by Peter Tonkin
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the slight figure clearly to him. ‘Are you Colonel Eugene Jaeger? I am Dr Jolene DaCosta, chief inspector for the Office of Safety and Mission Assurance, NASA. I believe you are expecting me.’
Chapter Five
Jolene DaCosta was used to entering closed societies as the outsider — the fiercely resented outsider, in most cases. She had built around her slight, apparently fragile self a hard shell. It never ceased to amaze her how much she could put up with and get away with simply by forcing herself to do so. She had little sense of being extraordinary, but sometimes wondered vaguely why other folk had so much trouble with indulgences, addictions, diets and the like. She had a strict and set routine on arriving in any situation, designed to establish authority, pecking order, responsibility and her own special position, before she actually began investigating. Like her protective shell and her iron self-control, it was deeply important to her, though she scarcely registered it on a conscious level at all.
Jolene had been born and raised in Austin, Texas, and was currently assigned to the Johnson Space Centre in Houston. She had travelled widely in the USA, been as far west as Hawaii, but had never travelled further south than Florida. Or further north, come to that, than Niagara, and that had been just once. Disastrously. On the honeymoon of her long-dead marriage. She had received emergency clearances and reams of instructions from the American Antarctic Survey — all faxed, aptly enough, from the Xerox Document University in Leesburg, Virginia — but these hardly constituted in-depth preparation for life on the Big White. She had received details, though no personnel files or photographs, about the people at Armstrong, and she knew that a British Antarctic Survey support vessel and an American/Russian co-owned cruise liner were somehow involved too. She had been sent not because she was the best prepared or most expert investigator with the greatest experience, but simply because she was the one senior investigator who had not sent in a lengthy leave application for the next week. And so, accordingly to the personnel files in the big computer at NASA headquarters, she was still on duty at half past five on Christmas Eve, and available to come South. The US Navy’s Ice Pirates had brought her the last leg of her exhausting journey in a big VXE-6 chopper and had supplied her with cold-weather gear suited to someone twice her size, as well as self-heating field rations and hot coffee, but, again, had done little to brief her about the special conditions here. And once they had delivered her, they saluted Colonel Jaeger — whom they, at least, did recognise — and left her. At least they let her keep the cold-weather gear.
Jolene’s first, intuitive impression was that she had walked into a confrontation, perhaps a crisis. Automatically, she took charge and began to investigate what it was all about. ‘Are you Colonel Jaeger?’ she asked the tall man facing her once again. In her heart of hearts she hoped he was. She would need to rely on Jaeger in ways she couldn’t imagine yet and she liked the look of this man’s long, square-jawed face a lot.
‘Naw,’ drawled the kid in the designer gear. ‘The colonel’s at the back of the room.’ Jolene looked at him again. She realised he was a good deal older than she had first supposed. She did not like the look of him. But that might have been in reaction to his disappointing news.
‘And you are, sir?’
‘Maddrell, Thomas S. Call me T-Shirt.’
Jolene found she was beginning to like him even less. ‘Thank you, sir. I think not.’
A solid man whose paunch filled a white shirt decorated with a colonel’s rank badges pushed through. ‘I am Colonel Jaeger,’ he said, defensively.
As she introduced herself again and displayed her ID and authorities, Jolene compared the soft-chinned baggy-eyed balding face of the man she did have to deal with against the long, lean hatchet of a man she would rather have dealt with. That hair. Thick, swept back, so black as to be almost blue. Dazzling, electric-blue eyes. Six foot four and more; impressive, even to a Texan. Colonel Jaeger, on the other hand, was not much for a girl to lean on at all. Ah well, make the best of it.
‘And precisely what is going on here presently, Colonel?’
‘These young men gatecrashed our reception —’
‘Gatecrashed! Hell, mister —’
‘T-Shirt was just telling us about a crisis up at the moraine,’ cut in the deep voice of the blue-eyed man. ‘I think you’d better tell us what the matter is, T-Shirt. If you don’t mind, Gene.’ Plummy English accent; but his voice came up from his boots, thought Jolene.
T-Shirt took a deep breath. Colonel Jaeger shrugged. ‘Hokay, Richard.’
Jolene reckoned maybe she could count on this big guy after all. Then she noticed the tall blonde in the Armani outfit by his side.
