Frozen Solid A Novel

17




“COFFEE, TEA, OR GLENFIDDICH?” DON BARNARD ASKED AS WIL Bowman settled into a red leather chair. They were in Barnard’s office in the BARDA complex, outside Washington, D.C. It was ten A.M. on Tuesday.

“Nothing, thanks.”

They sat with a coffee table between them. Barnard brought a mug of coffee with him. “Thanks for making time on short notice.”

“When the director of BARDA calls, I answer. Especially when it has to do with Hallie.”

“It’s good to see you under happier circumstances. The last time was …” Barnard shook his head, unable to find the right word.

“Scary as hell,” Bowman said.

“Amen.”

It was at BARDA, thanks to Don Barnard, that Bowman had first met Hallie Leland, a year earlier. Barnard had assembled a team of scientists to search the world’s deepest cave for a natural antibiotic that might stave off a pandemic. He made no secret of the fact that people could die. When an uncomfortable silence extended—these were scientists, not SEALs—Hallie stalked to the front of the room and declared that this was the opportunity of a lifetime: millions of lives might be saved. The rest of them might not go down into the cave, but she sure as hell would. Alone, if she had to. Bowman, in his government’s service, would go, of course. The others could choose. In the end, they all went, and Bowman had never forgotten how she’d galvanized that team.

Not many men outsized Don Barnard, but Bowman was one. Six feet four, 230 pounds of hard muscle. A natural mesomorph, big-shouldered and narrow-waisted, clean-shaven, with a straw-colored brush cut. His nose showed the effects of nonverbal conflict resolution, and a thin pink scar divided his right eyebrow into two short dashes. His was a lean face of juts and angles, hardly handsome but surprising enough to attract stray glances and hold them.

Bowman worked for, or was attached to, or emanated from—Barnard had still not found the right word for Bowman’s affiliation—some dark entity hidden invisibly deep in the government’s intelligence labyrinth. Bowman had never volunteered its name, and Barnard had never pressed him for details. He suspected that Bowman had a military special operations background. Hallie had said he held a PhD in some esoteric engineering subspecialty.

“Have you heard from Hallie?” Barnard asked.

“No,” Bowman said. “You?”

Wil smiled rarely and frowned almost never. If Barnard had been pressed to describe the man in a word, it would have been centered.

“No.”

“Really? I was sure she would have contacted you.”

“I thought the same thing about you,” Barnard said.

“That’s not like Hallie at all. Do you know if she actually reached the Pole?”

“Not even that. I got an email from her at McMurdo on Sunday, but nothing after.”

“I emailed her earlier this morning but haven’t gotten an answer. Have you tried to call?” Bowman asked.

“A number of times. Apparently the moon is easier to talk to. All communications to the Pole are satellite-dependent. Right now, there are just two two-hour windows in every twenty-four-hour period. And lots of things can screw those up—storms, solar events, power failures.”

“She told me she would be replacing a scientist who had died unexpectedly. And that she’d known the woman here at one time.”

“That’s right.”

“Who was that woman working for? Durant was her name, I think.”

“National Science Foundation,” Barnard said.

“How long ago did she die?”

“Not exactly sure. Sometime early last week, though.”

“And you don’t know how?”

“Here’s where it gets a bit strange.” Barnard recounted his conversation with Laraine Harris.

“There should be an autopsy and a medical examiner’s report by now,” Bowman said.

“I thought so, too. So I called a man at my own level over there. Director of Antarctic Programs. He didn’t know how she’d died, either. I explained my interest and asked if he could look into it. Very nice fellow. He agreed. I made an appointment to see him tomorrow.”

“He wouldn’t just send a copy of whatever he found?”

Barnard chuckled. “He’s a bureaucrat. The normal response to such a request would be to forget about it for a week or two, then hand it off to some subordinate. Bureaucrats learn never to do anything too quickly, because it will be expected of them next time.”

“So what happens now?”

“It’s like fencing. Can be fun if you understand the rules and weapons. I pointed out that since neither of us knew what happened, it would be better to meet in person. Possible discretion required, et cetera. Slow response is one thing; no response is another.”

“You put him in a corner.”

“I figured if he was blowing smoke about getting the information, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to meet. This gives him a little incentive to really find something.”

“Keep that kind of thing up and I might have to recruit you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. But my ops days are over.”

Bowman’s expression hardened. “I don’t like this.”

“Me, neither. Less and less, in fact.”

“Hallie’s supposed to fly out of there before the station shuts down for winterover, right?” Bowman asked.

“Yes. After the last flight, it’s totally isolated for eight solid months.”

“So if anything happened and she missed that flight …”

“It would be a long winter. For all of us.”

Bowman stood. “Thanks for bringing me in, Don. I’ll look for that report.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Let me know when you get through to her. I’ll keep trying, myself.”

Barnard had been worried not to hear from Hallie but shocked to learn that Bowman hadn’t, either. He knew that the two had grown close over the past year, and he knew, as well, that neither was the kind who did that easily. He had watched the relationship change Hallie, rounding edges, softening points. He wasn’t sure she’d noticed the evolution herself. Barnard loved Hallie, but that did not keep him from seeing her as she was: an excellent scientist and a lovely young woman, but one who had grown up with two older brothers in an Army family. A colleague of Barnard’s had once commented on the “porcupine suit” she sometimes wore.

Barnard stared out a window. Now that he and Bowman had talked, Barnard was feeling the edge of an old dread that rarely visited him these days but slept always in some deep place, ready to wake at the right disturbance. It had come back with him from Vietnam, where night after night he had led soldiers even younger than himself out into the black jungle, knowing with absolute certainty that on this patrol, or the next, or the next, some of them would not come back alive.