Freezing Point

by Karen Dionne

  “I don’t believe this. What is this? Decision by committee?”

  “No,” Elliot said. “It’s my decision. I appreciate everyone’s input, but as station director, this is my call, and I accept responsibility. You’ve argued eloquently and well, Dr. Roundtree, but Drs. Everingham and Rodriguez’s concerns are equally valid. Your fellow scientists—not just those in this room, but the fifteen others working at Raney, have come at great personal sacrifice and expense. I won’t negate their efforts. Whoever destroyed the ice shelf will be brought to account after Raney shuts down for the season. Meanwhile, nothing leaves this room.”

  He looked pointedly at Ross, then at the others in turn, finally finishing his gaze on Zo. “I trust you all can keep a secret.”

  Chapter 9

  Los Angeles, California

  “So you’re telling me we lost the berg.” Gillette’s expression was neutral, but that didn’t mean Ben didn’t know exactly what he was thinking. Donald had never approved of Ben’s microwave method, and he never let an opportunity to denigrate it pass. No doubt he was already scheming how he could use the unfortunate turn of events—events that were completely and utterly beyond Ben’s or anyone else’s control (not that anyone seemed willing to acknowledge that or even cared)—to have another go at convincing the executive board that his technology was superior. Never mind that environmentally speaking, the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program was arguably the worst idea mankind had ever come up with. Radiotelescopes transmitting megawatts of focused electromagnetic radiation onto the ionosphere, heating it, and physically lifting it higher before reflecting the EM beam back to earth could improve communications and enable the military to replace its echolocation frequency submarine and over-the-horizon radar with more accurate systems. H.A.A.R.P. technology could act as a wide-area earth-penetrating tomography to probe for oil and gas and mineral deposits. More to the point, the reflected electromagnetic beam could conceivably turn ice into drinking water. Unfortunately, H.A.A.R.P.’s high power transfer rate also had the potential to permanently disrupt the ozone layer, irreparably alter the ionosophere, and induce catastrophic climate change. In contrast, Ben’s plan to use microwaves from orbiting satellites to melt Antarctic icebergs into drinking water was positively benign.

  “We don’t know for sure that we’ve lost it,” he said, “but at this point it seems likely. Eugene finally got through this morning on the satellite phone. He says the storm’s not letting up. Winds are holding at sixty knots, expected to continue throughout the weekend. As soon as they drop to thirty he’ll head out, but for now, our ship is still stuck in port.”

  “Whereas the Australians—”

  “Are coming from the east. They don’t have to come through the Drake Passage, so this storm doesn’t factor for them.”

  “And you think they’ve already claimed the berg?”

  “Maybe. Probably. It’s been three days.” Ben took off his glasses and ran a hand over his head. Unbelievable, to think that three years of planning and engineering brilliance could be negated by the ridiculously childish principle of first come, first served.

  Gillette made a tent of his fingers and leaned back in his chair. He was a master at using silence like a weapon, drawing it out and turning it over lovingly in his hand; then holding it over his opponent’s head until they cracked and said something foolish. Ben knew better than to bite.

  “All right.” He leaned forward with his hands on his desk, elbows out, fingers spread, like a gorilla spoiling for a fight. “Assume the Aussies have it. What’s next? Help me out, Ben. Give me something for the investors.”

  Ben was ready. “One of the reasons we were so excited about this berg,” he began, launching into the argument he and Adam had earlier prepared, “is because it’s so big. Once we started making water, we could have continued for months, maybe even years, with very little additional cost or effort. Another is its location. It’s so close to our base in Chile that our resupply costs would have been ridiculously low. What’s more, our tankers could have shot straight up the Atlantic or the Pacific depending on which coast was buying.

  “Both these pluses pose big problems for the Australians. Mawson is grossly underfunded. His equipment is dated and substandard and his crew is inexperienced. The Aussies may have our process, but they don’t have our know-how, and they certainly don’t have the resources to harvest a berg this size. Even if they manage to make a go of it, the transportation costs are going to kill them. Best case scenario: In a few days they’ll realize how overextended they are and pull back; worst case: They work the berg for a few weeks, and then pull out. Either way, we’ll be ready to step up to the plate.”

  “You’re that sure they’ll give up?”

  “Positive. Mawson may be arrogant and stubborn, but he’s not stupid.”

  Gillette smiled and leaned back in his chair. Ben did the same, though inside he was anything but relaxed. No telling what was coming next from a guy who could cycle between Hannibal Lecter and Mary Poppins in seconds.

  “It’s lame,” Gillette finally said, drumming his sausage fingers against the desktop, “but the board will probably buy it. They don’t exactly have a history of making intelligent decisions.”