‘Yes, T-Shirt?’ the blonde prompted gently, also in an English accent. ‘It’s the Skiddoos,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’ said Jolene.
But T-Shirt was explaining earnestly to Richard, paying no attention to the mousy girl buried in the huge parka, inspector or no inspector. ‘We unloaded them from the Sikorsky at the moraine, near where the English guys are putting up the big frame huts, and flew back to Kalinin for more. But then when we went back, the Skiddoos were all on fire. I kid you not. Blazing like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘And the Erebus men? Were they all right?’
‘I don’t know. I guess so. The huts were up. But we didn’t see them.’
‘Didn’t land,’ supplied T-Shirt’s Mexican-looking friend.
‘Yeah. Max is right. We just turned and came straight back here.’ Richard swung round looking for Andrew Pitcairn. ‘Excuse me, Dr DaCosta,’ he rasped. ‘We have to check the safety of our men. Andrew, did they have W/T equipment?’
‘Yes. Hugo was supposed to check in with Erebus every fifteen —’
The door behind Jolene DaCosta, closed by the departing Ice Pirates, burst open to reveal a worried radio operator.
‘Captain Pitcairn,’ he called. ‘Erebus says they’ve lost contact with your shore party.’
There was an automatic, concerted, movement towards the door. But three figures held firm. Richard and T-Shirt stemmed the flow, but it was Jolene who called, ‘Wait just a moment.’ She drew breath. ‘First priority has to be safety, not speed. Then security. Who’s ready to go now?’
T-Shirt and his people were still in their cold-weather gear, and Richard was already donning his parka and boots. He signalled Andrew Pitcairn to come and do the same.
‘Who needs to go?’ asked Jolene.
‘We do,’ said Richard. ‘Captain Pitcairn, commander of Erebus, and me, Captain Richard Mariner. My first aid is up to A&E level. And Colin. Dr Ross is our ice expert.’
‘I’ll buy that. Nice to meet you, Captain Mariner. Then the next issue is security. We can’t go charging up-country and leave this place wide open. It’s severely under-manned and we’re in the middle of an investigation here. Who’s in charge of camp security?’
Old King Pole thrust himself forward, removing his icy crown and his snowman’s head. ‘Pat Killigan,’ he growled. ‘Sergeant, US Marines, seconded.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Sergeant. My main priority is the late Major Schwartz, his equipment and effects. What’s yours?’
‘General camp security, ma’am.’
‘Right. Give mine priority. Nice costume, by the way.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Colonel Jaeger, I think you and I had better go as well, don’t you? I always tend to assume that anything unexpected that happens on the ground of an investigation during an investigation is relevant to that investigation. And the moraine is in your back yard, isn’t it?’
‘Ten klicks up-country,’ admitted Colonel Jaeger. ‘But we’ve a big yard —’
‘Also,’ called a forceful, feminine voice, ‘we go. Skiddoos my cargo. My responsibility. Like passengers also. Vasily, move.’
As they came out of the door into the open area at the centre of the camp, the sun slid out from under the overcast
and threw a clear pink light past the black shape of the departing Ice Pirate VXE-6 onto the waiting shapes of Erebus’s Westland and Kalinin’s Sikorsky, both powered up and ready to go, unlike Armstrong’s own chopper. The Westland was on the helipad and so the Sikorsky had landed almost in the middle of the square vehicle-dispersal area containing mini-tractors, Honda four-by-fours, and John Deeres.
Richard, Andrew, Colin and Gene Jaeger pounded one way. T-Shirt, Max, Vasily Varnek and Irene Ogre went the other. Jolene DaCosta hesitated between them, then, unaccountably, she threw herself towards the more distant Sikorsky and scrambled in ahead of the Kalinin contingent. When Irene Ogre, fastest, with the longest legs, scrambled in, the S&MA investigator was sitting, frowning, with her face pressed against the window overlooking the parking area.
Irene broke into her reverie at once. ‘You do not need to interview my people. We will leave tomorrow, first thing. Tonight perhaps.’
