by L. A. Larkin
His home for the last five months was a structure raised above the ice on sixteen hydraulic legs. Hope Station’s silver metal skin gleamed in the anaemic sun. From where Luke stood, it looked like a cross between a giant silverfish and the Eagle lunar lander. All the living and working quarters were under one roof; the fuel tank, wind turbine, water-recycling plant, fire hut and satellite dish were separate from the main building.
The station was positioned to one side of the mighty Pine Island Glacier and faced the sea – at least, it did in the summer. It was now Antarctica’s autumn, and the fractured sea ice was fast thickening into an impenetrable barrier. In a few weeks, Pine Island Bay would be covered in an unyielding icy crust. It swelled out from the continent so much that, in the depths of winter, Antarctica bloated to double its size.
Luke closed his eyes. All he could hear was the occasional pop and crack as mountain ice surrendered to gravity, moving imperceptibly downhill towards the glacier. The stillness filled him with an energy that made his skin tingle, as if every cell in his body was being recharged. In Antarctica, especially when he was away from the day-to-day clatter and chatter of cramped station life, he felt exhilarated. Here, his thoughts had a pristine clarity.
He inhaled the sparkling sub-zero air and opened his eyes. Leaning on his ski poles, he gazed in admiration at the glacier’s endless white moonscape, which reached deep into the heart of the vast West Antarctic Ice Sheet. In the opposite direction, it met the Amundsen Sea, its giant ice tongue extending out over the water as if it were licking the salty brine.
The last supply ship had left a week ago, not to return until October. Maddie Wildman, the ball-breaking station leader, had waved a confident farewell to the ice-breaker’s crew, the pompoms on her fleece hat swinging as her arms described wide arcs. But Luke had seen her apprehensive glance at Craig, the oldest of the over-winterers, before she beamed a huge smile again. Craig had his arms folded across his knitted-by-my-wife- it’s-ghastly-but-I-love-her jumper. Tubs, the youngest, was all bravado – he had dropped his pants, and received a blast from the ship’s horn in response. But once the ship was nothing more than a smudge in the distance, Tubs had gone unusually quiet.
Over the years, Luke had watched the ship depart with relief. For him, Antarctica was home. But since the birth of his son, Jason, this relief had been tinged with guilt – and, more recently, with apprehension. There was something his six-year-old was keeping from him. As Luke pulled on his headgear and skied downhill, he felt an urgent need to talk to him. But, given the time difference, that would have to wait a few hours.
He deftly wove around rocky outcrops until he was within hailing distance of the station. Craig waved at him from the top of a ladder, where he was working on the roof of the fire hut, which housed emergency fire equipment and survival supplies. He was the station carpenter and fire chief.
As Luke headed towards Craig, three black and white Adelie penguins cut across his path. Beaks first, they slid on their bellies down the gentle incline towards the beach, oblivious to Luke’s presence.
‘Hey, mate,’ Luke called out to Craig. ‘Need some help?’
‘Nah, I’m just about done here. You, on the other hand, might need some yourself.’ Craig jerked his head behind him.
Luke glanced at the station, searching for a clue. Everything looked normal, including the Australian flag which had been snap frozen mid-flap for the last few weeks.
‘Maddie wants to see you.’ Craig climbed down the ladder, nimble for a man in his early fifties, and slapped Luke’s shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he said, with a mischievous smile.
Luke nodded and hurried on. Before he’d even removed his skis, he heard Maddie’s husky voice calling his name. She always sounded as if she had been shouting above nightclub music all night, but nothing could be further from the truth. Expecting a reprimand, his grip on his ski poles tightened a fraction. He peered up at the metal walkway, which ran the length of the raised building.
Maddie leaned over the railing and looked down at him. Her copper-coloured hair spiralled out from under her beanie and over her shoulders. ‘Congratulations, Luke,’ she said. ‘Your paper on dynamic thinning won the Seligman Crystal Award. We’re very proud of you.’ She smiled and carefully stepped down the slick steps.
