by L. A. Larkin
‘You want to check it out? I’ll take you there.’
‘Are you serious?’ Her voice was high-pitched with excitement. Then she shook her head. ‘No, I can’t do it. I don’t have time to waste on a jolly.’
‘But this outbreak could decimate penguin populations.’
‘I know, but we can’t go on the island.’
‘No, we’d stay in the boat and keep a safe distance. But at least you could see Charlie and talk through the radio.’
He watched her consider his offer. Whenever she was unsure how to respond, she twisted her hair into a bun and secured it with whatever was to hand. This time it was a pen. He always wondered how it stayed put.
‘Too risky, Luke, and I should just get on with running the station.’ She stood and headed for the door. ‘Well done again for winning the prize. You annoy the hell out of me most of the time, but I’m very proud of you.’
Maddie left before he could respond, almost colliding with Tubs. The station chef charged into the room. His head of blond curls, his dimpled smile and his short, plump body gave him the appearance of a mischievous cherub.
‘Hey, my man,’ he said, high-fiving Luke. ‘The award thing is awesome.’
‘How did you …?’ The grapevine was as fast as ever. ‘Thanks.’
Tubs, who was always on hyperdrive, continued. ‘So, party tonight. Cooking up a feast. Big juicy steaks, medium rare, just how you like them.’ Tubs rubbed his pudgy hands together in excitement.
Luke couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I hope to God Maddie doesn’t make a speech.’
‘She has to! From what I hear, this is a big deal. So, you’re a rich man now?’
Deep in thought, Luke didn’t answer.
‘Hello? Anybody there?’ said Tubs. ‘I said, any prize money?’
‘Yeah, but I won’t be spending it.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
Luke stood, dwarfing his friend, and smiled. ‘Fancy a boat trip?’
T MINUS 5 DAYS, 1 HOUR, 1 MINUTE
5 March, 10:59 am (UTC-07)
‘What would you know about the risk I’m taking?’ sneered the General. ‘All you do is play with numbers.’
Only his father would dare to speak to him like that. Robert’s boot swung back and forth in irritation, tapping the makeshift floor of his tent. He felt like punching the monitor that framed his father’s bloated face. Instead, he took a deep breath.
‘Wrong, Father. I make things happen – things other people consider impossible – and I make a fortune from it. My good investments make so much money that the inevitable losses are just the price of doing business. You talk about risk, Father? Well, risk is my life. You think this man in Sydney threatens our project? Then, yes, we must eliminate that risk. But another death? Why not just keep him quiet until the tenth of March? It won’t matter after that.’
‘Son, you focus on making this project a success. I’ll send King to deal with it.’
Robert had heard of King: a Caucasian operative his father had used before. He moved on quickly.
‘Father, I’ve always made it very clear this project is a high-risk venture. Our new technology could fail, our costs could blow out or the international community could stop our operations. Any number of things could go wrong. This has never been done before. But private equity is a high-wire act. Only someone as smart and experienced as me – only someone with my connections and resources – could have spotted this potential gold mine in Antarctica. We’re on the verge of launching a whole new industry! Never before has this resource been so desperately needed, nor has anyone invested the millions necessary to make it happen. We will be national heroes.’ Robert’s gaunt face stretched into a triumphant smile.
‘That’s all very well,’ the General replied, ‘but it must make us rich. Rich enough to be safe. For you, this is merely a business venture. I, on the other hand, have put my life on the line. I have gone behind the Party’s back. Only a few hand-picked men know. If word gets out I could be tried for treason.’
‘Nerves of steel, Father.’
‘Don’t patronise me, you paper-pusher.’ Robert had only ever heard panic in his father’s belligerent voice once before, and that was when he had discovered his wife dead.
‘I have staked my reputation, Father. And when you have one hundred and sixty billion US dollars under management – as I do – reputation is everything. It was that reputation that got us the four hundred million to make this project happen.’
‘Don’t lecture me, boy! In the scheme of things, four hundred million is small fry to you.’
‘True, but we won’t fail.’
Robert waited for his father’s phlegmy, agitated breathing to slow down.
‘So what are you doing about Hope Station?’ the General growled.
