Michael knew that she was going to turn up.
After orienting himself in the water, and waiting for Lawson to take the plunge, Michael turned away from the dive and safety holes and swam off toward the glacier wall that appeared in the distance. Much as he regretted it, he did not have his camera with him; Murphy had forbidden it. “I don't want you mucking around with photography down there,” he'd said. “You have limited time, and if you're right about what you saw”-he still hadn't been willing entirely to concede the point-”you're going to have your hands full helping Bill to cut through all that ice.” With his saw in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Michael propelled himself through the water like a seal, undulating his body and working his fins for all they were worth. Still, it was harder work, and more time-consuming than he thought, just to reach the glacier. It was difficult to gauge distances underwater, and especially so there, where the ice cap cast a pall over everything. Once in a while, a break in the ice might let some direct rays of sunlight penetrate the depths, creating a shaft of gold aimed straight at the black and benthic regions below, but otherwise the ocean water was a very pale and clear blue, like an early-morning sky in summer.
And his glove was leaking-not a lot, not so much to be dangerous, but enough to make things uncomfortable already. The glove was the one noncontiguous part of the suit, and as such, no matter how tightly you tried to seal it, there could be a certain amount of penetration. The linings underneath it absorbed the moisture as it leaked in, eventually bringing it to body temperature, but in the meantime it was a numbingly cold reminder of just what a hostile climate he was traveling in.
He slowed up in the water and turned to make sure Lawson- the ever-cheerful Boy Scout leader-was still with him. He could see his face mask glittering in the water, the sharp tip of his ice saw, and the salvage line playing out behind him; it was tied to his harness and tethered up top to a 200-hp winch behind the dive hut. The line, normally used for dredging up oil barrels and sunken wreckage, had two thousand yards on it and could withstand a couple thousand pounds of weight. Michael turned around again and continued toward the glacier. As it loomed above him, and below, he felt a note of hesitation, even fear, that he had not felt the first time. Then, he had been unaware of what the ice held. Now, he not only knew, but he was there to steal it. The walls of ice seemed more defensive now, like the walls of a fortress erected by some ancient god of sea and ice, and Michael felt like a soldier about to try to breach them.
There was even a low murmur of noise, a crackling and grinding, from the ice itself. He hadn't noticed it before. But the immense glacier was moving, it was always moving, though so slowly it could not be seen, and only seldom heard. Michael drew closer to the wall, and now he knew that the hard part was about to begin. The wall was vast, and finding the body was a question not only of longitude but of latitude. He could roughly gauge the section of wall where he had seen it, but at what depth? He would have to travel both up and down the wall, and that could take time. He motioned at one large area with his arm, and indicated to Lawson that he should begin to scout the glacier there. Michael himself moved thirty yards off, and to orient himself took one long look back at what was called the down line-it extended from the safety hole, far, far away, and there were colored pennants attached to it for better visibility. He tried to recall if this was the angle he'd had on it the day before. But he couldn't remember at all. He had been so shocked that he'd just paddled away backwards, in a burst of bubbles and flapping fins.
What he did remember was the quality of the light, and that, he decided, would be his best clue. The weather today was much like the day before, and the unchanging sunlight-if he could just remember how bright, or dim, it had been when he discovered the body-could steer him in the right direction. The water and the light was not the pristine blue that he was inhabiting now, so he deflated his suit and allowed himself to sink, staying close to the wall, a dozen yards or so. He swept the flashlight across its rough mottled surface in even strokes, back and forth, while looking for anything- a fissure in the rock, an unusual formation-that might trigger a memory. But so far, he saw nothing.
What he did notice was the creeping cold, colder than the water even a little ways off. The iceberg gave off a freezing breath that made him have to wipe his mask with the back of one glove. It also made him wonder what it could possibly be like to be a captive of that ice for decades, even centuries. To be absorbed, suspended, immobilized-like one of Darryl's specimens floating in a jar of formaldehyde-forever. Lifeless, but immaculately preserved. Dead, but not gone.
