Ice Age

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘You don’t know …’

  ‘Stop it, Jack! Thanks for trying but I do know … accept it …’

  ‘You’re not dead yet!’ he insisted, swallowing against the tremble in his voice.

  ‘I can only just hear the fat lady singing,’ she said, still trying for his benefit. Her smile showed the gap of the missing teeth. ‘I’m glad you’re OK.’ She looked briefly back to her written account. ‘I’ve put in how we sat on the plane coming back. Out of our suits, unprotected. That might be important … give a clue about transmission … immunity. Pelham talked to you about checking out your immunity system? Comparing it to mine …?’

  He’d forgotten she was a virologist. He hadn’t referred to how they’d flown home in what he’d so far written. He would, he decided. He’d do the whole thing all over again: try to be as detailed – as scientifically accurate – as she’d obviously been. ‘He hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  He hadn’t checked with Pelham whether he should tell her or not. He couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t. ‘They’ve all got it.’

  ‘Shit! They managing OK?’

  ‘Not as well as you.’

  ‘I probably won’t be so good at the end.’

  ‘We haven’t got there yet.’

  She lapsed into silence, her head lowered, and Stoddart wondered if she’d fallen asleep. Pelham had cautioned that talking tired her and she’d dominated the conversation because of his inadequacy. As the thought came to him she looked up, giving another gap-toothed smile. ‘You think we would have made it, you and I? Fallen in love?’

  ‘I thought we had.’

  ‘Thanks, for making the effort. I don’t think I had, with you. But it was looking good. Hopeful.’

  ‘I wasn’t making the effort. I’m telling you the truth.’ It didn’t matter, whether he was or not. He didn’t know whether he was or not.

  ‘That would be nice to think.’

  ‘Think it.’

  ‘This is how I’d have looked when I got old.’

  Stoddart swallowed again. ‘We could have done it together,’ he said, wincing behind the cover of his vizor at the meaninglessness.

  ‘Will you do something for me?’

  ‘You know the answer to that.’

  ‘Be with me, at the end. I’ll need help at the end. I’d like it to be you.’

  ‘It will be.’

  ‘You really mean it? About thinking you love me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That makes me feel good. Maybe there’s still time for me to fall in love with you.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I hope so, too. I’m getting very frightened, Jack. About how much time there’s going to be.’

  ‘There can’t be any mistake?’

  ‘Dick, for Christ’s sake!’ protested Spencer. ‘I’ve seen them. It’s … it’s terrible.’

  There was a pause on the line. ‘Then I guess we need to tell the President.’

  ‘I’ll stay over, here. Bring some stuff back he should see.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot to do … to think about now,’ said Morgan.

  Wait until you find out what I’ve already done, which you will at the same time as the President, thought Spencer.

  Six

  Henry Partington intended his place in presidential history to be that of an honest politician, although within strictly self-imposed and followed guidelines, welcoming the comparison with Harry Truman, whom he vaguely physically resembled. Partington recognized his ambition required a firm handle as well as a very tight lid on the accommodations and arrangements that had been necessary since his governorship of Illinois, a state famous for inventing the political science of accommodation and arrangement as well as for spawning the country’s most notorious Mafia figures. If some contributions to his various campaign funds had been in cash upon which no tax had been paid, Henry Partington did not provably know of them, nor had he ever condoned any special way of expressing his gratitude. He didn’t write – and certainly didn’t sign – letters to people of whose backgrounds he was unfamiliar and was extremely careful with whom he was photographed. Throughout a long and successful political career, Partington had dealt ruthlessly and at once with any suggestion of corruption or illegality within his varied administrations, particularly if any ordinary member of the public was the sufferer. He was just as fulsome and quick to reward staff loyalty: people who closely surrounded Henry Partington thought as he thought, often so instinctively that it was scarcely necessary to express an attitude in words. This was really a verbal extension of not casually signing letters or enquiring too deeply about campaign contributions.

