The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  Miserably, she returned to the ice shelter. The snow was coming down harder than it had been, and was settling. She was now leaving footprints – and footprints could be followed. But when she looked behind her, she saw that the shallow depressions made by her boots were already filling. If the blizzard continued, they would soon be invisible.

  She stuffed one sleeping bag in the entrance to keep out the wind, and began to inventory her supplies again, although she already knew by heart what she had. She picked up the video game that had been in one of the dead men’s daypacks. She switched it on, and to her surprise it bleeped, the power level showing at fifty per cent. She stared at it, before turning it over and pulling off the back. There were two 1.5-volt batteries. The radio handsets took those!

  Heart pounding, she inserted them into the one that had been in her pocket since the nightmare had started, and switched it on. There was a sharp crackle and a low hiss. It worked! She changed the frequency, listening for voices, but there was nothing – it had been a stroke of luck to catch the Poles. Loath to run down the power, she turned it off and tucked it inside her coat to keep it warm – nothing drained batteries faster than the cold. She wrapped herself in the sleeping bags, and curled up to sleep.

  When she woke, it was pitch dark. She fumbled for her watch before remembering that she had lent it to Berrister. She was puzzled. Even with the sleeping bag covering the entrance, some light should be filtering in. Then, with sudden, horrifying clarity, she realised what had happened: the snow had sealed her in, and what had been her refuge had now become her tomb. She was buried alive!

  Falling snow enveloped Berrister as he trudged steadily upward. It was coming from the east, sometimes hitting the back of his hood, sometimes sending stinging needles into his face as he zigzagged up the slope. The storm was worsening. He glanced at Sarah’s watch. It was just after five o’clock, which meant that he had been walking for almost three hours. His progress had been slow, because the trek had been one long ascent, but now, by his figuring, it was time to turn west.

  The surface was smoother, although still somewhat up and down, and he began to make better time. At points, he felt he was moving too fast, not testing carefully enough for hidden fissures. The thought had scarcely crossed his mind, when ice beneath his foot gave way, sending him to his knees. It was not a crevasse, just an irregularity in the surface, but it warned him to take better care.

  After a further three hours, the ground levelled, suggesting he had reached the plateau that ran between the central peaks and Rotch Dome. He checked the compass, and turned a few degrees south – a course that should take him directly to Ivanov Beach, but still keep him to the north of the steeply rising dome. The wind was blowing harder now, driving the snow horizontally. It was increasingly difficult to keep his balance, and even with the exertion of walking, he was growing colder.

  He slogged on through the failing light, frequently checking the compass and then adjusting to a more south-westerly course. It was a longer route, but would allow him to stay on the level plateau. The soft snow made walking difficult, and his legs began to ache with the effort. He groped in his pocket for the food. The sausage was even more rancid than when he had taken a bite earlier, and he wondered if its previous owner had taken it from the garbage with some odd notion of feeding the wildlife. The bread was frozen and stale, but he still wanted to eat it all. He forced himself to put half of it away. He might miss the Poles and end up walking back again, in which case he would need something to sustain him.

  His progress slowed as he began to tire. Night fell, but the brightness of the snow kept the darkness at bay somewhat. He also had the torch for the places where it did not. He glanced at the watch again – almost midnight. He had roughly four hours left, but still had a long way to go – it was either further than he had figured, or he was moving more slowly than he had anticipated. Desperately, he tried to pick up the pace.

  Eventually, he turned directly west again, which led him steadily downward – he was beyond the worst of the dome. He looked at the watch. Five past one. He had three hours to walk what he estimated would be about thirteen kilometres: five descending the snowfield to the sea, and eight along the coast. It was going to be tight.

  As he increased his speed, he lost his footing. He fell, slithering helplessly down the slope, unable to break his fall. When he finally came to a rest, he was disorientated. He opened his eyes, but his world reeled and tipped. He was not sure how long he lay there before he was able to fumble for the watch. His pocket was empty. Horrified, he tore off his gloves and felt again, sighing with relief when he felt the metal strap.

