Hunt Beyond the Frozen Fire

by Gabriel Hunt

  “Precisely,” Velda said. “I think my father stumbled upon some kind of climatic anomaly. A hidden, subterranean warm spot—perhaps a preserved window into Antarctica’s verdant prehistoric past. Furthermore, in an environment where trees could survive, it might be possible for my father to survive as well, for longer than normal, anyway. Mr. Hunt, I believe that my father could still be alive. I believe that he has discovered something of unprecedented scientific and historical significance, and I want to organize an immediate expedition to trace his path, verify his findings…and hopefully bring him home alive.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “Are you with me, Mr. Hunt?”

  Gabriel had to admit he was intrigued. He emptied his glass and set it down.

  “Let me make some calls,” Gabriel said. “I’ll get back to you in two hours with a definite answer.”

  Velda nodded and tossed back the rest of her drink.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” she said, setting a simple off-white business card on the table alongside her now empty glass. “I look forward to your response.”

  Gabriel couldn’t help watching the graceful sway of her hips and tan, muscular legs as she walked swiftly away.

  “What do you make of that?” Gabriel asked his brother, once she was gone.

  “Lawrence Silver is seventy-five years old,” Michael said. “He’s a tough specimen—survived one of the camps as a child; Buchenwald, I think—but still, seventy-five is no age to be traipsing around the South Pole. Then this…” Michael shook his head. “The poor man was obviously near death and hallucinating at the time he made that transmission. Modern geothermal imaging and satellite photography have mapped every inch of the Antarctic landscape. No ‘warm spot’ could possibly exist and escape detection.” He pressed the Eject key and Velda Silver’s CD slid out of the computer. He tossed it on a stack of rejected grant proposals. “You would have to be as deluded as she obviously is to take on a pointless and dangerous expedition like this.”

  Gabriel nodded, taking his shirt off the back of the chair.

  “That’s what I figured you’d say.” Gabriel slid his arms back into the shirtsleeves. “How would you fly into Antarctica anyway? Christchurch to McMurdo, and then inland from there?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Gabriel,” Michael said. “Surely you’re not considering—”

  Gabriel buttoned his shirt and grabbed his jacket. “Considering it? Of course I’m not considering it,” Gabriel said, and Michael sighed with relief. It was short-lived.

  “I’ve decided,” Gabriel said.

  Chapter 6

  The Christchurch pub where Gabriel had arranged to meet the other members of the expedition was—prophetically?—called the Hot Spot and had a jaunty hellfire theme featuring buxom cartoon devil girls and lurid flames on the black walls. The clientele was about a third Kiwi locals and two-thirds Antarctic researchers and McMurdo support staff, either on the way in or on the way out. The ones on the way in were quiet and thoughtful, savoring their last Guinness on tap while working up the nerve to face the killing cold, darkness and isolation of the coming Antarctic winter. The ones on the way out were scruffy, unkempt and pale as the ice they’d just left behind, except for masks of peeling pink sunburn that outlined the shape of now-absent goggles. They were also, without exception, falling-down drunk.

  When Gabriel entered, he could see the pub’s inhabitants trying to size him up, attempting to fit him into one of the three categories and failing. He was searching through the curious, occasionally hostile faces, looking for his people, when he overheard the tail end of a loud conversation about a Harley chopper the guy talking had had extensively customized by some celebrity mechanic with his own TV show and air-shipped over from the States. The proud owner was going on and on about all the special expensive features of his brand-new toy and Gabriel smiled slightly to himself. If Rue Aparecido was anywhere within earshot, there would be no way she’d be able to keep out of that conversation.

  Sure enough, just as Gabriel spotted the heavily tattooed Kiwi biker who was boasting loudly about his recent acquisition, he heard Rue’s distinct, husky Brazilian accent cut right through the bar noise and chatter.

  “Might as well put a saddle on your ninety-year-old grandma and ride her around,” Rue said. “She’d be faster, handle better and be less likely to die under your ass.”

