Biddi was standing in the hall on the other side, wearing an admonishing expression. “What are you doing?”
“I was trying to relax and get some reading done. What are you doing?”
“Bothering you.”
“I can see that,” Cass said.
“Actually, I’ve come to see why you aren’t out on deck to see the plane off.”
“I thought it wasn’t due to leave for a couple of hours yet.”
“It’s not, but that shouldn’t keep you from ogling it from the observation deck with the rest of the winter-overs.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because it’s a singular bloody occurrence, something we won’t get much of in the next few months. The station’s next big news item will be if Dr. Ayres farts in the galley during lunch. We have to enjoy these events when they present themselves. So, put down your bloody book”—she pronounced it booook —“come outside, and celebrate with everyone. You know I won’t take no for an answer.”
Cass made a face. “Biddi, that just isn’t my thing. I don’t go in for big parties or manufactured events—”
“Manufactured?” Biddi snorted. “Our whole fricking existence down here is manufactured, if you hadn’t noticed. We’d all be nothing more than a collection of sorry-looking ice crystals if not for some manufactured events .” Her face softened. “Cass, I’m a wee bit older than you and I’ve got my regrets. One of them is not making the most of every moment. Don’t let even the little things slip by.”
Cass looked at her friend’s face, trying to formulate an argument, some reason to say no. She didn’t need one, of course. She could simply utter the word “no,” shut the door, and forget about the whole thing. The morning with the irksome Senator Sikes and his groupies was already forgotten. She wouldn’t be missing a thing if she stayed in her room.
But Biddi was right. If she was going to reconstruct herself and her life, she needed to populate it with new experiences, not old habits. Ten years from now, if someone asked what she’d been doing when the last plane of the year left the South Pole that one time she’d worked there, her answer couldn’t be, I was in my room writing in my diary . It just couldn’t. Not if she had any hope of forgetting her past and making something of her future.
She sighed, then laughed at the victorious expression on her friend’s face. “Give me a second.”
Cass shut the door on Biddi doing a victory dance, switched out sweatpants for jeans, then grabbed her parka, mittens, and hat. Thirty seconds later, she was in the hall and following Biddi toward the observation deck that overlooked the skiway. A dull hum—no louder than a refrigerator or the buzz of a heat pump—reached her ears as she approached the airlock doors, but as they opened the second set, a colossal roar made it almost impossible to hear, let alone think. Why hadn’t she remembered the sound from her flight to Shackleton a few months before? Too excited to notice, maybe, or unimpressed after the flight from Christchurch—eleven bone-bruising, eardrum-shattering hours in a C-17, a plane so big it could hold the Hercules in its belly. Since then, she realized with surprise, she’d never had or made time to watch another flight.
Squinting against the glare, she looked at the Hercules, parked on the skiway like some temporarily grounded sway-bellied dragon. Its four turboprop engines were idling and ready to go despite the fact that takeoff was an hour or two away—engines were not shut off at the South Pole unless you were done for the day or had an affinity for futility; it could take forever to resuscitate a cold engine. Squatting on the skiway with engines going might blow a swimming pool of wasted fuel out the tail, but everyone involved considered the idling worth it.
After a moment, Cass’s attention slid away from the plane. The skiway was full of people: fuelies checking lines, staffers driving Skandics and snowcats full of gear and supplies out to the plane’s loading platform, a dozen people simply standing around with their hands in their pockets, talking.
Biddi tugged on her arm to get her to join a small knot of winter-over crew standing to one side of the ob deck. Thanks to the noise, conversation was limited to hand signals, so they all stood in a strange gaggle, side by side, but almost entirely unable to communicate. So much for getting out and interacting with friends , Cass thought. But she knew there were other events planned, old Polie traditions to mark the severing of the last thread connecting Shackleton to the outside world. There’d be plenty of time to catch up.
So, she gave herself permission to watch the prep for the last flight, looking on as scores of tiny workers bustled around the Herc like ants crawling over the carcass of a giant beetle. As much as the Antarctic ice and snow would allow, it was a smart, efficient operation, with snowcats and snowmobiles running supplies back and forth to the service arches, downslope, around the corner, and out of sight. She grinned as she saw that even the old LMC 1800, “Little Tug” painted on the side in white, had been pressed into service. With a top speed of eight miles an hour, no one took the little crate on tracks to make time, but it had enough torque to pull the station across the ice if you could find cables strong enough. And, sure enough, daisy-chained behind the Tug were six sleds stacked man-high, chugging along slower than a person could walk . . . but moving nevertheless.
There were hiccups in the process, naturally, and she watched as one of the snowmobiles bucked and stalled out on the ice en route to the Hercules. Even from this distance, she could tell the driver was frustrated as he or she slammed the controls in an effort to coax it back to life, then yanked the brake lever and climbed off. Whoever it was stood and faced the snowmobile with hands on hips for a minute before looking around helplessly.
Cass nudged Biddi, pointed out to the stranded vehicle, then leaned in close. “I’m going to give them a hand. It’s my kind of work.”