  He drew it out and saw with relief that it was only one-thirty. He had lost five minutes at the most. He climbed to his feet, staggering as the wind buffeted him. He checked the compass, found west, and began trudging forward again. After a kilometre or so, he checked the time again. The dial still read one-thirty. Silently, he cursed Sarah’s ‘someone important’, who had not bought her a watch that was more robust.

  Stomach churning, he continued to descend, stumbling and tripping, confused by the fact that there was no horizon in the white-out. Gradually, he became aware that the wind was dropping – the storm was blowing itself out. It was a mixed blessing. It made walking easier, but also meant that Jacek might collect the stranded geologists early. He forced himself to move faster, glad when the ice levelled off, then petered out completely. Suddenly he saw the sea in front of him – he had reached Ivanov Beach.

  Byers Peninsula is joined to the rest of the island by a neck of land some four kilometres wide. Berrister was uncertain how far he was from the neck, but knew that if he followed the coast, he would reach Robbery Beaches and then Villard Point. Relief made him dizzy. He paused for a moment to rest, then forced himself to move, afraid he might be unable to start again if he left it too long.

  He increased his speed now that he was off the ice and onto sand and gravel, but still could not move as fast as he wanted, and it felt like an age before he finally reached Robbery Beaches – a series of rugged bays lined with dark sand and outcrops of volcanic rock.

  The area – in fact all Byers – was a different world from the glacier, with verdant beds of moss, although Berrister could see little of them in the gloom and snow. He wondered what time it was – after four, probably, given that he could now make out objects on the horizon, which meant he had to hurry. He tried to run, but fell almost immediately. It would be safer to keep walking. He ignored the burning exhaustion in his knees and hips, and ploughed on, step after step.

  And then he saw Villard Point in the distance, a low headland that thrust out between two coves. He wanted to whoop with delight, but all that emerged was a croak. He made for the nearer cove, spirits rising, but it was empty. He broke into a lumbering trot to cross the point itself, hoping with every fibre of his being that he wasn’t too late. There was a distinct lightening of the sky now, which meant it was probably nearer five than four.

  Breath coming in gasps, he reached the second cove, and felt the bitter taste of disappointment when he found it was empty too. Gritting his teeth, he started to trot out to the end of the point – and then almost wept with relief when he saw what was there. Jacek was a tiny ship used for ferrying scientists on short trips from their base on King George Island. It was a good idea: it would be more economical with fuel than larger vessels like Worsley, and would reach places they could not.

  But his exultation was short lived. Jacek was powering northward – he had missed her.

  He stumbled to a small rise just above the beach, waving his arms and yelling as loudly as he could, but it was hopeless – the ship was already too far away. He dropped to his knees and watched her in despair. Every part of his body ached, and he was not sure he had the strength to return to Hannah Point. Even if the weather was fair, he was simply too tired.

  A dull boom was followed by a spout of water next to Jacek. At first he thought it was a whale but the ‘blow�
�� was the wrong shape. There was another boom, and Jacek lurched to one side, black smoke pouring from her stern. Berrister struggled to his feet. Was she having some kind of engine trouble? Then another ship nosed slowly into view, this one much larger and painted blue-grey. There was a flash of orange from her deck and a third boom. Jacek shuddered, her radio mast toppling to trail in the sea.

  Berrister watched, appalled. There was another flash, another roar, and Jacek began to sink, her stern blasted away. Her bow lurched madly upwards, then, faster than he would have imagined possible, she was gone. All that remained was wreckage, an orange life-belt and a spreading smear of oil.

  Feeling like a voyeur, Yablokov pushed his ear against the door to the scientists’ cabin. After a few minutes, he gave up: he could hear nothing except music. He knew why they had the radio on, of course. What Russian born in the Soviet era would not? Even so, he was disappointed to return to Nikos’ cabin, and report that they were no further forward.

  Nikos was staring moodily out of the window.

