In Cold Pursuit vw-1

by Sarah Andrews

  “Keep moving!” someone barked. “You can take your pictures later!”

  Valena turned to face the man who had spoken so brusquely. Why was he in such a hurry? Like everyone else around her, he was covered from chin to mid-thigh in the blaze red of a huge, standard-issue expedition parka, and from there down by the black insulated wind pants. He had pulled a brightly colored fleece fool’s cap down tightly over his brow, its levity incongruous above his scowl. Staring past her into nothingness, he swung his arm briskly from the shoulder, exhorting her to hurry toward a looming red vehicle that had been cheerfully emblazoned in white letters as IVAN THE TERRA BUS.

  Valena craned her neck. Ivan was huge. Its passenger compartment was not much bigger than that of a standard school bus, but it was mounted atop six balloon tires, each taller than Valena. The driver’s side door was accessed via a ladder that was bolted to the side, and on the passengers’ side—well, most large buses had steps, but this was a full staircase. Everything here was completely out of scale with anything she had seen before.

  She picked up her duffels and shuffled toward the bus. Climbed the stairs. Found a seat. Looked around. The other passengers stared out the scratched windows, exhausted but wired. She gazed from face to face, trying to figure out which of these people were scientists like herself—here on grants from the National Science Foundation or NASA—and which were employees of Raytheon Polar Services, the contractor that provided all the infrastructure support that would soon put her out in a field camp on the ice, far beyond the jarring hustle and bustle of this arrival.

  The scowling driver climbed aboard, closed the door, and put Ivan in gear. Off they went across the ice toward the island and its harsh jumble of steel buildings. At the edge of the ice, the road pitched steeply upward, then turned between the hash of metal buildings. Like the bus, some of the structures had names painted on them: Royal Society. Hotel California. Everything rolled past too quickly in a chaos of impressions, until the bus pulled up in front of a wooden building that looked like a Swiss chalet. It looked like part of a movie set, no more real than anything else she was seeing.

  The driver opened the door and got out. The other passengers rose and headed down the aisle toward the stairs. She followed them, peering through the windows for her first glimpse of her wandering professor. Emmett Vanderzee had a way of getting lost sometimes, mostly in his head, but he was a brilliant man, and the work he was doing was essential. He and an assistant had come south a week ahead of her, “to look after a few details from last year,” he had told her.

  But where was he? All the people gathered outside to greet the arrivals looked alike in their red parkas, like a gaggle of bad Santa Claus impersonators. Even so, Emmett should have been easy to pick out: he was tall and angular, and, even bundled in a big red parka, his pale narrow face and long curving nose and crooked smile would be visible, a combination of attributes that gave him the aspect of a curious camel. If he wasn’t wearing a hat she would spot his thin rooster-tail of unkempt, graying hair, and if he had forgotten his sunglasses, she would see his soft, inward-gazing blue eyes.

  She looked from face to face. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he was waiting for her inside the chalet, where everyone from the bus was now heading, first stacking their orange duffel bags on the porch. She followed along, peering into every face she passed, growing anxious. He’d said that there would be a briefing that would go by way too fast for a “fingie”—whatever that was—but that he would be there, to help her put everything in context and so that they could get right to work preparing for their field deployment.

  She pushed through the door into an airlock, passing a sign instructing all visitors to take off their crampons before entering, and continued through the inner door into a small assembly room that had been prepared with chairs, a screen, and a projector. Emmett wasn’t here, either.

  The in-brief was an overwhelming flood of instructions presented by an array of National Science Foundation and Raytheon section chiefs in rapid monotones. To check out keys to your dorm room, go to building such-and-such and see so-and-so. To check out a vehicle, see this blah-de-blah in building mumbled number. Raytheon employees have training sessions here and science grantees will meet there. Don’t bug Raytheon personnel in the dining hall; make an appointment to see them in their offices. Wash your hands after using the bathroom and before meals so you don’t spread the crud. Put your sunglasses on even when passing between buildings; if the UV doesn’t get you, the blowing grit will. Don’t leave McMurdo before you’ve gone through Happy Camp. Don’t go anywhere without checking out. After hours, call the fire department for phone numbers. Fill out this form. And this one. And this one. Make sure you recycle. Do this, don’t do that. Don’t screw up. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

  The United States, Reno, and the Desert Research Institute seemed long ago and far away, figments of another planet.

