Thirst

by L. A. Larkin

  Luke turned off the camping stove and stepped outside to fetch an old can of paraffin. Back inside the hut, he used his hands to scoop it out of the can, funnelling it into the generator’s tank. He wiped the residue on the rusted pistons, hoping it might help to loosen them.

  This was going to be his one chance to send an SOS, so he had to have everything ready. He collected the radio from the cupboard room then scanned the desk and shelves for a Morse key. No luck, he’d have to tap two wires together instead.

  Luke carried the radio to the tools room and placed it carefully on the workbench next to the generator. He connected the two. Now he had to get the generator’s flywheel moving. It looked a bit like an old-fashioned sewing machine wheel, except it had a concave outer rim that took a thin rope snugly. The wheel wasn’t budging. Luke found a small block of wood, positioned it on the top of the wheel and gave it a gentle tap with a hammer. He tried another tap. The wheel moved a fraction, then a bit further.

  Luke breathed a sigh of relief. He took the rope and wrapped it around the wheel, then yanked it down sharply. But the generator didn’t roar into life as he had hoped it would. He tried again, and again. He wouldn’t give up – he had to send a call for help.

  At last there was a splutter, then the generator sprang to life, complaining loudly. Luke whooped with excitement and swiftly checked the radio. Five of the six valves glowed orange: one was clearly broken. Desperate not to waste fuel, Luke switched off the generator.

  Where would they have kept their spare valves? He charged back to the radio room and pawed through the desk. Nothing. Then he saw an old tea caddy on the shelf above. He opened it and found nails and string and pencils – and yes, right at the bottom, a valve, still in its cardboard box. Luke took the tin, as well as some rolled-up maps he saw on the shelf. He had to know his exact location.

  He still needed an antenna. He ran outside and looked around, but he couldn’t see any evidence of one; it must have collapsed years ago. He’d have to improvise.

  He began inspecting the debris scattered around the hut, and at last found a roll of fencing wire. The roof was wooden and wouldn’t short out the antenna. He uncoiled the wire and wound one end around some heavy pipe, which he then threw over the roof. The pipe landed on the other side of the gable’s peak. He looped the other end of the fencing wire around a heavy rock on the ground, hoping the wind wouldn’t blow the wire off the roof.

  Back inside the hut, Luke leaned over the radio, extracted the faulty valve and, with great care, replaced it with the spare. He willed it to work.

  The map of the Walgreen Coast and Cranton Bay gave him their coordinates. The generator wouldn’t last long once it was restarted, so Luke planned his SOS message with care. He racked his brains but couldn’t remember if W was ‘dah–dah–dit’ or ‘di–dah–dah’. This was critical since, according to the map, they were at 101° 24' west. Think! He tried to imagine himself back in Murray’s ham radio shack, tuning and listening. After what seemed an age, it finally came to him: ‘di–dah–dah’.

  Luke turned the radio dial to 500 kilohertz, the old international maritime distress frequency. It used to be monitored twenty-four hours a day, but nowadays, Luke would be counting on the few who tuned in. Its beauty was that it could be picked up as far as twelve hundred nautical miles away.

  He started the generator again and the bearings made a terrible noise. Not good, he thought. Gotta be quick.

  Luke pulled from the back of the radio the two exposed wires that should have been attached to the Morse key, if he’d had one. He began tapping the wires together. He was slow and tentative at first, keen to make sure he allowed enough of a gap between each element of code.

  ‘SOS. 74° 27' S, 101° 24' W. Need rescue.’

  He repeated the message several times, then expanded it to include the words ‘one wounded’. The old generator was quaking. Fuel was critically low.

  He began to doubt himself; what if nobody was listening on 500 kilohertz? What about 2182 kilohertz – the voice distress frequency? He could still transmit an SOS through it. It would be a fluke if anyone noticed his dits and dahs through all the voice traffic, but he had to try. He re-tuned the radio frequency dial and tapped out his message quickly.

  ‘SOS. 74° 27' S, 101° 24' W. One wounded. Luke Searle.’

  His hand was shaking so much that he wasn’t sure if he was getting the dits and dahs right. Luke added ‘murder’ to the sequence, and managed to tap it out three more times before the generator shuddered and then stopped.