Luke tore off his balaclava. ‘It did?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Yes, and so it should have. I haven’t told the others yet – wanted to let you know first. We’ll be having a big celebration tonight.’
‘Woo hoo!’ Luke punched the air. He couldn’t wait to tell Jason.
Maddie was five foot eight, muscular and slim. She adopted a no-nonsense stance with arms folded as her green eyes scanned his face. ‘Did you talk to Mac?’
‘Yeah. He said the clutch was working again, but I think I’d better get over there and check it out for myself.’
‘No need. If he said it’s fine, I’m sure it is. Let’s not waste fuel on an unnecessary trip.’
Luke hesitated, wondering if it was worth arguing. They already disagreed over so many issues.
‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ he replied, raising his arms in surrender.
Still, something didn’t feel right.
T MINUS 5 DAYS, 1 HOUR, 50 MINUTES
5 March, 10:10 am (UTC-07)
74° 52' S, 100° 30' W
To Robert Zhao Sheng, Antarctica was a hellhole, made only just bearable by his executive chef and the billions he would earn exploiting it.
He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and pushed away his half-eaten breakfast: porridge liberally sprinkled with brown sugar. His lip curled in disgust at the muddy black coffee. How he longed for oeufs florentine and a double-shot espresso. His chef did his best, but after weeks of frozen, dehydrated and boil-in-a-bag meals, Robert was suffering real hardship. Much like Robert Falcon Scott, whose diary he had been reading on his iPad.
As he leaned back in his chair, he grinned. How his competitors would squirm with jealousy when his story of courage and survival in Antarctica was on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. He glanced at his video camera, still on its tripod at one end of his ten-person, super-insulated Weatherhaven tent. He was recording history in the making. It would be wall-to-wall coverage on all networks.
‘Ha!’ he said, throwing his head back.
In the world of private equity, this was unique. No one else would be able to tell of survival against such odds, of personally leading a pioneering project that would bring the world an invaluable resource – not to mention make him more money than he could ever spend. But spending it wasn’t the point. As they say, he who has the most when he dies, wins.
Robert frowned. The winds roaring down the Hudson Mountains buffeted his tent and intruded on his reverie. He glanced at his new platinum Jean Dunand watch, the only one in the world, which had cost a little shy of eight hundred thousand US dollars. He had four minutes until a call with his father, General Zhao Yun, a fellow investor in his brainchild. Robert turned up the volume of Vivaldi’s ‘L’Inverno’ concerto, from The Four Seasons, to drown out the wind’s annoying moan.
He stared down at the heater at his feet and thought of the times he’d looked down from his luxurious office at the jungle of Hong Kong’s streets. As Senior Managing Director and Chief Investment Officer of the Hood Group, a global private equity firm, Robert’s job was to find opportunity in chaos. Gold in the dross. He liked to target companies in trouble and force them to sell. Not only was it vastly profitable if done well – and Robert did it very well indeed – but it was fun watching them try to squirm out of his embrace. Of course, he did it with style and panache, even if behind the scenes his staff would schmooze, blackmail or intimidate – whatever it took to ensure that the Hood Group maintained its reputation as the private equity firm of the Orient.
Occasionally there were murmurings about the Hood Group going too far, with the politicians or the press – spokespeople for the great unwashed masses – calling them a ‘vultur
e fund’. But Robert was no ordinary predator. He had built the largest corporate art collection in the region, sponsored the symphony orchestra, and his foundation contributed to a portfolio of worthy causes. Patrons like him were needed, even if the ungrateful recipients despised what he did. His philanthropy was a reminder to all of his wealth and power, and – most of all – of his impeccable taste.
Robert smiled to himself. ‘I put the private back into private equity,’ he said aloud, not caring if his men outside heard. He loved to boast that a significant proportion of his company’s capital came from individuals – the new and rapidly growing class of Chinese billionaires.
It was time. Robert silenced the music, wishing he could silence the winds too. He was reminded of a production of King Lear he saw when last in London, in which the old king raged against the winds. Robert brushed the thought from his mind. The king was a fool and should never have given away his kingdom. Robert glanced in a mirror and combed his hair, parted slightly right of centre, Clark Kent-style. He was less well kempt than usual, but thought he looked rugged, like a great Antarctic explorer should.
