by Tom Clancy
“Pills on the floor, one near the radiator and another under the sink,” said the other attendant quickly. She had a stud in her nose and spoke with a Lowlands accent — Gorrie wasn’t sure which prejudiced his mind worse.
“And how d’you know that, lass?”
“I’m not your lass now, am I?” She’d flushed, though, and Gorrie waited her out. “I went to use the john and I saw it. I didn’t touch a thing. Not a thing,” she said finally.
“How long have you been on the job?” he asked her.
“A few weeks. What is it to you?”
Gorrie went to the bathroom. Though the scene was now obviously contaminated, he used a pencil to flick on the light, peered in a moment, then lowered himself to his knees and looked around. He could see a small capsule below the edge of the towel rack, near the molding and radiator. Another sat below the baseboard casing.
Cold capsules, he thought, but the lads at the lab would be able to tell. Best to leave them to be photographed for position.
If they were cold medicine, most likely they would match the bottle at the bottom of the empty waste bin — Talisniff. Wife used to give him that for the sniffles. There was another bottle of tiny pills that seemed to be for a thyroid condition, along with the usual feminine paraphernalia.
“Wait in the ambulance would you, both of you,” the inspector told the attendants. “Don’t go until I release you — myself, no one else.”
They would end up staying well past dinner, and Gorrie would feel sorry for being so peevish.
SEVEN
ABOVE MCMURDO SOUND, ANTARCTICA (77°88’ S, 166°73’ E) MARCH 12, 2002
Pete Nimec felt a hand touch his shoulder, and came awake at once. In his home, always within quick reach of a weapon, he could succeed at something more than light sleep. Now he straightened up with a start that jostled his sling seat on its rail.
He blinked away scraps of a horrendous dream brought on by fatigue: Gordian dead on a concrete floor, the killer who’d butchered four of Tom Ricci’s men in the Ontario raid standing over him.
In his dream, the killer had again done his bloody work like a precision machine, but the savage pride in his eyes was all too human.
Nimec tried to imagine how Ricci had been affected by Ontario, imagine what private anguish it had left him to wrestle down in the depths of night.
He took a breath to relax and settled into the canvas webbing of his seat. Master Sergeant Barry, a loadmaster with the Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing — and more specifically, its flying component, the 139th Tactical Squadron — stood before him in the cabin of the Hercules ski bird. He was mouthing words Nimec couldn’t hear.
Nimec held up a finger to indicate he needed a second, then popped out the foam earplugs he was given at the Clothing Distribution Center in Christchurch.
The ceaseless noise and vibration of the engines throbbed into his auditory canals.
Barry leaned forward, cranking his voice above the racket. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nimec. Captain Evers is a huge booster of UpLink International, and he’d like to show you the view from the flight deck. This close to touchdown it’s really impressive.”
Nimec was relieved. He’d been ready to learn they’d boomeranged again. Air travel from New Zealand to Antarctica took eight hours by turboprop, slightly under that if you caught a nice tailwind. The previous day a heavy fog over the continent had forced his flight to double back just short of the point of safe return — about sixty degrees south, two thirds of the way there — resulting in seven wasted hours in the sky. The day before that one wasn’t quite as bad; his plane had returned to Cheech only an hour out.
Nimec looked up at the young loadie. The Herc’s cargo hold was a crude, bare space designed for maximum tonnage rather than comfort, windowless except for a few small portholes at the front and rear. He felt as if he’d gotten stuffed into the barrel of a rumbling cement mixer.
“Tell me the deck’s got soundproofing,” he said. “Please.”
“New acoustical panels, sir—”
“Lead the way.”
Nimec rose stiffly in his cold-weather gear. The red wind parka, jump suit, goggles, mittens, bunny boots, and thermal undergarments were his own, as were the extras in his packs. At the terminal prior to departure, loaners had been issued to passengers whose clothing and equipment hadn’t met the emergency survival specs mandated by the CDC under the United States Antarctic Program’s rule book.