For once the winds had died down, and Robert’s tent – which resembled an oversized forty-four-gallon drum cut in half and laid on its side – felt too quiet, and his father’s voice too loud. ‘My hacker has been monitoring all their communications. The alarm hasn’t been raised. The jammer is about to be activated, and I have a plan to deal with the six residents.’
‘Well, get on with it,’ grumbled the General. ‘And watch out for Luke Searle. I have read his file. He lacks discipline and challenges his superiors, but he’s a born survivor. Seven seasons in Antarctica, experienced mountaineer, has trekked through the Karakoram … He survived a three-day storm by digging an ice cave.’
Thanks to his hacker, Robert had watched Searle’s email traffic and paid particular attention to his regular Skype calls to his son. In any campaign, Robert always tried to identify his enemies’ weaknesses. Searle’s was his son. But Robert would keep that to himself for now. If his plan worked, there would be no need to exploit it.
‘I agree, but Madeline Wildman is the leader. She is disciplined, tough—’
‘Pah! A woman! Don’t be ridiculous. Now, eliminate them or I will order Captain Wei to do it.’
As their phone conversation ended, Wei’s voice barked over the two-way radio. ‘Captain Oates to Commander Scott. Permission to wake the baby?’
It was Robert’s idea to adopt the names of Robert Falcon Scott’s team. It was unlikely their radio transmissions would be overheard, but this way their identities were safeguarded. Besides, he enjoyed the association with the heroic Scott. Wei’s message meant that he was within a kilometre of Hope Station and ready to activate the jammer. The captain wouldn’t be spotted: his white parka, hood and salopettes gave him more than adequate camouflage.
‘Scott to Oates. Permission granted.’
In his mind’s eye, Robert could see the small wooden crate filled with fancy-dress clothing, stored at Hope Station. Hidden inside was a radio and satellite jammer, placed there many months ago by King, who had also planted key-loggers into three laptops bound for Hope Station so that Robert could monitor the keystrokes of Searle, Wildman and the now dead communications officer, MacNamara. The jammer resembled an early ‘brick’ mobile phone, but instead of one long antenna, it had four. King had selected the fancy-dress crate because he knew its contents were unlikely to be opened until the winter solstice celebration on the twenty-first of June, by which time his employer’s mission would be complete.
‘The baby is awake, sir,’ said Wei.
Robert turned to his communications officer, Huang Feng. ‘So it’ll jam for eighteen hours if it’s inside, in the warm, but what if it’s stored outside? How long then?’
Huang was almost hidden by the laptops, sat phones, handheld GPS and GPR units, surveillance binoculars and other equipment that was piled on his table. ‘Batteries don’t cope well in extreme cold. It could be as little as six, sir.’
‘But it will block all frequency bands?’
‘All those used at Hope, yes.’ Huang looked at his monitors and scratched his shaved head. ‘Sir, the jammer doesn’t appear to be working.’
‘Why not?’ asked Robert, his voice perfectly calm.
‘I don’t know yet, sir. The battery could be dislodged or perhaps drained.’ Huang looked nervously askance at his commander. ‘I’m working on it, sir.’
Robert radioed Wei. ‘Captain Oates, are you sure the baby’s awake? Confirm.’
Wei responded with an affirmative.
‘The baby appears dead,’ Robert told him. ‘Keep one of your men on watch. If a search party leaves Hope, alert me.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Robert now addressed Huang. ‘If it’s the battery, how do we solve it?’
‘Someone has to find the jammer and replace the battery, which means entering the station.’
‘Time to call in a favour.’
T MINUS 5 DAYS, 29 MINUTES
5 March, 11:31 am (UTC-07)
Luke blinked, his thick black eyelashes sweeping away the sting of salt. Dodging chunks of sea ice, he managed to keep the twelve-person inflatable rubber boat, a Zodiac, at a reasonable speed as they approached the brooding bulk of Whalers Island.
Circular in shape, the island was a volcanic caldera, with asphalt-grey, icy crags punctuated by bleak beaches of black volcanic sand. A burst of red between the jumble of icebergs and smaller bergy bits caught Luke’s eye. He squinted into the murky distance; it had to be the Professor Basov. She was always the last tourist ship of the season and usually dropped anchor for one night inside the island’s hidden harbour. But with the bird flu outbreak, she had clearly kept a safe distance. Luke had hoped the Basov might be in the area: a chance to catch up with his mate, Vitaly Yushkov. He wiped his sunglasses with a gloved hand and placed them back on his wind-chafed face. Tubs sat on the bulbous side of the boat, grinning with delight, with one hand gripping the rope.
