Cold Blood

by Andy McNab

  Stedman emerged as I passed Billy’s Big Top, waved at my toilet roll, then spotted my empty bag. ‘No luck?’

  ‘Need to get into a routine.’

  Stedman didn’t dwell on it. He broke into a run towards the monument.

  57

  Will was busy shovelling ice into the immersion heater but stopped long enough to pass me a mug of chicken soup as I took my place beside him. ‘So, Nick, what’ll it be? Lobster in its own shell drizzled with a citrus jus, and T-bone steak with lashings of sauce Béarnaise and chunky sweet-potato fries?’

  ‘Not tonight, Chef.’ I flattened the palm of my hand and raised it to nose height. ‘I’m up to here with Surf ’n’ Turf. Haven’t you got something with rice?’

  The soup had been chilling while I was outside. I emptied the mug in a few gulps and handed it back for a refill, then pulled off my boots and climbed through into the sleeping compartment.

  Jules was all sorted and comfy in the back of it, digging her long spoon into a food pouch. Her bottom half was cocooned in her bag, her top half in her duvet. Two sets of gloves, hats, masks and vapour-barrier socks were pegged out to dry on a length of para cord attached to the top of the dome. The burners would do their stuff on them for now, and with luck our body heat would finish the job overnight.

  A loud yell came from the next tent, which I assumed was aimed at Stedman. ‘Stay out there, you dirty fucker.’

  Will grinned as he leaned back and handed me my second Cup-A-Soup – minestrone this time, and much hotter.

  The shouts, laughter and abuse carried on at top volume for a few seconds more, and we joined in without having a clue what it was about.

  I sat on top of my sleeping bag, took a few sips of the new taste sensation and began to sort myself out. I shrugged off my outer shell, replaced it with the duvet jacket and shoved the Gore-Tex top and bottoms into my tent bag, which would soon become my pillow. I peeled off both pairs of thick socks, leaving the dump bags I’d first covered my feet with on display. Jules took one look and her eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. I didn’t bother to explain. They were a whole lot less high-tech than the super-comfy vapour barriers that she and Will had on display, but worked just as effectively.

  If ice melted inside our boots we were in trouble. Not only would it soak our socks, but also the inner lining of our boots. Not surprisingly, there was always a lot of effort to make sure that no ice entered a boot, simply by doing the thing up correctly. But sweat was also the enemy because it made the inside of the boot just as wet if unchecked. If wet, the layer of insulation around our feet would stop working, and they would freeze. A VB prevented the moisture from migrating and so kept the inside of the boot dry and warm. In extreme cold, some people put on a thin pair of socks, then added my version of a vapour barrier because they thought it was more comfortable. I could never be arsed because it meant having to dry them out each night.

  The inside of the first dump bag was so wet that it really didn’t want to part company with my skin. When I finally persuaded them to separate, I was left with a set of toes, a sole and a heel like a bag of pickled walnuts. But they were still a long way from freezing.

  Once I’d checked for blisters, Jules threw me some Johnson’s Baby Powder. I squirted a small cloud into my first sock, gave it a shake and put it back on. Then I shoved my foot into my sleeping bag and repeated the process.

  I folded the VBs and pushed then into my duvet pocket to keep today’s sweat nice and warm for tomorrow. Then all I had to do was hang up my mask, gloves and headgear. Jules glanced at the lump on my hairline but said nothing.

  Will removed my now empty minestrone mug and handed me my main course. ‘Tea’s on the way.’

  I took the steaming pouch. The spoon was already dug in and ready for action.

  ‘You have about four minutes.’

  I gripped the top of the pouch and gave the contents a stir. These packs took a lot of water to reconstitute, which was great for the food and great for us. The downside was that once it was all mixed in, it took another ten minutes for the food to be ready to eat.

  As Will got busy with the burners again, I leaned close enough to Jules for her to know what flavour my soups had been. ‘Why have you gone soft over Stedman? I thought you were going to jump up and down when he said he was coming?’

  Her forehead creased. ‘I can’t take this away from him, not now he’s so close.’