The same guidelines had required Nimec to be physically qualified before leaving San Jose. This meant a complete medical checkup, which included bending over an examining table for a latex-gloved finger probe, that truest and most humbling of equalizers. He’d also needed to visit the dentist, who’d replaced a loose filling and informed him he was charmed to have already gotten his wisdom teeth yanked, since no one could be PQ’d with any still rooted in his mouth. Because medical facilities on the continent were thinly spread — and pharmaceutical stores limited — a minor health problem like an impacted molar or gum infection could easily become the sort of crisis that required an evac in perilous weather. It was a dreaded scenario that USAP took great pains to avoid.
As Barry led him to the forward bulkhead, Nimec saw that several of the twenty-five men and women who shared the hold with him were stretched out against the supply pallets jamming the aisle, their duffels and bedrolls tossed loosely atop the wooden planks. The majority were American researchers and support workers traveling to MacTown. There were also some drillers headed for Scott-Edmondson at the Pole, an Italian biological team on their way to Terra Nova Station, and a group of boisterous Russians hitching a partial ride to Vostok, located deep in the continent’s interior at the coldest spot on earth… which seemed curiously appropriate given their national origin. The rest were extreme skiers from Australia who’d somehow arranged for slots aboard the flight and had occupied five consecutive seats to his right at takeoff.
Out to make the first traverse of some polar mountain range, the Aussies annoyed Nimec despite their attempts to hobnob. He had trouble with people who took frivolous risks with life, as if its loss could be recouped like money gambled away at a casino. He understood the competitive impulses that drove them, but had seen too many men and women put themselves in jeopardy — and sometimes die unlauded — for better reasons than seeking thrills and trophies.
Barry ushered him into the cockpit and then ducked out the bulkhead door. Occupied by a pilot, copilot, flight engineer, and navigator, the compartment was lined with analog display consoles that showed the true age of the plane, although they’d been gussied with some racked digital avionics. As promised, its sound insulation dampened the roar of the Allisons, and the field of view offered by the front and side windows was magnificent.
The pilot turned from his instrument panel to glance at Nimec.
“Greetings,” he said. “I’m Captain Rich Evers. Enjoy the scenery, we’ve got ideal approach conditions.”
“Thanks,” Nimec said. “I appreciate the invite.”
The pilot nodded, turned back to his panel.
“Wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to sway anybody about my niece’s job ap with your company… it’d be at that new satellite radio station UpLink just launched,” he said innocently. “Her name’s Patricia Miller, super kid, graduated college with honors. A communications major. Her friends call her Trish.”
Nimec looked at the back of his head.
“Trish.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sure she’ll get a square evaluation.”
Evers nodded again.
Nimec moved to a window as they descended through wisps of scattered, patchy clouds. Soon the ocean came into sight beneath the Herc’s nose, its calm ice-speckled surface resembling a glass tabletop covered with flaked and broken sugar cubes.
“Looks like a dense ice pack down there,” Nimec said. “That how it is the whole way to the coast?”
“Depends,” Evers sai
d. “In summer months the floes tend to cluster around the mainland in a circular belt, then give way to open water. What you’re seeing’s actually a moderate distribution. The big, flat blocks are tabular bergs that have broken away from the ice shelf. They’re very buoyant, lots of air trapped inside them, which is why they reflect so white. An iceberg with darker blotches and an irregular form is usually a hunk of a glacier that’s migrated from inland and rafting mineral sediment.”
Nimec kept studying the ice-clogged water. “How big is ‘big’?”
“An average tab is from fifty to a hundred fifty feet tall, and between two and four hundred feet long. Take a look out to starboard, though, and you can see one I’d estimate goes up over three hundred feet.”
Nimec spotted the iceberg out the window, surprised by its illusory appearance.
“Wow,” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Bear in mind the visible mass of a berg is maybe a third of what’s below the water. That’s by conservative measure. Sometimes the base is nine times as deep as the upper portion is high.”
“Tip of the iceberg.”
