The Winter Over(8)

“Hail him and find out, will you?” Jeremy pulled out a field radio from an inside breast pocket. They all turned at the squawk coming from the front of the fuel truck.

Dave threw his hands in the air. “For Christ’s sake, Sam didn’t take his radio?”

“We could call in, have him paged.”

“He’d never hear it.” Dave straightened again, fumbling with the ski mask. “Damn it. If you want something done right . . .”

“Cass ain’t in the VMF,” Jeremy said as Dave started heading toward the arches. “Last I saw, she was with Biddi on second deck, cleaning.”

“Got it,” Dave said, changing course. “You all head back to the Herc and see if you can lend a hand. I’ll get the NGH and bring it back. If you run into Taylor again, tell him to jump in a hole.”

Dave marched to the base, aiming for one of the station’s ground-level doors instead of Destination Alpha, Shackleton’s main door—with the Hercules’s arrival, the regular entrances were jammed with knuckleheads and he didn’t have the patience to deal with them. Summer crew leaving, winter crew arriving, guests and visitors and onetime drop-ins from McMurdo . . . they were all knuckleheads. Even now, he could see Deb leading a gaggle of muckety-mucks around, pointing out the architectural wonders of the main building, which, as much as he loved the place, had all the panache of a boxcar. At least it wasn’t his responsibility to fake excitement over airshafts and antennas. He shuddered at the thought of having to lead a tour or deal with the day-to-day administration of the base. When he worked, he needed a job, not a job description.

Dave banged through the door and climbed the stairs, the metal steps ringing like chimes. He nodded to the few workers he recognized and skated past newbies still trying to figure out A wing from B wing and first deck from second. One tall, lanky guy with a sketchy blond goatee stared out a window with watery blue eyes, watching the world go by. His mouth hung open and his wet lips moved silently.

“Careful, friend,” Dave said without breaking stride. “You’ll catch a fly.”

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, feeling bad about not stopping, at least for a second—the kid looked really out to sea, worse than most first-timers—but there just wasn’t time to meet-and-greet every fingie coming through the door. He’d buy him a beer later.

Dave started poking his head into rooms, looking for Cass. Dwight, her old boss, had been okay; he and Dave had seen eye to eye on most things. Cass, on the other hand, was a question mark. He didn’t know much about her, despite the fact she’d spent the summer season at the Pole. Quiet, smart. Seemed competent enough. But if he couldn’t get the NGH out of her garage, that estimation would be readjusted, and quick.

As he passed the greenhouse, he had just enough time to spring out of the way as the door to e-systems banged open. A woman, her face stormy, burst out of the lab and marched down the hall toward the Beer Can. Almost on her heels was a worried-looking man in a white polo shirt and jeans. Oblivious to Dave, the two continued an argument that had apparently started in the lab.

“Diane, just think about it,” Dave heard the man plead as he struggled to keep up with the woman. “Please. They’ve got you under contract.”

“She fucking froze to death out there, Rick. If you think I’m going to stick around . . .” Their conversation faded away as they moved down the corridor.

Dave watched them disappear, a sour feeling in his stomach. Being at the other end of Shackleton’s work spectrum from Sheryl, he hadn’t known the woman well, but you didn’t have to be chummy with someone at the Pole to feel their death keenly.

In all the years he’d been coming to the Pole for work there’d been only two other deaths, both heart attacks. Even those casualties—unavoidable—had hit that year’s crew hard and cast a pall over the rest of the season. To lose someone to the cold, to allow the continent itself to claim one of their own, especially in this day and age, was a bitter pill to swallow.

He shook his head and continued down the hall. He’d nearly reached the end when he heard a vacuum cleaner kick on in the reading lounge. When he peeked in, though, it was only Biddi running the machine in broad-armed sweeps across the floor. The opening door caught her eye and she turned the machine off, a smile on her face.

“Mr. Boychuck! Whatever can I do for you?”

Dave’s beard bristled outward as he shyly returned her smile. “It’s just Dave, Biddi. Did you happen to see Cass?”

Biddi made a sad face. “And here I thought you’d come to see me.”

“I . . . I’m not really here to see Cass,” Dave said. “I just need her NGH.”

“Goodness. I never heard it called that before.”

“What? No, the NGH is a heater. On wheels. We’ve got a fuel truck stuck out on the field and need to get it warmed up to start it.”

“You need something to get your motor running, you say?” Biddi batted her eyelashes, then laughed at his discomfort. “Oh, relax. I’m just giving you a hard time, love. Cass was yanked away to play tour guide for some high-and-mighties in for the day.”

“She’s a tour guide?”

“You wouldn’t think so with that demure little countenance, would you? She’s trying to break out of her shell, I think. You’d be surprised at what she’s capable of.”