by Tom Clancy
Because the flights that carried away the discard arrived with irregular frequency during austral summer — and in winter months arrived not at all — the volume produced by CC’s inhabitants often exceeded the storage capacity of the milvans. At such times, all retro except segregated toxic chemical, medical, and biological waste was brought down into designated utilidor chambers, which allowed for its interim cold storage in conditions that prevented decomposition and posed no threat to health or the environment.
In practical terms, frozen human remains met the definition of retrograde to the letter.
Nimec turned to see the strapping figure of Ron Waylon come up beside him. They exchanged a serious glance. “How’s it going at the dome?” Nimec asked.
Waylon made an indeterminate gesture with his shoulders.
“It’ll be a while before I can tell whether we can get the pump back in action.” He offered a bleak smile. “Wish I’d known what was in store when I went and bragged about us being good at patching things up.”
“Say we can’t get it running,” Nimec said. “What then?”
“Good question,” Waylon said. “I’ve ordered a replacement unit, but the whole system’s manufactured to spec in California. The components have to be assembled, shipped, installed, and operational before our freshwater reserves run out.” He shook his head. “It cuts things awful close.”
“Maybe closer than we can stand?”
“Maybe,” Waylon said. “And that’s with crisis usage restrictions in place. No way around it, sir, we’re in a scrape.”
Nimec grunted, then stood in quiet thought.
“Okay,” he said. “What about those volunteers I wanted?”
“The men should be down here soon,” Waylon said. “They’re getting a Delta out of the garage to move the bodies out to the airstrip.”
“You hear anything from the comm tech… Huberman, that his name…?”
Waylon nodded.
“Clay Huberman,” he said. “He verified the transport aircraft are on their way. A pair of de Havillands out of Punta Arenas.”
Nimec looked at him. “That’s Chile. And aren’t those planes little eight seaters?”
Waylon nodded again.
“Twin Otters,” he said. “They’re flown by a private Canadian outfit that specializes in polar aviation, does a lot of contract work for NSF. Everything from ferrying around researchers to rescue operations. The crews really know their stuff. Brought that doctor out of South Pole station last winter—”
“That’s not the point. The 109th Guard was supposed to handle this from Christchurch. We were expecting a Herc. I asked for Captain Evers… he’s somebody we can trust.”
“I know, sir. But the weather’s still spotty around Herbie Alley — that’s out on the South Sea between Black Island and White Island — and it doesn’t look like anybody’s going to be able to take off from Cheech for another couple of days.”
Nimec dropped his eyes to the body bags and then raised them back to Waylon’s face.
“There’s no rush for these men,” Nimec said. “And if it’s only a short time, we can adjust our drinking water rations so the Senators won’t have to worry about getting too thirsty. They’ll just have to give up their showers and smell as bad as the rest of us.”
Waylon was momentarily silent.
“This isn’t a decision we can make here on base, sir,” he said then. “When it comes to emergency extractions, it’s Air Force, NSF, and Department of Interior who get together for the call.” He paused. “They’ve got other considerations. Besides the weather or even our water plant going down, that is.”
Nimec looked at him. “What else is there?”
“Clay tells me it’s the solar flare activity NASA’s been making a fuss about. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Admin’s been consulting with them, thinks it might pan out sometime over the next week. I guess the main concern is that flights could be grounded indefinitely if it’s severe enough to foul radio communications. The bottom line is they want the Senators out right away.”
Nimec shook his head with displeasure.
“NASA,” he muttered. “We’ve got too many cooks standing over the pot. And I don’t like it.”
Waylon was quiet again. He appeared to be waiting for something. Nimec couldn’t tell what it was, but figured the base chief would get around to letting him know.
Meanwhile, he had his own preoccupations.
“Those twin-props,” he said. “How soon they arriving?”
Waylon thought for a moment.
“The trip’s got two legs,” he said. “It takes about five hours for the planes to cross the Strait of Magellan. Then they stop at Rothera station out at the western tip of the peninsula.”
“That’d be the Brits, right?”
“Right,” Waylon said. “They’re being about as helpful as we could ask. The most accessible place to refuel’s a depot outside their base, and Rothera’s providing a thousand gallons.” He moved his shoulders. “After the layover, I’d figure the second half of the flight to take another dozen hours.”
Nimec rubbed his chin.
“Okay,” he said. “The situation’s what it is, and we’ll make the best of it. But I don’t want any passed balls. As far’s what went down here during the storm, the only thing the Senators know is there was a fire at the dome and we lost one of our men putting it out. And that’s all they need to know. When they climb aboard their plane, I don’t want them seeing these four”—he indicated the untagged body bags—“loaded onto the other prop. If they do, and ask us about it, we’ve got no choice except to tell them the truth. UpLink depends on government support. There are relationships we have to protect. If we’re seen as not honoring them, we might as well pack our suitcases and go home. Here and everywhere in the world.”
Nimec left his explanation at that. Waylon seemed to know the stakes well enough on his own.
