There was silence for a while.
‘The protocol,’ Lauren reminded them, ‘the protocol is we stay with the base.’
‘For what?’ Mel demanded. ‘There is nothing for us here. I say we make for another base. Whichever is the nearest.’
‘It’s eight hundred miles,’ Lauren told her flatly. ‘Forget it.’
Sean was the next to speak.
‘There’s only one way of getting out of here alive.’
The assembled team looked at him in surprise.
‘Fitzgerald’s emergency transmitter. We turned it off and left it along with all the rest of their gear back at the crashed aircraft.’
Lauren thought about it, shaking her head emphatically.
‘Sean. That plane is three hundred miles away from where we are right now. We don’t have any snowcats. We don’t have food. Not one of us has the strength for that kind of journey on foot.’
‘I’m not talking about three hundred miles,’ Sean told her. ‘I’m talking about one hundred. That’s how far it is to the barrel of supplies we dumped at the first depot, right?’
‘My God, I’d forgotten about the depots,’ Lauren responded, animated now this new possibility had opened up. ‘They’re still out there from the rescue journey.’
‘Didn’t you take them down on your way back?’ Frank asked.
‘We were too heavily laden; we left them where they were.’
‘Here’s the idea,’ Sean continued. ‘We set out on foot. We make a hundred-mile trek to the first barrel. That gives us food to keep us going to the second depot. We feed up again, crack the last one hundred miles, then get to the plane and activate the transmitter.’
‘How do we know it’ll still work?’ Mel asked. ‘It’s been out there for the whole winter.’
‘Those things are like black box flight recorders,’ Sean told her. ‘They’re guaranteed to survive anything. And the batteries are lithium, so they’re not affected by the cold.’
‘Sean’s right,’ Lauren agreed. ‘The transmitter should work. But I’d say the real question is … can we get to the plane?’
‘Yeah. And that’s a pretty big if … if you ask me,’ Murdo added.
‘How can we do this?’ Lauren asked Sean.
‘Well, as far as I can figure, there’s really only two ways. Either we split the team and one or two of us—the fittest—make a fast dash on skis for the plane and radio for help. Or we all leave together and make our way there en masse.’
‘How many days would the fast option take?’
‘Let me think now.’ Sean did some quick mental sums. ‘Assuming that we find the depots without too many problems, I would estimate we can make twenty miles a day. That’s fifteen days minimum.’
‘By which time anyone waiting here would be dead. And the other option?’
‘We’d definitely be moving slower. We’d be towing a sledge for one thing. In the best case I would say fifteen miles a day. Max. But bear in mind we’ll be very low on food … and in fact with no food at all for the hundred miles before we find the first depot.’
‘What’s in those barrels, Frank?’
Frank spoke quietly from his sleeping bag.
‘The same in each. Perhaps fifteen, maybe twenty kilos of food. An epigas cooker. Enough gas to last a week. A few pans. I think there were three sleeping bags. And two dome tents.’
‘Medicine?’ she asked Mel.
‘I’m trying to remember. I think we put in some antibiotics, bandages, one splint, a couple of phials of morphine. Not a great deal, frankly, but it might make all the difference to have it.’
‘Can we keep six people alive for five days on what is in those barrels?’
‘If they weren’t burning up any calories, undoubtedly,’ Frank replied. ‘But walking a hundred miles on those rations? Hard drill, I’d say, but possible, yes. Men in worse condition than we’re in have done much more.’
‘Of the two choices, I say we keep the team together,’ Lauren told them. ‘For the following reason. If four of us wait here, inactive, without any food whatsoever, I don’t believe we’d survive more than six or seven days before we died of exposure. This shelter is as good as useless, and we already know there’s not enough firewood left to give us heat all day long.’
There was a general nod of agreement.
‘There’s another factor. We don’t know what the hell Fitzgerald is going to try next. If we stick together, we’ve got strength in numbers.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Mel interjected. ‘Does Fitzgerald know we put those depots down?’
There was an awkward silence as the team tried to recall.
‘Shit! I told him,’ Sean remembered with a moan. ‘I told him about the depots when we were on the way back.’
‘Then we’re screwed,’ Murdo said. ‘That madman will drive out there and use those supplies himself before we can get to them.’
‘Hold on…’ Sean’s expression suddenly lightened. ‘I told him we laid two depots, but I didn’t tell him where they were. I didn’t even tell him about the hundred-mile intervals … just that we’d put down the barrels of gear in case we needed them on the way back.’
‘So what’s the chances of Fitzgerald finding either of those dumps by chance?’ Mel asked.
Sean and Lauren answered simultaneously.
‘Zero.’
‘For that matter, what’s the chances of us finding them?’
Lauren thought about it. ‘We’ve got the compass. It’ll be tough, but we can do it with dead reckoning.’
‘I’d rather do anything than sit here in the ruins of this base, waiting to die,’ Murdo said.
‘Me too.’
‘Does everyone agree we stick together?’
There was a murmuring of assent.
‘Then I think we should go now,’ Lauren told them.
‘Why not wait until first light?’