“Exactly,” Evers said. “I’ll tell you something… it’s been a little over three years since my Air Guard unit took over Antarctic support ops from the Navy’s Squadron Six. The Ice Pirates. They’d been hauling supplies and personnel to the continent for a half century, got disestablished because of spending cutbacks. About a year later I’m transferred to Cheech from our home base in Schenectady, New York. The twenty-first day of March, 2000. That very day NOAA polar sats pick up the largest iceberg in recorded history calving off the Ross Ice Shelf. A hundred and eighty-three miles long, twenty-three wide. Twice the size of Delaware. And of the previous record holder.”
Nimec released a low whistle. “And you’ve been hoping it was just a coincidence ever since.”
“Rather than figure it was a Western Union express to me from the Man Upstairs?” Evers turned to him again, rolled his eyes heavenward. “Got that right, my friend.”
Nimec smiled, went back to looking out the window. He was still trying to adjust his sense of scale.
Evers noted his expression.
“The sprinkles of white around the bergs are mostly pancake ice mixed in with growlers… slabs the size of cars,” he said. “Proportions are deceptive from this altitude in the best of circumstances, and impossible to judge in poor weather. It’s why fog and overcast concern us as much as flying snow. When the sunlight’s refracted between a low cloud ceiling and snow or ice cover on the ground, everything blends together, and there’s no sight horizon.”
“Zero visibility,” Nimec said. “I’ve gotten stuck driving in blizzards more than once. Feels like there’s a white blanket across the windshield.”
At his station, the navigator shifted toward Nimec. The blue laminate name tag on his breast identified him as Lieutenant Halloran.
“It isn’t quite the same,” he said. “Any flier will tell you there’s no worse pain in the ass than getting stuck in a fog whiteout.”
Nimec looked at him, thinking his tone was a bit too purposefully casual.
“If there’s a heavy snow alert, you know to stay wheels-down until the storm passes,” Halloran said. “But say you’re airborne over the ice and hit a fog bank. Around the pole it can happen just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “The way our eyes and brains are wired, we use shadows to judge the distance of things on a uniformly white field — and in a whiteout you lose shadows. So even if the air’s dry under the clouds and you’re able to see an object, the perspective may be false. No, scratch that… it will be false. With winter around the bend, you have to be especially careful because the sun’s inclination isn’t very high regardless of the time of day.”
“Meaning it won’t cast much shadow.”
“That’s right. Unless you’re keeping a close check on your instruments — and sometimes even then — you can get disoriented, fly upside down without realizing it, smash into the ground while you think you’re still a mile up. Or drop off the edge of a cliff if you’re on foot. Happened to some of Scott’s men. Around the turn of the last century, wasn’t it, Chief?”
Evers nodded. “The Discovery expedition.”
Halloran looked pleased with himself.
“And isn’t just humans that are affected,” he went on. “You know what a skua is?”
Nimec shook his head.
“Think of a seagull, but smarter, wilder, and mean as the devil. Those birds can dive from midair, snatch a tiny piece of food out of your hand without nicking a finger, swoop in on the tits of a nursing elephant seal to drink her milk. But for all their sharp instincts and reflexes, I once saw hundreds of them, a whole flock, splattered over an area of a quarter mile after a whiteout lifted.”
Nimec gazed out the windows in silence. The transition to clear water was as abrupt as Evers had described. For a while he could see nothing but the thick crowd of bergs floating below him in apparently motionless suspension, and then the plane was past the ice belt and over the open sound.
Looking ahead into the near distance, Nimec was struck by a long, solid border of white that rose up against the calm blue-gray sea and then swept back and away to the furthest range of his vision.
He recalled the briefs he’d studied in preparation for his mission, and instantly knew they were nearing the forward edge of the Ross Ice Shelf.
“We enter our final approach pattern in a couple of minutes,” Evers said. “There’ll be an unloading and refueling stop at MacTown. Ought to be fairly short. Then we take off for Cold Corners.”
“I assume it’s back to coach class for me.”
