Powerdown (Richard Mariner Series)

by Peter Tonkin

  Andrew shot her a grateful look. ‘Yes. Exactly. I can lend a couple of square-frame canvas huts for the time we’re here. They’ve got to go to Faraday eventually, but in the meantime, if Captain Ogre could use them, and perhaps a couple of men to look after them.’ The captain’s limpid blue-green eyes rested on him for a moment and she favoured him with a sunny smile deeply at odds with the chilly overcast outside. The deal was done and everyone was happy.

  A stir of movement began at the door and swept across the room. Still basking in the glow of the smile, Andrew was slow to turn. A waft of Chanel alerted Richard and Colin at once and they both turned. Perhaps it was simple coincidence, but they found themselves, like Pitcairn, right at the back of an admiring little crowd. Richard met Robin’s dancing grey eyes over the shoulder of an assiduous Hugo Knowles. ‘Your children need you, dear,’ she breathed to him.

  *

  Down in his cabin, Richard slipped off his blazer and sat where he could divide his attention swiftly and equally between his children. In the event, they both settled into quiet contentment. That was good. It gave him time to think — about the accident to Major Schwartz, the imminent arrival of the inspector and what he was likely to uncover ashore at Armstrong. This should have been the main focus of his concern, but his mind kept drifting to Kalinin and the unusual nature of her financing, crewing and fitting.

  Typically, Robin had sent him down here as a little teasing game. Knowing how he hated to be away from the centre of things, even to be with his beloved offspring, she had actually arranged for Leading Seaman Thompson to come and keep an eye on them. Thompson turned up within five minutes but it was at once obvious that the young sailor was preoccupied. ‘You all right to take over here, Tony?’ asked Richard, easing his blazer back on.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Captain. It’s a bit of a relief, to be quite honest. All that bitching and backbiting. You’d think it was back to the Bounty, a little extra duty and holding the plum duff to smoko.’

  ‘Things a bit tense below decks?’

  ‘Well, first we don’t get up to Faraday as planned. That puts one or two noses out of joint. There’s a few at either end expecting to do a little bit of seasonal trading and bartering, if you catch my drift. Then there’s this inspector bloke. What’s he going to inspect? Not the old Erebus, I hope. There’s a fair bit of this and that aboard here destined for people and places best left undiscussed. I mean, you can see it for yourself, sir, if you think it through. We didn’t only get pink gins aboard in Stanley. There’s a good few commitments given and markets waiting. And, in consequence, a good few debts outstanding not likely to be repaid in the foreseeable.’

  Richard buttoned his blazer deliberately, trying to calculate what might have been smuggled aboard in Port Stanley to go on the black market at Rothera and Faraday. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and pornography sprang to mind. Except that he couldn’t believe that there was much of a black market in either Rothera or Faraday.

  ‘And then there’s the normal traditions of the service out the window. That’s raised a few hackles, I can tell you. Where’s our extra Yuletide tots? Splicing the main brace and such? Extra duty instead. Where’s our Christmas vittles and duff? Shoved off to smoko and the galley hands told to stuff their turkey into the afternoon watch. Captain’d better not want too many favours from the below-deck messes, that’s what I say.’

  Richard straightened his lapels, visualising the reaction to Pitcairn’s order that a couple of Faraday’s big huts be unshipped and a squad of men take them up a deserted glacial valley, erect them and guard them. An order likely to be passed down later today, in fact.

  ‘You’re right, Tony. Thanks for telling me this. You’re better off in here and out of any trouble brewing. You want me to mention what you’ve told me up on the bridge?’

  ‘God! No, Captain. Thank you, Captain, but no. I mean, if it got about I’d even mentioned it to you — you’ve no idea …’

  *

  It was a very thoughtful Richard who re-entered the wardroom a few moments later. He had been away for fifteen minutes. Under Irene Ogre’s impatient drive, things had moved forward yet again. The rest of the day was more or less organised for all of them. After this little get-together, all three commands would be put through the same schedule by their different commanders in their varying ways according to their own traditions. Christmas dinner would be served at 16.00 and cleared by 18.00. If there were any high jinks or other expressions of tradition which could not be avoided, they would be over by 19.30 at which time the commands would once again be left commanderless and all would repair to Jaeger’s Jamesways. Here, Irene and Vivien would arrange something even more exciting than the current diversion and equally to the taste of refined senior officers and their specially invited guests. While this exclusive gathering was under way, another amusement could be arranged for the lower ranks at Armstrong and aboard Erebus while the madcap tourists from Kalinin were let loose up by the black moraine, guarded by the men kindly volunteered by Captain Pitcairn, and sheltered as necessary by the huts he had promised to send over and have erected there.

