‘No other illnesses?’
‘No.’
‘What about long term: asthma, anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Allergies?’
‘No.’
‘Ever suffered a venereal infection of any sort?’
‘No.’
‘You on any medication?’
‘No.’
‘You smoke?’
‘Stopped, ten years ago.
‘Smoker’s cough?’
‘No.’
‘Your personnel file says you were married?’
‘Jennifer,’ sighed Stoddart, understanding the routine. ‘College romance in Butte. She got a position as an intern at George Washington, in DC, when we moved east, fifteen years ago. That’s where she met Harry. He’s a doctor there, too. Never knew there was an affair until she told me she wanted a divorce. That was nine years ago.’
‘You in any relationship?’
Stoddart hesitated. Did the three months he’d been with Patricia – hardly ‘been with’ at McMurdo, furtively slipping into each other’s rooms like high school kids discovering sex – qualify as a relationship? Hardly. ‘Not really.’
‘What’s “not really” mean?’
‘It means I’ve just started seeing someone.’
‘Patricia Jefferies? You made the concern obvious.’
A psychologist, he remembered. ‘I’d like to know how she is. See her.’
‘You’re in quarantine, remember?’
‘How long for?’
‘Until we’re sure.’
‘How long’s that going to take?’ he persisted.
‘Until we’re sure,’ she repeated, just as persistent.
‘You’re not taking notes. Everything being recorded?’
She nodded. ‘How about a tour of your new home?’ She gestured Stoddart ahead of her, to judge how he walked. ‘That’s the bedroom,’ she said, as they left it. ‘Here’s the bathroom. Shower, shaving gear in the cabinet … two toilets, clearly marked. Pee in the left, crap in the right …’
‘There’s no flush.’ Everything was polished metal.
‘Don’t want to adulterate the specimens. You go, leave it. There’s a mechanically revolving chute arrangement activated when you close the lid. It just disappears to those who want it –’ she gestured again for him to precede her – ‘and here’s what passes for your living room …’
It was mostly metal again, the walls and even the table, against which there were two upright chairs. The only normal furniture were two leather armchairs in front of a wooden, closed-door television. On a table alongside were four glasses and a bottle of mineral water, in a cooler. She motioned to it. ‘Go ahead. You said you were thirsty. That’s all it’s going to be, I’m afraid. Water. No booze, obviously. Or coffee or tea …’ She picked up a sheet from a bureau close to an expansive internal window. ‘Menu,’ she identified. ‘When did you last eat?’
He drained a full glass and refilled it before answering. There was a packed meal in Auckland … Chicken, like it always is on planes …’
‘Tick off what you want and post it through that letter box there …’ She pointed to a slit to the left of the window, beneath which there was a handled, square door about the size of those on a rubbish chute. ‘It’s air locked. Whatever you order will be delivered, at the time you asked for it. Not up to the Four Seasons but it’s edible.’ She picked up a pad from the bureau. ‘We want you to do something very important. We want you to write everything – and we mean everything, the tiniest detail – from the moment you entered the field station and found them. Write what you thought – felt – as well. Don’t hurry. Take all the time you want. Break off, sleep if you want to, then come back to it. Can you do that?’
‘I guess.’
‘And will you sign this for me,’ said the woman, producing a third paper. ‘It’s an authorization for us to have access to your medical records. You still have the doctor at Fairfax, listed on your file?’
‘Yes,’ he said. His signature was shaky, not like he usually wrote it. He said: ‘I should have sat down.’
‘Maybe you should,’ she agreed.
Stoddart saw that the small clock set into the bureau showed two twenty. That a.m. or p.m.?’
‘Daytime.’
‘It’s been four days.’
‘And three hours.’
‘Something should be registering by now, if I’m infected.’
‘We can’t go by the apparent schedule in the victims’ logs.’
‘That an observation window?’
‘I need to come in: wear the moon suit. It’s easier for people to see you and talk to you from the other side of the glass.’
‘I’m locked in?’
‘That’s how it’s got to be, obviously. Until we’re sure.’
‘How do I speak to anybody outside?’
She nodded to the telephone on the bureau.
‘I don’t see an extension list,’ he said.
‘There’s twenty-four hour switchboard.’
‘This suite … others too, I guess … already existed. What were people suffering from, to need to be put into isolation here?’
‘Things we don’t know how to handle.’
There had been good fishing in the northern hemisphere, too. The factory ship and all the accompanying trawlers themselves were full when the fleet docked at Provideniya, on Siberia’s Chukotsky Poluostrov peninsular. It was mostly cod but there were tuna and one minke whale.
Four
Paul Spencer acknowledged the initial mistake of concentrating too much on what had already happened and not sufficiently upon the wider view of the future. The forward thinking had to cover – or appear to cover – the safety, not the security risk, of about two hundred and fifty scientists and support staff at McMurdo and around thirty at Amundsen-Scott, who were far closer – and therefore, logically, at far greater risk – to whatever had overwhelmed the field station.