Luke revved the engine and leaned into the rush of air, one leg forward to stabilise himself. The sun broke through the clouds and lit up the submerged section of a truck-sized piece of floating ice, which glowed a dazzling turquoise. A three-metre leopard seal sunbathed on the icy raft. Its mouth, wide enough to engulf Luke’s head, seemed fixed in a permanent Joker’s grin.
‘Look at the size of that,’ called Tubs, pointing.
‘They get even bigger,’ Luke shouted back. ‘The females can reach almost four metres.’
The seal, so sleek and fast in the water, lumbered towards the ice’s edge and slid in.
As they moved around a three-storey-high iceberg shaped like a dented teapot, the predominantly white Professor Basov was revealed. Now Luke could clearly see the brightly painted funnel – with its horizontal stripes alternating red, blue and black – and the garish red lifeboats, raised high on the upper deck. The ice-breaker, five storeys high, with rust stains down its bow like a nosebleed, had dropped anchor. Luke spied tiny figures on the decks and knew the tourists were enjoying the breathtaking views.
As they approached the vessel, Luke spotted Vitaly Yushkov leaning on the railing at the stern. Over his wrestler’s body, the Russian wore a navy-blue boilersuit, from which a thick neck and head of closely cropped brown hair protruded. Despite the cold, his head and hands weren’t covered. He was smoking a cigarette, which he stubbed out on the deck under his salt-stained boots, and kicked the stub into the ocean.
When Luke was close enough, he hollered, ‘Hey! Stop littering, you old bastard.’
Vitaly didn’t deign to respond. He didn’t even move his head but he must have glanced down in their direction, as he straightened and waved his chunky arms in the air. Luke waved back and used his two-way radio to request permission to board the ship. The gangway was lowered, and with the Zodiac safely secured, Luke and Tubs went aboard. They stepped into a shallow pool of disinfectant to ensure they didn’t contribute to the spread of any infectious diseases.
Vitaly opened his arms wide and caught Luke in a bear hug. ‘My friend. Good to see you.’
He pushed Luke away as quickly as he had embraced him. ‘You bring me a gift?’ he demanded, folding his arms across his broad chest.
‘What? So you can litter the ocean some more?’ laughed Luke. ‘Now why would I do that?’ Luke unzipped his windproof jacket and retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his inner pocket. ‘But I guess if you want to kill yourself, who am I to stop you?’ he joked, as he threw the packet at Vitaly.
‘Ha!’ said Vitaly, as if to say he knew all along that Luke had them concealed on his person. He popped the cigarettes in his boilersuit pocket. His small sapphire-blue eyes then focused on Tubs.
‘This is Tubs, the best station chef I’ve ever known. He can really cook,’ said Luke. ‘Tubs, this is my good friend, Vitaly Yushkov. I did a stint as a tour guide on this ship. If it hadn’t been for Vitaly, I would have thrown myself overboard.’ Luke glanced up at the tourists watching them, thankful he was not at their beck and call.
‘If you are a friend of this big guy, then you are also my friend,’ said Vitaly, embracing Tubs, who wriggled free as soon as he could without offending the Russian. He wasn’t comfortable with man-on-man hugging.
The arrival of two strangers had captured the attention of several guests, who hovered nearby, whispering to each other in their diverse languages. But because the Russian crew didn’t fraternise with the tourists, the onlookers kept a polite distance.
‘Why you come here?’ Vitaly asked.
Luke smiled. Vitaly had always been direct. ‘I wanted to take a look at Whalers and talk to Charlie, our guy in charge of the quarantine. You know, see how he’s going,’ he said, moving to the starboard side of the ship. Vitaly and Tubs followed.
‘We cannot visit the island,’ Vitaly said. ‘It is this bird flu. The tourists, they are not happy.’
Luke nodded and tried to raise Charlie on the radio. No response. He frowned. ‘Must be out of range. I’ll try again later.’ He looked at Vitaly. ‘How about a coffee?’
‘Of course.’
‘Still like paint stripper?’
