Текст книги "Zodiac Station"

Автор книги: Tom Harper

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Fourteen

Kennedy

I wanted to get to DAR-X. As luck would have it, my chance came the next morning. Danny had baked them a cake as a thank-you for rescuing Greta and Tom Anderson from the ice cap. Jensen was going to fly it down; I volunteered to go too.

I can see the look on your face. You think we were mad to fly a cake a hundred kilometres, a cake made with liquid eggs and powdered milk at that. But Utgard’s frontier country; it’s the little courtesies that make life bearable. People put a lot of effort into them. Sometimes they might even save your life.

‘Make sure you’re back by seventeen hundred,’ Quam told me. ‘The plane’s coming. We’ll need you to load up Anderson.’

I didn’t like the thought of Anderson flying, and I told him so.

‘Anderson should be in a hospital,’ he lectured me. ‘We don’t have the facilities to treat him here.’

I didn’t agree. Whatever benefit he’d get from a hospital, it didn’t balance out the risk of putting him on a plane. Anderson was stable, and his signs were encouraging. I’d started to hope there’d be no lasting damage. But I wasn’t the base commander.

So I climbed in the helicopter with a big Tupperware container full of cake. Bob Eastman came too He’s an astrophysicist; he’d been getting electrical interference with his instruments and wanted to see if it could have come from the DAR-X equipment.

‘What’s your theory?’ he asked, as soon as we were airborne.

‘My theory?’

‘Hagger – Anderson. You don’t think it’s a coincidence?’

‘What else?’

‘Well for one, Danny’s pretty sure it was the Freemasons. He’s just trying to figure out if they did it off their own bat, or if it was for their alien overlords.’

Danny, the cook, is the nicest man in the world. But he has the most extraordinary world view, and he isn’t backward about sharing it.

‘I asked him once why he stays at Zodiac if it’s so full of Illuminati types,’ Eastman said. ‘You know what he said? “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” You think he really believes that shit?’

‘Sometimes it’s comforting to believe you’re helpless before a higher power.’

Eastman chuckled. ‘Maybe it’s the frickin’ aliens messing with my instruments.’

I said Utgard is frontier country. If so, Echo Bay was the pioneer camp, deep in Indian territory. The only permanent structure was the drill rig, a ten-storey steel gantry erected on the ice in the bay. Thick hawsers tied it down like a ship’s rigging; yellow plastic pipes snaked out of a hole in the ice. Beside it, steam rose from three enormous black silos clustered behind a chain-link fence. Everything else was strictly temporary: canvas tents, a few shipping containers and some corrugated-iron huts. Even those looked like they were being dismantled.

The man in charge was a big Texan called Bill Malick. I half imagined he’d be wearing a ten-gallon hat, but of course it was too cold for that. I presented him with the cake and said a few nice words about how grateful we were. Jensen took photographs for the blog as Eastman and Malick posed with a knife and cut it on top of an oil drum, out in the snow. It’s the sort of thing the comms people in Norwich love.

‘No one’s gonna realise the fucking cake’s frozen,’ said Malick. He took me inside their mess quarters, a wooden Portakabin that was the most solid building there, and gave me coffee. Eastman disappeared to talk to their radio engineer.

I pointed out the window to the huge drill rig in the bay. ‘Hit the gusher yet?’

‘That’s commercially sensitive information.’ He smiled. ‘Not that I don’t trust you, you understand.’

I thought about what Fridge had told me. ‘You really think there’s oil under Utgard?’

‘That’s what they pay me to find out.’

‘Or is it natural gas you hope to find?’

He never stopped smiling – but the smile was a hard one. ‘You looking to buy shares?’

I made an imaginary money-rubbing gesture with my fingers. ‘They don’t pay me enough.’

He saluted me with his cup of coffee. ‘Amen. I guess they didn’t pay your guy Hagger enough, either.’

‘They surely didn’t,’ I agreed.

‘You ever figure out the whole story with that?’

I gave him a sharp look. But all Texans are poker players, and his face gave nothing away.

‘We’re hoping it was just an accident,’ I said carefully.

‘But …?’

‘You were up on the Helbreen that day.’

He put his cup down with a bang. ‘Are you …?’

‘I wondered if you’d seen anything,’ I said. Innocence itself. ‘Hagger was an experienced fellow. We’re trying to learn lessons.’

That was plausible. With someone like Quam in charge, lessons must always be learned. Measures taken, safeguards put in place. Even if the lesson is: Don’t step into a feckin’ great crevasse.

