Exit Alpha (10 page)

Vanqua was staring at the centre of the table. ‘I’ll have him transferred on the first flight out tomorrow. He’ll be on special assignment in Bosnia. I’ve spoken to him severely of course.’ He checked his watch and stood up. ‘I now have to face the commander of this ship. You can imagine how that will be.’ He paused at the door. ‘Once again, my sincere apology.’

He left.

Cain stared at the closing door, swung back to Rhonda. ‘Hell, why didn’t you tell him where to shove it?’

‘Yes, that would have been fun.’ She smiled, now surprisingly at ease. ‘But I need him to wallow in his biography just a tadlet more.’

‘He
must
have told Zuiden to do it. Did you see the body language?’

‘It certainly walks and quacks like the proverbial broad-billed waterfowl.’ Her speculative look. ‘But why target the
inamorata
?’

‘Because the bugger’s out to get you.’

‘By attacking Karen? Strategically pointless. And with the sailor dead, he’s compromised himself.’

‘The killing was a mistake.’

‘Agreed. But there’s more to this.’

‘Whatever the motive, he’s your enemy. And that makes him mine.’

She sang, ‘The enemy of one, the enemy of
all
is,’ then chuckled. ‘Did you know that the dragoons’ chorus from
Patience
was, shall we say, borrowed from Auber’s “Laughing Song”?’

‘Ronnie, for God’s sake . . .’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘Is this a serious matter or not?’

‘It is for the desiccated Dane. For us it’s merely a ripple in the current of bliss.’

‘Shit, Ron. He fucked your ice maiden and I almost got creamed.’

She smiled. ‘At my age, misfortune never causes surprise. You’ve helped, dear. Truly you have.
Mille grazie
.’

He shrugged. ‘How’s Hunt?’

‘Composed. If she has a heart, I haven’t located it. My obsession with glacial women I don’t wish to discuss.’ She frowned, paused.

‘What is it?’

‘Vanqua. When he does that hang-dog thing he . . . reminds me of . . .’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. It’s mad.’ She clapped her hands like a maiden aunt confronted with a tray of chocolates. ‘Now — enough of head-office intrigue. It’s your time to bugger off.’ She began to sing again. ‘Farewell, my own. Light of my life, farewell,’ then grinned at his expression. ‘From
Pinafore
of course — and the only octet in the whole of G and S.’

‘Is this relevant?’

‘Certainly, dear heart. We may need our Savoyard secrets for verification later. There’s method in my madness.
Nicht wahr
? Now,’ she continued brightly, ‘here’s your chance to swap your double life for a single one. Pat tells me you want to direct commercials.’

He shrugged. ‘Something to do.’

‘Outrageous waste of talent. However. You can do anything you like for the rest of your life.’

‘Exile, huh?’ So this was how the kiss-off happened. He felt emotion building in him. The edict came back: LOYALTY TO PEOPLE IS WEAKNESS. But EXIT was his family and home. And this devious but dear woman was somewhere between his mother and big sister. ‘I’ll miss you.’ He choked on the words.

She reached across and pressed his hands. ‘There’s no easy way to say goodbye. But your last little job’s still to come.’

‘Which is?’

‘All in good time.’

‘And I wanted to see John again.’

‘Ah yes. Gianpaolo. You will. But not for a while.’ She stood up. ‘I want you to stay for the rest of the conference, bask in the adoration of the cadets, talk to them, encourage them, and of course comfort yourself with Pat. Then we’ll crank out a new set of credentials and ship you wherever you say. As you’re no longer on active service, you’ll revert to Condition Blue. Except, as the shit’s still in the fan, wherever you are, take care.’

He stood too, fighting the feeling. He’d never imagined it would get to him like this. Leaving her. Leaving Pat. Leaving John. Suddenly it was fact. ‘When’s this job come up?’

‘Eighteen months or more. You in?’

A nod.

‘Gives you plenty of time to wind down. And as for the job . . . well, you could do it chained to a rock with a vulture eating your liver. Which reminds me, I’d better get back to Pandora and her . . .’ She gave him a bear hug. ‘You have my love.’

