Kind des Mondes, his mother had called him as far back as he could remember. A child of the moon. It had not been a name kindly used. There had been precious little kindness in any of his mother's words, but he had finally taught himself that didn't matter. Emotions always betrayed. Better to steel the backbone and toughen the gut than be distracted by them.
At his orders now, the men were quick to break camp and stow their bedrolls and folded tents aboard their snowmobiles. The gathering of birds continued to study them from their perch, barely curious, simply watching because of their nearness. He looked at the creatures as he waited, lifted a chunk of ice off the ground, and suddenly snapped it at them with a hard overhand throw.
It struck the ledge with a crack, breaking to pieces. The birds jumped and fluttered in surprise, scolded him indignantly, but did not take flight.
He gave them a slight nod of appreciation.
"Eine gute Gesellschaft," he said, turning from the ledge.
They had been good enough company in their way.
Minutes later he mounted his snowmobile, throttled up its engine, and went speeding on across the ice toward his goal, the rest of his band traveling close behind him.
Cold Corners Base, Antarctica
"What I need is to get down low into the pass," Nimec was saying. Soon after returning to base from the helipad, he'd steered Russ Granger to a partitioned workstation where a downscaled, black-and-white version of Megan's Dry Valley contour map was spread across the desk, circles drawn with colored pencils substituting for the pins she'd used to mark its key sites. "I want to see it with my own eyes."
Granger nodded from the chair beside him.
"Understood," he said. "I can take us pretty far in at its wider sections."
Nimec's forefinger bull's-eyed the circle indicating the coordinates of Scout IV's final transmission, and the presumable outer limit of the recovery team's search area. "What about here?"
Granger shook his head.
"Your map doesn't convey how rough it is around the notch," he said. That much was absolutely true. "The terrain's bad enough. But our real problem is katabatic wind pouring straight down the notch's lee sides. The lower it gets, the harder gravity presses on it, and the faster it blows. You fly near ground level, it's suicidal. Like riding a toy raft through heavy rapids."
"What's the best you can do, as far as that goes?"
Granger traced a path with his hand. "We'll swing around the notch, dip into Wright Valley just to its south."
Nimec thought a moment, then grunted his acceptance.
"A couple of things, though," Granger said. "It's obvious we have to work around this storm that's on the way. I don't think it'll be bad enough to force evacs out of any NSF field camps. But I'll have to make some trips over to them, check that the personnel are stockpiled to last it out."
"Any reason why I can't come along? We could shoot right over Bull Pass after your last hop."
Granger had anticipated the question. He pretended to think through an answer that had been readied well beforehand.
"It'd be fine with me," he said. "But we'd need to head out together right away, so I can have time for everything. Figure you'd be gone from here at least twenty-four hours. It's either that or wait until the blow's over--"
Nimec waved an abortive hand in the air.
"Then we go now," he said. "Otherwise, we could be talking about a holdup of almost a week. We couldn't afford that kind of delay under any circumstances. But the bad weather puts us in a vise. If our people are still alive out there, they need to be pulled out."
Granger nodded again. That was definitely what he'd figured the UpLink security chief would say. It was also very much what he had wanted Nimec to say. The sooner they were up and out of Cold Corners, the better. He couldn't know precisely when the sabotage squad would show, or how their progress would be affected by the storm. He was, however, positive that Burkhart wouldn't quit on his mission. It just wasn't in his hardwiring.
"Okay," Nimec said. "You mentioned there was something else on your mind."
"Right." Granger set for his payoff pitch. "Say we visit all the field camps and maybe have to deliver some canned food, meds, equipment, and so on. It would mean a few refuelings at Marble Point, plus back-and-forth loops to McMurdo for the requested supplies. That gives us a full slate right off the top. And like you said, we're cutting it close. Working against the storm."
"The bottom line being . . . ?"
