Black Ice

by Matt Dickinson

  De Pierman buzzed his secretary.

  ‘Jane, will you come and pick up the sample from Capricorn? I want it taken in for analysis right away.’

  He held up the sample tube and shook it gently. From within he could hear the faint sound of liquid sloshing around. There’d better be something good in that tube, he mused, or Lauren had given her life for nothing.

  110

  Alexander De Pierman came out of a meeting at the Sheraton Park Lane and checked the LCD display on his mobile. There was one message waiting, a number he did not recognise.

  ‘Mr De Pierman,’ the voicemail ran, ‘this is the Cowley Laboratory. I have some bad news for you regarding the specimen from Capricorn base. Can you get over here right away?’

  De Pierman had himself driven to the laboratory, the manager meeting him at the door and escorting him through to the analysis room.

  ‘We got the equipment all sterilised,’ he told De Pierman, ‘worked out the correct procedures to deal with the sample, but I’m afraid you’re going to be very disappointed when I tell you what we found.’

  De Pierman was perplexed.

  ‘There was no life in the specimen?’

  The lab manager gave a brittle laugh.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve all been the victim of an elaborate hoax. What’s in that test tube will never hold life.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  The lab manager held up the test tube and pulled out the rubber bung from the neck.

  ‘Take a smell,’ he said. ‘You’ll see what I mean.’

  De Pierman put his nose to the glass phial, pulling back a little at the pungent aroma that assaulted his nostrils.

  ‘I haven’t run any tests yet,’ the lab manager told him, ‘but we have a pretty good idea what it is.’

  De Pierman took another sniff to make sure he was not mistaken, a bewildered expression crossing his features as he did so.

  ‘Oh, I know what this is all right,’ he said, ‘but how did it come to be in this test tube? Has there been a mistake?’

  ‘No mistake,’ the lab manager confirmed. ‘That is the sample Fitzgerald handed to you earlier today.’

  ‘But Lauren wouldn’t have given him the wrong tube. How could she? That sample was everything to her … It doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  The lab manager shrugged. ‘We’re as much in the dark as you are. Someone’s idea of a joke, maybe?’

  De Pierman chewed it over in his mind, his sharply analytical brain trying to make some sense out of this bizarre development.

  ‘Unless…’ he said, ‘unless this isn’t a sample at all. Maybe Lauren was trying to tell us something. Perhaps it’s a signal of some sort.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.’

  De Pierman checked his watch.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, Mr Fitzgerald is meeting his adoring public as we speak. If I’m lucky, I can just catch him. I think he has some questions to answer.’

  111

  Alexander De Pierman’s chauffeur-driven BMW pulled up outside the Royal Geographical Society just after eight p.m.

  ‘Wait here, please,’ he instructed the driver.

  De Pierman made his way through the plush corridors to the lecture hall, where he gently pushed open one of the side doors and found a standing place in the crowd. Fitzgerald had become front-page news all over the world, and the room was packed with hundreds of people.

  The explorer stood before them as he reached the end of his address, emaciated but poker-backed, his face pockmarked with the ravages of frostbite.

  ‘And so to conclude.’ He wiped a tear away from his eyes with his bandaged hands. ‘I would have to say that a journey to hell itself would scarcely have held more horrors. To watch Lauren Burgess and her brave team die one by one, to know that there was nothing more that I could do other than share my last few crumbs of food with them … those were moments which will live with me for ever. When I reached the crashed aircraft I managed to find the transmitter, but something inside me—call me stubborn if you like—prevented me from calling in help at that stage.’

  Fitzgerald gulped, seemingly overcome. There was not a whisper in the auditorium, a dropping pin would have sounded like a scaffold pole.

  ‘I decided to carry on my original quest. To walk from one side of the Antarctic continent to the other … at the widest point. Seven days later I made it to the sea, where I finally set up the radio and called in the air rescue. But my greatest satisfaction was not from my own humble achievement, it was to be the bearer of a vital test tube from Capricorn base. I gave that test tube for analysis today, and I believe the results will prove the whole enterprise worthwhile.’