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

T
he MSA for approaching McMurdo was 15,300 feet. Beyond reporting-point Byrd, the ski-equipped C–130s normally descended to bleak Willy Field’s soft-snow skiway. But the levellers and rollers hadn’t been working for this flight. When the radar dish on the control tower picked up the plane 90 nautical miles out, the base’s HF and VHF stayed mute.

In the elaborate communications complex called Mac Centre, far across field, the overflight was monitored. That was all. No assistance was rendered, no sked kept, no transmission taped. Even recording evidence was prohibited. Because the Hercules was at 20,000 feet, heading to a place that no one at Mac ever named.

To a place roughly equidistant from Amundsen/Scott, Mawson and Vostok.

To the most geographically and politically isolated pinpoint in the world.

To a frigid hell no traverse was cleared to approach.

To a diplomatic nightmare.

The EXIT Alpha base.

Through a sky streaked with green fire, the elderly transport droned, its vapour trail a thin line above the vastness of the rising plateau. Soon it would have to land in blowing snow with a 20-degree, 40-knot crosswind and visibility at 400 metres.

Rhonda had sat for most of the flight on the supplementary crew bunk. She rose and shrugged on her anorak. The noise level with engines running was 128 decibels. She pulled the headset from the ear of the pilot and screamed, ‘Don’t bend it. We can’t afford it.’

The pilot gave the thumbs up to acknowledge.

EXIT’s two veteran C–130s were second-hand but they’d been well maintained and progressively upgraded. They had ski landing gear, JATO and every navigational aid including GPS, Omega and the original but excellent N–1 gyro compass. Even with four on the flight deck the crew didn’t take Antarctica lightly. The featureless terrain made VMC flying suicidal. A magnetic compass was useless, INS essential. The radar altimeter was supposed to be accurate to 50 feet but the extreme dryness of Antarctica could make its signals doubtful as they could penetrate dry ice and send back a false reading.

Rhonda went down the staircase to the cargo deck and lowered one of the stowable troop seats near the main cabin bulkhead. In full polar gear it was difficult to strap yourself in. Difficult to do much more than fart. The temperature in the near-windowless fuselage had been reduced progressively since takeoff at Christchurch. It was still a sauna near the ceiling but icy at deck level.

Down here, the racket of the turboprops was inescapable. She stared at the two benson tanks and the shipping container secured to the deck. The D model could handle a payload of 25,000 pounds and accommodate the same weight of fuel. The aircraft weighed around 90,000 pounds and gross poundage for ski landings was 125,000. So the extra fuel needed for these flights reduced cargo capacity. Flying transports demanded a symmetry achieved only by exquisite trade-offs.

Vanqua was seated out of sight on the other side of the load. When they were forced to travel like this they tended to ignore each other. As usual he’d spent most of the flight drowsing in the upper bunk, oblivious to the beauty of the floes and, later, of the great peaks glittering with white fire. Apparently his blue-metalled soul preferred slumber to splendour.

She heard the whine of servos as the hydraulics lowered the skis. Their broad undersides were Teflon-coated so that they didn’t stick to the ice.

The plane lost altitude, banked and bucked. They didn’t have the luxury of external PAR pickup from GCA controllers. They were using ARA, which depended on nylon mesh flags on the boundary of the skiway that reflected the aircraft’s radar. The navigator would be feeding heading, distance, pressure and radalt readings to the pilot. And directional changes on final to keep him lined up.

The side of the cabin behind her vibrated with the strain as the creaking airtruck locked on the glide-path. They’d used thousands of pounds of fuel but still would be slithering 60 tonnes of deadweight across the wasteland.

‘Hang in there, guys,’ she mouthed.

As the skis connected with compressed snow she heard the sizzling crackle and thumps. Even on a prepared surface, these things landed rough.

They were down, had lucked it in.

