Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

The clock was ticking. Thoughts and associations cascaded through Valena’s mind. Did these men trust her? Could she ever hope to have a life as comfortably structured as theirs, with its built-in sense of belonging? She hadn’t always known what she wanted to do with her life, and in fact wondered if she was all that sure even now. She looked Master Sergeant Lansing up and down, taking in every inch of his uniform. She had considered joining the military—melting into something larger than herself, the ultimate extended family of choice—but had opted instead for scientific pursuits. She said, “Cool. Well, I’ve got to find the radio station.”

“Mac Ops is down that way. Come back anytime, we love the company.”

ONE MORE KINK DOWN THE HALLWAY, VALENA FOUND the transmitter station: a room filled desktop to ceiling with radio equipment.

The array of switches, microphones, telephone handsets, computer monitors, and lighted dials wrapped around two sides of the room, and charts labeled SEA ICE MAP and LANDING LOCATIONS were tacked to the remaining wall spaces. A young woman sat at the center of the desk eating a brownie and sipping from a quart-sized Nalgene water bottle. She turned around in her chair and smiled at Valena. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes, please. I understand that I can call people in a field camp from here.”

“Sure. Who do you need to call?”

“His name is Dan Lindemann. He’s somewhere in the Dry Valleys.”

“There are nine different events out in the Dry Valleys right now. Do you know which one?”

Valena’s brain suddenly felt tired. “No.”

“Is he the PI?”

“The principal investigator? I don’t think so.”

“What category of event, then?”

“As in…”

“Geology, glaciology, biology…”

“Glaciology.”

“Well, that narrows it down. Let’s see…” She hit a couple of keys on her computer and referred to a list. “He’s out on Clark Glacier with Naomi Bosch. Do you want me to get him on the radio for you?”

“Radio?”

Just then, a slightly garbled, static-ridden voice came in over a speaker. “Mac Ops, Mac Ops, this is Whiskey-218 on Mount Aurora, how read?”

“Excuse me a moment,” the woman told Valena, then leaned toward her microphone and keyed it. “Go ahead, 218.”

“Can you pass a message to the Boss at Fleet Ops? Over.”

“That’s affirmative, 218. Standing by to take your message. Over.”

“Message follows: Sorry, cannot make Black Island traverse. Over.”

“Let me read that back. Cannot make Black Island traverse. Is that correct?”

“Please emphasize my gratitude for the opportunity. I hate to miss it. Thanks for your help. Whiskey-218 clear.”

“Mac Ops clear.” The woman glanced at a clock. “Naomi’s event number is 1-299. They’re due to check in at eighteen hundred, but they’re a drilling camp, so somebody’s usually near the radio. Do you want me to whistle them back?”

Valena said, “I take it if I talk to them on the radio, that’s not very private.”

The woman shook her head. “Depending on conditions, about half of the continent can hear you. Or should I say, everyone who’s tuned in to that frequency.” She smiled uncertainly, wanting to please. “It is the main frequency for all the science events in that area.”

Valena’s heart sank. The discussion she needed to have with Dan Lindemann was not for anyone else to hear. She stared at her feet, trying to figure out what to do next.

The radio operator asked, “Do you need to get a private message to them?”

“Yeah.”

“You can write it out and take it down the Helo Ops. Maybe they have someone stopping in that camp sometime soon, and they could drop it off. I’m not sure when you’d get your reply, but it’s better than nothing. Oh, wait.” She tapped a few more keys on her computer. “No, sorry. I was thinking maybe they had an iridium phone out there, or Internet, but they don’t have them at that camp.”

A hundred miles from the nearest flush toilet, but they might have satellite phones or Internet , thought Valena. “Where’s Helo Ops?”

“Just down the hill. You can’t miss it.”

IT TOOK VALENA SEVERAL MINUTES TO FIND HER WAY back out of the building and through the maze of trails and pipelines that led to the road down to the helicopter pads, but at last she succeeded, managing not to slip on any of the ice-glazed banks of snow she had to surmount to make her shortcuts. She could see four helicopters, two larger ones with four blades and two smaller ones with only two blades. She found her way past a dive locker and a gymnasium to the building that housed the offices and storage bays for the helicopter crews. It was closed. Of course , thought Valena. It’s Sunday, everybody’s day off.

She turned and looked back up at Mac Town. The tumbling architecture of Crary Lab, which had been built in steps coming down the steep hill, seemed forbidding, a palace for people whose professors did not get arrested. She stood for a while with her hands in the warming pockets of her big red, trying to decide what to do next. Back to the galley , she decided. It’s almost dinnertime now, and maybe I can find Major Bentley there. Everybody has to eat. But first, I’ll stop through Crary and see if there are replies to my e-mails.

At Crary, she found only junk mail. Ten losses at computer solitaire followed, further depressing her mood. Finally, she went online and noodled around on the New York Financial News Web site, discovering what she could about Morris Sweeny. Little of significance appeared from her search. He hadn’t been at the paper long before he came to Antarctica and died. But then she noticed something odd: none of his articles were about science. He appeared to report primarily on politics. So why jump onto this story? she wondered. Because it’s political?

HALF AN HOUR LATER, VALENA ONCE AGAIN BEHELD THE dining room of the galley, this time holding a tray laden with pork chops, canned vegetables, and two desserts. She stared across the room, trying to figure out which of the uniformed personnel present flew the LC-130s. She felt an urge to march back over to Cupcake’s room and demand that Ted point out Major Bentley, but she imagined that Cupcake and Ted were by now either pretty well gassed up and taking the kind of flight that doesn’t leave the room or sleeping the good sleep that should follow it.

At last she sorted out the insignia on the fatigues worn by several of the people who were sitting at the table nearest the coffee urns and soft-serve ice cream dispenser. There were no empty chairs at the table, but Valena sucked up her courage and said, “Hi, I’m looking for Major Bentley.”

A man with a graying buzz-cut and military-short mustache leaned back and gave her a friendly smile. He swatted one of his mates on the elbow and said, “Hey, you were just leaving, give the lady your seat.”

The man jumped up, nodded courteously, and disappeared with his empty tray.

Valena sat down. “Are you Major Bentley?”

“Nope. He’s not here. Anything I can help you with?”

“Know where I can find him?”

A slender woman dressed in olive drab fatigues said, “He’s in New Zealand. He’ll be back tomorrow, weather permitting, though the weather does not look like it’s going to permit tomorrow.”

“Anything I can help you with?” repeated Buzz-Cut, leaning toward her with growing interest.

Valena looked at his rank insignia. A seven-pointed leaf. Did that indicate that he was a major? “Ah… well, I’m with… I understand that he—”

A woman with sleepy green eyes who was wearing a dark blue uniform appeared at the table. “Hey, is Waylon coming back tomorrow?” she inquired. “I’m just dying for a vegetable that didn’t come out of a can.”