In Cold Pursuit

by Sarah Andrews

  She chided herself for thinking this thought, but murder had indeed occurred at Emmett’s camp; there was no doubt of that now. Larry’s information of the evening before had changed all that from speculation to certainty. Emmett himself had been taken into custody as a result, and … and who was she to say that he was innocent?

  She hardly knew the man. Was Emmett Vanderzee a coldblooded killer? His graduate students from the year before had gone on to other projects. They could have stayed on. Why had they jumped ship? Had they left him because they no longer trusted him? If so, what had changed their minds?

  Somebody had prevented the journalist from getting the aid he needed, and that was murder. Had the feds fingered Emmett because he was the only one who had a motive to kill that man or because he was the only one who had had the opportunity? Perhaps one of the graduate students had buried that Gamow unit and had now separated himself from the whole situation by scorning his former professor. Was that why Bob Schwartz ran off without answering my questions?

  Thus far, she had spoken to only three of the people who’d been present in the camp—Cal Hart, Bob Schwartz, and Manuel Roig—and they had each seemed reticent to talk about the situation. No, wait, Cal Hart was interrupted by Jim Skehan, she reminded herself. But what was Bob’s problem? And was Manuel Roig in fact too exhausted after searching for Steve? Or was the memory of watching a man die in Antarctica too painful to visit? But what if this was a foil, an easy explanation behind which to hide? Did he have a reason to want the journalist dead? Valena’s brain buzzed with the questions she had not thought to ask these men, such as, Did you know Sweeny before you went to Emmett’s camp?

  She ran down her mental list of possible killers. William the dogsbody was there by accident and was supposedly lazy or incompetent. She had no way of knowing whether he had a motive. David/Dave—the other muscle sent to the high camp—was a blank.

  She looked out the window of the Delta, wondering if the David and William who had been present at Emmett’s camp could possibly be the Dave and Wee Willy who were at that moment cutting lazy figure eights in through the drifts beyond the groomed trail. No, too much of a coincidence, she decided. A thousand people work at McMurdo during the season, and David and William are common names.

  The cook she was about to meet. What was she like? A bit cranky, having been alone with a tribe of men at high elevation? Would that make her a killer? And Calvin Hart: what was his story? What did he do for the project?

  Cracking into Valena’s silence, Hilario repeated his question in a different form. “So really, what you doing driving out to Black Island?”

  Valena blinked. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m a little tired. Still jet-lagged, I guess.”

  “It takes a while to adjust,” said Hilario. “First time on the ice, it takes at least a week. Dehydration, the endless daylight, all the weird people, eating food that comes out of a can …”

  “I like it fine.”

  “And you are going to Black Island because…?”

  She tried to decide what of substance, if anything, she wanted to tell him. Clearly her story was getting around, but how much of it? “I wanted to see the Ross Ice Shelf,” she said at last. “I’d read so many accounts by the early explorers of how vast it was, and …” Her grip on her mind slipped again. And what? Deep in her guts she did want to see it, if only a glimpse. Had always wanted to see it. Had longed for it, and for all of Antarctica. She shook her head and closed her eyes. Fatigue was definitely beginning to get the better of her. Fatigue and stress. She needed more sleep.

  “Well, what do you think? Seen enough yet?” He fell into his low chuckle again.

  It is beautiful, she wanted to say. Painfully, astonishingly, joyously, severely beautiful, but instead she guarded her heart and, from her intellect, said, “I had expected something more dramatic, not that this isn’t pretty awe-inspiring. But I thought there would be a cliff, or at least a steep rise.” She had wanted an edge to cross, past which she could say, Now I have been to that place that summoned me.

  She felt Hilario’s eyes on her. “Any time this month you want to learn to drive this thing,” he said, letting it roll to a stop. “Come on, it won’t bite you. Climb over here.”

  They switched places and Valena settled herself behind the wheel, which was about eighteen inches in diameter and mounted almost flat, like that on a bus. Hilario showed her which gear to start out in—second for most purposes, first for soft snow or other questionable conditions. She gave it some gas and the big beast began to move. A smile spread across her face.

