by Nick Carter
The sky above Carter's helicopter was dark now, but he was almost over the glacier. He'd seen nothing of Diamond. The flatlands that contained the South Pole spread beyond the glacier. If he had to, he could tent the helicopter and wait out the storm at the Pole.
The helicopter suddenly rocked, knocked about like a leaf. Wind whipped viciously across the polar plain, hurling snow and ice into the air. The gray clouds released an ongoing burden of thick swirling snow. The air temperature plummeted, and the helicopter's windshield fogged. The radio went out, the victim of polar interference. A cold sweat broke out on Carter's forehead as he struggled with the helicopter's controls.
Twelve
The Antarctic air was thick with snow. Visibility was nil. Nick Carter couldn't tell the dense snowy air from the polar cap below. It was a massive whiteout, and sky and land were the same. White death on white death. Indistinguishable.
He needed to land the helicopter. But he had to wait for a break in the weather so he could see.
Carter held the chopper steady as he could, the controls growing sluggish. Had a sudden storm taken Rocky Diamond, too?
The helicopter blew to one side, then the other. Up and down. Dizzying. Confusing. Without direction. While under the influence of the South Magnetic Pole, no compass was reliable.
For hours Carter rode the winds, waiting for a moment of visibility so he could land. He had to stay up; he could not get too close to the earth and risk being smashed into the ground by the hurricane-force gales.
At times it seemed as if the hand of a behemoth senselessly hurled the helicopter into the unknown at the speed of light. At other times, the craft seemed to stand still in the eye of a white-whipped tornado, frozen for ail eternity.
When the break came, Carter almost missed it.
Exhausted, eyes behind reflecting glasses feeling the sharp pain that preceded snowblindness, the splash of blue sky whisked past.
Carter looked up.
There was a lull in the blizzard. A natural hesitation where the winds and snow parted and the sky and land showed separate and distinct.
He turned the sluggish helicopter.
Yes, blue sky above and the white ground clearly evident below. Without waiting, without looking for landmarks, without even thinking, Carter let his reflexes take over.
He pulled back on the throttle and flipped switches.
Like an exhausted bird, the helicopter settled downward.
Winds snowdevils making little cyclones nearby disappeared in puffs as the blades of the chopper sent new wind back into them.
The helicopter's runners settled onto the ice. Snow skidded away.
He had landed the helicopter in a tunnel of white walls and white ground. And above, the blue sky was fading as once again the blizzard closed in.
Suddenly the wind howled. The helicopter rocked with its blows. The blizzard resumed in all its fury.
He was hopelessly sealed in a tomb of white.
He turned off the motor. Now at last his hands were free enough to call Hawk. He d expected the helicopter's radio to be out, but not the special AXE radio that worked from anywhere on the globe.
Anywhere but Antarctica in a blizzard. He got nothing but static from the small powerful machine.
Uneasily he checked through his snow survival gear. Everything was there. He pulled on specially heated thermal clothing. He unpacked the small tent.
The temperature in the helicopter dropped. As he waited for another break in the weather, the air in the helicopter closed around him like an icy fist.
Temperatures below 120 degrees Fahrenheit had been recorded in the Antarctic. He was grateful for the carefully thought-out packing that Hawk and he had done at McMurdo.
When another break in the storm at last came, Carter ran outside and tented the helicopter, pounding the stakes deep into the permafrost. Despite his heated clothing, the bitter cold chilled him to the bones.
He returned inside the tent, zipped and locked it safely closed, got back into the helicopter, and climbed inside a sleeping bag.
He heated soup and forced himself to drink it. He was so tired that his hands shook.
As he put the food supplies aside, the blizzard howled relentlessly outside. The deadly storm could easily last nine days as had the one in which the brave Scott and his two remaining companions had died.
But Carter had better equipment. Enough to last two weeks at least. He told himself this as, exhausted, he drifted into sleep.