He also seemed to be still waiting to say something. And having a hard time getting it out.
“What haven’t I covered?” Nimec asked.
Waylon was quiet another few seconds.
“About Sprague,” he said then, struggling to control his emotions. “We want to give him some kind of service.”
Nimec looked at Waylon. How could that have failed to occur to him?
“Sure,” he said. “I mean, of course.” He expelled a breath. “Is there a chaplain on base?”
Waylon shook his head.
“MacTown has a fella who tours during the holiday season,” he said. “That’s about all.” He was thoughtful. “A lot of us on the ice, we get to feel religious without observing a particular religion. I don’t know why that is. Or maybe I do and can’t express it just right. But being here kind of shaves the differences between people. You step outside the buildings and tunnels, look at what’s around you, what nature’s really about, and you realize nobody’s any bigger or smaller in the big picture than anyone else.”
Waylon swallowed, then looked down the white spun-bonded bag containing his deceased comrade.
“We want a service, but don’t know what the hell kind we’re supposed to give him.”
Nimec was thoughtful in the cold silence of the utilidor chamber.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said.
* * *
Nimec was in Megan Breen’s office minutes after arising from the utilidor, his ECW outer garments doffed and stashed in a clothing locker.
“You get a callback from Gord yet?” he said.
Megan regarded him across her desk.
“Yes,” she said. “And he’s heard from the Secretary of State.”
“What’s Bowen’s reaction to what happened to us?”
“I suppose it falls somewhere between worry and utter astonishment,” she said. “But he’s conceded that we’re best able to deal with it ourselves for now.”
“Conceded?”
Megan nodded.
“He isn’t happy about it,” sh
e said. “In the view of the United States we’re a commissioned government outpost that has come under enemy attack. At the same time, Article 1 of the Antarctic Treaty bars, and I quote, ‘all military activities, including weapons testing’ from the continent. It goes on to make an exception for military personnel and equipment used for scientific purposes, but that’s not pertinent. What is, is that the treaty was reinforced by the ’91 Madrid Protocol on Environmental Protection… and that they combine to put DoS in a logistic and political quandary. The U.S. doesn’t have a ready force anywhere close to us that could launch an effective search and counterstrike. And this is so off the board, no one’s ever contemplated a straightforward mechanism that would allow America to launch an armed venture.”
Nimec grunted.
“Not knowing who came at us makes it more complicated,” he said. “You have to wonder whether it’s a foreign government or an independent operator. Maybe even the same sons of bitches who put out a hit on the boss.”
“Agreed,” Megan said. “But let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. The outcome of Gord’s conversation with State is that we got what we wanted. They’re staying out of our way on this. Sword has been given an endorsement to act with broad discretion safeguarding Cold Corners against further threat, and it’s come from the highest level of government.”
Nimec looked at her.
“Deputy Pete,” he said.
Megan smiled thinly. “Something like that.”
Nimec nodded.
“I’m going to snag Russ Granger right away,” he said. “He had the snow-movers digging out his helicopter even before the wheels-down order was lifted this morning. Looks like he intends on flapping back to McMurdo, but there’s no chance he leaves base without taking me out over the Valleys like we planned before the storm.”
“However you choose to play it,” Megan said. “Under the circumstances — now that there’s no question we have enemies here — I thought you might elect to use one of our own pilots.”
Nimec shook his head.
“Not for the overflight,” he said. “You told me yourself that Granger knows the lay of the land better than anybody. And when I think about where those men in white came from, a big arrow pointing straight to Bull Pass flashes in my brain. If they’re down there and a bird with UpLink markings passes, you can bet they’re ducking for cover. Better they see one whose feathers they recognize and figure is harmless.”
“Which makes Russ’s NSF chopper perfect, since he does Dry Valley runs all the time.”
“Yeah,” Nimec said. “I wouldn’t have to tell him anything’s changed as far as the reason for our flyby. And it hasn’t really changed. How it looks to me now, I find the opening to a wolf den out there, I find where Scarborough’s team got dragged.”
Megan mulled that a bit, then gave him a nod.
“All right,” she said. “What’s next on our discussion list?”
Nimec hesitated.
“Before I came up here, I was in the utilidor with Waylon. Where we brought the bodies,” he said. “Waylon reminded me that we don’t have a clergyman to say anything for our man who was killed in the attack. When we send him off on the plane.”
Megan looked at him.
“Bill Sprague,” she said.
Nimec nodded.
“I promised we’d take care of it,” he said. “But I’m no good at words. And I don’t know that I’ll be back from the Valleys before the flights leave.”
Megan sat in quiet thought.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll preside. That’s how it should be.”
They fell into momentary silence again. Then Nimec gave her a nod.
“I’d better suit up and get hold of the whirlybird man,” he said, pushing back his chair.
Megan was watching him as he rose to leave. He noticed her steady attention and paused in front of her desk.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just thinking,” Megan said.
“Uh-huh. I kind of figured.”