  Containing the crew of Erebus below decks would be comparatively easy, thought Richard, but keeping T-Shirt Maddrell and his friends safely in one spot ten kilometres up-valley from Armstrong might be rather harder. And yet, like a parent allowing his child to cross the road alone for the first time, he saw that they would just have to hope for the best. Unless they were going to corral and cocoon everybody aboard or ashore until the NASA inspector arrived, then they would simply have to risk it.

  And so it was done. Robin and Kate’s obvious attempts to uphold the social reputation of Erebus in the face of their captain’s preoccupation with Kalinin’s captain had made them the darlings of the wardroom, so they became guests of honour at the full crew’s late Christmas dinner. To Andrew Pitcairn’s hastily smothered surprise, it was to them that the choicest cuts were offered first and to them alone that the ship’s band played the selection of Christmas and nautical melodies accompanying the repast. Neptune, laden with Santa’s sack on one shoulder and a frozen trident on the other, allowed them first rummage and the round of applause when they both opened little packages containing the kind of black and lacy confections that kept getting stolen on the way to the ship’s laundry. ‘More washing,’ said Kate in a faintly despairing voice. The laughter which followed seemed entirely untrammelled by guilt.

  If Robin and Kate were closest to these hearts of oak, next in line were the twins. On best behaviour, most unnaturally saintly, they sat through it all, eating what they were given, talking when they were talked to, saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, often at the right time, and accepting with good grace all the rest of the high jinks. Neptune miraculously arranged matters so that Mary got a hand-carved doll and William a ship in a bottle. Even under this severe provocation they were so cheerfully courteous that Richard became rather worried for their health. He had only ever seen them so unremittingly accommodating when they were sickening for something.

  As he led them back to their cabin after the festivities, trying without much success to explain why the loyal toast was taken sitting down by the senior service, he realised that he had seen neither hide nor hair of Tony Thompson since their talk. ‘We’ll have to take the twins ashore with us if Tony’s been assigned to any duties this evening,’ he said to Robin.

  ‘I’m afraid we will,’ she agreed. ‘Let’s plan on it and get moving. We’re all due over there in half an hour and it looks as though it’ll take at least two flights.’

  ‘Thank goodness the pilot’s so much better.’

  ‘Too right. Signor Armani did not design this particular outfit with chopper piloting in mind. And I did not arrange this coiffure with headphones in mind either, come to that.’

  As things turned out, Richard, Robin and the twins went over first with Colin and Kate. Andrew Pitcairn and Hugo Knowles had to get the promised huts up and over — and the truculent matelots assign
ed to erect and guard them. The sky between Armstrong and the two ships seemed particularly busy that evening. There was also a chill wind from the west again, pushing more brash into the bay under a sky that looked as though it was largely made of slushy grey ice, and the air between the two was thin and treacherous. The frosty wind kept the lower air clear, however, so the chopper ride in gave everyone spectacular views of the bay with its two hilly arms stretching westwards into the ocean. Behind these, the black pebble beach rose swiftly to the plateau where Armstrong base stood, Jamesways, open areas and vehicle areas all in neat order. Beyond the base the wide, black-bottomed valley reached for icy kilometre after icy kilometre up towards the distant mountains. It was just possible to see ten kilometres up the valley, a pattern of lights and helicopters clustered around the moraine where Major Schwartz had frozen to death yesterday, and where the extreme tourists planned to play in the snow today.

  The welcome at the base was warm. As the ladies removed their parkas, repaired hood damage to hair and replaced sensible boots with less sensible shoes, the husbands and the twins were entertained by a character calling himself Old King Pole whose provenance was so obscure — or original — that not even Colin had ever heard of him. This fantastical creature was overpoweringly disguised in a frost beard and an ice crown and was dressed in a cloak of snow. He also dispensed presents and sweets, so the twins at least were very glad to make his acquaintance, and he led them off to a quiet corner to bribe them into acquiescent contentment.

