by Peter Tonkin
A shadow moved between the corpse and the dying fire. Richard looked up. Jolene DaCosta was framed in red like a Valkyrie, eyes strangely luminous in her shadowed face.
‘No pulse,’ he said.
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
‘This is what killed him.’ Richard pointed to the metal in the back of his skull. ‘It feels squashy round it.’
‘No more touching, if you don’t mind. First aiding’s done and you are no pathologist.’
‘True. I’ll help to move him, though.’
‘In a minute, Captain Mariner. I’ve called Captain Pitcairn.’
Andrew came up slowly as she spoke. ‘There’s only one man missing,’ he said a little shakily. ‘Tony Thompson.’
Stunned, Richard took one burned shoulder and turned the corpse’s face upward. Leading Seaman Thompson might have been restfully asleep. Jolene DaCosta’s hiss broke into his thoughts as he was about to lower Tony Thompson’s corpse back to the ground. ‘Captain! No! Hold it there.’
Surprised, he did as she asked. She bent to look more closely at the metal fragment which, driven by the blast, had actually killed him. Intrigued, Richard, too, looked over the dead shoulder at the bright metal protruding from the black matted hair. And, just like Jolene DaCosta, he frowned.
He knew nothing at all about Skiddoos and the bits and pieces which went to make them up. But he knew a fair amount about explosives, fuses and timers, and what was wedged in the back of Tony Thompson’s head looked like part of a timer to him.
Jolene looked him straight in the eyes and they shared a disturbingly intense, dangerously intimate moment. Then T-Shirt came back and Irene Ogre followed with Vasily Varnek at her side.
‘This is very bad,’ the captain huffed. ‘What we have here is wilful destruction of private property.’
Dr Jolene DaCosta, senior inspector for the Office of Safety and Mission Assurance, looked up, every inch a Federal officer, almost as if she worked for the FBI rather than NASA. ‘Oh, no Captain Ogre,’ she said quietly, in a voice that carried even over the roaring of the fire. ‘What we have here is at least one first degree murder.’
Chapter Six
The two helicopters clattered away across the ten kilometres down to Armstrong base, each bearing one of the victims and a range of other passengers. Andrew remained with the last of his men, finishing Hugo’s assignment. Jolene DaCosta remained, her investigation not yet complete. Colonel Jaeger and T-Shirt also remained, because she ordered them to; Jaeger more or less truculently and only for the meantime. And Richard remained because she asked him to.
As the thudding of the Sikorsky faded into far echoes like the drums of a distant army, the four of them began to walk away from the bustle of the huts into the disturbing, twilit silence which separated them from the dying fires and the wrecked Skiddoos. There was no wind. The temperature was well below zero Celsius, but not so cold as to put those in ill-fitting gear at risk. Even Richard, who wore only parka and boots separated by nothing more substantial than grey flannels, somewhat stained at the knee, did not feel his legs were too cold. He was sharply aware that the case would have been very different had the wind been blowing. Had he been dressed like this yesterday in the squall, he would have ended up frozen to death like poor Bernie Schwartz in very short order indeed. Severe cold had to be met with total integrity. Cold would find an entrance through the smallest of flaws and the result could be fatal in a terrifyingly short time.
It was with Major Schwartz very much on his mind that Richard arrived for the first time at the actual site of the explosion. On his right was Jolene and on his left T-Shirt. Beyond Jolene was Colonel Jaeger. As they approached the dying embers, Jolene looked across to T-Shirt. ‘You unslung the Skiddoos from the Sikorsky, Mr Maddrell?’
‘That’s right, Mrs DaCosta. Max and me.’
‘Where did you put them?’
‘In a line along there, beyond the tail of the moraine. There was some snow left there then. They prefer to sit on snow.’
‘Now I don’t expect you to be an expert in the behaviour of these machines under extreme circumstances — like during an explosion, for instance — but do you think it’s possible that a complete machine could have been hurled right over the tail of the moraine here into this hollow nearest us?’
