Not that Taylor had anything against rumors, per se. Scuttlebutt was fine, as long as you were the one controlling it, or at least out in front of it. Ignore it and gossip took on a life of its own, no longer yours to use. He’d learned that from a lifetime of pushing and pulling people in directions they didn’t want to go. His knack for manipulation had been honed doing six years of dirty work around the world for TransAnt and, after four months at Shackleton, he didn’t see any reason the same approach shouldn’t work at the South Pole.
He hawked and leaned forward to launch one over the rail—and caught himself just before he spat in his mask. Damn it . His bad humor wasn’t going to go away with a cup of coffee and a sit-down by a heater; he needed to be in motion, he needed action . He stomped down the steps to the ice field, setting his sights on the little group, and double-timed it over. The fuelies were crowding around the truck’s engine, not the tank in the back or the lines on the side, so there was something wrong with the truck and not the equipment on it. He might as well find out what they were doing.
As he got closer, a tingle of satisfaction trickled down to his nuts. One of the fuelies was Dave Boychuck, an ice-head left over from the National Science Foundation days. The two of them had nearly come to blows on a host of issues already, with the foreman obstinately sticking to the way things had always been done and Taylor insisting he follow TransAnt’s protocols, from wearing the company-issued shirt to tagging in and out. It was all petty shit, really. The brass at TransAnt had mandated minimum change during the takeover of Shackleton. But some, like Boychuck, resisted change the whole way, which made Taylor’s job a frequent pain in the ass.
It would be his absolute pleasure to return the favor.
“Aw, hell,” Jeremy swore, his voice muffled by a scarf.
Dave looked up from the engine. “What?”
“Taylor. Heading our way.”
Dave straightened and squinted into the glare bouncing off the ice, shading his eyes with one hand and rubbing his thick beard with the other. There was no way to do good work on an engine wearing a ski mask—you couldn’t see anything in the shadow of the hood—so his goggles were high on his head or dangling under his chin by the strap half the time. All he saw now was an indistinct shape striding toward them from base, but the shape’s cocksure walk told him Jeremy was right.
Dave growled something unintelligible. Normally, he wouldn’t mind locking horns with Shackleton’s new chief of security—Chief of security? Security for what? There was nothing to steal and nowhere to take it —but squeezing three flights out on the last day of summer had pushed his crew and his equipment to the edge. His boys could handle it, but Antarctica wasn’t kind to mechanical devices and half their time had been spent doing field repairs instead of moving fuel. After a hard summer’s work, everything was ready to fall apart, although just as often the culprit was the most obvious: it was too damn cold. Engines of all kinds simply up and quit when it was forty below and colder. Whatever the reason, you couldn’t tell that to a Herc pilot with an ETD of twenty minutes. You just had to get it working.
“Looks like he’s got a burr under his blanket.”
“Like I give a damn.” Dave went back to tinkering under the hood of the truck.
Taylor strode up to them, eyeing each of them until they looked away. “What’s the problem here? That Herc’s got to take off within the hour.”
“Engine’s frozen,” one of the other fuelies said.
“I can see that.” Taylor’s voice was scornful. “What’s the plan?”
“It’s the South freaking Pole, man,” Jeremy said. “We have to wait for the NGH to come from the garage so we can heat ’er up.”
“And when is it going to show?”
“It’ll happen when it happens, Taylor,” Dave said, not bothering to raise his head. “Things freeze. We thaw ’em out. Nothing gets done in between.”
Taylor ducked his head under the hood across from Dave. “I don’t need back talk, Boychuck, I need answers. What am I supposed to tell Hanratty when the fuel isn’t off that plane and the next one is coming in for a landing?”
Dave shrugged. “You want the gas out so bad, put your lips on the hose and suck it out yourself.”
Jeremy guffawed and the other two fuelies turned away to look into the distance, shoulders shaking.
