Verheiden gathered around.
“There it is, clear as day,” said Weyland. His fingers traced the red line all the way across the map, right down to the interconnecting squares.
“And this time yesterday?”
Max unfolded a second printout. Weyland studied it. “Nothing.”
Sebastian squinted at the map. “So whoever cut this shaft did it in the last twenty-four hours.”
“That’s just not possible,” said Quinn.
“Well, possible or not, it’s here. It’s done,” said Sebastian.
Sebastian and Quinn locked eyes, and a vein appeared on Quinn’s tanned forehead.
“I’m telling you there’s no team and no machine in the world that could cut to this depth in twenty-four hours.”
Charles Weyland stepped between them. “The only way we’re going to know for sure is to get down there and find out.”
Then Weyland turned to face the rest of the party. “Well, gentlemen,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “It seems we may be engaged in a race. If it’s a competition, it’s one I don’t intend to lose—”
Weyland coughed. Suddenly he doubled over, spasms wracking his body. Max held his shoulders as Weyland choked back the urge and regained control of his breathing.
“Okay, let’s get to work. I want to know what’s down there and I want to know in the next few hours.” Weyland’s voice was weaker, but his eyes had lost none of their spark.
As Weyland trudged to the door of the Hagglunds, he reached out and squeezed Max Stafford’s arm. “There are no prizes for coming in second,” Weyland rasped. “Do you understand, Max?”
Max nodded once. “My men are ready, sir.”
The area around the pit swarmed with activity. More Hagglunds had been moved up, and their spotlights turned the never-ending dark into day. Teams of roughnecks unloaded coils of rope, and a multiple winch-and-pulley system mounted on a metal tripod had been assembled directly over the mouth of the pit.
Lex was hammering pitons into the ice when Miller arrived, dragging a pallet packed with his chemical analysis gear.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Safety lines,” Lex replied. “It’s a long way down… don’t want to lose any of you.”
As Miller unpacked his gear, he took off his wool cap and scratched his head.
“Put your hat back on.”
“Huh?”
“Your hat,” Lex said. “Put it back on.”
“It itches.”
Lex paused, lowering her hammer. “I saw a man lose both his ears from frostbite,” she said matter-of-factly. “With the ear canal exposed, you can see a full inch inside your head… all the way to the eardrum.”
Lex smiled sweetly, tucked the hammer into her tool belt, and strolled away. Miller pulled his hat over his ears.
Dodging roughnecks, Lex crossed the lighted area to the lead Hagglunds. She opened the door to find Charles Weyland inside. He was alone, gulping oxygen from a portable tank. He lowered the clear plastic mask when Lex entered the vehicle.
“You’ve caught me a little… indisposed,” he croaked, humbled.
Lex closed the door and sat down by his side.
“How bad is it?”
Weyland looked at her through eyes hollowed by chronic pain. “Bad.”
“There’s no room for sick men on this expedition.”
“My doctors tell me the worst is behind me.”
Lex shook her head. “You’re not a very good liar, Mr. Weyland. Stay on the ship. We’ll update you at the top of every hour.”
Crossing the cabin, Weyland concealed the oxygen bottle in a storage bin. When he faced Lex again, some of the fire had returned to his eyes.
“You know,” he began, “when you get sick you think about your life and how you’re going to be remembered. You know what I realized would happen when I go, which will be very soon? A ten-percent fall in Weyland Industries share prices… maybe twelve, though I may be flattering myself…”
Weyland slumped into a seat. Concern furrowed his broad forehead.
“The dip in stock prices should last about a week, long enough for the board and the Street to realize they can get along perfectly well without me. And then that will be that. Forty years on this earth and nothing to show for it.”
Weyland nodded toward the activity outside.
“This is my chance to leave a legacy. To leave my mark—”
“Even if it kills you?”
The billionaire reached out and squeezed her arm. Lex felt the failing grip of a dying man.
“You won’t let that happen,” he said.
“You can’t go,” Lex replied.
“I need this.”
Lex sighed. “I’ve heard this speech before. My dad broke his leg seven hundred feet from the summit of Mount Rainier. He was like you—he wouldn’t go back or let us stop…”
She paused as the memories returned, and with them the sadness.
“We reached the top and he opened a bottle of champagne. I had my first drink with my dad at fourteen thousand four hundred feet…. On the way down he developed a blood clot in his leg that traveled to his lung. He suffered for four hours before dying twenty minutes from the base camp.” Lex swiped the dew from her cheek.
Weyland touched her shoulder. “Do you think that’s the last thing your dad remembered? The pain? Or drinking champagne with his daughter fourteen thousand feet in the air?”
CHAPTER 12
The rest of the radio broadcast was hopelessly garbled. In disgust, the executive officer tore off his communicator and tossed it aside. Then he crossed the bridge to check the radar screen. In shades of phosphorescent green, the monitor displayed an ominous mass of rapidly moving storm clouds.
An unexpected blast of frigid wind swirled through the bridge. Captain Leighton appeared, snow clinging to his eyelashes, his shoulders. The skipper’s craggy face was bleak as he approached his executive officer.
“It’s a huge storm front, Captain,” the XO began. “Force twenty katabatic, coming straight off those damn mountains.”
Already the wind battered at the windows, and snow came down in a curtain of white.
“How long do we have, Gordon?”
“It’s going to hit us in just over an hour. And it’s going to be a bitch.”
“How’s our communications?”
“With the outside world… spotty,” Gordon replied. “But I can reach the ice pack without too much trouble.”
Leighton frowned, then nodded. “Get me Weyland’s team. We have to warn them.”