Malick leaned back. ‘Even the most experienced guys, it only takes one bad move. We had a crew chief, Earl, he’d worked twenty years at Prudhoe Bay. He was up north last September, poking around the old Soviet harbour. Took off his coat because I guess he was sweating, piece of debris fell on his head and that was it. Must’ve only been out five minutes, but the coat blew away and he froze to death. We never even found the coat.’ He swirled his coffee. ‘It’s easy, dying in a place like this.’

In his Texas drawl, it sounded like a line from a country and western song.

‘What took you up that end of the island on Saturday?’

‘R & R. Project’s nearly done, we’re going home this weekend. Figured we’d get some skiing done before we leave.’

‘On the Helbreen?’

‘Further down – in the Adventhal. On the way back, we stopped by Vitangelsk, the Commie ghost town. One of our guys was near there a couple of weeks ago, said he saw lights at night.’

He saw my expression. ‘I know, right? One too many beers.’

‘Did you find any nasties?’

‘Stalin’s ghost singing the Internationale.’ He laughed. ‘Just snow and crap. Same as everyplace else on this island.’

Eastman still hadn’t come back. Malick upended his mug and drained the last of his coffee, then put it down with a conclusive thud. He looked ready to go.

‘I heard Martin Hagger did some work for you,’ I said, as casually as I could.

Malick nodded. ‘Water quality. It wasn’t a big deal. Something under the ice was corroding our pipes. We asked if there was anyone at Zodiac who could take a look at it, and your boss sent Hagger.’

‘Did he find anything out?’

‘He ran some samples. Apparently it was a bug, some kind of plankton or something. Waters are getting warmer here, sea-ice cover’s thinning. He said it makes sense something new would evolve to take advantage.’

I glanced out the window again at the drill rig. If Fridge had told the truth, it wasn’t oil flowing through those yellow pipes. Commercially sensitive information. But would you kill for that?

Malick followed my gaze. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

‘Really?’

‘Melting icebergs and baby seals and all the rest of that Sierra Club shit. You think this job’s easy? Tell someone you work in oil exploration, it’s like you’re telling them you got rabies. Tell them you’re prospecting in the Arctic, and they want to put a bullet in you. They act like we’re up here drowning polar bear cubs in barrels of oil.’

‘You don’t deny the planet’s changing.’

Malick wiped a smear of cake icing off his beard. ‘Have you been up in the mountains? Seen any of the old mines?’ I nodded. ‘You know what they used to dig there?’

‘I heard it was coal?’

‘And you know what coal is, right? It’s dead trees. Same way, if we find oil here it’ll be dead plants from two hundred million years ago. You see any swamps and forests here now?’

‘Of course not.’

‘This planet’s always changing. I’ve been in a cave a hundred feet under a glacier, and seen a leaf fossil printed on a rock. There were trees here before the glaciers, and when it’s gone maybe they’ll grow back. You think at the end of the last ice age, when those hairy-assed Neanderthals looked out their cave one day and saw the ice had gone, they blamed each other for making the glaciers melt, or started a Save the Mammoth campaign? Hell no. They got off their cold butts and started to hunt.’

We’d stayed so long they felt obliged to give us lunch. Eastman and Malick talked about something called March Madness, which I gathered was to do with basketball. Some team called the Huskies had been doing well, which gave rise to some obvious topical jokes. I smiled along, and considered what I knew.

Hagger had obviously had plenty of opportunity to give information to DAR-X. From what I knew of his work, it involved plenty of chemistry, so he surely could have understood the data. And then DAR-X had been near the Helbreen glacier, probably the only people at that end of the island, when he died.

That still didn’t explain how they could have got to Anderson. But all I had for what happened to him was Annabel’s word. Annabel and Hagger had been close – that was common knowledge. And she should have been his partner the day he died. Could they both have been in on it?

I worked on the theory. Annabel and Hagger had been passing secrets to DAR-X – but then he got cold feet and wanted to stop. That was why she’d been so cross with him when she came back this season. The two of them went to the Helbreen to rendezvous with DAR-X, he threatened to expose them, and she pushed him into the crevasse. Then took out Anderson for good measure.

I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want to think the worst of them. But that’s the problem with Zodiac. All the thoughts that anchor you in real life, the routines and the friendships, go out the window. Nature abhors a vacuum: something has to evolve to fill the gap. And often it isn’t very nice.

