Pandora's Curse

by Du Brul, Jack

  Until the storm struck the helicopter, she had been quietly brooding about this development, determined to find the truth.

  “Get ready!” the pilot yelled from the cockpit.

  Anika stuck the end of the flare out the window, stripping off one glove so she could get a better grip on the lanyard. From her position she couldn’t see outside and this was better. Let the crash come as a surprise, she thought. If she didn’t know it was coming, her body wouldn’t tense involuntarily.

  “Now!”

  She jerked the string and the glowing ball of fire arced into space, its red corona flying away like the spectral trail of a meteor. Ten seconds later the chopper’s skids slammed into the ground. The collision was like a full swing of a sledgehammer against Anika’s spine. Momentum made the craft’s nose pitch forward. Its blades sliced through the granular snow until they hit solid ice and came apart. The engine’s torque continued to spin the unbalanced rotor head with enough power to slam the helicopter over on its side. Anika was thrown into the door, her body pinned by boxes forced loose by the first impact.

  The ragged bits of blade left on the main shaft chewed into the ground. Teflon-coated shrapnel exploded off with each contact with the ice. The smaller tail rotor hit the snow, digging in before it too disintegrated in a deadly swarm of fragments. Most flew away harmlessly, but several cut through the chopper’s thin skin, one slicing by close enough for Anika to feel its passage. She screamed.

  The engine finally died when it became starved for fuel. The sound of the chopper’s frenzied destruction was replaced by the noise of the storm’s full force. It assaulted Anika’s ears like a hurricane, with hail-size chunks of ice rattling against the fuselage. Battered but unhurt, she began to shift bundles of clothes and boxes of food off of her. It seemed that the more she moved, the more the gear shifted and wedged around her. It was like trying to dig in quicksand. The agony radiating from her back wasn’t helping. Then she remembered she hadn’t heard anything from the pilot.

  “Hello!” she called. “Are you okay?”

  She got no response and called again and again, raising her voice until she was shrieking and tears were spilling down her cheeks.

  “Get a grip on yourself, AK,” she said aloud, wiping her eyes. “He’s gone.”

  This time she attacked the pile of equipment with deliberation, thinking through each move before executing it. There was a small amount of light spilling from the cockpit, and she balanced her need for caution with the urgency to get to the radios. When the batteries died, so would her chance of contacting the base camp.

  Twenty minutes later, with cargo balanced precariously around her, Anika was almost free when the cockpit lights faded to nothing. Darkness enveloped her. She had to fight to keep panic at bay and was succeeding when a gust of wind slammed into the chopper, upsetting its center of gravity enough to topple the cargo back on top of her.

  This time she could not stop the tears. They came in salty waves even as she again began to work, her jaw clamped tight to prevent her teeth from chattering. Without power, the radios were worthless. There was no need to move from where she sat, since there was little chance of a rescue. The moment of pessimism passed and left her infuriated with herself. She would not give up. Life was too precious to squander because of personal weakness.

  It took another hour to extricate herself from the helicopter. Anika confirmed that the pilot was indeed dead—killed by the piece of rotor blade that had narrowly missed her—and fired the last flare into the darkness. On her walk around the chopper, she didn’t smell any fuel and assumed the self-sealing fuel bladders had not ruptured. She knew her luck was still holding when she found cans of jellied cooking fuel to keep herself warm.

  Propped up in the hold, Anika Klein tucked her head into her arms and prepared to wait out the storm. She had to remain awake so she could light new cans of fuel when they went out, but the struggle became too much after only half an hour. Even as the first can guttered to a weak blue flame, her eyes closed. She jerked herself upright, cursing her weakness, and lit another one.

  Her exhaustion was deeper than simple fatigue. She fingered the knot on her head again and decided that she had a mild concussion. Hope of rescue was the only thing keeping her going. It would be so easy to just lie back and let the inevitable overcome her.

