Stranded (17 page)

The crew unloaded the FRC, pulling packs filled with gear out onto the ice. Everyone had a burden to carry. No one had any idea what they might find when they got where they were going, so they'd tried to anticipate all possibilities. Being in the best condition, but also being the crew's whipping boy, Noah's rucksack was stuffed full of heavy tools to scavenge parts or make repairs. John and Kevin carried food and water for the team. Henry grabbed the stick flares and the emergency medical supply pack. Boucher hefted a red hard-shell backpack that could unfold into a sliding stretcher onto his shoulders, pulling the arm straps tight. Holden had assigned himself extra ropes and the hated bosun's chair Noah never wanted to wear again. Michael grabbed a pack filled with LED lights and stands in case they were caught out after dark. And Brewster had his pickax, a flare gun in an orange plastic case hanging from a bright strap over his shoulder, and a black Colt .45 pistol in a leather holster on his hip.

“Is that necessary?” Holden whispered, nodding at the handgun.

The Old Man nodded. “It pays to be prepared.”

Noah tried to ignore Brewster. Hefting his pack up on his back, he peered off into the distance. The shape seemed smaller than before. He imagined it as an optical illusion of blowing snow and low light. Without contrast from either the surface below or the sky above, he was uncertain he even saw it. But he was determined not to lose sight of it. Their lives depended on keeping the shape in view.

“All right, men!” Holden shouted to be heard through cinched hoods and above the wind. “Line up!” The crew took position as the third officer had instructed in the change room. Noah, behind him in the lead, then Jack and Kevin, Michael, Henry, Boucher, and Brewster at the rear. Holden unspooled the lifeline rope. He'd tied a loop every six or seven feet of it; enough space to comfortably move, but not enough to lose sight of the crewmember ahead. Moving back, he handed each man his handhold, lightly pounding a fist on the shoulder of every man for encouragement as he went down the line. When he finished with Brewster, Holden returned to take his place at the head of the line, fitted the lead loop around his left wrist, and shouted, “Let's hit the road!”

Their initial steps were halting and almost comical. Noah nearly dropped his loop twice as the rope went taut and then slack, jerking his arm and once almost tripping him until they found a rhythm and moved together. He tried to imagine a march cadence like he'd heard in the movies, but couldn't think of one. Their steps were oddly timed, speeding up and slowing down without good reason. The weariest among them slowed the line. Both Noah and Holden seemed to want to move faster than they were able, and tugged at the others behind. No matter how much he wanted to break away and jog on ahead, Noah knew it was better to pace himself and conserve energy. Although no one had said as much, the trip was potentially twice as long as it appeared. Once they reached the shape, if it turned out to be nothing more than an irregularity in the ice, they'd have to turn right around and march back; they'd die trying to camp out on the open plain after dark.

Inside the ship, Holden had warned them about the temperatures as they suited up for the trip. The thermostat aboard the
Promise
read nineteen degrees below zero. That didn't reflect wind chill. And the wind was strong. It was maybe forty below—the intersection where Fahrenheit and Celsius are equal. In this kind of cold, a person could get frostbitten in as little as ten minutes. He told them to leave as little skin as possible exposed. “That goes for your faces, too. Nobody wants to lose a nose.”

The wind gusted, pushing them off course. Holden corrected, steering the line true again. A trip in a zigzag pattern was longer than walking a straight line, but as long as he got them oriented again, it'd be better than missing the mark entirely. Where most of the crew kept their heads down, Noah had to keep his up to see. He did his best to help keep an eye out for their destination, although Holden's back dominated much of Noah's field of vision. The old adage about the view never changing for anyone but the lead dog came to mind. At least staring at the back of Holden's coat was better than staring at a husky's asshole, he thought. Squinting against the blowing snow, he tried lowering his goggles again, but the condensation of his breath in the mask fogged the lenses over. Frost formed on the inside of the plastic and he pushed them back up on his forehead. It was either the mask or the goggles. He chose to expose his eyes instead of his nose or lips. He knew his corneas could become frostbitten, but he hoped, if he squinted, not as quickly as the rest of his face. Ski goggles would have solved the problem. But neither the company nor any of the men had anticipated what they were reduced to doing. He carried on. His eyes watered and the tears froze in his eyelashes. Every few minutes, he had to reach up to pry a stuck eyelid open.

