by David Meyer
I nodded. "We're researching how Antarctica's glacial valleys and polar deserts erode over time. It's a slow process, maybe a few meters every million years."
"How do you gather data?"
My pulse raced. I knew my cover story, knew it well. I'd read everything I could find on geomorphology. But my knowledge, while wide in breadth, was only skin-deep. "Our climate station will monitor a range of things like temperature and wind. Soil traps will measure annual sediment movements. And rock and soil samples will help us determine erosion rates and exposure ages."
"Interesting." He drew out the word, enunciating each and every syllable. "So, what's your purpose?"
"Purpose?"
"Yeah. What are you going to do with your data?" His voice was hard, matching the expression on his face.
I tugged my shirt collar. "We're going to model Antarctica's ice coverage over an extended period of time. Plus, our research should give us a better understanding of places with similar conditions. Mars, for example."
"I see," he said. "Well, I guess we won't be seeing much of each other, what with you guys operating out of a field camp and all."
"You'll see us for a little while. We're planning on commuting from Kirby until we get used to the elements." It was a dumb answer, maybe my dumbest one yet. But what else could I say?
Actually, there's no field camp. We're secretly hunting for a lost Nazi vault and a priceless artifact. Oh, and please don't tell anyone.
"Interesting." He drew out the syllables, same as before. His tone reflected suspicion, uncertainty.
"So, tell me more about your plans. How far down will you go?"
"If our equipment holds up, we should be able to drill a few thousand meters into the ice, all the way to bedrock. Of course, that'll take a couple of months, maybe even years."
I searched my brain, trying to remember everything I'd read about ice coring. "How do you get at the deeper layers?"
"We cut in stages, four to six meters at a time. So, it's really just a matter of raising and lowering the assembly over and over again."
"How do you keep the hole stable? Do you use fluids?"
"Of course not." A horrified expression appeared on his face. "That would contaminate the area."
"Hey folks." The pilot's static-filled voice burst out of the cabin's speakers. "We're approaching some turbulence. We need you to get back to your seats pronto and buckle up."
I cleared my throat as the voice died off. "Then what do you do for stability?"
"It's ice." He gave me a grin, the kind reserved for dolts. "It doesn't move much."
Numbness came over me. I was no expert on Antarctica. But I'd read enough to know deep ice was under constant pressure and could easily compress. The only way to maintain an open hole was to fill it with something, presumably a dense liquid with low viscosity and frost resistance.
Well, I'll be damned. Looks like Dutch and I aren't the only frauds around here.
Chapter 3
The wheels slammed into ice. My skull bounced against the back of my seat as the plane bumped over a long stretch of icy runway.
The speakers buzzed. "Welcome to Fitzgerald Station. Today's temperature is a balmy negative fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Wind chill temperature is negative forty degrees. When we come to a stop, start putting on your ECW. You're going to need it."
"ECW?" Graham said.
"Extreme Cold Weather gear," I replied. "Didn't you pay attention to the instructions?"
"Of course not."
The plane rolled to a stop. The engines ceased. Crisp cold air crept over the cabin.
Seatbelts rattled. The sea of parkas rustled. Passengers jumped to their feet. Chatter, eager and vibrant, filled the cabin.
I unbuckled my belt and stood up. I couldn't wait to see the miles of endless ice, to taste the pristine snow, to smell the fresh air.
Abruptly, ferocious wind struck the aircraft. The passengers froze. Conversations dwindled off into awed silence.
The crackling wind only lasted a few seconds. As it faded away, the passengers started to move again. Parkas were donned and zipped up. A few hushed words were spoken, but they lacked exuberance. Apprehension hung heavy in the air.
The cabin door slid open. The temperature dropped a whole bunch of notches. My teeth started to chatter.
I pulled on my polar-fleece jacket and red parka. A red knit hat was next, followed by a pair of gloves. Long winter underwear, snow pants, thick wool socks, and a pair of thermal boots completed my outfit. It was an impressive array of expensive, technical equipment. But I might as well have been naked for all the good it did me.
