by J. L. Bourne
“That’s not a bad idea at all,” John said, returning to the whiteboard.
Picking up his black marker, he drew an out-of-scale map of the world, outlining where the different task forces were operating and where the other facilities were roughly located.
“Task Force Phoenix is a no-go. They don’t have HF capability up and working. They’re using a discreet burst SATcom transceiver with a laptop configuration to send the text to that terminal over there.” He pointed his hand at the corner where an operator was monitoring the two-entity mIRC chat room. “Besides, Phoenix can’t transmit during the day and is under strict emission control conditions anyway. They won’t be transmitting unless absolutely necessary. I’m not privy to what is going on in Nevada. Those circuits pipe directly into a KG-84C crypto box sitting in this ship’s signals exploitation space. They only call down here to have us check our patch cables and recycle crypto for their circuits. Those two circuits are out of the running for any relay help. This leaves only one viable option: Outpost Four. I’ve been listening to the shortwave spectrum and our choices are limited. Rarely do we receive any shortwave coming from the mainland, just some troposcatter bounce and old news relays playing in a loop, probably up on solar power.”
The HAM spoke up again. “We can adjust our frequencies for time of year. Use the higher frequencies during the day and the lower frequencies at night. The old sun up, freq up rule. Might have more luck.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” John replied. “Let’s get a solid plan on paper and in a few hours during our next scheduled contact with Outpost Four, we’ll drop the request. Hopefully they have enough manpower left up there to help us out with our relay. One thing to keep in mind is that the outpost is in darkness and will be for some time. I’m not sure how this might affect the frequencies.”
Petty Officer Shure, John’s sharpest enlisted man, raised his hand.
“Yes, what’s on your mind?”
“Well, right now we’re using our KYV-5 crypto boxes to go secure voice with Hourglass. How are we going to relay sensitive data over shortwave to Hourglass and back using the Arctic station as the middleman?”
“We’re going to have to go old school and use paper encryption and onetime pads,” said John.
“No one remembers how to do that, boss. The last real radioman in the navy that could do that probably retired twenty years ago. We’re a bunch of IT computer geeks.”
“We’re going to have to relearn the lost communications knowledge and forget what’s advanced since it’s become obsolete. You all have your marching orders—let’s make it happen.”
The small crowd dispersed, all except those who manned a radio watch station. John pondered for a moment as people began to clear out of the space. Walking back over into tech control where all the circuits were patched, he thought to himself, We issue the crypto to SSES, so how hard could it be? The theory floating around in his mind was not one of complexity. In the span of minutes, he figured out how to access the circuit that was fed directly into the SSES from the still-active facilities in Nevada. He would splice the encrypted circuit and run one splice to SSES and run the other splice through his extra KG-84C encryption device loaded with the same crypto that SSES used—crypto that his office had issued.
He would tell no one, as the penalty for network intrusion at this level would be swift and severe. He rationalized it by telling himself that he wasn’t doing it to satisfy childlike curiosity—he was doing it for Kil.
26
Somewhere Inside the Arctic Circle
“Slow down!” screamed Crusow.
“What’s the fucking problem? We’re a hundred feet in the air above a sharp ice floe. I don’t want to slow down. I want to get off this goddamned rope!” Bret yelled over the wind whipping through the darkness.
“Take it slow, you’re going too fast. You break your leg or arm, the dogs will be pulling you up the side of this face at their speed, not yours.”
The men descended somewhat slower now. The snow curled in horizontal whirlwinds against the ice face. Their spikes dug deep into the ice as they walked backward, traveling deeper. They wore green glow sticks attached to their ankles via the elastic material sewn into their cold-weather pants. They didn’t want to risk using their headlamps just yet as the battery supply at Outpost Four was running low with no chance of replenishment.