* * *
Carter awoke to silence. A silence that was eerie in its completeness. There wasn't even a tendril of wind. If a single snow flake fell, it was so quiet that he was sure in that moment he could hear it.
He smiled. The blizzard had ended. It had been a short storm, only six hours. He went outside to inspect. Snow was piled to the top of one side of the tent.
Around it, the powerful, erratic gales had swept the snow from some spots, exposing the icy permafrost, while mounding snow elsewhere.
The sun shone. The sky was robin's egg blue. A few fluffy clouds drifted overhead. It was as if the fury of the past few hours had never existed.
There were mountains close by on Carter's right. He didn't know which mountains. He could easily have been swept along the Queen Maud range, but considering the time he'd been in the air, he could also have been blown to more distant ranges. The Pensacola Mountains, perhaps. The Ellsworth Mountains.
No matter. He scooped and swept snow off the tent. He took it down, shook it out, and repacked it.
He tried the craft's radio, then the small AXE radio. Neither worked. Probably an atmospheric problem.
He took two red and two green flags from his supplies and left the helicopter. He slogged out lines in the snow at ninety-degree angles lo the helicopter. They were like compass lines except he didn't know what direction north was. He created a large cross with the helicopter in the center.
He staked a red flag at each end of one line, and a green flag at each end of the other line. He returned to his pilot's seat in the helicopter and crossed his fingers.
He turned on the motor.
It caught, and he let out a deep breath of relief.
He lifted off, flying along one red-flag line that ran parallel to the mountains. The snow and ice glowed nakedly. No sign of humanity.
He flew some distance, then he turned and flew in the opposite direction, crossing where he'd spent the night and the other red flag. Again covering a fair distance, he saw nothing.
He returned to hover over where he'd landed the helicopter.
This time he turned left, following the line of the green flag away from the mountains. Again the giant white wasteland spread empty and desolate beneath him.
Once more he returned to the center of the flags, worried.
He followed the last green flag directly toward the mountains. His eyes automatically scanned the range for passes.
A sudden gust of wind shot down the shadows of a mountainside, spraying ground snow in all directions.
A bright light flashed below. A reflected light. Something… perhaps metal… caught the sun's rays and reflected them back.
Carter turned the helicopter, taking it slowly along where the wind had swept. He saw the light again.
He found a landing place in the mountain s shadow. Once safely on the ground, he turned off the chopper and put on a backpack filled with special AXE short-term snow supplies. He left the helicopter and walked along the mountain's curve back toward the light.
He hadn't gone far when he heard the blades of another helicopter.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood. He had a sudden sense of danger, an instinct that had saved his life more times than he cared to remember.
He ran back to the helicopter and dragged the small craft over the ice and snow, deep into the mountain's shadow where it was less likely to be noticed.
The other helicopter passed not far away, flying a seemingly straight line over the mountains.
Which one was Carter close to?
The AXE agent left the helicopter to retrace his steps back to the glimmer of light he'd spotted.
He slogged around white-covered boulders. The chill summer air numbed his face. Ice crunched beneath his feet. He walked down long narrow valleys of snow and ice, having only his sense of direction to rely on.
As he rounded a bend, he saw it.
Rocky Diamond's small jet.
It lay in perfect condition, one wing pointing toward the mountains.
Snow dusted the silvery aircraft. The jet's landing trail extended behind it, some of it still visible thanks to the blizzard's erratic winds. It was a straight landing course, uneventful.
Carter pulled open the door and sniffed the air for the stench of death. Again, nothing.
The jet's interior was perfect… and empty of human inhabitants.
Diamond's supplies were all there. Snow survival equipment, cloches, maps, even a bottle of Pernod. But no maverick pilot. And no clues in the papers and maps in the cockpit.
Carter went outside. Apparently Diamond had simply disappeared.
The AXE agent didn't believe that.
He trudged around the jet in slowly widening circles. Perhaps the blizzard had left another trail or clue.