* * *

We had one stop to make on the way home. There’s an old hut at Seal Point, about sixty kilometres up the coast from Zodiac on the east side. They built it in 1953 for the International Polar Year; four unlucky scientists spent thirteen months there recording the weather. Legend has it when the relief party came, three of them were living in an igloo eating seal meat, and one was holed up in the cabin with his rifle.

After that, the hut was abandoned. But a few years ago, the base commander of the day decided to refurbish it as a holiday cottage for scientists who wanted a break. I’ve sent one or two people there myself, when I thought they needed to get off the Platform. It’s a picture-postcard place: little red cabin nestled in a hollow, tin chimney poking out of the roof and snow-capped mountains behind. All that spoils the scene is the barbed wire strung around the windows. You need it to keep out the bears.

We’d come to drop off emergency supplies. Jensen and Eastman left a couple of fuel drums in the cache, while I went inside to check the first-aid box for anything that had expired. It’s a strange feeling, being the first person in a place that hasn’t been touched in months. All the windows were shuttered, though sunlight wormed around the cracks creating a sort of amber twilight. Just the one room. Two bunks on each wall – the lower ones doubled as benches for the table that folded down between them. A tall cast-iron stove, vintage 1953, stood in the corner like one of those Victorian grave markers, next to a cupboard. On the wall, a woman crouched in her bra and knickers and made come-hither eyes at me. She must have been cold, wearing so little. She’d been torn from a magazine, though she still looked good. I think it was Cat Deeley.

A tin of corned beef lay open on the table, spoon lolling inside it, as if someone had been here moments ago and just popped out. I could smell smoke in the air.

I stepped over the threshold – and almost fell on my arse. A thin slick of ice covered the floor. I suppose snow must have blown in, melted when they lit the stove, and then froze again.

I found the medicine box in the cupboard and went through it, checking the contents against the list, filtering the out-of-date stuff. A couple of the morphine bottles were missing, which worried me. Probably an oversight, but I made a note to tell Quam. You don’t want people shooting up out there.

I finished, but the smoke smell still bothered me. The biggest risk at Zodiac is fire. You wouldn’t think it, surrounded by ice and snow, but it’s so dry that once fire takes hold it doesn’t let go. Well, we found that out, as you know.

I opened the stove, just in case. You’re supposed to sweep it out before you go, but this was full of ash. Fine, white and spindly: they’d been burning paper, not coal or wood. They must have left in a hurry. A few fragments hadn’t burned properly.

I reached in. The feathery ashes crumbled under my touch. My hand came out grey with soot, clutching a charred corner of green cardboard. It looked like the cover of the notebook Anderson found up on the glacier.

Fifteen

Kennedy

‘You all set?’

I spun round as if I’d been caught stealing from the church box. It was only Eastman.

‘We’re done with the fuel dump.’ He saw my hand covered in ash. ‘Did you start a fire?’

‘Just checking for safety.’ I clanged the stove door shut. ‘We’d better get back. The plane’ll be coming soon.’

I slipped the cardboard fragment in my coat pocket and hoped Eastman hadn’t seen it. Paranoia was in full flow: I sat tight in the helicopter, silent with my thoughts, while Eastman and Jensen chattered away. Below us, the helicopter’s shadow chased over the frozen ocean, rippling on the bumpy surface. I thought about the vast pressures seething under the ice, crushing and pulling in every direction, and those little wrinkles that were the only outward sign.

The moment we landed, I hurried to the medical room. Anderson lay on the bed, still out, fogging the mask with his breath. I was surprised how relieved I felt. If someone had tried to kill him once, what was to say they wouldn’t try again.

I opened the drawer where I’d put Hagger’s notebook. And – nothing. It sat exactly where I’d left it: green cover, graphs, all the pages. I had to touch it to be sure it was real.

So what got burned?

I compared it to the fragment of green card I’d rescued from the stove. No question, they came from the same batch. Same colour, same thickness.

Hagger might have had more than one notebook. I might even have seen them, lined up against the wall in his lab. I went down and put my head round the door. If there had ever been notebooks there, they were gone now. A big glass flask sat where I remembered them, as if trying to fill the space.

I went to the front door and examined the field log. It was a long shot, and it didn’t come off. No one had helpfully signed out that they were going to the cabin to destroy Hagger’s research. Just the usual comings and goings. The thing with the cabin is, anyone could go there without being noticed. An hour or so by snowmobile, a quick blaze and then home.

