The Dying of the Light: Interval (2 page)

Evans spoke up first. “We’re about an hour out, sir.”

Shaw had over twenty years experience flying these big bastards, and he wasn’t about to lose one now. “Good, good. Get on the horn and make sure we’re not heading into a shitstorm down there.”

“Yes, sir,” said Evans.

Shaw looked over the notes of the flight engineer, Lopez, checking for anything out of the ordinary. “Looks good, Lopez. Go grab some joe, and some for these yahoos, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Lopez said, clipping his log to his station before heading to the galley.

Shaw gave a final glance at the cockpit, then headed down to the cargo deck, passing through the mostly empty passenger compartment to the rear service ladder. There was only a single scientist there, already bundled up in his cold gear and passed out. Shaw shook his head and snorted.
Civilians
, he thought.
Can’t get used to the noise and the cold. Going to be a long flight for him!

The cargo bay was even colder. Pallets, drums, and other containers of cargo filled every square inch of space, and on a C-5, that was a
lot
of inches. Looking around, he finally spotted the loadmaster Charlie Keith off to the side, checking a strap.

“How we doin’, Charlie?” he asked, knocking on the wooden crate next to the tall, super-skinny loadmaster.

“Fine, sir. Just fine. She’s packed to the gills, but we’ll make it…” Charlie trailed off as he looked down the long cargo bay. “At least, I think we will, sir.”

“You
think
we’ll make it?”

“Well, sir, it’s just that some of these materials are… well, dangerous, sir.”

“I thought you cleared everything.”

“I did, sir. I’m not saying there’s anything against regs on board. Just… well, some of it makes me nervous, that’s all.”

“Charlie, if there was something out there that
didn’t
make you nervous, I’d be surprised,” said Shaw with a smile.

Charlie grinned. “Yes, sir, I know, sir.”

“How’s the President?”

“Not good, sir. I suggested he get some rack, but he didn’t want to. Said he could handle it. I didn’t want to make it an order, but… well, he’s pretty bad off, sir.”

“Any idea how he got sick?”

“No, sir. He was like this when he got onboard.”

“He tell you anything?”

“Nope. Just that he’d gone off-base for a personal matter.”

Shaw glowered. Off-base jaunts had been canceled for weeks. “A ‘personal matter,’ eh? Probably some girl in the city.” He noticed Charlie was looking even more uncomfortable than usual, and sighed. “Never mind, Charlie. Where’s he at? I’ll check up on him.”

“He’s just down the other row, sir,” said Charlie, pointing.

Shaw nodded, throwing back the last of the sugary coffee in his mug. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Just keep an eye on those ‘dangerous’ things you mentioned, clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

Shaw moved into the next row, looking for the other on-duty loadmaster, the man with the unlikely name of Franklin Delano Roosevelt—hence his nickname, ‘The President.’ He finally spotted the big man, hunkered down near one of the pallets of frozen meat they were transporting. The irony of bringing frozen
anything
to Antarctica was not lost on the greying pilot. He gently put a hand on Franklin’s shoulder.

“How you doin’, son?” he asked quietly.

Franklin started, as though he hadn’t heard Shaw tramping over the metal grating, and stood up. At six feet four inches, he was not a small man, and he was almost as wide as he was tall. Barrel-chested didn’t seem to quite cover it. Shaw knew only a little from his file: born in southern L.A.’s Willowbrook neighborhood to a black preacher and his devout wife, Franklin was only a stone’s throw from Compton, but he’d managed to avoid getting sucked into the gang life and found his way out through the Air Force.

“I’m not doin’ too hot, sir,” said Franklin, coughing. “Just can’t seem to get cooled down. It’s so
hot
in here!”

Shaw wasn’t one to worry about nothing, but when one of his men started complaining about the heat in the cargo area of a plane most of the way to Antarctica, it was a bad sign.

“Look, Franklin, why don’t you get some rest. Hit your rack, son.” The loadmaster started to object, but Shaw cut him off. “That’s an order.”

