by Peter Tonkin
Armstrong Base was at 60 degrees west and Washington at 75. The little group in the Jamesway were nearly two hours ahead of their headquarters, therefore, and this seemed fortunate to all of them, for this was the afternoon of Friday, 24 December. As Jaeger began proceedings it was 17.30 local time, and 15.30 in Washington. They had just got through to the Office of Safety and Mission Assurance, and an S&MA team was being called together as fast as possible.
Richard sat trying to assess the likely impact of all of this on their Christmas plans. It looked to him as though Christmas with NASA was a distinct possibility, though with the big camp so lightly manned there would be room for all of them. This part of the process was painstaking, because it would be on the basis of this report that the Associate Administrator of Safety and Mission Assurance would decide whether to despatch his whole S&MA team, one inspector or what. And if either a team or a single inspector came down, that could well slow things further, for this was American soil, and they would want all the witnesses to wait and answer their questions in turn.
Still, thought Richard wryly, that was the way of the world; it was always your good deeds that found you out in the end. And days and deeds didn’t come much better than this one. Idly, he looked over the quietly hissing Preway oil heater, past the big card on the wall depicting Santa controlling a helicopter emblazoned ‘Season’s Greetings from the Ice Pirates’ and through the chill-proof clear plastic panel which was the Jamesway’s excuse for a window. At the far edge of the dazzling afternoon, where the blue shadows were just beginning to gather into that strange intensity of evening in the land of the midnight sun, he could see Erebus and Kalinin coming to anchor side by side away out west in the bay, with the tall black arms of the basalt outcrops solid and stark astern of them.
The scientific support vessel and the adapted icebreaker were much the same size, but where one had the slim, if strengthened, bows of a corvette, the other was broad in the beam with a great ram up ahead. He knew which he preferred the look of; but then he knew which he would rather face the ice aboard. They both had big white bridgehouses midships — something that still looked old-fashioned to his tanker-man’s eye. They both looked to be state of the art for these waters.
Colin nudged him, and he pulled his mind back to the present and his wandering gaze back to Colonel Jaeger, and the camp doctor, whose name he had missed but whose evidence seemed clear. The dead man, Major Bernard U. Schwartz, had been in the peak of physical health. His vital signs had been monitored that morning before he donned his suit and went out. The doctor had checked the frozen corpse for vital signs and, having determined that there were none, had no hesitation in certifying him dead effective from 16.00 local time today. Of course he would be ready, willing and able to perform a post-mortem examination even though he currently stood without medical assistants, but only after the process of this inquiry made than an accepted option.
The doctor was succeeded by Hoyle, who seemed to have no rank. He seemed to be part scientist, part ice-expert. Hoyle had helped the supremely fit Major Schwartz, universally known as Bernie, don the experimental suit. Hoyle himself was involved with the design team for the suit and usually helped Bernie into and out of it. He had not checked it since Bernie’s recovery this afternoon. Bernie had elected to take the suit out today for an unscheduled test because of — not despite — the weather. In theory the suit should have been in secure storage until well into the new year, but the prospect of the squall was too much for Bernie to resist. For the first time this season they were promised conditions which would test the suit to its limits and Bernie wanted to make full use of it. Hoyle’s evidence became a little vague after that and Richard realised that once again the scientist was up against the limits of secrets. Were these secrets industrial, military, or political? Richard wondered.
Hoyle’s evidence was put on hold while the second — and last — communications expert gave evidence about the manner in which Armstrong base had expected to keep contact with Major Schwartz but had failed to do so. Then Hoyle returned to the stand and gave evidence of the initial search attempts, the brief loss of the snow-team, the call for help and of the later phase when help arrived. Then at last Richard and Colin added their evidence. No one else was called. No one from Kalinin — understandably, as they had not helped in the search, though they had expedited the recovery after Thomas S. Maddrell’s embarrassing mistake.
