Jack Du Brul - Pandora's curse
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- Название:Pandora's curse
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“Look at that!” Marty had a telephoto lens on his video camera.
The avalanche continued to accelerate in undeniable violence as it careened through the valley, its bulk slaloming with each twist in the topography. In seconds, it reached the bottom of the mountain and fanned out onto the snowfield, slowing finally as it expended its gravitational force. A cloud of powder remained suspended above the area.
“Is that normal?” Bishop asked.
“Last night I asked Erwin about avalanches,” Ira said. “He said he’d be surprised if we saw any. Global warming has altered the environment up here. He said there’s less snowfall than ever and fewer and smaller icebergs. Aerial surveys of the mountains north of us show patches of rock that haven’t been exposed for hundreds, even thousands of years.”
At six, Marty called a halt for the day. The trench was fifteen feet deep, and the pressure of snow had compacted the material at the bottom enough for Mercer to begin melting operations the next morning.
With the addition of the Geo-Research scientists there wasn’t enough room in the mess for everyone, so dinner was served in two shifts. Halfway through the meal, Greta Schmidt approached the table, a bundle of papers in her hand. Mercer had seen very little of her since the Njoerd, and when they did bump into each other, he found her demeanor hadn’t improved since that first confrontation at the Hotel Borg. He’d also noted that many of the Geo-Research people deferred to her more than Werner. Her relationship with whoever had bought the research company from Koenig had given her a great deal of power.
“The plane carried mail. This is what came for you.” She dropped the letters and envelopes on the table, keeping one in her hand. “Also a letter with an American postmark came, but I do not recognize the name on the envelope.”
Mercer’s guts slid. He knew it was for him and who sent it. “What’s the name?”
She checked the address. “Max E. Padd.”
Ducking his head as the others laughed, Mercer held up his hand for the thick envelope sent to him by Harry White. Schmidt sensed she had been made fun of and strode away quickly.
“Who’s it from?” Ira asked.
“A friend of mine is forwarding my mail.” Mercer noted his name was written in tiny script under the boldfaced Max E. Padd. “For years I’ve tried to convince him he’s not funny.”
When he tipped the large envelope onto the table, a cascade of junk mail fell like confetti. There were credit card solicitations, sweepstakes entries, catalogs from companies Mercer had never even heard of, and five parking tickets issued since he’d left Washington. In the packet, Harry had also included his own bills, as well as a strongly worded PAST DUE notice for the rent on his apartment a few blocks form Mercer’s house. At the bottom of the pile was a handwritten note. Chuckling as he read it, Mercer tried to decide what, if anything, was teasing and hoped to God it was the postscript.
Dear Mercer,
Sorry, I didn’t know what was important so I sent along everything you’ve gotten so far. I was rushed when I did this so some of my bills might have gotten mixed up with your stuff. If you don’t mind, go ahead and pay them and I’ll pay you back. Trust me.
Also, you ran out of Jack Daniel’s again, so I forged a check at the liquor store. You do have four hundred dollars in your account, don’t you? By the way, I wouldn’t have gotten those tickets if you had a handicap sticker for your Jag. Something to consider.
Don’t let your balls freeze off, Harry
P.S. Tiny said he’d pay to have the scratch buffed out of your car.
It was late the next afternoon when they reached the entrance to Camp Decade. The hotrocks had worked flawlessly, and the single pump they’d brought to the ice was more than capable of drying out the five-foot-diameter shaft as it filled with meltwater. The most time-consuming part of the dig was sleeving the hole with plastic to prevent cave-ins. Mercer and Bern Hoffmann spent most of the time at the bottom of the shaft wearing rubber boots that allowed the cold to leach into their legs, but protected them from the water. Ira and Marty kept up the supply of hotrocks and made sure the pump was fueled.
Mercer had worked it so the shaft dropped about a foot in front of the entrance to Camp Decade. That way the ice wall would act as a barrier to keep meltwater from flooding the facility. Through the distortion of twelve inches of ice, he could see the corrugated metal siding of the entrance and make out that there was a crude sign nailed to the door.
“We’re just about set,” he shouted up the vertical tube. “I want to lay one more load of hotrocks down her to give us a sump below the level of the base. Our body heat is going to melt some of the ice, and we could have a flooding problem.”
“Okay,” Marty replied. “I’ve got another drum in the sling. It’s on its way down.”
Mercer looked up. Water dripping from above fell like rain. The heavy-gauge plastic that lined the shaft held back the ice, but the joints weren’t watertight. Drops pinged methodically off his hard hat, making him feel like he was at the bottom of a wishing well. Above the shaft’s lip, the Sno-Cat with the crane was backed right up to the hole, and a forty-four-gallon drum hung from its unspooling cable.
Reaching upward with a gloved hand, he grasped the bottom edge of the drum as it came into range, guiding it down those last few feet. “Okay, Marty. We’ve got it.”
They had done this so many times now their actions were almost habitual. While Bern cracked open the lid, Mercer positioned the pump hose into an intentionally deeper part of the shaft meant to collect the last of the water. The young German was a quick study at spreading the blue granular chemicals. They had to work quickly, for no sooner did the first handfuls land on the ice than they began to melt their way into the floor. In moments the entire sump was covered in blue water percolating upward and draining down into the hole. The chemicals smelled like fertilizer as they mixed with water. The pump was at full power and quickly drew the melt to the surface. Mercer expected that the mixture had produced a foul blue stain at the pump’s discharge outlet.
Only fifteen minutes passed before the pump began sucking drafts of air. Another six inches of ice had vanished up the hose.
“Well, I guess we’re ready.” Mercer took a drink of Gatorade from a large thermos. Because there was virtually no humidity on the ice sheet, dehydration was one more constant threat. He cupped his hands to his mouth to shout up at Marty. They’d already decided to have some walkie-talkies brought in on the chopper flight carrying Anika Klein. “Send down the chain saw. We’re set to open her up.”
“Why don’t you come up and let me open the base?” Marty’s voice echoed back. “I need Bern to hold my video camera, though, for my father’s tape.”
“Lower the bucket.” Mercer would have loved the honor to be the first one in Camp Decade, but it was right that Marty had the privilege. His father had been stationed here and he was paying the bills.
Snow blew in a constant sheet in the narrow ribbon of sky above the trench, howling just above the Sno-Cat. Yet when Mercer got out of the empty barrel they used as an elevator, the cut protected him from the shrieking fury. Ira handed him a silver flask, still warm from where it had rested against his body. Mercer took a pull of the Scotch, gasping at its smooth burn.
“Good job down there,” Ira said.
“Thanks.” Mercer took one more snort before returning the liquor to Ira. “Marty should be able to use the chain saw to cut through the ice in ten, fifteen minutes.”
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