The Killing Ship

by Simon Beaufort

  That day, he had decided to examine a colony of lichens on the South Bay beach, although he had told the others he planned to stay near camp. He knew Berrister would disapprove of him crossing the scarp alone, but he did not care. Berrister’s accident had made him overcautious, which was just as bad as being careless in Wells’ opinion. Only two people knew the details of Berrister’s mishap three years before: Berrister himself and Wells, but neither talked about it. Wells liked Berrister, and appreciated being included in his programme when other colleagues overlooked him for younger, more dynamic researchers. If Berrister wanted the matter to remain between them, then that was how it would be.

  He had scrambled over the scarp at a pace that was impressive for a man of sixty-two, and then spent a perfect day on a rocky outcrop that was only accessible at low tide. He stood periodically to stretch his back, looking out across South Bay and the glorious mountains that glittered white in the distance.

  Veterans like Wells were usually aware of the incoming tide, but he was in a sheltered spot and failed to notice that an increasing wind had driven the sea in faster than he had anticipated. When he looked up the next time, he was startled to see waves licking at the foot of the ice cliffs he would have to pass on his way back.

  He stuffed his samples in his pockets and turned for home. He was not unduly concerned about the water: he would have wet feet, but nothing worse. His biggest worry was how to keep it from the others. He did not want them to foist an assistant on him for the last ten precious days, ‘for his own safety’.

  Water tugged at his ankles as he waded through the surf, one hand against the cliff for balance. Suddenly, there was a tremendous crack and he froze in horror, sure he was about to be crushed by falling ice. But nothing happened. He began to breathe again, smiling at his own lurid imagination.

  Yet even as he grinned, a massive section of the cliff broke away in front of him and dropped into the sea with awesome grace. It created a wave that washed along the foot of the cliff towards him. There was nowhere to run – and nothing to do but brace himself for the impact.

  The wave punched into him, sweeping him off his feet, and dragging him back the way he had come. A distant part of his mind told him that perhaps Berrister had been right after all, and it was a sensible precaution to work in pairs and keep in touch by radio. Then the wave relinquished its hold on him, and he found himself lying face down on an ice-littered beach.

  Gasping for breath, he pulled himself upright, blinking salt from his eyes and trying to ignore the agonising ache of cold in his body. He squinted along the beach. A massive pile of ice now blocked his way. It was too high to climb over and jutted too far into the sea to skirt around – at least, until the tide went out again. But luck was with him: he had fetched up near where he knew there was a path up to the glacier – he would go over it, and get back to the camp that way. It was not an easy climb, but he had done it before, and the exertion would serve to warm him up.

  Painfully, he began to ascend, forcing all thoughts from his mind except inching upwards. Unfortunately, he was wrong to think the effort would restore the heat to his body: he could not move fast enough, and the combination of wind, wet clothes, and the chill of the ice was draining him of life. His arm hurt, too – perhaps he had broken it when he had been swept along the beach.

  Doggedly, he staggered on, determined to make it back, because he was not going to be remembered as the doddering old fool who had made a fatal error of judgement. Then the path levelled out, and he realised that he had reached the top.

  He blinked in disbelief. He had done it! Now all he needed to do was to walk across the top of the glacier and down the other side, where the slope was much shallower. He staggered forward on numb legs. He smiled to himself, sure none of the others could have managed what he had done – they would have lain down and given up. Once again, he had shown that there was no substitute for experience and grit. And what’s more, he wouldn’t allow what had just happened to change his view of the Antarctic, like Berrister had. He would simply add it to his enormous store of anecdotes.

  He fell forward on all fours when his foot caught on a ridge, aware that ice crystals were forming on his coat – his clothes were freezing, even as he moved. He started to struggle upright again, but then blinked to clear his vision. Was that someone coming towards him?

  TWO

  As Berrister and Graham hiked along the beach towards the camp – four yellow tents for sleeping, and three green ones for storage, cooking and lab work – the wind picked up, sending sand flying into their eyes. Just ten more days, thought Berrister, gritting his teeth, then the camp would be dismantled, and Worsley would take them home. He would sleep in a bed, eat fresh food and scour away three months of grime under a scalding hot shower.