As I said before, bad thoughts grow like weeds. Each time the Platform creaked in the wind, I jumped like a schoolgirl. Back in the medical room, I popped a diazepam to calm myself down. I don’t often self-medicate – but I was trembling badly; my heart was threatening to run off with me. I locked the notebook in the cabinet where I keep the hard stuff. I was about to add the piece from the cabin, when something made me give it one last look.

I squinted at it, and as it caught the light I saw tiny indentations. Writing. Grey pencil on green card, hard to make out under the muck from the furnace. I blew off the soot, trying not to smudge it any more, and angled the card to the light.

Does Ash know where it’s going?

‘Is he ready?’

Greta had come in without me noticing. It happened a lot, that sort of thing – it’s how Zodiac was. No locks on the doors, not even the medical room. I looked to see if Greta had seen what I’d been doing. If she had, she didn’t comment. She never gave anything away.

‘Plane’s coming,’ she said. ‘Help me move him?’

We wrapped him up the best we could manage and stretchered him down the steps. The Sno-Cat was waiting, engine running to keep the cab warm. We loaded Anderson in the back; Hagger’s body went strapped to a sled behind it, wrapped up in a body bag I’d found at the back of a cupboard. Greta drove as carefully as she could, but the old beast wasn’t built for a soft ride. A couple of times, I almost had to throw myself on top of Anderson to keep him from hitting the ceiling.

The plane was already there. We loaded the two men on-board – Anderson in the front, Hagger in the hold – and waved it off. Soon, it was just a speck in the clouds.

USCGC Terra Nova

‘Wait a minute.’ Franklin had been standing, pacing the room while Kennedy talked. ‘You’re telling me that Anderson was shipped home from Zodiac?’

‘You sound surprised, Captain. Find the body, did you?’

‘We …’ Franklin gathered his thoughts. ‘No. Not yet. But we had, uh, indications he was still on Utgard.’

Behind the bandages, Kennedy’s mouth tightened. ‘Did you, now? I can jump to the end of my story, if you like.’

Franklin checked his pager. Still nothing on Eastman. Under his feet, he could feel the familiar rise and fall as the Terra Nova’s bow rode up on the ice, then crushed down through it. They were making good headway.

‘You go on.’

Kennedy

Quam met me when I got back to the Platform. ‘Is he away safely?’

I tugged off my mittens and fiddled with my boots. ‘Away – yes. Safe …’ I shrugged. ‘If anything happens to him, it’s on your conscience.’

‘It’s for the best. He can get the care he needs, and we can get on with the job.’ He touched me awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘You know I’m right, Sean.’

I excused myself. I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I didn’t enjoy his company. He knew his status, and wanted you to know it too. I didn’t mind that so much – a base commander should keep his distance, or he’s courting trouble – but he made an exception for me. Treated me like some kind of confidant, as though we shared something we didn’t. To tell the truth, it made me slightly sick.

I’d just got back into the medical room and was starting to clear up when Greta came in.

‘Anderson had a kid,’ she said. ‘Has anyone told him?’

‘I wouldn’t know …’

‘Anderson Skyped him from the radio room. Guest account. You can log in and get the details.’

‘Go for it,’ I told her.

She didn’t move. ‘If his dad’s in a coma, he should hear it from a doctor.’

‘Anderson will be in England in twenty-four hours. No point worrying the boy.’

‘Maybe he should be worried.’

Our eyes met; I understood what she was getting at. She wanted him prepared in case the worst happened.

‘He’ll be fine,’ I insisted.

‘Are you sure?’

I headed to the radio room and logged in to the computer, opened Skype and found the last conversation. I clicked the button and waited, hoping he wouldn’t answer.

The screen came alive. A boy, probably about eight years old, with an eager smile that flicked off when he saw my face.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Dr Kennedy.’ I cleared my throat. For all the courses they give you on your bedside manner, nobody ever covers how to break bad news over the Internet to a boy you’ve never met. ‘I’m the doctor at Zodiac Station, where your daddy’s been working.’

He stared at me.

‘I’m just calling to let you know there’s been a little accident. Your daddy fell and banged his head. He’s coming home. He’s fine.’

He stared at me.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ I said. Repeating myself. ‘He’s just hurt himself a little bit.’

He glanced over his shoulder. In the background, I heard a woman’s voice calling, ‘Is that Daddy?’

The boy shook his head. A moment later, a harassed-looking woman appeared over his shoulder, peering closely at the camera. ‘Who is this?’

