The Last Outpost

by Hannah Ross

  "Yes," Scott said curtly. He wasn't in a great mood for talking.

  "And will you be staying in Buenos Aires long?"

  Scott glanced at the watch. "No, I'm boarding a plane to Ushuaia in about an hour."

  "Ah, Tierra del Fuego? I wouldn't have thought you're a tourist, señor."

  "I'm not. I'm a researcher. Going to sail from Ushuaia to McMurdo Antarctic station."

  "Ah!" the landlord looked impressed. "Well, at least you're going to a place where things are guaranteed to be pretty quiet, eh?"

  It was soon time to board the plane of Aerolineas Argentinas that would take him to Ushuaia. This time Scott kept part of his luggage with him, and stuffed it into a compartment above the passengers' heads. He traveled lightly, with only one suitcase and one large backpack, but he reckoned he had packed all the essentials necessary for his stay in Antarctica – a warm parka, well-insulated waterproof pants and knee-high terrain boots, a hat with wide earflaps, scarf, gloves, many layers of warm underclothes, sunglasses and sunscreen. He didn't fret too much over forgetting anything, though - whatever he had missed would be supplied from the stores at McMurdo.

  By the time the airplane landed in Ushuaia, Scott was exhausted. He checked his ticket once again for good measure, and made sure that his ship wasn't leaving until midmorning of the next day. This left him a night to spend in Ushuaia, and he checked into the first cheap little airport motel he could find. The accommodations couldn't boast much more than clean sheets and hot water, but more wasn't necessary - Scott just wanted to lay his head down somewhere and sleep. He bought himself a sandwich at the kiosk in the reception area, ate it in his room without much appetite, accompanied by a glass of weak tea he made at the kitchenette, took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, crawled under the blankets, and was asleep in five minutes.

  In the morning, after having his toast and coffee, he made two phone calls. The first was to Brianna, just to update her on how his trip was progressing. She wished him luck, but he heard the resentment in her voice. She forbore, but had not forgiven.

  The second call was to Professor McLaughlin, who sounded considerably more excited. "Buck, dear fellow!" his voice boomed over the phone. "I tell you, if I weren't so old and fat, I would have given anything to be with you right now. And so you are actually sailing from Ushuaia in a couple of hours? Be sure to let me know when you get to McMurdo."

  The Polar Star was one of those ships that were made to accommodate tourists more than researchers and seamen. It boasted a wide observation lounge, a large common room, a bar, a library and a lecture and movie hall. The crowd of excitedly babbling leisure travelers made it seem as though there were no such things as war and destruction in the world. Scott frowned and gave a tiny shake of the head. He went below to his snug little cabin and stretched out on the bed, which was affixed to the wall with sturdy metal hinges.

  It was spring in the southern hemisphere, and days were rapidly lengthening, which prompted people to remain on deck until a much later hour than they usually would have. Tourists were comparing the features of their cameras and talking of their plans of photographing penguin colonies. Scott, after having seen his fill of the gushing grey ocean, decided to go below to the bar and treat himself to a drink.

  The ship's bar was small but cozy, with a lot of polished wood surfaces and dimmed rosy lampshades, and soft jazz music playing in the background. There were about a dozen passengers inside, among them a dignified elderly British couple occupying a table at the back and having, in defiance of the many bottles of strong beverages lining the wall behind the bar, a cup of tea.

  Scott perched on a tall chair next to the bar counter and called for a whiskey and soda. A tall, thin, angular-looking middle-aged gentleman was sitting at some distance from him, sipping a gin and tonic. He was evidently in the mood for conversation, for when he saw Scott, he moved nearer. "Good evening," he said. "This is great, isn't it?"

  Scott merely nodded.

  "Where are you from, young man?"

  "Wisconsin."

  "I'm from Florida. Ike Reynolds," his new acquaintance extended a hand, and they exchanged a handshake.

  "That's quite a bit of a climate change for you, then," Scott remarked with a smile.

