”
A month later, that call came.
Having started from Point Hope, on the shores of the Chukchi Sea and continuing the length of Brookes Range to Prudhoe Bay, a community of fewer than fifty people on the shores of the Arctic Ocean, Katherine was doing her best to conceal her irritation with the men; or one man to be specific, Jake Bryant, the floatplane pilot. The way he looked at her, the way he talked, complacent, self-assured and confident. She hated that manner with an exemplary passion. In three months of sledding across Alaska, she’d become sick of coming across lousy testosterone. The slightest whiff made her want to heave.
Alaska, with all its impressive beauty, is full of men with robust hormones, men like Jake Bryant, who can’t divert his eyes from a pair of breasts and refers to Alaskan winds as ‘skirt-lifters’. Not that she’s had the opportunity to wear such a feminine garment in three months. If she were short and plain and discreet, the weight of his attention would be far less. As it is, his egotistical bright lights have diluted her pupils to the point he’s no more than a blur and one with a distinct odor.
Katherine, still nursing a toothache after sledding across Alaska, boarded the Grumman seaplane and is traveling with a twenty-year-old trekker, Dan Slocum. Dan will be dropped off in Anchorage to catch a flight home to San Diego. The third man, a rare character, is Sam Duncan, older, intelligent, teasing with a gentle heart and a will of granite. Sam wrote about his time in Alaska, for those who will never tread this way, he told Katherine. It’s impossible to describe the generosity and empathy for Alaska in Sam’s writings.
Before boarding the plane to Seattle, Katherine read old letters from her father before he disappeared. From these letters, Katherine had a good idea of how her father’s timeline was used. What she didn’t know, and what she couldn’t fathom, was why he would have visited the places he did when the essence of his work centered on Amchitka, fourteen hundred miles west of Anchorage. The answer, she’s convinced, lies beneath the island of Amchitka, yet whatever instigated the mystery didn’t begin there; it started at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks after her father had met with Dr. Samuel Matheson, a long-time associate, having worked together for the U.S. government’s Marine Environmental Department. Following that visit, his letters and calls became vague, talking a lot about his affection for her and nothing about his work, even when pushed to tell. The word ‘sensitive’ covered his lack of forthcoming.
Matheson died of heart complications three months before her father disappeared; he was sixty-three, having been through bypass surgery and was on a daily regime of medications for mood swings. Not an unexpected death, she concluded, but oddest of all, she considered, was why her father did not attend the funeral in Fairbanks. Dr. Matheson left the Environmental Department in 2003 to head a project for the U.S.
Department of Energy, researching aquatic life off Amchitka as part of a more extensive look at how the area had responded to three nuclear blasts. During the enormous explosion, ‘Cannikin’, the surface of Amchitka rose and fell 20 feet, and the shock registered 7.0 on the Richter scale. Within two days after the explosion, a crater more than one mile wide and 40 feet deep formed.
The nearest Native village to Amchitka is Adak, once a US military installation, about 190 miles east of Amchitka. Residents eat creatures from the sea, including sea lions, salmon, halibut and harbor seals. Documents leaked from the Department of the Environment stated significant contamination measures, though enormously diluted, had been found on divers working in the waters around Amchitka.
The pressing thought that stayed with her is why nuclear waste from an underground test explosion carried out in the sixties was still a contamination risk in the waters around Amchitka. A question she had asked Commander Niles Morgan, an arrestingly attractive man, and whom she questioned had not climbed the naval rungs, knowing he would indeed have served any deity. And like any Priest called to discuss politics, the Commander was elusive with his answer.
Back in New York, Alex Ferguson, rubbing his eyes and skulking back and forth after missing breakfast, listened as Marilyn, his secretary, responded to his request.
“The hotel receptionist is insistent that Ms. Robinson left instructions not to be disturbed, sir.
Fergusson blew up. “What the fuck, I want her to call me immediately, not at a time of her own choosing!” He stubbed his cigar into the silver-plated ashtray and turned to the window, still mumbling. Marilyn discreetly left the room, closing the heavy door quietly behind her. Outside, it’s a dismal morning.
With one hand, Fergusson released his necktie. He had been reluctant to dance to Katherine’s insistent tune, but ultimately, he considered she’d earned an assignment of her choice. Frank Robinson had been a long-time friend of the magazine. But that was then, and this is now. He needed her back for an assignment in California.
Katherine Robinson hadn’t wanted to take time away from Alaska. Still, her editor at National Geographic had given her some leeway, and now he had some real work — to take the cover photo for an article on the Northern California coast.
More from Harry:
Adrienne Beaumont, Alan (AJ) Autistic Widower, Brett Jenae Tomlin, The Sturg, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Trisha Faye, Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Ruby Noir 😈, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Deb Palmer, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Jennifer Marla Pike, Carmen Ballesteros, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, Jan Sebastian 🖐👩🦰, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk
(No offence will be taken if you dislike being tagged for various reasons. Please let me know, and I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
Thanks for reading.
