Pandora's curse

THE DENMARK STRAIT

The wave smashed into the bow of the Njoerd like a torpedo strike, blasting up an explosion of white froth that showered the forward windows and fell back to the deck, pooling deep and green before racing for the scuppers. The ship dropped into the following trough, her steep bows cleaving a wedge of seawater at the very bottom before her twin props hauled her to the next crest.

Mercer peered through the shimmering water still sliding from the armored glass in the ship’s wardroom. Ira Lasko was at his elbow. As his view cleared, he saw that the sea was calm. The wave had been a rogue. “Where’d that come from?”

“Just Mother Nature reminding us not to get too comfortable,” Lasko drawled. “Waves like that are why I went into submarines. Twenty-two years in the Navy and the only times I ever got seasick were on bumboats and sub tenders.”

They turned away from the window. Marty Bishop was at one of the Formica tables with Igor Bulgarin and another of his teammates, a German meteorologist named Erwin Puhl. Puhl was in his early forties but looked older because he was so tall and stooped. Little of his hair remained and what fringed his head was gray and poorly washed. He wore thick glasses perched on a large bony nose. His posture and features reminded Mercer of a vulture’s, and his gloomy mien did little to dispel the perception.

The Geo-Research people and off-duty crewmen occupied the other tables in the brightly lit wardroom. Greta Schmidt and Werner Koenig held court at a head table. It seemed the segregation that had existed at breakfast would last a while longer. All through dinner and the lecture that Koenig had given afterward, no one other than Igor and his people had approached Marty Bishop’s team. In fact, Mercer had noted the Njoerd’s crew wasn’t overly communicative with them either. Whenever an officer came to tell the expedition something, like their sailing time to Ammassalik, he would go straight to Koenig and have him make the announcement rather than simply telling the whole room. It was strange. Scientific jealousy was nothing new to Mercer, but this continued secretiveness was getting ridiculous.

“When Soviet Union was still a country,” Igor said, continuing the story he’d started before the wave had sent a shudder through the Njoerd and elicited a collective gasp from its passengers, “I was on research ship much larger than this one. It was cooperative expedition with a dozen French scientists on board. Not only were we not allowed to talk to them unless a KGB watcher was in room, but we had to report everything said if we happened to pass in the halls.” He looked to where Schmidt and Koenig were laughing at someone’s joke. “I know now how French felt. Is no room in science for egos or secrets. All scientists should be as one.”

Mercer nodded. “It’s a nice thought, Igor, but you know as well as I do that scientists are some of the most childish and vindictive people in the world.”

“Da.” The big Russian laughed at a memory. “We discover after expedition that French had stolen much equipment and all of our data.”

“What were you doing on a ship?” Ira Lasko asked over the rim of a coffee cup. “I thought you’re some kind of astronomer looking for chunks of space rock.”

“I was meteorologist, like Erwin,” Igor replied. “I give up weather research for planetary geology.”

Mercer cocked an eyebrow at him. “Looking for the big one that’ll wipe us out like the dinosaurs?”

“If it comes, I want plenty warning. Many women I need to see before time runs out.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Tell me, Mercer,” Marty invited, changing the subject. “How do those chemical melters we’ve got with us work? Charlie said you’re the real expert.”

“We’re going to have to hand dig down to the firn line, that’s the demarcation plane between granular snow and solid ice. Then we work with the hotrocks. Once our preliminary shaft is sleeved with plastic to hold back the snow, I mix the chemicals at the bottom. The trick is to layer the stuff so the ice melts evenly. Weights attached to the bottom section of sleeving keep it pressed down to the ice and hold the melt water in the tunnel. Pumps will take care of the water. As the chemicals become diluted and lose their potency, we make sure the shaft’s pumped dry and then repeat the process again.”

“Why not just use hot water to melt the ice away?”

“Too difficult to control. Without enough pumps, you end up with a big cone-shaped hole that’s so wide at the base it’ll collapse in on itself. Also, even if you use a hot-water heater suspended on a cable, you need a massive amount of fuel to bore a shaft of any depth. Since Camp Decade is only about thirty feet down, the chemical heat is the most efficient. We need just a single pump, no fuel-hungry boilers, and the chemicals themselves. I counted twenty barrels on the deck when I came aboard, which is more than enough.”

“And you think the three of us can handle it?” Ira asked.

“Four would have been better. Since we can borrow someone from Geo-Research, we should be okay,” Mercer answered and glanced over Marty’s shoulder to see Werner Koenig approaching.

When their eyes met, Koenig smiled broadly and put out his hand. “You have to be Mercer. Willie Haas said to say hello and remind you that, the next time you’re in Hamburg, you’re buying dinner.”

Mercer laughed, totally unprepared for the German’s easy use of English and friendly greeting. “You tell Willie that his taking me to McDonald’s the last time I saw him doesn’t count for a real meal.” He shook Koenig’s hand. “How do you know him?”

Willie Haas was a staff geologist for a German mining concern that had hired Mercer for a consulting job a few years ago. The two saw each other about once a year, usually at trade conferences.

“We’ve been friends since our days at university,” Werner explained. “He told me you saved his company a fortune when you worked for them. He’s convinced you sold your soul to the devil for your geological insights.”

“I bartered my soul to escape hangovers,” Mercer joked. “The insight comes from a Ouija board.”

“Whatever works.” Werner smiled. “I’m glad to have you with us. With Greenland’s surface covered by a few miles of ice, there won’t be much for you to study, but I bet your skills will come in handy anyway. In fact, when we get our ice-coring drill running, I would appreciate if you took a look at the samples we draw up to the surface.”

“I’d be delighted,” Mercer answered. Koenig was making the first effort to breach the gulf between his team and the others, and for that, Mercer was thankful. That task should have fallen on Marty Bishop since the Surveyor’s Society had ruined Geo-Research’s plans, but Mercer didn’t think Bishop understood how important it was to keep all three teams as cohesive as possible.

Koenig had a cloth bag in one hand, and he reached in to extract a small green bottle of brennivin, the Icelandic version of aquavit commonly known as Black Death. “I’ve prohibited alcohol at the base camp for safety reasons. However we won’t reach Ammassalik until noon tomorrow, so sharing a few bottles tonight won’t do any harm.”

“Mighty neighborly of you,” Bishop said, taking the bottle and twisting off its cap. He poured a measure into his empty coffee cup and passed the bottle to Ira Lasko.

Koenig knelt next to Mercer so only he could hear what he said next. “Greta told me what happened this morning, about your confrontation outside the hotel.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t call it a confrontation, just a simple misunderstanding.”

“Yes, well, she can be… difficult. I have not seen her for about a year, and she is very different from the woman I once knew. The woman I almost…” He wanted to say “married” but couldn’t. “Anyway, she was made number two person on this expedition over my objections, and if she tries to overstep her bounds, please tell me.”

“I thought you made all the personnel decisions for Geo-Research,” Mercer said to cover his confusion. Koenig’s admission wasn’t something he had expected.

“Normally, yes. This trip is a little different. You see, I no longer own Geo-Research and my parent company wanted her along. She is dating my new boss. You know how it is.” He stood suddenly as if he’d said too much. “Enjoy the brennivin, gentlemen.” He moved on to have a few words with those at the next table and give them a bottle of their own.

Igor Bulgarin eyed the caraway-flavored liquor with a glassy look. He stood abruptly. “I must wish you a good