Taylor yelled an obscenity, Dave tossed his wrench down and straightened to his full six foot four, and the pissing contest escalated until the other fuelies moved forward to separate the two before Dave took a swing at the chief of security. Taylor stormed off toward a group of flight techs and pilots in a hail of curses.
“That guy’s a bag of dicks without a handle,” Jeremy said.
“No argument there.” Dave shook himself. “Forget him. The real question is when is that NGH going to get here? Sam left for the garage twenty minutes ago.”
“Busy day today,” one of the others said. “NGH might’ve gotten swiped by someone else.”
“Hail him and find out, will you?” Jeremy pulled out a field radio from an inside breast pocket. They all turned at the squawk coming from the front of the fuel truck.
Dave threw his hands in the air. “For Christ’s sake, Sam didn’t take his radio?”
“We could call in, have him paged.”
“He’d never hear it.” Dave straightened again, fumbling with the ski mask. “Damn it. If you want something done right . . .”
“Cass ain’t in the VMF,” Jeremy said as Dave started heading toward the arches. “Last I saw, she was with Biddi on second deck, cleaning.”
“Got it,” Dave said, changing course. “You all head back to the Herc and see if you can lend a hand. I’ll get the NGH and bring it back. If you run into Taylor again, tell him to jump in a hole.”
Dave marched to the base, aiming for one of the station’s ground-level doors instead of Destination Alpha, Shackleton’s main door—with the Hercules’s arrival, the regular entrances were jammed with knuckleheads and he didn’t have the patience to deal with them. Summer crew leaving, winter crew arriving, guests and visitors and onetime drop-ins from McMurdo . . . they were all knuckleheads. Even now, he could see Deb leading a gaggle of muckety-mucks around, pointing out the architectural wonders of the main building, which, as much as he loved the place, had all the panache of a boxcar. At least it wasn’t his responsibility to fake excitement over airshafts and antennas. He shuddered at the thought of having to lead a tour or deal with the day-to-day administration of the base. When he worked, he needed a job, not a job description.
Dave banged through the door and climbed the stairs, the metal steps ringing like chimes. He nodded to the few workers he recognized and skated past newbies still trying to figure out A wing from B wing and first deck from second. One tall, lanky guy with a sketchy blond goatee stared out a window with watery blue eyes, watching the world go by. His mouth hung open and his wet lips moved silently.
“Careful, friend,” Dave said without breaking stride. “You’ll catch a fly.”
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, feeling bad about not stopping, at least for a second—the kid looked really out to sea, worse than most first-timers—but there just wasn’t time to meet-and-greet every fingie coming through the door. He’d buy him a beer later.
Dave started poking his head into rooms, looking for Cass. Dwight, her old boss, had been okay; he and Dave had seen eye to eye on most things. Cass, on the other hand, was a question mark. He didn’t know much about her, despite the fact she’d spent the summer season at the Pole. Quiet, smart. Seemed competent enough. But if he couldn’t get the NGH out of her garage, that estimation would be readjusted, and quick.
As he passed the greenhouse, he had just enough time to spring out of the way as the door to e-systems banged open. A woman, her face stormy, burst out of the lab and marched down the hall toward the Beer Can. Almost on her heels was a worried-looking man in a white polo shirt and jeans. Oblivious to Dave, the two continued
an argument that had apparently started in the lab.
“Diane, just think about it,” Dave heard the man plead as he struggled to keep up with the woman. “Please. They’ve got you under contract.”
“She fucking froze to death out there, Rick. If you think I’m going to stick around . . .” Their conversation faded away as they moved down the corridor.
Dave watched them disappear, a sour feeling in his stomach. Being at the other end of Shackleton’s work spectrum from Sheryl, he hadn’t known the woman well, but you didn’t have to be chummy with someone at the Pole to feel their death keenly.
In all the years he’d been coming to the Pole for work there’d been only two other deaths, both heart attacks. Even those casualties—unavoidable—had hit that year’s crew hard and cast a pall over the rest of the season. To lose someone to the cold, to allow the continent itself to claim one of their own, especially in this day and age, was a bitter pill to swallow.