  Then he heard Maddie, her voice frantic. ‘Luke, they’re coming. Luke!’

  T MINUS 2 DAYS, 23 HOURS, 22 MINUTES

  8 March, 6:38 am (AEDT)

  Wendy was stressed, and when she was stressed she ate chocolate. She bought two large bars from an all-night corner store – one milk chocolate, the other fruit and nut – and returned to the shop. She plonked herself in the desk chair and started to eat as she tried to calm herself.

  She was halfway through the first bar when the realisation hit her with the force of a head-on collision: if her father knew about something the Chinese were up to in Antarctica, he was a security risk. And as an Australian citizen, Jack couldn’t be spirited back to China as Xu had been. They would have had to find another way to keep him quiet.

  She leaped up and began pacing the room, trying to order her thoughts. Was she imagining it all or was it possible that her dad had been murdered? She dialled Anthony Chan, but when she heard his voice she hung up. If she was right, she shouldn’t involve anyone else. She might be endangering Chan.

  If I was Xu, why would I pass on information about Dragon Resources? she asked herself.

  ‘Money?’ she said aloud. If Xu had confidential information about the company, it would be dangerous for him to buy its shares. But if her father bought them in his name and they shared the profit, Xu could benefit from his knowledge without leaving a trail of evidence. But someone discovered what Xu and her dad were up to, and decided to stop them.

  Wendy tried to calm herself. Once again she looked over to the rack of suits ready for collection; each suit was in its own black plastic cover, and a piece of paper with the client’s name was taped to each coat hanger. She carefully unzipped the cover of Xu’s suit and peeled it back. She couldn’t help but admire the impeccable stitching around the buttonholes, the pockets and along the collar. She ran her fingertips over the tiny ridges of the collar’s stitching, and to her surprise she felt a lump. At first she guessed it was a knot in the thread – but her father would never let such a fault pass his meticulous inspection.

  She rubbed the lump, which was as big as an orange pip. ‘No way,’ she said aloud.

  She rummaged through a seamstress’s sewing box and found a cotton-cutter, to pick apart the tiny stitches. She pulled apart the collar, revealing a small pouch. Inside it was a device a bit like a computer chip. Wendy placed it in the palm of her hand and stared at it, mystified.

  She took some deep breaths, then placed the device carefully on the desk and tapped ‘bugging device Sydney’ into Google. Websites supplying spy equipment to the domestic and professional markets popped up. Wendy searched for pictures of voice transmitters. She couldn’t believe how many there were, and how easily available. And there it was: ‘If you think your partner is having an affair, or you want to eavesdrop on your competitors, this is the listening device for you.’ Once you had programmed your mobile phone number into the unit, you could listen to the bug’s surrounding sounds through your mobile phone. It allowed you to eavesdrop on a conversation but did not record it.

  Wendy sat back in her chair, open-mouthed. The diplomat hadn’t fed the information to her dad at all – he had been spying on Xu Biao!

  Hearing a bang in the alley, she jumped up from her chair. ‘Who’s there?’ she called. She peered out of the shop’s back window but saw nobody. It must be all that sugar, she thought.

  She sat down and turned back to the website. She
was partly in awe of her dad, partly furious and partly terrified. He must’ve used a similar bug in a previous suit and overheard conversations about Dragon Resources in Antarctica. It was obvious he’d heard enough to think that he couldn’t lose if he bought shares in the company. Someone must have found the device. A heart attack? What could be more innocuous?

  Wendy had to get out of there. She popped the listening device in an envelope, sealed it, and then taped the edges, placing it in the inside pocket of her leather jacket.

  T MINUS 2 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 20 MINUTES

  7 March, 1:40 pm (UTC-07)

  Luke charged down the corridor, dodging the hole in the floor-boards, and peered through the streaky kitchen window.

  ‘There! Snowmobiles,’ said Maddie, pointing.

  There was no mistaking the rectangular red shapes moving down the snowy slopes. They were using Hope Station vehicles. The snowmobiles merged and separated and then merged again, crisscrossing as if in a dance. But this was no joyful moment.

