Once they stepped outside the commons module, which also housed the chief’s office, they had to cross about a fifteen-foot-long, exposed wooden walkway. The modules were like wide railroad cars, laid out in a big square, with braided red nylon ropes strung along both sides of the connecting walkways. Michael knew that the ropes were there for more than helping you to keep your balance; in the event of a whiteout—and he’d been caught in one—the ropes could provide the only means of finding your way to refuge; even if that refuge was only a foot or two in front of you, you might not know it. Men had died in polar climes, frozen to death just yards from their unseen tents.
In the next module over, where the infirmary was located, Charlotte had that rarity, a single room, if you could call it that. It was a tiny cell about eight feet by ten feet, and it had been occupied, until the moment their helicopter arrived, by the previous medical resident. Judging from the posters on the wall, he’d been a fan of three things: surfing, sailing, and Jessica Alba. But he was now on his way back to the world, by way of the Coast Guard Cutter Constellation. Charlotte’s bags were still on the bunk.
“That’s some décor,” Michael said, poking his head in.
“Never occurred to me to pack my own posters.”
“Next time you’ll know,” Darryl said.
“Next time,” Charlotte said, “I won’t be here.”
Michael and Darryl were in the next module over, reserved for the beakers and other transient types—and they had to share a room not much bigger than Charlotte’s. There was one narrow window, more of a louver really, and a two-tiered bunk bed, with flimsy blackout curtains around each berth; the floor was covered with the kind of industrial-strength carpeting, in maroon and yellow, that you might see in a hotel banquet room. But the single closet, behind a slatted plywood door that had trouble remaining on track, revealed a surprising bounty inside.
“Whoa,” Michael said, “check this out.”
Darryl looked over.
“Either the previous tenants left us a lot of presents…”
“Or the NSF has made damn sure we’re properly outfitted.” Darryl pulled out the sleeve on one of the two orange anoraks hanging on the bent rod. “I wondered why they kept asking for my sizes on the application forms.”
In addition to the two anoraks, their hoods lined with coyote fur, there were two goose-down parkas, wool shirts, and wool “wind pants,” with enough pockets to carry a whole hardware store. On the shelf above, Michael found and handed down to Darryl polypropylene underwear designed to wick sweat away from the body, furry mittens big enough to wear gloves inside of them, wool socks, leather gloves and liners, and, finally, woolen ski masks to cover the head and neck and most of the face.
“It’s like Christmas!” Darryl said, examining the various items as Michael handed them out.
“And we’re not done yet.”
On the floor, there was an assortment of boots, all neatly aligned and separated by size. There were bunny boots—two layers of rubber, with insulation in between; soft, Eskimo-style mukluks; and fireman’s boots, tall and black, for water work and wet ground.
“Looks like they’ve thought of everything,” Darryl said.
“Yeah,” Michael agreed, surveying the cache. “I’m just wondering where they’ve parked our snowmobiles.”
The communal bathroom was at the far end of the module, and was blissfully unoccupied when Michael took a hot shower—“Limit yourself to three minutes when bathing!” the sign warned—and padded back down the hallway. It, too, was done in the same carpeting as the rooms—they must have gotten it at a fire sale, Michael thought, when some Holiday Inn had suddenly gone out of business.
As soon as he got back to his room, and closed the door, he could hear the low snoring from behind the curtain in Darryl’s lower berth. The floor was still littered with all their new clothing. Michael adjusted the black blind that came down over the slot that passed for a window, turned out the light, then climbed up to his own bed, where he plumped the foam-filled pillow against the head-board. A slant of cold sun still penetrated the room. He pulled the bed curtains closed, and by the time he put his head back on the pillow, he was already half-gone. Eight hours later, he awoke in the same position he’d fallen asleep in and, for the first time in months, he could not remember a single thing about his dreams. For that, he was deeply grateful.
Snow school was mandatory for all newcomers to the base. It was overseen by a lanky young guy named Bill Lawson, who wore a cotton kerchief, pirate-style, over his head. Michael thought he might have seen Pirates of the Caribbean one too many times. A civilian employee of the Navy, he taught the course as if it were a self-esteem seminar. When Michael was the first to demonstrate that he knew how to build a fire from scratch, Lawson said, “Way to go, Michael!”