He shook his head and continued down the hall. He’d nearly reached the end when he heard a vacuum cleaner kick on in the reading lounge. When he peeked in, though, it was only Biddi running the machine in broad-armed sweeps across the floor. The opening door caught her eye and she turned the machine off, a smile on her face.
“Mr. Boychuck! Whatever can I do for you?”
Dave’s beard bristled outward as he shyly returned her smile. “It’s just Dave, Biddi. Did you happen to see Cass?”
Biddi made a sad face. “And here I thought you’d come to see me.”
“I . . . I’m not really here to see Cass,” Dave said. “I just need her NGH.”
“Goodness. I never heard it called that before.”
“What? No, the NGH is a heater. On wheels. We’ve got a fuel truck stuck out on the field and need to get it warmed up to start it.”
“You need something to get your motor running, you say?” Biddi batted her eyelashes, then laughed at his discomfort. “Oh, relax. I’m just giving you a hard time, love. Cass was yanked away to play tour guide for some high-and-mighties in for the day.”
“She’s a tour guide?”
“You wouldn’t think so with that demure little countenance, would you? She’s trying to break out of her shell, I think. You’d be surprised at what she’s capable of.”
“Well, shoot,” Dave said, nonplussed. “I guess I have to page Sammy, after all.”
Biddi glanced out the window. “What’s the NGH look like, by the way?”
He spread his hands wide. “Little yellow box on two wheels with a smokestack and a big hose on the side. You have to tow it with a Skandie or a tractor.”
She pointed. “Is that what you’re looking for, hon?”
He walked over and squinted. Sure enough, Sammy was chugging across the ice field on a snowcat, the NGH trailing faithfully behind. He sighed. “It’s a wonder I get any work done around here.”
Biddi swatted him on the arm. “You let me know if I can help out any more. And if I can start any more engines.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Anne Klimt put her hands on her hips and assessed the contents of the lab. By Caltech or MIT standards, it was barely adequate. Grad students had assembled better systems in their dorm rooms. And, of course, this facility was dwarfed by Shackleton’s COBRA lab, which was in its own freestanding building. But the difference was that this tiny, second-rate lab, stuffed inside the base with ten others just like it, was her domain and she was its queen.
Well, not entirely. She’d have to share it with Jun Takahashi and two other beakers who’d come in with the latest winter-over drop-off—newbies, so new she hadn’t even learned their names yet. But still, it beat bumping up against fifteen other astrophysicists. Winter, with its perpetual darkness, was the better season for astronomy by far, but it was not always the most sought-after assignment. A bevy of her fellow astro-nerds, hoping to pad their résumés, had flocked to join the summer crew, but virtually none of them had opted to stay for the next nine months. They were already heading stateside to apply for post-docs and lab positions with their shiny new South Pole credentials.
Anne didn’t begrudge them their priorities; she knew how the game was played. But she’d wanted to prove something beyond her capacity for science, and there was no better stage for that than a winter season at Shackleton. Well, being assigned to the next spacewalk, perhaps. But who said that wasn’t in the cards, too? At thirty-eight, she was young, in shape, and attractive enough to become the next face of space exploration. Her academic credentials were pristine, and if they wanted to know how she performed in a stressful environment, a winter-over at Shackleton should lay just about anyone’s fears to rest. Even the most skeptical, chauvinistic review board in existence would be impressed that she’d survived months at the world’s coldest research facility and not ended up as a popsicle—
She put a hand to her mouth. What is wrong with you? Barely a day had passed since the news that Sheryl had died out on the ice and here she was making jokes, even if it was unintentional. Colin had told her that Sheryl had frozen to death, unable to make it back to the station after going for a long run past the skiway. Anne imagined what it must’ve been like as the cold crept into your bones, to feel your life ebb away . . .
