Ice Storm (4 page)

The crane trembled slightly. I looked down the long shaft. It was angled at about sixty-degrees to the cargo ship. The metal cords, anchored by large rungs, ran parallel to it.

I grabbed another cord and swung my body around. I lowered myself to the first rung. I repeated the process a few more times. Finally, I swung my body away from the crane and let go.

My boots hit the deck. I bent my knees and rolled, absorbing the impact. Then I sprang to my feet. The smell of charred flesh struck my nostrils. Bile rose in my throat and I nearly vomited.

Everywhere I turned, I saw death. Bodies lay on the hatch covers. They were sprawled around the cargo winches. They were splattered against the derricks and wireless mast. They were everywhere.

The boat groaned and tipped to the right.

"Move it!" Graham's shout was barely audible. "The whole thing's about to go down."

I stumbled to the winch control room. Inside, I saw a couple of computers in varying conditions. I raced to one of them. My fingers pounded on its keyboard. Then I glanced through a shattered windowpane.

Ever so slowly, the empty basket lifted off the Ekström Ice Shelf. The crane shifted. The basket started to descend toward the bow.

The
Desolation
rocked to the side. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I regained my feet and looked outside again. The basket was almost in position.

I issued a few more commands into the keyboard. Then I scrambled out of the winch control room and ran toward the crane. "Get up," I yelled. "We've got to get out of here."

The young man remained still.

I ripped off my left glove. Thrusting my cold fingers inside his parka, I felt for a pulse. It was faint.

But it was there.

I put my glove back on and shook him. "Get up, damn it."

He didn't move.

I hauled him to his feet. Then I heaved him over my shoulder.

The ship trembled. It felt fragile, like it was seconds away from tearing apart at the seams.

I lugged the man over to the basket.

The crane jerked. The basket started to rise off the ground.

The boat rocked again, to the left this time. I kept my balance but the sudden change in direction threw me off.

The basket lifted higher into the air.

Shifting to the side, I reoriented myself. Then I darted forward.

I reached out. My heart froze as my fingers clawed at nothing.

I reached out again. My hand grazed against a cord. I clenched my fingers and held on tight. Slowly, I rose into the sky.

The crane shook. My grip weakened. The man started to slip off my shoulder. My fingers found his belt and I clutched it with every bit of strength I possessed.

The crane picked up speed. The basket swung from side to side. Then it started to spin.

A wave of dizziness swept over me. I barely fought it off.

The basket spun faster. My arms burned. I could no longer feel my hands. Looking down, I caught sight of the ice cliff. We were almost over it.

The man stirred. "Uhh …"

"Wake up," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I need your help."

He went limp.

The basket swung in bigger circles. My muscles started to fail.

I squinted at the ground. Graham and Baxter stood ten to fifteen feet below me. Just beyond them, a small crowd was gathered around a couple of vehicles.

The crane creaked loudly. Then it tipped a few feet to the west. My body jolted. I lost my grip on the man's belt. He slid down my shoulder.

I looked down. The landscape turned in rapid circles beneath me. I felt nauseous looking at it.

I held onto the man for a few more seconds. Then I let him go. The basket continued to swing at a rapid clip so I didn't see him fall. But I heard a slight thud as he struck the ice near the edge of the cliff.

Reaching up, I grabbed hold of the basket with both hands. The crane creaked again. It shifted a few more feet to the west.

I glanced down. My heart skipped a beat.

I'd been mistaken. The crane wasn't tipping west. It was tipping northwest. In other words, back toward the
Desolation
.

Metal screeched. The crane jolted as it shifted another couple of feet. The basket spun in a wider circle. I passed over ice, then water, then ice again.

I tried to time my jump. But the basket was moving far too fast.

A loud wailing noise filled the air. It pierced my ears. I felt the crane give way. My right hand tightened around the cord. My left hand shot to my sheathe. I grasped my machete.

Then I let go.

Wind rushed at my face. I blinked. The edge of the cliff was directly beneath me.

I slammed into ice. Air whooshed out of my lungs. I slid toward the cliff. My legs went over the edge.

