by Alton Gansky
The driver stepped to her side. “Many of the miners come here. For many, here is better than home.”
The rocky tables, worn booths, and long, scarred bar were filled with men. Dirt clung to their clothing and sweat to their skin. Outside, the air was cold. Punta Arenas’s average temperature was a mere forty-four degrees, much colder when winter arrived. Two hundred inches of precipitation fell every year, mostly snow. Inside, the bodies of patrons and an overworked heater had raised the temperature beyond the level of comfort.
When Tia first entered, the bar was reverberating with Spanish rock music and the cacophonous hum of forty simultaneous conversations. The sight of seven men entering dulled the roar—and Tia’s presence quenched it.
Most of the patrons were male, but a few provocatively dressed women were scattered around the room. Tia was sure their trade had nothing to do with mining, manufacturing, or anything similar.
Tia stood out. Her height and waist-length black hair made her irresistible to the eyes of many men. She had grown used to it. Men had been undressing her with their eyes since high school. It had ceased to bother her. The five men with her and the two drivers moved to the battered bar, and Oscar ordered beer for everyone in his charge.
Tia stood next to Oscar at the bar. “You come here often?” she asked and wondered why anyone would.
“On Sábado,” he said. “Saturday nights. It is the only day I can leave the work at the mine.”
It was Saturday; apparently Oscar did not want to waste his one free night. The bartender, a pudgy man with dark skin, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin, and a shiny bald head, set a chipped glass of beer before Tia. She eyed it then took the mug in hand.
A man sidled up to her and said something in Spanish. Tia set down her beer and turned. “Excuse me?”
“Americano?” the man asked. He tapped the small glass in his right hand on the marred bar top. The bartender pulled a bottle of tequila from beneath the bar and filled the man’s glass. She judged him to be in his early twenties, and he stood as tall as she. Muscles bulged beneath his worn beige shirt. She was certain they were formed by hard work and not membership in a gym. His breath was sour from bad gums and alcohol. Tia decided she didn’t like the man.
“I’m from America,” Tia said. “What of it?”
“Please, amigo,” Oscar said, “this is a private party.”
“Too good for us?” the man asked.
“No—” Oscar began.
“Yes,” Tia interjected and turned her back on the man. She caught sight of her crew, each one smiling but not making eye contact.
“That’s a pretty tattoo,” the interloper said. “It is some kind of dragon, no?”
“Yes. Now go away.”
“I go where I wish to go, pretty Americano.” He raised his voice. “Eh, amigos?” The others in the bar cheered in agreement.
Tia looked at Oscar, whose face had gone white and his eyes doubled in size. She knew what he was thinking, that he had led his employer’s representative into a dangerous situation. “Amigo,” he said, “please let us drink our beer in peace. We don’t want trouble.”
“I don’t want no trouble, either,” the thick-armed man said. He leaned forward and sniffed Tia’s neck. “I want something else.”
“Please,” Oscar said, his voice shaking. “Do not do this. You do not understand.”
“I understand enough.” He reached forward and gently stroked the dragon tattoo on Tia’s hand. “Such a pretty tattoo for such a pretty lady.”
“Do you use that hand?” Tia asked.
“For many things,” he cooed. He sniffed her neck again. Two of her crew pushed away from the bar, but she shook her head. They returned to their previous position, their eyes fixed on the drunk man. “Would you like to see what I can do with this pretty hand?”
Tia’s movement was so swift the man could not have responded if he had been sober. She grabbed the man’s fingers and squeezed like a vise. Before he could release a cry of pain, she slammed his hand to the bar, raised her mug, and then brought it down like a mallet, its edge digging into the man’s flesh. She heard the bones in his hand snap.
Then came the scream of pain. Spanish began to flow from his lips in what Tia assumed were curses, but she didn’t try to translate. Instead, she spun, her arm outstretched, the glass mug still in her hand. It struck the man hard on the cheekbone. The cursing stopped, and he dropped to the floor. He shuddered and shook as blood ran from his nose and the gash on the side of his head.