‘Well, our Skiddoos are pretty substantial vehicles. They look flimsy but they’re not. And the tail of the moraine’s about three metres high where it curls round there. It’d take quite an explosion to throw one that high or that far. Their petrol tanks were full, all ready to go, which would have made the explosions bigger but it would also have made them heavier.’
‘So it could have been moved on purpose.’
‘I guess so. But why?’
Richard answered that one. ‘Because that little area is where we found Major Schwartz. What with one thing and another we never searched the snow he was buried in all that carefully. We just pulled him out and carried him back. But it looks as though someone was worried enough about what might have been left lying around to try and bum out the whole area. And there’s another thing. We know where we found Thompson and we should be able to establish where Hugo Knowles was, but just from Thompson’s position, the force of the blast must have gone that way, towards the huts. So it couldn’t possibly have blown a lone Skiddoo this way.’
‘But who would have done such a thing?’ asked Colonel Jaeger. ‘I mean, look at what you’re describing, for God’s sake. You’re saying there was something suspicious about Major Schwartz’s death. That someone knew this and tried to cover evidence. That they used Mr Maddrell’s Skiddoos to do that. They were desperate enough to use explosives and to murder at least one person on the side. Is that what you’re really saying?’ There was a kind of dull hopelessness to the question. Like some medieval householder, thought Richard grimly, asking the guy with the funny face mask, ‘so we’ve all got the Black Death, is that what you’re saying?’
A look at their stonily set faces was answer enough for Jaeger. ‘All right then, who? I guess some of my guys might be in the frame because Bernie was our man. But there’s no proof anyone from Armstrong blew up the Skiddoos. They were Skiddoos from Kalinin. There were lots of Kalinin people up here, crew and passengers. And there were lots of people from Erebus, too, come to that. I mean, they were up here at the critical time. My people were all down at the base. So where does that leave us, huh?’
‘Not all your people were down on the base,’ said Jolene her voice as cold as the wind in yesterday’s squall. ‘At least one person was out and about in one of your John Deeres. But I bet you he’s back at camp now …’
*
‘Where is that bloody man of mine?’ demanded Robin explosively.
‘Still up at the site of the accident, according to Colin,’ answered Kate placatingly. She had never seen her friend so angry, but she could see the reason. It was very late. The party, which had never got started, was totally moribund now. The twins were asleep in a corner beneath a jumble of parkas and Robin wanted to go home. Not just to Erebus — home.
But Erebus would do in the meantime; Erebus and bed.
There seemed to be no chance of either in the immediate future, however. Since the officious little woman from NASA had swept in and out with most of the men, there had been nothing to do but wait and wait. There was no way for them to know how serious the developments up-valley had become so their priorities remained domestic.
But then Colin arrived, with Billy Hoyle in tow. ‘Look,’ he said tersely. ‘There’s a bit of a situation up at the moraine. Nasty accident. I don’t think you’ll be going back to Erebus tonight so I’ve asked Billy here to scare up some accommodation for you two and the twins. The rest of us are in for a busy night by the looks of things but you should be able to get your heads down if you don’t mind camping.’ His tone as much as his words gave the women pause.
‘Kate, if you could bunk in with Robin and the twins. It’s not just a case
of saving space, though that’s important, but you’ll be able to make sure she’s up to speed with the facilities and so forth. Robin, have you or the twins ever used an ice-station latrine? I thought not. I know you’ve got no nightwear or anything, but I think we’ll be able to get a couple of sets of thermals from central stores. They should keep you snug enough. Now our only immediate problem is if anyone needs to use the major toilet facilities; otherwise I’ve got pee bottles for you all and they’ll have to do until morning. Which isn’t that far off in any case as things go.’
