by Andy Lucas
One final heave was all he could manage but it had been enough to pull him out of water, depositing him on the ice. The blizzard that had started just before his unintentional swim underground had worsened significantly, and snow now hammered down at a steep angle from iron clouds, swirling in eddies, energised by an increasingly buffeting gale.
The water might have stayed out of his survival suit but the cooling sweat from his exertions had soaked his body, which was just as dangerous. Pace had managed to hang on to his bag of supplies but, without shelter, he knew he wouldn’t last long on the ice.
He needed to get up and carry on the march that he’d started before. Hammond, after all had headed up the coast in the other direction. One of them needed to find some help, especially now that Fiona Chambers and her band of merry men were hunting for them.
The storm might have been lethal but it also offered him some small glimmer of hope. He could hardly see a foot in front of his face so nobody else would be able to track him. As long as he hugged the waterline, he might still be able to walk far enough away from the base before the weather improved, vastly improving his chances of not being discovered at all.
Although his feet protested, as did all his muscles, Pace forced himself to stand up and began a painfully slow trudge to freedom, this time backtracking and walking over the ice roof of the inlet rather than risking trying to swim across it again. He quickly found the water’s edge and moved out. One foot followed the other, mindlessly.
Despite tucking his chin in tightly, his face froze quickly but there was nothing he could do but push on. He had no idea that Hammond had chosen the right direction, or that he was now walking away from any chance of rescue. Oblivious to everything but the need to put distance between himself and his pursuers, Pace battled the storm with every ounce of determination he could muster.
In the end, even bloody-mindedness could not keep his feet going forever. Energy reserves tapped out, his knees failed and he dropped to the snow-covered ice, chest heaving from overwork.
He didn’t have a choice any longer. If he wanted to live, he needed to find shelter from the storm. That meant leaving the water and, potentially, risking becoming lost in a vast expanse of white.
‘No choice, mate.’ He shivered to himself. Turning his back on the water, he started walking inland, trying to keep as straight a line as possible, which soon proved to be a nightmare. As he’d suspected, after a couple of minutes he was wading through deep, drifting snow that came up to his thighs.
Dropping to the snow, Pace began to dig down with his hands, scooping out snow like a madman. Burrowing down, he soon had a sizeable hole, with his head and chest inside as he carried on digging. Like a machine, his arms worked as if they belonged to someone else.
Soon he had a hole that was two feet deep, which he dropped down into and carried on scooping. As he got deeper, the snow became more compacted and was harder to claw out with his gloved hands but eventually, just as he was about to collapse, he reached the three foot depth he needed.
Allowing himself a few minutes to rest, he then started digging again, this time horizontally into the snow at his feet, fashioning a narrow passageway three feet below the surface. Half an hour passed before his whole body could slide inside the passageway, at which point he gave it everything he had left in a final, life or death push.
At the far end of the passageway, he started to dig out a small chamber. Large enough for him to curl up in, pushing all of the extra snow out through the tunnel, and off to the sides, at the bottom of his vertical shaft.
As snow caves went, it was pretty pitiful but another twenty minutes saw it finished. With a chamber about three feet in diameter, and two feet high, there was just enough snow above to form a solid roof. Emptying some of the food tins inside the cave, he folded up the bag and used it as a door at the far end of the entrance passage, jamming it in and packing most of the gaps with snow to keep out the searching wind, leaving just a couple of smaller ones for ventilation.
The Mauser 98 rifle that he had doggedly carried over his shoulder, along with the bag, was then propped against the bag from the inside to strengthen the barrier against the wind.
As soon as the bag sealed the entrance, darkness flooded the tiny chamber, as he slid back into it from the entrance passage. Calmly, Pace found the emergency light from his suit again and switched it on, bathing the tiny space with a brilliant light as the beam reflected off the white snow walls.
It was also eerily quiet in the chamber. He could barely hear the wind howling outside and he suddenly lost all control over his limbs as dangerous exhaustion slammed home, paralysing him three feet below the windswept surface of the snow.
Minutes ticked by, with only the fog of his breathing filling the chamber, which also served to begin warming the air. As the air temperature rose, his frozen face began to thaw, burning him back into full consciousness. Struggling up into a sitting position, he quickly rubbed at the rough walls, using the heat to create a smooth, partially melted shell that he knew would better insulate the chamber.
Within five minutes, it was too warm inside the chamber to stay in his survival suit but it took another wrestling match before he finally shrugged it off, laying it on the floor to act as a waterproof carpet.
As his mental clarity returned, Pace opened a can of frozen evaporated milk, which he sucked on slowly, allowing the deliciously creamy block to turn to liquid in his mouth. The spiritual effect was as dramatic as the physical enjoyment. He felt a surge of confidence course through his body and he was amazed that a quick check revealed no injuries, save for his burned forehead, nose and cheeks.
After finishing the milk, Pace settled down on his back, stretching his legs out into the entrance passage. As soon as he began to relax, the weariness returned in a wave.
