Black Ice (42 page)

‘It's OK,' Mel said shakily. ‘It missed my eye.'

Sean's heart went out to her; to suffer an injury like that was just too much bad luck.

‘Stop dithering!' He suddenly felt a wave of frustration at the clumsy Murdo, pushing him aside so he could free the zip himself. His fingers, much stronger than Murdo's, achieved it first attempt.

‘Get in!' He took Frank by the scruff and thrust him into the tent, where at least he could perform the useful function of weighing it down.

He put a protective arm around Mel, pulling her close. ‘You OK?' he asked her. ‘That looked really bad.'

‘It got me just below the eye. Stupid of me…' she said tearfully. ‘I couldn't get out of the way…'

‘You'll be OK. Let me get you inside the tent. Come on, before you freeze your ass to the ice.'

Sean escorted Mel into the tent and then helped Lauren and Murdo to fix the flysheet in place. They piled up a small drift of ice above each tent peg to freeze it better into place, then went across to put the final touches to the other tent.

The camp was made—and not a moment too soon. Just as Lauren and Sean zipped themselves into the second tent, the leading edge of the storm surged across the glacier. The previous gusts had been innocent by comparison, outriders of the real event.

Lauren knew, as she watched the dome roof of the tent begin to shudder with the impact of the wind, that they were now at the mercy of whatever the Antarctic chose to throw at them.

If one of these tents is destroyed tonight, Lauren told herself, the fear taking control of her no matter how positive she tried to make her thoughts, we won't survive.

94

For twenty-four hours they lay in their sleeping bags, hanging on desperately to the fabric of the tents in the fight to keep them from blowing apart.

The storm had not abated as Lauren had hoped; if anything, now into the second day, it was increasing in intensity. Katabatic winds off the higher plateau of the ice cap had merged with the original front, creating a chaotic vortex, which seemed to blow alternately from the south and then from the west.

There was little dialogue between the two tents, even the loudest shout could only barely be heard above the turbulent roar of the wind.

At three a.m. on that second day, Lauren noticed that the central seam of the tent was beginning to split. It was a minute tear—just a centimetre or so in length—but she knew if the wind got into it the tent would be turned inside out in seconds.

‘We're going to lose the tents,' Lauren yelled to Sean as she showed him the rip with her headtorch. ‘We have to give ourselves more protection.'

‘How?'

‘We've got to build a wall. If this storm keeps blowing for another twenty-four hours, there's no way we can keep the tents up without a wind block.'

They fought their way out of the tent and into the teeth of the storm. Working with the headtorch, Sean set to with Lauren, using their basic tools to hack what chunks they could out of the frozen glacier. It was testing work, with the savage wind snapping in their faces, but one hour of shared labour created a pile of irregular-shaped blocks with which they managed to construct a sheltering wall about a metre high.

Then it was back into the tent to wait.

‘What would I give for a piece of bread?' Sean groaned as a cramp creased his stomach. ‘Some fruit. Anything fresh.'

But all they could eat was a handful or two of dried porridge, their thirst slaked with mouthfuls of snow.

The next day dragged unbearably, the wind picking up a gear as night crept over the wasteland. Sleep was an outright impossibility, the sheer volume produced by the storm was enough to keep them awake despite the deep vein of exhaustion which ran through them all. Living conditions were miserable, made worse by the fine layer of powder snow which was constantly blasted through the entrances; it was fine, as fine as talcum powder, and able to penetrate even the tiniest gap in the fabric of the tents.

The snow melted on contact with the heat of the human body, so that their necks and faces were constantly damp and chilled. Movement around the tent created a further discomfort—any powder which was allowed to creep into a sleeping bag would slowly defrost as they tried to rest, fostering an environment which Sean described as ‘Like trying to sleep inside a giant frozen slug, but a darn sight less comfortable.'