Robert dialled into the secure teleconference and nodded at his father’s image, which filled the screen. It was after midnight in Beijing, though the General still wore the pine-green uniform of the People’s Liberation Army. He dropped his chin a fraction in acknowledgement of his son. Their traditional heartfelt greeting. Robert’s interactions with his father were like strategic moves in the Chinese board game of Go, each constantly trying to outwit the other.
‘So you ordered your first kill. Congratulations, my son,’ said the General. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘No, Father, I did not. Their deaths were unnecessary. Captain Wei made an error.’ It was hard to look imposing in the skin-tight thermals that stretched over Robert’s puny body but he leaned towards the screen, trying to fill it.
The General raised a greying eyebrow, looking at Robert over the frames of his bifocals, which rested high on the puffy skin of his cheekbones. ‘I doubt it.’
Robert had never seen any warmth in his father’s eyes, let alone any sign of approval. It didn’t matter to the General that in the financial world Robert was famous – or rather infamous – or that his net worth could wipe out the debt of many third-world countries.
‘My men are under strict instructions to keep away from Hope Station people,’ Robert replied. ‘Two of Wei’s soldiers were at the Fitzgerald Fissure. We believe MacNamara and Cox spotted their snowmobiles. They should have taken more care to conceal them.’
‘From what I hear, the Australians were racing their snowmobiles and strayed from their Walgreen Crevasse campsite.’
As usual, Robert kept his partly lame left hand hidden under his right. His grip tightened, his knuckles whitened. ‘Father, I know that Gao Wei was once under your command, but now he reports to me. He can have only one commander.’
‘He works for Hung Security, and I selected him for this job,’ the General growled.
‘And I own Hung Security. So I own Captain Wei.’
The mercenaries with Robert were from a private security and military contractor, one of the Hood Group’s investee companies. A number of them, including Captain Wei, had been in the People’s Liberation Army, and had never forgotten what the General had done for them.
‘Do I have to remind you, son, that you are a civilian commanding some of the most highly skilled soldiers in the world, and you are doing so because of me? If I wish to talk to Wei, I will do so.’
‘This is my project.’ Robert began to grind his teeth.
‘This is war, Robert. We cannot be discovered.’
‘It’s business, Father, and I like to use a little more subtlety.’ His breakfast churned in his stomach.
‘They had to die.’ The General paused. ‘So do the others.’
‘No. We can jam their communications. They won’t be able to tell anyone anything.’
‘The hacker is trustworthy?’
‘Totally. I’ve used him many times. He used to work for our government. Goes by the name of Eye.’
‘Eye?’
‘Yes. An affectation. He can look into anybody’s system, no matter how secure. He’s hacked into the Pentagon several times.’
‘And how long will the jammer last?’
‘Maximum eighteen hours.’
‘Not long enough. You know what you have to do, and I expect you to do it.’ The General ended the call.
Robert stood suddenly and his chair fell backwards. He grabbed a two-way radio and yelled into it: ‘Captain Wei. In my tent, now!’
Wei soon appeared, dressed in a white parka and waterproof trousers. He didn’t salute but stood to attention. His frame was wide and squat, his face, flat and hard. His small eyes appeared like black marbles. ‘Sir?’ Captain Wei said.
‘The two idiots who allowed themselves to be seen by the Australians have caused us a great deal of trouble. Halve their food rations.’
‘Sir, in these sub-zero temperatures, if their rations are halved they won’t have the energy to do their job.’
‘Two days, half rations, and I expect them to do their job. Perfectly. Now leave.’
Robert righted his chair and sat down, ready for his next call. He might be stuck in the middle of nowhere but he still had a portfolio to run. He didn’t need the video-conferencing facility so he used his satellite phone to call the chairman of the largest missile manufacturing company in Asia, an idiot who’d had the audacity to reject Robert’s offer to buy the floundering company. How could anyone fail to make money from missiles?