Franklin finally nodded, then moved toward the ladder as Shaw went to the wall intercom and called the flight deck. “Lopez, go wake Rhinehardt. Tell him he’s pulling some extra duty today.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shaw looked over the cargo bay. Even the overhead lights were having a hard time getting down between the boxes.
They really packed the stuff in here
, he thought.
Operation Deep Freeze. What a pain in my ass. At least this is the last trip to McMurdo Station of the season. Not that a bird full of scientists who haven’t seen the world in a year will be any better
.

Marambío Base
Argentine Antarctica

The hundred-thousand-pound C-130 Hercules wasn’t idling—it was chomping at the bit, ready for its pilot to let the four spinning propellers claw their way into the air. The same pilot—Matías—who was fighting on the flight deck, yards away from the controls, trying to escape Antarctica.

“Stand down, Matías! We cannot leave. There’s nothing to go back to anymore,” his leader, Arturo, shouted.

“I’m going home, Arturo. I’m going to see my wife and children before they die! The superflu is killing everyone. I won’t let that happen to them!” Matías, the bigger man, landed a solid punch to Arturo’s jaw, sending him flying backward into the bulkhead.

Arturo landed with a loud clang and groaned. He put a hand to the back of his head. It came away bloody, and he looked up at Matías with scorn evident in every line of his features.

Matías leaned over with an outstretched hand. “At least there we have a chance,
amigo
. At least there we can choose death on our own terms, rather than waiting to freeze.”

Arturo ignored him, pushing himself to his feet against the bulkhead. “Fine, go. Abandon your post.” He looked around at the other men, watching from a safe distance. “You know what is waiting for you back there. The dead, the dying, and the rumors… rumors that not all of the dead are
staying
dead. If you go back, you too will die. All of you!”

Arturo moved toward the hatch. As he stood at the doorway, he took one final look at the twenty-three men who were leaving—nearly half of his people. Some of them were men he needed to stay: engineers, mechanics, one of his two doctors—even the psychiatrist was going. He shook his head and spat at their feet. “Leave, cowards. You’re no longer welcome here. Don’t come back,” he said, straightening as he stepped out of the plane onto the rock and gravel of the runway.

He didn’t look back as he heard the hatch slam; he just clutched his parka closer and held a hand to the wound on his scalp. Getting inside was paramount now, as a bleeding wound in sub-zero temperatures would cause hypothermia in record time. The engines of the big plane roared behind him, and he paid no attention as the ground vibrated beneath his feet.

He reached his truck and got in, seeing the plane finally get off the ground as he gunned the engine. His engine sputtered a bit, threatening to stall, but he feathered the gas, gave a quick finger to the departing plane, and roared off toward the base infirmary.

A few minutes later, he was inside.

“I’m fine, Diego. Just patch me up, please,” he said to the burly medic. He was soon cursing as the hydrogen peroxide killed whatever bugs might’ve survived the harsh Antarctic cold, and then wincing as Diego applied a bandage. He refrained from saying anything about the rough treatment, because Diego had a nasty temper, and he was the last medic they had.

“Is it true?” Diego asked. “Did they take the plane and leave?”

Arturo sighed. “Yes.”

“Then we have no way home.”

“Our government will come for us, Diego. I promise. I’ve already received assurances…”

Diego seemed to be listening at first as Arturo ran through all the platitudes his superiors had ordered him to give the men, but eventually he turned away to clean up the bloody remnants of the bandages he’d used to stop the bleeding.

Arturo finally stopped talking, knowing that his words were falling on deaf ears. “
Madre de Dios, qué haremos nosotros ahora
?” he whispered to himself.
What will we do now?

Zhongshan (Sun Yat-Sen) Station
Antarctica

“Stop!” Jiayi Sun steadied his aim, hoping that the running figure would stop, yet knowing that it wouldn’t.

“Jiayi, don’t!” Li screamed. “You can’t!”

He ignored her. As the administrator for the base, this was his duty, drilled into him by his instructors—to prevent the spread of infection to safeguard the people under his command, by any means necessary. It didn’t matter
why
the man wanted to leave, just that he did.

And, more importantly, that he’d wanted to take others with him.

Jiayi found himself without fear, without remorse or guilt. Deshi had brought this on himself. He was a traitor to his people, to his home, to their way of life.

