by Bryan Dunn
Boots nodded. “Oh, yeah,” then pulled out a chocolate bar, stripped off the wrapper and held it out to Goodacre. “Want a bite?”
Goodacre’s face turned from alabaster white to mint green. He began to speak, then clamped his hand over his mouth and lunged for another airsick bag.
Boots withdrew the chocolate bar. “No, I guess not.” He flipped back around, “He doesn’t drink.”
“What, water?” Harry said in a mocking voice.
Boots gave him a flat look, not appreciating the gibe, then in an annoyed voice said, “C’mon, Harry…”
Harry motioned towards Boots’s hands. “Boots, try to keep that chocolate off the instruments and punch up a corrected course to the wreck of the Titanic.”
Chapter 3
New York City
Cryolabs Corporation
In the basement of Cryolabs’s Department of Experimental Biology, inside a walk-in freezer, Dr. Amy Tyler, was dissecting an orthopteran insect. Dressed in a heavy arctic parka she was slender and energetic. She had dazzling green eyes that sparkled with intelligence and wore her blond hair pulled back, revealing an elegant jawline.
As she sliced into the thorax, she spoke into an overhead microphone. “Ice observed in all body cavities and most tissues with the exception of the ventral nerve cord. Insect displays excellent freeze tolerance, and – ”
“Amy.”
She put down the scalpel, flipped off the microphone and looked up just as lab tech Rina Washington stepped into the freezer.
“Rina, what is it? I’m right in the middle of a–”
“Dr. Lockwood wants to see you,” Rina said, stopping Amy with a raised hand.
“Right now?”
“I’m afraid so,” Rina answered apologetically.
Amy frowned, “In his office?”
“I’m afraid so, girl.”
Amy blew out a frustrated breath. “Okay, thanks Rina. Tell him I’m just finishing up in the lab and will be there in fifteen minutes.”
Rina nodded, slipped out of the freezer, and let the heavy door swing shut. Amy tidied up the lab bench, stepped out of the freezer, shrugged out of the parka and replaced it on a hook outside the door.
Exactly fifteen minutes later Amy stood outside Lockwood’s office. She reached up, yanked a band out of her hair and shook her head, letting her blond hair fall around her beautiful face. She squared her shoulders and smoothed her navy suit. Then she stepped through the door and announced to the secretary that Dr. Lockwood was expecting her.
The secretary stood, disappeared behind a heavy mahogany door, then returned and motioned for Amy to enter the office. As the door shut behind her, she heard Lockwood’s cultured voice. “Amy, come on in.”
At the sound of Lockwood’s voice, a shiver coursed through her, and she suddenly wished she’d left the parka on.
It was an impressive corner office that was all chrome and black leather. The only concession to color in the entire space was a huge abstract painting largely comprised of two ragged swoops of thick red pigment.
Sitting behind a massive polished aluminum desk fashioned from the rear elevator of a B-25 bomber was the fifty-seven-year-old president of research and development,
Dr. Hayden Lockwood.
Lockwood looked smooth and slick and self-assured – more trial attorney than scientist. He had icy blue eyes that betrayed nothing and usually left the subject of their scrutiny feeling uneasy. All about him was an air of entitlement and self-satisfaction. His silver-blond hair was coiffed to perfection. His shirt was crisp. His Italian suit hung flawlessly off his shoulders. The look was perfect, except for a soft chin that sloped rather than cut into his throat, leaving him just short of handsome.
Amy tried to look relaxed and self-assured as she crossed to the desk, but suddenly felt like a schoolgirl being called into the principal’s office. She had a pretty good idea what this was about.
Amy dropped into a chair that left her craning up at His Majesty.
“I think you know why I called for you, Amy.” Lockwood said flashing a set of perfect teeth, trying to sound disarming, but there was an icy edge to it.
“The research trip?”
Lockwood placed his hands on the edge of the desk, letting his fingers run across rivets and aircraft aluminum with an almost tactile lust. “Yes, of course, the research trip. And I prefer the term expedition.”