Biddi gave her a gloved thumbs-up. Cass climbed down the outer stairway to ground level, then set off across the ice, purposefully steering wide of the Herc itself to keep the gung-ho air force guys from running over to save her from getting chopped into bits in case she didn’t know what a propeller was.
By the time she reached the stranded snowmobile, the rider had the side hood open and was tinkering with something inside. To her amazement, the snowmobile wasn’t one of the newer standards, like a Skandic or a Tundra; it was an Alpine. A great machine, but it was a little like finding a Model T at a truck rally. She knew the inventory of the VMF pretty well and wondered where they’d found it.
“Hey,” she called from about twenty feet away, barely audible over the roar of the Herc’s engines. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” A hooded, masked face popped up from behind the hood. “Why not?”
“It’s too cold and that Alpine is an antique. If half the engine isn’t frozen already, it will be by the time you actually figure out what’s wrong. It’ll be easier to just tow it back to the VMF since we’re so close.”
Despite the layers of cold weather clothing, she could tell the person was irritated. “Who are you?”
“Cass Jennings.”
“Who?”
“Station mechanic ,” she yelled. “Stop screwing with that and let me get you a tow so we can get it to a museum in one piece. Why don’t you go warm up while I take care of this?”
“Oh.” The driver’s shoulders didn’t exactly slump, but she could tell he was at least partially contrite. “Okay.”
Cass veered off, stomping across the ice and down the long, gradual decline to the outer doors of the VMF and warehouse. Deep ruts left by the thick tread of utility vehicles had frozen in place, making the walk precarious—it was like trying to hike over a landscape of upraised and uneven glass teeth on a slope of maybe twenty degrees, and she had to windmill her arms more than once to keep from pitching forward. It was a short walk, however, and while the mouth of the large VMF garage door—the one she’d come through with Hanratty the day before—was shut, next to it was a more reasonably sized door for people. She steered for the latter, bange
d it open, then stopped short.
Standing in the middle of the VMF, as though caught playing with themselves, were Hanratty, Taylor, and Keene. Cass couldn’t have been more taken aback if she’d found the Three Stooges in the middle of her garage. Judging from the look of surprise on their faces, the feeling was mutual. She peeled off her goggles and pushed back her hood.
Hanratty was the first to recover. “Jennings, what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” she said evenly. “What are you doing here?”
“We came to oversee the loading situation,” Taylor said. Hanratty winced.
“From the VMF?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you see more in the warehouse?”
“Of course,” Hanratty said. “We were just on our way there.”
Cass turned. “What about you, Dr. Keene?”
He shrugged, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Of the three, he was the only one not in a parka. His breath steamed as he spoke. “Just bored, Cass. I don’t get down to the service bays very often. Actually, since you’re here, this is a great chance to ask you about some of the things you do. For example, what in the world is this thing—”
Keene was interrupted by a crash from the back of the shop, where the spare parts for every vehicle on base were stored in a labyrinthine collection of racks and shelves. Frowning, Cass turned and walked toward the noise.
“Jennings!” Hanratty called, but Cass ignored him. The racks were in a darkened alcove of the VMF and she fumbled for a light switch. As she did so, a splash of light lit the muddy gloom as the adjoining door to the carpentry shop was thrown open and a slim form dashed through the opening.
What the . . . “Hey,” Cass yelled and hurried after the form. Behind her, Hanratty and Taylor called to her again, but she ignored them, more than a little pissed. It was one thing to find three of the base’s highest-ranking managers in her garage; it was another if someone was screwing around with her inventory. She stretched her hands out in the darkness to keep from impaling herself on a protruding crankshaft or jack, piloting to the carpentry door by memory, then threw open the door.
The white overhead lights were on full blast in the carpentry shop and she squinted at the sudden glare. The door on the far side was just closing shut, and she raced across the little workshop, zigging and zagging between benches and counters. Moving awkwardly in her outdoor gear, she cut a corner too close and caught the toe of her boot on a definitely immovable object. Her ankle was wrenched the wrong way. The thick walls of her boot kept it from turning further, but she still hissed as pain lanced up her leg.
Pushing through it, she hobbled to the door and flung it open. A blast of freezing cold air hit her in the face—this was the long tunnel connecting the service arches that she’d brought Sikes and her other charges down earlier that day. Shielding her face with her hands, she peered through the gap of her fingers. The figure she’d been chasing was pelting down the tunnel and moving fast. Cass limped after, but in just a few seconds, the form had disappeared into the gloom and shrinking horizon of the tunnel walls.
Cursing, she shambled back through the carpentry shop and into the VMF, full of questions. But when she got back to the garage, Hanratty, Taylor, and Keene were gone, leaving nothing behind but the buzz of the overhead lights and the muffled roar of the Hercules in the distance.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I didn’t even want to come to the Pole,” Colin Sutter was saying. “What I really wanted to do was study the Gamburtsevs.”
“Ah, yes. The Gamburtsevs.” Tim Kowalski shot a glance at Carla Bjorkholm. “The Russian circus family? From Moscow? I caught their show in New York once.”
“No,” Colin said, confused. He pushed his glasses up a long nose. “It’s a subglacial mountain range east of here. It’s quite famous.”
“So is the circus,” Carla said, straight-faced.