"I can promise we'll get to Bull Pass. But that twenty-four-hour timetable was just a guess. Depending on how many resupply drops I have to make, and when the blow hits, we might wind up having to stick around MacTown a few days before I can bring you back here. And I want to make sure you don't have any problems with that."
Nimec was quietly thoughtful. Megan had told him that Annie Caulfield and her small bundle of Senators had opted to cut their stay at Cold Corners to a few hours, overnight at the longest, and arrange for a return to Cheech before they found themselves snowbound. Meaning it was almost certain that he wouldn't have the chance to see Annie again before she departed. Which was likely for the best anyway.
"No," he said after a moment. "I've got no problem at all."
THIRTEEN
COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002
THE SQUAWK CAME OVER THEIR HEADSETS JUST AS Granger was about to release the chopper's main rotor brake.
"Abort takeoff, Macbird," the comm tech radioed over the base freq. "I say again, it's all fliers down. Over."
Nimec looked at Granger from the passenger's seat.
"What the hell's going on?" he asked.
Granger shrugged uncertainly, pushed his helmet microphone's "talk" button. At the edge of the landing zone, a flight director was slicing his right hand across his neck in a throat-cutting motion. Granger watched him through the Plexiglas windscreen and felt a sudden crick of tension in his back.
"Rob, we got clearance from you not three minutes ago," he said into his mouthpiece.
"I know," the comm tech said. "And I'm sorry. This is an all-points travel advisory out of your home nest. NOAA synoptics show the storm's accelerated on a north-easterly track. Present movement has it heading straight toward us over the Ross Shelf, and McMurdo says there's been more strengthening to the system. We're looking at a possible upgrade from Condition II. Over."
Both men were silent in the chopper's cabin. Its engines kept running. After a few moments Granger reached toward the instrument panel to cut them, then leaned back in his seat staring outward as the twin-turbine whine died away.
Nimec was still looking at him with a sunken expression.
"I don't believe this," Nimec said. His hand was balled into a fist against the metal frame of his window. "There anything we can do?"
Granger took a deep breath. This was about the worst foul-up he could imagine. The fucking worst.
"Nothing besides wait," he said at last, and started unbuckling his harness.
Victoria Land
They raced ahead of the storm, the wind hard at their backs, streaking cross-country over miles of snow and ice.
The sky pressed down on them, a low flat deck of clouds. Whiteout had cut visibility to thirty yards, and each rider kept his eyes on the trail of the vehicle before him to avoid separation from the group, their headlights and reflectors of no use in the stirring mist.
In the lead position, Burkhart rode with his thumb heavy on the throttle, squeezing every last bit of speed out of it, his determination a red-hot knife stabbing a passage through the soft barrier emptiness.
He leaned forward as he straddled his seat, knees locked around its leather, gloved fingers tightly gripping its handlebars. The 'mobile dipped, then nosed up, pitching with the terrain's rise and fall. Powder sprayed from its track in flying ramps, shredding across the curved surface of his windshield. He porpoised down into a steep trench, shot along its bottom, and topped its opposite bank at a full tear, skis springing over th
e snow.
He could feel the storm at his neck, tumid, angry, coursing overland with unexpected swiftness. Some of his men had wished to suspend travel, find a protected spot where they could hunker down until it lifted. Their tents were designed to withstand the force of the gale. But he'd insisted they bear on at a constant pace.
Let their targets be stationary captives of the elements. His team would be a moving force.
The storm was like a rushing stallion, and they could either stay in front of the charge or be trampled.
Cold Corners Base
Ten minutes after exiting the chopper, Nimec was in Megan's square, monotone-blue office, still wearing the wind parka he'd donned for his scratched departure.
"They think they can ground us, they're wrong," he fumed, standing in front of her desk. "McMurdo doesn't have any right butting into our affairs. They've got no authority."
She regarded him from her chair. "Pete, calm down, this is just as frustrating for me. . . ."
"Then get on the phone with somebody over there. Explain that we appreciate their concern for our safety, but have decided to do what's necessary to find our people."
