Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

On the return trip, her sense of isolation was so complete that anxieties began to grow in her tired mind. Am I walking the wrong direction? she wondered, and, after another five flags, worried, Shouldn’t I be there already?

At last the vague outlines of the two Scott tents loomed from the blowing plumes of snow, followed by the edges of the block wall and the quinzy, and soon she was close enough to see over the wall into the little town of mountain dome tents. She was home. Funny to think of this as home , she mused, as she slithered back down the rabbit hole that led to the quiet warmth of her sleeping bag.

She lay snug in her bag wondering if this was the kind of weather that had brought death to the reporter from the Financial News.

Hours later, she awoke as Doris climbed over her and began hurrying into her clothes. “Nature calls,” said the computer specialist, pulling her last zipper up and disappearing down into the hole. Ten seconds later, she reappeared, popping up like a prairie dog, her eyes huge and her hood and shoulders covered with a fine sifting of snow. “I can only see three flags!” she gasped. Indecision stayed with her but an instant, and she was gone.

Valena listened to the squeaking of many footfalls outside the quinzy. It sounded like most of the rest of the camp was already up.

Michael rolled toward her and presented her with a divine smile. “Good morning,” he said. “It was nice sleeping with you.”

Valena laughed. “You too, Michael.”

“Why don’t you roll up the gear and I’ll get us some nice hot tea,” he said.

“You’ve talked me into it.”

Michael got into his clothes and descended into the hole. He, too, returned a moment later with a fringe of tiny snowflakes. “It’s all the way down to condition 1. I hope Doris isn’t caught halfway out or back,” he said. He headed back down into the tunnel.

“Wait, aren’t you supposed to stay here if you can’t see where you’re going?”

“I’ll follow the wall from the side of the quinzy to the Scott tent,” he called from the tunnel. “I just can’t wait to know what sort of freeze-dried mush awaits us for breakfast.”

Valena slithered into her gear and crawled down the tunnel to take a look. Outside, the world had gone completely white. She could vaguely make out the shapes and colors of other campers struggling to take down the dome tents in the wind, and they were less than ten feet from her. So this is what it was like when Emmett Vanderzee went looking for the chute , she thought. No wonder he couldn’t find it!

Twenty seconds staring into the buffeting void was plenty. Valena dropped back into the tunnel and returned to the snug safety of the snow hut. Alone inside the quinzy, she went about the tasks of packing up the sleep kits. Life had telescoped down to just a few simple necessities. She was at peace.

Her solitude was shattered by the return of Doris, who looked like she’d been dusted with a liberal coating of confectioner’s sugar. She said, “If I ever try that again, tell me to pee my pants instead, okay?” She then dug inside her personal duffel and produced the two-way radio Manny had given her, fiddled with the knobs, and made her call. “I-hut, this is Happy Camp, how read?”

Fine static poured from the speaker.

Doris repeated her call. Five seconds later, Manny’s voice came through the instrument. “Happy Camp, this is I-hut, go ahead.”

“I-hut, we have condition 1, repeat, condition 1. We have the camp almost struck. We are leaving the two Scotts up until we see you. Request early departure. Over.”

“H. C., we have same conditions. We’ll come get you when conditions permit. Until then, stay put, stay hydrated, and eat all the chocolate and oatmeal you can stand. You copy?”

“H. C. copies,” growled Doris.

“Check in each hour on the hour. Over.”

“H. C. copies. Each hour on the hour.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” She stared at the radio for a moment, then added, “Clear.”

“I-hut clear.”

Doris switched off the radio. Her face was a mask of tension. “I’m a computer geek,” she said, as much to herself as to Valena. “What am I doing here?”

“Having the adventure of a lifetime?”

Doris turned her gaze toward Valena. She took a breath and let it out abruptly. Under her breath, she muttered, “Beakers.”

THE FIRST CALLS THAT SIGNALED THE STATE OF EMERgency came shortly before noon. It was the Boss’s voice over the radio that got Dave’s attention. “Challenger 283, this is Fleet Ops, you copy?”

When the Boss was answered only by silence, Dave put down the tool he had been using to break ice off the steps of his own Challenger and headed toward Building 17, the tight little prefabricated unit that housed the offices of Fleet Operations. What was condition 1 out on the ice was condition 2 in Mac Town, which as usual had its own local version of the weather. It lay cuddled in the shadow of surrounding hills, which dampened the winds enough that it was still possible to walk from building to building without the hazard of getting lost. But most of the heavy equipment operators worked out on the sea ice grooming the runways and flag routes. Those who had been on night shift, at work as the storm closed in, had either managed to head back in to McMurdo before visibility got down below four flags or had hunkered down at the runway galleys. Everyone who had come on the day shift in McMurdo had stayed in McMurdo.

Inside Building 17, Dave found Cupcake and a handful of other heavy equipment operators swilling strong coffee and munching stale Chips Ahoy cookies. “Hey, Dave!” Cupcake said. “You manage to keep busy this morning?”

Dave poured himself a cup of coffee. “Yeah.”

“You’re such a good doobie. Whatcha been up ta?”

“This and that.” To change the subject, he said, “I heard Happy Camp is pinned down with condition 1.”

“Naw, they’re on their way in now,” said Wilbur. “It’s starting to lift by the ice runway, too.”

The radio coughed into life again. “Challenger 283, this is Fleet Ops, you got a copy?” His voice had a pleading note to it.

Silence.

Cupcake turned to Dave. “The Boss is calling Steve. Is he out there in this?”

The radio squawked again. “Challenger 283, this is Fleet Ops, come back please.”

Joe said, “He was on night shift out at sea ice runway, but he knows what to do when he can’t see where he’s going. He must be in the galley or something.”

“Yeah,” said Dave. “He knows to stay put and catch up on his sleep.”

“Then why ain’t he responding?” Wilbur asked. “He ain’t such a heavy sleeper.”

The radio crackled again. “Challenger 283, this is Fleet Ops, come back please.”

A thin static filled their ears, but no reply from Steve.

Wilbur said, “He don’t usually ask ‘please.’ Sumpin’s up.”

Dave stood up and moved into the Boss’s office, which had a window that looked out over the sea ice. The scene was still dark with storm clouds. A hundred yards down the hill from the building, he could just make out the blurred form of someone trudging up the hill toward the post office, leaning into the wind, parka hood up and cinched close to the nose.

The Boss sat at his desk with the radio microphone in his hand. He looked up as if drawn from deep thoughts. “You heard from Steve this morning, Dave?”

“No, I have not.” He looked out the window. A gust of wind was abating, and he could see a dance of swirling snow that led clear down the hill onto the ice. “I can see the tails on the Hercs sticking up out of the blow. It’s clearing up.”