The video link was broken at 18.30 local time to allow the great and the good at NASA HQ to deliberate undisturbed. As they waited, the room was rearranged and the little group of witnesses milled around a little aimlessly, not yet permitted to return to their duties or their vessels, not having anything else in particular to do. Richard watched as hard copy of their testimony spooled out of one of the computers. He realised that the same would be happening in Washington in case the decision-makers wanted to refer to any detail there. He crossed to the window again and looked out at the ships in the bay. Colin and Kate were there, also silently looking outward. ‘No chance of Faraday now,’ said Richard quietly.
Colin shook his head.
The communications laptop buzzed urgently and Colonel Jaeger crossed to it. All eyes remained on him for the few minutes he spent exchanging terse words with his masters. Then he drew himself up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Washington will be sending one inspector down from the Office of Safety and Mission Assurance. This officer will be here within forty-eight hours, in spite of the season, and will need to speak to us all, including those kind friends who answered our distress call. We therefore extend to you the hospitality of Armstrong base at this festive time and apologise if your charitable actions have resulted in disruption to your plans and schedules.’
As soon as he finished speaking the main door of the Jamesway opened and several people entered. Among these was Robin carrying, of all things, a tray. She came over to Richard at once and thrust her tray under the noses of the little group by the window. Richard looked a little suspiciously at the glasses of steaming yellowish liquid. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Eggnog,’ said Robin, grimly cheerful. ‘The one nearest you has no alcohol in it. Merry Christmas.’
Chapter Three
The next twenty-four hours went by in a whirl of activity whose momentum gathered pace like an avalanche. The process began with the initial inquiry, then continued with various visits and explorations. By the time the parties got seriously under way, things were already slipping. Perhaps it was the Big White. Certainly on Erebus and in Armstrong there was more than a little cabin fever, though everyone contrived to conceal it well enough at first. Then there was the genuine shock of Bernie’s death, and a surprisingly large number of them were involved in that, or felt as though they were.
At first, to Richard’s wise eyes it seemed that much of it arose from the volatile mix of nationalities, cultures, attitudes and genders all trapped here in these extreme conditions with the threat of the inspector’s arrival looming. But then he began to suspect that there was something more complex, and more sinister, at work. That was later, however. Now he stood with his eggnog, watching Billy Hoyle approach. As soon as the American scientist joined them, Richard introduced Robin.
‘How do you do,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about the circumstances. Is “Merry Christmas” out of order?’
‘I guess not,’ said Billy. ‘Though we’d say Season’s Greetings I guess. Bernie was a nice guy but he’d know how much the rest of us need to let off steam right now. He wouldn’t mind.’
‘You could look on it as a bit of a wake,’ said Colin, sipping the thick yellow liquid with some trepidation.
‘A wake would be Bernie’s style,’ agreed Hoyle. ‘Though I don’t think it’s a legitimately Jewish concept. Still, he wasn’t too deeply into the faith. He’d have been here for midnight Mass tonight. Drunk or sober he’d have been here.’
Colin surveyed the room. Several people were onto their second drink and the mood was lightenin
g. ‘Have you been saving up for this?’ he asked quietly. ‘I guess even NASA must put liquor very low on their list of supply priorities when they’re flying stuff in. Same as our supplies from the British Antarctic Survey. Fuel first. Liquor last. A dram of oil’s worth a damn sight more than a dram of single malt down here.’
‘Saving up like you wouldn’t believe, and we’ve had a moonshine still going for months — in spite of the obvious difficulties with the heat for distillation. And a lot of the guys who’ve gone home for New Year’s have left their allowances for the rest of us as well. We’ve been looking forward to this, I can tell you. And nobody more than poor old Bernie.’
‘Well,’ said Robin so quietly it managed to rob the observation of offence, ‘all of you except Bernie seem to have fallen on your feet. You’ve not only got your own supplies, you have for the time being got two ships to call on too. Erebus is as well stocked as you could wish, especially in the booze department. I speak with some authority in the matter because I have seen her Port Stanley lading manifest. And I can’t even begin to guess what you’ll find aboard the good ship Kalinin. But I’ll bet my life there’ll be lots and lots of it.’