  The hall erupted into a thunderous roar of approval, hundreds of people cheering and clapping. Cries of ‘Bravo!’ were ringing out; many of the women were in tears. On the stage, Julian Fitzgerald stood modestly behind the lectern, waving occasionally with his bandaged hands to acknowledge the crowd.

  After some minutes, the President of the Society took the stage, raising his palms to quell the applause.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘It has been our pleasure over the years to witness some remarkable stories of human courage within these four walls. Extraordinary stories of triumph over adversity. But I believe we have seldom heard a story to match that of Mr Fitzgerald. Faced with one setback after another, and often with his own life in danger, he struggled to preserve the lives of his companions in one of the most hostile environments on earth. When they were lost, he struggled on, becoming the first man … the first man, mark you, to make a complete crossing of the Antarctic continent at its widest point.’

  There was another ripple of applause around the hall.

  ‘And not only that,’ the President continued. ‘In addition, he preserved the one precious scientific sample which had survived the catastrophic fire at Capricorn base. A sample which may, we understand, change the fabric of biology as we know it. Not since the days of Livingstone, Stanley or Scott have we been blessed with such a stirring national achievement. We salute you, Mr Fitzgerald, and may I say we will be forwarding your name to the committee to receive the Founder’s Medal!’

  More great cheers rang around the hall.

  ‘And now, if anyone has any questions, I’m sure Mr Fitzgerald will oblige.’

  A hand went up at the front.

  ‘What can you possibly do next? After this stupendous achievement, is there anything left for an explorer such as yourself?’

  Fitzgerald took the stand again. ‘There is always another challenge,’ he said, ‘and that is why this is an auspicious moment to announce that I will be setting up a scientific institute called the Fitzgerald Foundation. The objectives will be to pursue challenging scientific projects in the polar regions of the planet. I will be looking for subscribers and benefactors for the foundation in the near future.’

  The audience showed its appreciation again. There were calls of ‘Here, here!’ from some of the older members.

  Then a voice rang out from the back.

  ‘I have a question for you,’ it said, ‘but I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it.’

  The applause died down as Fitzgerald squinted into the dark recesses of the hall, half recognising the voice but not quite sure.

  ‘That sounds like Mr De Pierman?’

  De Pierman stepped forward to the front of the hall.

  ‘It is. Perhaps you would be kind enough to introduce me to the audience?’

  ‘Alexander De Pierman was the sponsor of Dr Burgess’s Capricorn base,’ Fitzgerald told the crowd. ‘One of those rare industrialists who put their money into the world of scientific research.’

  There was a polite scattering of applause.

  ‘Do you have news of the test-tube analysis?’ Fitzgerald asked him. ‘Perhaps there are some results we can share with the audience here and now?’

  ‘I have more questions than results, Mr Fitzgerald.’

&
nbsp; Fitzgerald could not mistake the undercurrent of hostility in De Pierman’s tone.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that that sample was given to you by Lauren Burgess?’

  Fitzgerald licked his blistered lips, giving the audience a quick, exasperated glance.

  ‘Of course,’ he snapped. ‘How could I be mistaken on that?’

  ‘And that sample never left your possession from the moment that Lauren gave it to you until you handed it to me?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Fitzgerald spluttered indignantly. ‘I was well aware of the vital importance of what that test tube contained. It was Lauren Burgess’s dying wish that I guard that test tube with my life. And that was what I did.’

  The lecture theatre was quiet now, the many hundreds of people uneasy at the exchange they were witnessing.

  ‘So there is no way at all that anyone could have switched the contents of that test tube after Lauren handed it to you?’ De Pierman asked.

  ‘Correct.’

  De Pierman took a few steps onto the stage, where he positioned himself next to Fitzgerald. A low muttering began to sweep through the hall, there were a couple of cries of ‘Shame!’ from some of the audience.