A short woman climbed into the aircraft. She paused to remove a pair of dark sunglasses. "Welcome to Hildick Field. I'm Janet Lister. The Terra Bus is outside, less than a hundred yards from here. It'll take you directly to Fitzgerald Station. Gather your stuff and board it. Don't stop. Don't take pictures. There will be plenty of time for that later."
Passengers lined up to disembark the aircraft. I shrugged on my satchel and followed Graham into the aisle. The rest of my things, including my machete, were packed in a duffel bag and stowed in the baggage area.
I'd brought most of my worldly possessions with me. The only thing missing was my pistol. Unfortunately, the U.S. Antarctic Program didn't allow guns on its bases. Not that I needed one. I just didn't like the idea of hunting for a priceless artifact with nothing more than a blade to defend me.
A rush of cold, stiff air greeted me at the cabin door. Bright sunlight flooded my face, forcing me to shield my eyes. My heart pounded as I took my first good look at Antarctica. A compacted snow surface stretched before me. A red truck and other vehicles were parked nearby. Tiny slivers, various shades of dark gray, were all I could see of the distant mountains. The sheer scale of it all stunned me.
The sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, left nothing unseen. And yet, there was nothing to see. I was struck by the emptiness and bleakness of it all. There was no bustle, no energy, no life. Just a vast landscape of ice, snow, and rock.
I climbed down a small flight of steps and walked toward a massive red vehicle. It looked like a bus bulked up on steroids. It was fifty feet long and fifteen feet high. The tundra tires, all six of them, were almost as tall as me. Bold white letters announced the vehicle as Vincent the Terra Bus.
Ice crunched. I twisted around. A boxy vehicle halted a few feet away from me. Its bright orange chassis contained one row of seats and a large space for cargo. Its molded rubber treads were shaped like isosceles triangles.
The door cracked open. An older man, skinny to the point of being malnourished, appeared. He wore a light green jacket, cargo pants, and boots. I shivered just looking at him.
"Well, well." His booming voice nearly ruptured my eardrums. "It's been a long time."
I frowned. "Who are—?"
"Yes, it has." Graham stared intently at the man. His brow was furrowed. His lips were tight. "Hello Pat."
The man lowered himself to the snow. His hair was thick and gray. A couple days of stubble covered his chin. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice your name on the flight manifest?"
Graham shrugged.
"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here."
"No one ever accused me of lacking a backbone."
"Maybe not. But ethics are a different story."
"Are you still hung up on that? Good lord. That was over forty years ago."
My eyes flitted between the two of them. "What's this all about?"
"Nothing," Graham said. "Let's go, Cy. The shuttle's waiting."
"Forget the shuttle," the man replied. "You're coming with me."
"And why would we do that?"
"Because I'm Fitzgerald Station's Area Director. In other words, this is my show. Hell, I'm the damn poster child for this region."
"Poster child?" Graham said. "I hope you're talking figuratively."
The man's face twisted with anger.
"How do you two kno
w each other?" I asked.
"Remember how I told you I spent a few summers at McMurdo?" Graham nodded at the man. "Well, he was there too."
"I'm glad to see you guys still get along." I chuckled and offered my hand to the man. "Cy Reed."
He didn't shake it. "I know."
"His name is Pat Baxter," Graham said.
Slowly, I lowered my hand. "Quite a place you've got here."
Baxter smiled. "Enjoy it while you've got it."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Graham asked.
"Just this." Baxter poked a finger into Graham's chest. "The next flight out of here leaves tomorrow. And the two of you are going to be on it."
Chapter 4
"I've got a spot in the brig all picked out for you." Baxter turned the ignition. The engine sputtered to life. The odor of diesel exhaust permeated the cabin. "I think you'll find it nice and comfy."
"Forget it." Graham slung his backpack into the cargo area. It thumped as it landed on top of my duffel bag. "You've got no authority over us."