Jolene looked through the gape of the ill-fastened parka to the gaudy badges of rank on the big woman’s breast. ‘I don’t think so, Captain Ogre. Your ship answered the distress call. Your people came ashore. Your passenger Maddrell was involved in the discovery of the body. There are things I need to ask. You’ll have to wait. Apart from anything else, your company’s western head office, in St Petersburg, Florida, closed for the holiday after giving us permission to demand your cooperation. And I guess your eastern head office in St Petersburg, Russia, would tell you the same even if they were open now, which I doubt. Face it, Captain, you’re stuck here till Monday at the earliest.’
‘You’ve done your homework, Miss DaCosta.’
‘That’s Mrs DaCosta. Or Dr DaCosta. And somebody else did the homework. But they gave all the answers to me.’
‘All the answers?’ needled T-Shirt.
‘All the ones I need in order to get started, Mr Maddrell. I’ll find whatever else I need to know in order to wind up in due course.’
‘Why don’t you interview me now? Get that out of the way, maybe make Captain Ogre’s day, you know?’
‘No, Mr Maddrell. I’ll interview you properly, with due witness and proper record at the right time.’
‘Hey!’ said T-Shirt, looking round at Max, the captain and Vasily Varnek. ‘I think Mrs DaCosta just said she doesn’t trust us to tell the truth or bear due witness.’
‘You could be right,’ said Jolene equably. The sun slid back behind the overcast as she spoke and the sudden, gun-metal light reflected in her strange, almost colourless eyes, made them turn steel-grey for an instant as she looked at T-Shirt. ‘And also I haven’t decided what I want to ask you. Yet.’
‘Look at that,’ said Vasily Varnek thickly. ‘What is that light ahead?’
*
‘That’s quite a blaze,’ said Richard tersely. ‘I hope it’s only the Skiddoos.’
The Westland dipped and then soared over the black bulk of the riven moraine. As they flew over the great fissure, kicking snow from the long white fin on its slug-like basalt back, the men in the cabin craned forward to see what was going on. At first all they could see was a glow reaching up over the curling tail of rock where the frozen Bernie Schwartz had stood. As they approached, they made out individual spires of flame whose light mingled with the dull evening glimmer under the cloud cover to illuminate a couple of half-erected huts. On the dark side of one of these, the furthest from the fire, stood a group of shadowy figures. ‘Seven,’ counted Richard. ‘How many did you send, Andrew?’
‘Nine,’ answered the worried captain. ‘Two teams of four for the huts and Hugo.’
‘OK,’ said Richard. Then he called forward to the pilot. ‘We want to go close to the huts in case of casualties but not too close to the fire. I don’t think Dr DaCosta would thank us for fanning any flames needlessly.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Colin Ross, choosing his moment to break a long, thoughtful silence.
The Westland started to settle, well away from the moraine in an area clear of the massive square boulders which littered the rest of the flat-bottomed glacial valley. The Sikorsky, immediately behind it, also settled there and in a few moments they were all out together, perhaps a three-minute walk from the huts, less than five away from the fire, though its precise location was surprisingly difficult to pinpoint beyond the big, black, room-sized rocks all around. After a moment or two, one of Andrew’s men appeared on the scene, drawn by the sound of the helicopters.
‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Andrew at once. ‘Where’s Lieutenant Knowles?’
‘He’s in the hut, Captain, hurt. Have you got a doctor with you?’
‘I’m doing first aid,’ said Richard. ‘Anything beyond me we’ll have to chopper back to the doctor at Armstrong. He’s standing by just in case.’
‘Excuse me, sailor,’ said Jolene DaCosta quietly but forcefully, ‘can you fill us in on what’s going on here please?’
‘What?’ muttered T-Shirt. ‘Without competent witnesses and due process?’
Jolene paid no attention to him. In the night light her face was a serious, pale oval. Her eyes seemed fathomless. ‘We need to know what to expect, sailor.’
‘Bates, Miss. Leading seaman. I don’t know, really. Our team was putting up our tent. Some of the chaps said theirs was slower because the choppers kept blowing it about. The next thing I knew Mr Knowles had taken one of the others over to look at something. There was no chopper there but there was an engine running. Some sort of engine, I’m certain. Then BOOM! It all went up, miss. I didn’t see anything or do anything. The blokes doing my hut, we just stopped and looked and some of the others ran over. Apparently there was some of them snow-ski things dropped off by the chopper and one of them caught fire, I don’t know … But the blokes brought back Mr Knowles. Burned. Scorched, anyway. Unconscious. He’s in the hut, like I said.’
