Ice Station Wolfenstein

by Preston; Child

  "It's a type of ICBM, I believe" Professor Matlock said. "I have heard of the Aggregat series. The idea was to create a complement of rockets which, when used in conjunction, would have made the Nazis an unstoppable force. I was only aware of there being twelve in the series, though."

  "It could be that we've come across something unknown outside of this station," Nina suggested. "Anyway, it looks like whoever was working in this laboratory had prepared something that was to be tested along with a prototype of this missile, but it didn't go to plan. Something didn't disseminate the way they wanted it to, and an area of land had to be put out of bounds until they could ascertain whether the container for this virus had been—"

  "Sir!"

  A crash of shattering glass pierced the silence. Admiral Whitsun was on his knees, coughing and wheezing. The young PMC rushed forward to help him. "Are you all right, sir?" he asked, giving the old man his arm.

  "I'm fine," said Admiral Whitsun. "I'm fine. Please, don't make a fuss."

  "Admiral, I'm worried about you," Nina said, coming round to support him from the other side. "We've only been here a day and a bit and that's the second turn you've had. I think you're overdoing it. Let's get you back to the meeting room and you can have a seat and we'll get you some tea."

  "Honestly, there's no need to worry." The admiral's voice was as steady and reassuring as he could make it, though his hands were still trembling and Sam thought he could see the old man's legs shaking. "I would rather not cause any more hassle than I already have." He glanced down at the shards of glass lying on the floor. Judging by the little stand lying amid the wreckage, he had knocked over a handful of empty test tubes. "I do seem to have made a mess, don't I? I trust you did not cut yourself while helping me up, young man?"

  The PMC shook his head. "No, sir."

  "That is a relief, then. Do you have a name?"

  "Private Hodge, sir." The PMC stood to attention.

  "Well, Private Hodge, I wonder if you would be so kind as to escort me back to my quarters? I can hardly stay here if I'm going to prove such a liability to the others, and I am sure that Major Alfsson would prefer it if none of us wander the corridors unattended."

  Again, Private Hodge stole a quick glance at his superior for confirmation, then said "Yes, sir" and set off, matching his strides to the pace of the frail admiral.

  "I'm getting a horrible feeling that he's not going to make it back home," Fatima whispered, half to herself, half to Nina and Sam. Sam nodded. Whatever the state of the admiral's health on the journey, he seemed to be deteriorating rapidly now that they were here.

  Pity, Sam thought. He seems a really nice old boy. Just a bit . . . broken, I suppose. Sad and reserved. I'm sorry I had to be part of that. I hope he's getting what he's looking for by being here. I hope he'll be ok.

  Chapter 20

  BY THE END of the day, all the expedition team had thoroughly explored the lab and exhausted their patience with one another. Nina and Professor Matlock were bickering with each other over the contents of the notes and struggling with the highly specific technical jargon. Fatima was doing her best to help, but since she had the technical expertise but not the language, her ability to break up the squabbles was limited. Jefferson Daniels, who prided himself on his ability to mediate disputes, apparently without justification, was attempting to pour oil on troubled waters.

  His work behind the camera done, Sam had decided to sneak out. The sound of arguing voices was starting to give him a headache and making him acutely aware that it had been several hours since his last cigarette and even longer since his last drink. Muttering some excuse about going to find Purdue and work on his profile, Sam slipped out into the corridor. A moment later he heard the door open behind him and looked around to see Alexandr following him, with Private Hodge, who had returned to the labs, at his heels.

  "I'm sorry, sir," Private Hodge said, "but I have to accompany you. Captain Hernandez's orders. Are you returning to your quarters?"

  "Possibly," said Alexandr "Personally, I am going wherever the rest of the group is not. The amount of money that Mr. Purdue is paying me is obscene, but it is nowhere near enough to listen to any more of that."

  "Well, I'm heading back to quarters," said Sam. "I suppose I should really go and talk to Purdue, but I'm not sure I can be bothered."

  "Then don't."