Anne took up the thread. “Amazing contortionists. Their show is something to see. You should get out more, Colin.”
“The Gamburtsevs? Really?” Colin frowned. “I suppose it might be a common name in Russia . . .”
The three glanced at one another. Tim popped an eyebrow, Carla shrugged, Anne smothered a grin. Colin’s cluelessness bordered on the obtuse, but after having spent the summer season together, they were used to his quirks. Tim, a materials engineer, had suggested that, as a geologist, his friend had taken on the properties of the object he studied and, in fact, they probably all had. When Carla asked how that applied to her as a biologist who studied molds, he backpedaled, although he returned to his theory in a clumsy attempt to compare Anne to the stars. He gave up when Anne told him she dealt mostly in radio astronomy and hadn’t looked through an optical telescope since she was in college.
The four were sitting in the first-floor TV lounge. The galley, their preferred haunt, had been taken over as a staging area for the final flights of the season, making the simple acts of getting a coffee or finding a seat nearly impossible. They’d already said their tearful farewells to friends and colleagues, with promises of getting together in the future. Better to stay out of the way for a few hours until the last flight had taken off.
In groups of four, six, or eight, travelers were summoned via the PA system to report to Destination Alpha so they could begin the shuttle process to the Hercules. Each time the speaker crackled to life, the group of friends would pause, listen to the call, then pick up their conversation.
“None of you have wintered over, right?” Anne looked at the other three, who all shook their heads. Although they’d been at Shackleton for the summer season, it was surprising how little they knew about each other.
“I’ve heard things can get pretty squirrelly,” Tim said. “A crew of two hundred shrinks to forty. Nine months together. Dark for two-thirds of it. We’ll have our work to save us, of course, but that only goes so far.”
“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” Carla said, glancing at Colin.
The geologist nodded. “I already mentioned to Deb that I’d like to start a chess tournament. Someone told me Pete has a rating over two thousand! I’d love to go head-to-head with him.”
Carla mocked smacking her forehead, but as Tim started to laugh, Colin caught his eye, and the geologist winked at him, which just made him laugh harder. Anne, puzzled, asked, “What’s so funny?”
Before Tim could say anything, the PA speaker screeched to life. “Senator Sikes. Senator Sikes. Please report to Destination Alpha and ask your group to do the same. This is the last load of the season. If you’re not on that plane in the next five minutes, then you’ll be our guest for the next nine months. Senator Sikes. Please report to Destination Alpha. ”
The voice disappeared with an electrical snap and the lounge went quiet.
Carla cleared her throat. “Anyone else thinking about running out and stowing away on the senator’s plane?”
“Of course not,” Tim said. “I had a very good reason for almost jumping up and sprinting out the door in the general direction of the skiway just now.”
Anne smiled. “It is going to be weird, isn’t it? Do you remember how strange the winter-overs acted when we landed last summer?”
“They huddled together in one corner of the galley and wouldn’t look at us as we came in,” Carla said, her eyes unfocused as she remembered. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting a brass band, but some of them looked like they wanted to claw my eyes out just for being there.”
“One lady actually snatched a chair away from me when I tried to sit at her table,” Colin said, his tone still injured. “I swear she almost growled at me.”
“I heard one of them call us the ‘orange people’ because we actually had some color to our skin,” Tim said.
“Pasty, mean, and anthropophobic. Great,” Anne said. “I hope we’ll be a little different.”
“Don’t count on it,” Carla warned. “Your biology is a slave to your environment. In nine months, another crew is going to land and wonder what ha
ppened to all those bitchy lunatics in the corner.”
They debated the point until the PA suddenly crackled again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is station manager Jack Hanratty. ” The voice came across the system as gruff and flat as it did in person. “As you no doubt heard, in just a few minutes the final flight of the season is about to leave for McMurdo. I urge you to head outside to watch it take off. It will be the last plane you will see until November. ”
“Guy really knows how to improve morale,” Tim said. Carla shushed him.
“Now that our guests have left, I wanted to ask you to take a moment to remember our friend and colleague, Sheryl Larkin. As many of you already know, she was found yesterday unresponsive, alone, and without a radio several hundred meters from the station. We don’t know why Sheryl wandered so far from base, but she appeared to have sustained an injury in her attempt to return and, unable to walk, had unfortunately succumbed to exposure. ”
The quasi-permanent grin that Tim normally wore melted away. Anne leaned forward, bowing her head so that her long hair hung down, covering her face. Carla stared at the coffee table in front of them and Colin absently rubbed the tips of his fingers together, as if to make sure they were all there.
“I know Sheryl’s death has been a terrible shock to you all, as it has to me. She will be remembered as one of our team and, more importantly, one of the Shackleton family. I can’t claim to know why she died, but I do know she wouldn’t—not for a second—want us to compromise the work we do here. Please think of Sheryl as we enter this winter season and know she stands behind us every step of the way. ”
Hanratty cleared his throat, a strange sound that came across as a flat bark over the PA system.
“If any of you would like to talk over this situation, counseling is available. Please see myself, deputy station manager Deb Connors, or station morale officer Gerald Keene. Thank you for your attention. ”
The Winter Over Page 9