Baxter spun the steering wheel, directing the vehicle to the southwest. "Actually, I do. I've been deputized by the U.S. Marshals Service."
"Yeah? Where's your badge? Still in the cereal box?"
"In my room. Along with my gun." He eyed Graham. "Yes, I have a gun. It's the only one allowed at Fitzgerald Station."
"Damn it, Pat. This is stupid."
"No, you coming here was stupid." Baxter flicked a switch. The tiniest fraction of warm air blew out of the vents. But a distinct chill remained in the cab.
"What's this all about anyway?" I asked.
Their heads swiveled toward me. I sensed their annoyance, their resentment. But I didn't care. Old grudges were like old wounds. Left untended, they festered. And in this particular case, gangrene had settled in long ago.
Baxter grunted. "Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"Just forget it."
I glanced at Graham. "Well?"
"A girl," he finally said. "It's about a girl."
I wasn't surprised. I knew what it was like to pine after someone. To think about her, to dream about her. To want her so badly it hurt inside. And I knew what it felt like to lose that person. It wasn't easy. But you had to suck it up and move on, find something else to live for.
An image popped into my head. I saw her tanned facial features and her wavy chestnut brown hair. I gazed at her hourglass-shaped body, her sexy curves, and her long, shapely legs. Her dazzling violet eyes blinked enticingly at me.
Beverly Ginger was a classic beauty. But she was far more than the sum of her physical features. She possessed something unique, something intangible. She had that rare ability to turn heads, to leave both men and women tongue-tied in her wake. But not me.
Not anymore.
Harsh static burst out of the radio. "You there, Pat?"
Baxter pushed a button on the dashboard. "Sure am."
"Jim Peterson is here from Kirby. He needs to talk to you."
"About what?"
The voice hesitated. "They had a power outage."
Baxter clenched the steering wheel. "Another one?"
"I guess so."
"I'll see him when I get back. Thanks Cindy."
I waited for the static to dissipate. "What was that about?"
"None of your business," he replied.
"I just—"
The air rumbled.
The ground trembled.
The sound of screeching metal filled my ears.
I twisted my neck to the north. A blinding fireball appeared on the horizon. It expanded and rose into the sky. Thick columns of smoke trailed after it. "What the hell was that?"
"Damned if I know," Baxter said numbly. "There's nothing in that direction. Just ocean. Ocean and …”
"And what?"
His face turned white. "And the docks."
Chapter 5
Baxter swung the wheel. In less than a minute, we were motoring toward the fireball.
"How many ships are anchored there?" I asked.
"Just one," he replied. "The Desolation. It's a cargo ship. It comes here every quarter."
"How large is the crew?"
"I don't know for sure. Maybe twenty people?"
With a loud boom, the fireball tore itself apart in mid-air. Embers dropped from the sky. More black smoke appeared.
Graham shielded his eyes. "You put them up at Fitzgerald right? Please tell me they're not living on that ship."
Baxter didn't answer. Instead, he leaned closer to the window.
And pressed down on the accelerator.
Chapter 6
Beverly Ginger didn't believe in ghosts. She believed in miracles and horrible twists of fate. She believed in the goodness of mankind as well as the existence of evil. She was even able to square dual beliefs in destiny and free will. But she didn't believe in ghosts.
The ground quaked again. As she fell to her knees, a howl rang out in the distance. She knew it was just wind. But it sounded disturbingly lifelike.
She grabbed the plastic floor mats and closed the door. Then she shoved the mats under the tires.
She hurried over to a small snow bank. "How're you feeling?" she asked.
Jeff Morin's lips trembled. He was tough. But those wounds in his stomach didn't look good. Without shelter and proper care, he wouldn't last long.
Beverly trudged to the top of the hill. She leaned her back against her vehicle's rear end and started to push.
She could scarcely believe everything that had happened to her in the last hour. The mysterious excavation. The sudden gunfire. Morin's screams. Racing across the icy tundra.