As the evening progressed, so the wind increased again, passing storm force ten and touching hurricane force as it raced uncontested across the icy wilderness. The tents were holding up, but only thanks to the wall; to be inside was like being in the interior of a punch bag, the blows coming thick and fast as the shell of the tent deflected them one after another.

Lauren detected a rhythm in the chaos, a cycle which was terrifying in itself—a calmer pause, the dome regaining its igloo shape as the wind eased off slightly, then a far-off whistling sound, a rushing howl as the tumbling mass of energy gathered for the next attack. Seconds ticked by; the tent would begin to quiver, then shake as if the very ground beneath it was in the grip of some violent earthquake. Before long, the kevlar poles which held the shape would bend to the point where Lauren was sure they would splinter, then, unleashed, the full brunt of the storm would smash into the dome, compressing the structure until Lauren could feel the fabric against her head.

The wall was demolished by the wind at about one a.m., the blocks of ice crashing down onto the front of the tents. The first they knew about it was Frank's scream of pain as one of the blocks crushed his feet. Unrestricted, the wind now had full play on the two domes, twisting and distorting the structures so dramatically that the occupants were terrified that their weight would not be enough to pin them down.

‘What happened?' Lauren could just hear the muffled shout from the adjacent tent.

‘The wall came down!' she called back, repeating herself to make sure she was heard.

Sean and Lauren quit their sleeping bags and took a fast trip outside to make what repairs they could to the wall. The wind chill was intense—stronger than either of them had ever known. Lauren could feel the heat draining out of her body faster than it could be replaced. They worked by the light of the single headtorch, the driving grains of ice shooting past at phenomenal speed in their small pool of vision.

‘My feet are going!' Sean shouted after just five minutes of rebuilding the scattered bricks of ice.

Lauren put a final block on top of the ramshackle pile; the wall wasn't even half the height it had been. ‘That's all we can do,' she said.

They re-entered the tent and collapsed into their sleeping bags, wearing every scrap of clothing. Lauren couldn't make the shivering stop.

By four a.m., another problem began to manifest itself: the snow was beginning to drift, the weight pressing down on the occupants of the tents until it threatened to suffocate them. Lauren and Sean went out into the whiteout every hour to shovel the stuff away with their hands, but each time were forced back in by the cold before they could completely clear the tents.

Despite their gloves, these excursions cost them dear. The pain of defrosting their fingers was unspeakable, the tears welling in Sean's eyes as he placed his ice-cold fingers in his armpits and waited for them to recover.

And so that second night passed, a trial of cold, of damp, of pain for Frank with his mutilated hand. A thin cast of light announced a tentative dawn, at least allowing them to see the anxious, grey faces of their tent mates. But still the wind blew.

At about eleven that morning the storm finally decided it would take some time out, the wind dying off to a modest force three or four, the driving snow tailing away in a succession of last-gasp flurries.

Lying in the tent, Lauren could feel the conditions begin to change, sense the way the goretex of the outer wall was easing off as the wind started to let go. Gradually, the cracking of the fabric diminished, the whipping of loose guy ropes less frequent until, finally, it was possible to fall into an exhausted sleep.

95

It was twenty-nine days since the team had left the base; now every step was punctuated by a long pause to rest. The soft snow dumped by the storm meant that the runners of the sledge clogged up with infuriating regularity. Sometimes, even with all four of them pulling with all their might, they achieved just a few inches of progress before the sledge ground to a halt.

The weather was still unstable, one small blizzard after another sweeping across the glacier and plunging them into whiteout conditions for hours on end. It made route-finding a nightmare, costing them time and precious energy as they were forced to detour and skirt the countless crevasses and faults.

Some of the crevasses were so big that they would be forced to halt while Lauren and Sean split up to see which way provided the shortest route towards the north. Then they reached the biggest gulf yet, a crevasse which looked—from the fresh blue colour of the interior—as if it had only recently opened up.

‘This one could be miles wide,' Sean said gloomily. ‘I can't even
see
the other side.'

They sat on the sledge for a rest, everyone locked in their own thoughts as the wind and snow played around them. Finally, Lauren spoke.