  Richard Morgan and Paul Spencer were the two members of his staff most fluent in the very personal patois in which Partington spoke. Particularly in the Oval Office, equipped as it was with the automatic recording system which probably still caused Richard Nixon to turn in his grave.

  Taking his turn – prompting at the same time – Spencer said ‘It’s a contained crisis, sir. Everyone’s isolated here. Evacuation is planned in Antarctica.’ Which translated as: Everything’s safely under wraps, for which I’d like to be acknowledged.

  Partington said: ‘You handled everything exactly as it should have been handled, Paul. You and Dick both. Now we’ve got to think forward.’ There’s your reward. You were ahead of Morgan with the evacuation planning so go on smart-assing against each other.

  Morgan said: ‘There needs to be an early decision about McMurdo and Amundsen-Scott. And the requests from those still alive at Fort Detrick.’ Using your authority, Paul Spencer has imprisoned 400 people at the South Pole and has refused a dying man his constitutional rights in a government installation in Maryland.

  Spencer said: ‘The need is to do everything we can to find out why four people and an unborn child died in the Antarctic and why four of their rescue team are going to die. Everything is being done to protect everybody still in Antarctica. The concentration has got to be here, at Fort Detrick. That must be our immediate concern.’ There’s your lead, Mr President.

  ‘The concentration does need to be at Fort Detrick,’ seized Morgan. ‘There’s a decision that has to be reached quickly.’ Is James Olsen going to be allowed or denied the lawyer and the wife he’s demanded to see?

  Spencer, with the advantage of having faced Olsen’s tirade through the observation gallery glass, was prepared. He was also disappointed Partington hadn’t isolated what he thought he’d made obvious. ‘We’re medically advised that the four infected people there have to be kept in strict and absolute isolation … unfortunately there does already appear to be some mental deterioration …’ I can’t spell it out any clearer than that, Mr President.

  ‘We’re entirely dependent upon medical advice,’ picked up Partington. ‘Is there any indication when there might be a diagnosis?’ How long before Olsen becomes too ill to continue being a problem?

  ‘None,’ replied Spencer, confident he was ahead. ‘They’re undergoing every conceivable test but it’ll take time. They’re co-operating totally, of course … Dr Jefferies particularly … it’s been five days since they were at McMurdo.’ And in what I gave you to read before you saw the photographs, ten days was suggested as the maximum survival period.

  ‘Is there anything more, medically, that can possibly be done … anything at all?’ demanded Partington. If this ever becomes public, here’s the proper presidential concern.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Morgan. ‘Everyone at Fort Detrick is a leader in their field.’ I’m joining in that concern but leaving it open ended in case there’s something more we overlooked.

  ‘Get counsel to see what sort of employment contracts they’ve got … those who’ve already died and the four being treated at Detrick. We’ve got to see their families are properly provided for … kids got enough to go through college. If necessary I’ll go to Congress for special funding,’ said the diminutive president. After the proper
concern, the compassion and forethought.

  ‘Already in hand,’ assured Morgan. Clever thinking and now I’m on record as being part of it.

  ‘Shouldn’t a specialist group be formed, to concentrate full time on it?’ suggested Spencer. This is an out and out bastard, so let’s give ourselves a fall guy – better still a group of fall guys – if the shit hits the fan.

  ‘You suggesting a constant monitoring group?’ asked Partington. You’re stacking up the brownie points, Paul. I’m impressed.

  Morgan muscled in to take over, before Spencer could answer. The Chief of Staff said: ‘This qualifies as scientific, I’d say. Amanda O’Connell is responsible in Cabinet for science but I think we need to maintain liaison. Paul’s been involved from the beginning. I think he should continue to be part of it, so that we’re represented.’ See what happens when you try to outmanoeuvre me, smart ass!