  When they arrived, he logged and stored his samples, then headed for the biggest tent, which served as kitchen and common room. It was five o’clock, but, unusually, there was no smell of simmering food and no steamy warmth to greet him – the tent was cold and unwelcoming. Lisa and Graham sat at the empty table, while Sarah fiddled with the cooker.

  ‘Where’s Freddy?’ Berrister asked, surprised. The Australian had never neglected to prepare their supper before.

  ‘We can’t find him,’ replied Sarah, her attention on the stove. ‘He must’ve gone exploring.’

  ‘Alone?’ asked Berrister, frowning.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘He’s still sulking over Byers. Oh, damn this bloody thing!’

  Like them all, she wore multiple layers of clothing and a jacket that had suffered from close contact with the Antarctic’s wildlife. It was a mystery to Berrister how she still managed to look elegant. He went to the fuel canister, where a shake suggested it was all but empty.

  ‘But I only changed it yesterday,’ objected Graham. ‘It must be faulty. Bugger! We’ve only got one more left. We’ll have to be careful if we want it to last.’

  ‘I don’t believe Freddy wandered off alone,’ said Lisa worriedly. ‘And even if he did, he would’ve made sure he was back in time to make dinner.’

  ‘Dan, Geoff and Joshi are still out, too,’ said Graham. ‘Perhaps they went somewhere together.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Sarah, abandoning the cooker to Berrister and going to sit at the table, where she nibbled unenthusiastically at a water biscuit. ‘Dan finds Joshi too irritating.’

  ‘Have you tried them on the radio?’ asked Berrister.

  Sarah nodded. ‘Several times – no reply.’

  ‘Maybe they’re with our visitors,’ said Graham. ‘I heard them firing guns to attract our attention, and someone landed a boat over in South Bay.’

  ‘I heard the boat,’ said Lisa.

  ‘We saw signs that a boat had been there,’ Berrister corrected. ‘However, the others wouldn’t just go off with them – not without leaving us a message.’

  The others stared at him. ‘So what are you suggesting?’ asked Sarah eventually. ‘Because you’re scaring me.’

  ‘I don’t mean to. However, if they’re not back in an hour, we’ll go and look for them. OK?’

  They nodded, so he primed the stove while Graham fetched water. As they waited for it to boil, they prepared a hasty meal – hot tea, water biscuits smeared with strawberry jam and the remains of the soup, eaten cold. No one spoke, all pondering the sudden, curious changes in a routine that had been unbroken for weeks. Berrister swung between annoyance that Freddy had neglected to leave a message, and worry that all was not well. He did not believe that Graham had heard a gun, but he did know someone had visited South Bay recently, and it was peculiar that no contact had been made. The Antarctic was a close-knit community, despite the vastness of the place, and everyone tended to know what other groups were doing. It was against protocol and good manners to land without making yourself known to the current residents.

  He thought about his decision to abandon polar research, and was more convinced than ever that it was the right one. He would turn forty in
a couple of years, which was too old for the rigours of such an environment. He loved the Antarctic, but he was no Wells, who embraced the discomforts of polar living with happy enthusiasm. He was no Sarah either, determinedly ambitious and still needing to prove herself. No, he thought, as he ate his fifth biscuit, it was time to leave the cold for others to endure.

  They all looked up in relief as footsteps crunched in the gravel outside. The door flap was pulled aside and Mortimer stepped in, followed by Joshi.

  ‘Where’s dinner?’ demanded the fat glaciologist, eyeing the meagre meal in dismay.

  ‘Have you seen Freddy or Dan?’ asked Berrister. ‘Were either working near you today?’

  Mortimer shook his head. ‘No, and I tried to contact Dan at about two o’clock, but I couldn’t raise him.’

  ‘Why did you want him?’

  ‘No reason,’ replied Mortimer blandly. ‘Just being friendly.’

  Berrister looked hard at him. Everyone knew that Wells would not appreciate being disturbed, and, despite his insouciance, Mortimer was no fool: he never blocked the radio with idle chatter.

