possible explanation-Exes were loose on the boat. And if that was true, I was a goner.
They came through the galley and into the big enlisted mess, padding silently between tables toward me. I held absolutely still, waiting for them to charge. Several of them skirted right by me, so close I could feel the breeze, but they didn't pounce. Instead, they heedlessly continued on into the wardroom as if they had missed me in the dark. I found this hard to believe-they should have tripped over me at the very least. Maybe I was immune! Then the last one stopped in front of me, panting.
An arm's length away, a man's voice said, 'You're not a Noxie.' He flicked on a flashlight just long enough for me to see that he was some kind of commando, with infrared goggles, a catcher's mask over a black ski mask, body armor, and more artillery than Pancho Villa. He also had a dog by his side, a big wolflike animal with its own night-vision rig and little booties.
'Who are you?' I blurted out. 'What's going on? Where is everyone?'
'We're here to secure the boat. Your friends are being looked after up top, which is where you should be. Where are the Noxies?'
'The what?' I thought he had said Nazis.
'The Anoxics? Furies? Crazy blue fuckers? Sheesh, kid. I was told we'd be plastering a couple of them down here, but the dogs aren't picking up a thing.'
'There's only me and an old man forward who needs help.'
The man paused, listening to something from his earpiece. He nodded, visibly relaxing. 'Roger that.' To me he said, 'Okay, don't worry. False alarm. Here, take my arm.'
I felt for his sleeve, and he gently led me up to the next level, where a group of men were standing around a table in red half-light. I didn't recognize most of them, but Webb was there, quietly going over diagrams of the ship with them. They all had the same ninja getup as the one who brought me. When Webb spotted me emerging from the companionway, he said, 'She's the one.' He looked disgusted to see me alive.
'Put her with the others,' ordered one of the strangers.
'What's going on?' I demanded.
The man with me said, 'Just a security sweep. It's for your protection.'
'There's a man tied up down there who needs medical attention,' I shouted accusingly. 'They've been torturing him!'
'We'll take care of it,' said my escort. None of them were perturbed in the slightest or even paid attention to me. As I was led upstairs, all I could think was, For our protection, huh? That must be why I feel so safe.
Everyone from the sub was gathered on the first level, either in crisp Navy dress or looking festive in fashions plun dered from the cruise ship. They had bags and suitcases, and filed up the sail with the eagerness of disembarking tourists, as if being rousted by armed men with dogs was the most natural thing in the world-a welcome taste of civilization. It was not a melancholy leave-taking by any means. I suppose I would have felt the same way if not for what had just happened. My jaw ached.
Hector waved me over. He was wearing a full-length fur coat and looked like a hepcat from the Roaring Twenties. 'Lulu!' he called. 'Where have you been?' Then, studying my swelling cheek, 'Holy crap, what happened?'
'Nothing.' It wasn't the time; there was too much else going on, and too much I didn't understand… yet. 'I bumped it. I'm fine. What's everybody doing?'
Unable to take his eyes off my cheek, he said, 'We're going ashore! I guess it's over. I can't even believe it.'
'Since when? Did Captain Coombs authorize this?'
'Well yeah, I guess. Be pretty funny if Kranuski was doing all this on his own initiative.'
'Hilarious.'
He looked at my poopie suit. 'Why aren't you dressed? You can't go out in that.'
'I haven't had a chance.'
'Here-take this.' He opened his duffel bag and pulled out a hooded fur cape. I never liked fur, but this was a dazzling thing: glossy reddish gold, absurdly luxuriant. I had to shake my head. 'Where'd you get this?'
'Where do you think? Put it on.'
'Don't you know fur is murder?' But I slipped it on, wrapping myself in its plush folds and hugging it against me. It soothed my aching jaw. 'Oh my gosh,' I said. 'Hector, this is ridiculous.'
'Keep it,' he said, grinning.
As we emerged from the sail, we were helped down onto the ice by briskly smiling greeters, men who handed us blankets and hot coffee off a truck, then loaded us aboard several old blue Air Force buses. A tanklike vehicle with a massive roller had made a smooth white highway to shore. The three hovercraft had also returned, but these were apparently reserved for our officers and the Thule people themselves, who were clearly shocked to see so many civilians and minors-the more of us that poured forth, the more their smiles assumed a drawn-on falsity. 'Where's the crew?' I heard one ask.
Taking our seats, we could see them bringing out Cowper on a stretcher and hustling him to a hovercraft. Everyone on the bus was very interested, trying to figure out who it might be.
'It's Fred Cowper,' I said. They all looked at me.
Mr. Albemarle broke the hush, patting me on the shoulder, and saying, 'He's in good hands now, I'm sure.' It was the first kind thing he had ever said to me.
A few rows back, I heard Noteiro squawk, 'Say, look.' He was directing our attention to an approaching truck that was laying electric cable off a huge spool. 'They sure ain't wastin' no time tapping the boat's power.'
Someone said, 'So?'
'So why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?'
We didn't see the whole operation. When we pulled out, most of the Navy crew were out on the ice trying to supervise the swelling ranks of unidentified shore personnel tramping into their vessel. Executive Officer Kranuski was there, the creep, vainly struggling to keep order, but as we pulled away it became impossible to tell our people from theirs. All were hooded silhouettes puffing phosphor-ice-age hunters quar reling over a carcass.
'Hey,' shouted Jake from up front. 'One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer-'
Groaning at first, we all sang along. It was sort of nice.
There was a twenty-minute uphill drive to our new quarters. I don't know what kind of reception we were expecting, but it was a bit strange how we were ushered off the buses and simply left standing before a cluster of empty buildings in the middle of nowhere. We couldn't even ask the drivers anything, because they didn't speak English-all were stony-faced Inuit, intent mainly on leaving.
The buildings themselves were unremarkable in the worst sense of the word: three-story cinder-block structures resembling bad public housing, as deserted and forlorn on that midnight tundra as sacrificial structures erected for A-bomb testing.
'Welcome to Siberia,' someone said.
'All right, this way!' shouted Albemarle, taking charge. 'This way, people!' He led us up a freshly plowed walk to the front door of the nearest unit. The door was ajar and looked like it had been kicked in.
Beside me, Shawn Dickey said sourly, 'Slammin', dude. It's a crack house.'
'Long as it's warm,' said Cole. 'I ain't handlin' this cold.'
'How can it be warm when the door's wide open?'
'They probably just left it open while they're getting it ready for us,' ventured Julian. 'There's probably guys working in there.'
'Yeah, they're restocking the minibar,' said Jake.
Albemarle found the light switch, and we all piled in. Julian was wrong; there was no one here, and hadn't been in a long time. In the unwholesome light of buzzing fluorescents, we trooped down a corridor between rows of seedy, decrepit hotel rooms, ugly as a skid-row flophouse, saturated with the stink of ancient cigarettes and mildew. The communal bathrooms, kitchen, and TV room were all badly in need of painting and repairs, not to mention a good cleaning. The pipes were frozen, so there was no water.
'This sucks, man,' said Shawn.
Jake replied, 'Oh, you never like anything.'
