Deep Ice (2 page)

“Here you go, bandits,” he said as he tossed one to each of the dogs. When he looked again at the Norwegians, they were walking towards him.

“Hello, friend,” one of the men call ed.

Henry saluted. “Greetings, gents,” he said.

“Norwegian marines, eh?” The men looked at one another. Then the leader, the man who seemed to be in charge, stepped forward and presented his gloved hand to Henry.

“Cold enough for you?” he asked with a laugh.

“That’s a new one,” said Henry sarcastically. The other two men laughed.

“You all speak English,” Henry observed.

“Not all of us,” answered the man, glancing over his shoulder. Then he looked Henry over careful y. “What brings you here, friend?”

Henry smiled broadly. “Lookin’ for beer and pussy. What else?”

The men didn’t laugh at first. Then one of the soldiers in the rear snickered. The leader of the group didn’t seem amused. “No. . . let me guess,” the man said.

“You’re a travelling comedian. Bob Hope, eh?”

“Actually I’m a meteorologist, but I’m doing a study of the aurora,” said Henry, sensing the man was losing patience with him. He had some trading to do before he got his ass kicked. “Fact is, I need two things. First, a weather report.”

The man surveyed the skies with his eyes and smiled, but didn’t move his head. He kept his attention focused on Henry. “Looks like a nice day to me,” he said.

“My name’s Henry Gibbs, out of McMurdo. My radio went out yesterday and hasn’t worked since. I was hoping you gents might have a spare radio you would sell or loan or trade,” said Henry. “Just don’t ask for one of my dogs,” he added with a grin, patting Sadie who sat dutifully at his side.

The man looked back at his two companions. “Either of you have a spare radio for this gentleman?” he said.

The two men just shook their heads.

Henry couldn’t see why the men were acting so ominously. He wasn’t good at humour, but he would try anything to get a radio. He noticed one of the men was smoking. He recalled his Norwegian grandmother asking his grandfather for a cigarette in their native tongue. He’d heard her say it so often that he’d never forgotten the words.

“
Har du en sigarett?
” he said in Norwegian, approaching the man.

It was as good a conversation starter as anything else. In fact, he’d quit smoking, but he missed the habit from time to time. Seeing the man’s cigarette had made him suddenly want one. Besides, this far from civilization he wouldn’t have the opportunity to get hooked again. The man continued to puff on his cigarette without any change of expression. He didn’t seem to understand what Henry had said.

“Gee,” said Henry, “is my Norwegian that bad? That was my grandma’s favourite Norwegian phrase. She didn’t teach me much, but I remember that’s exactly how she always asked my grandpa for a smoke.” He laughed. “She never carried them. . . she always bummed from him.”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic cigarette box. He held it out to Henry, but only after the leader had nodded his approval.

“It surprised us that you knew Norwegian,” said the soldier. “My name’s Werner.”

The leader scowled at him but said nothing.

Henry took the box, opened it and removed a filter- tipped cigarette. Then he remembered his Grandpop Lars’s pat answer when Grandma Frieda bummed his smokes. “Those things will kill you!” he would say in Norwegian. “Have another.” Then his grandpa would wink devilishly at the kids. Henry smiled at the man who’d given him the cigarette.

“
Dette vil ta livet av deg! Ta en til!
” He added a wink like his grandpa’s. But the man’s expression still didn’t change.

Henry looked at the three men. “Are any of you Norwegian?” he asked.

“Some are,” said the leader. “We’re not.”

Henry nodded. It wasn’t unusual to find multinational groups exploring the Antarctic, particularly since the ozone hole had made headlines all over the world. But, if these men were military and showing Norwegian colours, it was odd the soldiers with the group didn’t understand the language, particularly the commander. He felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the piercing wind. Something was wrong.

“How about that radio? Or at least can I get a report on the weather?” he continued as though the previous conversation hadn’t occurred. “I haven’t been out that long, and I’d really hate to have to go all the way back to McMurdo for only a damned radio. Can’t you guys help me out?”

The leader of the three men was older than the others by at least ten years. His greying hair and beard were well manicured, unusual in Antarctica where people don’t always have the opportunity to get their faces wet, and generally don’t see much of each other’s faces anyway. The man cocked his head to the left and smiled. He pulled his automatic weapon off his shoulder and flipped the safety off.