Four sets of eyes looked through the clear plastic window to where the two ships swung at anchor almost side by side, their lines clean and striking in the early evening glimmer, etched against the black wall of the southern basalt cliff. The westerly squall had dropped but the seas were still high and Colin’s forehead folded into a frown as he registered the amount of brash ice washing in through the mouth of the bay. ‘If it freezes hard again tonight the ships could well be trapped for a while in any case,’ he growled.
‘Not Kalinin,’ observed a new voice. ‘That old girl could smash her way through a sizeable berg if Captain Ogre ordered it.’
They all swung round to face the breezy new arrival. It was Thomas S. Maddrell, apparently unabashed by his faux pas with Bernie’s frozen corpse. As the realisation of his arrival spread through the room, so the animation went out of much of the conversation, in spite of the eggnog. If he noticed he gave no sign, but continued to smile sunnily at his little audience.
‘Captain Ogre?’ asked Robin.
Thomas S. Maddrell removed his Ray-Bans to reveal deep-set brown eyes surrounded by pale-floored laugh lines under thick corn-coloured brows a shade or two darker than the riot of his hair. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I asked too. Her folks come from a little town just south of Riga. What can I say? Lucky they didn’t come from Brest. Or Smela.’ He turned, languidly, to survey the room, meeting all the gazes aimed at him. ‘Or Astrakhan …’
‘Or Titicaca, come to that,’ interjected Robin drily. ‘Eggnog, Mr Maddrell?’
‘Call me T-Shirt. Everyone does. What’s in it?’
‘Reconstituted egg powder, homemade alcohol, Advocaat — so I’m reliably informed. Why T-Shirt?’
‘Sounds irresistible. Partly the initials Thomas S.’ He took a yellow glass. Sipped as though it contained Krug. ‘But mostly because I always seem to have —’
‘Been there, done that, got the T-Shirt,’ Richard completed, remembering one of William’s favourite sayings a couple of years ago.
Robbed of his punch line, T-Shirt grinned. ‘Got it in one, sir,’ he said cheerfully.
Richard winced. The way the young American said ‘sir’ made him feel ready for his Zimmer frame.
‘Are there many like you on Kalinin?’ asked Robin.
‘Twenty-five boys, same number of girls. Not one of us even faintly sane. Though I’m the first to snowboard the Big White. Got my reputation to consider. I am sorry about your friend, though,’ he said, turning to Billy Hoyle. ‘Sad way to go. Sad mistake on my part.’
‘Forget it,’ said the scientist. ‘Bernie was a joker. That was the sort of thing he loved. If he hadn’t been dead already he’d likely have died laughing.’
‘Nice of you to see it that way. I guess some of the others’ll take a little more convincing.’
‘They’ll come round. They just need someone to blame. Other than Bernie himself, or me, or the boss.’
‘Outsiders are pretty useful to closed societies, huh?’
‘If it hadn’t been you it would probably have been us,’ said Robin soothingly. ‘They need time to adjust, that’s all.’
Richard thought how accurate Robin’s observation was. They were all outsiders here at the moment, even though they were here by invitation. ‘I think it’s time we reported back to Erebus,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I guess the guys on Kalinin can’t last much longer without me either,’ said T-Shirt. ‘But I tell you what, if these guys at Armstrong keep on with the cold shoulder, why don’t we all get together sometime? I’ll put it to Captain Ogre.’
‘And I’ll ask Captain Pitcairn,’ promised Robin.
‘I’ll add a little extra weight if need be,’ promised Kate with an uncharacteristic sparkle. ‘Twenty-five more like you I simply have to meet.’
‘And Captain Ogre,’ added Richard, riding a sudden wave of suppressed hilarity. ‘We couldn’t miss Captain Ogre.’
‘Seems to me,’ observed Colin at his most Calvinist, ‘that you’ll all fit right in.’
*
Andrew Pitcairn was in anything but a hilarious mood. ‘Everyone at the HQ in Cambridge has knocked off,’ he said to Richard an hour later. ‘I can try and track the director down on his personal phone but since he agreed we should answer the distress call no matter what, he’ll order us to stay and co-operate with the inquiry when the S&M investigator gets here.’