  “To sleep is to die,” she said aloud, mesmerized by the little tin of fire next to her. “To sleep is to die.”

  She kept repeating the mantra, unaware that each utterance was a bit quieter, her voice more slurred and the pauses longer. She fell asleep with only ten minutes of heat remaining. When that second can burned out, the temperature in the chopper crashed to the ambient temperature of the Greenland ice sheet: minus fifteen degrees Fahrenheit—nearly fifty degrees below freezing.

  Something woke her an hour later. She found frost coating the front of her parka, and her body had stiffened. She didn’t dare open her eyes to look at her hands. She could feel they were frostbitten, as were her ears, the tip of her nose, and her cheeks. She felt more tired than she could possibly imagine and knew that she was dying. She’d survived the crash and the first few critical hours only to succumb to exposure.

  She sniffled once and winced. Her nasal membranes were frozen. Still, she could detect a faint odor, a musky fragrance that was completely out of place with her predicament. It smelled like a man’s aftershave, something subtly masculine and diluted with the scent of the wearer himself. Anika smiled at the smell. It was like a last treat before she died.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, Dr. Klein, your smile makes you look like a pixie.”

  The voice galvanized her. She opened her eyes and saw a grinning man next to her. He had entered through the shattered cockpit. The noise she had heard must have been him crawling into the hold. She was too emotionally wasted to react to his presence. She merely looked at him in the glow from his flashlight, studying the planes of his face and how his gray eyes were shielded by dark brows. Ice glittered in his hair like gems. He was handsome in every sense of the word.

  “Looks like you’ve built quite a nest for yourself in here,” the man said, noting the blankets piled on top of her and the cans of Sterno she’d neglected to keep lit. “If you want to stay, I’ll understand, but I think you’d be more comfortable in the Land Cruiser. The heater’s cranked and the base camp is only about an hour away.”

  “Who are you?” Anika managed to ask.

  “Philip Mercer at your service. Other than that touch of frostbite on your face, are you all right?”

  Anika was thankful that her face was frozen so she could not show her shock. This was the very man she was looking for! Yet she was in no condition to question him. She had no idea who he was or whose side he was on. But if he wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have driven through the storm to rescue her. Meekly she held out a hand. When she tried to say thanks, her lips couldn’t form the word.

  A minute later, Mercer had lifted her from the chopper and led her to where the Toyota was idling nearby. He got her buckled into the passenger seat before swinging around to the driver’s side. By the time he stepped into the rugged, cross-country vehicle, Anika was sound asleep, her head cocooned in the hood of her parka.

  Without the need to replace a tire that had shredded about two miles from where he’d seen Anika fire the second flare, and with the storm all but over, Mercer made it back to the camp much quicker than the drive out. The whole time he was behind the wheel, he couldn’t get the gratified smile off his face. Anika Klein would not join the list of people he felt he had failed.

  The following morning, Mercer roused Ira Lasko at sunup, and the two of them commandeered one of the Sno-Cats to return to the site of the crash. The couple hours of sleep had done nothing to alleviate his exhaustion, so he let the former submariner drive while he dozed in the passenger seat. Ira navigated by driving in Mercer’s tire prints from the night before, which were already being obscured by the constant wind. Because t
he tracked vehicle was much slower than the Land Cruiser, it took them two hours to reach the downed helicopter.

  “We there yet?” Mercer asked, blinking sleep from his eyes when Ira tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I told you to pee before we left, young man,” Ira quipped.

  “I didn’t have to then.”

  The humor vanished from Ira’s voice when they saw the helicopter sitting forlornly on the ice like an overturned insect. “Hard to believe anyone survived that.”

  Mercer just grunted and opened the ’Cat’s door. Other than a few bits of debris, the snow around the crash site was a clean white blanket that hid the violence of what had happened. But when he looked closer, Mercer saw footprints that circled the downed helo and then vanished off to the north. For a split second he thought that the pilot hadn’t been killed in the crash and he had abandoned him out here last night.