‘Worse. I take you to Captain first.’
Vitaly spat over the ship’s side and then clomped up the steel steps of each deck until he reached the bridge. It was midday – way too early for Captain Dmitry Bolshakov to be at the helm, Luke thought. He had expected the captain to be sleeping off the alcohol that ran through his veins pretty much twenty-four/seven. Luke stepped forward to shake his hand.
‘Luke.’ From behind his white handlebar moustache and ruddy pockmarked skin, Bolshakov smiled. He wore a light camel-coloured uniform, complete with gold-braided insignia on his epaulettes. Luke could smell the alcohol on his breath.
The bridge was warm, the old radiators still pumping out a comfortable heat. Luke gazed around. Nothing had changed since his time on the Basov. The heavy grey equipment with large dials dated the ship to the 1980s; she’d been built in St Petersburg.
‘Still deftly steering the ship away from danger?’ Luke said. He remembered seeing the captain stand steady as his ship corkscrewed through terrifying seas, despite having consumed a bottle of vodka a few hours before.
Bolshakov shrugged. ‘Of course. So, you visit us. Why?’
At that moment a short-haired, compact man with bulbous eyes entered. He moved with the agility of an athlete, each step a controlled bounce. ‘I saw you come on board. I’m Alrek Tangen, from Norway. Have you come from Whalers?’ His English was near perfect – educated, fast-paced, no-nonsense. Alrek put out his hand to shake Luke’s and then thought better of it. The hand was swiftly retracted.
‘No, Hope Station. Luke Searle and Warren Grigg.’ Luke used Tubs’ real name. ‘So there’s no danger we’ve brought the virus on board,’ said Luke, anticipating Alrek’s concern.
‘Good,’ Alrek said, shaking their hands in turn, with new-found enthusiasm. He then took a step back and fidgeted from foot to foot – he clearly had more energy than he could expend. ‘Didn’t want the ship quarantined, you know. Must keep the guests happy. So?’ he asked, waiting for Luke to explain his uninvited presence.
‘Visiting old friends,’ Luke responded, flicking a smile at Vitaly
and Bolshakov. ‘And I was wondering if you’d seen any activity on Whalers? Our station leader is worried. Communication with the AARO quarantine team has been … limited.’
‘Arrow?’ asked Vitaly, misunderstanding the acronym.
‘Short for Australian Antarctic Research Organisation,’ Luke clarified.
Bolshakov handed Luke the binoculars. ‘You look.’
The bridge afforded Luke a high vantage point. He scanned the nearest beach and could make out small black and white feathery bodies strewn over the grey sand. He swallowed hard. It looked like a massacre. Maddie would be devastated.
Alrek said, ‘I’ve seen men in orange coats walking along the beach.’
Luke felt reassured that men wearing AARO colours had been seen. He was about to radio Charlie again on the island when he heard Maddie’s voice. ‘Luke, Tubs – this is Maddie. Do you read? Over?’
Luke pulled the radio close. ‘Maddie, Luke here. Receive you loud and clear.’
‘Where the hell are you?’
Tubs winced. She didn’t sound happy. Luke could hear Vitaly chuckling behind him.
‘On the Professor Basov,’ he replied. ‘Checking out Whalers Island.’
‘Shit, Luke. I made it clear you weren’t to go there.’ Luke saw Alrek raise an eyebrow. Sure, he thought, she hadn’t wanted to go, but he knew Maddie would see this as another example of his impetuousness. Maybe now was not the time to point out that he had turned his tag and written, clearly and neatly, his intention to visit Whalers Island in the book.
‘Luke, we need you back here now,’ she went on. ‘Mac and Dave haven’t come back, and they’re not responding to radio contact.’
T MINUS 4 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 40 MINUTES
5 March, 1:20 pm (UTC-07)
Luke had ten minutes before the briefing. He tore off his salt-spattered parka and went to Skype, hoping Jason might be online earlier than they’d arranged. He was.
‘Hey, little buddy,’ Luke said, staring into his son’s questioning eyes that were so similar to his own. Like his father, Jason preferred to observe people rather than engage with them. Jason’s laptop was on a low plastic table, so Luke’s view of his bedroom was limited to a glimpse of a sheet with penguins on it and a large green Lego tractor sitting on the floor.