  ‘I must’ve fallen asleep,’ she said, her face flushed with panic. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  Luke was momentarily paralysed. He was an ordinary guy, living a quiet life. Until now. Suddenly, everyone around him was dead or wounded and he was being hunted by killers. He was forced to make life-or-death decisions. He made himself look out of the window again but still his mind didn’t function. They were getting closer. He had to pull himself together. He had to act. No – he had to think first.

  ‘Luke, we have to go!’ screamed Maddie as she struggled off the mattress and swung her bandaged leg down to the floor.

  ‘Wait!’ He raised his hands to stop her going any further. ‘They’re probably twenty minutes away, so let’s think this through.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Okay,’ he said, trying to focus. ‘If we leave Bettingtons, we lose our only shelter. Without shelter we won’t last. Can we defend the hut?’

  ‘With what?’

  He raced to the tools room, but a rusty saw and an axe were no match for men with guns. He spun around, scanning the equipment on the floor, then the shelves. A rifle on the wall. He picked it up. A Lee-Enfield bolt-action – the pride of the British army.

  ‘I’ve found a gun,’ he hollered.

  ‘I’m getting my gear on,’ Maddie shouted back. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

  He had no idea if the rifle would fire, but without cartridges it was even less use than the axe. Where would cartridges be? Of course – with the station leader.

  Luke charged into the station leader’s room and turned it upside down. ‘He must have taken them with him. Shit!’ he yelled. He ran back to the kitchen.

  ‘The smoke – they’ll see the smoke,’ said Maddie.

  ‘Too late, they’ve already seen it.’ Luke raced to the shelf and snatched their gloves and hats, which had been drying near the stove. ‘We can’t defend this place and we can’t run. You can’t run. So we have to hide.’

  ‘No. I can run. I have to run.’ She began hopping towards the door.

  ‘Listen, Mads, please.’ Luke held her arms. ‘They have snowmobiles. And we’re cornered. Beyond Bettingtons is the sea. The only place for us to go is onto the sea ice, and that’s like playing Russian roulette. You don’t have enough strength to balance. We must hide.’

  ‘This bloody wound!’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, I can’t make it on sea ice. But you don’t have to stay here. You know the ice. You can hide out at sea. You should go.’

  ‘I’m not leaving you.’

  Maddie yanked her arms away from his hands. ‘I’m still station leader, and for once in your life, Luke Searle, you’ll do as I say!’ She jabbed her finger into his chest. ‘You are leaving. One of us must survive. Someone has to tell the world what’s gone on here.’ Luke opened his mouth to object but she cut in. ‘I order you to run.’

  Luke peered over her shoulder and through the window. The snowmobiles were close. ‘I’m not going anywhere until we’ve found somewhere safe for you,’ he said. ‘And when they’re gone, I’ll come back for you. I know where you can hide. Now, wrap yourself tightly in your blanket.’ The rock-coloured blanket would hide Maddie’s dazzling yellow freezer suit.

  ‘No way,’ she said.

  ‘Just do it,’ his tone sharp.

  She pulled the blanket around her. He stripped off his freezer suit, yanked on his now dry thermal leggings, pulled the spare parka and trousers from the bag, put them on, and threw the heavy old trench coat over the top. The parka and trousers were too small – they’d belonged to Blue – but they would have to do. Luke shoved a beanie on his head and stuffed his gloves in his pocket. He glanced through the window again. He could now make out three snowmobiles, which meant anything from three to six men.

  Maddie leaned against the table, her blanket pulled around like a chrysalis, her hat low on her head. She looked like a sick child on a camping trip.

  Luke reached his arms around her body, blanket and all, so he could lift her.

  ‘What are you doing? Where am I hiding?’ She struggled, trying to push him away.

  ‘Stop fighting me, for God’s sake.’ Luke heaved her up, then staggered down the narrow corridor. ‘Hold your leg in.’

  After a sharp kick from Luke, the front door flew open and he stepped down onto the ice. He knew the killers couldn’t see them because the front of the hut faced out to sea. The rear of the hut faced the mountains.

  ‘Get under the hut with all the junk. There’s no way they’ll see you,’ said Luke, kneeling down and placing her gently on the powdery ice.

  ‘What if they burn it down?’