  And there it was. Gillette couldn’t have spelled out his intentions more blatantly if he’d painted them on a billboard. If the Aussies washed out now, no matter the reason, Gillette was going to spin their failure into a condemnation of the entire microwave process. As Ben left the office, he reflected on how strange it was that fate had placed him in the curious position of having to root for the Australians.

  Chapter 10

  Weddell Sea, 68° S, 60° W

  Richard Mawson studied the ancient Bell 47 as he strolled toward the helipad on the forward deck. The helicopter wasn’t much to look at, but Mawson wasn’t asking much of it, either—just a few dozen shuttles between the ship and the berg to off-load men and equipment. He climbed into the front passenger seat and signaled his landing party to follow. A ship on the ocean wasn’t enough to establish possession; he wanted men and equipment on the berg at all times. He trusted the Americans as far as he could spit.

  “Everybody in?” The pilot stubbed out his cigarette without waiting for their answers. “Righto. We’re off.”

  The iceberg filled the side windows as he took them straight up. Mawson could feel the cold emanating off it, its colors and striations as handsome as Carrara marble. As they cleared the top, he shielded his eyes and let loose a grin. Despite a dearth of manpower and equipment and a budget that was tighter than a tutu on a hippopotamus, they’d done it: They’d beaten the Americans to the berg. Nature may have helped by conjuring up a three-day blow over the Straits of Magellan, but if he hadn’t sussed out what the Americans were up to and hidden the Austral Sun nearby off the South Sandwich Islands, he couldn’t have taken advantage. It wasn’t what you had, he often preached, but what you did with it that mattered.

  And what he had done with the knowledge that the Americans were secretly planning to blow the ice shelf to bits now had him flying over the berg instead of Ben Maki. Below, his prize stretched a hundred kilometers into the distance according to the satellite imagery sent over that morning from the mainland. More precise measurements would be taken in the days ahead; lakes and crevasses would be mapped and innumerable other calculations made before the location for their own lake would be selected. The decision was crucial. Set up in the wrong place and the stresses caused by a microwave beam ten times more powerful than sunlight could split the iceberg apart. Set up too close to the edge and their water could run off into the sea like butter on a pile of mashed potatoes. Too far inland and the cost differential between three kilometers of hose and thirty would eat them alive. The whole operation was a balancing act, and like a tightrope walker without a net, Mawson couldn’t afford a single mistake.

  He tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Off to the right along what had once been the ice shelf’s leading
edge, wave action had carved out an amphitheater-shaped section that stepped down to the water in a series of short plateaus, forming a natural harbor. The pilot set the helicopter down a hundred meters back from the top of the staircase and powered down the engine. Mawson climbed out, followed by his crew: Hank Owen, chief systems engineer, Colin Goldfinch, master mechanic, and Simon Beaudry, Mawson’s seventeen-year-old nephew on holiday from England.

  Colin ducked into the cargo bay and began handing off supplies. Mawson turned to his nephew. “You sure you want to do this?” Thus far his sister’s boy had demonstrated a remarkably level head, but in view of the tedium of the past two weeks, Mawson feared the lad was only trading one misery for another.

  “Of course. I’ve been cold-weather camping before—two Christmases ago, when my mates and I went on a skiing trip to Finland.”

  “Because I promised your mother I’d look after you.”

  “I’ll be fine, Uncle. Really. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “All right then. The helicopter will be back in the morning once we relocate the ship. You know how to work the two-way?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely.”

  Mawson smiled. “Then I’m off. Have a good time. Meanwhile, Hank’s in charge.” He climbed into the helicopter as the pilot powered up the rotors. Simon ducked and ran. Mawson sent his pilot a look and shut the door.

  Chapter 11

  After the helicopter had gone, a silence settled over the camp that was thick and absolute. Simon lifted his binoculars to study the landmass looming across a narrow band of open water. Antarctica. He could hardly believe he was really here. He pictured his boyhood heroes, Scott, Shackleton, and Byrd, scaling those very cliffs, their dogsleds packed with a year’s worth of supplies as they pushed off for the interior and parts unknown and shivered, not from the cold, but from excitement.

  He unzipped the tent’s windflap and poked his head inside. Colin was sitting cross-legged on a doubled-over sleeping bag, rubbing his hands to warm them while Hank worked the stove.

  “Hey, fellows,” Simon said. “Let’s go exploring.”

  “Shut the door.” Colin turned his collar up over his ears and hunched his shoulders. “It’s bloody cold.”

  “Best way to get warm is by moving about. Besides, there’s nothing else to do.”

  Hank adjusted the flame and stood up. “I’ll go with ya.”

  Colin eyed the stack of Playboys waiting on an overturned crate. “I’ll mind the stove.”

  Hank pulled on his mitts as Simon wound his scarf around his neck and they set off, their boots punching holes through the thin crust of snow.

