Ice Storm (2 page)

"Unfortunately, the coordinates only go out to one decimal point. Even if we assume accurate rounding, we're still dealing with a margin of error of five and a half kilometers in all directions." Carefully, he marked out an area around the circle. "That works out to a search grid of roughly forty-eight square miles. Of course, that only accounts for precision. We can't be certain the measurements are one hundred percent accurate."

"They'd better be accurate," I replied. "Or we'll never find
Werwolfsschanze
."

"Forty-eight square miles." He rubbed his temples. "That's a lot of ground to cover."

I lifted my head as the C-17 Globemaster III jolted. It was originally developed as a military transport plane. So, the cabin was gigantic. A single section of seats, five to a row, ran the length of the space. Separate chairs lined the walls, facing inward.

Most of the seats were occupied. Those who weren't sleeping had their eyes locked on journals, carefully recording every second of the trip.

The airplane jolted again. Cargo shifted in the rear. The sea of apple red parkas, issued prior to the flight, rippled gently up and down the rows. Heavy thermal boots scraped against the floor. A soft air current chilled my burning cheeks.

"It won't take long." I glanced at Graham. "Don't forget. We've got the KORCS image."

KORCS was an Earth-observation satellite. Thanks to one of my contacts, we'd managed to secure access to some of its images. One of them showed a large rectangular anomaly, roughly the size of a small apartment building, well within the search zone.

"You shouldn't put too much faith in technology."

"And you shouldn't discount it completely either."

"Even if it is
Werwolfsschanze
, getting to it won't be easy. Below-freezing temperatures. Falling snow reaching down, miles of ice reaching up. Crevasses the size of canyons." He shook his head. "Antarctica is no winter wonderland, that's for damn sure."

"We can handle it."

"I'd feel better if the search zone was closer to shore."

I shrugged. "At least it's near Kirby Station."

"Yeah. If you consider twenty miles of frozen tundra close." Graham folded up the map and stuffed it into his bag. "Have you figured out how to transport the Amber Room once we locate it?"

The Amber Room was once considered the Eighth Wonder of the World. It was one of the greatest treasures of all time and a work of exceptional beauty. It covered more than fifty-five square meters and contained a priceless fortune of amber and gold leaves.

"I need to see its condition first. Cold temperatures are hell on amber." I stifled a yawn. "I wish I knew why the Nazis took it to Antarctica."

"For storage. Why else?"

"They could've sent it to South America via the ratlines. Hell, they could've just left it with the rest of the treasure we found."

"Good point."

The Amber Room lingered in my mind. It had a long, curious history. Initial construction began in 1701 and finished in 1711. But renovations and restorations had continued for centuries.

In 1941, Nazi soldiers seized it from Leningrad. They disassembled the massive sculpture and moved it to Königsberg Castle in East Prussia. It stayed there until 1945. Then it vanished.

The Amber Room was many things to many people. Historians viewed it as an unsolved mystery. Art experts considered it an irreplaceable sculpture. Most of my competitors saw it as a quick payday. But it meant something entirely different to me. It was the key to my future.

The key to my immortality.

Chapter 2

"You done with that?" Trotter nodded at the pen. "I'd like to pack up my stuff before we land."

Graham capped the pen and flipped it into the air.

Trotter caught it and stuffed it into a blue backpack. "Did I hear you fellows say you're going to Kirby?"

"Maybe." Graham narrowed his one good eye. "What's it to you?"

"Looks like we'll be neighbors." Trotter elbowed the man next to him. "Hey Ted. These guys are going to Kirby too."

A man, pale and droopy, leaned forward. Large bags hung from under his eyes. His scraggily cheeks were in desperate need of a shave. A thick odor of mustard and grease emanated from his husky frame.

He scanned us. Then his face tightened. Without saying a word, he twisted away.

"I guess he doesn't like to fly," Trotter said sheepishly. "What are your names again?"

"I'm Cy." I jabbed my thumb at Graham. "That's Dutch."

"Staff or scientists?"

I waited for Graham to respond. But he was too busy pretending to pack up his things.