“I think we can help you out, all right,” said the man.

Then he shot Henry.

#

Numbness gave way to pain as Henry regained consciousness. He opened his eyes but saw only darkness. Moments passed before he remembered that he’d been killed. His chest stung and ached. Slowly, carefully, he tried his lungs. He inhaled until the pain prevented it. Coughing, he rose to a kneeling position. He brushed the snow off his face and looked around. It was easy enough to work out what had happened. He’d been covered lightly with snow and left for dead. But, even if he might for all he knew be mortally wounded, he was certainly far from dead yet. How long he’d been there he couldn’t say. The deep blue of night was giving way to a soft peachy glow at the edge of the world. He recognized the lighting as the crack of dawn. He felt his side, where he hurt the most. “Fuck!” He took off his right glove and pushed a finger into the tear in his parka. It touched warm wetness, then the pain prevented further exploration of the wound. He careful y probed his chest. His middle finger slipped rudely into a clean hole 9 millimeters in width.

“Shit! I’m killed for sure.”

But he wasn’t killed and he knew it. He touched the crushed plastic-and-metal shell of his radio, the broken radio he’d carried in the pocket over his heart. His chest hurt like hel, but the deflected bullet had only grazed his ribs and ripped his parka.

He fell backwards into the snow in relief and amazement and stared into the sky. Above him, the aurora and the Southern Cross combined to greet his eyes.

“Well, that useless piece of crap saved my life,” he said into the face of heaven. “Is that some shit or what?” Then he remembered his gear, his sled. . . his dogs. He rose to his feet and looked around. He could barely make out in the soft light the overturned frame of his sled and, next to it, the bodies of his dogs.

“Sadie?” he said. When he turned to run to the sled he felt a pain in his shoulder. A second shot must have grazed his shoulder.

But he was going to live.

He counted the bodies of four of the dogs. Sadie and Shep were nowhere to be seen.

Henry knew he’d have to wait for daylight before he did anything else. He had a flashlight but was afraid to use it. The people who had shot him might not be far away.

He righted the sled and fell into it with a groan.

In a few minutes he was asleep, with only the stars and the aurora to cover him.

When he awoke again the sun was above the horizon. His chest and side hurt terribly when he took a breath. He coughed twice and grimaced with pain. Then he heard the soft whimpering of a dog. Maybe a hundred feet away, Shep was standing over the body of one of his followers.

Henry struggled to his feet and surveyed the area. There was no trace of his would-be killers. Even their tracks had been erased. They had covered his packs with snow, but not deeply. He could see they must have given his things a quick search, then left.

Shep was still standing over the other dog, whining. Henry hurried to Shep’s side to find his worst fears realized. His beloved Sadie was lying on her side, cold and stiff. Like the rest of his dogs, she’d been cut down with automatic weapons. She’d been hit three times. All around her the snow was stained pink with blood.

He fell to his knees and wept.

#

The only thought that comforted him was that Sadie probably hadn’t suffered. She’d died with four other dogs, and death had likely come instantly. He guessed his other dogs had been killed as well, but he could find no trace of them.

He still had his sled, and with some difficulty he was able to find most of his gear. It had been strewn around after being searched, then buried under a foot or so of snow – just enough to make it invisible to an aerial- survey team. Some of his food was gone, but he managed to find a few high-energy snacks and his water. Eventually he even discovered his compass and field glasses.

While he was digging around trying to locate his gear under the snow, Shep ran off to the east. Henry called after him, but the dog kept running.

“Shit, they fucked you up too,” muttered the meteorologist. He watched helplessly as Shep disappeared into the distance behind the ice hill.

Sitting on the back of the sled, Henry took stock of his situation. It was clear he’d never get back to McMurdo without dogs. All he could do was survive until a rescue party found him. But he knew that wouldn’t happen, because no one would look for him. McMurdo wouldn’t notice he was missing for at least two weeks, and by then it would be unlikely he’d ever be found.

“The only way out of this is to take a fifty-mile hike, I guess. No problem. Piece of cake.”