"I can't for a lot of reasons. Russ is one of their pilots--"
"Okay, then we'll use our own. The guy who was jockeying the pols around is back, why not him? I know he isn't as familiar with the Valleys. But it's not like he's green. . . ."
"I told you, Russ is only part of it. Cold Corners operates under special arrangement with USAP. We receive direct sponsorship from the American government. In a sense, we represent an extension of its foreign policy interests here. Though we've never locked horns over anything, McMurdo Station is an official United States base, and we're arguably subject to its auspices."
Nimec leaned forward over the desk, knuckling its edge with both hands.
"And you know, and I know, and these walls know we've bent the rules before," he said.
Megan sighed. "The air-travel restrictions were called with good reason. You've never been through a Condition II Antarctic storm. I have. And trust me, MacTown's alert is absolutely nothing to disregard."
"Who's doing that? I checked the weather outlook. The storm's still miles to our southwest. Even further from Bull Pass. And Granger told me we'd need an hour at most to fly from here to there. I'm not thinking to go ahead with the kind of thorough search I wanted, but if I can accomplish anything at all it's worth a try. Give me three, four hours and I'll be back in plenty of time."
Megan shook her head. "You're still missing the point," she said. "Maybe a little intentionally. You know how forecasting works. Anyone who's ever gotten drenched in the rain because the local weatherman predicted a sunny beach day knows. It's a matter of estimates. Especially in this place. The situation could deteriorate faster than anyone thinks. Look at how the storm's motion has already shifted from the original forecast."
Nimec stared at her. He could see where this was leading. "Antarctica. It controls the show. Like mighty Olympus. Have I got that right in my head yet? Or do I have to hear it from one more person?"
Megan looked at him.
"Listen," she said. "My decision has to be about the good of the whole base. If you wind up in a bad situation, getting you out of it becomes a priority. Which would mean putting more of our people at risk. I can't allow it."
"And how about Alan Scarborough and those scientists? Since when have they stopped being a priority?"
Megan sat in silence for perhaps thirty seconds, her gaze suddenly sharp.
"Alan wouldn't want anyone doing something as unwise as what you've suggested," she said in a tight voice.
There was another long interval of silence. Nimec straightened, lifted his hands off her desk, and stepped back from it.
"So we're done, that it?" he said at last. "This place makes the call."
Megan shook her head slowly.
"No, Pete," she said. "I do."
Their eyes momentarily clashed.
"Appreciate you telling me," Nimec said, and abruptly turned away from her, leaving the office without another word.
Near Cold Corners Base, Victoria Land
Burkhart stood in an ice-sheathed elbow of rock and gazed through his binoculars as the rising, snarling gusts blew around him.
There, he thought. There it is.
He could see UpLink's ice station in the basin below, perhaps a half mile to the north, its modular core elevated above the snowdrifts on mechanical stilts. Much closer to his position was the geodesic dome housing the critical life-support facility that had been marked for destruction.
Unseen beneath the neoprene face mask he'd donned in the worsening cold, a touch of a smile. He had emerged from the senses-numbing vacancy of the whiteout, reached his destination with the gale well at his rear.
He turned to the man who'd accompanied him onto the bluff.
"Go back to the others," he said. "You're to make camp in the lee slope, wherever its best shelter can be found. Shovel plenty of snow over the ground flaps of our tents. Be sure the flies are also secure."
The man's eyes widened behind his goggles, but he remained quiet.
"What's on your mind?" Burkhart said.
The man hesitated.
"Tell me," Burkhart said. "I'll reserve my bite."
The man shook his head.
"I don't understand why we'd wait," he said. "We've driven ourselves without halt to outpace the storm."
Burkhart looked at him, wind clapping the sides of his hood.
"Langern, you're mistaken," he said. "We're meeting the storm. Joining its attack. There's actually much it can help us take care of, can you see?"
Langern stood a moment.
