Jeremy guffawed and the other two fuelies turned away to look into the distance, shoulders shaking.
Taylor yelled an obscenity, Dave tossed his wrench down and straightened to his full six foot four, and the pissing contest escalated until the other fuelies moved forward to separate the two before Dave took a swing at the chief of security. Taylor stormed off toward a group of flight techs and pilots in a hail of curses.
“That guy’s a bag of dicks without a handle,” Jeremy said.
“No argument there.” Dave shook himself. “Forget him. The real question is when is that NGH going to get here? Sam left for the garage twenty minutes ago.”
“Busy day today,” one of the others said. “NGH might’ve gotten swiped by someone else.”
“Hail him and find out, will you?” Jeremy pulled out a field radio from an inside breast pocket. They all turned at the squawk coming from the front of the fuel truck.
Dave threw his hands in the air. “For Christ’s sake, Sam didn’t take his radio?”
“We could call in, have him paged.”
“He’d never hear it.” Dave straightened again, fumbling with the ski mask. “Damn it. If you want something done right . . .”
“Cass ain’t in the VMF,” Jeremy said as Dave started heading toward the arches. “Last I saw, she was with Biddi on second deck, cleaning.”
“Got it,” Dave said, changing course. “You all head back to the Herc and see if you can lend a hand. I’ll get the NGH and bring it back. If you run into Taylor again, tell him to jump in a hole.”
Dave marched to the base, aiming for one of the station’s ground-level doors instead of Destination Alpha, Shackleton’s main door—with the Hercules’s arrival, the regular entrances were jammed with knuckleheads and he didn’t have the patience to deal with them. Summer crew leaving, winter crew arriving, guests and visitors and onetime drop-ins from McMurdo . . . they were all knuckleheads. Even now, he could see Deb leading a gaggle of muckety-mucks around, pointing out the architectural wonders of the main building, which, as much as he loved the place, had all the panache of a boxcar. At least it wasn’t his responsibility to fake excitement over airshafts and antennas. He shuddered at the thought of having to lead a tour or deal with the day-to-day administration of the base. When he worked, he needed a job, not a job description.
Dave banged through the door and climbed the stairs, the metal steps ringing like chimes. He nodded to the few workers he recognized and skated past newbies still trying to figure out A wing from B wing and first deck from second. One tall, lanky guy with a sketchy blond goatee stared out a window with watery blue eyes, watching the world go by. His mouth hung open and his wet lips moved silently.
“Careful, friend,” Dave said without breaking stride. “You’ll catch a fly.”
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, feeling bad about not stopping, at least for a second—the kid looked really out to sea, worse than most first-timers—but there just wasn’t time to meet-and-greet every fingie coming through the door. He’d buy him a beer later.
Dave started poking his head into rooms, looking for Cass. Dwight, her old boss, had been okay; he and Dave had seen eye to eye on most things. Cass, on the other hand, was a question mark. He didn’t know much about her, despite the fact she’d spent the summer season at the Pole. Quiet, smart. Seemed competent enough. But if he couldn’t get the NGH out of her garage, that estimation would be readjusted, and quick.
As he passed the greenhouse, he had just enough time to spring out of the way as the door to e-systems banged open. A woman, her face stormy, burst out of the lab and marched down the hall toward the Beer Can. Almost on her heels was a worried-looking man in a white polo shirt and jeans. Oblivious to Dave, the two continued an argument that had apparently started in the lab.
“Diane, just think about it,” Dave heard the man plead as he struggled to keep up with the woman. “Please. They’ve got you under contract.”
“She fucking froze to death out there, Rick. If you think I’m going to stick around . . .” Their conversation faded away as they moved down the corridor.
Dave watched them disappear, a sour feeling in his stomach. Being at the other end of Shackleton’s work spectrum from Sheryl, he hadn’t known the woman well, but you didn’t have to be chummy with someone at the Pole to feel their death keenly.