Duncan Kyle - Whiteout!

'Because you're out of your head with boredom, one; but the other reason, the good reason, is that you'll get some sense of terrain and operating conditions.'

'All right,' I agreed. 'Leaving when?'

He said, 'Twenty minutes. Herschel, you and a driver.'

I must have shown my surprise. He grinned. 'Yes, at night, Mr Bowes. Wintertime we operate at night, because it's night all the damn day. You get a good run, you'll be there in four hours.'

I nodded. 'Just one Polecat?'

'That's right,' he said cheerfully. He was rather enjoying himself, I thought, as he went on, 'Swing's somewhere between Mile Thirty and Mile Forty, and coming this way. Anything goes wrong there's a safety wanigan every three miles along the Trail and you can wait out till the Swing gets there. It's safe enough. You'll be okay. Anyway, be a change for you. You get there, sleep, and come right back. Pyjamas if you use them, toothbrush, razor. That's all you need. Okay?'

I said, 'It's that urgent?'

'I want that reactor back on line,' Smales said. 'And I want it fast.'

At the door I paused and asked the question: why no spare pipe? Smales laughed. 'I knew you were going to ask. And I'm not answering. Have a good trip.'

I went and slung a few items into an airline shoulder bag and went along to the tractor shed. The Polecat was there, warmed and waiting, and the driver sat inside. Herschel hadn't arrived yet, but Foster had. I said, 'You going too?' Smales had said only Herschel, the driver and me.

'Boss man thought the trip was a good idea,' he said. 'He's a good guy, the old Bear.'

Then Herschel arrived, and we all climbed aboard. Reilly swung over the lever that slid back the hangar-like doors of the tractor shed and the Polecat growled willingly as it was put into gear, and we went out into the snowblow.

Herschel and the driver sat on the front bench, with Foster and me on the seat behind. Herschel turned after a moment. 'It's a low phase two out there,' he explained for my benefit. 'Means winds around thirty-five to forty. Temperature's two below zero.

That combination gives a windchill factor of thirty-eight below, which ain't too bad if you think what's outside the window of any aircraft you ever flew in.'

'It sounds bad enough,' I said.

'Oh sure. A killer. Cold plus wind, it multiplies up.' He turned to face forward again and stared out through the windscreen, where orange flags on high bamboo poles whipped in the wind, one every five yards, the bright colour almost glowing in the Polecat's powerful headlamps. Then, to the driver, he said,

'What we'll do, we'll blast this thing along until we reach the Swing, two hours down the trail. We'll stop there and they can give us chow. After that, we go like smoke for Belvoir.'

A thought struck me. 'What happens if there's a white-out?'

Herschel turned. 'Well, let's see. First we pray we don't hit one. If we do, we hope it's right near a safety wanigan and we can see enough to find it. If its real bad, we sit tight and wait till it goes away. Though that can take a little time.'

'Long enough to die, by any chance?'

'Could be,' Herschel said. 'But it's heavy odds against. White-out's a still air phenomenon and we've strong winds.' He was filling his pipe, stuffing tobacco into the bowl with his thumb, and he glanced across at the driver cheerfully. 'What worries me is this guy, who holds all our lives in his sweaty hands, eh, Scotty?'

'Yes, sir," Scott said with relish.

'You seen any of those icecap mirages lately, Scott?'

'Tuesday, sir, I saw these two French broads. Monday I saw Verrazano Narrows bridge.'

Herschel said, 'Tell you what. Any broads you find on this trail, you can keep. That's a promise. Did you ever get confused ?'

'Not yet, sir.'

'By God, but I did,' Herschel said. 'First tour up here, I got snowblinded by the damn moonlight. Wearing dark glasses, too. I got half a mile off the Trail. God knows which crevasse I'd have been in if another guy hadn't seen it and come after me.' He turned and looked at me. 'You'll be interested. When you're driving that air cushion vehicle of yours, you're gonna have to find out if you're susceptible. There's two separate phenomena.

If you get snowblinded, sun or moon, doesn't matter which of the two does it, but if you get snowblinded, you swing off on a left-hand curve. Nobody can work out why.'

'Always to the left?'

'Always,' he said firmly. 'The other thing is icecap mirages. What happens is you start to see poles that ain't there. Lines of them, with flags on top. They always, and I mean always, lead off the other way. To the right. Driver heads straight off the Trail.'

The thought sent a little shudder down my back.

'Funny thing, though,' Herschel went no. 'First one, when you're snowblind, it happens to anyone, whether he's been here days or months. Even the Swing drivers, and they spend six months going backwards and forwards between Belvoir and Hundred; even these guys do the left-hand shuffle. But the other, the mirage, that one wears off when you have been driving a while. Milt Garrison, the Swing commander, reckons one full trip and the danger's over. What he does, he's got a new driver, he keeps him in the middle, between two other tractors with experienced guys.'

'And nobody knows why?'

'Nope.' He puffed contentedly on his pipe.

I glanced over the driver's shoulder at the speed. The Polecat was sliding easily over the snow at close to thirty miles an hour. It occurred to me that if I suddenly discovered I was snowblind or suffering mirages, my speed in the TK4 could easily be double that. I tapped Scott on the shoulder. 'Do me a favour?'

'If I can, sir.'

'Ride with me in the TK4. Keep me on the straight and narrow. And don't see any French girls.'

He laughed. 'Sure thing, sir!'

We must have done about twenty miles when Herschel opened his bag and brought out a big flask.

'Who wants coffee?'

Everybody wanted coffee. The highly-efficient heater in the speeding Polecat dried the mouth. Herschel half-filled cups, one at a time. He also had a bottle of scotch, and slopped a little into three of the cups.

'No scotch for you, son.'

Scott said, 'Considering my name, I reckon that's injustice.'

Herschel grinned. 'It's a hard world. That true, Mr Bowes?'

'Harry,' I said.

'Okay, Harry.'

'It's true.'

We found out how true just after the fiftieth of the mile markers - steel drums painted ice-orange and placed on raised snowbanks beside the trail - had gone by. Suddenly, and without warning, the engine began to run raggedly and then stopped, and the Polecat, still in gear, ground to a halt.

Chapter 7

Scott, the driver, had tried the starter a dozen times. Each time the engine spun over, but it never fired, never gave a single cough, and already the wind outside was sucking away the interior warmth; in just a minute or two the temperature had dropped noticeably. Suddenly Herschel said angrily: 'Fuel. Damn tank's empty!'

Sure enough the fuel tank gauge needle was pointing right over to the left.

'You check that, Scott?' Herschel was no longer the jolly officer, nor Scott the privileged private. Rank had surfaced.

'When we got aboard, sir. Tank showed full then, sir.'

'You sure?'

'Sir, that needle was right on full.'

'Who filled her up? You?'

'No, sir. She was all done. Sergeant Reilly's boys gassed her up.'

'Sergeant Reilly's boys are gonna shovel snow till their asses drop off,' Herschel said grimly. 'Where are we ? Mile Fifty ?'

'Close to Fifty, sir.'

'Let's move.' Herschel turned. 'There's a wanigan at Forty-Eight, another at Fifty-One. Which way's the wind?'

Scott switched on the dashboard display. 'South of East, sir. Thirty-eight mph.'