Metal groaned. Then the crane collapsed, falling into the water with a thunderous crash.

Desperately, I plunged my machete downward. It rammed into the ice and held fast. But my cold fingers didn't have much strength left.

My grip started to slip. I tried to grab the machete with my other hand, but I couldn't reach it.

Hands grabbed my wrists. "I've got you."

I looked up and saw Graham's determined face. Other hands grabbed me. They wrapped around my arms, my waist. They yanked me up. Next thing I knew, I was being dragged away from the cliff.

The hands let go. I fell in a heap, gasping for air.

I coughed a few times. "Is he …?"

Baxter knelt next to the young man from the
Desolation
. A few seconds passed. "He's alive."

My lungs heaved for air. "What … what the hell … caused this?"

"I wish I knew." Baxter took a deep breath. "I wish I knew."

Chapter 9

"Welcome to Fitzgerald Station." Baxter pushed open a set of doors. His tone was still icy but he seemed a tad warmer in other respects. "The latest in cold weather architecture."

"Not bad." Graham grunted. "A little small though."

"She's larger than you think. You just can't tell because everything is under one roof. We've got a post office, a cafeteria, dorm rooms, state-of-the-art laboratories, a gym, a hospital, a library, a lounge, and even a nightclub. You name it, we've got it."

I looked around. The common room was brightly lit and surprisingly warm. Numerous hallways jutted off in various directions.

An oval-shaped wooden bar sat in the center of the room. Three baristas manned it, serving up coffee and hot cocoa—often mixed with shots of Bailey's—to long lines of patrons. Numerous somber-faced people milled about the bar, whispering in reserved tones.

Giant murals adorned three of the walls. The northern image showed the exterior of Fitzgerald, backed by distant mountains. A rich and textured painting of the Ekström Ice Shelf dominated the west wall. The picture on the south wall showed an overhead view of Antarctica. Tiny red arrows marked all active stations and field camps.

I studied the southern mural. Antarctica was a far cry from Manhattan. There were no landmarks to check, no streets to search, no pedestrians to question. Even if we convinced Baxter to let us stay on the frozen continent, how could we possibly hope to find a lost vault in the middle of all that nothingness?

I pulled off my gloves and flexed my fingers. Like the rest of my body, they hurt like hell. "Don't worry about us. I'm sure you've got a lot to do."

Baxter glared at me. "I'm not done with you two yet."

"Hey Pat." A voice, deep and rich, resonated above the whispers. "Over here."

Baxter led us over to a tall man. "Hi Rupert."

"What's all the ruckus?" Rupert nodded at the people around the bar. "Did someone die?"

"The
Desolation
blew up. Only one man survived it."

Rupert's face turned ashen. "I felt the ground tremble. But I thought it was just an earthquake."

"No such luck."

Graham coughed loudly.

Baxter gritted his teeth. "Rupert, this is Cy and Dutch. Don't worry about getting to know them. They arrived today. They're leaving tomorrow."

Rupert extended his hand. "I'm Rupert Whitlow. My wife and I work out of Kirby. That's a satellite station south of here."

"Nice to meet you." I shook his hand. He possessed broad shoulders, a square jaw, and charcoal-colored hair. His shirt barely contained his chiseled torso. "Kirby Station, huh?"

"That's right."

"I need to check on the survivor." Baxter looked at me. "Do you need medical attention? Be honest."

I shook my head.

Baxter turned toward Rupert. "Can you babysit these two until I get back?"

Graham arched an eyebrow. "You're not putting us in the brig?"

"Not yet."

"Actually, I was really hoping to get on the road," Rupert said. "I'd like to get my crate back to Kirby as quickly as possible."

"That can wait." Baxter wheeled around and walked away.

Graham waited until Baxter had vanished into one of the hallways. "So, you work for Pat?"

"No," Rupert replied.

"Could've fooled me."

"It's better to stay on his good side. Pat's in charge of everything around here. If he wanted to, he could make my life a living hell."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"My wife and I are zoologists."

"Zoology? Here?"