‘S&MA Investigator,’ corrected Richard thoughtlessly. ‘S&M is something else entirely.’
‘That’s as may be,’ answered Pitcairn a little huffily. ‘We’re still stuck here for the foreseeable future, aren’t we?’
‘We’ll have to make the best of it,’ said Richard bracingly. ‘Are you telling me it won’t be more fun here, especially with Kalinin in port, than it would have been at Faraday?’
‘More fun for us, maybe,’ said Pitcairn. ‘But those poor sods at Faraday were gearing up for something special.’
‘Well, perhaps we’ll get a chance to make it up to them before New Year. In the meantime …’
‘Point taken. I’ll contact Colonel Jaeger ashore and the captain of Kalinin. See what we can arrange. The captain’s a woman, I understand. Any idea of her name?’
‘Ogre.’
‘Really? Are you serious? Ogre? Oh well …’
*
The three commanders and their various advisers met in the central Jamesway at Armstrong after their separate dinners. Richard and Colin accompanied Andrew Pitcairn as well as his first officer Hugo Knowles, leaving the second officer in command while the third assumed the first night watch, it having just turned 20.00. As the chopper pilot was still out cold in the ship’s surgery, Robin once again took the Westland’s controls while Kate filled the co-pilot seat beside her. The redoubtable Leading Seaman Thompson, relieved of all other duties, was engaged in convincing two defiant rising-nines that it was bedtime in spite of the fact that the sun was still up. And that even down here Santa was bound to call on children tonight. On good children. If they were in bed. Asleep.
‘You were right, I think, to keep sea watches going,’ Richard was saying, as quietly as the clatter of the engine would allow. ‘You may find it difficult to maintain discipline and we don’t want any incidents either aboard or ashore while we’re held here with nowhere else to go.’
Andrew Pitcairn was young and a little arrogant. The openly offered advice galled him. But he was no fool. He could learn a lot from these four people. The Rosses, both PhDs in various glacial studies, knew more about ice and how to deal with it than all the beards put together. In the young captain’s other — more important — world, Richard and Robin Mariner commanded equally awesome heights. As captains they had sailed almost every type of commercial craft across nearly every chartered sea under every conceivable circumstance and situation. From tiny experim
ental multihulls to massive supertankers; from state-of-the-art toxic waste transporters to clapped-out old tramps, they had commanded the lot. They were legendary on the Gulf oil runs; across the dour Northern Ocean, in the mystic South China Sea. There was nothing they did not know about shipboard life, its problems and their solutions. And although they had gained their reputations in commercial fleets, they were both the offspring of Navy men, and therefore knew something of the Navy way in which Erebus was run.
And, Pitcairn admitted to himself, Richard Mariner’s finger was precisely on the spot which was worrying him most. His command were volunteers. Shore leave had been offered to those with families. The rest all knew what they had signed up for on this particular cruise. But their plans were coming apart now. The strict discipline which had actually seemed quite lax against the regimes at Faraday and Rothera would look very different compared with the lifestyle on Armstrong, let alone on Kalinin. Men whose greatest hope for the season was high jinks off watch and a chance to get legless at Faraday were suddenly presented with a very different set of prospects indeed. The presence of women simply added to the brew. Robin and Kate were bad enough — each already had their fan club aboard. What would happen if and when young, available, willing women appeared, Andrew Pitcairn could scarcely imagine. And yet Erebus could not stand aloof from anything planned. At the very least there must be a reception aboard for senior officers and their consorts. And if any cross-command entertainments were mooted, the men would have to join in that too.
It was with a chill feeling of foreboding, therefore, that the captain snapped his seat belt open and rose, Hugo Knowles at his shoulder, to exit the Westland at Armstrong’s helipad.
Richard was a little slower to unfold himself from the seat — his long shanks were held to his great thighs largely by steel pins at the knee — and the pause gave him opportunity to catch Colin Ross’s eye. ‘Young Andrew’s worried,’ he said quietly.