She had been right. It was about the upcoming trip to the edge of the Arctic. Everything about the expedition excited her, called to her – except for the fact that it was Lockwood’s party.
Amy looked down at her hands, laced her fingers together, then looked up at Lockwood. “I’m having trouble understanding why me… I mean, why just me? What about Greene and Hill? Shouldn’t they be going too?
Lockwood brought his hands together, leaving them on the edge of the desk. “They’re both fine biologists,” he said trying to sound thoughtful, “but I just don’t see the passion in them that you’ve got for the work.”
“But isn’t a trip like this the ideal way to build enthusiasm?”
“That’s very generous of you, Amy.” Lockwood rose, moved around the desk, and leaned against the edge directly in front of Amy. “It’s a very appealing thing about you. But you see, Cryolabs doesn’t have a bottomless slush fund for financing field work. No, it will just be me and one assistant.”
Amy suddenly realized she was pressing back in her chair, trying to create more personal space. “I just feel funny about it, being singled out.”
Lockwood pushed off the desk and slowly circled behind Amy’s chair. She didn’t like not being able to see him – it was a creepy feeling – and she had to fight her every instinct not to jump up and track his movements.
From directly behind her, he finally spoke. “A trip like this is a career maker, Amy.” Lockwood stepped silently up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.
Amy recoiled, pulling away – and felt her skin trying to crab back from beneath Lockwood’s fingers.
Lockwood removed his hand, returned to his desk, and as he sat gave Amy a playful smile. “Without field research… well, you’ll just be another pretty research assistant. It’s exceptional people doing exceptional things who rise above the pack.”
What she wanted to do was tell the creep to go screw himself, get the hell out of his office and take a hot shower. But what she heard herself say was, “Okay.”
Lockwood looked completely surprised by her sudden decision. “Okay?” he repeated, still confused.
“Yes, okay. I’ll go. I mean, I want to go. It’s a great opportunity.”
“Well, of course I’m very pleased, Amy.” Lockwood’s face was suddenly all smiles. “You’re making a wise decision. And I think I can guarantee that your future with Cryolabs is – ”
“There’s just one question,” she said, cutting him off. Lockwood stared at her, waiting. “Will there be combat pay?”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then Lockwood regained his composure and began to laugh. “You are full of surprises, young lady.”
* * * *
Amy stepped into her office, exhaled, and collapsed into her chair feeling totally wrung out and very conflicted. She’d actually made her decision before entering Lockwood’s office. She just hadn’t wanted to seem too anxious in front of him. And the truth was, she really did believe that Hill and Greene should be going, too.
Amy tapped the touch pad on her laptop and the screen lit up as it came out of stand by. She saw that she had two new e-mails. And seeing them made her think of her father… and then her mother who died when she was a baby. Her father had raised her, loved her, cared for her, protected her – doing his best to fill the gap.
She remembered getting him a computer and showing him how to use it. Progress was slow at first, but it wasn’t long before he’d mastered it and tucked into the digital superhighway with a vengeance. After that, he e-mailed her everyday. At first she’d been amused by it. Th
en she’d found it comforting – and finally had come to rely on it.
Losing him last year had deeply affected her. It had changed her. Life had suddenly become more focused, more purpose-driven. And things like comfort and feeling safe just didn’t seem to matter as much now.
She opened her mail and saw that one of the messages was from Todd Greene. He’d asked her just this morning about the field trip. He knew that if she turned it down, he was next in line. She wondered why she hadn’t told him right then that she’d decided to go. Now she was going to have to tell him using a series of digital 0’s and 1’s.
There was a knock, and her office door cracked open.
“Amy…”
Amy swiveled in her chair, it was Rina. “C’mon on in, Rina.”
Rina had a sheepish look on her face. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No you’re not,” Amy shot back. “You want to know what I told Lockwood.”
Rina and Amy stared at each other, then both broke into big smiles. Rina pointed at Amy. “You did it! You agreed to go, didn’t you?”
“If I said, no, would you believe me?”
“I knew it the moment I saw your face. You know you can’t lie to me, girlfriend.”