  “Mind your feet,” Simon warned over his shoulder. “Watch out for the blue lines. Might indicate a crevasse. Never know when one could open up.” Hank fell in alongside him, watching his steps closely.

  The wind blowing off the cliff face gathered up the snow and flung it in their faces like rice at a wedding. Simon pulled his scarf up over his cheeks and shielded his eyes with his coat sleeve, wishing he’d brought along the snow goggles from his bedroom closet back home. Then he grinned. How could he have known when he was packing for a holiday in Australia that he’d need them?

  When they reached the amphitheater, they sat down to survey the view, dangling their legs over the edge. Hank pulled off his mitts and fumbled in his pocket for a smoke. Simon lifted his binoculars. Off in the distance, he could just make out the ship steaming toward the harbor—or was that an iceberg? From this height it was hard to tell. Not that it mattered. After two weeks of pitching and rolling, the last thing he wanted to do was reboard. It may have been cold as a hangman’s heart on top of the iceberg, but at least the ground wasn’t moving. He tucked the binoculars inside his jacket for safekeeping and jumped down to the next ledge.

  “Hang on,” Hank called after him. “Remember, what goes down, has to come up.”

  “I won’t go far.” Simon walked over to the edge, jumped down again, then crossed the second ledge. Four steps down, a mottled brown mass the size of a Volkswagen caught his eye. He waved to get Hank’s attention and cupped his hands. “Look down there! Something’s moving.”

  “What is it?”

  “I dunno. Some sort of animal, I s’pose.” He scrambled down to the next ledge.

  “Hold up. I’ll come with ya.” Hank stubbed out his cigarette.

  Simon waited for Hank to join him, then led the way around a jumble of ice blocks. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed once they had a clear view of the ledge two steps below. “It’s a walrus!”

  Hank laughed. “Wrong pole, mate. That’s an elephant seal. Look at its snout. Did you ever see such an ugly mug?”

  Simon flushed. “It’s huge. It must be fifteen feet long.”

  At the sound of their voices, the animal grunted and rolled over, exposing its pink underbelly to the sun. Its long nose flopped comically to one side.

  “Bloody hell! That’s a face only a mother could love.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The seal closed its eyes. After a few minutes, Hank sniffed and wiped his nose. “This is about as interesting as watching grass grow. Come along, mate. Let’s go back to camp for a bite.”

  “Hang on. There’s something else.” Simon pointed to a half dozen small, dark creatures creeping toward the seal. “What are those things?”

  “Damned if I know. They’re too small for penguins. Gulls maybe, or skuas.”

  “They’re not moving like birds.”

  “What else could they be?”

  Simon took out his binoculars. “Bloody hell!”

  “What is it?”

  “They’re rats.”

  “Rats!”

  “See for yourself.”

  Hank looked to where Simon was pointing, then swept the binoculars over the rest of the ledge. “Bugger it. Look down there.”

  Simon peered through the glasses and sucked in his breath. Two levels down, directly below them, dozens of rats were pouring out of an opening in the cliff face. At first they milled about in confusion, blinded by the sun, but then they oriented themselves and began running toward the seal en masse. Simon covered his mouth. He’d seen enough television nature documentaries to know what was coming next.

  What he wasn’t prepared for was the violence of the attack, nor the speed. One minute the seal was blissfully sunning itself like an overweight matron at the beach, and the next, the ice ran red. Simon turned his head, but he could still hear the sounds: the rats’ squeals and snarls and the doomed seal’s bellows. And he could still smell the carnage: blood, and fecal matter, and raw meat.

  Hank put a hand on his arm. “I’ve had a bellyful,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I don’t get it,” Simon said back at camp as he sipped a mugful of instant tomato soup. “Since when is Antarctica infested with rats? Nothing I’ve read ever mentioned it.”

  “It’s a mystery, all right,” Hank agreed. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed it.”

  “I’d a believed it,” Colin muttered. “I’d believe anything about rats. Filthy creatures. I hate ’em. Once on a ship in the Indian Ocean our cook found a nest in the kitchen. One nest. Next thing ya know, rats were everywhere. Some of ’em were so bold, they came right into the mess as we were eatin’ and stole from the table.”

  “They hunted as a pack,” Simon said. “I’ve never heard of rats doing that. They brought that elephant seal down as easily as hounds after a fox.”

  “Imagine what they’d do to a man,” Colin added darkly.

  “Belt up,” Hank said. “We don’t need talk like that.”

  “You think these walls would stop ’em if they decided ta make a meal of us? Rats’ll chew through anything. Plastic, lead, cement . . . We had a garden shed back home where we stored seed and stuff. Cast block, it was. Those filthy mongrels chewed a hole right through ta get at the grain.”