The White Wolverine Contract by Philip Atlee

Author:Philip Atlee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Two hours later I was lifted off a heliport beside Bur-rard Inlet by one of the mountie whirlybirds. Its rotors lifted us up and off the small asphalted area and went crabbing north over the glittering lights of Vancouver’s West End, a tremendous, jeweled pattern even at this late hour. Over the Georgia Strait we thrashed north to Bella Coola, and there in dawning light set down on the high school playground. There was no airport in the small town, and I ducked away from the helicopter carrying only my Air Canada flight bag.

From there it was a five minute walk to dockside, through the sleeping town kept alive by a timberprocessing plant. The place was only a cleft in wooded hills, and as I walked through it, frost sparkled on the street and storefronts. The helicopter went racketing over my head, nearly blowing me off my feet as it swerved over the harbor, on its way back to Vancouver.

The street, approaching the docks, narrowed. A hotel to my right, and it had to be a hotel. There were no roads in Bella Coola longer than a few miles, no connection through the Chilcotin wilderness which had brought the telegraph to this sparsely settled West Coast of British Columbia. No land route from the incredibly beautiful central part of the province, the birch and lake pastures of the high Cariboo.

There was, however, a sizeable ship alongside the principal dock. The Northland Prince, bound for Prince Rupert and Alaskan ports. Carrying my light handbag, I went up her gangplank, and in the lounge at top found nobody. Bella Coola was asleep, the ship was asleep, and the landlocked little port was still chill cold. And would be until the sun got over the steep mountains to the east.

I found the stairway to the flying bridge and wheelhouse, and invaded that sacred sanctum. The officer on duty was startled, and protested “you’re not allowed up here!”

“My sacred and frostbitten ass I’m not,” I replied. “You get the chief steward up here, chop-chop, and I’ll leave you to your task of navigating the vessel while she’s not moving.”

He was young, the duty officer, and his mouth fell ajar. “You’re a passenger from Bella Coola!”

“Never in this world. I’m a passenger from Vancouver. An RCMP helicopter just flew me up from there to join ship, and I must say that you run your business like a hog farm.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“To Prince Rupert.”

“Right.” The young duty officer picked up a phone and called somebody. In a few minutes, the Northland Prince’s steward came scrambling up to the bridge deck, took my bag, and I followed him down to a small but comfortable cabin. He was Irish, the steward, and had awakened so hurriedly that his red jacket was still bunched up around the back of his neck.

“Can I do anything else for you, sir?” he asked sleepily.

“Yes. A plate of sandwiches and a bottle of rye whiskey.”

“Oh, no, sir. Not possible.” His sleepy face was distressed.

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