Crusow thought about the fire log in his pack and how it was so damn dark that they might actually need it to see. He tried to think about little details like this but the real subject on his mind was the dead below. He counted them in his head. He thought there might be about ten, maybe fifteen of them, most of them overweight—two of them three-hundred pounders. Fat was real energy and if done right, with the right chemical additives, one could convert those stored food calories to combustible liquid fuel. He thought about what they might look like and what they might—
“Watch where you’re swinging!” Bret whined loudly. Crusow accidentally banged into him during his short daymare about the dead. Focus, Crusow, he chanted to himself.
They descended slowly for well over one hundred feet. Neither of them knew for sure if that was the real depth, though; they just knew that the ropes were longer than the gulch was deep—at least that’s what Franky had told them last spring when he rappelled down the face at the other side of the outpost. The other face was higher.
Now Crusow and Bret approached Franky’s final resting place at the bottom of the gulch. Crusow remembered that night. One of the researchers—Charles, Crusow thought his name was—had died of diabetic complications in his sleep and woke up hungry. He tore Franky’s throat out before both were shut down by an ice axe to the head and tossed down into the abyss below.
“How much longer you think it is?” Bret asked.
“It’s over two hundred feet, or somewhere thereabouts, from top to bottom. I’d say we’re now probably close to it.”
Just as Crusow finished talking, his feet hit the beginning of the bottom. The ice face lost its vertical grade and began to incrementally angle out away from the wall. The grade continued to angle farther out until both men walked backward down a steep but manageable hill.
“Found one,” Crusow said.
“Where?”
“You’re standing on its chest.”
“Shit!” Bret exclaimed, jumping to the side, nearly tumbling down the hill.
The outline of what was once a man lay half buried in the ice, its face glowing green by the shine of Bret’s chemlight. It was Franky. The body was twisted and broken from the fall, and the gash in his head from Crusow’s axe could clearly be seen just above the forehead.
“I’m still sorry about that, Franky,” Crusow said loud enough for Bret to hear.
“Sorry for what? That thing wasn’t human when you killed it.”
“You may be right, and you may be wrong, but I’m still sorry.”
They both paused and looked at Franky for a moment before Bret broke the silence.
“How many we bringing up, Crusow?”
“All of them. I’ll start digging Franky out of the ice and you start looking for the others farther down.”
“Roger,” Bret said, fading into the darkness deeper down the angled ice face.
Crusow checked his gloves to make sure the drawstrings were tight. He didn’t want any exposed skin while swinging his axe. Although he tried not to look at Franky’s corpse, he found himself fixated on its gaping mouth filled with red ice. He forced back laughter when he thought of Han Solo frozen in carbonite. Franky’s forearms were protruding in front, perpendicular to its body, as if frozen during struggle. Crusow began to hack carefully at the ice that gripped the corpse. He did so for minutes, missing on occasion, knocking frozen flesh bits into the white powder around his dim sphere of green. Crusow didn’t have a weak stomach, but the thought of butchering Franky made him sick enough to take a short break. He pulled the radio out of his vest pocket where it was tied to a button
hole to keep it secure if dropped. Hanging at an awkward angle, he turned it on with his teeth.
“Mark, we’re down here, man. Bret is at the bottom and I’m about fifteen feet above him cutting Franky out of the ice.”
“Franky? Hardcore, man. How does he—”
“Don’t ask, man. Just don’t.”
“Okay, well, Kung is at the dog paddock and I’m above you at the ledge. The dogs are rigged and we are geared up. I think the most we should lift at once is two or three bodies.”
“Yeah, I think so, too. Looks like we’ll be down here for a couple hours. My temp says fifty-five below. That’s warm for this time of year.” Crusow thought he could hear Mark laughing in response from the ledge above. “In a bit, I’m going to flash my headlamp and you mark the spot on the ledge so you know not to drop them on us. Might hurt from up there.”
“Okay, Crusow, we won’t drop ’em until you say it’s cool.”
“All right, talk soon. Out.”
A double click on the transmitter indicated Mark understood the plan. Crusow called out to Bret.
“Bret, where are you? Find any?”
A faint voice cut through the wind. “Yeah, I found three. Chopping them out. It’s fucked up.”