Another man sprang from a nearby table and charged Tia, but she saw him coming. A quick side step, and her extended foot sent the would-be assailant to the ground. Tia shattered the mug on the back of his head. The man did not move.
Hearing a sound behind her, she spun to see the bartender pull a baseball bat from somewhere beneath the counter. He took one step, then his direction changed. One of her team had seized the barkeep by the front of his shirt and dragged him over the counter. One punch later, he became the third man on the floor.
The men in the bar shot to their feet as if choreographed but stopped before they could take a step, their eyes fixed on Tia’s five-member crew. All five had pulled identical nine-millimeter pistols from beneath their coats. Five guns were pointed at the heads of various patrons. Only the rock-and-roll song could be heard.
Tia looked down at her hand, which still held the handle of the shattered mug. “A waste of beer if you ask me.” She tossed the glass handle and walked to the unconscious bartender. She studied him for a moment then reached into the back pocket of her jeans and removed a thin billfold. She extracted an American hundred-dollar bill and tucked it into the bartender’s shirt. “Perhaps we should call it a night, gentlemen.”
She walked to the door, patrons parting before her like water before the prow of a ship.
The wind had settled some, but it was unwilling to release its grip on the flat expanse of ice. Perry leaned forward over the steering bars of the snowmobile, trying to lower the profile of his body and present less surface for the wind to press against. Perry could feel Griffin mimicking the position behind him. A glance at the other snowmobile showed Jack and Larimore doing the same thing.
The cold was bitter and angry. The moist air left Perry’s lungs and froze against the stubble on his face. Breathing was difficult as the wind slapped around his parka’s hood. His jaw hurt from chattering, and his body protested the odd position, but Perry pushed on. He had no choice.
The realization that one of the remaining eight could be a saboteur gave him a different kind of chill. He corrected himself. Not eight. He could vouch for Jack, Gleason, Dr. Curtis, and, of course, himself. That reduced the number of suspects to four: Larimore, Griffin, Gwen, and Sarah. Not one was a likely candidate. Larimore had lost six of his own men. Griffin might have some hidden motivation, but the scientist didn’t seem the kind to resort to mass murder. Gwen and Sarah seemed even less likely. Perhaps he was showing his male chauvinism. A woman could make a bomb as easily as a man. He strained his memory to recall any news story about a female bomber. While he may have seen one, none came to his mind.
Perhaps it had been a suicide bombing. Such things were no longer rare. The Middle East, Europe, and other countries had their share. And who could forget the airliners crashing into the Trade Towers on September 11 just a handful of years before?
Maybe it had been an accident. After all, they were ill equipped to judge what caused the explosion. Perry certainly wasn’t skilled in evaluating aircraft accidents. Perhaps something on board had exploded because of some unfortunate circumstance. He hoped that was the case. He doubted it was.
The thoughts boiled in Perry’s brain. If one of the remaining eight were a saboteur, then he was facing the most dangerous situation in his life. There were no police to call, no security detail to ease his mind. He and the others would be sleeping with a terrorist. An icicle ran through Perry’s mind. Or terrorists. The deed could just as easily hav
e been done by more than one person.
Perry consulted the GPS monitor mounted on the snowmobile. Fifteen miles to go, a short distance in most circumstances. Today, it seemed half a world away.
Perry wondered what he would find when, Lord willing, they pulled up at the Dome.
Chapter 11
The snowmobile’s motor sputtered to a stop in the equipment bay where Perry had found it the day before. The bay seemed warm, but Perry knew it was just the absence of the chilling wind, a wind he had been facing for too long. He was breathing hard, his joints ached, and his muscles burned.
He waited for Griffin to dismount then swung his own leg over the snowmobile. It felt good to stand, and he would have taken his time stretching, but he had other things on his mind. Without a word, Perry left the bay, rounded the Dome to the entrance, and plunged in.
