Both men were silent in the chopper’s cabin. Its engines kept running. After a few moments Granger reached toward the instrument panel to cut them, then leaned back in his seat staring outward as the twin-turbine whine died away.
Nimec was still looking at him with a sunken expression.
“I don’t believe this,” Nimec said. His hand was balled into a fist against the metal frame of his window. “There anything we can do?”
Granger took a deep breath. This was about the worst foul-up he could imagine. The fucking worst.
“Nothing besides wait,” he said at last, and started unbuckling his harness.
They raced ahead of the storm, the wind hard at their backs, streaking cross-country over miles of snow and ice.
The sky pressed down on them, a low flat deck of clouds. Whiteout had cut visibility to thirty yards, and each rider kept his eyes on the trail of the vehicle before him to avoid separation from the group, their headlights and reflectors of no use in the stirring mist.
In the lead position, Burkhart rode with his thumb heavy on the throttle, squeezing every last bit of speed out of it, his determination a red-hot knife stabbing a passage through the soft barrier emptiness.
He leaned forward as he straddled his seat, knees locked around its leather, gloved fingers tightly gripping its handlebars. The ’mobile dipped, then nosed up, pitching with the terrain’s rise and fall. Powder sprayed from its track in flying ramps, shredding across the curved surface of his windshield. He porpoised down into a steep trench, shot along its bottom, and topped its opposite bank at a full tear, skis springing over the snow.
He could feel the storm at his neck, tumid, angry, coursing overland with unexpected swiftness. Some of his men had wished to suspend travel, find a protected spot where they could hunker down until it lifted. Their tents were designed to withstand the force of the gale. But he’d insisted they bear on at a constant pace.
Let their targets be stationary captives of the elements. His team would be a moving force.
The storm was like a rushing stallion, and they could either stay in front of the charge or be trampled.
Ten minutes after exiting the chopper, Nimec was in Megan’s square, monotone-blue office, still wearing the wind parka he’d donned for his scratched departure.
“They think they can ground us, they’re wrong,” he fumed, standing in front of her desk. “McMurdo doesn’t have any right butting into our affairs. They’ve got no authority.”
She regarded him from her chair. “Pete, calm down, this is just as frustrating for me… ”
“Then get on the phone with somebody over there. Explain that we appreciate their concern for our safety, but have decided to do what’s necessary to find our people.”
“I can’t for a lot of reasons. Russ is one of their pilots—”
“Okay, then we’ll use our own. The guy who was jockeying the pols around is back, why not him? I know he isn’t as familiar with the Valleys. But it’s not like he’s
“I told you, Russ is only part of it. Cold Corners operates under special arrangement with USAP. We receive direct sponsorship from the American government. In a sense, we represent an extension of its foreign policy interests here. Though we’ve never locked horns over anything, McMurdo Station is an official United States base, and we’re arguably subject to its auspices.”
Nimec leaned forward over the desk, knuckling its edge with both hands.
“And you know, and I know, and these walls know we’ve bent the rules before,” he said.
Megan sighed. “The air-travel restrictions were called with good reason. You’ve never been through a Condition II Antarctic storm. I have. And trust me, MacTown’s alert is absolutely nothing to disregard.”
“Who’s doing that? I checked the weather outlook. The storm’s still miles to our southwest. Even further from Bull Pass. And Granger told me we’d need an hour at most to fly from here to there. I’m not thinking to go ahead with the kind of thorough search I wanted, but if I can accomplish anything at all it’s worth a try. Give me three, four hours and I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Megan shook her head. “You’re still missing the point,” she said. “Maybe a little intentionally. You know how forecasting works. Anyone who’s ever gotten drenched in the rain because the local weatherman predicted a sunny beach day knows. It’s a matter of estimates. Especially in this place. The situation could deteriorate faster than anyone thinks. Look at how the storm’s motion has already shifted from the original forecast.”
Nimec stared at her. He could see where this was leading. “Antarctica.
Megan looked at him.
“Listen,” she said. “My decision has to be about the good of the whole base. If you wind up in a bad situation, getting you out of it becomes a priority. Which would mean putting more of our people at risk. I can’t allow it.”
“And how about Alan Scarborough and those scientists? Since when have
Megan sat in silence for perhaps thirty seconds, her gaze suddenly sharp.
“Alan wouldn’t want anyone doing something as unwise as what you’ve suggested,” she said in a tight voice.
There was another long interval of silence. Nimec straightened, lifted his hands off her desk, and stepped back from it.
“So we’re done, that it?” he said at last. “
Megan shook her head slowly.
“No, Pete,” she said. “I do.”
Their eyes momentarily clashed.
“Appreciate you telling me,” Nimec said, and abruptly turned away from her, leaving the office without another word.
Burkhart stood in an ice-sheathed elbow of rock and gazed through his binoculars as the rising, snarling gusts blew around him.
He could see UpLink’s ice station in the basin below, perhaps a half mile to the north, its modular core elevated above the snowdrifts on mechanical stilts. Much closer to his position was the geodesic dome housing the critical life-support facility that had been marked for destruction.
Unseen beneath the neoprene face mask he’d donned in the worsening cold, a touch of a smile. He had emerged from the senses-numbing vacancy of the whiteout, reached his destination with the gale well at his rear.
He turned to the man who’d accompanied him onto the bluff.
“Go back to the others,” he said. “You’re to make camp in the lee slope, wherever its best shelter can be found. Shovel plenty of snow over the ground flaps of our tents. Be sure the flies are also secure.”
The man’s eyes widened behind his goggles, but he remained quiet.
“What’s on your mind?” Burkhart said.
The man hesitated.
“Tell me,” Burkhart said. “I’ll reserve my bite.”
The man shook his head.
“I don’t understand why we’d wait,” he said. “We’ve driven ourselves without halt to outpace the storm.”
Burkhart looked at him, wind clapping the sides of his hood.
“Langern, you’re mistaken,” he said. “We’re
Langern stood a moment.
“Yes, I think,” he said. “But there’s danger in it—”
“No worse than in immobility.” Burkhart made a dismissive gesture. “Is anything else bothering you?”
Langern just shook his head.
“Then get moving,” Burhkart said. “I’ll be along shortly.”