  The biker turned and Gabriel followed his gaze to where Rue stood alone against the bar. She was in her early twenties, whippet-thin and wiry with closecropped dark hair, sharp black-coffee eyes and two hundred pounds of attitude packed into her hundred-pound body. The youngest child of a family of ten, she was the only daughter, an unapologetic tomboy with engine grease under her fingernails and utter disdain for anything she saw as frivolous or girly, such as makeup or high heels. Rue was a crackerjack mechanic in love with all things vehicular. Anything that flew, floated or submerged, she could pilot. Anything with wheels, she could drive. And if it broke down, she could fix it with nothing but elbow-grease and sweet talk.

  Gabriel grinned in recognition when he saw her. Rue had a heavy sweatshirt tied by the sleeves around her waist. Even in the loose-fitting cargo pants she favored, there was no hiding the one part of her otherwise boyish body that was unabashedly feminine: her round, curvy backside. She’d always been self-conscious about it and habitually tied long-sleeved shirts around her waist to cover it up. Gabriel wasn’t fooled. He’d seen that particular feature up close and personal, without all the layers of tomboy camouflage. It was more than a year ago now, but he still felt a kind of melancholy ache under his sternum when he thought about the time they’d spent together. Today was the first time he’d seen Rue since she’d told him, over a crackling phone line, that long-distance relationships were not something she did, not even for him, and gave him a choice: move in or move on. He’d made the only choice he could, and she’d accepted it and moved on too, with no bad feelings and no looking back. It hadn’t been quite so easy for Gabriel. He’d been of two minds about asking her to join this expedition, but she was the only person he knew who had practical Antarctic experience. She’d done a few summers as a mechanic in the Heavy Shop at McMurdo Station and knew people on the ice who would be able to get them inland with minimal bureaucratic interference. It made all the sense in the world to involve her—but that didn’t make seeing her again any easier.

  “What the hell do you know about it?” the biker asked Rue, fi xing her with his beery, bloodshot gaze.

  “A hell of a lot more than you, apparently,” Rue replied, taking a swig of her Tui Brew 5 and wiping the foam from her upper lip with her knuckles. “I know well enough not to get my bank account cleaned out by a gang of celebrity babacas who think it’s perfectly acceptable to bend and force their goofy custom parts to fit the frame because they were too stupid to factor in the extra eighth of an inch before powder-coating.”

  “Oh yeah,” the biker said, flushing a deep, dangerous crimson. “Let’s see your ride, then.”

  “I’ve got a beat-up 99 Suzuki Hayabusa that I’m working on back home in Sao Paulo,” she said with a shrug. “She’ll do 300 kilometers per hour without breaking a sweat, but she doesn’t have bat wings or neon, or a football helmet welded to the frame, so I guess I have no idea what makes a real bad-ass ride. On the other hand, I could race your Malibu Barbie Dream Chopper on roller skates and still leave you in the dust.”

  “Well why don’t you then?” the biker asked, taking a threatening step toward Rue, big hands clenching. “Right now, if you think you’re so goddamn clever.”

  “I’d love to,” she said with a smirk. “But I can’t stand to see a grown man cry.”

  “Why, if you were a bloke, I’d…”

  “You’d what?” Gabriel asked, stepping swiftly in between Rue and the biker.

  “And who the fuck are you?” the biker asked. “Her bodyguard?”

  “Nah,” replied Millie Ventrose, rising suddenly out of the crowd like the calm eye of a storm.
“That’d be me.”

  Maximillian Ventrose, Jr., Millie to his friends, was the second team member Gabriel had come here to meet. Three hundred pounds of solid muscle with twelve-inch fists and a boxer’s profile under his faded Saints cap, he stood six foot seven barefoot and looked like he could wrestle an alligator one handed without spilling his coffee. But there was a profound, Zen-like calm about him that ran contrary to his thuggish features and massive physique. He’d grown up in Chalmette, Louisiana, just southeast of New Orleans, and his deep, soft voice with its odd, almost Brooklynesque Yat accent possessed a mysterious power to smooth over even the most heated disagreements. Of course, anyone drunk, cranked or foolish enough to resist the calming power of Millie’s warm molasses voice was swiftly made to change his mind about fighting through more direct means. Usually by way of the local emergency room.

  “That your chopper out front?” Millie asked.