“I know. Let’s pile them in one spot. Careful to stay away from their mouths or anything sharp,” Crusow yelled out to Bret below.
“No shit, Captain Obvious.”
Prick, Crusow thought.
After a few more minutes, Crusow swung his axe down and dislodged the last piece of ice holding Franky to the steep face. The corpse slid down the hill for two or three seconds before hitting something with a thud.
“Goddamn it, Crusow! That was close.”
“Sorry, where is it?”
“It hit the pile,” Bret replied bitterly.
“Well, that’s good then. How many are piled up now?”
“Four, including that one,” Bret said as if somehow it mattered that he had gathered more corpses than Crusow. “Listen, I’m getting cold. We’re gonna be down here for a bit and we have enough bodies to call down the ropes and rig a few to go up. Why don’t we use that fire log I saw you put in your pack and warm up a bit?”
“I was going to save it until we really needed it, but all right, I’m coming down.”
Crusow descended another fifteen feet before the face leveled out to the point that he didn’t need to be in a harness. Clicking out of the carabiner, he walked over to the glow of Bret’s chemlights.
“I’m switching on my lamp for a sec.”
Crusow flipped the red filter over his light lens and switched on the LED. He could see the half-naked corpses piled on the snow as if the creatures were frozen while playing Twister. Goddamn that’s sick, Crusow thought as he dropped his pack onto the ice.
He placed the fire log on the ice. Crusow moved over to the corpses to scavenge a makeshift fire mat. He didn’t want the log sinking into the ice, putting itself out. One of the corpses in the pile wore a pair of house shoes. He couldn’t recognize the face, probably crushed by the fall. He pried the shoes from the corpse and placed them underneath the log. Crusow started the fire quite easily despite the snow and wind that bore down on them. The bright light from the small fire burned patterns into his sight.
Crusow turned to Bret. “Okay, we dig, pile them here, and take shifts resting, sound good?”
“None of this sounds good,” Bret said as he stood up and began the search for more bodies.
Crusow used the time to stand near the fire and warm his extremities. The temperature out here would kill you in a few hours, even when wearing cold-weather gear. The heat would slowly slink out of you and soon your core temperature would creep below ninety-five degrees into hypothermic levels, causing shakes, confusion, fatigue, and eventually death.
The radio crackled. “Crusow, you guys getting close to being ready for the first run? I think I see a fire down there.”
Crusow pulled the radio from his pocket. “Yeah, Mark. We’re freezing solid down here. Needed the fire. Tie a chem stick to the end of the ropes and throw ’em down. I’ll let Bret know they’re on the way. Give me thirty seconds before you drop.”
“Okay, you got it.”
Putting the radio back in his pocket he called out, “Bret, the ropes are coming. Get back to the fire so you don’t get hit.”
There was no response.
“Bret, you out there?”
Faintly—over the wind—Crusow could hear Bret’s voice.
“I’m okay, drop the rope. Be back to the fire in a minute. Almost got one.”
Crusow looked up in enough time to see the three green chemlights phase into view as they plummeted toward him. They hit the snow near where he’d dug out Franky and slid down the face fifteen feet off to his left.
Keying the radio, Crusow said, “I see them. Going to grab them and pull the slack over to the bodies and tie them up.”
“Okay, man, just pick three light bodies for the trial run. Don’t hook up any heavies, all right?”
“No worries there, mate. Three corpsickles coming up to you in ten minutes.”
Mark was a dog lover, which was why he asked Crusow to make the first trip a light one. He didn’t want the dogs to get hurt pulling the weight.
Crusow swung his axe, slamming it into the ice, climbing up the face to the ropes. He grabbed the bitter ends of the rope and tossed the slack down. Back at the pile, he tied the three bodies using a bowline under their arms, carefully avoiding their mouths even though their brains were destroyed. He could feel the warmth of the fire and was happy he’d thought to bring the fire log. Just as he’d finished securing the bodies, Bret was returning, dragging a corpse through the ice behind him by the tip of his axe.