  Hilario said, “You’re a natural. Time for me to take a few minutes to myself.” He climbed out of the shotgun seat, shoved everything that had been on the backseat onto the floor, and stretched out on it. “Wake me anything happens. Oh, and if I fall asleep or anything, wake me before we stop at KOA so Edith don’t see me snoozing.”

  “Right. KOA. So what am I looking for? A campground?”

  Hilario’s sardonic laugh filled the cab. “Yeah, that’s right. Only there’s only one campsite. Just keep going until you see something that isn’t ice or rock or flag.”

  The faster snow machines flew ahead of them going south along the route. The wind had grown brisk, driving spumes of snow from the crest of every drift, wrapping the snow machine drivers up in a blanket of gauze. Valena would wave to them as they barreled toward her or zinged by going the other direction, running circles around the Delta and the Challenger to stay with the bigger, slower machines. Sometimes it looked like they were chasing each other, and sometimes it appeared that Dave was herding Wee Willy, keeping him from getting lost. The big man seemed bent on finding a snowdrift that would buck his machine into the sky. He would find a big one, take aim, and hit it as hard as he could. Just for shits and grins, as her mother used to say.

  A vision of her mother came to mind as she had looked in a photograph Valena had once found in the back of a book at her grandfather’s house: sitting on her Harley, a can of beer resting on one knee, a skimpy tank top, and her huge Hollywood grin. It was the grin that always got people. Brought men to their knees. It was the Harley that had gotten her, late one night in the Snake River Canyon.

  Valena drove onward across the ice, giving herself to its mass and dimensions. I made it, Ma, she wanted to tell her, but there was no email or conversation where she had gone.

  The KOA turned out to be a survival hut, little more than a wooden box on wheels, a way station where a traveler could get in out of the wind. Edith called for a halt for lunch. “Come with me, Valena,” she called as she disappeared behind the structure.

  Valena stopped the Delta and joined her. Edith had not had to explain that this was the only place for miles around that they could drop their drawers and pee without being seen by the men.

  “Your first dose of Antarctic girl bonding?” asked Edith as they squatted.

  Valena smiled. “Yeah. Men sure have the advantage in such circumstances. We expose the full moon. All they got to show is the isthmus of Panama.”

  They shared a laugh, then zipped up again and headed back to their rigs.

  With all four engines shut down, only the sound of the wind met their ears. They commenced their midday meal. Edith and Dave stood to eat, their paper sacks resting on the running board of the Delta. Valena and Hilario took seats on the two snow machines. Wee Willy sat inside the Delta, eating by himself.

  Edith spoke to Valena as she smeared mayonnaise and mustard onto her cheese and bologna sandwich from little plastic packets. “I don’t think you’ve met Dave,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Valena, without looking up. She tried to cover her discomfort by putting a glove to her lips and clearing her throat.

  “Hi, yourself,” said Dave.

  Valena could not read his face with the dark glasses and chewing, but he sounded friendly enough. People stared at her all the time, why had Dave’s stare in the hallway of Building 155 bothered her so much? She turned to Edith. “So
how many calories do you think are in one of these flight lunches?” she asked, inventing something to talk about.

  Edith laughed. “I calculated that once. Just under two thousand.” She pulled her sack down off the running board and dug through it. “Two big sandwiches, a couple granola bars, juice box, chips, mega-brownie—there’s a weight-loss food—and don’t forget the chocolate bar.”

  “You don’t want to get cold,” said Hilario.

  Dave said nothing.

  “Does NSF have some kind of a deal with Cadbury’s?” asked Valena.

  Hilario said, “You mean Raytheon; they do all the ordering. Yeah, must be. Cadbury’s got a factory in New Zealand. Now, I like chocolate fine, “but this peppermint flavor just isn’t my thing.”

  “Swap you for a fruits and nuts,” said Edith. “Stick in my teeth.”

  Hilario looked at Dave. “What you got, amigo?”

  Dave smiled, curling his mustache. “I ain’t swapping. I got the mousse bar.”

  Hilario and Edith groaned with envy. “You luck!” said Hilario, heaving himself off the snow machine to make the swap with Edith.

  Dave chuckled. “Too bad for you they don’t make jalapeño flavor.”

