The Winter Over(28)

There were hiccups in the process, naturally, and she watched as one of the snowmobiles bucked and stalled out on the ice en route to the Hercules. Even from this distance, she could tell the driver was frustrated as he or she slammed the controls in an effort to coax it back to life, then yanked the brake lever and climbed off. Whoever it was stood and faced the snowmobile with hands on hips for a minute before looking around helplessly.

Cass nudged Biddi, pointed out to the stranded vehicle, then leaned in close. “I’m going to give them a hand. It’s my kind of work.”

Biddi gave her a gloved thumbs-up. Cass climbed down the outer stairway to ground level, then set off across the ice, purposefully steering wide of the Herc itself to keep the gung-ho air force guys from running over to save her from getting chopped into bits in case she didn’t know what a propeller was.

By the time she reached the stranded snowmobile, the rider had the side hood open and was tinkering with something inside. To her amazement, the snowmobile wasn’t one of the newer standards, like a Skandic or a Tundra; it was an Alpine. A great machine, but it was a little like finding a Model T at a truck rally. She knew the inventory of the VMF pretty well and wondered where they’d found it.

“Hey,” she called from about twenty feet away, barely audible over the roar of the Herc’s engines. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” A hooded, masked face popped up from behind the hood. “Why not?”

“It’s too cold and that Alpine is an antique. If half the engine isn’t frozen already, it will be by the time you actually figure out what’s wrong. It’ll be easier to just tow it back to the VMF since we’re so close.”

Despite the layers of cold weather clothing, she could tell the person was irritated. “Who are you?”

“Cass Jennings.”

“Who?”

“Station mechanic ,” she yelled. “Stop screwing with that and let me get you a tow so we can get it to a museum in one piece. Why don’t you go warm up while I take care of this?”

“Oh.” The driver’s shoulders didn’t exactly slump, but she could tell he was at least partially contrite. “Okay.”

Cass veered off, stomping across the ice and down the long, gradual decline to the outer doors of the VMF and warehouse. Deep ruts left by the thick tread of utility vehicles had frozen in place, making the walk precarious—it was like trying to hike over a landscape of upraised and uneven glass teeth on a slope of maybe twenty degrees, and she had to windmill her arms more than once to keep from pitching forward. It was a short walk, however, and while the mouth of the large VMF garage door—the one she’d come through with Hanratty the day before—was shut, next to it was a more reasonably sized door for people. She steered for the latter, banged it open, then stopped short.

Standing in the middle of the VMF, as though caught playing with themselves, were Hanratty, Taylor, and Keene. Cass couldn’t have been more taken aback if she’d found the Three Stooges in the middle of her garage. Judging from the look of surprise on their faces, the feeling was mutual. She peeled off her goggles and pushed back her hood.

Hanratty was the first to recover. “Jennings, what are you doing here?”

“I work here,” she said evenly. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to oversee the loading situation,” Taylor said. Hanratty winced.

“From the VMF?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you see more in the warehouse?”

“Of course,” Hanratty said. “We were just on our way there.”

Cass turned. “What about you, Dr. Keene?”

He shrugged, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Of the three, he was the only one not in a parka. His breath steamed as he spoke. “Just bored, Cass. I don’t get down to the service bays very often. Actually, since you’re here, this is a great chance to ask you about some of the things you do. For example, what in the world is this thing—”

Keene was interrupted by a crash from the back of the shop, where the spare parts for every vehicle on base were stored in a labyrinthine collection of racks and shelves. Frowning, Cass turned and walked toward the noise.

“Jennings!” Hanratty called, but Cass ignored him. The racks were in a darkened alcove of the VMF and she fumbled for a light switch. As she did so, a splash of light lit the muddy gloom as the adjoining door to the carpentry shop was thrown open and a slim form dashed through the opening.

What the . . . “Hey,” Cass yelled and hurried after the form. Behind her, Hanratty and Taylor called to her again, but she ignored them, more than a little pissed. It was one thing to find three of the base’s highest-ranking managers in her garage; it was another if someone was screwing around with her inventory. She stretched her hands out in the darkness to keep from impaling herself on a protruding crankshaft or jack, piloting to the carpentry door by memory, then threw open the door.

The white overhead lights were on full blast in the carpentry shop and she squinted at the sudden glare. The door on the far side was just closing shut, and she raced across the little workshop, zigging and zagging between benches and counters. Moving awkwardly in her outdoor gear, she cut a corner too close and caught the toe of her boot on a definitely immovable object. Her ankle was wrenched the wrong way. The thick walls of her boot kept it from turning further, but she still hissed as pain lanced up her leg.