  "Yes. Well, actually," Ike lowered his voice confidentially, "I have spent a while planning a trip my wife would never want to join me on. And I succeeded – as soon as I said 'Antarctica', she rolled her eyes and said, Ike, you're doing this alone. Which was just what I wanted. I've been married for thirty-eight years, and this is the first time I've managed to slip away and travel on my own. I intend to make the most of it. Are you married?"

  "Yes," Scott said with a sigh, remembering Brianna's tears as she kissed him in the airport. "My wife didn't want to join me either," he confessed.

  "You look sorry for it. Don't be, young man. Trust me, you'll have plenty of time to spend with your missis when you get back home a few weeks later. Enjoy your independence while you can."

  Scott decided not to go into the details of his newly accepted position as the general overseer at McMurdo. He merely took another sip of whiskey and soda, and was surprised to see the bottom of his glass.

  "Another drink?" Reynolds offered. "My treat. I'm having another one myself."

  They clinked glasses.

  "It's comforting," Ike went on after another sip of gin and tonic, "to be heading into this last pristine wilderness in the world. No matter what crazy idea pops into the heads of our leaders, here we’re well away from it all, at least for a while. Honestly, I sometimes contemplate taking out my savings and moving to Tierra del Fuego or some other remote spot on the globe."

  "I can imagine how your wife would react to the notion," Scott said wryly. Ike threw his head back and laughed.

  "You're right. My wife would never agree to leave Florida. And we have a nice house there, very nice. Two grown kids, both settled in Florida as well, grandkids. It's a good life, really, I have nothing to complain about. But now I'm within my right to enjoy my little getaway, ain't I?"

  "Dinner is being served in the dining-hall now, if any of you gents care for a bite to eat," the barman announced. The British couple got up and headed for the door.

  Ike Reynolds clapped Scott on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Let's see if they serve decent steaks aboard this ship. My wife is vegetarian. I hadn't had a steak in the house for the past thirty years - ridiculous barbecue cookouts with fake tofu sausages and other such crap - and now I plan to have meat three times a day if I can, without anyone harping on to me about cholesterol."

  Chapter 3

  On the twenty-eighth day since her departure, with many stops for photographing and sightseeing, the Polar Star finally came within view of the magnificent peaks of Ross Islands and the small, neat clusters of buildings that comprised McMurdo research station.

  Just as the chattering tourists were gathering their cameras, Scott went below into his cabin and picked up his suitcase and backpack, which were packed and ready for some days now. He took one last, long, sweeping look around his cabin, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

  Ike Reynolds gaped at him, open-mouthed, as he made to disembark. "Hey, Buck, what's this all about? This isn't the final stop."

  Scott looked at him and smiled. "It is for me." He extended his hand and shook Ike's. "Well, at least for the time being," he amended.

  A curly-haired young fellow in an orange parka took notice of him as he was descending. "Mr. Buckley? We have been waiting for you."

  "Waiting for you?" Ike, who overheard this, repeated with a dazed look. "This ain't fair, Buck. You could have at least breathed a word!"

  Scott, however, merely waved, allowing the curly-haired station worker to steer him away by his elbow. "If you don't mind, we'll show you to your quarters a little later,” the man said. “Mr. Lindholm wanted to see you at once."

  Anders Lindholm was the retiring overseer. A Swede with a United States citizenship and a rich per
sonal history, he was over six feet tall, exceptionally fit, and moved with the agility and grace of a panther. His handshake was so vigorous that Scott's fingers remained numb for a minute or so. Only his deeply lined, weather-beaten face revealed that this is a man who, according to Scott's information, recently celebrated his eightieth birthday. He was clean-shaven and his silvery hair was neatly parted. Like any regular on the maintenance team, he was dressed in a pair of sturdy work overalls, and his bright orange parka hung by the door to his office.

  "Mr. Buckley!" he boomed, showing Scott to a chair. "So glad, so exceedingly glad to see you. I hope your journey went well?"

  "Very well, thank you. The sailing was a little slow, but I enjoyed every comfort on board of the Polar Star."

  "Well, well, that could not be helped, I know. Those who arrive by cruise ship must subject to a bit of tediousness, and the irregularity of the flights, you know… booking in advance is nearly impossible these days. At least you've had some downtime, Scott... may I call you Scott?"