  Partington hesitated. ‘Yes, I think that’s necessary. I’ll brief Amanda. Maybe Stoddart should be part of the group, too.’ Sorry, Paul. But you made the first move.

  ‘You’ll expect to be briefed first-hand yourself, of course, Mr President?’ anticipated Spencer. You’re not going to be able to filter or claim credit for anything, you son of a bitch.

  ‘Absolutely, Paul. Until this is sorted out the door’s always going to be open.’ Fight among yourselves, guys. Just don’t involve me.

  Jack Stoddart had already been transferred from the strict isolation wing by the time he emerged from Patricia’s suite and had spent most of the previous evening – not even bothering to order food – in new, although he suspected still segregated, living room, bedroom and bathroom quarters where the nighttime doctor – male, black and intense – was waiting to extract what seemed a vampire’s feast of blood, as well as taking hair and skin samples.

  As he did so the doctor, anonymous again, said: ‘That was a good idea of her’s, immunology dysfunction. Need to keep on top of that.’

  Stoddart said: ‘What else you got?’

  Patricia had been moved, too. It wasn’t a room-divided suite any more. There was a bureau and telephone – and a separate, adjoining bathroom – but it was really a hospital room and Patricia couldn’t have got to the bureau or the bathroom. There were two intravenous drips and she was connected to a heart monitor tracing irregular mountain chains on its screen. Three other tubes disappeared beneath the bed coverings, which were canopied from what would have been her chest to her knees by some frame-like support. Despite the headband registering her brain’s electric impulses, Stoddart could see she’d lost a great deal more hair, making her practically bald. She didn’t focus on his entering the room until he spoke and when she smiled he saw she’d lost more teeth. Her gums looked raw.

  She said: ‘It’s good I finished what I had to write. I’m too tired now.’ Her voice was slurred, the sibilants hissing.

  Stoddart said: ‘I finished mine, too.’ He was holding her hand but couldn’t feel it, through the protection.

  ‘What’s it like outside?’

  ‘Warm. The blossom’s out.’ The weather forecast that morning had been from The Mall. People who looked as if they needed to, had been jogging.

  ‘I always liked Washington when the blossom came. Funny how you never pay enough attention to things until it’s too late. Don’t do that, will you? Look at things. Make sure you enjoy them. Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘You don’t know about me, do you?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘No!’ Patricia said, in weak indignation. ‘It’ll be on my personnel file. My parents are dead but I’ve got a kid brother. John. In San Antonio. Tell him …’ She had to stop, to rest. The heart monitor mountains were peaking more sharply. ‘Just speak to him …’ Her unfocused eyes closed and her breathing became more regular. The mountains plateaued.

  Stoddart was abruptly seized by an enormous anger, a need to physically hurt – punish – whoever or whatever had caused this to happen to this close-to-mummified person whose body he’d held and kissed and enjoyed and made love to just … just when? Nine days, eight days ago? No longer than that. No longer than that ago she’d been a voluptuous, uninhibited, exciting lover. Awakened him, in every way, from the boredom that his ostracized, criticized life had imploded into. He could have loved her, Stoddart decided. Given the time, the chance, he was sure he could have grown to love her enough to have asked her to marry him.

  Patricia jerked awake and he felt the snatch of her hand through the glove. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You know what I’m sorry about?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the plane coming back … when we were all right and not bothering with the suits …? We didn’t kiss goodbye …’

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘But if we had you might have caught it, darling. So it’s best we didn’t.’

  When Paul Spencer got back to his office there were two messages from David Hoolihan, both marked to be returned urgently on his private line at Arlington.

  Hoolihan said: ‘There’s been an emergency rescue call from another of our stations, at Noatak. It’s the same thing.’

  ‘Where’s Noatak?’ demanded Spencer.

  ‘Northern Alaska, close to the Arctic. So it’s spread to both Poles. And the Noatak station’s a shared project: English as well as French. A Frenchman is one of the people sick. How we going to handle it now?’