‘Because that’s exactly what Fitzgerald will figure we’ll do. He won’t be looking for us until tomorrow morning. We have twelve hours of total darkness to put some distance between us and the base. With luck, he won’t even know we’ve gone.’
‘What’s to stop him making straight for the plane himself?’ Murdo asked. ‘Perhaps he reached the same conclusion about the transmitter.’
‘He may not be thinking rationally,’ Lauren replied. ‘He’s out there, alone, not knowing how many of us are dead or alive. He might be thinking about the plane, and he might not. Maybe his plan is to make sure we’re all dead and then head for the nearest base on the skidoo. We can’t second-guess what he’s going to do. That’s why I say we go now. From now on we do the things he’s not expecting. That way we keep at least some of the initiative.’
‘But when he finds we’ve gone, he’ll put two and two together.’
Lauren considered. ‘We’ll leave a decoy note, try and send him off on the wrong trail.’
‘And if a real search team does arrive?’
‘I have an idea for that. I’ll arrange it before we leave.’
Lauren made eye contact with every member of the team.
‘Anyone not in favour of that plan say so now.’
There were no objections.
Thirty minutes later the team was outside and ready to go. They loaded the sledge with the firewood and the few objects and tools they had managed to retrieve, then Sean rigged up a rope harness which would allow two people to tow the sledge.
Lauren felt the rope dig harshly into the flesh of her hips as she began to ski. Then Sean took up some of the strain and the pain eased a little.
They worked side by side, getting easily into a rhythm, even their breathing rates gradually adjusting until they were inhaling and exhaling at the same time.
Slowly, they pulled away from the base, moving as quietly as they could.
In her breast pocket, Lauren could feel the smooth outline of the titanium sample bottle. That was another responsibility—almost as overwhelming as the five lives
which now depended on her.
That sample had to get out intact.
Lauren held the phial of liquid like a talisman in her hand as the night wore on.
60
Nothing fitted. Everything chafed. Blisters had sprouted on their feet, their hands, their waists in the very first hours of the trek.
The problems came from the boots and the skis; rescued at random in the most chaotic moments of the fire, they were mismatched, odd-sized, missing key components.
There were four complete sets of skis and boots, and by improvising bindings out of rope they managed to make them more or less operational. Lauren, Mel and Frank had the best deal; each of them had size eight or nine feet, giving them access to the best sets. Sean and Richard were less lucky, forced to share a set comprising one size ten boot and one size eleven. They resolved to swap every hour, taking the next hour in the insulated boots they’d been wearing when the fire struck.
Murdo had lucked out completely. His feet were by far the biggest in the base—a size thirteen, a full two sizes bigger than the largest rescued ski boot.
‘No fucking way Cinderella’s going to this ball,’ he cursed as he gave up trying to jam his feet into one of the plastic boots. ‘I’ll just have to make do with what I’ve got.’
Lauren nodded, sizing up the leather trekking boots he was wearing. ‘They should be OK,’ she told him, ‘but we’ll have to watch you when the ice gets steep.’
Privately, Lauren knew that Murdo was going to suffer. The boots he was wearing could offer very little protection against the cold and would freeze as soon as his feet began to sweat.
Worse still, the Scotsman would have to walk every one of the three hundred miles which lay before them, a factor which would bring down their average speed considerably.
‘Never was much good on skis anyway,’ he told Lauren, striding alongside the sledge to keep his pace up.
Lauren resolved to spend as much of her own time on foot as she could; it would help Murdo’s morale, if nothing else.
That first night, astonishingly, even with the frequent stops to try and adjust their boots and skis, the team completed the first ten miles in a remarkably fast six hours, the spirits of the group lifted by their decision to leave the base.
They were going hard into the night, each team member pushing their limbs faster than a normal walking pace in their desperation to get away from the smouldering wreckage of the base.
And to get away from Fitzgerald.
‘Not so fast,’ Lauren had to tell them. ‘We have to pace ourselves properly. There’s no point in blowing ourselves out to do fifty miles in record time if we’ve got no energy left for the next fifty.’
The team responded to her words, slowing their strides down to a more sustainable pace, searching for, and finding, the rhythm which suited them best.
There was one factor in their favour as they struck out across the plateau: the comparatively easy nature of the terrain. It was not perfect, but it was smooth enough to give them a chance to keep up a high average speed. The sledge ran without much resistance, its passage helped by the polished ice.
As the morning light arrived, Lauren and Sean kept a watch to the rear; this was the time when Fitzgerald was most likely to spot them making their escape.
‘You seen any sign of him?’ Sean asked her as they stared back in the direction of the base.
‘None. And I can’t see the base either. That means we’ve cracked enough distance that the curvature of the earth is working in our favour.’
‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘I imagine he’ll just be biding his time. He’ll think we’re holed up in that temporary shelter trying to keep warm. With luck, he might not approach until he thinks we’re all dead.’
‘With luck,’ Sean repeated. ‘We’re sure going to need an awful lot of that.’
‘I know,’ Lauren told him, ‘but for the moment we’re one step ahead of him, and that makes me feel an awful lot happier.’