  "You may call me Buck, Mr. Lindholm. I'm sure Professor McLaughlin told you everyone calls me so."

  Anders Lindholm chuckled. "Ah, yes – when old McLaughlin first talked of 'Buck', I didn't quite follow him. Please, call me Anders. A drink?" with a conspiratorial look, he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Aquavit, although it wasn't yet nine o'clock in the morning, according to local time.

  "Thank you, Anders, but I'm not really sure I should –"

  "Oh, nonsense. You'll have plenty of time to get perfectly sober before anyone expects you to show up on duty."

  He took out two glasses and poured a generous measure of liquid into each. Scott took a careful sip from his. The exceptionally strong spirit scorched his throat and burned his eyes, but the taste was pleasant in its way. Anders smacked his lips, evidently relishing his drink.

  "So, as I was saying, Buck, you've had your stretch of downtime on board of the ship, and I'm sure you'll soon look back on it as a fond memory - I must give you fair warning, there will be plenty for you to do around here, so much so that pretty soon you'll find yourself longing for winter, when the station narrows down its activity and most of the summer staff leave."

  "I gather that you're quitting soon, then?"

  "As soon as I see you get into stride, young man, and it had better not take more than a couple of weeks, because my ticket is already booked. I confess I'm impatient to go. McMurdo will always be a part of me – I have spent thirty years running the place – but it's time to move on. I wish I had done this long ago, when Pam had been alive. Then we could have enjoyed retirement together," he threw a melancholy glance at a seashell-framed photograph on his desk. It showed the image of a sprightly-looking old lady standing at the McMurdo docks, waving in the direction of an anchoring ship.

  "That is Mrs. Lindholm?" Scott asked. The elderly woman's smile was contagious, and her grey hair was pulled back in a neat bun.

  "Yes, that's Pam, the year before she was diagnosed with liver cancer. We had given much of our lives to this place - I accepted the position, and Pam joined me here full-time, as soon as our youngest headed off to college. Until then I was part of the summer staff. I do wish," Lindholm sighed, "that I had quitted earlier. We have bought a beach house in California some years ago, but only managed to get away twice. Now I'm going to live there full-time - in a place where it's always warm, and where I can dip into the ocean year-round. Pam loved it there," he sighed and topped their glasses. "Yes, Buck, I'm quite ready to quit."

  There was a knock on the door. Lindholm clicked his tongue irritably, draining the last of his Aquavit and surreptitiously stuffing the bottle back in the drawer. "Come in!" he called. A man about Scott's age walked in, square-shouldered and compactly built, wearing large horn-rimmed glasses.

  "Sorry to interrupt you, Anders, but there are some supply lists that need your signature." He nodded in Scott's direction, politely and unobtrusively, but his dark eyes betrayed a hint of curiosity.

  Lindholm clapped himself on the forehead. "Right! I quite forgot about those. Thank you, Victor. By the way, Victor, this young man here is Mr. Scott Buckley, who is going to take charge once I take sail. Scott, Victor is my first assistant. If you need any help, he's your address."

  "Victor Nash," the square man shook Scott's hand. He was not unfriendly, but there was a certain distancing coolness in his manner, quite unlike Lindholm's jovial warmth. He produced a stack of papers, which he gave his supervisor to sign.

  "There you go, Victor. Now, if you don't mind – we'll catch up with you later, but right now Mr. Buckley and I need to go over some particulars of his contract. And then, I'm sure, Scott will want to see his quarters and rest a little."

  "Of course. See you soon," Victor nodded and retreated. The two men remained sitting in silence for a couple of moments. Then, with a wink, Anders pulled out the Aquavit again, filled his glass for the third time, and topped Scott's.

  "I hope you’re going to get along with Victor," he observed. "He has been my assistant for the past five years, and I think he was entertaining some ambitions of becoming the overseer after I retire. Alas, it was not to be."

  "Why?" Scott asked. Now that he thought about it, he felt stupid for never asking himself the obvious - why was he, a complete outsider who had never even been to Antarctica before, offered this important positon, rather than someone belonging to the McMurdo staff?

