Squinting against the glare, she looked at the Hercules, parked on the skiway like some temporarily grounded sway-bellied dragon. Its four turboprop engines were idling and ready to go despite the fact that takeoff was an hour or two away—engines were not shut off at the South Pole unless you were done for the day or had an affinity for futility; it could take forever to resuscitate a cold engine. Squatting on the skiway with engines going might blow a swimming pool of wasted fuel out the tail, but everyone involved considered the idling worth it.
After a moment, Cass’s attention slid away from the plane. The skiway was full of people: fuelies checking lines, staffers driving Skandics and snowcats full of gear and supplies out to the plane’s loading platform, a dozen people simply standing around with their hands in their pockets, talking.
Biddi tugged on her arm to get her to join a small knot of winter-over crew standing to one side of the ob deck. Thanks to the noise, conversation was limited to hand signals, so they all stood in a strange gaggle, side by side, but almost entirely unable to communicate. So much for getting out and interacting with friends , Cass thought. But she knew there were other events planned, old Polie traditions to mark the severing of the last thread connecting Shackleton to the outside world. There’d be plenty of time to catch up.
So, she gave herself permission to watch the prep for the last flight, looking on as scores of tiny workers bustled around the Herc like ants crawling over the carcass of a giant beetle. As much as the Antarctic ice and snow would allow, it was a smart, efficient operation, with snowcats and snowmobiles running supplies back and forth to the service arches, downslope, around the corner, and out of sight. She grinned as she saw that even the old LMC 1800, “Little Tug” painted on the side in white, had been pressed into service. With a top speed of eight miles an hour, no one took the little crate on tracks to make time, but it had enough torque to pull the station across the ice if you could find cables strong enough. And, sure enough, daisy-chained behind the Tug were six sleds stacked man-high, chugging along slower than a person could walk . . . but moving nevertheless.
There were hiccups in the process, naturally, and she watched as one of the snowmobiles bucked and stalled out on the ice en route to the Hercules. Even from this distance, she could tell the driver was frustrated as he or she slammed the controls in an effort to coax it back to life, then yanked the brake lever and climbed off. Whoever it was stood and faced the snowmobile with hands on hips for a minute before looking around helplessly.
Cass nudged Biddi, pointed out to the stranded vehicle, then leaned in close. “I’m going to give them a hand. It’s my kind of work.”
Biddi gave her a gloved thumbs-up. Cass climbed down the outer stairway to ground level, then set off across the ice, purposefully steering wide of the Herc itself to keep the gung-ho air force guys from running over to save her from getting chopped into bits in case she didn’t know what a propeller was.
By the time she reached the stranded snowmobile, the rider had the side hood open and was tinkering with something inside. To her amazement, the snowmobile wasn’t one of the newer standards, like a Skandic or a Tundra; it was an Alpine. A great machine, but it was a little like finding a Model T at a truck rally. She knew the inventory of the VMF pretty well and wondered where they’d found it.
“Hey,” she called from about twenty feet away, barely audible over the roar of the Herc’s engines. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” A hooded, masked face popped up from behind the hood. “Why not?”
“It’s too cold and that Alpine is an antique. If half the engine isn’t frozen already, it will be by the time you actually figure out what’s wrong. It’ll be easier to just tow it back to the VMF since we’re so close.”
Despite the layers of cold weather clothing, she could tell the person was irritated. “Who are you?”
“Cass Jennings.”
“Who?”
“Station mechanic ,” she yelled. “Stop screwing with that and let me get you a tow so we can get it to a museum in one piece. Why don’t you go warm up while I take care of this?”
“Oh.” The driver’s shoulders didn’t exactly slump, but she could tell he was at least partially contrite. “Okay.”
Cass veered off, stomping across the ice and down the long, gradual decline to the outer doors of the VMF and warehouse. Deep ruts left by the thick tread of utility vehicles had frozen in place, making the walk precarious—it was like trying to hike over a landscape of upraised and uneven glass teeth on a slope of maybe twenty degrees, and she had to windmill her arms more than once to keep from pitching forward. It was a short walk, however, and while the mouth of the large VMF garage door—the one she’d come through with Hanratty the day before—was shut, next to it was a more reasonably sized door for people. She steered for the latter, banged it open, then stopped short.
Standing in the middle of the VMF, as though caught playing with themselves, were Hanratty, Taylor, and Keene. Cass couldn’t have been more taken aback if she’d found the Three Stooges in the middle of her garage. Judging from the look of surprise on their faces, the feeling was mutual. She peeled off her goggles and pushed back her hood.