He closed his eyes and wondered how long he would take before he fell asleep. His body needed to recover so he clicked off the light and plunged his world back into darkness. An image of Sarah wafted into his consciousness, smiling and laughing, reaching out a hand towards him but he was too tired to carry on dreaming. Instead, he fell into a deep sleep, safe for a short while at least from the deadly storm raging above his head and from the guns hunting him.
When he awoke, many hours later, he felt almost normal. His energy levels were back up and his face had stopped burning. Flicking the light back on, Pace tucked into another can of milk. In the warmth of the chamber, it had partially defrosted so it was similar to eating a milky slush.
He knew he had to keep moving. He could not hear any hint of wind as he unpropped the Mauser and pulled the bag back inside, dragging in a flurry of snow and an icy blast of fresh air.
The exit had been virtually buried by drifting snow while he slept but there was enough of a gap at the top for him to see that the snow still fell, although very lightly. The wind had died too.
Stopping the entrance back up again with the bag, he pulled himself back into his survival suit and had a last look around before slipping down the passage and using the bag to push the loose snow out of the entrance. Straightening up, he clambered out of the half-filled vertical shaft and stood, turning slowly on the spot to try and get his bearings. As he feared, in the gloom of the brief night that had now fallen, all he could see was a huge vista of snow and ice, sporting numerous drifts and banks that rose to a sight-interrupting height of eight feet.
Pace had hoped to spot the shimmer of the ocean but he had no such luck. Making his way up a nearby snow bank to get a better look around, he suddenly remembered the compass that hung from his survival suit. Of course, he could use it to direct himself northwards, back to the water. His joy was short-lived as his eyes fastened on the frayed section of bright orange webbing where the compass should have been.
He decided just to pick a direction and start walking. Hours passed in an easy lope across the snowy land, which was almost enjoyable after living in fear for so long, although he carried the Mauser ready for use at
the first sign of trouble. Pretty soon, daylight came again, pale and watery.
The only life he saw consisted of a few scattered penguins, waddling across the horizon at times to break the monotony. Eventually, just as he was beginning to think about taking a brief rest, the repetitive thump of rotor blades slicing through air reached his ears and he dived flat onto the snow just as a familiar, canary yellow machine appeared on the horizon.
Desperate to avoid being spotted, knowing that his own yellow survival suit would stand out like a sore thumb against the white background, Pace desperately tried to burrow into the snow, scooping handfuls of loose flakes over himself.
The noticeable change in the pitch of the engine noise sent a sickening sensation through him. They had spotted him.
He watched, with professional interest, as the highly competent pilot wheeled the Sea King Mark 4 around, heading the seven-ton machine straight for him. As it closed the distance, its side doors popped open and red-clad figures appeared, holding ominously pointed objects.
Giving up any attempts at concealment, Pace forced in a deep breath and felt a sense of fatalistic calm settle over him. Kneeling up, pausing just long enough to detach the mitten gloves of his suit, he brought the Mauser smartly up to his shoulder.
Sighting the figure hanging from the port door, he held his breath and squeezed off the first shot the rifle had made in over one hundred years. The dull crack was immediately followed by a rewarding twitch in the figure, which fell back inside the cabin immediately.
The Mauser barked again, three times in quick succession, with Pace ejecting each spent cartridge case with a smooth pull and push of the sliding bolt. Deadly accurate in the hands of an accomplished marksman like himself, he knew he didn’t have much time to rattle off his own shots before return fire would cut him down. With modern assault rifles, virtually hovering over a clear, bright target, even the worst mercenary should be able to hit him, on their worst day.
His three shots had a purpose, neatly grouped towards the top of the front window, and they killed the pilot instantly, sending the helicopter spinning out of control and slamming down hard onto the snow. The five-bladed rotors quickly bled power and shuddered to a halt as an emergency cut-out activated, causing the two Rolls Royce Gnome H1400-2 turboshaft engines to die. Miraculously, the helicopter sat upright, with no damage to its rotors at all’ just a smashed undercarriage.
For good measure, now lying prone on his stomach in the fresh snow, Pace fired his final shot into the cockpit glass before reloading as fast as his rapidly freezing fingers allowed. Two more shots went into the window and then, hardly daring to breathe, he waited to see what happened next.
Perhaps he had caught any passengers with his bullets? With three more bullets ready to fire, it was their move, he decided.
After a couple more anxious moments, the scene remained unchanged. Pace fought down the excitement, knowing full well that fate may have just presented him with a way back to civilisation. As long as his bullets had not damaged any of the key systems, which was unlikely because he had taken very careful aim, he might be able to get the engines restarted and put the Sea King back in to the air.
Although a Lynx pilot mainly, flying their gunship version or submarine-killing variants for years with the RAF, or on loan to the Royal Navy, Pace had often flown Sea Kings, especially at the start of his career. The Mark 4 was an old type, still used extensively in an air sea rescue role around the world, by many nations, which made its avionics and control systems far more rudimentary than more recent updates. Even back when it was new, the computerised systems were pretty good. Pace knew he could fly it as long as the current occupants didn’t mind.
