Cold Blood

by Andy McNab

  Stedman knew it but just couldn’t help himself. ‘There were a couple of flights out this morning, and she was early enough to catch one, but … I’ve left messages, texts, WhatsApps … I just want to know she’s safe …’

  He was about to start flapping again.

  ‘Mate, if you can’t see her and her phone’s turned off, there’s not a lot you can do, is there? Chances are, you’re right, she got away. We’ve got other things here to sort out.’ I yanked his sleeve, not for the first time that day.

  He nodded, but still glanced left and right as we walked. ‘You and Jack – you’re back to best mates, then? I thought Jack had had enough of you?’

  Stedman shook his head. ‘We’re really close.’

  I checked out his squashed nose and thought, Yeah, you don’t get much closer than a head-butt.

  ‘Always will be. No matter what. We came back from Bastion on the same medevac. Had next-door beds at Selly Oak. He must have said this to you because he tells everyone. He reckons it was me who made him believe he could get out there and do this.’

  ‘Once you’ve shared a bedpan, you’ve bonded. I get it.’

  Stedman stopped in the midst of the chaos of bags and people. There was more than a hint of the old swagger. ‘No, you don’t, Nick. There’s more to it than that.’ He gave me a no-fucking-about look, the first I’d ever seen from him. His default expressions were self-pity, sad or pissed off.

  ‘No matter how much I fuck up, he will forgive and forget. And you know what? I’d do the same for him. That’s what no one understands.’

  He watched my face and waited for me to nod back. I did. Maybe Cauldwell had it wrong. Maybe this lad wasn’t the devil incarnate, the bastard who’d persuaded his son to overreach himself.

  The mobile vibrated in his hand and all his Christmases had come at once.

  ‘Leila? … Yes!’ Nodding like the Duracell Bunny, he lifted the mobile so I could read the WhatsApp: Now fuck off and die.

  I carried on walking. ‘Let’s see if my best friend Synne can fall under your spell too – and help you play bedpans at latitude eighty-nine. Then I’ll get something to eat. That roll made me even more hungry.’

  45

  Floating platforms of ice dotted the coal-black ocean below us as we lifted from the archipelago, but we were soon lost in clouds as we gained height for the two-and-a-half-hour journey north.

  The team and I weren’t alone aboard the twin-jet Antonov Cheburashka. A group of Chinese tourists in extra-thick Day-Glo pink and lime green padded suits bounced around like pairs of Teletubbies on each side of the aisle.

  I was surrounded by a TV crew. In the window seat next to me, a pretty Chinese woman, the presenter, perhaps, with a big expensive fur hat covering her short, pudding-basin haircut stroked the make-up case on her lap, like it was a cat.

  Her two crew were in the seats just in front. They carried their kit with them as hand luggage, and had clearly seen it, done it, bought the ‘I Was At the North Pole’ T-shirt. They’d pulled on eyeshades and sparked out as soon as they were seated. These boys were definitely too cool for school, and wanted us to know it. The woman smiled at me politely. I hoped she’d follow their example and get her head down.

  At the bargain price of just another eighty-two thousand dollars, the airline had managed to scrape together another three seats, and bolt them into the Antonov. Almost half of the cabin had been stripped to make room for cargo, most of which seemed to be drums of fuel on pallets and the fluorescent crew bags.

  I’d called Rune to give him the good news that there were extra bodies coming. He didn’t sound fazed, just went straight into geek mode about kit – or the lack of it. He used the word ‘challenge’ more than once.

  I told him not to worry. Three of us would be staying at Barneo.

  At least the heating was working on the aircraft. I took my duvet off and shoved it under the seat in front. Soon, I hoped, I’d get comfortable, join the TV crew and get my head down.

  It wasn’t to be. I got a tap on my right shoulder from a hysterical Rio, who should have been strapped in across the aisle and a row behind. Gabriel was in the window seat, pumping his arm like a piston and doing the eyebrow workout as he gestured towards my neighbour. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to tell me he wanted to have sex with her, or that I should be trying to.