  At last this firing-squad introduction to How to Survive in McMurdo was over and everybody was standing up. They had arrived too late for supper, so someone was handing out another round of sack lunches. Eating seemed a good idea, but what was she supposed to do after that? Where in hell was Emmett? Or, where in… the ice?

  She heard her name being called: “Valena Walker? Is Valena Walker here?”

  She turned. A tall, bearded man was moving toward her. “Ah, there you are,” he said, reading the name tag on her parka. “Would you come into my office, please?” He gestured toward an inner door. He wasn’t smiling.

  Valena followed him, her big blue boots thumping on the floorboards. Something was wrong, that much was now certain. Her stomach felt like it was full of sand.

  The man closed the door behind them. “Have a seat,” he said.

  Valena sat, clutching her flight lunch. What was his name? During the in-brief, he had been introduced as the National Science Foundation’s top representative here in McMurdo, el jefe, the man in charge of all of the scientists, but had used up copious amounts of his welcoming message trying to persuade everyone that they should not believe or spread rumors. She now watched him acutely as he paced slowly across the room, searching his stiff posture for clues about what he was about to say. Had Emmett been injured? Was he sick? Where was he?

  The man reached the far wall of the room, turned, started back. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at the floor. That was bad.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, feeling like she was reading from a poorly written script. This was not how it was supposed to be. She was in Antarctica. She had worked hard, had excelled in science, had moved heaven and earth to get into the Antarctic program, and now…where in hell was Emmett Vanderzee?

  “I’m George Bellamy,” the man said. “Well, you know that; I was just introduced to all of you right outside that door.” He stopped pacing, his face twisting with discomfort. “Well, uh…I have some bad news for you. Uh, very sad, um… well, your PI—uh, the principal investigator of your project, Emmett Vanderzee?—uh, well, he I am sure meant to be here to greet you, but, ah… well…” He crimped his face into an unfunny smile, as if he’d just been stung by a bee on one cheek.

  “Well then, um… where is he?”

  “He’s on an LC-130 Hercules,” he said.

  “An LC-130. Oh, I see. He’s been delayed coming in from checking his field locations, then… or whatever it was he had to do before I got here.”

  Bellamy blinked. “He—no, no, he’s been redeployed.”

  “Redeployed?”

  “He’s going north,” Bellamy snapped, as if speaking to a student who had been caught daydreaming.

  “North.” Valena quickly computed the implications and permutations of the word. Okay, this man is speaking in present tense, so that means that Emmett is not dead, but why would he be heading to New Zealand? “Has Dr. Vanderzee been injured?” she asked.

  Bellamy shook his head vigorously. “No. No…” He began to pace again.

  Valena tracked his movement. Well,
if Emmett’s not dead, and he’s not sick or injured, and whatever is wrong with him is making this man really, truly uncomfortable, then what exactly is the problem? She cleared her throat. Waited. Spoke. “And he’s on a plane going north because…?”

  “Hm. Well, I can’t tell you that, exactly. In fact, I am not sure, myself. And the less said about this, the better.” He let out an uncomfortable laugh. “McMurdo is a rumor mill. We must be careful not to feed it!”

  “Rumor?”

  “Now, as regards your status here, I’m sorry to say that we can’t get you on a plane until at least Tuesday.”

  Valena jumped to her feet, dropping her sack lunch on the floor. “Wait! Isn’t Emmett coming back?”