Evers nodded. “Sorry. They do a nice job grooming the ski way at Willy, but it can be bumpy.” He paused. “I’m banking to port in just a second. You might want to take a peek out the right-hand windows before you go aft and buckle up.”
Nimec felt the aircraft tilt gently, and looked.
Below them now, the ice shelf was a continuous sheet of whiteness that gleamed so brightly in the sun it made his eyes smart. A stepped ridge of glaciers sat atop it, extending seaward from the interior like a wide, rough tongue questing for water. At the far end of this glacial wave, two frozen mountain peaks reared thousands of feet above a great hump in the otherwise flat plain of ice. A plume of smoke flowed from the summit of the larger mountain, tailing into the wind.
Evers glanced over his shoulder at Nimec.
“That area where the ice looks like it bulges up is Ross Island. Home to Mount Erebus, his baby brother Mount Terror, and the fifteen hundred Americans at McMurdo Station,” Evers said. “Terror’s the quiet one. As you can tell, Erebus is something of a hothead.”
Nimec kept looking out the window.
“I knew MacTown wasn’t too far from a volcano,” he said. “Didn’t have any idea the volcano was active.”
“You bet it is,” Evers said. “Regular with its tantrums too. Erebus has been in a constant state of eruption for almost three decades now… what amounts to a slow boil. It vents six times a day, sometimes with a rumble you can hear for miles. Sends bullets of molten lava and ash over the rim of the crater. The past couple of years those discharges have gotten more intense, and there’ve been some significant seismic tremors on the island.”
Nimec turned to face him.
“Fire and ice,” Nimec said. “I’ve been around a little, seen some unusual places. None of them were anything like this.”
Evers briefly met his gaze.
“Terra Australis Incognita,” Evers said. “ ‘Unknown to the sons of Adam, having nothing which belongs to our race.’ That’s what the legend says about Antarctica on a map by one of those Benedictine monks who tried to keep the gears of civilization turning in the Dark Ages. His name was Lambert of Saint Olmer.”
Nimec grunted. “You know your local history.”
“I read between flights… helps me cope with the endless holdups,” Evers said. “You know what, th
ough? Old Lambert was right on. This is a different world. Or may as well be. Nobody will really ever belong here. Not a single one of us.”
“Just visitors, huh,” Nimec said.
“Unwanted visitors.” Evers’s face was serious. “Here’s another piece of information to stuff in your hip pocket. You know the satellite photos I mentioned? Look at any aerial views of the continent and you’ll notice it’s shaped like a giant manta ray.” He paused, shrugged. “Call me crazy, but there are days when I’d swear it’s a reminder. Mother Nature’s way of telling us something important about this place.”
Nimec was still looking at him.
“Namely?” Nimec said.
Evers moved his shoulders up and down again.
“Its sting can be fatal to humans,” he said, and got to work landing the plane in silence.
McMurdo Station (77°84’ S, 166°67’ E)
“Willy” was Williams Field, a prepared airstrip on the fast ice eight miles from McMurdo Station proper. As the Herc taxied to a halt, flight directors in hooded red-issue ECW outfits used hand signals to guide it into position.
A fleet of different vehicles hemmed the fringes of the ski way. Immediately alongside it were bulldozers and other equipment for clearing, raking, and compacting the snow pile. An enormous 4X4 shuttle raised on six-foot-high balloon tires — Ivan the Terrabus, said the lettering on its flank — stood ready to cart deplaned passengers to the station’s main receiving center. There were forklifts for off-loading the cargo pallets, fire trucks in case of a landing emergency, scattered vans, tractors, and motor sleds.
Willy’s operational facilities were identical to those of an ordinary small airfield in so many respects, it almost blunted one’s appreciation of the fact that the whole thing had been constructed on a plate of floating sea ice. It had air-traffic control towers and a considerable number of maintenance and supply buildings with corrugated metal sides. But each of these structures rested on skids, and had been towed from the main field six miles closer to the station, a seven-thousand-foot strip that could be used by aircraft with standard wheeled landing gear until sometime in December, the middle of the polar summer, when the ice runways there began to give in and melt to slush.