"Yes, I think," he said. "But there's danger in it--"
"No worse than in immobility." Burkhart made a dismissive gesture. "Is anything else bothering you?"
Langern just shook his head.
"Then get moving," Burhkart said. "I'll be along shortly."
Langern started across the snow, walking downhill to where the rest of the men had waited with the snowmobiles and equipment.
Alone on the escarpment, Burkhart lifted the binoculars back to his eyes and resumed studying the base.
There was much yet that he wished to observe.
Cold Corners Base
"I really feel responsible for you being stranded," Megan said. "Sorry, Russ."
Granger was careful not to show his uneasiness.
"You didn't call in the storm," he said.
"No, but I did call you, even knowing it was on the way." She shook her head, her shoulders moving up and down. "Guess I'd been anxious for Pete to make it to the pass and take a look-see."
"Don't worry about it." Granger coerced an accepting smile out of himself. "There isn't much difference whether I'm wheels-down at Cold Corners or MacTown. And from what they told me over the radio, our field camps are in fair enough shape for the duration. So it's not as if my detour caused any harm."
Megan looked at him a moment, then nodded.
"Let's just keep our fingers crossed that the weather blows over fast," she said. "Meanwhile, you should be okay using this bunk. There weren't any others available with our delegation from the States needing accommodations." She paused, glanced down at the neatly made bed to her right, and settled herself. "It's Alan Scarborough's, you know. Sam Cruz here is his roommate."
Granger turned to the man beside them in the little dorm and shook his hand. In fact, he wouldn't feel remotely okay sleeping in that bed. Knowing what happened to the rover's S&R team, the idea of it gave him the horrors.
"This must be a tough spell for you," he said to Cruz. "Hope I'm not being too much of an imposition."
"No, no, please," Cruz replied. He was dark-complected, wavy-haired, with a strong grip. "It'll be good for me to have some company."
Granger had noticed the humorous marker-inked rendering on the closet door across the room. He glanced at the words above it.
"Prisone
rs of Fashion," he read aloud.
"Blame me for that one," Cruz said. "Megan lets us juvies amuse ourselves by making a mess of our quarters. It's sort of an in-joke I'll explain to you later."
Granger manufactured another smile and plucked at his synthetic thermal vest.
"Think I already get it," he said.
A half hour after stalking out of Megan's office, Nimec beckoned the manager of base security over to the same paneled workstation he'd seized for his ultimately wasted planning session with Granger.
"I want to conduct a site security check while there's an opportunity," he told him. "Tour the installation so I can get a close-up sense of things."
And feel like I'm doing something marginally constructive with my time, he thought but did not say.
The Sword base chief nodded. He was a burly guy named Ron Waylon, with a thick walrus mustache and a head that was shaved smooth except for a gladiatorial nape lock reaching to the middle of his back. The lock of hair was bound with a leather cord down its full length. Some sort of body tattoo peeked above his shirt collar on the right side of his neck. The silver earrings he wore on both sides were shaped like long swords, an interesting but questionably appropriate variation on the organizational badge. Or maybe they were supposed to be daggers and Nimec was reading too much symbolism into them.
Whether or not that was the case, he'd found dress and appearance codes to be pretty damn lacking at Cold Corners. Hadn't the base chief been clean-cut when he was hired? Or was his recollection about that also off the mark?
"Yes, sir," Waylon replied now. His road-warrior appearance belied a disarming mild-manneredness. "I'm thinking I should mention CC's probably different from other locations, where the emphasis would be to harden it against corporate spies, armed intruders . . . human threats to property and employees. Here we try to prepare for emergencies shaping out of natural events. Like, say, the storm that's headed toward us. If any of our personnel become sick or injured when we're snowbound, it could be a long spell before relief arrives. So we push real heavy on self-sufficiency, and drill a crisis-and-escalation checklist into everybody's minds. We try not to ignore perimeter defense. But rescue transport, triage, stopgap equipment repair . . . I guess they'd be stressed over it."
Cold War (2001) Page 20