Murdo was proving to be stronger than Lauren had expected, his mood dramatically improved now they were on the move. In the darkest moments after the fire she had feared the tall Scotsman was close to collapse, to giving up the fight. Now he was energised and walking steadily, never complaining even when it was his turn to take a spell at the hauling.
Frank too was trying his best, sliding clumsily on the skis, unable to use ski poles thanks to the burns on his hands. Mel examined him at midday, reporting back to Lauren.
‘Those blisters are oozing pus already,’ she told her. ‘We can’t hold the infection off much longer.’
‘Nothing we can do about it,’ Lauren replied, ‘except get to that depot as fast as we can.’
That first night away from the base was horrendous, the firewood reluctant to catch, the improvised shelter flapping and rattling around them in the wind. But at least the spindrift held off; somehow the cold was so much easier to handle when it wasn’t bringing driving snow.
Lauren brought in a new regime, rotating the team so that each got two hours in the sleeping bag. It meant there was a longer wait between sleep sessions, but two hours’ sleep was a lot more useful than one. Nestled in the cosy cocoon, each of them was immediately able to sleep, the womb-like warmth a blessed relief after the piercing cold.
Lauren put herself last on the list, even though she craved her own turn in the bag as much as any of them.
61
Crack. A splintering sound rent the air. Fitzgerald sat up, his scalp tightening with fear as he was jolted from sleep. Someone was pulling his food from the sledge. Even though the wind was beating hard against the tent, he could hear the tins jostling as they stole them.
They were here. They’d get the snowcat.
How could he have been so stupidly complacent? Of course they would try and hunt him down … there was no other way for them to survive. Fitzgerald fumbled for the axe, cursing silently as his fingers ran carelessly across the blade.
I didn’t go far enough. They’ve followed the tracks.
His heart was pounding uncontrollably. It would be Sean, of course. And Murdo, the big Scotsman. Too big for comfort. The two of them would be lethal, fighting for their lives. Fitzgerald checked the illuminated dial of his watch: 4:53 a.m., perfect time for a raid. He pulled on his boots, no time for the laces.
Got to get out of the tent and fight.
What would they have? What had the explosion left them? They would have a weapon, perhaps a sharpened metal strut from the debris.
Fitzgerald felt his skin crawling as he crouched in the doorway to the tent. He’d have to be fast or they’d stick him through the fabric of the tent. It rustled loudly as a new blast struck.
That was it. They were slitting the fabric.
Fitzgerald ripped down the zip and sprung quickly from the front alcove, a wave of fear and adrenaline driving him forward. He collapsed onto a snowbank; all was dark. He lashed out with the axe, sweeping great arcs through air which was filled with dense driving snow.
There was no light. Nothing to see his assailants by. He braced himself for the blows, hyperventilating as he blinked into the blizzard.
The sledge. They would take the sledge first.
The explorer felt his way to the side of the tent.
Thank God. The sledge was still there. He could feel the great mounds of boxes filled with food, the rounded outlines of the jerrycans … the fuel which would mean the difference between life and death.
He screamed a challenge against the wind, his eyes picking out some detail now, spinning as new eddies of spindrift turned themselves into fleeting figures running towards him.
Had he imagined it? Now he wasn’t sure.
Crack. This time it was the ice mocking him, the resonant cry of a glacier under stress. New crevasses opening up beneath him. He paused, listening … to what? The palpitations of his own heart, the rumble of the wind.
He had to move this camp. It was compromised. Had the
y been there? Did they know where it was? Suddenly, the night seemed filled with new fear.
Fitzgerald felt his mind come back. He couldn’t move while the conditions were like this. He would have to wait till first light.
Crack.
This was a wake-up call. A message he couldn’t ignore. Fitzgerald sat alert through that night, knowing that they would come, that they would have to try and kill him … all they had to do was find him.
Crack.
They could douse the tent in petrol. Burn him alive.
Now he knew the enemy, Fitzgerald wouldn’t take them for granted again …
62
‘My legs. My fucking legs. Help me, for Christ’s sake.’
Murdo was writhing on the ground in agony, both his legs shot out straight, rigid with cramp.
Lauren and Mel pushed on his feet, trying to ignore the tears of pain that this action provoked.
‘It’ll pass,’ Mel told him. ‘Breathe as deep as you can.’
Murdo wasn’t the only one; they were all beginning to suffer from the harsh struggle to get to the first depot, and Richard was limping with a badly twisted ankle. Lauren calculated they had made forty-eight miles from base and the distance was beginning to tell. So was the lack of food; five days is a long time to ask the human body to perform with nothing but tepid water as fuel, and the miles were stretching into an unending nightmare of pain.
Lauren was hit by dizzy spells, attacks when she was forced to halt, to crouch on the ice with her head low between her knees to avert the threat of a faint. The others were no better: Sean was hobbling painfully on his frozen feet, Mel had developed a constant throbbing headache which refused to go away.
Frank said nothing for hours on end, but stumbled at the back of the group, his burned hands giving him hell. They were all dehydrated, suffering from constant thirst.
‘I thought you had to be in a desert to be this thirsty,’ Frank commented, talking with difficulty as his tongue had swollen inside his mouth.
Black Ice Page 22