  I couldn’t wait any longer for my food, even though it meant I was going to have to live with the crunchy bits.

  Jules lay back, resting her head on her tent bag, and for a minute or two it looked like her VBs were the things that interested her most in the world.

  ‘Are you going to check Gabriel’s leg? See if the others are OK?’

  She rocked her head from side to side. ‘They’re big lads. If they need me, they’ll shout. This is all about them doing it for themselves. You know that. They don’t want – or need – me to turn into their mother.’

  I finished the rice and meat and tried not to get too excited by the prospect of meat and rice tomorrow. I swapped the empty packet for a brew. It was warm inside the tent now and the hiss of the burners sounded even more comforting because of it. It certainly seemed to be working for Jules. She’d just closed her eyes and gave no sign of being in a hurry to open them again.

  I leaned back on my tent bag and rested the tea on my chest. Will had spooned in so much sugar it was starting to coat my nasal membranes. I took the opportunity of doing something else I’d not done lately. I let my mind wander back through the events of the day.

  I’d spent far too much time being angry with Cauldwell, the Quislings, Russians, Rune – in fact, everything and anyone to do with this trip, apart from Jules and the team. But it was worth it because a good honk was always satisfying to get out of the way.

  Once happy that I had had a go at everyone that needed it, I started to think about why I was there.

  Telling Rune to keep quiet about whatever was happening behind the scenes, I wasn’t just thinking about the team making it to the Pole. But it had been worth it, because I’d come to the conclusion that I really did need it as much as Will did, as much as they all did. I was as determined as they were that nothing should stand in our way – not even a .44 Magnum.

  If there came a time when the team needed to know what Rune and the Quislings were really up to, so be it. But until then, rattling the bars on that particular cage wouldn’t achieve anything. We were here, we were moving, and before the week was out we’d be close enough to the Pole not just to spit at it but also to piss on it.

  Our real mission, our task, whatever people wanted to call it, was much bigger than that, of course, but there would be no stopping Jack and Will, Gabriel and Rio once they had had the most northerly piss anyone could have. And it looked like even Stedman was on the road to redemption.

  As for me, only time would tell.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I lifted my head just enough to take a sip of my far-from-sugar-free brew, and thought how good it was to be there.

  58

  I woke up to the sound of the outer shell being brushed free of ice, and pulled off the eye mask that Cauldwell had given me. At least he’d come good about something. Some people didn’t like constant exposure to daylight as it messed up their sleep rhythms and made them feel knackered. I still couldn’t make up my mind if I was one of them or not, so it was always good to hedge my bets. But at least with constant daylight I could see what I was doing all the time and avoided having torchlight burning into my eyes as other people sorted themselves out.

  The condensation generated by the three of us during the night had created a frozen crust on the fabric above our heads. The crust that overhung the trench had a thicker layer from last night’s brew fest, which had continued, on and off, until we finally fell asleep. That was the stuff Will was brushing away. Sensibly enough, he didn’t want to work at the cooking board in a rainstorm once he’d sparked up the
burners.

  I checked my watch. It was just after 06.00, time to start brushing and brewing. The Quislings would start skiing at exactly ten, which gave us four hours – more than enough time to sort ourselves out, eat and drink, and, just as important, have a dump, before packing up the tents, throwing on our harnesses and being in position for the four-minute warning. Fuck ’em.

  I looked to my right to see Jules checking on Will’s progress. She’d obviously been thinking similar thoughts. He now sat on the edge of the trench, duveted up, with his back to us, giving his full attention to the immersion heater. I hoped both pots were full. I was in the mood for a king-size brew.

  Will turned and grinned. ‘Morning.’

  He’d been reading my mind.

  I was glad he found the cooking board therapeutic. Prepping food and cooking meals for us wouldn’t immediately wipe out Will’s failure to drag his mates out of the aircraft, but every journey really did start with a single step.

  As a young squaddie, I’d not even heard of PTSD. It was explained to me, a revelation, after the Gulf War, and until then, anyone exhibiting the symptoms was seen as trying to pull a fast one – cooking up a case for a medical discharge and the pension that went with it.