  ‘Actually, we thought we heard something,’ said Joshi. ‘A cry.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ countered Mortimer, setting his backpack on the table. ‘It was a bird.’

  ‘What sort of cry?’ demanded Sarah worriedly. ‘The kind that means someone had an accident?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ replied Mortimer, frowning at Joshi. ‘Or we would have gone to investigate. But you know how it is late in the season, when we’re all ready to go home. The imagination always gets a bit wild at this stage.’

  He smiled, but Berrister was not deceived. He had known Mortimer for years and it was clear that whatever the glaciologist heard had unsettled him. He stood abruptly.

  ‘We’d better go and look for them now. I wish you’d radioed this in sooner.’

  ‘Radioed what in?’ asked Mortimer. ‘That we heard a gull? Besides, we all know that Dan isn’t looking forward to going home this time. It’ll probably be his last season down here, given that you’re the only one willing to offer him a place at a field camp these days, and he’s made it clear that he intends to savour every last minute. He’ll be sitting on a rock somewhere, enjoying himself.’

  ‘Yes, but Freddy can’t wait to get out of here,’ Berrister pointed out. ‘So let’s get going. Lisa, pack up some food; Joshi, check the radios are working; Graham, change the gas canister so we’ll have some heat when we get back.’

  Relieved to be doing something, the two students and the field hand hurried out, leaving Berrister, Sarah and Mortimer to talk more openly.

  ‘God!’ said Sarah, her face pale. ‘What’s going on? I didn’t hear a boat, but Lisa swears she did.’

  ‘I’m more concerned about the cracks,’ said Berrister worriedly. ‘Not that they were gunshots, but that the glacier calved. We didn’t hear it fall, but the wind’s blowing in the wrong direction, so we wouldn’t have done.’

  Mortimer nodded soberly. ‘Last night’s storm might have made it unstable, and if Freddy and Wells took someone up there to show off …’

  Before either could reply, the flap was ripped open to admit Joshi and Lisa.

  ‘Everything’s gone,’ gulped Lisa, her eyes wide with fear. ‘The supplies – there’s nothing left. Nothing.’

  ‘There are plenty of boxes,’ added Joshi. ‘But they’re all empty.’

  The tent opened again, and this time it was Graham standing there, white and shaking.

  ‘The last gas canister,’ he blurted. ‘It’s punctured or something, and there’s nothing in it. The dribble of fuel in here is all we’ve got left.’

  Yablokov stood on deck, watching the crew raise the equipment from the hold. The conditions were not ideal for such an operation – there was a heavy swell and the planking was slippery with spray. One of the Turks stumbled and would have fallen had Yablokov not caught him. The first mate glanced up to the bridge. Hasim was there, as always, watching with critical eyes.

  When they had finished, Yablokov ordered them to the mess for a hot meal. He saw the last hatch secured, and hurried back to the bridge. The chief engineer had mended the heating, but the thermostat was broken, so hot air now blasted unchecked from the ancient heaters. One extreme to the other, he thought sourly, unfastening his jacket.

  Garik was sprawled in his chair, cap over his eyes, and made no response when Yablokov started to make his report. Yablokov glanced at Zurin. A slight pursing of the lips said it all: the captain was drunk again. Yablokov didn’t understand it: Garik had always liked a nip, but he had never been insensible on duty in the Arctic. Did he think they were on holiday here in the south, where his behaviour didn’t matter? Yablokov sincerely hoped he had more sense.

  He coughed loudly, and watched the big man come to his senses, the sweet scent of old alcohol on his breath.

  ‘The equipment is unloaded,’ Yablokov reported. ‘I’ve lashed it down because the glass is dropping – we’re in for another storm.’

  The captain acknowledged him with a nod. ‘Anything on radar?’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Yablokov. ‘Have you heard from the Zodiac?’

  The captain shrugged, and it was Zurin who answered, by pursing his lips again.

  ‘It’s been too long.’ Yablokov was concerned. ‘We should never have let them go. I said it was too rough.’

  ‘And I said it was not.’

  Yablokov jumped. Hasim had a nasty habit of gliding about soundlessly and taking everyone unawares. It made Yablokov acutely uneasy.