  Will and Jules were fast asleep in front of them. Will was leaning against the window blind and Jules had wrapped herself around his arm. They were using their jackets as pillows.

  Jack and Stedman sat together two rows ahead of me, the other side of the TV crew, doing exactly the same – left ears pushed back against the headrests, eyelids clamped shut, mouths open and dribbling. They looked like not very grown-up versions of Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy. Sleep and alcohol seemed to have dimmed their nightmares.

  The Antonov’s crew, in practical green overalls, were busy sorting out the brew trolley and stocking it with sandwich packs. I decided to get a couple of Gabriel’s codeine down me with a mug of tea.

  I pulled a glossy magazine from the net in front of me. A picture of the word ‘BARNEO’ stretched across the cover boasted it had been carved out of ice with a chainsaw – like the Hollywood sign, only cooler. Inside there were pictures of happy people standing on the ice, skiing on the ice, an Antonov landing on the ice, along with a bunch of information about how the ice camp had been set up and why.

  The first tourist flights to the North Pole or near it had been made in 2000. The camp was opened every year by the Russian Geographical Society’s Expedition Centre. They seemed to be aiming for something between EuroDisney and Ice Road Truckers. The rides ranged from extreme tourism – like skiing to the Pole – to tamer helicopter trips or just messing around for a few days within reach of a hairdryer. Some mad fuckers dived under the ice or signed up for a bit of freefall.

  The scientific function of the Barneo ice camp had been established in 2006. It was organized by researchers from the Institute of Oceanology at the Russian Academy of Sciences, the State Oceanographic Institute, and the Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute.

  Early each year, their helicopter crews circled for days, searching for a suitable ice floe, at least two metres thick, capable of supporting the enterprise. Fuel had been para-dropped ahead of time, so the helis’ range could be extended. The advance party, essential equipment and technology, tents, fuel and food were airlifted to the location they’d selected, and there they waited for the heavy drop to crack on with phase one.

  Bulldozers were rigged like armoured vehicles, then thrown out of the back of an Ilyushin with four massive military cargo parachutes deployed, and sometimes a set of rockets with proximity switches that initiated just before they landed to soften the impact. They weren’t fucking about – the Ilyushin was the largest transport aircraft on the planet. The Chechen Airborne would have jumped out of them last week, along with their vehicles.

  The bulldozers took about a week to scrape out a 1200-metre airstrip, which was then sprayed with seawater to harden it. Our favourite Cheburashka flew in the rest of the gear and crew to set up the Barneo fun park – and to dismantle it no more than four weeks later, before the ice broke up again.

  The magazine was packed with nice smiley pictures of happy campers, but somehow missed out the bit about the Chechen paras. No surprises there. Those people were selling the dream. Just not my dream – even though the standard-issue Arctic socks and woolly hat had now been replaced by a whole heap of Gucci kit. But it was a whole lot better than waiting for a flight out of Longyearbyen before an even more pissed-off bunch of Barentsburg locals caught up with me.

  The magazine was as expansive about the research conducted at Barneo as it was economical about the paratroopers. The ice camp was currently sited above the Lomonosov Ridge, where the Pacific started to get excited about meeting the Atlantic. It was a blank space on the scientific map of the world, one of those places tha
t was very difficult to get to, vital to the study of the process of the Pacific Mass’s distribution – or, to put it another way, the climatic system of the northern hemisphere.

  Needless to say, no scientist trying to forecast climate change could afford to do without it. There were a couple of graphs showing how much of the sea ice had melted over the past ten years. The ice limit was now considerably further north than the average in any previous period.

  Russia planting flags and sending its military to the area, and everyone else complaining while doing the same themselves, made total sense to me. As the cap retreated to the top of the world, it exposed the ocean and its goodies – a potential treasure trove of hydrocarbons and biological, mineral and transportation resources.