Colin and Billy Hoyle carried one twin each, tucked between their parkas and their cold-weather overall bibs. Robin and Kate slipped on their parkas, still warm and redolent of sleeping child, then the four of them hurried through the strange grey gloaming to the little two-bunk pit room that had been cleared for them. The women swiftly changed from party frock to thermals — rolled up at ankle and wrist. They would each take a sleepy child as a kind of restless hot water bottle in their big, fleecy sleeping-bag, but the need for simple insurance, especially here, required that the children be introduced to the pee bottle before tucking down again. William was happy enough — the bottle was well designed for male use — but Mary was much less happy to feel it’s cold lip against her warm tummy. After half an hour they tucked down, however, and although each woman was prey to widely different feelings vivid enough to keep them awake for a while, when Colin crept past nearly an hour after his arrival back from the moraine, he was relieved to hear sonorous snoring in two feminine keys. Relieved also to have managed to put them together without having alerted them to his worry about security. He checked the pit-room door. Good. It was securely locked.
The children woke refreshed. The adults did not. Robin ruled that anything but the most basic ablutions should wait until they were back aboard Erebus, something that she expected to arrange well before lunchtime. Then, having dressed the children in their warm, weatherproof clothing, was brought up short by the fact that she and Kate had a choice of Armani, St Laurent, parka or River Island all-in-one long johns in which to greet Boxing Day. Kate was inclined to see the funny side of this. Robin most certainly was not. The main function her bloody husband had promised to perform on this family holiday was to ensure that she was waited on hand and foot, and here she was without adequate clothing to face a camp of mostly sex-starved men and a boat full of underwear thieves. Her usually cool grey eyes ablaze beneath a wild riot of normally well-brushed hair, she looked deep into the rather nervous countenances of the twins. ‘You find your father,’ she said. ‘Or you find Uncle Colin. And you get them here now. Do not get lost. Do not get sidetracked. Do not get anyone else or I will personally boil you in oil. Do you understand?’
Two very solemn nods. One nervous ‘Yes, Mummy,’ in a squeak that could have come from either throat, and they were off.
‘Are you sure that’s the right way to treat a couple of frightened eight-year-olds, Robin? I’m sure it’s not what Dr Spock —’
‘Bugger Dr Spock, Kate. I want my husband here. I want some clothes and I want to get back to Erebus and I don’t care who I have to boil in oil to do it.’
Kate considered being upset by this, but something in Robin’s tone made her nod her head sympathetically instead.
*
The only familiar face the twins could find belonged to Billy Hoyle. Their mother’s instructions had been quite clear so they did not approach Billy at first but simply followed him around, hoping that he would lead them to one of their goals. The camp was in a bustle verging on turmoil this Boxing day morning. Normal Sunday routine was well and truly disrupted. Another inquest was more likely than a Sunday service. The doc had finished his examinations of the two Englishmen, one living, one dead, but as with Bernie Schwartz there was to be cold storage rather than post-mortem. More authorities would have to be contacted before any action could be taken in that regard. Suspicious deaths of American service personnel on American soil were difficult enough but the suspicious deaths of serving men from the forces of friendly powers performing humanitarian good deeds on American soil opened a very large diplomatic can of worms.
The doc concentrated on trying to get Lieutenant Commander Knowles into a fit state to be transferred back to Erebus. In this worthy endeavour he was aided by Erebus’s own surgeon commander, who had been flown ashore in the middle of the night to help. The two men hated each other immediately with the ill-controlled venom which only equally qualified experts in competition can achieve. This relationship looked as though it was going to set the tone for most of the relationships during the next forty-eight hours or so as things continued to slide out of control with gathering pace.