Shep’s bark echoed across the ice, and then the voices of other dogs.

Henry ducked down next to his sled and started looking for his rifle. He ripped it from its carrying bag and began assembling it as quickly as he could. Adrenaline started pumping through his veins as he snapped a clip into the base of the survival gun and pulled back the bolt.

Shep appeared suddenly at the top of the ice hill, then ran towards him. A second later three of his other dogs appeared. Soon they were on top of Henry, licking his face and panting gleeful y, glad to be alive and reunited with their true leader. Eventually all the dogs took turns examining the bodies of their col eagues, but soon they were grouped near the sled, ready to be hitched up and mushed on their way back to McMurdo.

Henry Gibbs was not a religious man. The loss of his family had convinced him of the blank unholy randomness of nature. He admitted the power of faith, if only to give each of us false hope –better than no hope at all, he reasoned. Even so, as the deep blue sky domed above him and he reflected over his amazing luck, he had to say a silent prayer of thanks to the powers above for the second chance he’d been given. Four dogs were far short of the nine he needed, but, if he stripped his gear and carried only his essentials, they might just get him to McMurdo.

He hiked to the top of the ice hill and surveyed the horizon with his binoculars. He was alone. Whoever those fake Norwegians were, they had acted very efficiently, like military professionals. They’d left no trace of themselves or their mission. As far as he could see, they’d come and gone like ghosts.

Finally, after three painful hours of sorting through his gear and giving his slaughtered dogs a decent burial, he was at last on his way to McMurdo. Shep and the three others had to strain to get the sled moving, but soon they managed to bring it up to walking speed. Tired and in pain, Henry would gladly have ridden on the sled, but he knew his weight would be the difference between getting to McMurdo and freezing to death out here on the ice.

The strangers had taken just about all of his food, leaving only some high-energy snacks and his sack of dog biscuits. Whatever food value the biscuits had would have to go to the dogs. That left him only the ten granola bars and two packets of powdered milk he’d stashed at the bottom of his knapsack.

He decided to act as though he had no food at all. Even his granola might have to go to the dogs before he got home.

#

Every hour he stopped the dogs and let them rest.

During those times he’d give each of them one dog biscuit and some water. He had allowed himself only one granola bar, to begin his journey, but had mixed up the powdered milk with some water in his canteen. After about twenty minutes’ rest, he would check his compass, take a sip of milk, and mush the dogs onward towards the north. He knew he had to head towards the magnetic South Pole – this in spite of the fact that the geological South Pole was in the opposite direction. Things could get very confusing in Antarctica.

As he moved farther away from the site of his encounter with the
faux
-Norwegians, as he now thought of them, his sadness and fear began to subside, to be replaced by rage. Perhaps he was spoiled by the usual courtesies of the local Antarctic citizenry, but he had to admit it was damned rude to shoot a stranger just for asking about the weather. Of course, there might have been some justice to it. He was, after all, a weatherman.

“Figured I was gonna steal their radio. . . start my own weather station!” he snarled. “Damn good reason to kill a man and his dogs. Damned good fuckin’ reason.”

The day wore on as he and his depleted team pushed north, with only the sun, slipping low across the sky in a long lazy arc, as witness to their efforts. To pass the time, Henry thought about the ice he was crossing. It wasn’t like lake ice or even like a glacier. This was ice that had been forming for millions of years, building in the midlands of the western Antarctic continent and moving towards the sea.

Beneath his tiny sled lay a vast labyrinth of frozen water laid down in layers over the eons. Down there, pollen grains from ancient plants – blown on the world’s winds until they ended up entombed among dust, sand, bacteria, and all the other microscopic traces of history – were sealed forever in layers of ancient ice that, like the rings of a tree, were full of data concerning the history of life.

But the most remarkable thing to Henry about the Ross Ice Shelf was the fact that below the ice was water, not rock. The entire mass on which he stood, some of it over a thousand feet thick, bridged a massive bay, covering over 330,000 square miles, an area the size of Western Europe, and anchored on bedrock on only three sides. He knew that, if the ice ever broke free of the rock and floated, it would raise the oceans of the world more than 25 feet and change the face of human civilization.