Matthew Reilly: Scarecrow Returns

A new anti-explosive paint-gel made by an Australian company, DSS, worked perfectly in the cold—after the gooey gel was painted onto a large crate, that crate could withstand the most powerful explosive blast, even one from some potent PET plastic explosive, brought along precisely for those tests. Longer-lasting scuba rebreathers and drysuits for cold-water insertions had performed excellently, as had the new Assault Force Delivery Vehicles: some had wondered if the deflating valves on their rubber skirts might freeze in the cold, but they’d held up just fine.

Mother liked the new MREs—Meals Ready to Eat—that they’d been instructed to try. Each MRE came in a small plastic tube the size of a Magic Marker, so they were extremely portable. Each tube held some powdered jelly, a high-energy protein bar and three new water-filtration pills which worked brilliantly.

“The jelly still tastes like shit,” Mother said, “but the water pills are fucking brilliant. Best field water I ever tried and I haven’t got diarrhea once.”

Zack said, “That’s always been an issue with water-filtration pills. These ones are chitosan-based and so far the results have been great. Chitosan is a natural polysaccharide that dissolves organically in the body. Did you know it’s also the main ingredient of Celox, the bullet-wound gel?”

Mother held up a hand. “Hey. Genius. You lost me at polysaccha-something. I get it. It’s an amazing new substance that will change the way we live.”

“Something like that,” Zack said, deflating a little.

Mother was more interested, however, in another device that Zack had been trialing: a new high-tech armored wrist guard.

DARPA had been developing it in the hope that it would become standard-issue in the Marines and Army Rangers. Made of light carbon-fiber, the wrist guard covered its wearer’s forearm and featured, among other things, a high-resolution LCD screen.

“This screen is designed to display real-time data—video signals, even satellite-imagery—to a soldier in the field,” Zack explained to Mother as they stood outside their tents one day, testing it.

“Real-time satellite imagery?” Wearing the wrist guard, Mother peered at its small rectangular screen. Zack leaned over and touched some icons on it. The screen came alive, showing two people in black and white seen from directly overhead, standing on a barren white plain beside some hexagonal objects.

“Okay, now wave,” Zack said.

Mother waved her left arm.

On the screen, one of the figures waved its left arm.

“Oh, that is way cool . . .” Mother said.

“The wrist guard operates like a satellite phone,” Zack explained. “Encrypted, of course. But so long as you can make a connection with the satellite, you can get real-time imagery, data, even voice signals. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve configured it so you can even surf the net.”

Mother threw Zack a grin. “You know, geekboy, you and I are gonna get along just fine.”

Zack beamed.

A few items had been unable to be tested, like an acid-based aerosol “anti-ursine agent”—or as Mother called it, “polar bear repellent.” While Zack had studiously sprayed it on all their tents, armor and drysuits, it had defied testing since no polar bears had come near their camp during the entire trip (prompting Mother to conclude, “Then I guess it works, doesn’t it?”).

And some things hadn’t worked well at all.

A new version of the Predator RPG launcher froze up while the older version worked just fine. And a portable proximity sensor on the armored wrist guard seemed to work okay at first, but toward the end of their tour, it started sensing a large moving object—a 300-foot-long object—within half a mile of their camp.

But there was nothing near the camp. The endless ice plain, split by ever-widening cracks, stretched away to the horizon, starkly and obviously empty.

“It might be picking up killer whales swimming under the ice,” Schofield suggested. “Or even a submarine.”

“No, it’s a lateral rangefinder. It scans the landscape in a sideways direction, not downward. It’s a glitch,” Zack said sadly. “Shame. But then, that’s exactly why we’re here, to test these things out.”

NATURALLY, OVER the course of seven weeks in a remote Arctic camp, they had good and bad days, occasional clashes and the odd petty argument.

Like the time Mother accidentally picked up Zack’s iPhone, thinking it was hers, and listened to some music.

“Goddamn hip-hop shit ,” she said, yanking the earphones from her ears. “How can you listen to this? It’s elevator music.”

“What music do you like, then?” Zack challenged.

“Music peaked in the eighties, my young friend. Huey Lewis and the News. Feargal Sharkey. Ozzy Osbourne biting the head off a fucking bat live on-stage . It’s the same for movies. Seriously, there hasn’t been a decent balls-to-the-wall action flick since Predator . Arnie doing the business and, oh my, Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura. God broke the mold after he made Jesse Ventura. Hollywood actors today are all fucking nancy-boys. Can you think of any leading man today who could say the line, ‘I ain’t got time to bleed.’”

Zack had to concede that he couldn’t.

But he did manage to convince Mother to listen to some other modern songs, and she had to admit that she quite liked Lady Gaga. “Although, I’m not a free bitch. I’m just a bitch,” she said after hearing one song.

On another occasion, as they gathered around the small gas fire in the mess tent, the Kid had said, “Hey Mother, I saw a killer whale pop up for air through an ice-hole the other day. You seen one yet?”

Mother stumped her left boot up on the table and rolled up her trouser leg, revealing that her left leg from the knee down was a prosthetic, all silver plating, hinges and hydraulics.

Zack leaned forward. “What is that, stainless steel?”

“Titanium,” Mother said. “Got it thanks to a killer whale I met in Antarctica.”

“What happened to the whale?” the Kid asked.

“It died,” Mother said, deadpan.

“Mother shot it in the head,” Schofield explained.

“You shot a killer whale in the head ?” the Kid said in disbelief.

“Fuckin’ fish had my leg in its mouth. What else was I supposed to do?”

Zack said, “You know, whales aren’t fish, they’re—”

“I know they’re mammals!” Mother snapped. “Christ, everyone tells me that. But when one of them’s got you by the foot and is pulling you under, trust me, you don’t care whether it’s a goddamn fucking mammal, all right!”

Schofield grinned.

During a long expedition, people will talk about many things over the campfire, and this group was no different.

They discussed politics, sports, the killing of Osama bin Laden, all kinds of subjects.

One night they talked about the rise of China. It was one of the rare nights when Jeff Hartigan dined with the group and he spoke animatedly on the subject.

“It’s hard to believe that only thirty years ago, China was the laughingstock of the world, a rural shithole,” he said. “Now, it’s a genuine global powerhouse: 1.3 billion people, the bulk of whom work in factories for a few bucks a day, building the world’s fridges, toys and DVD players. But now in China there’s this huge new middle-class that wants everything we have in the West: cars, iPhones, the latest fashions. China is the future for every business in the world, in both supply and demand.”

Mother looked doubtful. “But as China rises, does that mean other countries have to fall? My husband, Ralph, is a trucker. Over the past few years, we’ve seen a lot of his buddies who work in factories get laid off—they’re honest, hardworking, blue-collar workers who just can’t compete with cheap Chinese labor. The work they do just keeps going overseas.”