  Colonel Jaeger was expansive. Irene Ogre’s imminent arrival had put him on his mettle and while not in full uniform he was nevertheless sporting all his honours and badgers of rank. Everyone had obviously dined well, and it was equally clear that everyone, with the exception of chopper pilots, watchkeepers and the ever abstemious Richard, had enjoyed a certain amount of drink too.

  ‘Got your command safely tucked down, Gene?’ asked Richard, still worried about the state of morale aboard Erebus.

  ‘Sure. We’ve been saving Die Hard Four, Hell On Ice for this very occasion. You couldn’t prise most of the men away from the video with a crowbar.’

  ‘That’s good. I see Kalinin’s chopper is heading up the valley pretty well laden. What are those things slung under it? Snow bikes?’

  ‘I guess. Skiddoos, I think they’re called.’

  ‘I hope there’s still some snow up there for them to run on,’ growled Colin, joining them. ‘Looks as though there may be more on the way though.’

  ‘Looks that way to me too,’ said Jaeger. ‘I hope Andy Pitcairn gets his huts up PDQ. Not just for their safety, either. I don’t want that guy T-Shirt or any of his friends trying to gatecrash our party.’

  Another chopper whirled past the window, coming in low, and Old King Pole shouted, ‘Kalinin incoming, boss.’

  ‘Thanks, Pat. Now keep a good lookout in case those tourist creeps show up. Good evening, ladies. Excuse me, I have more guests to greet.’

  The four of them stood beside the table which had been used for the inquiry into Major Schwartz’s death. It was now laden with an assortment of traditional American party food.

  ‘I’m not so sure this was such a good idea,’ said Kate quietly.

  ‘We’ll just wait and see,’ soothed Colin, but his eyes, like Richard’s, were soberly clear and busy.

  Abruptly, from a hidden sound system, Bing Crosby began to sing ‘White Christmas’. The Kalinin contingent arrived, without Vivien Agran but with several nervous-looking young officers. All men. Old King Pole had a couple of helpers who began to circulate with trays of light snacks and drinks. Bing started on ‘Sleighbells’. Another helicopter thundered past the window.

  ‘There’s Andrew,’ said Robin. ‘I hope he’s left everything aboard all right.’

  ‘Well,’ said Richard, ‘when push comes to shove, what are they going to do? Mutiny? I think not.’

  ‘Erebus incoming,’ sang out Old King Pole.

  Colonel Jaeger went to the door as Irene Ogre approached the group by the table.

  ‘I have here several officers who wish to make your acquaintance,’ she began.

  Andrew Pitcairn came in through the door with several men whose faces were familiar from the noon reception. But Hugo Knowles was not among them. Richard assumed that the first officer had been despatched up the valley to oversee the erection of the huts. Andrew looked pale and preoccupied, his eyes tired and clouded. Even the sight of Captain Ogre failed to brighten them appreciably. But at least Colonel Jaeger’s wide welcome prompted some surface cheer out of courtesy if nothing else. Richard turned his gaze back to Kalinin’s captain and the beardless youth she was trying to introduce to him.

  By the time Bing Crosby had given way to Nat King Cole, things were going with more of a swing and there was enough good cheer evident to get over ‘The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot’. One of Irene’s young men summoned up enough nerve to ask Jaeger whether there was any music which might promote a little dancing. The colonel was preoccupied, looking out at the glimmering gloom as another chopper thundered down to the landing pad. He nevertheless referred the young man to Old King Pole. A few minutes later Nat King Cole gave way to American Forces Radio and the countdown of the Christmas hit parade according to Variety magazine.

  As it did so, as though on cue, the door of the Jamesway burst open. Old King Pole the doorman dashed out from behind the tinsel hangings over the radio and CD player far too late to stop the influx of strangers. First among these was T-Shirt Maddrell. Immediately behind him was a slim, dark, intense-looking young man of faintly Mexican appearance with dangerous-looking, street-wise eyes. Everyone’s first thought was ‘gatecrashers’.