His skin felt like it had caught fire when the heated air struck him. He knew that by most standards, the room was cool, but the difference from the outdoor temperature made the sixty-degree compartment seem like an oven.
“Gleason,” Perry called out. No reply. Jack, Griffin, and Larimore poured through the door.
“No welcome-home party?” Jack asked.
Perry shrugged then called out again. “Gleason? Sarah?”
“Maybe they’re in the Chamber,” Larimore offered.
“Here comes someone,” Jack said. Perry looked down the narrow hall that led to sleeping cubicles. Gwen was approaching. Even in the dim light of the building, they could see that something was wrong.
Griffin stepped forward. “What’s wrong, Gwen? We tried to raise you on the radio, but—”
Gwen walked past her brother straight to Perry. Her face was drawn and colorless.
“Gwen?” Perry began.
“Um,” she said, “Gleason would like to see you in the back.”
Perry studied her for a moment, recognizing abject fear when he saw it. He removed his gloves and started down the corridor. He heard the others behind him. To either side were the small rooms that served as private berths. In the very back was the restroom—the head, as Larimore called it. The Dome had two bathrooms; the worker dormitory had one large facility. The rooms were small and had been built as modular units that could be easily assembled on-site. Since the rooms were modular, they contained only two toilets separated by a curtain and two small sinks. A simple cabinet held typical bathroom items. Team members took showers in a separate room.
Slipping into the small space, Perry found Gleason and Sarah hunkered down, staring into the cabinet. Gleason was sweating, something Perry hadn’t seen anyone do since arriving in Antarctica. Seeing Perry enter, Sarah stood and stepped aside. Like Gwen, she was pale.
“What’s wrong, Gleason?” Perry asked softly as he approached.
“See for yourself.”
Perry dropped to one knee and peered in. His mind seized at the sight.
“Tell me it’s just a really ugly spider,” Jack said, his humor unconvincing.
“I wish,” Perry said. “It’s a bomb, and its counter seems stuck.” Perry studied the device. It looked like a lump of gray clay with an electronic clock stuck on top. The clock showed four red numbers—00:00.
“Kinda makes you wonder why we’re still here, doesn’t it?” Gleason said. His throat sounded dry. Perry couldn’t blame him.
“Better let me have a look at that,” Larimore said. Gleason moved aside to give the commander some room. He lowered himself to a knee beside Perry. What followed was a series of curses and oaths strong enough to peel paint. He took several deep breaths, calmed himself then said, “C-4 plastic explosive. Enough to destroy the Dome. I’ve used this stuff to clear construction sites in battle conditions.”
“Why hasn’t it gone off?” Perry asked.
“I don’t have an answer.” Larimore shifted to two knees, placed both hands on the floor, and moved closer.
“Is it wise to get that close?” Griffin asked from his place in the doorway.
“If it goes off now, Doc,” Larimore said, “a few inches won’t make a difference. I’ll be scattered over the ice.”
“We’ll be scattered over the ice,” Sarah added.
Perry rose and looked at the others. He was calm, focused, but felt his body shutting down. He recognized it as a defense mechanism. Emotions were useless at this point, something the others must have realized, too, since he could detect no panic, just controlled terror.
“Okay, I think it’s best if everyone goes into the Chamber. That’s as far away as we can get without being outside. Griffin, you lead the group. Make some room behind the remaining wood crates. I don’t know that they will provide much protection, but as far removed from this site as they are, they might help.”
“What are you going to do?” Jack asked. “I’m not leaving you here to baby-sit a bomb.”
“Not to worry,” Perry said. “I have a job for you and Gleason.”
“Oh goodie,” Gleason said. “I was afraid you were going to leave me out.”
Perry addressed Larimore. “Can you disarm this thing?”
