Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

“Did Cal go with him?”

“Yes.”

“And when the plane first made its drop, did you have radio contact with the pilots?”

“Yeah, through Mac Ops, we did. They reported seeing the chute open, but they couldn’t see our tents. And we couldn’t see a damned thing.”

“You needed the ropes to find your way ten feet from tent to tent.”

“Right. That or that GPS they had.”

“Who had?”

“Emmett and Cal.”

“I see. So what was it like when Emmett couldn’t find the bundle?”

Dave shook his head. “He was frantic. He kept pacing up and down in the cook tent, looking out every few minutes to see if it had let up.”

“Did you tell all this to the feds?”

He shook his head. “They didn’t ask me.”

“What? They came down here and arrested Emmett but didn’t speak to all the witnesses?”

“I hear they talked to Willy once.” He smiled at the thought. “I guess they decided us Fleet Ops guys aren’t too smart.” He chuckled. “Anyways, I suppose they meant to question me, but I was doing my shift at Pegasus, and about then they got their weather window to fly up to the high camp, and…well, that was the last I saw of any of them, including Emmett.” His smile faded. “I wished I had spoken to them, now. Maybe I could have helped.”

Ice surrounded them on every side.

“Anything else you need to ask me?” asked Dave.

“Yeah,” said Valena. “Why did you come here?”

Dave pondered her question a moment, then, with his usual easy smile, said, “Well, I was at something of a cross-roads,” and left it at that.

They reached another point of land, one less shrouded with snow or ice. Black volcanic rock protruded everywhere through shallow drifts of snow. The Haaglund drove a short distance up the rocky slope and pulled to a stop. Dave parked the Pisten Bully next to it.

The landscape was humpy and confusing, a maze of lava flows. They unloaded Valena’s gear and started up a steep hill over knobs of black volcanic rock all knotty with dark crystals the size of Valena’s fingernails. Far away to the left, she could hear a strange chattering noise. “What’s that sound?” she asked.

“Penguins,” said Matt. “Come on, let’s get your gear stowed, and then if it’s okay with Nat, we can go see the birds.”

“You need a permit?”

“You most definitely need a permit,” said Matt. “Nat Lanthrope’s your man, so you’d better smile prettily and convince him you’re not out to mess with his birds.”

At the top of the rise, a small valley opened out among the naked rocks, facing north toward the Ross Sea and the Southern Ocean. Endless ice rolled out before them, for the winter’s pack ice had yet to break. It was a landscape of contrasts: white on black, snow and ice on darkest rock. To the south, the slopes of Mount Erebus rose toward a steaming summit, their own private Fujiyama.

Tucked into the lee of a curl of crumbling rock stood a large tent with a wooden frame. To one side of the entrance stood a large solar collector mounted on a staff with cables running off it into the tent.

“Ahoy, Nat!” called Matt.

A young woman stepped out to greet them. “Hey there. Nat’s out taking his afternoon constitutional. I’m Jeannie Powers, Nat’s assistant. I know important things, like where the chocolate bars are hidden.”

Matt returned to the Pisten Bully to unload the drill. Dave and Jeannie helped Valena pitch her tent on a broad patch of disintegrating lava, fighting a nattering wind that wanted to take it off the cliff onto the pack ice. Jeannie showed them how to scout first the least abrasive rocks to use as dead men inside the tent and, next, rocks of just the right size to hold down the guylines and secure the rain fly.

“It doesn’t rain here,” said Jeannie, “but you’ll need the fly for the warmth, and to make it just a little bit less bright inside, so you can hope to sleep. The latrine is that drum-and-bucket arrangement up against the side of Nat’s tent. Dry Valley Protocols here, which means liquids in the fifty-five-gallon drum and you-know-what in the bucket. They gave you a pee bottle?”

Valena produced the quart Nalgene bottle Nancy had given her that morning. It had PEE written in several places around the sides of the bottle and a large letter P boldly emblazoned on its cap. “I guess they want to make sure I don’t confuse it with my water bottle.”

Jeannie nodded. “You’ll get the hang of it. Superior bladder control is the key to Antarctic survival. That, and good aim.”

Valena stared at the latrine with concern. The right side of the bucket was up against the bank of lava and the back was to the tent, but the front and left sides faced the view.

“We don’t get many visitors,” said Jeannie dismissively, turning her attention to Valena’s sleep kit. “It really hasn’t been that cold out at night, only down to about ten Fahrenheit.”

“Downright balmy,” said Valena. She knelt down and unrolled the mats and sleeping bag into the tent, then shoved her personal duffel over into the windward side to supply additional deadman weight. She then gathered up her camera and climbed out of the tent. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome. I’m going to get back to my work,” said Jeannie. She headed back into the frame tent, leaving Valena and Dave alone together.

Valena faced into the wind that was blowing off the frozen ocean. “Lovely day.”

“Care to take a walk?” said Dave. “Maybe visit another archaeological treasure?”

Valena nodded, and they began their stroll down among the odd volcanic rocks of Cape Royds. “It’s weird walking between lava flows,” said Valena.

“Is that what this is? Lava flows? Why are these so black? They’re darker than the rocks over by McMurdo.”

“Different flows. The darker lavas have more minerals that are rich in iron and magnesium—olivine, amphibole, pyroxene. The lighter-colored ones, like you’d get in the Andes, or the Cascades, have more feldspar and even quartz, which lack the iron and magnesium.”

Dave laughed. “Really? It minds me of double-chocolate cookie dough. What are those big crystals sticking out all over the place? The chocolate chips.”

Valena leaned down and picked up a handful. “You mean the phenocrysts.”

“That’s a pretty big word. What’s it mean? Big crystal?”

“Pretty much. It means, ‘crystal big enough to see with the naked eye.’ So much for trying to boggle the imaginations of wandering tractor drivers. But they’re nice phenocrysts, eh? And it’s interesting…they seem to crumble out to an even size, about like peas.”

Dave gave her a saucy grin. “It’s cute the way you scientists get all wound up about grit and critter glue and things.”

Valena took a playful swipe at him. He dodged.

They continued down the narrow pathway between the knots and lumps of rock, now following the increasing sound of birds as much as footprints. The trail zigged and zagged and finally opened up into a natural amphitheater. Beyond it, along the sea cliffs, the rocks were peppered with black birds with white bellies. The few who were standing upright were less than two feet tall. The other birds all lay on their nests, bellies down, beaks pointing south into the wind.

They stopped and watched the birds for a while at a line of do-not-pass signs that announced the boundary of the penguin colony. Dave said, “They look like two-tone rugby balls.”

“And how about that ruckus they’re making,” said Valena.

“Like a couple thousand squirrels screaming at someone who’s trying to steal their nuts.”

“There you are,” said Matt, striding up from their left. “Let’s check out the hut.”