She gave a little shriek. Standing in the doorway was a tall man wearing black denim overalls over a waffled long-sleeved undershirt. He had corn silk–blond hair and blue eyes that reminded her of fishbowls. A patchy goatee and mustache decorated his face. Judging by the expression on his face, he was as startled as she was.
“Jesus Christ.” Her voice crackled, the fear turning her angry. She put a hand to her throat, feeling as though her heart had stuck there. “Who the hell are you?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He gestured at the wall behind the door. “Can I take a look at the panel over here?”
“What?”
“I’m the electrician,” he said, enunciating the words in a flat Midwestern accent. “I got to do a first inspection for the winter season.”
“God, you startled me,” she said. Now that her heart rate was returning to normal, she saw he was holding a workbag and had trailed a cart full of tools behind him. It was a wonder she hadn’t heard him coming down the hall. “Go ahead.”
He placed his bag on the floor with a light metallic clatter, then pulled the cart into the room and shoved it against a wall. She watched him for a minute, uncertain if she should leave and let him do his thing, or if she should continue working, or if she should hover and act like she was interested in his work. Then it occurred to her that maybe she should hang around and make sure he didn’t do anything to the actual equipment, the stuff a wire jockey shouldn’t touch.
If he’s doing the first inspection of the season, then he’s a winter-over, just like you , Anne reminded herself. And you don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with one of the people you’re going to be stuck with for most of a year.
Putting on her best smile, she walked toward him, sticking her hand out as she went. “I’m sorry. Let’s start over. I’m Anne. I’m one of the astrophysicists wintering over. And please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel so old.”
The man glanced up from sifting through the items on the cart, then back down. He slowly extended his hand. “Leroy Buskins.”
I wonder if he’s ever shaken hands with a woman outside of a church before . “You’re staying on for the winter, Leroy?”
He nodded. “Just got in.”
“They don’t give you much time to rest, do they?” she asked, putting some sympathy in her voice. “A day to get your wits about you and then you’re on your first shift.”
“Yeah.” His eyes flicked to her hair and she pushed a stray lock behind one ear self-consciously. “You were already here? From the summer, I mean?”
“That’s right. I was one of the lucky few who got to stay on through two seasons. A full year. You can get a lot more work done that way.”
He nodded, then
turned back to his tray with a trace of a smile. “You don’t have to worry about your instruments, ma’am. I know better than to touch anything except the wires behind the panel over there.”
“Thank you, Leroy,” she said, ashamed. She’d taken him for a country bumpkin, something she’d vowed never to do at the Pole. Nobody down here was an idiot, even if they looked like a hayseed and wore overalls. “How about I leave you to your work, then? I’d probably just be in your way.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Leroy pulled out a screwdriver and went to work removing the panel. “I’ll be about half an hour.”
“Then that’s when I’ll come back.” Anne went over to her desk to grab some papers and her coffee mug, then headed for the door, her long hair swinging with each step. It was going to be a busy couple of days and she needed to meet with the other astrophysicists—or at least learn their names—and now was a good time to do it.
Just before she reached the door, she thought she heard Leroy say something and she glanced over with an expectant smile, but his attention was focused on the mess of wires that sprouted from the wall, frowning in concentration and whispering to himself as he worked.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cass hurried down the hall to the A4 wing and along the narrow corridor to her berth, a five-by-ten-foot box that resembled a small dorm room at a state school where the funding had dried up.
A single bed was built into the left-hand wall. Next to it was the only horizontal surface in the room aside from the bed: a tiny nightstand that acted as both desk and bookshelf. Resting on it was a well-thumbed copy of The Worst Journey in the World , a mug with three-day-old coffee in it, a portable alarm clock, a reading light, and a handset phone. A large, single piece of cardboard had been cut to fit into the room’s only window so as to block out the light that spilled through it twenty-four hours a day during the summer. It had been there when she’d arrived back in November and she’d never removed it. Judging by the packing label that said “FEB 2008,” she was just the latest in a long line of people who hadn’t bothered to take it down.
The Winter Over Page 3