“Mark, you there?”
“Yeah, I’m up here. Kung is on the sled. You ready?”
“Yeah, three bodies secured to the ropes. Go ahead and pull ’em up.”
“Okay, say good-bye.”
“Very funny, Mark.”
“I try.”
Five seconds later, both Crusow and Bret could hear the ropes take slack and slap against the ice face. The bodies began their journey up the sheer face and slowly out of view. The corpses seemed to move on the ropes as if some great spider had slung massive webs, pulling the bodies up into its spindly legs.
“My turn to warm up. Another fifteen minutes digging those bone sacks and I’d be looking at frostbite.”
Crusow nodded, leaving the safety and security of the small but warm fire. Even with the fire’s radiant energy, the area around it remained frigid. Nonetheless, the fire helped to ward off the creeping death of the Arctic. As Crusow moved away from Bret and the fire, the temperature plummeted quickly, a reminder of where he was. He removed the ice axe from its sheath, gripping it tightly in his gloved hand. He moved into the darkness for a bit, seeing nothing. Crusow peeked over his shoulder back at the fire—only a pinpoint of light now—deciding it best to turn on his headlamp and find more bodies. He was far from the cliff face; the ground transitioned from hard ice to snow. He pondered whether or not he needed to retrieve his snowshoes hanging on his pack, back at the fire. After a few more meters, the snow was much deeper. He was far away from the face and the fire. Time to turn around; I’m too far, he thought.
He turned and started to walk back to the fire and tripped over a leg, falling to the snow. He lay there for a while and lost track of time.
He looked up and caught a glimpse of a break in the clouds above. The vastness of the Milky Way peeked through the overcast sky for a moment, bright and majestic.
The cold eventually jolted Crusow out of his meditative state and he sat up. He realized his headlamp was still on, and panned it over to the body part he’d tripped over. He began the laborious work of removing the corpse from the ice. Crusow hacked and hacked until the half-naked thing was free from the ice. He dug his axe into the creature’s armpit, wrapping the paracord tether around his wrist, and began to
make his way back to the firelight, dragging the miserable block of muscle, fat, and bone behind. The light grew larger as he slogged toward the makeshift corpse camp.
How long was I gone? he thought.
The body was heavy and the thin paracord hurt his wrist even through the thick anti-exposure gear. He was fifty yards out when he saw the green glow of chem sticks. Crusow wasn’t sure if Mark had sent the rope down again, or if the glow belonged to Bret’s stick.
He called out to Bret for help with the heavy corpse.
The wind howled. He can’t hear me.
Crusow would need to drag it a little farther. The body was heavy, probably two hundred and fifty pounds. Forty yards out he could see Bret, still standing near the fire. It looked like he held one of the creatures upright as if inspecting its condition. At twenty-five yards, Crusow called out again. This time Bret responded.
“Bret, this fucker weighs a ton. Drop that thing and help me pull this to the pile.”
Bret slowly turned to face Crusow. The frozen creature that should have fallen to the ice did not—it remained upright. Crusow stepped back, turning up his headlamp to the brightest setting. Bret’s throat and face were torn open, and his Adam’s apple lay flapping to the side. Bret’s eyes—not yet milky from death—locked on Crusow, and his undead body moved forward.
Crusow reacted, yanking off his left glove, grabbing for his Bowie knife. With the Bowie in his left hand, and the ice axe in his right, he went for the thing that was once Bret. The searing cold shocked his exposed hand as it gripped the frozen stag handle of the Bowie. Using his large knife to keep the creature at a distance, he came down with the ice axe like a great thunder god. He dug deep into the creature’s left shoulder, spattering fresh blood to the ice below. The creature, feeling nothing, attempted to grasp Crusow with its right hand but could not gain purchase; it still wore the thick Arctic gloves. Crusow reamed the axe free from the creature’s shoulder and tried again, this time swinging the axe on a haymaker trajectory. The blade penetrated the temple, immediately and forever switching off whatever synapse lights remained in Bret’s brain.