And he thought then of Kristin, lying perfectly still in her hospital bed in Tacoma.
He raked the tip of the saw against the glacier, and slivers of ice immediately came loose, like the skin curling off a potato. Another drop or two of frigid water seeped into his glove.
He went lower still, and the light grew dimmer, more like the quality of the light that he recalled. He swam from one side to the other of a wide swath, gradually working his way down, until something in the ice looked different-a spot where it didn't sparkle quite so brightly in the concentrated beam-and he went straight for it.
The closer he got, the darker and colder the water became, but his heart was beating fast. He waved his arms and fins slowly to keep his position, and surveyed the wall. There was indeed something buried here (there had been moments, though he confessed them to no one, when he, too, had wondered if he'd imagined it all) and he quickly waved his flashlight beam at Lawson, still a considerable distance above him, to catch his attention. Then he swam even closer, peered in at the ice… and saw her face staring out at him.
But it was-and it was not-what he remembered. He had remembered a look of utter horror on her face, eyes wide and mouth shaped in a scream… but that was not what she looked like now. Although it was impossible-and he knew he would never try to explain this part of it to Murphy O'Connor-her eyes were level, and her mouth composed. She looked not like a person in extremis, but instead like someone in the midst of a mildly troubling dream. Someone who would soon awaken.
Lawson swam down toward him, the salvage line trailing behind, and when he, too, saw the face in the ice, he held still in the water, taking it in. All along, Michael knew Lawson had been secretly dubious, wanting to believe what Michael had said but well aware of the tricks that deep-sea diving can play on the mind. But this was no trick, and now he would know that for sure. If they were going to extricate her, they would have to get to work fast-there were at least several inches of ice covering her, and covering whatever else there might be clinging close behind her.
Lawson placed his saw against the ice, about five or six feet down, and indicated that he would be cutting laterally there. He lifted the tip of Michael's saw, and made a horizontal cutting motion about three inches above the woman's head. The plan was to leave just enough leeway to be safe, but no more than that-a block of ice with a body inside was going to weigh a ton as it was.
Michael tucked his flashlight back into its belt loop and let the jagged teeth of the saw bite into the ice. He drew the blade toward him, like drawing the bow on a violin, and a thin groove opened. He pushed it back and the groove deepened, translucent slivers of ice peeling away. It would be a long job, but the saw seemed up to it. The hard part was making sure that he kept his body, and his fins in particular, angled away from Lawson, who was working below.
It was also important to keep his eyes on the deepening groove and not let them stray to the face in the ice. Looking at her could make his blood run cold, and the iron chain wrapped around her neck was the stuff of nightmares. He tried to regulate his breathing and listen not to his own thoughts but to the hissing of the regulator, and the occasional groan or sputter from the ice. It crossed his mind, in the strange way that he knew humans anthropomorphized everything, that the glacier was in pain, that it could feel the bite of the saw cutting into it, that it was fighting to hold on to its frozen prize.
But
it would not win. Michael made steady progress up top, and when he felt that he'd gone deep enough, he turned to making a vertical incision. Gradually, both he and Bill were cutting a box around the figure, and around the other shape-also human, or something else entirely? — that lurked behind. Michael saw Lawson check his dive watch, then hold up a hand with bulky fingers spread, twice, to indicate that they should cut away whatever else they could for ten more minutes. After that, it would be up to the winch to do the rest.
Lawson removed a dagger-sharp piton from his harness kit, and with steady blows drove it into the back of the ice block they'd been carving. Then he drove several more. The idea was simply to create enough of a fracture plane behind the block that a sudden and powerful tug would tear the whole piece loose. When he had the pitons in, he unfurled the net, wrapped it as best he could around the chopped block, and secured it with several more pieces of Alpine hardware-the same sort that Michael routinely used on mountain climbs. When that was done, and he had clamped all the hardware to the unbreakable salvage line, he gave the line three hard tugs, waited, then gave it three more.