  “Well, that is to be determined, I suppose.” He presented her with a dismissive smile, a man done with an awkward duty. Stepping behind his desk, he said, “Now, you must be tired, so you’ll want to get situated in your dorm room, and—”

  Valena raised her hands in entreaty. “But I’m here to do research for my master’s degree!”

  Bellamy shook his head sadly. “I know this must be a terrible disappointment. We should have caught you in Christchurch this morning and saved you the flight, but we did reach the other student on your project—Taha Hesan? He hadn’t left Reno yet, so we were able to put him on hold. But, well, now you’re here, so… well, as I say, we can get you out in a few days. I’ll just need you to be discreet.”

  Valena’s self-control began to slip. “He’s not coming back?”

  Bellamy flipped a hand toward the ceiling in frustration. “This could all be cleared up, I suppose, and we’d get Dr. Vanderzee on the next available flight south again, but scheduling here in Antarctica is always tight. The next several flights south are filled, and there are frequent delays due to the weather. Antarctica is the land of delays! Nothing ever quite goes according to plan, and after a while it wouldn’t be worth continuing, because the season will simply fly by.”

  “What could be cleared up?” she said, and then, her voice hitting a keen pitch, demanded, “Tell me what’s going on here!”

  “Dr. Vanderzee… had to leave to attend a hearing.”

  “A hearing? What kind of hearing?”

  Bellamy’s face darkened ominously. “A man dies in your camp, there are matters to be cleared up. Surely you understand that.”

  A thin ringing noise filled Valena’s ears. She sat down and tried to brace her elbows on her knees, which felt oddly gelatinous. “That journalist died of altitude sickness,” she said.

  “Indeed he did. And I’m sure that will all come out in the hearing. Now, Ms. Walker, I’m sure this is all a shock to you, but… well, I really can’t tell you anything more, because you see it’s all got to be kept confidential, and I need you to, uh, keep everything I’ve just said to you in strictest confidence. The US Antarctic Program does not need this kind of publicity!” His hands suddenly seemed to have left his voluntary control and began to fly around like great sallow moths. “We do the finest science, and we struggle and slave to get the word out, and now this!”

  Valena stared up into his face. “I am here to continue Dr. Vanderzee’s excellent work.” She wanted to add, And this is not going to stop me, but her words had grown thick, and she couldn’t get them to come out of her mouth. Huge government programs were an abstraction to her. Her priorities lay in her thesis work and what lay beyond it: having participated in Emmett Vanderzee’s critically important study of rapid climate change, she intended to roll on through a doctoral program, thereby earning a position at the DRI—the Desert Research Institute in Reno, which was world famous for work in cold deserts like Antarctica—and begin her own projects, which would bring her back to the ice again and again. “I—I’ll phone the other people on the project and get back to you in the morning with a revised plan,” she managed at last.

  Bellamy nodded his head like a woodpecker. “Certainly. Certainly.”

  Even though she was swathed in layers of down and fleece, Valena felt cold. She was ten thousand miles from home, exhausted, and had no idea whom to turn to for help. Bellamy had an agenda, and it did not include her. If she didn’t get out of his office soon, her tears would flow, and she did not want him to see them. She needed time to think, to get her emotions back under control. She stood up and headed out of his office and toward the outer door.

  “I need your word that you will keep our conversation in strictest confidence,” Bellamy called after her.

  Valena turned, said, “I’m scheduled for survival training day after tomorrow, and—so that’s what I am going to do.”

  “As long as you exercise the utmost discretion. We probably can’t get you on a flight until Wednesday, anyway. Watch the bulletin board near the entrance to the galley. They’ll post your flight north. Make sure you’re on it.”

  Valena’s chill suddenly turned to heat. She turned and gave the big man with the pale hands a quick but defiant stare, then shoved open the door that led into the airlock, bowing her head against the cold blast of air that awaited her outside.