‘My name’s Sean Kennedy. I’m the doctor—’

Over my head, one of the radios crackled.

‘Why are you talking to my nephew?’

‘Zodiac Station, this is Tango Oscar two niner.’

I looked up, trying to work out where the interruption was coming from.

‘Daddy’s hurt,’ the boy told the woman.

‘Is Tom all right?’ The woman leaned in so close her face filled the screen. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Zodiac Station, please come in.’ Even squawking through the radio, I could hear panic in the voice. ‘We have an emergency situation.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

Greta pushed in to the tiny room. She must have been listening outside. She grabbed a microphone.

‘What’s your status, Tango Oscar two niner?’

‘Zodiac Station, we have a critical equipment malfunction.’

‘We’ll call you back,’ I told the woman.

‘Can you make it to Longyearbyen?’ Greta asked.

‘Negative, Zodiac. Longyearbyen is out of range. We’re returning to Utgard. Please stand by for emergency landing.’

‘Is Daddy OK?’ said a forlorn voice from the computer.

We all gathered at the airstrip. Even Danny came, squeezed into a parka he’d borrowed from Fridge. The only one that fit. Greta ransacked the base for every fire extinguisher she could find and loaded them in the back of the Sno-Cat.

Eastman manned the radio, though there wasn’t much chat – just occasional terse position updates. I guessed the pilot had better things to worry about. Across the runway, Fridge climbed a ladder and smashed ice off the windsock. The moment he freed it, it started snapping and jerking like an angry dog.

‘Bad crosswind,’ said Greta, as you might talk about the weather with the postman.

Behind the runway, you could see plumes of snow lifting off the mountains. The wind cut through us, freezing any skin it touched. Quam’s right: everyone loves the drama of a rescue, and the biggest danger is often to the rescuers. I made them all get back in the Sno-Cat – everyone except Greta and Quam – until the plane was on approach. I pulled the hood of my parka over my hat, and Velcroed the flaps over my jaw. The world shrank, blurred at the edges by the fur trim on the hood whipping in the wind.

Bundled up like that, I didn’t hear the plane. Greta did. She tugged my arm; a moment later, Eastman waved from the Sno-Cat’s cabin. I scanned the southern sky with my binoculars. The clouds hid the plane and the wind made my eyes tear: by the time I found it, it was nearly on top of us.

Something was badly wrong. The plane bounced around the sky like a kite. One propeller wasn’t turning at all. I kept waiting for it to stabilise, to flatten out into its approach. If anything, it got worse. It looked as though the pilot had no control at all.

The others got out of the Sno-Cat and spread out along the runway clutching fire extinguishers. Fridge sat on a snowmobile, engine running.

It came over the shore – too fast, it seemed to me. The wind whistled off the glacier – heavy, katabatic wind, the weight of cold air pushing down from the high ground. A gust hit the plane. It jerked back then dropped forward.

It was too close to the ground. The front ski tip hit the snow, tore off and got left behind. The plane bellyflopped on to the runway and skidded across, white clouds billowing behind. Could have been smoke or snow. Greta jumped on the back of the snowmobile; Fridge gunned the engine and raced after it. The rest of us followed, struggling with the heavy fire extinguishers. I thought I heard Quam shouting at us to stay back, that it was too dangerous, but no one paid any attention.

It takes a lot to stop a plane sliding over what’s effectively an ice rink. It reached the end of the groomed ski way, past the marker flags, and kept going. Snow mounded up around the nose; suddenly, the plane slewed around ninety degrees. The wings shook so hard I thought they’d snap off. The propeller churned snow into a blizzard.

The Twin Otter shuddered to a halt. One propeller spun in the wind, the other engine poured out smoke. Fridge jumped off the snowmobile and started dousing the engine. Greta ran to the fuselage door and tore it open.

The rest of us had finally caught up. We let rip with our fire extinguishers until the plane was so doused with foam it looked as if we’d buried it in a snowdrift. In retrospect, it’s a shame we were so enthusiastic.

Quam arrived, flapping his arms, trying to shoo us back. I ducked away, and ran round the other side. The door was open, lying flat in the snow. I crawled in and looked around.

It was a mess. Boxes and bits of kit had been thrown about as though a tornado had hit. Smoke and snow blew through the cabin. I smelled kerosene from somewhere near my feet.

Anderson was the only untouched thing in that chaos. He lay on the stretcher where I’d loaded him up a couple of hours earlier, arms folded across his chest like a dead man.