  Irene Ogre muttered something impenetrably Russian but probably unladylike. ‘Vasily,’ she spat. He moved towards the gatecrashers, herding the young officers in front of him. Richard was suddenly struck by how muscular and fit they all looked. As, indeed, did the helpers in service with Old King Pole as they followed Colonel Jaeger towards the melee at the door, moving just that little more swiftly than the Russians. The air crackled with dangerous confrontation as the two groups of Americans faced each other, at once so dangerously similar and so destructively different. Even Irene’s gang held back in the face of it.

  When Richard, following close on Robin’s heels, suddenly pushed himself into the no-man’s land between them, it was as though he was thrusting himself into the eye of a storm. The gap between the opposing sides was no bigger, it seemed to him, than the overwhelming gap between the jaws of the fissure in the moraine. He had no idea what was actually going on, for no one as yet had spoken. He had no notion of whether anyone proposed to start the fight that crackled in the air. Or whether anyone had come armed in order to do so. If Robin hadn’t been there, he sure as hell would not have been either. But she was, so he was, and that was that.

  ‘Hi, T-Shirt,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s the problem?’ The one question no one had yet thought to ask.

  ‘Up at the moraine,’ he began. ‘I think there’s a big —’

  Two huge strangers pushed through the door, breaking up the tourists’ lines. Richard found himself staring into a chopper pilot’s visor, concealing eyes very nearly level with his own. The figure was wearing an American Forces’ cold-weather uniform with ‘Ice Pirates’ embroidered on it. Beyond the great square shoulder stood a waiflike figure in a huge open parka. Huge eyes seemingly without colour. Long face with round chin and wide mouth. Long boxer’s nose like Varnek’s smashed a little out of line by accident or genes. The wide, colourless eyes brushed over Richard to T-Shirt where they lingered, taking in the hair, designer gear, designer stubble, the dark eyes stripped of their Ray-Bans, and a good deal else, before returning to Richard.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the slight figure clearly to him. ‘Are you Colonel Eugene Jaeger? I am Dr Jolene DaCosta, chief inspector for the Office of Safety and Mission Assurance, NASA. I believe you are expecting me.’

  Chapter
Five

  Jolene DaCosta was used to entering closed societies as the outsider — the fiercely resented outsider, in most cases. She had built around her slight, apparently fragile self a hard shell. It never ceased to amaze her how much she could put up with and get away with simply by forcing herself to do so. She had little sense of being extraordinary, but sometimes wondered vaguely why other folk had so much trouble with indulgences, addictions, diets and the like. She had a strict and set routine on arriving in any situation, designed to establish authority, pecking order, responsibility and her own special position, before she actually began investigating. Like her protective shell and her iron self-control, it was deeply important to her, though she scarcely registered it on a conscious level at all.

  Jolene had been born and raised in Austin, Texas, and was currently assigned to the Johnson Space Centre in Houston. She had travelled widely in the USA, been as far west as Hawaii, but had never travelled further south than Florida. Or further north, come to that, than Niagara, and that had been just once. Disastrously. On the honeymoon of her long-dead marriage. She had received emergency clearances and reams of instructions from the American Antarctic Survey — all faxed, aptly enough, from the Xerox Document University in Leesburg, Virginia — but these hardly constituted in-depth preparation for life on the Big White. She had received details, though no personnel files or photographs, about the people at Armstrong, and she knew that a British Antarctic Survey support vessel and an American/Russian co-owned cruise liner were somehow involved too. She had been sent not because she was the best prepared or most expert investigator with the greatest experience, but simply because she was the one senior investigator who had not sent in a lengthy leave application for the next week. And so, accordingly to the personnel files in the big computer at NASA headquarters, she was still on duty at half past five on Christmas Eve, and available to come South. The US Navy’s Ice Pirates had brought her the last leg of her exhausting journey in a big VXE-6 chopper and had supplied her with cold-weather gear suited to someone twice her size, as well as self-heating field rations and hot coffee, but, again, had done little to brief her about the special conditions here. And once they had delivered her, they saluted Colonel Jaeger — whom they, at least, did recognise — and left her. At least they let her keep the cold-weather gear.