Exit Alpha (33 page)

‘Grandeur. Isolation.’ Bell lowered the binoculars, revealing white frost patches on his nose and cheeks. ‘I have to say, this place is magnificent.’

‘Pity it kills you. Where’s your face mask?’

‘Can’t stand the thing.’ He pulled up the adjustment straps on his gauntlets then used the pile-facing of one to warm his cheeks and nose. That nose, Cain knew, would soon be hard and, later still, black. His plastic surgeon wouldn’t be impressed. Raul and his troops didn’t understand what frostbite could do to them, the eventual, terrible stabbing pains. Later the red raw flesh. Then the blackening, gangrene. Well, he’d warned them — and respected their right to damage themselves as they wished.

Raul was in the Hagg’s front cabin with Hunt and Eve handling communications. Mullins had gathered combustibles to make a fire. He’d poured kerosene over the pile and now had the plastic container from inside the back cab. As he emptied the last of their spare engine oil on the mound, his unwieldy gear, in profile, made him resemble a painted egg on legs.

Bell handed the glasses to Cain. ‘They’re moving very slowly.’

‘It’s big stuff. Converted wide-track bulldozers hauling up to 50 tonnes each. They’d average 4 kilometres an hour — a bit under walking pace.’

There were two trains. They shimmered and floated but looked real enough. By noon, one was far off on the horizon as if maintaining its original course and the other was heading towards them.

Cain and Bell went out again, numbness striking into their limbs.

‘The one in the distance,’ Bell said, ‘looks like a mining rig. Seems to be carrying lengths of pipe.’

‘That could be why they’re so coy. The Antarctic Treaty vetoes mining and everyone bleats about doing pure science but the bottom line’s political advantage — finger in the pie.’

Raul’s head appeared through the roof hatch. ‘They’ve got us on radar and seen the smoke. You can come in and defrost.’

While the mining train became a shimmering speck far ahead, the other grew enormous as it closed in. When they emerged again to watch it, it looked conventional enough — the sledges at the front stacked with fuel drums and heavy items to smooth out the track. Then came living vans, workshop and generator vans — converted shipping containers all.

Bell gasped, ‘It’s big.’

‘Could have everything — even hot showers.’

‘Fantastic.’

When it was a few hundred metres away, two men came out and stood on the metal catwalk that ran the length of an accommodation sled. All the sledges had a side catwalk with steps each end and A-frames steered the front runners. This was some rig — full scale, elaborate, no expense spared.

Raul, Mullins and Hunt joined them on the ice just as the snowplough on the dozer lost its glint.

‘Shit,’ Bell yelped, ‘they’re turning, veering off. Are they worried about crevasses?’

‘They’re suspicious more likely.’

‘Get those skis on.’ Raul waved an urgent arm at Bell. ‘And get the guns. But keep them out of sight.’

His men freed the skis they’d strapped, days ago, to the ramp boards.

The train was now side-on to them, running parallel. Hunt had the binoculars. ‘The guys on the porch are sussing us out. One’s going inside.’

‘They’re changing course again,’ Raul bellowed, ‘heading away!’

Cain glanced back at the Hagg. The wind had lifted the corner of the tarp. A small section of the striped design was visible. That? Or had they radioed their base?

Raul, his chance of survival disappearing, yelled at Bell, ‘Go, go!’ He slung an M–4 across his back and squeaked across the snow, paused, panting, dizzy, then started to lumber toward the train as Bell went past him on the skis. Mullins was stumbling as fast as he could, carbine ready, desperate to live. Cain knew they’d soon be exhausted. The big oaf was already limping.

‘Has he done his foot, too?’ Cain asked Hunt.

‘Deep frostbite. He’s thawed it twice.’

‘You didn’t warn him?’

‘Cluing them’s bullshit. Once they’re safe, they’ll start on us.’

