“We’re planning an Antarctic expedition,” she said. “To an area near the Fimbul Ice Shelf and deeper into Queen Maud Land. We’re building on the work of a former colleague of ours. You might know her. Cora Emmerson?”
“Oh, yes,” Räikkönen said. “Cora was a fixture around here for a while. Always bringing us biscuits or cakes when she came in.”
Gamay had been thinking they’d have to beat around the bush asking about Cora’s work but now sensed an opportunity to cut to the chase. “Would you be able to show us what she studied when she was here?”
“Of course,” the man told her. “Have a seat. And take off those heavy coats. All our data is recorded and digitized. We can look at everything from right here in my warm and cozy office.”
Paul and Gamay shed their winter layers, feeling several pounds lighter by the time they were finished. As they made themselves comfortable, Räikkönen sat at his desk, tapping away on a keyboard. “Are you certain that you want to look at all the cores Cora studied? If so, you may be here through spring.”
Gamay glanced over at Paul and then turned back to their host. “We’re most interested in the data from her later studies. The last cores she looked at before she left for South Africa.”
“That should narrow things down,” Räikkönen promised, tapping away. “Let me check the dates. Ah . . . Here’s the list.”
Gamay slid closer, glancing at the monitor as Räikkönen explained the notations. “These ice cores were recovered in 1996 by a Swedish expedition. The samples run from a depth of three hundred meters—pardon me, you’re American—from one thousand feet to approximately six thousand four hundred feet below the surface.” He pointed to a notation on the file. “Here you can see the location on the glacier in latitude and longitude. And if I click here, I can you show the chemical breakdown based on depth.”
“This might be easier than we expected,” Paul offered.
Gamay shot Paul the look that said Don’t jinx us.
She turned back to Räikkönen. “Would you start with the deepest sections first?”
Räikkönen set a depth range on the screen before hitting enter on the keyboard. An icon appeared and cycled several times. Finally, a pair of words appeared. Gamay couldn’t read the Finnish, but a diagonal red line through the icon suggested something had gone wrong.
“How odd,” Räikkönen said. “The file has been corrupted. Let me check a different depth.”
Räikkönen pulled up several different depths at random and received the same notice in angry red letters. “The entire folder must be corrupt,” he said. “Perhaps it happened when we migrated from the old computer system to the new.”
As he went back to work, Gamay glanced at Paul, then back to their host. “Try a different sample,” she suggested. “Maybe one of the cores she looked at earlier in her visits.”
“Of course,” Räikkönen replied. He pulled up a second core by its identification number, double-checked that it was on the list of samples Cora had studied and requested the data. “Cora did the actual lab work on this one,” he said. “It had never been tested before.”
“Even though it was recovered in 1996?” Gamay asked.
“Oh yes,” Räikkönen said. “We have nearly two million core samples stored here. Each of them a meter in length. For proper examination, they need to be sliced into very thin sections and studied one millimeter at a time. In some ways, the EICD is like a library. There are books that get checked out on a regular basis and there are books that gather dust for years before someone takes a peek. But all of them sit and wait. The samples Cora studied hadn’t drawn much interest because they are from a less active part of the continent.”
As Räikkönen explained the process, Gamay watched the computer screen. The search icon appeared once again, cycling for what seemed like an eternity before finally giving way to the familiar notice in its angry red. “Another corrupted file.”
Räikkönen’s cheeks flushed. Without any prodding from Gamay, he pulled up three additional files, getting the same admonition each time. “I don’t understand.”
“I do,” Paul whispered, low enough that only Gamay heard him.
“What about the cores themselves?” Gamay asked. “Are they kept on-site?”
“The sections that haven’t been processed are.”
“Can we look at them?” Gamay asked. “I mean, physically look at them?”
Räikkönen nodded and went to work, studying the screen for the data. “We have two hundred cores from the ’96 expedition still in storage. Half of them from a depth below five thousand feet. They’re kept in the older building.”
“On-site?” Gamay said, standing up.
Räikkönen nodded. “You might want to put your coats back on.”
“Do we have to go outside?” Paul asked.
“No,” Räikkönen said. “But it’s thirty-five below in the warehouse. Fifty degrees colder than it is on the street.”
Paul grabbed his coat while Gamay grabbed hers and pulled on her earmuffs. “Should have bought that Russian hat.”
15
To reach the storage facility, Paul, Gamay and Räikkönen walked through a tube-like bridge that spanned the access road between the two buildings. It was enclosed but neither heated nor insulated. A chill could be felt as soon as they stepped inside.
Gamay looked out the half-frosted windows as they moved along. A small van with yellow fog lights was pulling in on the snowy road beneath them. “More deliveries?”
“They come in constantly,” Räikkönen replied. “Pardon the pun, but global warming research is heating up. That makes the EICD a hot spot. We now take ice cores from all around the world. We have some from Greenland and Antarctica, others from glaciers in South America, Eurasia and the Himalayas. We even have ice from Africa taken off the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro.”
They reached the far side of the bridge, arriving at a sealed door.