“Okay, so now you know, Rina. Just don’t say anything to Todd. I haven’t told him yet.”
Rina looked at her and then shook her head. “All I can tell you, baby, is watch your six o’clock. The man’s got more moves than a Swiss watch.”
“There is nothing going on between us, Rina!”
Rina put her hands on her hips and said, “Uh-huh, he know that, baby doll?”
“Look, the man’s a disgusting pig,” Amy offered, “a brilliant, disgusting pig. I’m going for the science.”
“Yeah, and the first chance he gets he’s gonna want to play doctor.”
Amy rolled her eyes and shook her head. Then they were both suddenly laughing. When she caught her breath, she reached into the top drawer of her desk and held up a small canister. “He makes one move,” Amy pointed the canister at an imaginary Lockwood, “I’m going to pepper spray the horny bastard.”
Chapter 4
The Ice Machine was a 2,100 ton converted ore carrier. She’d been stripped, cleaned, repainted, and refitted with two state-of-the art Caterpillar turbo diesels. Four large stainless steel storage tanks had been squeezed into her hull, and the bridge had been specially modified. But the real genius behind the Ice Machine’s refit was the ninety-foot, auger-vacuuming boom that protruded from her stern.
A tungsten-carbide cutting head at the end of the auger chewed up the iceberg while a pneumatic tube attached to the boom vacuumed up the chunks of ice and sent them streaming back to the stainless steel tanks to be stored as meltwater. The improvised system was no more complicated than coal mining but proved to be every bit as effective. The real challenge was not in removing and storing the ice, but in knowing how much to remove before the iceberg became unstable and rolled over. Even without human interference, icebergs naturally became unstable and often rolled over without notice. Veterans of “Iceberg Alley” knew that birds suddenly lofting into flight over an iceberg could be a warning sign that it was about to roll.
Inside the Ice Machine’s bridge, Captain Roscoe Rains walked over to a Furuno Weatherfax, removed a sheet, and studied the latest weather report. Roscoe’s tanned and deeply lined face told of a lifetime spent fishing the Grand Banks. Two years ago, seizing on the world’s insatiable demand for pure drinking water, he and a “money partner” founded Arctic Iceberg Industries. They and a handful of other adventurous businessmen realized they were sitting on the purest source of water in the world – iceberg meltwater.
One year later, it was clear they’d struck gold. They were already refitting three more ships and had just finished construction of a bottling plant on Newfoundland’s Avalon Peninsula. The possibilities for their five-thousand-year-old product seemed limitless as they watched first brewers, then distillers hit pay dirt with iceberg beer and iceberg vodka.
In fact, the vodka distillers bragged that iceberg vodka was so pure it could be quaffed in unheard-of quantities with virtually no hangover risk – although the Ice Machine’s engineer and first mate would beg to differ.
From a glass-sided booth, welded onto the back of the bridge, Skeeter Anderson worked a joystick that controlled the auger’s movements. LCD panels filled with graphics and lines of telemetry helped him guide the powerful cutting head. Skeeter had the “touch” – the joystick had become a mere extension of his arm – and because of this, he was the highest paid member of the crew.
Skeeter had just finished repositioning the auger and was cutting into a fresh ridge of ice when there was a sudden loud bang. The cutting head had been kicked up out of the ice and was flailing on the surface like a busted chainsaw. Unable to control the boom with the joystick, Skeeter lunged forward, driving his palm into a red kill button, shutting the auger down.
Roscoe’s voice boomed out of the speaker in the control booth. “What happened, Skeeter?”
“I’m not sure, skipper. I think we might’ve lost the cutting head.”
“Okay. Leave it shut down and I’ll send Porter out to take a look.”
Moments later, Skeeter watched Porter, dressed in greasy overalls, work boots and a hard hat, cross the deck and climb up onto the boom. Porter pulled a headset over his ears and adjusted the mouthpiece. “What am I supposed to be looking for, Skeeter?”
Skeeter shook his head. “If I knew that Porter, you dumbass, you wouldn’t be out there freezing your butt off.”