  2

  THE DORMITORY ROOM WAS A NIGHTMARE. VALENA HAD been assigned to a barracks room with seven other women, two of whom were abject slobs. Their duffels spewed clothing, and their skis formed tripping hazards between her bunk and the door. The bunk beds and freestanding closets had started out cheap and had been badly abused from there. And being last into the room, she had drawn an upper bunk. What was it going to be like if she had to get up in the night and pee?

  It was a struggle to tuck in the sheets and army blankets issued by Housing. She had to duck her head to clear the ceiling while kneeling on the bunk itself, and every time she moved, her knees twisted all previous smoothings. She wanted to scream.

  What is my problem? she asked herself. I’ve hiked or skied to fourteen of Colorado’s highest summits and have kayaked the Grand Canyon, camping in the most primitive conditions—loving every minute!—so why does this room seem so stark?

  The woman on the upper bunk of the bed to her right began to snore loudly. Valena stared across the dim room toward her, wondering how anyone could fall asleep in such a setting.

  She lay down on her back and stared at the ceiling. Time inched by. It was past 9:00 p.m., perhaps 10:00. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had left her flight lunch in Bellamy’s office. She tried to push hunger out of her mind by meditating on the landscape she had witnessed after leaving the Chalet. Too upset to think straight, she had marched the short distance out to the edge of the slope that led down toward the salt ice of McMurdo Sound and stared at the towering peaks of the Transantarctic Mountains, which marked the edge of the continent. Ross Island, where she stood, was separated from them by at least thirty miles of frozen ocean.

  In the broad daylight of a springtime evening seventy-seven degrees south of the equator, the mountains had danced alluringly. Everything south of the Antarctic Circle saw daylight for the six months of the year that the South Pole faced toward the sun during its annual revolution and darkness during the six months it faced away, so during Valena’s planned eight-week visit, the sun would not set.

  But George Bellamy had just told her that she would not be staying even one week. She willed herself to forget her fears and cherish this first solo moment with the land she had longed to meet, but the sting of disappointment was too intense to overcome, and after a short while she had turned toward Building 155, where this horrifying room awaited her. Now her only view was of the stains in the ceiling. She mapped them slowly, trying to trace a route that would lead her out of her troubles.

  Half an hour later, she was still staring at the ceiling when another of her bunkmates came into the room. Valena closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. She was too wired and too tired to talk to strangers, and her old bugaboo of feeling isolated in a crowd had set in with unusual force. She had heard stories about McMurdo, that people came here the first time for the adventure, a second time for the money, and the t
hird and every other time because they had figured out that they fit in nowhere else. Did she fit in here?

  The unseen roommate stepped quietly through the room, making only the softest sounds of zippers unzipping and the muffled thump of shoes landing on floor, then a rustling as she slipped between the sheets. A moment later, the sound of singing erupted from the hallway, the door again opened, and two more of her roommates entered, giggling, tripping over the skis, whispering to each other to observe the request another roommate had posted—DAY SLEEPER, GOING ON SHIFT AT MIDNIGHT, HAVE A HEART. It took them twenty minutes of muffled laughter and thumping around to settle down. Saturday night in Antarctica.

  Finally, from sheer exhaustion, Valena slept. When she opened her eyes next she had no idea what time it was. The light that filtered through the sheet someone had tacked up over the window was every bit as bright as it had been when she fell asleep. Soft breathing and gentle snoring rose from all the pillows around her. She began to doze again herself, so tired that her body seemed to be spinning. This jolted her awake, and another quarter hour passed before she again found sleep.

  The next time she awoke, there was no getting back to sleep. She rose, grabbed her toilet kit and a change of clothes, and went looking for the shower room, which proved to be as Spartan as the bunk room.

  Ten minutes later, freshly washed and dressed in clean jeans and a purplish-blue turtleneck sweater, she shrugged her way into the big red parka, grabbed her backpack, which held her laptop computer, and set off in search of her office at Crary, the science laboratory on station where all grantees were given office space. If she had only three days to figure out how to not get sent home, she figured she’d better get cracking.