‘You take the east,' she told Sean. ‘I'll recce this way.'

Lauren checked her compass and slowly walked west for some ten or fifteen minutes, keeping the crevasse edge on her right side. The driving snow was thickening with every passing moment, and visibility was alternating from a couple of metres to ten at most. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see no sign of her team. She walked steadily, scanning the crevasse continually for a snow bridge they could use to cross, her eyes stinging from the hard pinpricks of frozen flakes as they spun through the air.

The crevasse was beginning to narrow, and for a while she was optimistic that this would be the breakthrough to the north. Then the blizzard lifted for a few moments, and she could see yet another large crevasse dissecting it at an angle.

Lauren cursed and stood shivering for a while as she considered what to do. There was little doubt the weather was worsening yet again, and by rights she should return to the team and order them to pitch camp. She decided to go on another ten minutes; in her mind was the fear that, if they pitched camp in this trap, they would never again have the physical strength to get out. She prayed that Sean was having more luck in the other direction.

She carried on into the whiteout, veering slightly to the south again as the new crevasse decided—infuriatingly—to force her to the south alongside what seemed to be a ten-metre-high ice cliff.

Then she paused. Through the wind rush she could hear the sound of someone coughing. It was regular, coming every few seconds. She rubbed the ice from her eyes and took a few steps forward, straining to see something—anything—through the snow. She checked her compass, thoroughly confused. Could she have turned a full circle? Was that noise the sound of someone where she'd left the team? Or was it Sean?

She advanced a few more steps. The coughing continued. Except now she realised it wasn't coughing at all.

It was more mechanical. More metallic.

Now she could see a dark shape through the swirling snow. It seemed to be red, but what could be red out here? There was someone next to it, stooping with his back to her.

Then she got it. Holy shit, it was Fitzgerald. Lauren froze to the spot, her heart thumping like a jackhammer in her chest as she stared in terror at the explorer's back.

What if he heard her? What if he turned and saw her? She was too far from the others for them to hear a scream.

But what was Fitzgerald doing here? Lauren's exhausted brain took a few frozen seconds, watching him pull the starter cord, before she realised his snowmobile had broken down. The coughing noise was the starter cord as he pulled it back. She could see that the fully laden sledge was still attached to the snowmobile. There was all the food … all the medical supplies …

Lauren ducked back behind an ice tower and tried to control her breathing.

This was their chance.

Would she have time to go back and get Murdo and Sean? Or would Fitzgerald get the snowmobile started and leave the location completely?

Pull. Pull.
The engine almost fired.

Then she saw the axe. It was lying against the sledge, placed between her and the explorer.

Now the adrenaline was pumping harder than Lauren had ever known before.

A moment in which to act … or to flee? Then an image of the empty second barrel flashed into her mind … and the expression on Frank's face as he watched his fingers being sawn off with a blunt penknife, and she knew there
was
only one way to resolve this now.

Lauren moved carefully forward, placing her boots as silently as she could on the ice as the explorer continued his efforts to get the engine going. She was close enough to hear his curses, the swearing constant and enraged. She picked up the axe, felt the smooth wooden handle, surprisingly warm, in her hand. The head was forged from the finest steel, the haft painted red.

Only one thought was running through her mind: to disable, or to kill?

Not much competition there. Kill. Now.

Lauren raised the axe and aimed for the back of the explorer's head.

Her movement caught Fitzgerald's eye, a reflection in the snowmobile mirror perhaps as she prepared for the blow.

‘Wha—?' He began to rise, turning abruptly as he did so, his cry of surprise cut off midword.

The axe struck a vicious but glancing blow into the shoulder, right through his goretex clothing, deep enough that Lauren could feel it hit bone.

Fitzgerald turned, the shock of the impact sending his face into contortions as it seemed his eyes would pop out of his head.

‘But…' He took a step towards her, both hands held out as if to reach for her neck. ‘But…'