  When young men in my infantry battalion had tried to commit suicide – by taking drugs, cutting their wrists, or drinking cleaning fluid – they were punished, not offered a helping hand. They were banged up in the guardroom, not taken to the medical centre. Even men who simply broke down and cried for no apparent reason were dismissed as wankers. After all, we were rough, tough soldiers and they were just jelly-heads who couldn’t hack it.

  Since the post-9/11 wars, PTSD has been recognized for what it is. People like Will weren’t jelly-heads, they were casualties of war, just as much as any of the four in Billy Smart’s Big Top and a host of others I’d spent time with. They just needed a little understanding and a whole lot of respect. I wished I’d known that all those years ago. Watching Will make the first brew of the day, I felt like an arsehole all over again.

  I cut away long enough to check that the head- and hand-gear hanging above us was dry enough to put on without too much grief. It was – and it would get even drier once the burners generated some heat. Until then, all we could do was talk a load of bollocks while we waited for that first brew and some biscuits, as you did when everyone was in a good mood.

  I produced my Nalgene bottle from my bag like a rabbit out of a hat. ‘Will, check this out. Half full. Beat that.’

  Will threw me the remaining Jammie Dodgers from last night’s pack in return. No problems there: I liked the frozen strawberry. It was like sucking a boiled sweet.

  He dragged his bag over to retrieve his night’s work – like mine, a half-full bottle.

  I turned to Jules and gave my Nalgene a shake. The urine fizzed like 7Up.

  ‘Lightweights, the pair of you.’

  With a ham actor’s flourish, she produced a purple Shewee – and a Nalgene full to the top.

  She’d won last night’s star prize. I had no option but to present her with the Jammie Dodgers. Well, four of them, anyway. I kept the one I’d already licked.

  Will handed each of us his signature brew – a mug of tea so sweet you could have stood your spoon in it. I dunked my remaining biscuit as the morning’s routine began. It would be exactly the same as last night’s, but in reverse order.

  It wasn’t long before he held out the breakfast pouches, full of stodgy, porridge stuff poured over dried apricots. Fantastic. I’d always been a fan of ration-pack food. Even before joining the army I’d been a huge fan of instant mash, boiled sausages and powdered eggs. Maybe it had to do with being brought up on school dinners, then vouchers from the council for more free meals during the holidays, delivered by Meals on Wheels.

  Rune’s monument began to beckon as the second brew was heading my way. I put it to one side while I unzipped my bag and got dressed.

  The wind had died down since last night and the pulks were now just mounds of pulk-shaped ice, and the snow had climbed halfway up the outer sheet of each tent. Only half a pole or ski was left exposed. Now I knew why I’d slept so well, and hadn’t even heard Will or Jules filling their Nalgenes. The extra insulation had made the tent warmer.

  I crunched my way across virgin ice. I was the first out that morning.

  The other two tents also had their burners going. Condensation seeped out of their vents and now hung around a bit to see what would happen next.

  Billy’s Big Top was bubbling with the usual mix of laughter, piss-takes and bollocking. I bent down to pick up the frozen hood of an outer shell jacket, which had been left outside the entrance before unzipping its flap, then saw what it contained and left it well alone. I couldn’t help laughing as I kicked it away so I could unzip.

  I stepped inside and got into the trench next to Jack, and was offered the usual greetings, which ranged from ‘Morning’ to ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  As if they didn’t know.

  The other three were half in, half out of their sleeping bags and in different stages of undress. They were sorting out what was left of their bodies, drinking tea and sharing a pack of ginger nuts to get their calorie count up.

  Gabriel was busy dressing his stump. It was in much worse condition than it had been in Longyearbyen, but that was only to be expected. Like Jules had said, they were big lads. Back in the day, they were used to being wet, cold and hungry, and having far more confidence than was sometimes healthy. And that was a good place to be.