"Scientists." It sounded awkward to my ears. Then again I didn't have a lot of practice with lying.

"First time here?"

I nodded.

"Where are you from?"

"Manhattan. New York University to be specific. We're meeting up with a third team member. Her name is Beverly Ginger." At best, this was a partial truth. While we lived in Manhattan, New York University certainly didn’t employ us. And we weren't exactly working with Beverly either. Instead, we'd adopted her cover as our own after tracking her down.

"How long has she been in Antarctica?" Trotter asked.

"A week at a remote field camp."

"That's a long time to be alone."

"She hired a local guide named Jeff Morin. He's helping her set up a climate station."

"You're climatologists?"

"Actually, we're geomorphologists." Sweat beaded up on my forehead. His questions were coming faster than I could think. "What do you do?"

"We're climatologists."

"What's your research about?"

"Ice coring. We're going to bore holes into the ice sheet near the Mühlig-Hofmann Mountains. The deeper we drill, the older the ice. Then we'll analyze the material to get a better read on the history of climate change in the region."

He sounded so damn professional when he spoke. It wasn't just his words, it was the way he said them. I dug deep, reaching back to my days as an archaeologist, trying to emulate that same kind of authority. "Sounds like a lot of work for just two people."

"It was at first. But it's gotten easier over the years. This is our eighth coring expedition. It's our first time to the East Antarctic Ice Sheet though." He gave me an appraising look. "Geomorphology is landforms right?"

I nodded. "We're researching how Antarctica's glacial valleys and polar deserts erode over time. It's a slow process, maybe a few meters every million years."

"How do you gather data?"

My pulse raced. I knew my cover story, knew it well. I'd read everything I could find on geomorphology. But my knowledge, while wide in breadth, was only skin-deep. "Our climate station will monitor a range of things like temperature and wind. Soil traps will measure annual sediment movements. And rock and soil samples will help us determine erosion rates and exposure ages."

"Interesting." He drew out the word, enunciating each and every syllable. "So, what's your purpose?"

"Purpose?"

"Yeah. What are you going to do with your data?" His voice was hard, matching the expression on his face.

I tugged my shirt collar. "We're going to model Antarctica's ice coverage over an extended period of time. Plus, our research should give us a better understanding of places with similar conditions. Mars, for example."

"I see," he said. "Well, I guess we won't be seeing much of each other, what with you guys operating out of a field camp and all."

"You'll see us for a little while. We're planning on commuting from Kirby until we get used to the elements." It was a dumb answer, maybe my dumbest one yet. But what else could I say?

Actually, there's no field camp. We're secretly hunting for a lost Nazi vault and a priceless artifact. Oh, and please don't tell anyone.

"Interesting." He drew out the syllables, same as before. His tone reflected suspicion, uncertainty.

"So, tell me more about your plans. How far down will you go?"

"If our equipment holds up, we should be able to drill a few thousand meters into the ice, all the way to bedrock. Of course, that'll take a couple of months, maybe even years."

I searched my brain, trying to remember everything I'd read about ice coring. "How do you get at the deeper layers?"

"We cut in stages, four to six meters at a time. So, it's really just a matter of raising and lowering the assembly over and over again."

"How do you keep the hole stable? Do you use fluids?"

"Of course not." A horrified expression appeared on his face. "That would contaminate the area."

"Hey folks." The pilot's static-filled voice burst out of the cabin's speakers. "We're approaching some turbulence. We need you to get back to your seats pronto and buckle up."

I cleared my throat as the voice died off. "Then what do you do for stability?"

"It's ice." He gave me a grin, the kind reserved for dolts. "It doesn't move much."

Numbness came over me. I was no expert on Antarctica. But I'd read enough to know deep ice was under constant pressure and could easily compress. The only way to maintain an open hole was to fill it with something, presumably a dense liquid with low viscosity and frost resistance.

Well, I'll be damned. Looks like Dutch and I aren't the only frauds around here
.

Chapter 3

The wheels slammed into ice. My skull bounced against the back of my seat as the plane bumped over a long stretch of icy runway.