She was dragged sideways by deceleration as the props reversed thrust. The plane’s trailing tempest of snow would now engulf it in a self-made storm. She’d seen these landings many times and they never ceased to amaze her.

The deafening noise of the four engines and the throbbing vibration lessened. She saw the loadmaster now, pulling his balaclava around his goggles. There was a gas turbine compressor inside the port mainwheel bay fairing but number three engine still ran. They weren’t shutting right down. It had to be extremely cold.

The loadmaster operated the ramp control panel. The rear cargo door went up. Then the ramp door lowered on two long hydraulic jacks.

Snow. Glare. Biting chill.

They were here.

She saw air-conditioned tractors and a refuelling truck approaching through white mist. They were painted, like the tail of the plane, in distinctive orange and black stripes. A Hagglunds was ready by the plane but, as usual, she refused the ride. She walked in the troughs of its rubber tracks until she came to the first blizz line. She was glad she’d worn the face mask. In these temperatures even a short walk could cause frost nip.

Was Vanqua behind her? Because of the enveloping hood, she had to turn fully round to see him plodding behind her like a wraith. Thou beside me in the wilderness, she thought, annoyed to be tethered to the man.

Through swirling snow, she glimpsed oil drums, pipes and crates. By the time she’d reached the snow ramp, the fur around her hood was ringed with frost. Real fur. The synthetic stuff froze and tried to poke your eyes out. She clumped down to the main entrance. Another visit to the Room of Doom. Both of them had to sign for executions, the final check after five-nation confirmation.

After the initial security scans at the heavily armed entrance guardhouse, the two of them were cleared through.

Vanqua said, ‘Chilly,’ vapour pouring from his mouth.

She nodded and they walked down the main tunnel. Its walls, rough and dry as concrete, had the sheen of fine plaster and supported sagging electrical cable and insulated plastic water pipes. The temperature in the corridors never rose beyond zero.

The base was dug into the ice cap and covered with arched roofing. Its network of corridors tended to creep sideways so needed frequent repair. Below its three main domes were accommodation blocks made from modular units flown in as kits. As the main holding-block entrance door opened, condensed vapour billowed out like smoke. They went into the boot room, shed their anoraks and felt-lined rubber overboots. In the next annexe, they discarded their gloves, glove liners and two layers of polypropylene. The temperature here, while not warm, was as pleasant as a winter’s day. They preferred to keep it at a moderate 12 degrees centigrade. Adam Pohl, the base commander, welcomed them. ‘Good trip?’

Rhonda said, ‘Beautiful.’

Vanqua shrugged. ‘I slept.’

‘We’re ready,’ Pohl said, eager to please. The last of his hair sheltered behind his ears but he sported a neat grey beard — cropped to give a decent air-seal on breathing gear for fire crew drills. In the extreme cold here, facial hair became caked with ice and dripped when you entered the warmth of heated vehicles or huts. Yet some of the Antarctic staff at Alpha still wore beards. And, at Vostok, according to the wags, even some of the women.

Pohl and the base administrative officer escorted them to the table for the signing. She looked down at the three orders, each countersigned five times. The names at the top were famous. One of the men was from the Far East, one from eastern Europe, one an African.

She signed at the bottom of all three sheets then handed the pen to Vanqua. But he had produced his own pen, a palladium-coated Lamy Swift. As he clicked the point down, the clip retreated until flush with the barrel. A reflection of himself, she thought. Form obsessed with function, function followed by fatality. She contemplated his face, the smooth skin, fair hair, muscled neck. He was a good-looking man with the attitude of a monk. His dismal, desiccated nature made him almost unapproachable.

He signed the papers. Pohl and the AO witnessed the signatures. Then she walked with Vanqua and Pohl to the electrocution bay.

It was in a converted container. No separate viewing room, no chair. Witnesses stood around the sides on a rubber mat. In the centre of the floor, raised on four ceramic insulators, was an unpadded wooden slab fitted with leg, arm, chest clamps and a head dome. On the wall was the edict: DEATH IS AN ASPECT OF LIFE.