By the time breakfast should have happened, Colonel Eugene Jaeger had had more than enough of that bossy little bitch from head office. He had also had enough of the useless faffing around of that wet blanket of a captain from the Royal Navy. He did not appreciate big Scotsmen with a penchant for giving orders either. And as for Richard Mariner, Jolene DaCosta’s bitching blue-eyed boy, he could well get through the rest of his life without ever seeing him again. But far from getting rid of them, he was going to have to go through a re-run of Bernie’s inquest with DaCosta in the chair instead of himself and a whole bunch of questions being asked about camp security, like how come folks could slip out and in with John Deeres without leaving trace or record — not even on the fuel manifest. And where was the guard on the explosives store when someone took a couple of kilos of H/E and several timers. And that was just for openers.
His own command, increasingly, was a series of small camps armed against outsiders — especially outsiders with high explosive and lethal intent. And those armed camps were further armed against the English sailors who seemed to have brought this new wave of unpleasantness down on them. And the English, of course, were all too willing to think ill of their colonial cousins, their attitudes, their discipline, their security and such.
Andrew Pitcairn’s men had finished putting up the tents in the small hours only to have Colonel Jaeger ask that they be taken down again and sent back to Erebus. He had returned briefly to Armstrong at 4 a.m. to find a message from Captain Ogre warning that the instant Dr DaCosta had examined the crew and passengers about the two incidents, Kalinin was leaving. Indeed, if Dr DaCosta was not pretty quick with her questions in the morning then she could whistle. In the meantime there would be no more recreational visits ashore by her crew or her passengers. The shelters would therefore not be required. The wreckage of the Skiddoos was the colonel’s responsibility and it seemed to her very much as though the cost of replacing them would be his too. In the meantime, Kalinin’s contingent — those deemed relevant by Captain Ogre — would be there to answer questions at 09.00. Departure would be at midday, no matter what.
The colonel had passed the message on to Jolene DaCosta who had looked remarkably unsurprised and had returned with Richard Mariner to whatever investigation and measurement they were engaged in. In the meantime, the exhausted Andrew Pitcairn had discovered that he could not get the collapsible huts to fold into the correct size for their crates and had been forced to summon Colin Ross once again.
And so, as the twins began to search for uncle or father, early on Boxing Day morning, Billy Hoyle was rushing hither and thither, preoccupied and distracted. Captain Ogre was expected within the hour to give evidence or depart. Dr DaCosta was expected back then or soon after to start up the formal hearing if she wanted to register Kalinin’s evidence. She and Richard Mariner were expected to tweak a few more tails when they arrived, too — starting with the colonel’s. At the same time seven exhausted, very irritable English matelots and one grumpy Scot had dumped two big crates in the middle of the compound where John Deeres had a habit of coming and going unaccountably. These eight at least were aiming to make full use of the toilet and dining facilities, blissfully unaware of the storm gathering around them.
Like the need for total integrity to combat cold, the slightest flaw
in routine can put everything at risk. On that morning so much was going on that all Armstrong’s routines seemed to be coming down like a house of cards. The twins had no knowledge of this. They noticed nothing untoward as they followed Billy Hoyle into the laboratory area and watched him talk to a couple of men in white coats, whom they did not recognise. They followed him into the dispersal area and watched him check the insides of several pick-up trucks. They followed him to the unguarded supply hut where he spent so long ferreting around that they almost went away to search for their father on their own. They followed him past the camp’s medical facility to the cold storage hut. Firmly side-tracked in spite of Robin’s orders, like the Hardy Twins or two of the Secret Seven, they followed him into the still, silent, shadowed depths of the icy storage hut. They were so close behind the busy young scientist that when a distant voice — belonging in fact to Sergeant Pat Killigan bellowed, ‘Hey! Hoyle! That hut’s off limits, buster. You get your scientific little ass out of there before I boot it clear over the Pole,’ and Hoyle spun round as though he had been shot, there they were, just behind him.
‘Hey, kids,’ he said easily. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘Looking for my daddy,’ said Mary at once. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘’Fraid not, honey. Anything I can do?’
‘I don’t think so, thank you, sir. Mummy just said we should find him or Uncle Colin as quickly as we could.’