  Where would the undersea oil and gas pipelines go? Who would control the all-year shipping lanes? The North-west Passage – the sea route connecting the Pacific and the Atlantic – was becoming more navigable by the day, now that the ice was disappearing. The sea route saved about four thousand cargo miles because tankers and container-ships from China, Japan and even the west coast of the USA didn’t have to go through the Panama Canal. Canada had already laid claim to the route by rebranding it the ‘Canadian North-west Passage’, and demanded that all shipping should report in before they could use it.

  The heating was going for it big-time, and my eyelids were starting to droop, but I still needed to get my head around Rune and his eco-thing. That side of things was making less sense to me, not more. For starters, if the Barneo initiative was all about saving the world, why was he so nervous about anyone knowing what he was up to?

  46

  Barneo ice camp

  Latitude: 89.15 North

  Longitude: 87.0041 East

  I was woken by the general hubbub. My head was back, my mouth wide open. The dribble down the side of my chin told me I must have been snoring. Worse, I had missed the brew and sandwiches, my head hurt and the lump under my beanie felt as big as a football.

  My neighbour gave me no indication of how badly my snores had disturbed her flight. She was too busy checking herself in the mirror on the lid of her make-up case.

  I peered past her. A brilliantly blue sky collided with a blindingly white blanket of snow. Two clusters of tiny dots stood about a kilometre apart in the distance, one maybe twice the size of the other. As we got nearer, the smaller cluster became a scattering of large hoop-framed red or blue tents. Two Hip helicopters sat on the airstrip, which was surrounded by a square berm of ice to afford it some protection from the wind.

  Four snowmobiles sped towards us and came alongside as the stairs and ramp began to lower. Everyone was busy getting their gear on, but I was more interested in the bodies on the snowmobiles.

  Everyone outside wore protective glasses or goggles, which made identifying them a challenge. If Rune was out there, he’d have to reassess his grasp of English when this lot waddled down the gangway. They certainly didn’t fit Cauldwell’s description. ‘Fighting fit, ready for the fray’ they weren’t – but, fuck it, they were here now, a reassuring distance from Barentsburg and its less welcoming inhabitants.

  The team were concentrating as hard as I was on zipping up, finding gloves – or, in the case of Stedman and Rio, glove – and giving their sun-gigs a quick wipe as we shuffled towards the exit. The Chinese Day-Glo crew were covered in Bergan designer wear, Oakley super gold or silver-faced ski goggles and neoprene face masks. Their Baffin boots, Canadian made and capable of keeping your feet from freezing in –100° centigrade, made mine look like hand-me-downs.

  I was the last to get to the steps. I’d let the Chinese presenter catch up with her sidekicks so she could waffle away to them without having to shout past me. Not that she’d thanked me for it.

  In spite of the sunlight, it was colder there than in Longyearbyen, so at least Cauldwell had been right about one thing. Jack and the team had moved to where their packs were being unloaded on the runway. Rune stood alongside them in his bright red coat, wild hair bursting out of his neck warmer and beanie. I couldn’t read his expression at this distance.

  The Chinese Day-Glo troupe were still blocking my way, shrieking about the cold, trying to take photos as they went. Watching them discover they couldn’t operate their smartphones with their gloves on brought me as close to laughter as I’d managed to get in a while.

  Rune waved at me as I carried on down the steps, pulling down his sun-gigs just in case I thought he was a madman.

  We shook through gloved hands. He was smiling, but pirate smiling: it wasn’t real. ‘Nick, is so good that you made it. The weather down south, we thought that—’

  We had more important things to talk about than the weather. ‘What? You turning into a Brit?’

  It took him a second or two to realize it was a joke. He gave a strangulated chuckle.

  ‘Mate, don’t forget I’m funding this now. Jack’s dad, Armancore, what you’re up to, whoever, whatever, I don’t care. I just need to get these lads to the Pole. It means everything to them.’

  He gave me a serious nod. ‘We will try. Believe me, it also means much to us.’

  We shifted to the rear of the aircraft, where everyone was retrieving their kit from a pile. The Chinese tourists had been herded there as well. The film crew rigged themselves up and began filming as the front-of-house, complete with immaculate make-up, explained their great adventure to camera. Either that or she was describing Rune’s outfit to the folks at home.