The military mission to Antarctica shouldn’t – and wouldn’t – therefore be described or mounted as a security operation against an information leak. In each of his written, Eyes-Only classified communications to the Pentagon it would be set out as anticipated rescue planning, to evacuate endangered Americans. Which, neatly rounding the circle, countered any suggestion that anyone’s constitutional rights or freedoms were violated.
During his conversation with the Science Foundation director the emphasis was entirely upon a possible McMurdo and Amundsen-Scott evacuation, if it were judged necessary, that morning’s discussion referred to as having already been agreed between Hoolihan and the Chief of Staff, without any detail. Hoolihan promised to be at his terminal, personally to receive the email which Spencer personally sent, from his end. As instructed, Hoolihan telephoned immediately to guarantee no one apart from himself had seen the message.
Spencer spoke by telephone to the operational directors of both the CIA at Langley and the National Security Agency before sending the email requests. Intentionally to avoid any attention-attracting impression of urgency – which he didn’t consider there was in terms of hours with this general enquiry – Spencer avoided further email, using instead the second of the twice-daily inter-governmental courier deliveries.
By the time the two Pentagon officers, an army and air force colonel, were shown into his office, Spencer had completed the documentation they would need. Sheldon Hartley, the soldier, was black and clearly shaved what little hair remained, so appeared completely bald. William Dexter was bespectacled and uncaring about his thickening waist. Both wore Desert Storm service ribbons among the decoration technicolour on their immaculate chests. Spencer thought Hartley’s collection also included a Vietnam citation but wasn’t sure. Neither showed any outward reaction to being in the same building as the president of the United States but Spencer knew it would be there. Without any preliminary discussion, Spencer escorted both back to the larger projection room and ran the video and still photograp
hs. Neither officer allowed any facial or verbal reaction to that, either. Or interrupted Spencer’s account.
‘We don’t know what it is – what causes it – but provision has obviously got to be made for a mass evacuation,’ Spencer concluded. ‘We obviously don’t want a total upheaval if it can be avoided but we’ve got to be instantly ready. We think there should be a support force, to prevent panic … and of course a restriction on outside communication, until a decision is reached. The preparations should be as if your men were flying into a germ warfare situation: all necessary clothing and medical protection, with sufficient to equip all the scientists and other personnel already there.’
‘How many’s that likely to be?’ asked Hartley.
‘It’s winter there. Basic staffing,’ replied Spencer. ‘Allow for four hundred, in addition to whatever force you consider necessary. That should include doctors and field isolation units. The whole operation – here and there – naturally needs the highest security classification. I am your only liaison here at the White House. No open fascimile communication: use email. Everything written will come to you hand delivered under presidential seal and from you must be by Pentagon messenger, under seal. My telephone is secure. Yours must be, at all times, too. And there’ll need to be secure communication facilities from McMurdo.’
‘That’s all pretty clear,’ said Dexter.
‘How long before you can be underway?’ demanded Spencer.
‘An advance party will be airborne within twenty-four hours,’ undertook Dexter.
‘With a full support group twenty-four hours after that,’ endorsed the bald-headed man.
‘There’s written orders … authority … for this?’
Spencer offered the anticipated and prepared briefing, in its sealed envelope. ‘I want constant liaison.’
‘We understand,’ said Hartley.
‘This is a monster … horrifying … isn’t it?’ said Dexter at last, although still expressionless and with no shocked intonation.
‘Horrifying,’ agreed Spencer. He supposed he found it as difficult to be moved – believe it, even – as they did. He’d have to remember to show some emotion when it was publicly necessary to do so.
Jack Stoddart ordered steak and a jacket potato but when it was delivered decided he wasn’t hungry so he stopped eating after a few mouthfuls. As he returned it virtually uneaten through the pull-down hatch, he guessed his lack of appetite would be noted, as part of the intense examination. Along with the fact that he’d already drunk the two full bottles of mineral water and was halfway through the third, which he’d ordered with the meal. He didn’t think thirst – dehydration – was an indication of age. Or remember any reference to it in what he’d read among their logs or data.
He sat at the bureau with the paper and pens arranged in readiness but didn’t immediately write, distracted – unsettled – by the empty observation window. It really was like being under a microscope. His written account would be another test, he supposed, a comparison against the recollection of the others, maybe for a composite version to be compiled. Would the others – Patricia in particular – have woken up, seen their doctors, ahead of him? Be writing a few yards away? He put down the pen with the page still blank, reaching out for the telephone.
‘What can I help you with, Dr Stoddart?’ enquired a voice at once.
‘Put me through to Dr Jefferies, will you?’
‘I need authority for that, sir.’
‘Get it for me, please.’
‘I mean I need to be told that everyone in isolation can receive calls. I haven’t had that advice, yet.’
‘Have there been any outgoing calls from Dr Jefferies’s suite?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Anyone else’s?’
‘No, sir.
