Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Eleanor bowed her head in despair. “We are not their prisoners. They are not our captors. This is not the war.”

But when she looked up, she saw that for Sinclair, it was, and would always be, the war. Even if the physical need were relieved, the affliction had struck its roots so deep into his soul that there would be no extracting them, ever. Even then, with sweat beading his brow and his skin clammy to the touch, he staggered up, as obediently as if a bugle had sounded, and pulled on his coat and gloves. She waited, praying for the medicine to further sap his strength, but he seemed to be using all of his willpower to fight its effects.

“Sinclair! Have you heard a word I've been saying? We can't go out there unprotected.”

“Then in God's name, button up!” he said, grabbing her by the sleeve of her own coat. She just had time to snatch the brooch from the bedside table before he dragged her from the sick bay. “It's a lovely day outside.”

He lumbered down the hall and threw open the door to the outside ramp. Sunlight glinted off the snow and ice, and Eleanor instinctively pulled the goggles from her coat pocket and put them on.

“The dogs are already in harness,” he said, with satisfaction. “I made sure of that first.”

He had? How long had he been haunting the camp?

He was clambering down the ramp with Eleanor in tow, when he suddenly stopped short and said, “Of all the damn bloody nuisances…”

Eleanor had pulled the hood of her coat tightly over her face, but when she peeked out from under it she saw Michael-slack-jawed-standing a few yards away a black metal contraption with three legs tucked under one arm. He seemed to be trying to make some sense of what he was seeing.

“If I were you,” Sinclair said, “I'd turn tail now and run.”

Michael's eyes went straight to Eleanor's, searching for some answer.

Sinclair pushed the flap of his overcoat away, revealing the saber that hung at his side, but when he tried to move off, Michael hastily blocked their path.

“Good God, I'm in a hurry!” Sinclair exploded, as if he were scolding a slow-witted stableboy Letting go of Eleanor's arm, he pulled the sword from its scabbard. “Now get out of the way,” he said, brandishing the sword in the gleam of the polar sun, “or I'll drop you where you stand.”

“Michael,” Eleanor interceded, “do as he says!”

“Eleanor, you can't be out here! You have to get back inside!”

Sinclair's eyes flashed at the exchange, and moved from one of them to the other. But when they returned to Michael, they burned with a cold fury.

“Perhaps I've been blind,” he said, advancing on Michael with the tip of the sword extended.

To Eleanor's horror, Michael did not retreat, but raised the metal contraption-it had three legs, like an artist's easel-and held it out like a weapon.

This was madness, she thought, utter madness.

“You can go,” Michael said, standing his ground. “I won't try to stop you. But Eleanor stays.”

“So that is what this is about.” Sinclair sneered. “You're a bigger fool than I thought.”

“Maybe you're right,” Michael said, taking a step closer, “but that's the deal.”

Sinclair paused, as if mulling it over, then suddenly lunged at Michael, the sword whistling through the air. The blade struck the legs of the tripod, and blue sparks flew into the air. Michael fell back, struggling to hold on to it.

Sinclair advanced, baiting Michael with the end of the sword, twirling it in small circles. Eleanor saw now that the back of her lieutenant's head had a gash in it, and the blond hair had been cut short, as if someone had tended to the wound.

Michael feinted with the tripod, pushing it back at Sinclair, but Sinclair knocked it to one side and continued to advance on him.

“I'm pressed for time,” Sinclair said, “so this will have to be quick.”

He slashed once, twice, and on the third blow the tripod was wrenched from Michael's hands and clattered to the hard ground. Michael scrambled after it-he had no other weapon-and as Sinclair swung the gleaming saber back over his left shoulder, ready to deliver the fatal blow, there was a bloodcurdling scream and Charlotte-in a green silk bathrobe, with her braids flying about her head-hurtled down the ramp and shoved Sinclair off-balance. He stumbled forward, barely hanging on to the sword, before whirling around and swinging at his new assailant. The blade caught the doctor's leg, and she fell, blood spraying onto the snow.

It was Eleanor's turn to scream, but before she could go to Charlotte's aid, Sinclair snatched her by the sleeve of her coat again.

“Can you bear to be parted?” he said, seething, and dragged her toward the kennels.

She went willingly, if only to give Michael and Charlotte time to escape.

December 26, 3 p.m.

Kneeling in the snow beside Charlotte, Michael tried to ascertain the damage.

“It's not bad,” Charlotte said, sitting up and wincing. “It's a flesh wound.”

“I'll help you back to the infirmary.”

“I can get there myself,” Charlotte said. “Go get Eleanor!”

But when she tried to stand, her knees buckled, and Michael had to sling an arm around her waist to get her back up the ramp and into the infirmary. As he lowered her into a chair, and followed her instructions to bring the antiseptic, antibiotics, and bandages, he heard the jingling of the harness on the dogsled passing by outside. Glancing out the window, he saw Sinclair in his red-and-gold jacket, standing on the runners. He'd pulled a ski mask over his head and goggles covered his eyes; apparently, he'd learned quickly about how to weather the Antarctic. Eleanor was huddled low in the bright orange cargo shell, her head down and her hood drawn tight, as the sled whooshed past.

“Tell me that was Santa Claus heading home,” Charlotte said, saturating a cotton pad in antiseptic.

“He'll head for the old whaling station,” Michael said. “There's nowhere else he can go, especially with a storm coming on.”

“Get rolling,” Charlotte urged him again. “But get a gun first from Murphy.” She cringed as she applied the pad to her leg. “And take reinforcements.”

Michael gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, and said, “Anybody ever tell you not to take on a man with a sword?”

“You never worked the night shift in an ER.”

Michael ran back down the hall, but instead of alerting anyone else, he made straight for the garage shed. Gathering a posse could only take time, and a gun could always wind up injuring the wrong party. Besides, he knew he could catch up to them on a snowmobile-the only question was if he could catch up to them before Eleanor was fatally exposed to the ice.

The snowmobile in front was a yellow-and-black Arctic Cat, and he jumped into the saddle, checked the fuel gauge, and revved the engine. The vehicle burst out of the shed, skidding wildly on the slick snow, and Michael was nearly thrown free. He had to slow it down, at least until he'd made it out of the base, but as he came around the corner of the administration module, he nearly ran over Franklin, who jumped out of the way in the nick of time.

“Go to the meat locker!” Michael shouted at him over the roar of the engine. “Check on Lawson!”

Michael hated to think what might have happened there. But if Sinclair was free, it couldn't be good.

Once past the main quad, Michael took a firm grip on the handlebars and gunned the engine. With one hand he had to tighten the hood around his head to keep it from blowing back. Far ahead, he could see the red of Sinclair's uniform and the blazing orange of the sled, as the dogs raced across the snow and ice. Please, he prayed, let Eleanor's skin be covered.