  He knew that couldn’t be true. He had seen the chunk of rotor blade sticking through the man’s neck and the frozen blood that coated his flight suit. The pilot had been dead long before he’d found the chopper. Because the footprints were nearly buried by snow he couldn’t tell where they originated or what size feet had made them. It was possible Anika Klein had made them, but that made as much sense as the dead pilot pulling a Lazarus act. She had been near death herself.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Ira asked when he saw what Mercer was studying.

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Mercer admitted. “Did someone beat us out here this morning to check out the crash?”

  “I didn’t see any tracks besides yours, but it’s possible. Maybe they left right after you got back.”

  “But why?” The pilot’s body was still strapped in his seat, his recovery being the principal reason Mercer and Ira had come out.

  “Something on the chopper they didn’t want discovered?” Ira offered.

  Lifting his feet to clear the powdery snow accumulated on the ground, Mercer started following the trail of prints. He was back at the crash site in just a few minutes. “They disappear about fifty yards away, blown clean by the wind.”

  “What about a stowaway?”

  “I was thinking that myself.”

  The helo had a rear door that opened at the back of the cargo hold. It was sealed now, but it was possible someone had exited through it following the crash and closed it afterward to hide their presence.

  “Given her injuries and the noise generated by the storm, Anika might not have heard anything,” Ira said after examining the door. “But we don’t need to worry about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You think someone could still be alive out here after twelve hours?”

  Mercer considered the question. “Given the right gear, yeah, they could, but they’d be in for one hell of a long walk.”

  “You want to go look for him?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Mercer growled. “He wanted to get away so badly he’d abandon an injured woman. I say let the son of a bitch keep going. Let’s load up the pilot’s body and anything else we can stuff in the Sno-Cat and get back to the base.”

  They were ready forty-five minutes later. The pilot had been wrapped in a plastic tarpaulin, and every square inch of the Sno-Cat’s cargo area was filled with boxes of perishable food, Anika’s luggage, and anything else they felt was needed back at the camp. Despite his earlier vehemence, Mercer steered a zigzag search pattern for the first hour of the drive while Ira scanned the monotonous surroundings through a pair of binoculars. They saw no footprints or track marks left by another Sno-Cat. If it had indeed been a stowaway who had walked from the helicopter, he wasn’t headed toward the research station.

  Ira put away the binoculars and reached for the mail bucket, shuffling through the parcels and envelopes looking for anything addressed to him. He sniffed appreciatively at a letter from his wife that still carried traces of perfume she must have sprayed on the paper. “Sorry, nothing for you. Doesn’t appear that anyone loves you.”

  “Did you check for names that didn’t sound quite right?” Mercer asked. “Remember my last letter was sent to Max E. Padd.”

  “Ah, here we go.” Ira held up a large envelope. “It’s from Arlington, Virginia.”

  “That’s me.” Mercer winced when he asked Ira to tell him the name.

  “Juan Tzeks Withasheep.”

  It took Mercer a second to decipher Harry’s lame joke. Want sex with a sheep.

  “You’ve got one warped friend there, Mercer.”

  “Tell me about it. Open it up and let’s see what he sent.”

  “A confirmation for your new Playgirl magazine subscription, a couple receipts from a strip joint in Washington, another envelope forwarded from Munich, and a police citation for a noise-ordinance violation.”

  Mercer wondered what was in the envelope from Germany and was about to ask Ira to open the envelope when he remembered the mysterious e-mail he received before leaving for Iceland. This must be the material the lawyer said he was sending for his unnamed client. He thought it was best if he opened that in private. “When our communications are back up, I think I’ll call the Arlington police to report a squatter has taken over my house. That’ll show the old bastard.”

  “Oh, that’s mean.”

  “If you knew some of the crap he’s pulled over the years, you’d know he’s getting off light,” Mercer replied.