  De Pierman referred to the huge map of Antarctica which was projected on the screen behind Fitzgerald.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to show me where Lauren died?’

  Fitzgerald began to redden with anger. ‘Sir! I no longer see that your questions are relevant. Kindly leave the stage.’

  ‘Show me where she died.’ De Pierman was insistent.

  Fitzgerald glared at him and took up a pointer. He tapped it on a midway position on the Blackmore Glacier.

  ‘As I have already said, Dr Burgess died here.’

  ‘And the location of the crashed aeroplane?’

  Fitzgerald moved the pointer, tapping impatiently again.

  ‘Here. About one hundred miles away. Now, will you kindly let me continue with my lecture?’

  ‘So, Lauren Burgess never made it to that aeroplane?’

  ‘She certainly did not. I was the only one.’

  ‘What did Lauren tell you that test tube contained, Mr Fitzgerald?’

  ‘I already told you. It was a sample of fluid from the lake they had drilled into. It contained microscopic species new to science.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can help me with one perplexing thing. That test tube contained no life, Mr Fitzgerald. What it actually contained was avgas. One hundred per cent aviation spirit.’

  There was a collective gasp from the audience as his words sank in. Fitzgerald rocked visibly on his feet, clutching for the side of the desk as the blood drained from his face.

  ‘I checked the Capricorn base inventory,’ De Pierman continued. ‘There was no avgas there at all. The only place Lauren Burgess could have got that aviation spirit was at the site of that crashed plane. That proves she was there and filling that sample container was a way of telling us that.’

  Fitzgerald said nothing.

  ‘So. One more question.’ De Pierman spoke quietly in the hush which had descended. ‘If you are lying about this vital piece of information, Mr Fitzgerald, how are we to trust a single word of your story?’

  Suddenly, Fitzgerald was sweeping up his notes from the lectern.

  ‘I don’t need to listen to this … this rubbish!’ he exclaimed, and headed out of the door.

  112

  De Pierman strapped himself into the front seat of the chartered Agusta 109 and watched as the lights of Battersea heliport dropped away beneath him. Twenty-one nautical miles to the north, his personal Gulfstream jet was already being wheeled out of the executive hangar at Luton Airport, ready to be fuelled.

  If there was one thing De Pierman’s lifetime in the oil industry had taught him, it was the art of moving fast across vast swathes of the planet. He was on a mission, and he wasn’t going to waste a second he didn’t need to.

  The Gulfstream was ready to roll as soon as De Pierman took his seat, the pilot reporting a strong tailwind to assist them on the southerly route. The stewardess served De Pierman smoked salmon and his favourite Sancerre as they tracked at a shade over six hundred miles an hour across France and the Pyrenees.

  The Gulfstream touched down at Madrid Barajas Airport at eleven fifteen p.m. De Pierman paid for a VIP limousine transfer directly across the tarmac and took a first-class seat on the midnight Aerolineas Argentinas flight to Buenos Aires. He could have taken the Gulfstream across the Atlantic, but it would have meant a refuel at Dakar and a subsequent loss of time.

  While De Pierman slept, his London office was already on the phone to South America, sorting out the next leg of the journey, a chartered Learjet which would take him down in a single hop to Tierra del Fuego.

  The connection was smooth, and by eight a.m. local time he was in Ushuaia, where the Antarctic Air Service operations manager greeted him and took him for a briefing. Also present was the local medic who had been alerted by De Pierman’s office. For a modest fee, he had agreed to accompany the oilman on the flight, ready to treat any survivors they should find.

  ‘We were surprised to get the call from your office,’ the operations manager told him. ‘May I ask what the purpose of this flight is?’

  ‘If my hunch is right, we’ll be picking up survivors from Capricorn at the site where your plane crashed some months ago.’

