Crawford Kilian - Icequake - A Prophetic Survival Thriller

The mess hall was a long, narrow room that took up almost half of Hut 2. Its pale-green walls were filmed with grease; the only decorations were two big photomurals of rural New Zealand and a bad oil portrait of Sir Ernest Shackleton. The place was crowded with battered chairs and tables; the ceiling was low and stained by countless leaks. A steam table separated the room from the kitchen, where Terry and Suzy Dolan were noisily preparing breakfast. Today’s house-mouse was Sean McNally, but he wasn’t around; probably he was down in the snow mine, feeding the melter. At the other end of the mess hall, a door led to the library-lounge, which was dominated by the big screen of a videotape projector and by a map of the Antarctic on which Shacktown’s location was indicated by the words ANUS MUNDI, done in a fine italic hand.

Penny walked into the mess hall, got a cup of coffee and sat down with Hugh Adams, Carter Benson and Al Neal, who were the only ones there. After a few mumbled greetings, Penny asked Al when he was leaving for McMurdo.

“Not till noon.” He scratched at the white beard that made him look a little like Santa Claus and a lot older than 44. “The Otter’s got fuel-pump trouble. Howie’s working on it.”

Hugh Adams looked at her. As always, the directness of his gaze made her feel both wary and exhilarated. He didn’t attract her physically, but she could sense why men liked and respected him — and obeyed him. It was certainly more than his strong resemblance to Shackleton — the solid build, square jaw and hard mouth — that made him the leader of twenty-six very different men and women.

“I’m not letting this lazy sod sit about all morning,” Hugh said; his voice still had more of Ulster in it than New Zealand. “He can take Steve and Tim, and Will and Jeanne, out to the remote stations. They can run some tests, collect the tapes and be back for lunch. Would you like to go along with them?”

“Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.” She knew that Hugh was very aware of her dislike for Shacktown; this little surprise was meant to sweeten her mood, and the tone of whatever she published about this place. But at least she’d see something, and set foot on the mainland.

“So this is it,” she observed. “Supper at McMurdo, breakfast in Christchurch.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Hugh said. “We could be stuck at McMurdo for weeks. But I hope you’re right. We’ll annoy the Yanks enough by asking for one of their precious Hercs. They’ll really sulk if they have to put us up for a while.”

“Will the Americans really give you a hard time?” she asked.

Hugh looked at Al, who nodded. “It’s a lot different these days,” Al said. “When I was flying for the Navy in VXE-6, ten-twelve years ago, we were one big happy family down here. We’d run errands for the Russians, they’d do things for us. The Kiwis and Aussies and Brits were all over the place — McMurdo, Eights, Amundsen-Scott. But nowadays it’s all super-political.”

“Dynamic Self-Reliance may be a good policy in America, but it’s not too suitable for Antarctica,” Hugh murmured. “Ah well — Al and I are just a couple of old fogies, moaning about the days of our youth. Don’t mind us — and here they are,” he interrupted himself as Will Farquhar and Steve Kennard came in. Steve was only thirty-four, but his greying hair and beard made him look older. Long months in the Antarctic had weathered and roughened his strong features, but his eyes still had the clarity and directness of a boy’s. He spoke with deliberation but no hesitancy, and moved in the same way; his tall, spare frame had a slow grace suggesting great reserves of power.

“Morning, everyone,” said Steve. “When can we leave, Al?”

“Any time. The Huey’s all gassed up.”

“Good. If we’ve only got till noon, I want to leave at once. Terry, can you put some breakfast in a box for us?”

“Right, Steve.”

“Thanks.” Steve sat down at the next table and said to Penny: “Coming with us?” She nodded. “Good. Wear your regular cold-weather outfit, and don’t forget sunglasses and sunburn cream. The ultra-violet’s getting worse.”

Penny nodded again, but without conviction. She knew that the ozone layer had been seriously damaged by the continuing solar flares, but it was still hard to imagine being sunburned while wearing ten kilos of clothing.

“Where do you want to go?” Al asked. Steve glanced at the others.

“It’s already almost 0630. We can’t go across the mountains and be back by noon. So how about Remotes 10, 11 and 12?” Those, Penny knew, were near Shackleton, Ramsey and Beardmore glaciers.

“Good enough,” Will agreed. “Tell you what — let’s hit Remote 10 on our way back. If we’re running short of time we can skip it, but I don’t want to miss Ramsey and Beardmore.”

“Is that all right with everyone?” Steve asked. “Good. Let’s get our stuff. I’ll come back here to pick up our breakfast; the rest of you meet at the helicopter.”

In their room again Penny felt a bit breathless as she and Jeanne pulled on their anoraks and wind-pants and struggled with their mukluks. “Steve really moves fast, doesn’t he?”

“He and Tim have been itching for this,” Jeanne said. “So have Will and I. It wouldn’t be so bad if the telemetry from the remotes was reliable. But when you know you’ve got almost two months’ worth of data out there on tape, and you can’t get at it — God!”

“Are you feeling all right now?”

Jeanne gave her a cold blue stare. “I wouldn’t go if I weren’t up to it.”

Fully dressed, their faces smeared with sunburn cream, they went down the service corridor to Tunnel C — to avoid the men in Eunuchsville who were just getting up — and through the labs to the cold porch that led to Tunnel D.

This was Shacktown’s main thoroughfare, from which everything else branched off. Tunnels A, B and C, and the hangar, were north of it. South was Tunnel E, sealed off by heavy doors and over five hundred metres long; at its end was the reactor facility. Smaller tunnels led to the snow mine, seismograph arrays and climatologist Sean McNally’s ‘oubliette’ — a narrow shaft, almost seventy metres deep, down to the ice that had been fresh snow during the climatic optimum of the early Middle Ages.

Tunnel D was garishly lit by fluorescent lamps. The floor was duckboards, glittering with frost but safer than bare ice. Along both sides of the wide tunnel, the walls were piled with supplies: crates of food, spare mechanical parts, surplus wiring and furniture and insulation. At its western end the tunnel led up a broad ramp to the hangar itself; alongside the ramp a flight of stairs gave access to a big hut just inside the hangar: this was the machine shop. Jeanne and Penny bypassed it and went up the ramp.

Temperatures in the tunnels usually stayed between -10°C and -15°C. The hangar, now that its outer doors were open, was probably closer to -25°C. Its floor was ice, discoloured by spilled gas and diesel fuel; the place stank. Crowded under its high, curved roof was a collection of unlikely vehicles: Sno-Cats, snowmobiles, a big D8 bulldozer and a smaller D4, and an ancient green Nodwell tractor that looked like a truck with caterpillar treads. The Twin Otter and the Huey took up a good deal of space. The women said hello to Howie O’Rourke, a big, taciturn Canadian mechanic who was working on the Otter; he paused long enough to nod shyly at them.

They reached the Huey as it was being winched outside. Will and Tim Underwood, a student seismologist, were walking along beside it, throwing gear inside: explosives, geophones, bamboo and aluminium marker poles, survival packs and an insulated box containing the breakfast Terry had prepared for them. As the cold bit at her face, Penny felt a twinge of envy: if you wore a beard and moustache, as most of the men here did, they frosted up rather prettily. If you had a hairless upper lip, it soon acquired a lump of frozen mucus from your runny nose.