The round caught the fleeing man just under his right shoulder blade and he spun around and collapsed into the snow.

Li pounded on Jiayi’s chest, his arms, his back. The administrator simply stood there, the pistol he’d used to kill the fleeing scientist hanging smoking and still in his hand. He didn’t feel her blows, didn’t even acknowledge her existence. He might have been carved out of the ice all around them for all the impact she was having on him.

She panted as her anger began to dissipate, and she collapsed to her knees and put her face in her hands.

Jiayi finally broke out of his stillness, looking at her in her anguish. He felt nothing for her now, though he had cared deeply for her, once. She was only slightly better than the traitor to him. Even though he knew in his heart of hearts that she had helped plan the now-aborted escape, he could not prove it, and she was too valuable to the state to lose so foolishly as this.
Deshi, on the other hand
…

He shook his head to clear the remaining cobwebs and turned to go inside. “Li, you must return to your duties. I require your usual daily report in one hour.” He didn’t wait to see if she would acknowledge him. If she did her job, there was no problem. If she didn’t… well, there would be no problem then, either.

He still had fourteen more bullets in the gun.

McMurdo Station
Antarctica

“Easy… easy… there we go,” said Major Shaw as he brought the C-5 down on McMurdo Station’s annually-created Ice Runway.

McMurdo was a civilian science research center funded by the National Science Foundation. In support of their bases on the continent and as part of the United States Antarctic Program, the US Air Force and other military units transported supplies from the outside world to McMurdo for a brief period each year. As the largest station on Antarctica, McMurdo received most of the supplies and personnel, which were then distributed to the other, smaller bases on the continent—even some of the small foreign bases.

The plane slewed a bit to the side, but Shaw made the necessary adjustments to the landing gear, straightening the jet and bringing her to a stop.

Evans began an address over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of USAF Airlines, welcome to Hell on ice. Again. Please remain in your seats until the major has brought the aircraft to a full and complete stop at the gate, and, as always, we thank you for choosing us today. Stay warm!” Evans grinned, unbuckled his straps, and stood, stretching. He glanced over at the major, who was focused on the post-flight checklist. Then he looked at Fraser, who merely shook his head. “What? Not even a chuckle?”

“Evans,” said Shaw, “see to the President. They’re bringing out a stretcher now.”

Evans’s smile faded. “Uh, sir, shouldn’t the professionals…”

“Are you questioning my orders, Lieutenant?”

“No, it’s just…” Evans caught the raised eyebrow from Shaw as the major stood. “No, sir! I’ll take care of it, sir.”

Fraser glanced over at the major as Evans left for the racks to help Franklin to the waiting medics. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?”

Shaw raised another eyebrow, and Fraser held up his hands defensively. “I’m just saying, sir, maybe he’s got a point. The Prez didn’t look so good. How do we know what he’s got? Maybe it’s not the superflu, but can we rule it out?”

Shaw shook his head. “Franklin checked clean when he came through security. No sign of the infection. So either those MPs can’t work a scanner, or it’s not the superflu. Besides, Evans could use a little humility.”

“Agreed, sir. One hundred percent.”

“Right, then let’s get this big bitch unloaded, shall we? Charlie!” Shaw yelled as he headed down the ladder, looking for the loadmaster.

Evans appeared, nearly disappearing under the staggering weight and size of the sick Franklin. He shot Fraser a dirty look that was completely ignored.

Fraser turned and looked out the cockpit windows. He could just see the technicians lining up the laser level on the plane—an easy way to figure out how far the fat-assed C-5 was sinking under its own weight into the ice. More than six inches or so, and she’d have to be moved, just in case.

He looked at all the white outside until his eyes began to hurt, and finally put on his sunglasses.

I hate this place
.

Major Shaw knocked on the door of the McMurdo area director’s office. The nameplate said ‘Reuben Hacker,’ but the man behind the desk was clearly not Hacker, given that his uniform said ‘Burke’ and there were colonel’s birds on his lapels. Burke was of medium height, but well-built. His sandy hair was close-cropped, and he wore rimless glasses, a concession to advancing age. As Burke was the military liaison for McMurdo, Shaw had been expecting to report to him in his own office, but had been redirected here instead.