  “Yeah,” the biker replied. “You got something to say about it too?”

  “That a Baker right-hand drive six-speed trans you got on there?” Millie asked.

  “Hell, yeah,” the biker replied. “Gives her better balance with the fat tires. ’Course it costs twice as much as the standard left-hand drive, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Really?” Millie asked, nodding thoughtfully and stepping to one side, subtly pulling the biker’s focus away from Rue. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

  Less than a minute later, Millie had the biker right back on track, jawing about his precious motorcycle as if Rue’s interjection had never happened.

  “Gabriel,” Velda called, turning every head in the bar as she walked across the room. Even in her simple tweed skirt and high-necked blouse, it was impossible not to stare. “There you are. I apologize for being late.”

  “It’s all right,” Gabriel replied. “I just got here a minute ago myself.” As she reached his side, Velda put her arms around him and kissed his cheek. It had been a long trip over, and they’d ended it more intimate than they’d begun.

  Gabriel cast a sidelong glance over Velda’s shoulder at Rue, thinking perhaps he’d see some hint of jealousy. Rue gave him a bemused smirk as if she knew exactly what he was fishing for and was having none of it.

  “Rue, this is Velda Silver. Velda—”

  “Rue Aparecido,” Rue said, extending a hand. “Mechanic, pi lot, and if I’m not too far off the mark, your predecessor in the Hunt Foundation’s mile-high club.”

  Velda stared at Rue’s hand and only reached out to grasp it after an uncomfortable second or two. She said, icily, “You and Gabriel…?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Rue said, either oblivious to the other woman’s tone or deliberately ignoring it. “Like rabbits. For a couple of months. But this was a while ago. Good times, right?” She threw a light jab at Gabriel’s shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” Gabriel said. He stepped away to pull Millie out of his conversation with his new biker buddy. One rib-cracking bear hug later, Gabriel led the big man back to meet Velda. As they came up behind her, Gabriel heard Velda asking Rue, in a voice that hadn’t thawed at all, “So, tell me, has he slept with everyone on the team?”

  “Not Millie,” Rue said, grinning naughtily.

  “Oh? And how did she manage to resist his charms?” Velda said.

  Rue shrugged, her expression all innocence.

  “Velda,” Gabriel said, and she turned to face him, only the faintest of blushes darkening her cheeks at having been overheard. “I’d like to introduce you to Millie Ventrose.” And as Velda stared, puzzled, at the giant and not at all feminine torso before her: “It’s short for Maximillian.”

  “My father’s brother’s called Max,” Millie said, “for Maxwell. So Millie’s what they called me. It kinda stuck.”

  “I see,” Velda said. She glanced back over her shoulder at Rue, who grinned away the daggers being sent in her direction. “It is a pleasure to meet you…Millie.”

  “Maybe we should get down to business,” Gabriel said.

  “Yes,” Velda said. “Let’s.”

  Gabriel found them an empty table and scavenged an extra chair from the next table over. He’d already briefed Rue and Millie by phone on the general details of the expedition, but Velda took the next fifteen minutes to fill in all the blanks. When she spoke about the possibilities of what her father might have discovered, her frigid tone finally vanished and her eyes filled with a bright childlike hope and excitement.

  “I have made the arrangements for us to fly out to McMurdo in three hours,” Velda said. “All the severeweather clothing and equipment we will need for the expedition will be coming with us on the plane. For now, I suggest that we return to our respective hotels to change and make any other final arrangements, and then meet at the airfield at seven thirty. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Gabriel said. “On one condition.” He looked from Velda to Rue and back again. “The two of you aren’t going to have a problem getting along, are you? I’m serious. When we’re out there on the ice, there can’t be any distractions, any fights, any squabbling, any anything. Understood?”

  “You know you can count on me,” Rue said.

  “I do know that,” Gabriel said. “Velda…?”

  “Let’s not forget,” she said, “it’s my father’s life we’re talking about. I don’t think any of you could possibly be more serious than I am.”