  "I really should, though," Sam groaned. "I'm supposed to be writing this stupid profile for the paper and he wants a longer version for some reason of his own, so he's paying me a stupid amount of money over and above what I'll get from the paper. I haven't even started the interviews I'll need yet."

  Alexandr led the way back toward their quarters. "There is no rush, surely. Trust me, you have plenty of time. Even if the transport to Neumayer were to arrive right now, we would still have to stay there for as long as it takes Dr. al-Fayed to carry out her research. There will be many long days that will be much less eventful than this one, and you will be glad of having something to do. So for now, I suggest that you follow my lead. I have a far better idea than chatting with Mr. Purdue."

  Sam had a feeling that Alexandr's idea might involve alcohol, and he was right. As soon as they got back to the corridor and Private Hodge departed, Alexandr slipped into his room and emerged a few seconds later with his flask. Sam wondered how the guide managed it—no matter how much he drank or shared, the flask always seemed to be full. Maybe it's the Ke'let, Sam thought, letting his imagination run free. Maybe it follows him around topping off his vodka. That would certainly explain why he's willing to rush off into the snow every new year. I'd do it myself for an unlimited supply of that stuff.

  They repaired to Sam's room where they pulled blankets and pillows onto the floor and sprawled out. Not wishing to exhaust his supply of real cigarettes, Sam fished around in the deepest recesses of his backpack until he found his emergency pouch of loose tobacco and rolling papers. He held out the little packet of filters, but Alexandr waved them away and rolled himself a long, extremely thin cigarette.

  "Expertly done," Sam said, marveling at Alexandr's speed and dexterity.

  "You spend enough time out here, you become good at rolling these," Alexandr said. "The trick is to create as thin a line of tobacco as possible, but it must be unbroken and unfiltered. With such a thin line, if you use a filter you simply should not bother to smoke at all. It is the perfect balance of necessity and frugality, and if you do it correctly the result is close to art." Pulling his lighter from his pocket, he lit the cigarette and took a shallow draft. "Then you must inhale just deeply enough to get the benefit, but not enough to exhaust the cigarette too soon."

  "I'm spoiled." Sam attempted to copy what Alexandr had done, but the line of tobacco was thicker than he would have liked and he lost a few precious flakes as he rolled the paper with clumsy fingers. "Well, close enough." He put his wonky creation between his lips and lit it. "This definitely wasn't how I thought I'd be spending the first weeks of this year."

  "Nor I," Alexandr agreed, knocking back a shot of vodka and pouring himself another capful. "Never before have I seen an expedition pulled together so quickly, or with such strange purposes."

  "Did you know what Purdue was here for? You didn't seem to when he told the rest of us, but I wondered whether you were just indulging his moment of drama."

  "No, that was genuine. I did not know, and if I had known when he engaged my services I would have advised him against this search. Even though we have found this place, I doubt that every one of us will leave it alive."

  Sam nodded. No one had drawn direct attention to the dangers the group faced since Admiral Whitsun had alluded to the instructions he had given that he should be left behind if his health failed. Yet it was always there—unspoken by some, unconsidered by others. Sam realized that only hours had passed since he had been waiting for the sound of a gunshot behind him and the sensation of oblivion. "We're in over our heads, aren't we? God knows what Purdue's dragged us into."
<
br />   "We are. Something dangerous is going on here, of that there is no doubt." Alexandr's face hardened slightly, his expression darkening. "The key to surviving dangerous situations is to understand them. We do not. We are unaware of the true nature of our situation. This makes it unlikely that we will all get out alive. We may be lucky, perhaps, if any of us do."

  Well, that took a turn for the morose, Sam thought. He tried to ignore the tingle of fear that was creeping up his spine. All through their time in the tent and their first hours in the ice station, Sam had been able to convince himself that as long as Alexandr remained sanguine there was really nothing to fear. But now . . .

  "It's funny," Sam said, "I thought that I didn't want to live. My plan, back home in Edinburgh, was to drink myself to death eventually—and by eventually, I was thinking hopefully within the next couple of years."