  He dabbed on a final coat of what smelt like antiseptic, covered it with several layers of stump-shaped dressing and wrapped it in zinc oxide tape. After he’d finished, he let loose a volley of undecipherable Jock swear words. At first I thought he was describing the pain, but then he poked a finger into Stedman’s chest. ‘Go on, tell him, you dirty fucker.’

  Stedman was very proud of himself. ‘It was windy, Nick, you know that. It was cold. I had a lot of layers on, and only one hand. What do these fuckers expect?’

  ‘You’re right, mate. I certainly wasn’t about to help.’

  ‘Nor me!’ Still shaking his head, Jack offered me a sip of his brew.

  Rio was sorting out two blisters, one on each heel, with a couple of Compeed plasters: little cushions of heaven. ‘Hey, Nick, you know we did fourteen nauticals yesterday? That’s about twenty-five K. One fuck-off tab, eh?’

  He pointed down at his feet. ‘Can’t wait to tell Biyu about these things. Maybe we’ll name our first child Compeed …’

  Jack gave a snort of laughter. ‘Aren’t there already enough of your kids contaminating the planet?’

  The other two were quick to agree that Rio should keep his dick in his underwear at all times. It had been a long night in Billy Smart’s Big Top.

  I left them to it.

  I heard Norwegian mumblings over the hiss of burners in the Quislings’ tent on my way past. Their pulks hadn’t been touched. I thought about the .44 again.

  I emptied my Nalgene bottle as soon as I arrived at Rune’s monument. Then I ran through the sequence that Stedman hadn’t quite mastered last night. As I held open my bag and squatted in the middle of the square, the ice shuddered beneath my feet. A nanosecond later it rumbled and shook, like the Arctic was breaking apart.

  There was a shout from Rio inside the Big Top. ‘Fuck’s sake, Nick! You got curry in your rat-packs, or what?’

  59

  Rune was out and screeching like a hen with a fox in the coop. I had to agree with him. Those weren’t the low rumbles of yesterday that sounded like distant cannon fire. This was less like ice coming together and more like ice breaking apart.

  I grabbed my long johns and trousers and pulled them up together as quickly as I could. Rune hollered the other side of the wall for everyone to get out of their tents. ‘Get dressed! Get packed!’

  There was another ominous growl and I had to put all my energy into staying upright.

  ‘G
et out! Get out! Pack everything up – quick! Quick!’

  I emerged from the monument to find bodies in disarray, some out on the ice, some still in their tents. Some had duvets on. Random items flew out of doorways. People stumbled as they pulled their kit on.

  Gabriel was perched on a pulk, trying to sort out his Gore-Tex trousers. Rio was doing his best to help him, and to help himself. Shagging Biyu wasn’t so important now. Jack emerged from the tent flap and threw Gabriel his leg.

  Rune bounced around, trying to help the other members of Billy’s Big Top to get their duvets on and sort themselves out. ‘Please hurry, please get dressed. Get the sleeping bags in the pulks first. Then take the tents down.’

  ‘Rune, what on earth is happening?’ Jules, trying to make sense of the chaos, was the loudest of them all.

  He ran back to her. ‘The ice is breaking! Get everything packed – we’re going to need it!’

  The Quislings seemed to be in no rush. They came out of their tent like it was any other morning. They weren’t packing up. They stood there, ears cocked, close together, but it wasn’t panic that united them. Something darker was happening. They knew what that sound was.

  They exchanged a few words, low and close. Whatever it was, they agreed with each other.

  Now they moved with urgency. The small one went straight back into the tent. The other lifted the RPG bling box out of his pulk and thrust it through the flap.

  I ran towards our tent. Jules and Will were both there now, cramming kit into any available bag. I uncovered the poles and skis and placed them next to the pulks.

  Rune’s yells became more strident. Losing an entire expedition wouldn’t look great on his CV. I caught a glimpse inside the Quislings’ tent as he rushed this way and that. The box was nowhere in sight, but the small one was shovelling snow and ice back into their trench. Outside, the other fucker was retrieving their pistol bags out of each of the pulks.

  Fuck it. My priority had to be the kit. If we were getting screwed over by these two, we’d need it to stay alive.