  “You’re a deep thinker,” Hilario said.

  “So this is what people do with their time in Antarctica,” said Valena. “You argue over chocolate bars.”

  Hilario and Edith both stopped and stared at her. “Like there’s anything more important in life?” said Edith. “I love to eat, and this place is food central.” She shrugged. “Except for the freshies, which are few and far between. You’ll notice there is no lettuce in your sandwich.”

  “I was wondering, but now you mention it, that makes sense. And it’s a bit dry.”

  “Load on the mayo,” said Edith. “Chowing on flight lunches is an art form.”

  Valena noticed that Edith’s sack had become so light that it was beginning to blow along the running board “You’ve emptied that bag already? Woman after my heart.”

  Edith grabbed the sack and laughed. “You aren’t doing so bad yourself, honey. That’s what I love about this place. Eat, eat, eat, and you never gain an ounce.”

  “Amen on that.”

  Edith turned to Wee Willy, who had climbed down out of the cab. “So, how you like traversing?”

  Wee Willy shrugged his massive shoulders. “Are we getting overtime for this?”

  Dave said, “Ain’t you liking this?”

  Wee Willy shrugged again. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Well, let’s hit it,” said Edith. “We got miles to go before we sleep.”

  Valena watched Wee Willy shamble away toward his snow machine, wondering who in his right mind would come to Antarctica for anything but love.

  FROM THE KOA, THE ROUTE MADE A GRADUAL TURN toward the west around the south side of Black Island, rising higher onto the ice shelf. Valena knew that the ice was not standing still. It was flowing like putty, but on such an immense scale and so slowly that it took precise measurement with satellite-mounted radar and GPS to read its progress. This ice had been born a thousand miles away or more, perhaps even up on the Antarctic Plateau. It had crept here at speeds of no more than a few hundred meters per year. From space, NASA’s satellites could read flow lines created as it streamed off the continent and onto the Southern Ocean, but from here, all she could see was unbroken whiteness.

  As they convoyed along, the world opened up and out, their presence continuing to shrink as the immensity of the Ross Ice Shelf engulfed them. The world shifted to palest blue, and Valena’s heart began to lift.

  Twice, she felt the track beneath her wheels grow soft. She sensed this through her skin and muscles even before she heard the engine slow, and she quickly downshifted, easing the spin of the wheels over the soft patch, regaining her traction. The second time this happened, she glanced into the rearview mirror at the tires behind the cab. The surface of the snow immediately in front of them had begun to wrinkle, like a bow wake thrown up by a ponderous black ocean vessel.

  Edith’s voice crackled out of the speaker above her head. “Mac Ops, Mac Ops, this is Challenger 286.”

  “Go ahead, Challenger.”

  “We’re at the edge of the dead zone. Reporting in. Over.”

  “Copy that, Edith. What’s your ETA Black Island?”

  “Eighteen hundred.”

  Valena slid up her sleeve and looked at her watch. It was 12:30. That meant five and a half hours without radio contact.

  Mac Ops replied, “I want to hear from you eighteen hundred sharp, or earlier if you can pick up a signal.”

  “Roger that. We’ll monitor radio and check in if we hear you. Challenger out.”

  “Happy flagging. Mac Ops clear.”

  Valena had been watching the flags that marked their route. Many were missing, leaving only the bamboo stake sticking out of the snow. Along one two-or three-mile stretch near the KOA, the flags had been replaced so many times that a veritable forest of bamboo stakes lined the route. Many were splintered or broken off near the surface of the ice. Now the convey had reached a stretch where only one or two feet of flagstaff showed above the snow. Here on the south side of Black Island, the wind blew relentlessly, sweeping the scant accumulation of Antarctic snow into a giant drift.

  The Challenger pulled to a halt and the crew chief climbed out, waving the two outriders in from their wanderings.

  Valena stopped also. “You awake, Hilario?”

  “Yes. Gimme a minute; I got to find out where we are.”

  She turned and saw that he had switched on a global positioning system unit and was reading out their position. Pulling a paper copy of an air photograph of the area out of a folder, he marked their position. Valena could see the entire route marked between GPS readings a few miles apart. “Is that so we can keep going in the dark?” she joked.