Räikkönen typed a code into a keypad and a hiss of air could be heard as the door opened. As cold as it was on the bridge, the air escaping from the storage chamber cut into them like the wind. They stepped inside and went down to ground level again, entering the locker room.
All around lay cold-weather gear. Fur-lined hats with earflaps. Racks of gloves. Coveralls on pegs along the walls.
“Let me see your gloves,” Räikkönen said.
Paul and Gamay held out their gloved hands.
“I’m afraid those will never do,” he said. “Find a pair of the heavy gloves and pull a pair of coveralls over your clothes. You’ll both want to drink a bottle of water as well. It’s exceedingly dry in the storage chamber, drier than any desert. You’ll never feel yourself sweating, but your bodies will lose moisture rapidly.”
Paul and Gamay did as they were told. Then, dressed appropriately, they passed through another door into an examination room.
Here they found a worktable with a precision saw waiting to carve ultrathin slices from the cores. Microscopes, gas chronometers and other high-tech equipment lined the far wall.
A woman dressed in cold-weather gear of her own stood over one of the microscopes.
“Good evening, Helen,” Räikkönen said.
She looked up from her work. “Matthias,” she said warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight. What brings you down here?”
“Visitors,” Räikkönen replied. “These are the Americans I told you about. They’ve come all the way from Washington to see our work. As it turns out, they’re old friends of Cora Emmerson.”
“Cora,” Helen said. “How delightful. Where is she these days?”
Gamay answered quickly. “Antarctica.”
“Excellent,” the woman replied. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve had a little problem,” Räikkönen said. “Several of the computer files seem to be corrupted.”
“I could retrieve the physical files for you,” Helen said, “but they’re stored at another site. It will take a few days.”
“That would be helpful,” Gamay said. “Out of sheer curiosity, we’d love to see some of the core samples Cora studied while she was here.”
“Of course,” Helen said. “Matthias, why don’t you show them? Assuming you can still find your way around the warehouse.”
“Very funny,” he said. “I’ve already got the bin numbers. We’ll go retrieve them. If you’d set up the exam table while we’re gone, that would speed things up.”
They left Helen behind and entered the storage facility itself. Astonishingly, this room was ten degrees colder than the exam room and dressing area. At this point, the difference in temperature really couldn’t be felt. What could be sensed was the dryness.
Each time Gamay inhaled, the air scratched her throat and windpipe. Her eyes felt as if they had been drained of all liquid. Either that or the tears were crystallizing in place.
“I see why we needed the water,” Gamay said.
Now out in the warehouse itself, they were dwarfed by three-story racks that reached to the ceiling, aisles of them, like a gigantic shopping center. On each of the racks were bundles of shimmering silver tubes. Thousands upon thousands of them stacked in cradles.
“This is incredible,” Paul said.
“Each of these tubes contains a meter of ice,” Räikkönen said. “The warehouse itself is larger than a city block.”
As he spoke, Räikkönen led them to the right and deeper into the warehouse. They passed a dozen seemingly identical aisles before he found what he was looking for.
“21-B,” he said, entering the aisle and taking them down it. Halfway down, they cut over to another aisle and, farther on, they made another turn.
“I feel like a rat in a maze,” Paul said. “I’m not sure I could find my way out.”
“If we are the mice,” Räikkönen said, “we are about to reach the cheese.”
Checking the small numbers on the racks as he passed them, Räikkönen finally stopped. “Here it is. These are the core samples from the 1996 expedition. The ones Cora studied are up top.”
Gamay craned her neck to look upward. The highest level was at least thirty feet above her head. “Even you won’t be able to reach that,” she said to Paul.
“Very funny,” Paul said. “I assume you have a ladder.”
“Even better,” Räikkönen said.
He stepped to a keypad that had been installed on the rack in front of them and pressed a green button. The pad lit up, allowing him to enter the number of the tube that was needed. A whirring, mechanical sound reached them from a far part of the warehouse.
Gamay and Paul turned in unison to see a vehicle coming around the corner. It was the size of golf cart but only half as wide. It had no driver and was electrically powered. It pulled up to the rack in front of them and stopped.
Räikkönen reached out, unlocked a small gate and stepped onto the platform. “Cherry picker,” he said. “Would you care to join me?”
Paul shook his head. “I’ll pass. As odd as this might sound, I’m afraid of heights.”
“I’ll be brave,” Gamay said.
She stepped onto the platform. Räikkönen touched another button. As the entry gate shut behind her, the electric motors began whirring once again. Instead of moving forward or backward, the platform began to rise upward.
Gamay looked over the edge, seeing that a pair of scissors-like supports were unfolding. She held on to the waist-high railing as the platform climbed past the first level and then the second. While it was a smooth ride, the platform was so small it felt precarious to be perched on it.
Reaching the third level, the platform stopped. Gamay looked around. She could see over the top of the racks to the aisles beyond. Row after row spread out before her. They reminded her of bookshelves in a library.
“This makes no sense,” Räikkönen said.