‘Who is this?’ The voice was sleepy.
Robert introduced himself in Mandarin, the preferred language of the chairman, but he could just as easily converse in Cantonese or English.
‘How dare you call me in the middle of the night!’
‘Listen to me. I’m going to buy your company,’ Robert answered. ‘I’ve got money and time. I am patient. But next time, I’ll be buying it for half what’s on the table today.’ The contempt in his voice was unmistakable.
‘I repeat,’ said the chairman, ‘the company is not for sale.’
‘You’re in trouble. And believe me, I can add to the pressure. Your share price is down thirty per cent in three months – who knows how long your banks will be patient? Time is ticking. You will sell.’
Grinning, Robert ended the call and made a mental note to organise a press leak about a board member’s fondness for expensive call girls. He then cranked up his Vivaldi and returned his attention to Hope Station. The problem for its remaining residents was that their time was running out too.
T MINUS 5 DAYS, 1 HOUR, 34 MINUTES
5 March, 10:26 am (UTC-07)
Hope Station, 75° 10' S, 102° 3' W
In the lab, Luke found that his samples’ chemical composition was remarkably similar to that of volcanic ash from Mount Erebus, Antarctica’s most active volcano. But Erebus was well over a thousand kilometres away. Excited, he decided to return to the crevasse tomorrow with his field assistant, Dave.
On his way to a storage facility, Luke ducked into his room. When he turned, he found Maddie standing in his doorway. ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.
Luke involuntarily clenched his jaw. Maddie lived her life on station with the predictability of a metronome, whereas he was as unpredictable as spindrift, blowing every which way. They seldom saw eye to eye.
‘Sure.’ He gestured towards the chair.
As Maddie entered, her eyes darted to the wall above his bed. Luke saw a pained expression flicker across her face.
There were no photos of people in his room. His only one of his son was in a drawer. On his walls were four crayon drawings, each signed ‘Jase’ in large, wobbly letters. In one, there were two stick people, a little boy and his mum with long yellow hair. They stood next to a square house with a triangular red roof. At the edge of the page, another stick figure sat alone in a large yellow circle, next to an igloo-
shaped house, with blue waves encircling the island. This, Jason had decided, was where Daddy lived, not realising there were no Inuit in Antarctica. The paintings reminded Luke that Jason had been unusually cagey when they’d last spoken.
‘Luke? You okay?’ asked Maddie.
‘Fine,’ he said, focusing back on her.
‘I said, amazing photo.’ She nodded at a photograph of an albatross. ‘I remember that one. Followed the ship for three days.’
Luke raised his eyebrows. ‘Coming from an ornithologist, I’ll take that as a compliment.’
Maddie had several roles, including station leader and microbiologist, but in what little spare time she had she loved to study Antarctica’s birdlife.
‘Ornithology’s just a hobby. Look, sorry if I’ve been a bit abrupt lately. Got a lot on my mind.’
‘You mean the bird flu?’ asked Luke, relaxing. The one thing they did have in common was a love of birds.
‘Yes. I can’t believe it’s reached Antarctica.’ She brushed away a speck of something on her arm, as if trying to brush away her anxiety.
‘What did Charlie say? Have you heard any more from him?’
Maddie cupped her chin in her hands. ‘Well, it’s kind of bizarre,’ she said. ‘I’ve known him years. But since he arrived at Whalers Island, he’s gone all weird.’
‘Maybe he feels he can’t tell you everything. That it would upset you.’
‘I’m already upset, Luke. There are one hundred thousand pairs of Adelie penguins nesting there. Quarantining the whole island is a tough call. I mean, you can’t stop them fishing. They need to eat, and so the flu spreads.’
‘So what was weird about Charlie?’
‘His last email was … stuffy, kind of formal. Then I heard nothing. He’s not replying to any of my emails.’
‘Okay, that’s not like him.’
‘I’d give anything to go over there and help out.’ Whalers Island was in the Amundsen Sea, twenty nautical miles away.