  ‘They won’t. One fire is an accident, two is too much of a coincidence. Anyway, they’ll be so focused on me that they won’t be interested in the hut.’

  ‘God, Luke – what are you planning?’

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he crawled into the narrow, ice-free gap under the hut. He used his elbows to propel himself forward. Apart from the columns of bricks that raised the hut’s floor above the ground, the area was littered with debris: rusty pipes, wooden poles, old wooden crates, a rusted axe, a shovel, some wire. He cleared a place under the centre of the hut, arranging plenty of flat wood for her to lie on. He rotated himself around to face Maddie.

  ‘Let’s have you,’ he said. ‘Can you get under here?’

  Maddie used her elbows to crawl forward. The boot of her injured leg snagged on a rock and she winced with pain. She managed to get most of her body underneath the hut when her blanket caught on a rock.

  ‘Come on,’ encouraged Luke. She was taking too long. He reached out and pulled her towards him in several jerky movements. Maddie stifled cries at the pain in her leg. When at last she was positioned beneath the centre of the hut, Luke wrapped her tightly in the blanket, both for warmth and to hide her bright freezer suit.

  ‘God, Luke, I’m terrified,’ Maddie whispered.

  ‘Me too, but you’ll be safe here. Just stay very quiet. Don’t let them spook you.’

  She nodded. ‘Promise you’ll come back. No heroics, okay?’

  Luke remembered Maddie using those very words shortly before he left to search for Mac and Dave. It seemed so very long ago. He couldn’t make the promise she wanted, but he could make a different one.

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ he said. ‘Now, keep very still. I’m going to hide you.’

  As he started piling crates around her, she reached out and clung to his arm, and then touched his face. It was a single stroke down his cheek. He looked back at her and smiled.

  ‘Go now,’ she whispered.

  Luke hesitated for a fraction of a second. He arranged a few more rusty canisters and wooden crates around her, until he was satisfied that she appeared to be nothing more than a pile of rubbish.

  ‘I can’t see anything of you,’ he said. ‘Just wait for me.’

  ‘What choice do I have?’ she joked, but he could hear the fear in her shaky voice.

  Luke crawled away
from her until he was free of the hut. He kneeled for a few moments to recover his breath.

  ‘Luke?’ Maddie called softly.

  ‘Yes?’

  A pause. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Mads?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I …’ It was now or never. He wanted to say how he felt. Spit the bloody words out, man, he thought. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll be back for you.’

  He stood up, cursing himself, and peered around the corner of the hut. Six men, maybe ten minutes away.

  T MINUS 2 DAYS, 22 HOURS, 11 MINUTES

  7 March, 1:49 pm (UTC-07)

  Luke sped back inside the hut. Despite what he had told Maddie, he didn’t have a plan; he was making it up as he went along. Somehow, he had to lure the killers away.

  In the kitchen he spun around in a circle, searching for inspiration. Think, damn it! He smacked his forehead. Come on! His brain felt scrambled. He raced to the tools room and found the map, then checked the contours of the local coastline. It gave him an idea. It was an implausible idea. Only a fool would buy it, but it was his only idea.

  First Luke shoved the medical kit into his backpack, clipped it up and slung it on his shoulders. It also contained the remaining food from Hope; there wasn’t enough time to pack all their supplies. He grabbed his freezer suit and the ice axe, and ran to the dormitory. He stuffed two pillows into his freezer suit, zipping it up, then seized the solitary leather boot and sprinted down the corridor and into the tools room. He found a hammer, some long, thick nails and a large coil of rope, which he threw over his head and wore diagonally across his body. He leapt through the front door, landing in the powdery ice outside.

  ‘I’ll come back for you, Maddie,’ he called.

  He bent over, pulled the boot onto his right hand and his thick glove onto his left, then he pushed the boot into the powdery top layer of ice, followed by his glove in the shape of a fist. He wanted to create the impression of two sets of footprints: his and Maddie’s, one of them limping. It was a ludicrous concept, but it just might work. His mind kept telling him to flee, but he painstakingly walked a step and then pressed the boot and his fist into the loose ice. He continued doing this down the slope, crouching low, until he reached a cliff above the seashore.