  Hasim whispered something in the captain’s ear, which was another annoying habit. Why not speak aloud, so everyone could hear? When Hasim had finished, Garik heaved himself upright and went to inspect the radar. Yablokov was irked – the implication was that Hasim had not trusted his report. He fought down his irritation. Confronting the man would get him nowhere. Worse, it would likely exclude him from future work with the company, and the pay was too good to lose.

  He went to the bridge-wing with a pair of binoculars, and scanned the shifting grey waves anxiously, searching for the splash of colour that would herald the Zodiac’s safe return.

  Everyone was silent after Graham, Lisa and Joshi had made their announcements. Lisa was openly frightened, while the others looked at Berrister for reassurance. Unable to give it, he headed for the store tent, with its neat stacks of boxes. He began opening them one by one. The others watched for a moment, then began to help. They worked in taut silence, acutely aware that they could not go to help their friends without the necessary provisions, so the sooner they found what they needed, the sooner they could mount a rescue.

  The first few cartons were empty, but Mortimer grunted in satisfaction when he unearthed three cans of carrots. Unfortunately, other finds were few and far between, and certainly not enough to last eight people ten days.

  ‘Perhaps Freddy cached them somewhere,’ suggested Sarah, her voice strained. ‘Because I definitely saw three cases of tuna on Sunday – which was only three days ago.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Graham. ‘Why hide the food?’

  ‘And what about the fuel?’ asked Mortimer. ‘Why is there none left?’

  It did not take Berrister long to discover the answer to that: the valves at the top of the cylinder were open, allowing its contents to seep out. He could only assume that Freddy had done it by accident, when he had been performing a routine check.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Lisa in a small voice. ‘Why didn’t he tell us that we were running low on food? It’s his job to make sure this didn’t happen.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Berrister briskly. ‘Help is only a hundred kilometres away, and the Chileans will send a boat – or even a helicopter – when we tell them what’s happened. But first, we need to find Freddy and Dan. There’ll be an explanation, I’m sure.’

  ‘If we find them,’ said Lisa fearfully. ‘Perhaps someone shot them, then drove off in the boat I heard,
taking all our supplies with them.’

  ‘Well, I did see a pool of blood,’ began Graham. ‘Perhaps it was—’

  Berrister cut the discussion off abruptly. ‘Stop! Why would anyone steal our food? Let’s not jump to conclusions until we have all the evidence. Now, who knows where Dan went?’ He gestured to the itinerary sheets that he insisted were completed each day before work began. ‘These say he was working down on the point, but I saw him heading in the opposite direction.’

  ‘I think he might have gone over the scarp,’ said Joshi unhappily. ‘He told me last week that there was some outcrop he wanted to survey.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t have put that on the sheets, because you’d have insisted he take someone with him,’ surmised Mortimer. ‘Stupid bugger! Still, if he has gone over there, it explains why he’s late back – it’s a long way.’

  ‘Freddy’s taken to going up the scarp recently,’ said Graham. ‘Maybe he spotted Dan from the top and went to join him on the beach.’

  Berrister didn’t want to waste time speculating. ‘Geoff can stay here in case they come back. The rest of you – you know the drill. Warm clothes, water bottles, the first aid box. Did you get the radios, Joshi?’

  He took one and tested it. The one Sarah held crackled faintly, but there was no sound from any of the others.

  ‘The generator was off,’ explained Joshi. ‘I left the batteries for Freddy to charge last night, but he must’ve forgotten. Or he did switch it on, but someone else turned it off.’

  Now even Berrister was beginning to be alarmed, although he struggled to hide it. ‘Get the generator going, Geoff, and charge up the batteries – we may need them tomorrow if we haven’t found Dan and Freddy by then. Then contact the Chileans.’

  Sarah regarded him uncertainly. ‘So are we still going out now – without food and radios, and with the temperature falling and a storm blowing in?’

  ‘We have to – we can’t leave them out all night. Lisa can stay here with Geoff, so if they do come back, she can run up the scarp and signal to us. I suggest the rest of us go over the ridge, then Joshi and I will head north, while you and Graham go south. OK?’