Porter stopped, turned around, and flipped Skeeter the bird. Then pumped his arm up and down for good measure.
Suddenly Roscoe’s voice boomed in Porter’s headset. “Stow that crap, Porter, and move your ass.”
Porter turned around and as he picked his way along the boom mumbled, “Aye, aye, skipper.” He reached the end of the boom, dropped onto the iceberg, and began to examine the cutting head, whistling to himself, then reporting what he’d found. “It’s the cutting head. Cracked bad. I’m amazed it didn’t part from the shaft.”
“Did you hear that, Skipper?” Skeeter asked.
“Yeah, but I wish I hadn’t,” Roscoe answered flatly.
“Do we have another cutting head on board?”
“No. And even if we did, we couldn’t replace it out here. Let’s break it down. You and Porter pull the grapples – we’re heading in.”
Porter fingered a cigarette out of his overalls, lit it, and stood looking at the auger. He’d heard the captain say they were heading in and thought he’d celebrate with a smoke. They’d been chewing on this berg for three days and he was drag-ass tired of it. He’d just taken another hit of his cigarette when the chains on the two grapples began to rattle, then snapped tight.
Porter dropped the cigarette and grabbed onto the boom to steady himself. “Holy shit.” He looked up at the control booth. “You feel that, Skeeter?”
“Hell, yes!” Skeeter yelled in an excited voice. “Let’s get those grapples pulled and get the hell out of here before the bastard rolls.”
The main engines of the Ice Machine rumbled to life and sent black smoke shooting out of the twin stacks.
On Skeeter’s left were another set of controls that worked an articulated cargo crane attached to the ship’s stern. He flipped a switch and the new control panel lit up. Using his left hand, he began to extend the crane and swing it out over the ice. “We’ll pull the starboard grapple first, Porter. I’m lowering the cable now.”
Porter flashed a thumbs-up and moved over to the grapple. Skeeter let the cable spool out until it was dangling directly in front of Porter, who hooked the cable through a hitch, secured it, and backed away. “Clear.”
Skeeter began to retrieve the cable and as it became taught the grapple was torn free of the ice. He swung the crane over the ship where another deckhand was waiting, and as soon as he lowered it the cable was released.
P
orter moved toward the remaining grapple when something caught his eye. Something big. Something big and fast-moving. What the fuck was that? It flashed out of sight behind a ridge of ice before he could really see it. Porter remained frozen in place, hoping that it might move again. But nothing happened.
Ignoring the old adage, curiosity killed the cat, Porter flicked his cigarette onto the ice and began climbing. Halfway up the ridge, Skeeter’s voice yelled in his ears, “Porter, what-the-fuck? Get your ass back to that grapple and quit screwing around!”
Porter got to the top of the ridge and, breathless and coughing, began pointing. “I saw something moving out here.”
“Porter, we don’t have time for this shit.”
But he had already disappeared down the backside.
Skeeter yelled again, “Porter!” Then he swore to himself and began to position the cable over the remaining grapple. He’d just have to sit here and wait for mister fuck-up to get back from his field trip. In fact, the only reason Porter still had a job was he could make the skipper laugh his ass off. Sure, everyone liked Porter – but there were times when all you wanted to do was strangle the bastard.
Suddenly, Porter’s desperate voice boomed in Skeeter’s headset. “Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! No – !”
And then all Skeeter heard were terror-filled screams.
“Porter! Porter, what is it? What’s happening?” Skeeter pressed against the glass, trying to locate him. And then without warning, Porter appeared on the top of the ridge. Blood covered his face and was running down his body, staining the ice at his feet like cherry syrup being poured over the top of a snow cone.
Skeeter heard a wet, gurgling sound. Porter was trying to say something. It sounded like, “Mobtar… Mobtar…” Then Skeeter heard him say, “Monster.”
Porter took a step and as he raised his leg, the lower half of his body fell away while his torso tumbled down the ice streaming garlands of torn flesh and bloody entrails.
Skeeter’s mouth hung open in shock. He sat in stunned silence, not comprehending. Just as he was about to call the skipper…