  "I will be honest with you. I recommended against his appointment - very tactfully and discreetly, of course, but I made myself quite clear. Victor is good at following instructions, but he isn't much of an independent thinker. He goes wholly by the book, and you need to be prepared to do more than that in a place as remote and, for half the year, as isolated as McMurdo."

  "I'm sure he was disappointed."

  "He might have been. I don't know. We never went so far as to actually discuss the matter. If Victor kept silent then, however, he won't talk now. He's very professional, and I'm sure he will keep performing his duties just as well as ever."

  Scott nodded. "And did Professor McLaughlin assure you I was an independent thinker?" he couldn't help asking. Anders Lindholm grinned.

  "He described you as the most inquisitive and deliberately willful student he ever had to teach, but also as the one with the best-developed personal initiative and an admirable ability to think out of the box. And, of course, there are your credentials, without which you would never be considered for the position. You are planning to conduct some independent research for your Ph.D., isn't that so, Buck?"

  "I was hoping to collect samples and make use of the laboratory, yes," Scott confessed.

  "You won't have time to do that before the station closes down for the winter," Lindholm warned him. "Nope, you won't have too much time until then. But once most people have departed and the last great sunset had taken place - why, you'll have to give your mind some exercise to keep from getting bored. I understood that Mrs. Buckley might be joining you before the winter?"

  "Yes, I hope so. Brianna, my wife, was... a little apprehensive about my taking the position."

  Lindholm nodded. "Quite understandable. Pam liked it here well enough in the summer, but the months of darkness and freezing cold... it's a challenge. Does Mrs. Buckley have qualifications in environmental science as well?"

  "No, Brianna is an English teacher. I'm sure Antarctica will fascinate her, however."

  "I can't imagine it being otherwise. In fact, just between us, I don't understand why people are shooting off to Mars in pursuit of the unknown, while we have so many mysteries here under the ice. I suggest you collect your samples while it's still warm enough, Buck, and leave them for later analysis in the winter, when you'll have plenty of time to tinker with them. Deep freezing will keep anything fresh. That's what I had done over the years. Without undue bragging, I have completed two curious research papers - you can browse them in the unclassified library. There are, of course, some thin
gs... well, it's time to bring up your contract, I suppose."

  "I don't understand," Buck frowned. "I emailed my contract with my digital signature before I left Wisconsin."

  "Yes, yes, of course. But there are certain, ah, additional clauses we figured we'd better handle on the spot." And, reaching into yet another drawer, he took out a thin, black-bound file, which he flipped open and slid in Scott's direction. Scott looked at the page in front of him. There, in big bold letters, it stated, General Overseer Contract Extension - Secrecy Clause.

  Scott shook his head. "Secrecy clause?" he repeated. "I don't understand. Professor McLaughlin never mentioned anything of the sort."

  "You see, Buck, McMurdo is a research station. A lot of the work here, and most of what you will be doing, is pure logistics and has to do with personnel, supplies, running the station, and so on. But some of the information at your disposal is classified, and you must commit to keeping it secret."

  Scott was reading. The neatly printed paragraphs on the page in front of him stated, in so many more long words, what Anders Lindholm had just said.

  "A mere formality," Lindholm went on, "but without it, you will not be able to assume your duties as an overseer. I suggest you don't think too much about it. I assure you, it's nothing compared to what the Russians have to sign over at the Vostok station."

  A little hesitantly, Scott reached for a sharp-pointed steel pen and drew his signature at the blank to which Lindholm pointed. "Can I have a copy of this?" he asked.

  "Of course, of course. You'll get a copy of your entire contract with everybody's signatures as soon as it's filed. But now... I think I have detained you too long. I daresay you'll be glad to see your quarters and have a bite to eat."

  Anders got up, and Scott did likewise. Instead of moving towards the door, however, he stared into Lindholm's blue eyes. "Anders," he said, "please be honest with me. I have already signed the contract, and you are leaving soon. This secrecy clause... is it really just a formality, or does it have to do with what you spoke of earlier – mysteries hidden under the ice?"