  "That seems a very complicated way to commit suicide." Alexandr's brow furrowed. "Why not concentrate it into a short period? Even a single night? It can be done."

  Sam shook his head. "I couldn't. I wanted to—left to my own devices I'd just have got pissed and jumped off a bridge, but there was someone who would have been angry and upset if I'd done that. So I couldn't."

  "And this person would not have objected to you drinking yourself to death slowly?"

  "Probably. But if I did it over a long time, I could sort of pretend I was still trying to function. Anyway, I don't know why I put so much thought into what that person would want any more. She died."

  Alexandr made no reply, but his face softened a little. He learned forward and topped off Sam's makeshift cup.

  "She died," Sam repeated, "and I thought I wanted to die too. That's why I wasn't nervous about coming to the Antarctic. I knew it would be dangerous but I didn't really care. And now . . . I don't know what's changed, but I really don't fancy getting shot by those soldiers or freezing to death outside. Presumably I don't really want to die after all—but I'd definitely like to drink myself into oblivion for tonight, at least."

  "Oblivion is more than this little flask has to offer, regretfully," Alexandr said. "But it can certainly take the edge off of your pain, I am sure. Here. Have another, and let us talk to something more cheerful. Perhaps I am wrong to be so pessimistic. And even if I am not, what would be the point of spending our remaining time in misery? You have finished your cigarette—let me show you how to roll one properly."

  So Sam settled down to watch Alexandr's nimble fingers creating skinny cigarettes. The guide plucked a story out of the air, apparently at random, and began to tell Sam of an earlier adventure in which he had been stuck in a Siberian snowdrift trying to get an old-fashioned steam train to work years after being decommissioned. Sam did not follow the exact details of the repair, which seemed to have been conducted with little more than twigs, an oil can, and a Swiss army knife, but the Russian certainly spun a good yarn. Before Sam knew it he was smiling again, then laughing, then actually enjoying himself despite the danger and the constant underlying feeling that he was betraying Trish just by being alive.

  The following morning Sam got up uncharacteristically early and sneaked down to the refectory before the others were up. His chat with Alexandr had given him a lot to think about, and he could not face another morning of bickering and tension. The taciturn PMCs at the end of the corridor let him pass without comment, but Sam saw that a few more had been posted on the other stories. In the kitchen he rooted through their supplies and found some tea, then picked as many berries as he could out of his porridge before adding the water. As he spooned the sloppy, over-sweetened mess into his mouth, he caught himself thinking longingly of Scottish Lorne sausages and steak bakes.

  After breakfast he hit the showers. The water was gloriously hot and smelled faintly of sulfur, and the pressure was perfect. Heavy jets of steaming water thudded into the tense muscles of Sam's back and shoulders and thundered down on his head. After seasickness, tents, dehydrated food, and hard bunks, this was luxury. He peeled off a couple of sheets of compacted soap and scrubbed himself clean, then stood and let the water flow over him for far, far longer than necessary. He could not remember the last time he had actually enjoyed a sensation like that.

  Sam had just finished lathering up his hair, ready at last to wash it and come out of the shower, when he heard a sudden banging and yelling from outside. He dived out of the cubicle and threw his towel around his waist, then ran into the corridor. At the far end two PMCs were rolling on the floor, one of them landing blow after blow on the other and screaming incoherently. A section of the corrugated iron hung loose where one of them had been slammed into the wall.

  Without thinking Sam charged toward them and hurled his full weight at the one doing the punching, lifting him clear off of his opponent and sending him sprawling on the floor. Just as Sam realized that he had waded into a fight between two men who were considerably stronger than him, Alexandr appeared out of nowhere and leaped on the fallen soldier.

  "His arm!" Alexandr yelled at Sam, who quickly got the message and pinned the PMC's right arm to the floor while Alexandr took the left. Then he noticed the ginger curls sticking out from under the soldier's helmet and the pale, freckled face contorted into an expression of rage. It was Private Hodges.