Basic first aid training requires that the first aider should be certain of his own safety. As they came past the last boulder and out beside the hut Bates had been building, Richard asked, ‘But is the fire contained now? Are the huts here in any immediate danger?’
‘No, Captain.’
‘I’ll go up and check that,’ said Jolene.
‘I also,’ rumbled Irene Ogre. ‘Vasily …’
‘And me,’ chimed in T-Shirt at once. ‘It’s my gear, after all. Come on, Max.’
‘Should have brought some wieners,’ said Max dolefully. ‘And some marshmallows maybe.’
‘Colin, I’m going to need warmth and light,’ said Richard.
Andrew Pitcairn, stunned to discover that his friend and right hand was hurt, gathered his wits and said, ‘No worries there Richard. I sent up Tilley lamps and oil-fired space heaters. You should be well able to see.’
The door of the hut opened and Richard, followed by Colin, pushed past the concerned little crowd into the yellow brightness of the Tilley lamp on the floor. Hugo Knowles lay unconscious in the middle of the square wooden floor. Andrew had sent heat and light with the huts but no blankets. One hardy soul — Richard mentally determined to find and reward him — had taken off his parka and used it as a blanket. Beside this Richard knelt. ‘Hugo,’ he said. ‘Hugo, can you hear me? It’s Richard Mariner. I’m here to help you, with Colin Ross and Andrew. Hugo, can you hear me? You’ve had a bit of an accident …’ He lifted the parka.
From mid-thigh of the right leg up past the hip, closing round into the waist — front and back, by the look of it, and certainly into the groin — was a scorch mark. Clothing — quilted nylon for the most part — was burned and melted, but it lifted clear of pink, lightly poached skin. Above the waist the effects of blast were added to those of flash. The parka had shredded and the skin looked more seriously scorched. The arm and shoulder were burned. The neck and face were seared, half the hair crisp, its ends seared white. But most of the face was relatively unharmed, apart from a nasty square bruise. And the ear was fine. Close to it, as though frozen into place, lay Hugo’s right hand, also seared, as th
ough holding something. The radio, thought Richard. Of course.
He checked for vital signs, thrusting two fingers firmly but gently under the undamaged curve of the left jaw. He felt a strong pulse just as Hugo Knowles took a juddering breath and gave a moan. ‘Hello, Hugo, old chap,’ said Richard. ‘You’ve had an accident but you’re going to be fine. Just lie there a moment while I give you a little something for the pain. Colin,’ he continued, hardly varying his tone, ‘we need to get Hugo back to Armstrong’s doctor at once. Alert the Westland. There’s room to lie him across the cabin between the seats. Get some of the men here to carry him over. Now, what about the other missing man?’
No sooner had he asked the question than the door opened and T-Shirt’s familiar drawl said, ‘Captain Mariner, the fair Jolene wants you up by the bonfire, please.’
‘Coming.’ Richard began to rise slowly and painfully, flesh, bone, tendons and steel pins all complaining as he straightened his knees. ‘Any idea why?’ he asked, to cover the slow process.
‘Well, sir, I guess she wants you to see the scene and bear witness being as how she doesn’t trust us or the Russians and all. And I believe she has formed a positive regard for your own faculties, sir. And I know she knows that you particularly would be able to say what the area in question looked like yesterday when you found the late Major Schwartz there. Certainly with far more authority than the poor fool who didn’t even notice that the man was dead before he shook his hand. But most of all, sir, I believe she wishes you to see the new dead man before she calls Captain Pitcairn over to identify him.’
‘The new dead man?’
‘Yes, sir. Very new. Very dead.’
*
The new dead man lay in the brightness of the blazing Skiddoos. Flat out on his face, as though he had dived, spread-eagled, from a great height. For an instant Richard thought he was naked, but then he saw that his clothing had been melted and shredded by the blast. It was impossible to tell where blackened vermilion nylon ended and roasted crimson flesh began. Sickened, as much by the thought of the poor fellow’s dying agony as by the terrible sight of him, Richard knelt again. But immediately he did so, he saw that the victim would have felt nothing. Wedged neatly into the back of his skull was a piece of metal. At the very least he would have been unconscious when he died. Gingerly, Richard slipped two fingers onto the cool flesh of the dead neck. No pulse.