She turned to find him examining the writing on the end of a tube he had pulled out. He slid the tube back in and checked another tube and then a third. He grew more frustrated with each discovery.
Gamay’s grin melted away. She didn’t need to ask what he’d discovered. She’d half expected it since the moment they’d found the computer files had been corrupted. “The cores are missing, aren’t they?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure . . .” he said. “But these are the wrong numbers. It’s as if someone had filed them in the wrong place.”
Gamay glanced at the end of the tube. A sticker placed on the curved surface displayed a bar code and a long string of numbers and letters. Gamay could see that the tubes in the nearest bin all ended in 08 or 09. She figured that was the year.
She allowed her eyes to wander, spotting a tube in the adjacent section that ended in DG-96. “What about that one?”
Räikkönen squinted and then nudged the control, sliding the cherry picker sideways.
The sudden movement startled Gamay and she grabbed the rail with both hands. “Warn me next time you do that.”
“Sorry,” Räikkönen said, reaching for the tube. “Get so used to being on these things that I don’t even think about the possibility of falling.”
“I’ll do enough of that for both of us,” Gamay said. “Is that the right sample?”
Räikkönen nodded. “This is one of the ’96 cores, but it’s been placed back in the wrong spot. But where are the others? There should be three compartments filled with them.”
Räikkönen tapped the intercom button. “Helen, this is Matthias. I’m going to need your help. Someone has been misfiling the cores.”
He waited a moment but got no response. Pressing the intercom button again, he called her name several times. “Helen? Helen? Are you listening? Helen?”
There was no response on the intercom. Then a hissing sound wafted through the warehouse.
“What was that?” Gamay asked.
“Air lock doors opening,” Räikkönen said.
The sound of the air lock sealing itself shut came next, followed by muffled voices and heavy footsteps.
Räikkönen was about to press the intercom button again when Gamay stopped him. A sixth sense told her there was too much urgency to the footfalls she was hearing. And too many of them altogether.
“She’s not going to answer,” Gamay said. “And we have a bigger problem to worry about.”
16
Down on the floor of the warehouse, Paul heard the air lock open and close. The sound of men running along the concrete floor followed. He moved to the end of the aisle and glanced around the corner.
A group of men had come in. They wore jackets and gloves, but not the type designed for the frigid air of the warehouse. They were also armed and fanning out in the classic spread-out-and-search grid.
Paul raced back to where Gamay and Räikkönen had begun descending. Waving his hands back and forth, he got their attention, warning them not to come down.
Paul was still signaling when one of the armed men came around the corner.
The man raised his weapon and shouted to his friends. Paul took off running and dove to the ground as muted shots rang out. The gunman had a suppressor on his short-barreled rifle to muffle the sound when fired.
Paul landed on the ground and rolled to the side as bullets skipped off the floor around him. He was too far from the end of the aisle to escape and too big of a target to expect he’d be able to run between the lead raindrops for long. He raised his hands and stood up slowly.
The gunman rushed forward, his eyes on the target, his weapon aimed at Paul’s chest. He made it halfway down the aisle before getting hit from above by an avalanche of the silver ice-filled tubes.
They hit him in several places at once—his shoulder, his knee, his foot. One of the core sa
mples hit the barrel of the rifle, jarring it from his hands and onto the concrete floor.
The bombardment was effective. Each tube weighed thirty pounds and their combined weight was a heavy beating. As he tried to get up, another cylinder of ice hit him, this one finding the back of his head, flattening him for good. The man slumped, face-first, out cold.
Paul knew this was his chance. He charged forward and pulled the man’s rifle out from under him.
“Look out,” Gamay shouted.
The gunman’s associates had arrived at the end of the aisle. Paul snapped off a shot in their direction but was quickly driven back as the men took cover around the endcaps of the aisle and returned fire.
Additional missiles of ice were lobbed from up above. They fell short, serving only to draw the attention of the men to where Gamay and Räikkönen perched on the cherry picker. The attackers quickly refocused and opened fire.
Paul watched as bullets tore into the frozen core samples stored around Gamay. Chips of ice and fragments of the silver tubing were blasted in all directions, catching the light and creating a snow globe effect.
Knowing Gamay and Räikkönen had nowhere to hide, Paul dropped to one knee and began firing down the aisle. The targets ducked out of sight as his own shots went wide or into the ice.
Realizing the tubes of ice made for half-decent sandbags, Paul slid a group of the core samples from their bin, stacking them in front of him in a small pyramid. He dropped down behind the stack, lying prone on the floor and looking over it and using it as a gunsight. Flat like this, he would be hard to hit and would be in a good position to shoot anyone who came his way.
When the men at the end of the aisle reappeared, Paul fired, missing wildly but forcing them back into hiding.
“I’m a better shot than this,” he said to himself.
Checking the rifle, he realized the problem. One of the core samples had hit the weapon as it fell, slamming it into the hard floor. The result was an almost imperceptible bend in the barrel, causing every shot to peel off high and wide to the left.
Guessing at a correction, he fired a third salvo of shells. Still, the weapon proved hard to dial in.
Fast Ice Page 10