They looked at each other.
“Well?” he said.
“It’s something that’s probably none of my business,” Megan said.
“Oh,” Nimec said. “So whose business is it?”
Megan took a breath, released it.
“Yours,” she said. “And Annie Caulfield’s.”
Nimec stood there without saying anything.
“Pete, I’m sure it isn’t news to you that Annie’s flying out with the Senators,” Megan said. “Good with words or not, you should talk to her before you leave. Or you’ll miss your chance.”
They were both silent, their eyes in solid contact across opposite sides of the desk.
“My chance,” Nimec said finally.
“Yes.”
“To talk.”
“Yes.”
“To Annie.”
“Yes.”
Nimec stared at her, his throat going dry all at once.
“About?” he said.
Megan waited to answer, looking at his nervous face, the barest suggestion of a smile on her lips.
“That’s up to you, Deputy,” she said.
* * *
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” Granger said. “I’m wishing like hell I still could help. But with the herbie slamming us as bad as it did, and our field camps trying to get their heads up above the snow, MacTown’s depending on me to check up on them.”
“You can do it when we’re out,” Nimec said. “Seems to me that was almost exactly our original plan. I ride peter pilot while you make your rounds. And you detour us into the valley south of the notch.”
Granger regarded him briefly, and then turned to watch a large rumbling dozer clear the chopper pad where his Bell remained half immersed in snow. Somnolent and dusky with winter’s near onset, the cloudless sky under which they stood seemed entirely incapable of spewing the fury it had heaped upon the coast for the past three days.
“Flying isn’t the problem,” Granger said. “It’s ground conditions that won’t be the same now. Depending on what the camp teams need in the way of assistance, we could be stuck for hours every time I put her down.”
“I can wait, give you a hand,” Nimec said. “Our side trip won’t take that much time.”
Granger stood thinking his thoughts, his gaze following the bulldozer as it made a slow rolling circuit of the pad.
Nimec tried to understand his sudden hedging.
“Listen,” Nimec said. “I realize you’ve got bosses with their own priorities. And that they must be edgier than usual because of the storm. But we can send them one of our own pilots if that’s what it’ll take for you to be available.” He paused. “If Megan calls them, makes an official request, I guarantee they’ll listen.”
Granger watched the dozer’s lowered scoop fill with snow and push it up high into one of several building mounds.
Nimec didn’t press, giving him a chance to think things over.
About a minute later Granger faced him again.
“It’s better she doesn’t talk to the top dogs… you know how even the easiest solutions can get picked apart,” he said. “We ought to stick to how we already worked things out.”
Nimec looked at him.
“You saying we’re on again?” he said.
“On,” Granger said. “And keeping it between ourselves.”
Nimec nodded. He didn’t care how they did it, just as long as they were going.
“Whatever works for you,” he said.
Bull Pass
Burkhart listened to Granger over their black phone line — and when Granger stopped talking, did not waste a moment telling him what needed to be done.
Granger wasn’t surprised. In fact, he seemed quite ready.
“I set this up, take care of this thing, it’ll be dangerous for me afterward,” he said. “You’ll have to get me away from here. Off the continent… maybe to South America. And I’m going to need money. Geld. Plenty of it
. We can decide on a figure later. What’s important is that everything has to move very fast. Sehr schnell. That’s how you say it in your language, right?”
Burkhart rubbed a fingertip over the mark on his cheek. The pilot was a low creature of venality and deceit. But then, where was his own claim to gallantry?
“Execute your task,” he said. “I will see to the rest of the arrangements myself.”
He terminated their call, put down the phone, and sat exceedingly still in his heated metal booth, the sounds of the subterranean mine loud around him.
The machines were grinding.
Sehr schnell.
EIGHTEEN
COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 16, 2002
His pistol was a Beretta 92 nine-millimeter, top of the line, with a stainless-steel barrel, black-matte finish, low recoil, and open-slide action. The same side arm used by the U.S. armed services, it couldn’t be beat for accuracy and reliability.
A handsome weapon.
Granger had never fired it except on practice ranges, never killed anything bigger than a rabbit in his life. He guessed that he was decent enough with a handgun, a better shot than your average person, although popping holes in a cardboard target that came gliding toward you down the lane was a far cry from taking out a human being. Or most likely was. The peculiar thing was that Granger had found himself without any moral or emotional constraints about the ruse he’d worked out, a setup that would have completely unstrung him once upon a time.
Sure, he’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Granger liked the money he was making hand over fist from the Consortium. He liked being where he was, and the freedom of living on the ice — liked his freedom, period—and got a little bothered knowing he would have to lose his income stream, jeopardize his personal safety, and go on the run. But he’d banked plenty over the last few years, heaped up a nice financial cushion in numbered Swiss and Cayman Island accounts.
His concern was whether the snare would work. Conscience, guilt… he just didn’t harbor those feelings. In fact, he’d discovered that part of him, a strong part, actually enjoyed running all the way home with the devil.