He found the skimobile tracks in another mountain shadow. From their direction, they had come and gone from the jet.
He walked beside them, studying them. One of the two sets of tracks was deeper, as if carrying a heavier load. Maybe carrying an unconscious Rocky Diamond away.
Carter reached into the insulated pocket of his backpack and took out the small but powerful AXE radio. Perhaps whatever was disturbing the atmosphere had eased.
He got through to Hawk on the first try.
"Where the devil have you been, N3?"
"Damned if I know."
Carter described the storm that must have disrupted radio contact, and the «night» he'd spent in the helicopter with the blizzard howling outside. Then he told Hawk about Rocky Diamond's jet.
"Interesting," Hawk said, but Carter could hear the edge of excitement in his voice. "Hold on while I take a fix on you."
The butane lighter snapped into life back in McMurdo as Hawk worked. Soon the AXE director exhaled noisily.
"Damn! He's almost on top of Novolazarevskaya!" It was another voice. Colonel Chester ffolkes "Blenkochev'll be breathing down his neck!"
"N3?" Hawk said in the distance. "Did you hear?"
"Yes, sir. Princess Astrid Coast must be over the mountains," he said. "Colonel ffolkes, any word about Mike?"
"Giving them all a bad time at the hospital. Be out soon, bless her," Colonel ffolkes said, his voice relieved. "Jolly good work, Carter. Novolazarevskaya! It's critical we resolve this problem soon."
"You've learned something new?" Carter asked.
He stamped his feet and rubbed his nose with a mittened hand. He would be warmer standing in the sunshine, but now he was concerned about being seen. Shadows were safer.
"Unfortunately," Hawk said. "There's been a second case of the disease that killed the Soviet attaché. Colonel ffolkes sent the doctor who treated the attaché to investigate. A Chilean soldier who was in that country's Antarctic base at Bernardo O'Higgins. This one didn't have the Silver Dove tattoo. The man's dead."
"It reminds me of the deaths in Europe after World War Two," ffolkes said to Hawk. "Remember? Patients dying in hospital for no apparent reason."
"No one could forget," Hawk said grimly. "Penicillin so diluted that it was worse than worthless. Doctors relied on it, a miracle drug, and they didn't bother to treat with anything else."
"It took us a long time to find the bloody sources. The murderers."
"Never did get them all. Finally our U.S. labs solved the problem by producing so much penicillin that the black market demand for it stopped."
"Blenkochev?" Carter said.
"It was rumored that he ran a big black market penicillin business," ffolkes said. "The profits lined his pocket and the Kremlin's depleted war treasury."
"But we couldn't find any conclusive proof," Hawk said.
"Except that he had money, David. And black market connections that were astounding. If anyone needed real penicillin, they could get it through him."
"Remember the beer garden on Konigsallee?" Hawk said to his old friend. "Blenkochev on the tables?"
The two agency heads laughed heartily. It was a joke at Blenkochev's expense that would be treasured until the last witness died. In the short-lived, dangerous business they were in, laughter was a rare commodity. The healthiest members of the community took advantage of it whenever possible.
"So," ffolkes said at last, a smile still in his voice.
"Yes, so," Hawk agreed, puffing cheerfully far away.
From the sound of Hawk's voice, Carter knew the AXE director had once again made peace with his job. There was excitement to he found in sitting behind a desk and planning, an excitement different from the adventures of the field. Still, it was excitement.
"Get on with it, N3," Hawk continued. "Follow the skimobile tracks. Find Diamond if possible. Find out what's going on at the Soviet base at Novolazarevskaya."
"And watch out for that rotter Blenkochev," ffolkes added. "He was once the best and most ruthless killer in the world. Only better than Hawk in the sense that he was so heartless."
There was silence. The two men had nothing more to add, each lost in memories of the past. Carter signed off, put the radio back in his pack, and hiked back to the helicopter for snow-camping supplies. It would lake several days to cross the mountains. He wanted to be prepared.