  ‘Jack, this is Rune. He and his guides are going to get the team there.’

  Jack was in as good a mood as I’d ever seen him. ‘Rune, how can we begin to thank you?’

  The Norwegian grinned, but he was still nervous. He’d obviously watched them doing the Ryanair-lads-on-the-piss waddle down the stairs and hoped they weren’t his responsibility. ‘We are very privileged to be assisting you on your great venture. It is Nick who we both should be thanking.’ He couldn’t help but gaze down at where Jack’s leg used to be.

  Rio jumped in and flapped his stump, like the vestigial wing on a flightless bird. ‘It’s amazing what you can do with one of these. Watch this.’

  He wedged his day sack into his armpit and clamped it with the stump, stood to attention, and saluted.

  Rune nodded politely. Maybe in Norway people with disabilities didn’t take the piss out of themselves. Maybe Norwegians in general didn’t take the piss out of themselves.

  His next surprise came from Gabriel, who gave him a hug. ‘No problem, wee man. You probably weren’t expecting a bunch of extras from Mad Max, but we’re OK as long as we get to glue the right bits and pieces onto ourselves.’ Another big hug.

  Rune took a gulp of air as Gabriel let him go. ‘Er, no problem …’ His relief at being set free was clear to see. ‘You British! You make fun of everything. But for the next part we must be serious.’

  ‘Sure, whatever, boss.’ Rio stood to attention and saluted him again, to the riotous applause of everyone, except Will. Jules was busy rubbing weapons-grade sunblock onto his grafts, like she was about to send his ten-year-old self to his first day at summer camp.

  The Chinese tourists headed for the tents, unable to contain their excitement at being there and on film. As they slipped and slithered their way over the ice they made my lot look practically Olympic.

  One of the ground crew approached. ‘Lady and gentlemen. Please, the far right tent. Please.’

  Rune had other plans. ‘Nick, can you stay back for a while? I have something important we must talk about.’

  I let the rest of them get ahead, narrowly avoiding a collision with the Chinese presenter as she made a beeline for me. Rune turned towards his snowmobile and beckoned me to follow.

  ‘Hello, I am Biyu Feng from CCTV International.’

  Her English was perfect, and so was her smile – as it would have to be if you presented on China’s international news channel. It wasn’t just the BBC and CNN getting their shit screened in hotels and living
rooms around the planet.

  ‘I’m here for important travel documentary about new trend for Arctic tourism from China. You and your friends, you are on holiday?’

  ‘Sort of.’ I turned away from their camera. I didn’t think they were shooting, but I didn’t want to risk it.

  She gave me a look that suggested the most important thing in her life was to find out what ‘sort of’ meant. It was pointless fucking her off as she would poke her nose in even more. Besides, what had we to hide? We could only be up there on the ice for one reason.

  ‘I’m with a group of British ex-military amputees. They lost their limbs in Afghanistan, and they’re going to walk to the Pole, unsupported.’

  She didn’t reply, but it wasn’t because she couldn’t understand me, unless my accent was worse than I’d thought. Maybe it was context.

  ‘“Unsupported” means going with what they can carry or drag. It’s not just a physical challenge, it’s a journey of another kind – an emotional journey. A spiritual journey, maybe.’

  She had understood every word from the start.

  ‘Wow. That is impressive. Excuse me one minute.’

  Rune beckoned me frantically as she went into a huddle with her technicians. He was a bag of nerves. ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Why? Is it a problem?’

  He lowered his voice. ‘Very important we don’t talk about what I am doing here on Barneo. Nothing about the monitors. We are here purely to assist you on your expedition. Nothing else. Very important. We are your guides. Nothing to trouble the Russians.’

  He waved towards where the rest of them were disappearing into the camp.

  ‘Yup, I get it. I’ve told her what my lot are going to do. That’s it. There’s no point avoiding that shit – it only makes things worse.’

  But it wasn’t just her he was worried about.

  ‘Mate, what the fuck is wrong?’

  ‘It’s that here, now, there is a …’ He jammed his lips together and made a pressing motion with his hands.