Bell was now far ahead of the others — powered by desperation. Despite the skis and the poles he was likely to miss the train. While the dozer, shackled to such a load, couldn’t go faster — even changing gears, Cain knew, meant you either stopped or wrecked the transmission — its crawl was persistent and it didn’t get breathless or tired. They watched the three straggling zombies under the deadly sun, trying to close the gap. Mullins was stumbling less but had slowed to a walk. A cooling foot lost sensation. You could walk with a frozen foot. Then both men reached a patch of sastrugi. They had no crampons. They slipped and fell. Bell had been forced to skirt the area, to divert far around on the snow.

Hunt turned to Cain. She’d left her mask off, had frost nip on her nose. ‘I think Bell could make it. They’d better plug him before he does.’

‘With what? They’re civilians.’

‘Oh Christ.’

Bell’s now tiny figure reached the rear sledge. He clung for a time as if exhausted, then skied forward to the accommodation sledge, fell on the steps, jettisoned his skis, climbed up to enter the big container hut.

The train ploughed on.

It was minutes before they heard the shots.

Three sharp cracks.

Anything could happen now.

V
anqua thumped his desk with rage — keyed in the parameters again. The same flawed information — garbled names, addresses, reports — essential files doctored. It was expertly done, had fooled him for weeks. Rhonda was behind this. She was the only other person in EXIT cleared for level five encryption.

He cursed, stomped to the security booth, passed the hand geometry and iris checks, waited for the chemical atmosphere analysis. In the innermost box, he punched his card and tapped his foot, impatient for message clearance. One by one, green lights came on. He entered his day key. Checks ran.

A smooth face appeared on the screen. Kuneso Awa, the Japanese government’s numbers man. ‘Vanqua san?’

‘I’m in trouble. I’ve referred these scrambled files to Washington but Pickett doesn’t call back and no one will comment.’

‘Ah so.’ The dapper man nodded. ‘I receive call from Vatican. They mos’ concern.’

‘But I can’t eradicate this without working it back. That means encryption level six.’

‘Ah. Difficul’. Clearance has come?’

‘Negative.’

‘No clearance. Mm.’

‘I need six.’

‘Ah, six.’ The face on the semi-stop-frame screen remained impassive.

‘You can authorise that. I’m requesting it.’

‘Ah, not so easy.’

‘I assume you want the project completed?’

‘Your assignment mus’ continue.’

‘Then I have to trace the alterations. I can’t reconstruct using five.’

‘Level six not so easy.’

He attempted to hide his anger. ‘I can’t recall principal agents without a reconstruction. It’s impossible.’

‘Rely on you to take necessary steps. As wise man say: “Not to know is to be a Buddha.” Am most busy at moment. So now please to excuse.’

The screen went blank.

He extricated himself, fuming, from the concrete box nest. None of them wanted to know.

They’d tossed him to the lions. He could almost smell the arena.

Rhonda and her 2IC dead. That left no one to interrogate. The only people left who might have the missing links were Cain and Hunt. Cain was Pat and Rhonda’s crony and already a Grade Four — perhaps being groomed as next in line. Hunt was Rhonda’s lover. But, by now, they’d surely be dead.

The screen of his computer altered as a priority message from Alpha Intelligence displayed over the previous data:

1. FOURTH INTERCEPT FROM FLYNN TRAVERSE ABOUT SLOTTED HAGGLUNDS.

2. SIGNAL SENT TO THEIR EXPEDITION AREA CONTROL ON CHARTERED RUSSIAN ICEBREAKER,
SVENAYA
.

3. TRAV ADVISED CONTROL THAT VEHICLE STRIPED.

4. WAS ORDERED TO AVOID.

Time and coordinates followed.

Were the survivors still alive?

He pressed the button that paged Zuiden, paced his office until he came, glared at the surgeon. ‘I need Cain and Hunt for questioning.’

‘They’ll be ice.’

He jerked a thumb at the VDU.

The assassin walked around to read the message, grinned. ‘Well, cut off my legs and call me Shorty.’

‘They could never have made that distance unless Cain and Hunt helped them. So get out there.’

‘No can. Unstable platform probs. Drive-train glitch in one chopper and vibrating tail rotor in the other. For now, we’re whistling Dixie.’