Michael and Lawson back-paddled a few yards off and waited for the winch to kick in. The first thing they saw was the salvage line, which had shown almost no slack, suddenly straighten out like an arrow; Michael could hear a high-tension thrumming in the water, and a second or two later, he saw the ice block budge. It inched forward, then stopped; he could hear the cracking and grinding of the ice. It was like sliding a block out of a gigantic pyramid, and he suddenly had a terrible vision of the whole ice wall crumbling down around him. He moved farther back and inflated his suit to rise a few yards higher in the water.
The winch must have pulled again, because the ice block came forward on one side, then the other, almost like a penguin waddling across snow. Again, it stopped, still clinging precariously to its frozen perch, before issuing a mighty agonized groan and toppling forward, away from the iceberg, and swinging free above the bottomless sea. Lawson quickly swam toward it, and even as the winch began to haul it up and toward the dive hole, he attached himself like a limpet and knotted the back portion of the net for added safety. Michael, stunned, was quickly left behind, as he watched the block of ice, the size and shape of a big refrigerator, drifting away, with Lawson holding on and hitching a ride. The glove on Michael's left hand was leaking again, leaving his wrist feeling like an ice-cold iron bracelet had been bound around it. His air tank beeped a warning, and with his ice saw at the ready in case of a leopard seal attack, he followed the trail of bubbles up from the depths and toward the bluer waters above.
From below, the ice block looked like a crystal ornament, something that might twinkle on a Christmas tree, as it sailed back up out of the void and into the living world… carrying its strange and petrified cargo.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
August 8, 1854
Sinclair sat high astride his horse, Ajax, in full uniform and regalia, his peaked black helmet, modeled on that of the Polish lancers, at a slight tilt to provide some protection from the glare of the sun. A dozen other lancers were in a neat line to either side of him, and all the way across the drill field-a distance of no less than several hundred yards-an equally perfect line of cavalrymen were arrayed, also in everything from glittering gold epaulettes to tasseled sword knots. Sinclair knew, as did they all, that they were often mocked as dandies because of the richness of their apparel- mandated by their commanding officer-but he was also confident that if they were ever fortunate enough to see battle, they would prove that they were much more than that.
The horses pawed the patchy ground, apprehensive about what was coming; all morning, the 17th had been doing lance exercises and circling-the-haunches drills, requiring close formation and precision riding. But now the lances had been discarded, and when the cornet sounded, the riders were to engage in mock, hand-to-hand combat, using blunted wooden swords. Sinclair wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then dried his hand on the chestnut mane of his horse. Ajax had been with him since he was a colt, first at the family's country estate in Hawton, then in the regimental stables in London. As a result, there was a rapport between the horse and rider that the other soldiers could only envy. While the others were struggling to teach their mounts the most basic commands and maneuvers, Sinclair had perfect control of his own and could-sometimes with a gentle twitch on the reins, sometimes with just a word-make the horse do his bidding.
The trumpeter stepped up on one of the fence rails, raised the gleaming instrument to his lips, and played, three times in rapid succession, the rousing line that called the cavalry to charge. The horses whinnied and neighed, and Winslow's mare, directly to Sinclair's right, raised his head and forelegs, nearly throwing Winslow off altogether.
Sinclair, like the others, drew his wooden sword in one swift, almost silent motion and raising his right arm straight, shouted, “On!” to Ajax, while nipping at the horse's flanks with the jangling spurs. The horse burst forward like a racer on the Ascot track and the ground thundered as the entire line of cavalry rushed to meet the line coming at them. Somewhere in the opposing force, Le Maitre and Rutherford were riding, but the dun-colored horse coming most directly at Sinclair was ridden by Sergeant Hatch, a superb horseman in his own right and a veteran of the India campaigns. Hatch held the reins down low, a sign of confidence in his ability to control his mount, and his saber was held steadily aloft. He would pass, Sinclair judged, to his left, which meant they would be exchanging blows while pivoting in their saddles.