  There was a crowd waiting for them when they got back to base and halted the Sno-Cat near the mess hall. Not everyone was happy to see them. Werner Koenig and Greta Schmidt stood apart from the others, scowling. Leading the group who cheered them on was Marty Bishop and a much recovered Anika Klein.

  “Let’s keep those footprints to ourselves,” Mercer said when he killed the engine.

  “People find out all the secrets we’re sharing, they’re going to get jealous,” Ira said in a singsong voice.

  Mercer threw open his door. “Mail call.”

  Greta Schmidt pushed through the crowd to confront Mercer. “That is the second time you have taken a vehicle without authorization,” she snapped.

  “Which makes it two times I’ve done your job,” he replied with a mocking smile. He noted that again it was Schmidt, not Koenig, who was the most upset by his foray, and he wondered exactly which one was running the expedition.

  “Relax, for Christ’s sake,” Marty boomed. “He saved Dr. Klein’s life last night.”

  “I am aware of that, but there are procedures. Discipline must be maintained. I am going to report you all to the Surveyor’s Society with the recommendation that you be airlifted back to Iceland immediately. This is no place for cowboy heroics.” She stormed off.

  “Your rescue was ill-advised, but appreciated.” Werner shook Mercer’s hand when Greta was out of sight. “I don’t think I will be able to stop her from ordering your evacuation. I’m sorry.” He followed in her wake.

  Marty turned to Mercer. “Don’t sweat it. When we have the radios up again, I’ll square it with my old man.”

  “Thanks, Marty,” Mercer said. “But I doubt it’ll make much difference. With the chopper crash coming so close to Igor’s death, I won’t be surprised if Geo-Research has their entire operation shut down by the Danish government.”

  Neither man had noticed Anika Klein had moved close to them and overheard what Mercer had just said. “Igor Bulgarin is dead?” she cried.

  Mercer turned, stunned that no one had told her and guilty that he’d mentioned it so casually. Even though she was in moon boots, the top of her head was below the level of his chin. Her eyes were wide with shock and he was struck again by how much she looked like a mythical imp. A tough, resilient imp, to be sure.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Klein. I didn’t know you were there,” he stammered. “Yes, Igor died in an accident yesterday morning.”

  She just stared at him for a moment, her gaze wary. “I didn’t know.”

  “It came as a shock to us all,” Marty said, extendi
ng his hand. “I’m Martin Bishop. I head up the Surveyor’s Society contingent here.”

  “Anika Klein,” she replied absently, her mind far away from social niceties.

  Mercer took her hand when she offered it. “I doubt you remember much from last night. I’m Philip Mercer.”

  “I remember,” she answered cautiously. “You came out to get me. Thank you for what you did. That was brave.”

  “It was foolish, but you’re welcome.” He studied her for a second. “Looks like it wasn’t frostbite after all.”

  Anika touched her cheeks and nose where the color had returned to near normal. “If you’d been any later, it would have been.”

  “I’m glad you’re okay.” She didn’t seem like someone meeting her rescuer, Mercer thought. She seemed almost afraid of him.

  “What’s that?” Anika pointed to the manila envelope in Mercer’s hand.

  “Huh?” The odd question threw him. “Oh, it’s just some junk mail from a friend.”

  Unlike the night before, this time Anika couldn’t hide her surprise. She eyed the package for a long moment before dragging her focus back to Mercer’s face. “You probably want to go read it. I’m sorry for delaying you.”

  “No, actually I’d like to talk with you. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Anika stiffened. “Yes, I’m fine.” Then her shoulders sagged just a fraction. “That’s not true. I have a vicious headache, and I keep thinking about the pilot. Tell me more about Igor’s death. How did it happen?”

  “There was a cave-in inside Camp Decade,” Mercer said. “He was struck by falling ice. We don’t think he suffered.”

  Anika immediately grasped the part of the story that had bothered Mercer since the accident. “What was he doing there? He was a meteorite hunter.”