The Winter Over(3)
As they neared the compound, the dozens of outbuildings that surrounded the base became dimly visible: the skiway where the planes came in, the Summer Camp of old red Jamesway huts, mounded berms of supply pallets, and a scattering of other buildings, sheds, and shanties. Thanks to the oncoming storm, all were obscured as though seen through a translucent white curtain, present but indistinct, and she only knew they had crossed the skiway when the punishing ride stopped thanks to the runway’s compact surface. Somewhere off to their left was the candy-striped ceremonial South Pole, surrounded by the flags of the Antarctic Treaty signatory states and topped by the reflective metallic bulb that everyone took their picture with. Then, as if erupting from the ground, the main building of Shackleton—the beating heart of all research efforts at the South Pole—loomed in front of them, looking like a colossal double-tall shipping container hovering on a cluster of pillars.
Hanratty continued past the facility, then slowed and banked left, following a gentle slope around and down that ended at a man-made snow cliff some forty feet lower than the plateau on which the main base rested. Taking gradual shape out of the flurries were the half-moon entrance arches of Shackleton’s garage and warehouse, embedded side by side at the base of the cliff. Taylor must’ve been watching for them: the mouth of the garage gaped wide. Hanratty drove straight toward the white LEDs and crossed the open doorway with a clatter and a roar, then cut the engine. Cass took a deep breath, trying to lose the feeling of dread that had built up as the storm chased them across the Antarctic plain.
“Jennings. Let go.”
Cass jerked back, releasing her hold on Hanratty. She swung off the saddle of the Skandic, stumbling a little as she did; her legs were numb from the thighs down. Stamping her feet to get some of the feeling back, she began peeling off layers, looking around while she did her little warming dance. Sheryl’s body was gone, presumably already in the medical lab undergoing an autopsy or an exam or whatever was supposed to be done in a situation like this. Cass fought down a wave of nausea. The garage workspace, normally comforting and familiar, now felt abandoned and dismal.
Taylor punched the green button to close the bay door and it slowly obeyed, rattling and grinding on the way down. Wind keened as the descending door increased the pressure, then was cut off altogether as the rubberized bottom section slid into the protective socket in the floor. The two formed an almost airtight seal, although if a Condition Two storm was on the way, snow would find its way through regardless, piling in drifts on the inside of the door.
“Jennings.” She turned to face Hanratty, who had doffed his goggles and balaclava. His gaunt, stern face—a Puritan minister’s face, an inquisitor’s face—was twisted into a scowl. “Not a word of this to anyone until I can make an official announcement, understand? Only you, Taylor, and I know about Larkin’s accident and I need to keep it that way until I can get some idea of just what the hell happened out there.”
“I got it,” she said. “Who found her?”
Hanratty frowned, but said, “The Herc pilot for today’s run back to McMurdo thought he saw something odd as he took off from the skiway. He called it in about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you scramble one of the trauma teams? Why did we go out?”
“We checked Larkin’s tag-out. She was gone twelve hours by the time the pilot saw her,” Taylor said, joining them. Stripped of his gear, he was a man of average height but had a gymnast’s poise and strength. His large nose and receding gray hairline were reminiscent of a bald eagle, though no one at the base dared say that to him. “This was a recovery, not a rescue.”
“God,” Cass said, sick. “Why tap me to go with you?”
Hanratty shrugged. “We needed two vehicles and some help. You were here in the garage and seemed available. Do you have a problem with that?”
Cass raised her hands and dropped them in exasperation. “I have a problem with the cavalier attitude. One of our own people just died . This is a big deal. She was a . . . a good person. She deserves better than to be strapped to a gurney and carted off.”
A flicker of emotion—sympathy or impatience, it was hard to tell—passed over Hanratty’s face. “Antarctica is antithetical to life, Jennings. Every minute we’re here is stolen from the ice and sometimes the ice takes it back. Sheryl, for whatever reason, forgot that fact and paid for it. We don’t have to like it, but it’s happened before and it’ll happen again. So, in regards to my attitude, as much as I regret this . . . accident, I will not let it compromise our work here.”
Cass was silent.
“Look, I don’t need panic taking hold while we’re getting ready for nine months of isolation. When we know what happened, I’ll be fully transparent to the rest of the base personnel. You know Sheryl wouldn’t want us to handle it any other way.”
The silence stretched longer, then Cass nodded once, curtly.
Hanratty blew out a breath. “Okay, then. Taylor, let’s go see Ayres and hear what he’s figured out, if anything.” He glanced back at Cass. “Living and working down here has always had the potential to be lethal. I’m sorry Sheryl had to be the one to remind us of that.”
The two men left through the base-side exit door, heads close together as they conferred.
Cass stared at the sleds and the snowmobiles while the wind battered and screamed at the garage door. Idly, she picked up a wrench, then dropped it with a clatter. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, resting there but not spilling until she leaned over a workbench, holding on to the edge for support.