The snow around their feet crunched and creaked with every step. It crept up around their shins and tried to get in their boots. It was thick and there was no dragging feet no matter how tired or defeated anyone felt. It was like walking through shallow surf. At this depth, it was difficult but not impossible. Every step forward meant pulling a foot up and out before moving ahead. After maybe a quarter mile, Noah's thighs were burning and his breath was becoming harder to catch. He wasn't out of shape, but this was twice the work of trying to stay upright and balanced on troubled sea. The snow helped to keep him from slipping, but underneath it was slick and treacherous. Every step was uncertain.

Glancing over his shoulder, the
Arctic Promise
was hazy and ethereal-looking in the distance. He wanted another peek through Kevin's binoculars to determine how far their destination was now, but Noah decided it could wait. They'd have to stop to rest somewhere along the way, and when they did, he'd borrow them again.

Trying to distract himself from growing exertion and fear, he pretended the barren stretch ahead of him was actually the Charles River Esplanade. He tried to picture the trees and the joggers and the Harvard rowing crew practicing in their slender boats on the river like fast water-skimming bugs. Then a gust of wind would shake and push him. He would stumble and slip and the line in his left hand would go taut, bringing him right back to the present, the easy paths of the river greenbelt gone.

They walked on. No one had the breath to speak or complain. The wind whipping them fluttered jacket hoods and stole the sound of their feet crunching in the snow. It punished and chilled, and tried to hold them back. Pushing against them, it seemed impossible to move forward without ducking into the blast, trying to cut through it like a swimmer battling the tide. Noah wondered how long they'd been walking. It felt like hours. Time was elongating, becoming meaningless. The sun moved, but he had no idea how to track the hours with its arc. This far north, its trajectory never left the lower half of the sky.

Noah guessed they walked maybe another half mile before the procession stopped. His arm jerked back as the rope snapped taut. Under the howl of the wind, he heard the sounds of coughing. He looked behind to see Michael, doubled over, pulling his scarf down and spitting into the snow between gasps. His red expectorations disappeared into the powder, steaming like tiny souls reaching for Heaven before being blown away to nothing.

Holden set down his end of the rope and walked back to talk to Michael, a hand on his shoulder. The deckhand nodded and replaced his scarf. Behind them, the
Arctic Promise
stuck out of the ice. The sight of it was disheartening. Encrusted and still, it seemed like a wraith. Spectral and thin, it grew more insubstantial with each foot traveled forward. Even if the company sent helicopters to search for them, it might not find the ship once it faded into the white expanse holding it. Soon, it would just be another part of the landscape, nearly indistinguishable from the winter overtaking it … like the shape ahead of them.

Noah asked Kevin for the binoculars. Digging them out of his jacket, Kevin passed them over. A strong shudder wracked his body as the wind stole into his clothes in the brief moment he'd unzipped his parka. He zipped up quickly, hugging his arms to his chest in a tight clinch.

Noah looked at the shape. It might be another mile away, or ten. “Do you know how long we've been walking?” he shouted to Holden.

Holden pointed toward the shape and said, “Long enough for that to be closer than it is.”

He was right. Their destination looked every bit as far as when they'd departed. If he couldn't see how far they'd made it from their ship, Noah might have thought they hadn't moved at all. And that was trouble. The wind was covering their tracks. Everything in the distance was blurred with kicked up snow and iron-colored clouds darkened the sky. They couldn't see where they'd been. If they couldn't see the
Arctic Promise
well enough to make it back, it wouldn't matter what they found when they reached their goal.

“What do we do?” Jack shouted.

“We have to keep moving ahead,” Holden answered. “If we stop, we'll freeze. And if we turn back, we'll be every bit as screwed. There's only one way to go now.”