Unable to contain himself any longer, he started a slow approach to the crashed helicopter, shuffling forward on his stomach with the Mauser still pointing ahead of him. This made for very slow progress, inching ever closer to possible salvation, and it took him the best part of five minutes before he drew within ten feet of it. In all that time, no sign of life emanated from inside.
But he wasn’t a fool. He had experienced, first hand, how effective the men Fiona Chambers employed could be with their weapons. Like the hard-eyed security men guarding the ARC desalination plant, they were professional mercenaries. He would need to proceed very cautiously because he had the suspicion that they were playing possum, just waiting for him to show himself so they could blow his head off.
He waited another five minutes before coming up onto his haunches and crabbing closer, moving past the nose and around to the sliding port door, which was still gaping open. Still, there was no sign of life from inside the aircraft.
The rifle was good but Pace realised it was far too long to be any use at close quarters. Placing it gingerly down in the snow, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the open doorway while he unzipped the neck of his survival suit, rummaged inside, and came out holding the reassuring weight of the Webley.
Checking the safety catch was off, he gripped the black revolver in his right hand, thumbing back the hammer slowly. The audible click as it locked seemed to echo far more loudly than it should have done. Anyone who was still alive inside could not have failed to hear it. Damn, he thought.
Feeling the first twinges of cramp in his thighs, he sprang to his feet and rushed forwards, gun held out in front of him. Reaching the doorway, he thrust the gun inside and immediately felt his adrenaline subside when his eyes beheld the carnage inside. There had been two men in the rear, possibly the same two who had delighted in sinking their lifeboat with withering automatic gunfire. Both were dead, as was the pilot. The co-pilot’s seat was empty.
The rear of the helicopter was awash with claret, already congealing on the inner surfaces. Pace’s heavy bullets had removed the top of one man’s head while the second corpse had taken a round in the throat, piercing his jugular and spraying litres of blood around inside. Both had perished instantly. The pilot had taken three to the chest, with the bullets clearly having passed through the back of his seat, into the cabin.
Swallowing down the bile that threatened to rise in the back of his throat, he wasted no time dragging the three corpses out of the Sea King and dragging them clear of the aircraft’s impending downwash.
He saw no point in rifling the bodies for identification. As professionals, he was sure they wouldn’t be carrying any. Instead, he gave a respectful nod down as the dead men and clambered inside the rear door of the helicopter, slamming it shut behind him.
Without waiting, he settled himself into the pilot’s chair, which was still warm, and started to run through a bank of simple checks. Everything looked fine but he still held his breath as he reset the engine trip switches and powered them up. He needn’t have concerned himself because both Rolls Royce engines eagerly burst back into life.
Strapping himself in, he checked the navigation computer. GPS-linked, and more modern than the original system that the Mark 4 had been born with, it clearly gave him his position. It also showed him the nearby settlements and landmarks. Scott Base, he noted, was less than twenty miles away so he laid in a course, feeling a little more confident that he would find help.
Engaging the rotors, Pace pushed out the remnants of broken glass that obscured his forward vision, taking care to use the flat of his ungloved hand. Jockeying the throttle and collective with an experienced hand, Pace lifted the heavy old helicopter into the air, climbing in a tight spiral in an attempt to exceed the aircraft’s published maximum climb rate of two thousand feet per minute.
In the rear, sliding from his hiding place under a pile of cold weather gear at the very back of the cabin, Yucel crept forward slowly. Levelling his Beretta on the back of Pace’s head.
The noise of the rotors, combined with the snow gusting in through the broken cockpit windscreen, served to cover his approach. As he watched, Pace leaned forwards and fiddled with some switches before slipping on the pilot’s bloodied headset. A final step forwards and Yucel was pressing the cold muzzle o
f his gun into Pace’s neck.
14
Fiona Chambers watched the helicopter circle the base once before setting down close to the main building that she was in.
Scott Base was far more impressive than most visitors imagined, boasting eight large green buildings, all interconnected with weatherproof tunnels fitted with fire doors so that any individual building could be isolated in case of an emergency. Although on a fairly compact site, it had all the amenities of a small town.
Some of the buildings were two storeys high, in places, and all of them were constructed on platforms, allowing for drifting snow and the ferocious winter gales to pass freely beneath rather than damage the structures. Built from sheet steel, encasing polyurethane foam, they were very robust and so well insulated that normal clothing could be worn inside, even in the winter months, with the heating barely ticking over.
Slowly the rotors lost energy and the blade tips sagged to a standstill. This was followed, smartly, by the side door sliding open and a figure in a grimy, yellow survival suit being shoved out at gun point by the recognisable figure of Yucel, who wore his red snowsuit.
She wanted to see the look of defeat on Pace’s face as he was ordered inside so she made sure she was near to the door. It soon opened, accompanied by a blast of icy wind as the men entered and then it was closed quickly behind them by another of the mercenaries.
Fiona was sorely disappointed to see that the frost-burned face housed eyes that still flashed with danger when they settled upon her. Pace may have been captured but he was far from beaten.
‘Mr Pace, or can I call you James, now that we know each other so well? Good of you to join us.’ She paused, sizing him up. ‘And the samples?’ she asked Yucel, who tossed her Pace’s bag.