  ‘I heard Hasim tell the Norwegians that his “informer” let him know the position of our whales,’ the engineer said. ‘Which means that one of the prisoners is in his pay. I bet it’s the youngster. Kids are the ones who can do clever stuff with communications these days.’

  ‘No, it’ll be the fat one,’ argued Yablokov. ‘He does all the talking when Hasim visits. The red-head’s too scared, while the boy seems a bit simple. Still, it explains why Hasim brought them here, rather than killing them – he wants to spare the traitor’s life.’

  ‘But he is killing them,’ whispered Nikos, his expression haggard. ‘All of them. I told you: he ordered me to give him the elemental mercury that I use in the sewage treatment plant. The bastard’s poisoning the lot of them, the traitor included.’

  Yablokov racked his brain, but could think of no reason why Hasim would prefer to poison his guests rather than shoot them. However, the man’s ruthlessness made him fearful for himself and his crew. Would they meet the same fate once their work with him was done? Or was Yablokov allowing his imagination to get the better of him? After all, how could Hasim continue to operate year by year, if he murdered his associates after every mission?

  ‘We need more information if we’re going to understand what’s happening,’ Nikos was saying. ‘I’m going to have a look around, talk to the crew.’

  ‘You can’t. You’re confined to quarters, remember? My crew will look the other way, but the hired hands won’t, and nor will Hasim’s team.’

  Nikos crashed his fist on the sill. ‘Bloody Garik! What’s wrong with him? Can’t he see he’s losing control? All the crew think he’s a joke, and some – like the Norwegians – only take orders from Hasim now. And you, me and Zurin are stuck in the middle, trying to keep everything going.’

  Yablokov looked at the clock. ‘I’m due on watch. Don’t go out, or Garik might lock you somewhere more secure. Then I won’t be able to visit.’

  He headed for the bridge, noting that the corridor was filthy. He grimaced: Garik would never have tolerated such laxness in the north, even at the height of the cod season. Lena might not be the prettiest of vessels, but her crew had always kept her tidy, and he’d never had to remind them of their basic duties before. Nikos was right – Garik was losing control.

  He was about to enter the bridge when he noticed that the door was closed to the communications room. As it was usually open, he could only surmise that Hasim was in there, either enjoying one of his secretive discussions with the Norwegians or communicating with his superiors. For the second time in an hour, he began to eavesdrop.

  There was a murmur of voices from within, but they were too low for him to hear. He pushed his ear to the door harder, then almost toppled in when it was yanked open. Hasim gazed at him in astonishment, while the Norwegians smirked. Yablokov was torn between embarrassment and irritation, and felt his face grow hot.

  ‘I was looking for you,’ he mumbled lamely. ‘The weather’s clearing, so we can up the speed of the flensing.’

  ‘No – concentrate on the cargo,’ countered Hasim. ‘That’s why we’re here, after all. Forget the whale – we’re done with it.’

  ‘We can do both.’ Yablokov attempted a smile. ‘We’ll winch the whale over, which should make things easier for—’

  ‘No time, I’m afraid. As soon as the last scientist is aboard, we’re leaving this place. I want you to cut the whale loose.’

  Yablokov thought of his family. His share of half a hold of meat would not save them if the cod industry crashed that year, as he sensed it would. They had to finish harvesting the whale, or the whole vile business would have been for nothing.

  ‘Please,’ he said, hating to beg, but seeing no alternative. ‘Just a few more hours. We’ve only got half the meat and—’

  ‘Then you should have worked faster,’ retorted Hasim shortly. ‘We have a schedule to meet, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Yablokov stiffly, tired of hearing about it – and tired of not being told exactly what the schedule entailed. ‘But at least let us continue flensing while you hunt for the scientist. After all, every new lump is a few more dollars.

  Greed flowed into Hasim’s eyes. ‘Very well, but not a moment longer. You’ll cut it loose the moment I give the order. Agreed?’

  Yablokov nodded, aware that Hasim had finally dropped any pretence that Garik was in charge. Still, at least he knew where he stood. Or did he? What had Hasim been doing so secretly in the communications room?