She'd shaken their pursuers after a short chase. But her luck didn't improve. Instead, the ground had rumbled, causing her vehicle to sail up a small hill. Seconds later, the front tires crashed back to the snow. The rear tires stuck fast on the hill, leaving her Sno-Cat positioned at an awkward angle.
Beverly pushed harder. The Sno-Cat started to move. She dug her boots into the ice and pushed with all her strength.
The vehicle inched forward. The rear tires slipped off the hill and crashed into the snow. The vehicle jolted and slid a short distance away from her.
Another howl, closer this time, filled the air. Beverly looked over her shoulder. But she saw nothing.
She climbed down the hill and made her way to the vehicle. Its heater wasn't all that powerful. Prior to the crash, the temperature inside the cabin had hovered around ten degrees Fahrenheit. But it was far better than the alternative. Holding her breath, she turned the ignition.
The engine didn't even sputter. Beverly cursed silently. Lifting a gloved finger, she pushed a button on the dashboard.
The transponder, a large orange beacon, didn't light up. She pushed the button again. Again, the transponder remained unlit.
Beverly slapped her hands against the wheel. Then she exited the cab and trudged over toward Morin.
He'd taken two bullets to the stomach. Now, his breaths came in short, uneven rasps. She didn't want to move him from his spot. But he needed shelter. So, she helped him to his feet. He stirred. Then he slumped in her arms.
She jostled him slightly. "Come on, Jeff. Stay with me."
His eyes opened a fraction of an inch. He tried to speak, but his words were gibberish.
Beverly hauled him into the Sno-Cat. Then she draped some blankets over his shivering body and moved to close the door.
It didn't latch.
She gave it a mighty push. The door clicked. But it refused to stay shut.
Her forehead started to heat up. Perspiration dripped down her face. It was ludicrous. How could she possibly sweat in such frigid weather?
Beverly stared at the sky. Giant snowflakes careened against her face. They felt strangely cool and refreshing.
The wind picked up speed. It tore over the barren landscape, shrieking like a banshee.
Hurriedly, she turned in a small circle. But t
he snowflakes, an ally during the chase, were now her enemy. They were too large and fell much too fast. She could no longer see hints of the massive mountains. Even the Sno-Cat began to fade from view.
Beverly leaned against the door. Her eyes continued to study the falling snow. The wind wrecked havoc on the icy particles, causing them to whirl and scatter in all directions. They formed intricate, ever-changing patterns. It was mesmerizing.
The situation was far from ideal. But it could've been worse. They had space blankets and plenty of food. If she could get the door shut, they'd be able to block the wind and avoid the snow. That would keep them alive for the time being. But Morin still needed medical attention.
The snowflakes swirled in a large ring. They gathered together and gained substance. A mysterious shape materialized out of the whiteness.
Her eyes opened wide. "What the—?"
The snow swirled around her. Sharp teeth dug into her side. They bit through her many layers, sank into flesh.
Beverly cried out in pain. Her body was lifted up, hurtled through the air. She slammed into the hill.
She grabbed her knife and started to thrust it into the swirling snow. But the snow crashed on top of her, pinning her arms to the ground.
Teeth gnashed at her neck. Tiny trickles of blood dripped down her skin. She fought back, trying to hold whatever it was at bay. But it was stronger than her.
Something shifted above her. Snow fell on her face. She heard ripping flesh.
Her flesh.
Her vision blurred. Her brain grew fuzzy.
In an instant, her entire outlook changed. She'd been wrong prior to the attack. Horribly, horribly wrong. But now she knew the truth.
Now, she believed in ghosts.
Chapter 7
"We're next to the Ekström Ice Shelf. It's a giant cliff, running along the coast for thousands of miles. So, keep your asses in here. I don't want to have to fish your carcasses out of the ocean." Baxter threw open his door as the Sno-Cat skidded to a stop. "It'll look bad on my report."
Graham waited for Baxter to walk away. Then he cracked the door. "Come on."