He shook his head. “Normally, I’d say yes, but the counter has me spooked. If it were still counting down, I’d just pull the detonator wire from the C-4. No electricity, no boom. But the fact that the counter is at zero makes me think there may be a short somewhere. If I pull the wire, I may bridge that short, then it’s bye-bye, everybody.”
Perry blew a steady stream of air through his lips. “In that case, I want you to go with the others.”
“I’m not deserting my post,” Larimore said. “I’ll take my chances with you.”
“I appreciate that, but the team will need a leader if things . . . don’t go well. I need Jack and Gleason to help me try something.”
“Forget it,” Larimore said. “I’m staying.”
“So much for chain of command,” Jack said.
“You can file a grievance from the Great Beyond if we’re killed,” Larimore quipped. “I can tell when a man has a plan. What are you thinking?”
“It may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever considered,” Perry said, “but here’s what we’re going to do.” He explained his thoughts and was greeted with thick silence. “Anyone have a better idea?” No one did. “Okay then, let’s do this.”
Gwen struggled to keep tears of frustration in check. Everyone around her was as calm as if they had received news no more important than the mail had arrived. She wanted to scream, to run, to give in to the near irresistible panic. She fought the urge. At the moment, her mind was the most important tool she had. Emotion could be released later.
“Let’s go,” Griffin said, taking his responsibility seriously and marching back down the corridor.
Gwen followed on his heels with Sarah on hers. A sense of guilt percolated within her. She felt as if she were running to hide while brave people remained behind.
“Perhaps we can help,” she said to her brother.
He shook his head but didn’t turn around. “Perry’s no pal of mine, but he knows more about this kind of thing than we do. I’ve learned one thing about him: He is resourceful. Besides, it does no one any good if we all get killed.”
“You’re all heart,” Sarah snapped.
“I’m all brain, ma’am, and right now we need more brain than emotion. The best thing we can do is get out of the way.”
Gwen wished she could do more, but she knew Griffin was right. If the bomb killed Perry and the others, and she survived, at least she could tell the story—assuming Antarctica didn’t kill her first.
Perry left Larimore to study the bomb more and helped Gleason, who was using a wrench to remove the bolts that held the exterior panel to the Dome’s geodesic skeleton. They had power tools, but Perry was afraid they would create a vibration that would be transferred to the bomb’s electronics. If Larimore was correct and a loose or broken wire had created a short, then a vibration or any movement might set it off. The explosive had to be moved, but Perry was det
ermined to minimize that as much as possible.
Gleason worked rapidly but with great care. Each movement was the result of directed thought. Perry held the panel as Gleason finished removing the bolt. As he did, Perry heard a noise just beyond the wall. Jack had arrived on schedule.
Slowly, Perry pushed the lightweight composite panel out and felt it tugged away by Jack. The frigid wind that had been their adversary blew through, a weaker version of what they had endured over the last fifteen hours.
The air bit at his face and bare hands. He pulled his gloves from his pockets and quickly slipped them on as Jack set the panel to the side. Behind Jack was the snowmobile he had ridden less than an hour before.
“Good work, Jack,” Perry said. “Gleason is going to help you with the rest.”
“Come, Glees, ol’ boy,” Jack said. “Let’s show Perry how to customize a snowmobile.”
Gleason gave a nervous chuckle and stepped through the new opening. Perry returned to the lavatory and saw Larimore seated cross-legged on the floor. “I assume from the draft that you were successful.”
“The remodeling is underway,” Perry said. “Anything new?”
“No,” Larimore said. “I’ve been playing with ideas, but I’m not thrilled with any of them.”
“Let’s hear them.” Perry stepped around and saw the electronic clock still frozen at zero.
“I was thinking that we could join the others in the Chamber and just wait for the battery to run down. There’s a small battery pack on the back of the package.”
“Dead battery means no explosion,” Perry said. “But you dismissed that idea?”
“Yeah, I did. The clock doesn’t draw that much energy, so the battery could last days, maybe weeks.”
“I have clocks at home that run for months before I have to replace the batteries.”