Vanqua turned his back to hide his rage. ‘Get airborne as soon as you can. Kill everyone but bring me Cain and Hunt. I want them here and able to feel pain.’

‘My pleasure,’ Zuiden smiled.

T
he first thing that impinged was the smell. Meat casserole. Then the rough surface of freezing matting. He had his back to the noises, couldn’t move. He tested the cords. They’d trussed him well. He knew better than to open his eyes, lay quietly, listening. The grating of the big runners below him, the dozer’s growl, muted by the insulated walls. He had to be in one of the living vans but its propane-fuelled warmth barely reached the floor.

The sudden clatter of pots drowned by Nina yelling at her mother. The mother shouting her down. As the girl subsided into silence, the voice of Mullins: ‘Want to shove some stuff into her?’

Raul’s deeper voice: ‘None left. I used the last on Cain and Hunt.’

He remembered what had happened. The dozer train looping around to pick up Raul and Mullins, then returning, they supposed, for the pope and the ice sculpture of Zia. He and Hunt confronted with two M–4s while Raul injected them with some narcotic from the medical kit.

The last things he recalled were Eve and John’s protests and Raul’s reply. ‘They’re dangerous people. Under these new conditions very dangerous. For the welfare of us all, they now have to be restrained.’

A call button tone signal pressed three times. The other train would be trying to attract attention.

Then a transmitted voice with a Californian drawl: ‘Calling freight train. Still can’t hear you. We’re setting up for docking. Baby could be in tomorrow noon. Need your fuel and supplies. Have you on radar. You seem okay and on our heading. Over.’

Mullins: ‘Maintain radio silence?’

Raul: ‘Yes. I’ll check the dozer.’

Someone moving behind him. Steps on the floor.

A click.

Raul: ‘How’s it going? . . . So long? No, I’ve persuaded Eve and her brat to cook lunch. It’s almost ready . . . Then come back, wash up and eat.’

Mullins calling: ‘Tell him we’ve got booze.’

Raul: ‘Beef casserole and scotch . . . Right. Let him know that, if he doesn’t, we’ll be after him. Say we’ll bring him food if he’s lucky. Out.’

The mike replaced.

Mullins: ‘The driver being good?’

Raul: ‘He’s one very scared diesel mechanic and he’s now sure we’re EXIT hit men. Bell says we can monitor him from this console and that if he diverges, we’ll spot it. Come here and write down our bearing.’

The train slowed, stopped. Bell would be leaving the heated dozer’s cabin and climbing down over the tracks.

A clash of plates.

Nina’s whine: ‘Why help deadshits?’

Mullins calling to her: ‘Shut it, bitch.’

‘Drugging people, tying them up. Killing people.’

‘Shut up,’ Eve’s voice. ‘They’ll hurt you.’

A roar from the dozer. A creak of frames and shackles as the main cable beneath the sledge took up and jerked them ahead again. Bell would stand on the ice until the living vans drew level, then simply step on board.

Eve’s voice, closer: ‘I’ve made two lots.’

Cain opened his eyes, tried to sit. He found it difficult to focus. The drug still had him woozy. They’d taken off his parka to make it easier to tie him. He gazed blearily around the van.

A partition half-hiding a cooking space, a drop-down table with a cleaner Raul and Mullins on a bench beside it — Mullins fearfully removing his boot. Food and supply racks across from the table with windsuits roughly stuffed into them. At the near end, behind him, a field leader’s work station set up for communication, navigation and probably the monitoring of fuel and stores. One high double window, the wind-out outer shutter raised to let in light.

He assumed John would be in the other van, retained as Raul’s only living evidence, and that Zia’s glassy corpse would be somewhere on the load. And the men they’d shot? Down a crevasse?

The barrels of two M–4s projected over the table.

Hunt? He couldn’t see her.

‘Ah!’ Raul said. ‘Cain’s rejoined us.’ He resumed rubbing ointment on the scabby frost-burns covering his nose — unaware that first-aid manuals warned DO NOT APPLY OINTMENTS, LOTIONS OR GREASY DRESSINGS.