Sinclair held his legs tight to the sides of the horse as the turf exploded under the horses’ hooves, and now he could even make out Hatch's face-the man was grinning, showing off his white teeth and thick moustache, in a face made permanently tan by years in the Punjab sun. The commanding officers, most of whom had never seen combat, often disdained the “India men”-men who had not been able to purchase higher commissions and who had actually served in the Gwalior Campaign, or fought alongside the Bengal Light Cavalry in battles at Punniar or Ferozeshah-but to Sinclair it was an admirable, and enviable, thing. To have seen combat! To have engaged, and killed, an enemy soldier! What could be grander than that?
Hatch was bearing down on him now-with all the joy of a veteran soldier about to teach a neophyte, in gold braid and cherry-colored trousers, a lesson or two about the manly art of war. He screamed, “Huzzah!” as their horses nearly collided, and his wooden sword whirled in the air. Sinclair's went up to meet it, but the force of the blow made his sword and his arm, too, shudder all the way to the shoulder. The clatter of the wood caused the horses to whinny and buck in fear, but Sinclair was able to keep control of Ajax using the pressure of his own legs and one firm hand on the reins. Hatch's horse bared its teeth, as if it, too, had lessons to teach, and Ajax pulled his head away. Hatch leaned back in his saddle and aimed another blow, this time his blade sliding down the length of Sinclair's sword with a deadly scratching noise, stopping just short of the handle guard.
The horses bumped sides, like rolling battleships, and parted. But Hatch wheeled around behind, and as Sinclair twisted in his seat, the saber flew again; Sinclair ducked and felt the top of his helmet knocked askew. The strap suddenly jerked off his chin, and the hat tumbled down into the melee of hooves. Hatch's horse trotted in front of Ajax, and Hatch himself taunted Sinclair by tapping the tip of his sword on the baldric from which his opponent's empty scabbard hung.
“Dance, my Russian bear,” Hatch said, pretending to treat him like their foreign foe. “Dance!”
But Sinclair was in no mood for jokes, or ridicule. While all around him, other soldiers wheeled and clashed and battled, he touched his spurs to Ajax's left flank, and the horse moved forward; without his helmet on, Sinclair could actually see better, and as Hatch prepared for Sinclair to come to his right, Sinclair tugged on the reins and Ajax immediately altered his course. Sinclair swung his sword, and Hatch had just enough time to fend off the blow. But
rather than drawing back, Sinclair struck again, the blow glancing off the edge of Hatch's saber and nearly taking off the man's nose. The dun-colored horse neighed and kicked out. Hatch reared back in his saddle, virtually standing in his stirrups, to get out of reach of another swing, and when Sinclair had passed, he drove his horse headfirst into Ajax's flanks. Before the horse could turn, or Sinclair could right himself in the saddle, Hatch had looped his reins on his pommel and with his hand now free reached out and grabbed Sinclair by the fur collar of his pelisse, dragging him off his horse altogether. Sinclair slid down the horse's flanks, his equipment clanking, his shoulder harness slipping loose, and thumped down onto the broken soil, rolling free as nimbly as he could of the flying hooves all around him. There was dirt in his mouth, and the remnants of his helmet were crushed flat.
The bugler sounded an end to the conflict, and as the combatants separated, some laughing, others licking their imagined wounds, Sinclair looked around; three or four other men were also lying in the dirt, one with a bloody or broken nose, another with a gash in his leg from a caught spur. All looked less than pleased with themselves. As Sinclair struggled onto all fours-his cherry trousers sporting a great hole in one knee-he saw a pair of black boots striding up and saw a gnarled, brown hand extended.
“You can't always expect your enemy to fight fair,” Sergeant Hatch said, helping to lift Sinclair off the ground. He bent down, picked up the black brim of Sinclair's helmet, knocked the dust off it, and ceremoniously handed what was left of it to him. “But that was a fine bit of riding-you held your horse well.”
Blood and Ice Page 18