Patricia would have obviously called him, as he was trying to call her. Maybe the others would, too, although remembering their attitude on the plane he doubted it. Would he put their intended abandonment in his unwritten report? Not something that needed an immediate decision. He was letting his mind drift. Didn’t normally happen. Usually better able to focus. Patricia, he thought again. Patricia would have called him. Unless …? Stoddart refused the thought. ‘Will you make a note that I’m awake? That I can take calls?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stoddart picked up the pen and at once put it down again, his eyes drawn to the window. He abruptly thrust himself up – conscious of the remaining ache in his back and arms – and went into the bathroom. Self-consciously and with some difficulty in moving between the two, he used both toilets and felt embarrassed at not being able to dispose of his own waste, although accepting its need as part of his medical examination. Everything he did and said – thought even – a test. With how he looked being the first. So how did he look? He was surprised that the question – the essential, overriding question that he could answer himself! – hadn’t occurred before.
The bathroom mirror was large, giving him a stand-back reflection that went from his head to below his waist, practically to his knees. But he didn’t stand back. He went closer, so close the basin edge was tight against his thighs, and strained even further forward to put his face so near to the glass he almost lost focus, needing to pull back. He’d had his hair cut very short, closer than a crew cut, expecting to spend the winter in the Antarctic, but there was enough regrowth – and contrast – with the overall deep blackness to show the grey at the sides. But that’s all it was, grey. Not white. And no more, he was positive, than there had been before. Four days, he reminded himself, as he had unnecessarily reminded the examining doctor. Despite her reservations Stoddart was convinced there’d be more obvious signs than any he could see in his face at that moment. There weren’t, in fact, any positive signs at all. His eyes were as deeply blue as he believed they’d always been (why hadn’t he looked more closely at himself: known for sure!) without the blind milkiness of the kneeling George Bedall. He’d always, oddly in these bizarre scrutinizing circumstances, been remarkably clear skinned for someone of thirty-nine and there wasn’t any change now: what lines there were around his eyes he was causing himself, right now, squinting to look at himself! And there was colour, although that was scarcely a fitting contrast because all the dead had been frozen into a death-mask greyness. There were no liver spots, either. Not on his face or hands or arms. He moved back, finally, opening the tunic top and pushing the elastic banded trousers unashamedly down, having to straddle his legs apart to prevent them falling completely. No tell-tale brown marks, anywhere. No wrinkling, either. Actually tight-bellied, from the jogging he’d been concerned about missing during the winter months’ inactivity at the South Pole.
Stoddart pulled his trousers up and refastened the tunic front. He was all right! Had to be all right, no matter what caveat the unidentified doctor felt she had to invoke. He felt the briefest surge of light-headedness, although quite different from the sensation he’d experienced before. All right! All right! All right! echoed in his head, like a chant. A cheer.
Strangely, the ache didn’t seem so bad as he hurried – walked positively, not scuffed in the mules as he’d scuffed in the protective suit – back into the observation-windowed room, not bothering to look at it on his way to the bureau. He lifted the telephone, still standing.
‘Dr Stoddart?’ enquired the same voice.
‘I’d like to be put through to Dr Jefferies.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I still haven’t been authorized to connect you.’
‘Authorized?’ challenged Stoddart. ‘Earlier you were waiting to be advised.’
‘I still haven’t been advised.’
‘The others?’
‘I haven’t been advised that they can take calls, either.’
‘Put me through to …’ Stoddart had to pause, for recollection, ‘… the director, Pelham.’
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
‘Tell him I want to speak to him!’
The line went
dead but only for a few moments before the voice that Stoddart didn’t immediately recognize from the previous night said: ‘Pelham.’
‘Why can’t I speak to the other people I was brought here with?’
‘I explained last night. Everyone’s quarantined, for the obviously necessary examinations. Which you’re undergoing.’
‘Talking on a telephone isn’t breaking any quarantine.’
‘You can’t interrupt medical examinations. You surely accept that?’
‘I don’t accept that at this precise moment I can’t speak to at least one out of four people.’
‘Our priority – the medical, diagnostic priority – is at the moment greater than yours, Dr Stoddart.’
‘Are they all infected?’
‘I have not told you that anyone is infected.’
‘But they are, aren’t they?’
‘I have told you that the four people with whom you came out of Antarctica are currently undergoing medical examinations and tests.’
‘Will you authorize your switchboard to connect me when those medical examinations and tests have been completed today?’
‘I’ll follow the guidance of the specialists conducting them.’
‘When are we going to have a sensible conversation?’
‘Soon, I hope.’
‘I’ll keep calling, every thirty minutes, until we do.’ The threat sounded as empty as it was. His total, locked-away impotence burned through Stoddart.
All Paul Spencer’s security clearances had been established the previous day and he’d telephoned ahead to warn of his arrival at Fort Detrick, so there was no delay and Walter Pelham was waiting in his office.
‘What’s it look like?’ demanded Spencer, too glibly.
‘Like the worst nightmare we never wanted to happen,’ said the other man.
Five
It was Paul Spencer’s moment to be horrified, which he genuinely was, and couldn’t remember being before, not like this. Not beyond emotion. The video and still photographs that had shocked others, had for him been of already dead, atrophied people more like statues than anything or anyone that had once been human. If he’d had a feeling about them at all it had been of uninvolved curiosity.
Ice Age Page 4