  ‘As an international incident,’ replied Spencer. With me right at the very centre of it, he thought again, contentedly.

  Seven

  Another of Henry Partington’s posterity intentions was to be remembered as an international statesman and he instantly identified the potential of Alaska. By the time he placed his first overseas call – to London – Partington, whose relaxation was chess, had every move and countermove firmly established in his mind. A specially equipped relief plane was already on its way, he told the British prime minister. Logistically as well as medically, it made every sense for the afflicted British personnel to be treated in America: there were already American sufferers, from Antarctica, under intensive care and examination in a special isolation unit. There was room there for British scientists to form part of the already created US medical investigation team. He was in the process of establishing a Cabinet-level crisis committee and would obviously welcome – indeed, expect – British participation at a similarly high level. Partington phrased the need for any public awareness to be suppressed as if the suggestion came from London, not him. His second conversation, with Paris, was in several places a verbatim repeat of that with the British premier, particularly about the necessity for secrecy.

  As he replaced the receiver, Partington said: ‘Neither knew anything about it until I told them. They’re grateful how far we are ahead. They’ve accepted our help offer and are getting back to me first thing tomorrow.’

  Morgan said: ‘State have to be involved now.’

  ‘Already are. Secretary’s due in thirty minutes. Amanda O’Connell, too,’ said the president, gesturing towards the summoning Spencer. Before either of the other two men could speak, Partington got briskly to his feet. ‘It’s a warm evening. Let’s walk in the rose garden until they get here: clear our minds.’ And not have to worry ourselves about those damned Oval Office tapes.

  The small, clerk-like man waited until he was some way from the building, dwarfed by Morgan and Spencer on either side, before saying: ‘We’ve got a very changed picture now.’

  ‘Very much so,’ agreed Morgan, which was more a reflection upon Paul Spencer’s manoeuvrings than it was about either Alaska or the Amundsen-Scott field station. There was every practical and pragmatic reason to let Spencer have his day. As many days as he wanted. The longer Spencer went on ducking and diving the more inevitable his forgetting to duck or dive in time.

  ‘But we’re still totally in control of it,’ suggested Spencer. They were almost at the end of the orderly garden layout
. Beyond the immaculate lawns, the traffic was fire-flying along South Street and even farther away, along Constitution Avenue, creating a ribbon of lights. The Washington Monument was thrust up blackly against a sky yellowed and oranged by the just finishing day. The sun would have set permanently for the winter at McMurdo, Spencer knew. How brilliantly would it be shining upon the ageing, dying men at the other frozen extreme of the world where the northern summer had just begun?

  ‘There’s no way we can keep this under wraps forever,’ decided Partington, realistically. ‘We need insurance, whichever way the ball bounces. It’s got to be our people who come out with a cure or a prevention of whatever the hell it is, to stop this happening to people. And if it becomes public before there’s a cure, then we went along reluctantly with the suppression, at the urging of the Europeans whose affected scientists had to come to American facilities for American expertize to try to save their lives …’ Because of their size, he had to look up in discomfort to each man in turn. ‘How’s that sound?’

  Both Morgan and Spencer appreciated the political realism. Hoping to continue it Morgan said: ‘We might have a problem claiming the credit if the breakthrough is provably made by someone from France or England.’

  ‘You heard me invite their investigative scientists or doctors to be part of a team: our already created and already hard at work team,’ reminded Partington, patiently. ‘If one of our people find the answer, it’s ours, absolutely. If it’s English or French, their having had to come to America and use American facilities, it’s a jointly shared discovery. What other reason, in the public mind, could there be for their having to come here to us in the first place?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Spencer, dutifully. ‘It’s false starts and claims we have to be most careful about.’

  ‘Which puts the burden on you, Paul,’ snatched Morgan, seeing the opportunity. ‘Looks to me as if your liaison role has grown a lot, between the investigating doctors and a political oversight group.’