  The other PMC had recovered from the surprise of Hodges' attack and was back on his feet, ready to restrain the young man. His face was a bloody mess, his thick nose certainly broken and his left eye beginning to puff up. With difficulty, he hauled Hodges up, yanked a length of cord from his belt and bound his wrists while Sam and Alexandr held the private in place. Even though Hodges was a soldier, Sam would not have believed that he could be so strong. He was thin and wiry, but he was putting up quite a fight against this three captors. Soon a handful of PMCs arrived to respond to their comrade's call for help. It took six of them in total to drag Private Hodges away, and by the time they did the rest of the expedition party had appeared at their doors.

  "Well, that was an unexpected excitement." Alexandr retrieved Sam's towel from the floor and handed it back to him.

  "Thanks." Sam hastily replaced the towel and cursed himself for not noticing that it has fallen. Now he would never be able to look Alexandr, anyone else in the group or either of the PMCs in the eye again.

  "However long they have been here, "Alexandr wondered aloud as Sam skulked back toward his own room, "it is clearly too long. I've seen this kind of aggression before, but usually only in people who are overwintering. I wonder when they arrived—and whether they intend to leave before winter sets in?"

  A couple of hours later, when Sam heard the others coming back from breakfast, he was sprawled on his bunk and staring into space, still only half-dressed. He had got as far as pulling on his last fresh long johns and clean trousers, then out of nowhere, a deluge of memories had hit him, knocking him off his feet.

  It was the moment with the towel that had triggered them. At first he had not been aware of anything more than his usual reserve, the standard feelings of foolishness and embarrassment at being naked in front of people. Sam had no particular hang-ups about his body—he knew that it was a little on the skinny side, not especially offensive to the eye—but he had been brought up to keep it to himself around strangers and acquaintances. The last time he had scuttled naked along a brightly lit corridor in front of a host of mildly concerned near-strangers, he had been in the hospital, shortly after Trish's death.

  He was surprised that he remembered it all so clearly, considering how thoroughly he had repressed the memory until now. The hospital had been busy and noisy, an overflowing medical behemoth in East London, close to the warehouse where the shoot-out had taken place. Even in the seclusion of his private room, Sam had been unable to escape the screams of the terrified young man awaiting psychiatric assessment down the corridor, sounding for all the world like Private Hodges as he was dragged away.

  Sam had drifted in and out of consciousness thanks to a combination of concussion and medication,
desperately asking every nurse or doctor who came into his room whether Patricia was all right. He knew it was a lost cause. He was well aware that Trish's injuries were extensive. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the remaining half of her lovely face, bewildered and destroyed. But he could not let go of the hope that somehow she would have survived.

  In the middle of his first night in the hospital, Sam had woken up in a morphine-fueled frenzy. He was convinced that Patricia was somewhere in the hospital, still alive, and that the arms ring would send more of their goons to kill her unless Sam could find her and protect her.

  One by one, Sam had ripped the cannulas from his hands and feet and dragged himself out of bed. The sheets were twisted around his legs and caught up with his hospital gown so he threw them all off, feeling the tabs fastening the gown snap. Then, step by painful step, he hauled himself along the corridor toward the double doors. Somewhere beyond them, he would find Patricia. As he blundered toward the main stairwell he yelled her name over and over.

  The touch of the first nurse's hand was like being woken from a fever dream. Sam never had any idea how many there had been. All he knew was that there had been hands everywhere, calming him, shushing him, turning him around and guiding him back toward his room. He was suddenly aware of the eyes of patients and staff staring at him from the other rooms, and when he felt the soft weight of the blanket falling around his shoulders he realized that he had been wandering naked.

  They had sent a psychiatrist in then. As Sam was hooked back up to the saline and morphine drips, a gentle-voiced young woman spoke soothingly to him. She reminded him as sensitively as she could that Patricia was dead and that Sam needed to rest and recover from his injuries, but that she would be there to help him work through his trauma when he was ready. A nurse discharged a syringe of sedative into Sam's vein and he drifted back into unconsciousness, feeling more powerless than he ever had in his life before.