The men nodded their agreement, even while most leaned, hands on knees, trying to catch a breath and mentally prepare for their next steps. For a moment, the wind died down, and in the quiet without the crunching of their boots or the howling gusts, Noah heard the ice speak. A creak and a pop. A groan and a long crack. He'd gone skating as a kid and knew what it sounded like to stand on a frozen lake. He'd skipped stones along the surface to hear the alien chirping of the rock echoing in the water beneath the crust. He'd listened to it as he stepped, a sound of hollow strength underfoot. This was not that. This was the sound of something giving way. Even though they'd stood for hours on the ice the day before, beating and breaking it, they'd never heard it stressing at their weight. The sound of thin ice.

“How is it the wind only blows while we're walking?” Boucher said.

“Maybe the Devil needs a break from beating his wings,” Henry said, crossing himself.

“We gotta go,” Noah said. “Right now.”

Holden held up a hand. “Give it a minute.”

“Yeah, not all of us are doing as good as you,” Michael said. His words were thin like he couldn't get the air to speak them.

“No. Listen!” Noah held up a gloved hand in hopes of shutting them up. Henry waved dismissively at him, turning to say something to Michael.

“You're imagining shit,” Michael said.

A pop. Too loud to dismiss.

“Did I imagine
that
?”

A low groan. And a crack.

Holden's back went straight. He looked at Noah, worry breaking through his stoicism. “He's right. It's time,” he announced, composing himself and concealing his worry. It was too late, though; Noah had seen it. The crack in his inscrutability. Abby had always told Noah when they boarded a plane and he started to feel a tinge of panic,
Watch the crew. If the flight attendants aren't worried, you've got nothing to be afraid of
. Holden was visibly concerned. And that made Noah very afraid.

“Grab the line,” Holden barked. “Everybody on the move. Now!” He jogged back to his position at the front of the queue, picked his end of the rope out of the snow and gave it a sharp tug to convince those following to step to. He pushed ahead with fresh enthusiasm. Unable to return the binoculars to Kevin, Noah hung them around his neck. They bounced against his chest as he pushed to keep up with Holden.

They marched haltingly for a few steps, the crew having a hard time finding the awkward rhythm it had fallen into previously. He heard more coughing from behind, followed by a crack that sounded like a gunshot. Noah called ahead to Holden, “We're too close together.”

Holden turned his head and said, “What do you suggest?” He slipped and staggered a little before regaining his footing.

Noah pointed to the second rope hanging from Holden's shoulder. “Tie the lines together. Put more space between the men.” It wasn't as long as the rope they used as a handhold, but it would lengthen the distance, and he hoped spreading their weight out over more surface would make a difference.

Holden opened his mouth to say something about Noah's idea. Another creak and a pop interrupted his meditation. “No. We have to keep going. We'll head up a ways and then try to space out the loops some. You with me?”

“Aye sir.” Noah wasn't sure he
was
with him, but he had little choice. They could either move or stand still. Standing still meant their collective weight would keep stressing the ice beneath their feet. Moving would hopefully keep them ahead of whatever weakness they'd wandered into the middle of.

The wind picked up again, muffling any other sounds the ice might be making. Noah couldn't feel the surface buckling beneath his feet. Without the sound of it, he reckoned he wouldn't know if it was going to break until they were already in the water. No matter how much the surface looked like solid ground, the reality was that they were hiking on ice over sea. Going in would be bad. Getting caught in a current would be worse. There was no coming back once you were away from the open hole unless you were lashed to something or someone.

Holden held a hand up to his face to shield it from the wind as he searched for the shape. While it was finally getting bigger, it was no clearer than it had been from the ship. Still just a shape in the distance. But they were headed toward it, and that was all that mattered at the moment. Not the engines, not the food, not the radio. That their direction was true was everything.

Noah felt the line go tight again and then slack. He heard a shout rise from the rear before it was carried off by the wind. He hazarded a glance back to see Michael on his knees. Boucher and Henry had also let go of the rope to try and help him up.