Thirteen
Nick Carter smoothly slid one ski ahead of the other. It continued to be a beautiful Antarctic day, clear and bright. He followed the skimobile tracks up a gentle snowy grade using cross-country Trek skis, flexible and long, and ski poles for his mittened hands. On his back he carried a backpack and sleeping bag.
In the sunlight, the snow was dazzling. Millions of little light particles glimmered like diamonds. The skimobile tracks were alternately visible and snow-covered. He followed them over the sparkling white carpet in the easy rhythm of the cross-country skier. It was a form of long-stride, slip-slide jogging that stretched the muscles until they sang.
Two wandering albatrosses flew overhead, a sign that the coast was just across the mountains. They were big birds, with eleven-foot wingspans that they rode like magic carpets as they circumnavigated the southern half of the world. Occasionally the two glanced at one another, like humans aware of their loved ones. Wandering albatrosses usually mated for life, and for them that could be more than fifty years.
Carter considered this as he pushed ahead into the isolation of the mountains. Sunlight filtered through a nearby glacier, producing an ethereal blue haze. Many of life's lessons could be learned in this beautiful desolation. Love, loyalty, courage.
Occasional thundering crashes sounded in the distance. It was mountainsides of snow too heavy to cling any longer, or the ends of glaciers sheering off in relief. This was a dramatic land, and not safe.
As he skied along, small mounds of snow slid down crevices and plopped at his feet. He passed through narrow valleys, over ridges, between boulders, always climbing as he followed the tracks. Snow and ice hung to sheer walls on cither side of him. Suspended. Waiting to crash down and fill the valley he crossed. Waiting to smother him in soft wet oblivion.
Alone in the splendid solitude, the sky and sun his only companions, he skied on, occasionally scooping up a handful of snow and letting it melt in his mouth. It was fresh and clean, untainted by salty streets and smog. No wonder people were drawn here. If he weren't on assignment, it could almost be his interrupted vacation.
He stroked his soft beard and looked ahead.
The skimobile tracks continued upward, always climbing.
Then he heard the jet.
He skied swiftly into a shadow.
The jet swooped low over the mountains. Carter saw the markings. Soviet markings. The craft made three passes, then soared off toward Molodezhnaya, the Soviet Antarctic headquarters.
Carter resumed his journey, sobered by concern that he'd been discovered.
He had to go on. He had no choice. He concentrated on the task at hand. Soon he was once more caught in the hypnotic rhythm of the cross-country skier. He would continue one more hour, then make camp and rest.
Carter herringboned up a steep snowy slope, his long skis cutting crossmatched steps as he followed the more agile skimobile. Probably a Russian skimobile. Maybe a Silver Dove skimobile. Carrying a helpless American. Diamond. Antarctica was a preserve for wildlife, but not yet a preserve for humanity.
Then Carter smiled. Antarctica's spirit of universal peace and harmony was sufficiently strong that all of the continent's stations were open by treaty agreement to visitors from any nation at any time. He wondered about Novolazarevskaya. The Russian station.
He wasn't about to ski right up to it and ask whether their open-door policy applied to spies. Not with Blenkochev so close.
Sweating, he reached the top of the crest. Accordian pleats of snowy valleys and rocky mountaintops spread before him. He wiped a mitten across his face. His breath was silver steam in the air.
He scanned the majestic and deserted Antarctic mountains. On the other side of them was Novolazarevskaya. Exactly why had Blenkochev left Russia? What did he hope to accomplish in New Zealand?
A new answer to the question was beginning to form in Carter's mind.
Then he heard an intrusion in the white silence.
The helicopter came quietly, its rotors muffled behind a mountainside.
There were no shadows on the crest where Carter stood.
Nowhere for him to hide.
On his skis, Carter plunged back down the slope he'd just climbed. Pain shot through his tired body as he slid and fell.