  “All right then,” Gabriel said, slapping Millie’s broad shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 7

  Gabriel looked out the military plane’s tiny round window as the twinkling lights of Christchurch receded beneath scattered cloud cover. Millie slept with his massive arms crossed and his Saints cap pulled down over his eyes. Velda looked calm and gorgeous, dressed as if ready to shoot a Ralph Lauren ad in Aspen. Only her hands betrayed the anxiety she felt, clenching and unclenching and periodically smoothing her pristine and wrinkle-free trousers. Rue sat directly across from Gabriel, chewing a piece of gum and cleaning the engine oil from under her fingernails with a plastic swizzle stick bearing the logo of the airport bar.

  “Ever been to Mactown before?” Rue asked.

  “Where?” Gabriel looked away from the window, which now afforded a dull flat view of dark water stretching out forever in every direction.

  “McMurdo Station,” Rue said. “You know, the place we’re going.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “I’ve been to the North Pole, but never to Antarctica.”

  “Well, imagine that,” Rue teased, her dark eyes bright. “This poor little paulista has been somewhere that the brave adventurer Gabriel Hunt has yet to conquer.” She kicked Gabriel’s boot with her toe.

  “I’m sure it’s an amazing place,” Gabriel said, looking back out into the darkness. “So much grim, bloody history. The stark, pristine beauty of untouched glaciers. The struggle to triumph over the brutal elements in the last real uncharted wilderness left on earth.”

  “Right,” Rue said with an arched eyebrow. “Better get some sleep. You’re going to have more stark, pristine beauty than you know what to do with—twenty-four hours a day of it. Remember, the sun never sets during the Antarctic summer, so…”

  “So this will be our last dark night,” Gabriel said.

  “Pretty much,” Rue said.

  He flicked off the overhead light, closed his eyes and slept.

  “So,” Rue said. “What do you say? Is this pristine beauty or what?”

  The four of them sat on orange plastic chairs that would not have looked out of place at New York City’s DMV waiting room in 1972. At the far end of the room was a scarred metal desk with nothing on it. The walls were cheap wood paneling and the only decoration was a pair of faded posters, one featuring cute penguins and the other cute seals. Besides a couple of seagulls, this was the only wildlife they’d seen in the eighteen hours since they’d landed at McMurdo airport.

  “Christ,” Millie said, shifting his long legs awkwardly in front of his tiny seat. “I feel
like I’m in trouble with the sisters back in grade school.”

  Outside the charmless metal building, the temperature hovered at 22 degrees below zero, but inside it was uncomfortably stuffy and overheated. The accumulated snow in their boot treads had rapidly melted into dirty puddles around their feet. In spite of the gurgling, spitting humidifier in one corner of the room, the air was so dry Gabriel could almost feel his lips chapping as they waited. Several attempts to contact Michael on the expensive satellite phone he’d insisted Gabriel bring had resulted in frustrating fifteen-second bursts of asking each other “Can you hear me?” followed by the inevitable loss of signal.

  Before Gabriel could come up with a good answer to Rue’s question, a new bureaucrat entered the room. This one was female, but otherwise virtually identical to the two that had spoken to them before. Her sour, constipated expression did not bode well for the expedition.

  “I’m Celia Lanke. Executive DP here at McMurdo. Mr…” She looked down at a plastic clipboard and then back up at Gabriel, her gaze baleful. “Hunt. You claim that you’ve already filed your 679-A, but I’m afraid Denver has not been able to confirm that any such filing actually occurred. Because of the urgency of your stated mission, I have requested and received the go-ahead to allow you to refile, but there will be a refiling fee of thirty-five dollars.”

  “That’s fine,” Gabriel said.

  “Let me finish. Expedited processing can still take up to ten business days and there will be an additional priority processing fee of two hundred dollars. You will also be charged an assessment of fifty dollars per person for room and board while you wait; however, with Offload only two weeks away, we are currently at full boarding capacity. It will be up to you to organize your own sleeping accommodations as best you can.” She clicked a ballpoint pen and handed the clipboard to Gabriel. “The NSF cannot be expected to babysit private parties, nor can we allow any interference with the scientific research being conducted in our facilities. Any violation of the visitor code of conduct listed on page 27C will result in immediate expulsion of your entire party on the next plane to Christchurch, at your own expense.”