  ‘On the Blackmore Glacier?’ The operations manager was perplexed. ‘But how could they be there? And more to the point, perhaps, how could they still be alive? As I understood Mr Fitzgerald’s account, all of the other Capricorn team members died as they crossed the ice.’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ De Pierman had to admit. ‘But I owe it to the base commander to check this out. It’s their last chance, and I wouldn’t want to deprive them of that.’

  ‘You have dollars?’

  De Pierman flashed him a credit card, the limit on which would have enabled him to buy the aeroplane if he’d so wished.

  ‘You realise, Mr De Pierman,’ the operations manager told him regretfully as he swiped the card, ‘that your journey will probably be a wasted one. It is a long way to fly for such a disappointment.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ De Pierman told him, ‘but I think—no, I pray—you may be wrong.’

  De Pierman signed the credit slip and was escorted to the waiting plane.

  113

  Lauren was dreaming, just as she seemed to have been doing for every moment of the weeks they had been waiting. Or were they hallucinations? In these days of wasting away it was difficult to tell.

  Frank and Sean were still by her side, but they might have been ghosts for all the conversation they offered. Maybe they were ghosts, Lauren sometimes thought; they could have died without a sound. Frank’s breathing was now so light his chest barely rose and fell. Days were passing without a single word being exchanged between them.

  Sometimes Sean held her hand, radiating heat and care into her by some magic force.

  It was a gentle experience now the pain had receded, dying little by little like this. Lauren almost found it fascinating, the way her body had metamorphosed. She’d always been good at endurance; she had little doubt she would be the last to go.

  Her world was green, a calming enough colour, the dome above her head creased and rucked where the wind had stretched and tested it. In the early stages the tent walls had become a cell, a prison, a tomb or worse. Hope was hanging on in there, but by such a slender thread it might have been spun from gossamer.

  But then Lauren learned to relax. Their fate was no longer in their own hands but in the hands of Alexander De Pierman and a titanium tube filled with aviation spirit which he might or might not have received. Would Fitzgerald have destroyed it? Maybe he had thought twice about delivering it. And even if he had handed it to her sponsor, would the oilman recognise the cry for help it contained?

  Then it happened, the noise of the approaching Twin Otter as
it flew towards them across the glacier. How many days had they waited? How many countless, sleepless hours had they wished for that very noise?

  Lauren thought her heart would burst.

  She tried to speak, but her lips and throat were so blistered she could not form a single word. Instead she just squeezed Sean’s hand, the answering pressure telling her that he too was still alive and that he too had heard the sound and understood it.

  Lauren now knew for sure what heaven sounded like. In heaven, two 578-horsepower Pratt & Whitney turbo-props were swooping out of the sky, buzzing low over the tent and fading off once more into the distance. Lauren prayed there would be a medic on board, she knew that Richard and Murdo were both close to death in the next-door tent. It was at least two days since she had had the strength to visit them, and Mel too had been almost incoherent with starvation and dehydration when she had seen her last.

  She knew that the aircraft could land; their last actions before their final retreat into the tents had been to recce and mark a new landing strip a short distance from Fitzgerald’s original—and deadly—choice.

  Next to her she sensed that Sean was trying to say something. But his words, like hers, could not be formed, and they came out as a series of murmured gasps. Then the engine noise increased to a roar, and through that echoing chaos in her head her mind exulted in the knowledge that her message had got through. That someone out there in the world beyond had cared to discover whether or not the Capricorn team was still alive.

  Lauren tried to lift her arms out of her sleeping bag, but found she did not have the strength. Shadows merged at the front of the tent, then, astonishingly strong hands helped her to undo the zip. She was carried out onto the ice where the bright red aircraft sat, as unexpected and surprising in that place as an alien spaceship.

  Things went weird for a while, and somewhere in that black spell Lauren was dimly aware that she might have passed out. She came to in the recovery position, her head cradled on her arm, but tried to raise herself up, wanting to know who was still alive. Had Frank died? Was Richard even now cold and lifeless in that tent?