  Sarah scrabbled frantically at the walls of her shelter, trying to find the entrance. She could not breathe properly and the darkness was complete. Berrister’s wall seemed to have hardened in the blizzard, and she might as well have tried to claw through concrete. Then she felt the sleeping bag she had used to block the entrance, and behind it was softer snow. She hauled it back, then scooped great handfuls of the stuff away, relieved beyond measure when she detected a glimmer of light. She dug harder, and cleared a hole the size of a tennis ball. Cold air rushed in, revealing how much the shelter had protected her during the storm. She was about to dig more when she heard voices.

  The whalers! Heart thumping, she retreated to the back of the shelter and huddled against the rock wall. The voices came closer, and she cringed as one called from right above her head – he was climbing the outcrop against which her shelter leaned. Any minute now, and he would crash through the roof and land in her lap. She closed her eyes tightly, silently willing him to go away.

  She leapt in alarm as something speared down close to her face. It was an aluminium probe. Above her, its owner was shouting to his cronies, laughing as he plunged the stick up and down, so close that she could see every blemish on its surface. A hot prickle of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. This was it, she thought – they had found her. She waited for Berrister’s snow blocks to be hauled away.

  Incredibly, though, she heard a scrape of a boot on stone, and the voices moved away. What was happening? Scarcely daring to breathe, she waited until she could no longer hear them, then peered out of the hole she had made. No one was there. She made it larger, then waited again, head tipped to one side as she listened intently. All was silent.

  She crawled out through the hole and listened a third time. Still nothing. Warily, she took a few steps up the rock and saw the men fanning out across the glacier, poking the surface with their probes. She felt weak with relief. The man who had scaled the pinnacle had just been using it like she was – as a vantage point to scan his surroundings. She jumped down and crawled back into her shelter, surprised at how much warmer it was inside. It would have been cosier still with two, and she cursed Berrister for leaving her.

  Shovelling snow back over the opening to hide it, she wondered where he was. Enjoying a hot breakfast on Jacek, happy in the knowledge that help was on its way? Or dead on the glacier? Although not a natural pessimist, she knew it was the latter. She did not have enough faith in his fitness or ability as an o
utdoorsman to imagine otherwise. She considered going to find him, but the chances were that he was buried under a snowdrift. Her hunt for him would be as futile as the whalers’ was for her.

  For something to do, she picked up the handset and switched it on. A woman was rattling off a long list of numbers in Spanish, while a late-season tourist ship was chatting to a shore party. She knew she should conserve power, but the cheerful banter between tourists and ship heartened her, and she was loath to break contact. The ship, she learned, was Akademic Solzhenitsyn, a Russian ice-breaker chartered by an American company. They were visiting Deception Island, a collapsed volcanic caldera some thirty-five kilometres south. It was still seismically active, and was popular with visitors, who liked to bathe in its thermally heated pools, an intriguing experience when the ground around them was dusted with snow.

  The tourists were enjoying themselves, and Sarah could hear shrieks of delight as they wallowed in the hot springs. She scowled at the radio. How could people be having fun while she was in a hole being hunted by armed killers? She snapped off the sound angrily. On a clear day, Deception was visible from Hannah Point, a grey smudge on the horizon. It was ironic that Berrister had tried to walk thirty kilometres across ice to rescue their friends, while tourists frolicked about the same distance in the opposite direction.

  But listening to the radio had told her one thing: no one at Rothera was worried about them, or Solzhenitsyn would have been morally obliged to make a detour. As far as the base was concerned, all was well and no help was coming in a hurry. So much for Noddy Taylor and his krill!

  Sarah had never felt so helpless. At least Berrister had tried to help the others. If she survived, she knew she would spend the rest of her life wondering if she should have done the same, and at that point, she realised that no matter what it took, she had to transmit a mayday. Maybe she could combine parts from the two generators and get one to work. It was worth a try, she decided, so she crawled out of her shelter and scaled the rock to look down to the camp.