The speakers buzzed. "Welcome to Fitzgerald Station. Today's temperature is a balmy negative fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Wind chill temperature is negative forty degrees. When we come to a stop, start putting on your ECW. You're going to need it."

"ECW?" Graham said.

"Extreme Cold Weather gear," I replied. "Didn't you pay attention to the instructions?"

"Of course not."

The plane rolled to a stop. The engines ceased. Crisp cold air crept over the cabin.

Seatbelts rattled. The sea of parkas rustled. Passengers jumped to their feet. Chatter, eager and vibrant, filled the cabin.

I unbuckled my belt and stood up. I couldn't wait to see the miles of endless ice, to taste the pristine snow, to smell the fresh air.

Abruptly, ferocious wind struck the aircraft. The passengers froze. Conversations dwindled off into awed silence.

The crackling wind only lasted a few seconds. As it faded away, the passengers started to move again. Parkas were donned and zipped up. A few hushed words were spoken, but they lacked exuberance. Apprehension hung heavy in the air.

The cabin door slid open. The temperature dropped a whole bunch of notches. My teeth started to chatter.

I pulled on my polar-fleece jacket and red parka. A red knit hat was next, followed by a pair of gloves. Long winter underwear, snow pants, thick wool socks, and a pair of thermal boots completed my outfit. It was an impressive array of expensive, technical equipment. But I might as well have been naked for all the good it did me.

A short woman climbed into the aircraft. She paused to remove a pair of dark sunglasses. "Welcome to Hildick Field. I'm Janet Lister. The Terra Bus is outside, less than a hundred yards from here. It'll take you directly to Fitzgerald Station. Gather your stuff and board it. Don't stop. Don't take pictures. There will be plenty of time for that later."

Passengers lined up to disembark the aircraft. I shrugged on my satchel and followed Graham into the aisle. The rest of my things, including my machete, were packed in a duffel bag and stowed in the baggage area.

I'd brought most of my worldly possessions with me. The only thing missing was my pistol. Unfortunately, the U.S. Antarctic Program didn't allow guns on its bases. Not that I needed one. I just didn't like the idea of hunting for a priceless artifact with nothing more than a blade to defend me.

A rush of cold, stiff air greeted me at the cabin door. Bright sunlight flooded my face, forcing me to shield my eyes. My heart pounded as I took my first good look at Antarctica. A compacted snow surface stretched before me. A red truck and other vehicles were parked nearby. Tiny slivers, various shades of dark gray, were all I could see of the distant mountains. The sheer scale of it all stunned me.

The sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, left nothing unseen. And yet, there was nothing to see. I was struck by the emptiness and bleakness of it all. There was no bustle, no energy, no life. Just a vast landscape of ice, snow, and rock.

I climbed down a small flight of steps and walked toward a massive red vehicle. It looked like a bus bulked up on steroids. It was fifty feet long and fifteen feet high. The tundra tires, all six of them, were almost as tall as me. Bold white letters announced the vehicle as
Vincent the Terra Bus
.

Ice crunched. I twisted around. A boxy vehicle halted a few feet away from me. Its bright orange chassis contained one row of seats and a large space for cargo. Its molded rubber treads were shaped like isosceles triangles.

The door cracked open. An older man, skinny to the point of being malnourished, appeared. He wore a light green jacket, cargo pants, and boots. I shivered just looking at him.

"Well, well." His booming voice nearly ruptured my eardrums. "It's been a long time."

I frowned. "Who are—?"

"Yes, it has." Graham stared intently at the man. His brow was furrowed. His lips were tight. "Hello Pat."

The man lowered himself to the snow. His hair was thick and gray. A couple days of stubble covered his chin. "Did you really think I wouldn't notice your name on the flight manifest?"

Graham shrugged.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here."

"No one ever accused me of lacking a backbone."

"Maybe not. But ethics are a different story."

"Are you still hung up on that? Good lord. That was over forty years ago."

My eyes flitted between the two of them. "What's this all about?"

"Nothing," Graham said. "Let's go, Cy. The shuttle's waiting."

"Forget the shuttle," the man replied. "You're coming with me."