"I know. It sounds crazy. Few animals can survive the winter wind chill. It dries them up faster than a sponge on water. But that doesn't mean there aren't creatures for us to study. We just need a microscope to see them."

"You're talking about invertebrates."

He nodded.

"How long have you worked at Kirby?" Graham asked.

"Three years."

"Damn."

"That's nothing. The Baxters have been on this continent for decades." He stood up. "It's hard for outsiders to understand but this place grows on you. Sure, we scratch out a meager existence. And we put up with a thousand indignities. But we're living a constant adventure at the literal end of the Earth. What could be better than that?"

"Do you want the whole list?" Graham asked. "Because that could take a few hours."

"Like I said, outsiders don't get it." Rupert shrugged. "It's just about lunchtime. Come on. I'll take you to the cafeteria. Might as well try the cuisine before you leave."

We followed him into a long hallway. "This region is widely known as Queen Maud Land." He adopted the tone of a weary tour guide. "It covers one-sixth of Antarctica, or about one million square miles. It's claimed by Norway but no one takes that seriously."

Graham looked around. "How does Kirby compare to this place?"

"It's much smaller. It was built to accommodate twenty-two full-time residents and a dozen part-timers. But it's never attracted anywhere close to that level of interest. Including Crazy Roy's team, we've got just seven full-time residents."

"Crazy Roy?"

"It's a nickname," Rupert explained. "A well-earned one."

We walked into a large room. Fitzgerald's galley was a step up from a prison cafeteria and maybe a few steps down from my old high school lunchroom.

The walls were white. Not egg white, not off-white. Just white. The gray carpet lacked texture and design. Halogen light blanketed the room.

Dozens of circular wooden tables were screwed to the floor. Mounted swivel chairs surrounded them. Black plastic boxes sat on their surfaces. Each box held a silver napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, ketchup, and mustard.

"This is the main cafeteria," Rupert said. "The food is free and all-you-can-eat. They serve breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midrats here."

My brow furrowed. "Midrats?"

"Midnight rations. You know, for those who work at night."

The food was arranged buffet style with numerous stations. Designated servers, armed with giant forks and spoons, manned each area. It didn't look that bad actually. Fresh vegetables and fruits were few and far between but I saw plenty of meat, eggs, and bread.

"Hey Rupert." A man, dressed in oil-stained overalls and work gloves, walked into the galley. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Did you hear about the
Desolation
?"

"Sure did." Rupert cocked his head. "I thought you were staying with the Sno-Cat."

"What's the point? We're going to be here awhile."

"We are?"

"Janet just ordered a search of all incoming cargo. I guess she's worried about terrorism."

"Shit." Rupert's face paled considerably. "Has she searched my crate yet?"

"No, but—”

Rupert sprinted for the exit just as a trio of young ladies came strolling through it. He smashed into them. As they twisted and careened into the walls, he vanished from sight.

Graham arched an eyebrow. "That must be some crate."

"I'm Cy." I extended my hand. "That's Dutch. Do you live at Kirby too?"

"Jim Peterson." He shook my hand. "Yup, I handle Kirby's maintenance."

"So, what was that all about?"

"Let's just say the Whitlows are protective of their crates."

"What's in them?"

"Don't know. Most scientists get a crate or two per year. The Whitlows get at least one per month." His brow furrowed. "Of course, that's not even the strangest part."

"Oh?"

"I can't figure out where all their stuff goes. They get all these packages and boxes. But their lab never seems to change."

"Must be disposable stuff."

"I might believe that if they ever threw anything out."

"Maybe they use a storage room," Graham suggested.

"Not that I've seen." Peterson turned to leave. "Well, I need to make a few more stops before Rupert and I head back to Kirby. Nice meeting you."

I waited for Peterson to walk away. "That was interesting."

"Fake scientists. An exploding ship. Mysterious crates." Graham frowned. "Just what the hell is going on around here?"

Chapter 10

I put my tray on the table and sat down. "I don't care what Pat says. I'm not leaving here without the Amber Room."

"What's your plan?" Graham asked. "Hide until he forgets about us?"

"Maybe."