  “We could keep going in a whiteout with this gizmo,” he said. “I done that when I worked up in Greenland one summer. We rode for miles on snowmobiles going only by the GPS and arrived right at the drill site no problem. Then I got off the machine and walked smack into the side of the building.”

  “You’re kidding! Wasn’t it dangerous to travel blind like that?”

  “These satellite things are really accurate, you know? If the route’s been mapped tight enough, you can do that. I wouldn’t try it where you have crevasses or anything like that, but going over a groomed route like this? Sure.” He completed his documentation, then said, “You’re a good driver, Valena. You downshifted just right in those soft patches.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So you can continue. I’ll take the first shift up on the load.” He began to put on his outer clothing.

  “How do we do this?”

  Hilario’s voice was muffled somewhat as he pulled on his neck gaiter and rigged into his parka. “The Challenger leads the way as usual, but you follow slower now. I throw a flag down off the load every two hundred feet.” He swung his right arm like a javelin thrower.

  Dave had climbed off his snow machine and was swapping his hood for a watch cap and his goggles for sunglasses with side protection flaps. He came over to the Delta, opened the door behind Hilario, reached under the backseat, pulled out two heavy iron rods with beveled points, dragged both irons over to where the snowmobiles were parked, and leaned one across each saddle.

  Hilario said, “They use those pikes to jab holes in the snow so they can stick the poles in. You’ll see. Don’t get too far in front of them.” Pulling the zipper to his chin, he climbed out the door, walked along the running boards and over the boxy fender that covered the wheel on that side, then stepped over the swivel that connected the tractor and trailer parts of the vehicle. Up on top of the load, he loosened the ties on the first bundle of flags and used the bamboo end of one of them to tap the roof of the cab, indicating that Valena could begin.

  Valena eased the Delta into first gear and set it rolling. In the side rearview window, she
watched the bamboo poles fly out every two hundred feet. Some landed upright in the snow or leaning at an angle; others, fell in places where the snow had blown away, baring the ice underneath, and simply bounced and skittered across the surface.

  Dave and Wee Willy leapfrogged along behind her, setting flags turn and turn about, zooming from one position to the next, carrying their steel pikes like lancers at a joust.

  As she drove along, Valena reminded herself that Antarctica was a desert. In the interior, annual precipitation averaged less than two inches of water, whatever that taped out to in snowflakes. Even here on the coast, where the snowfall was highest, it averaged less than eight inches. And yet the wind had rounded it all up and dumped it here, accumulating a thickness of five or six feet in a year. Was Emmett Vanderzee’s high camp like this? Had the wind helped a killer bury the parachute drop?

  Valena felt the morning’s nervousness settle about her once again. She struggled to look on the landscape intellectually, as an object from her classes. Here the wind packed the snow hard, transforming it into solid ice in just a few seasons. Images filled her mind from the photomicroscopic slides Emmett Vanderzee had shown in his lecture during spring term. As the snowflakes accumulated in this perpetual deep freeze, they recrystallized into shards of granular snow. The shards then compacted, changing from snow into a more granular substance called firn. As additional snow accumulated on top, increasing the load, firn transitioned into ice, reforming into larger and larger crystals, finally interlocking into the massive ice of glaciers. She had read about this transition, and now she witnessed the result of the process in its immensity. Back home, glaciers were little things that lived in the high valleys of just a few mountain ranges, the exception to the rule. Here, ice was the rule, not the mountains it shrouded, and it formed not just alpine glaciers but huge glaciers and ice streams miles wide that flowed from the gigantic sheets of ice thousands of feet thick. The Ross Ice Shelf was as big as France. It was fed by the West Antarctic Ice Sheet, a mass half the size of the United States, and also by the East Antarctic Ice Sheet—larger than the whole lower forty-eight states by a considerable margin—which flowed through passes in the Transantarctic Mountains down which the monstrous glaciers flowed—in places, the ice in Antarctica was more than three miles thick. The sheer volume of all that bound-up water was beyond imagining, ninety percent of the world’s ice, seventy percent of the world’s fresh water.