Stranded (18 page)

“Stop!” Noah shouted to Holden. “There are men off the line!”

Holden turned. He pointed at Michael and shouted, “Get him on his feet! Back on the rope!”

Noah rushed over to help. With Boucher and Henry each under an arm, they lifted Michael easily and didn't need him. Yeong nodded and said, “I slipped.”

“Get your hands on the fucking rope and let's go!” Holden shouted.

A loud crack and a grinding sound rose up despite the wind assailing their hoods.

Noah slipped the pack off Michael's back, snatched up the loop of the guide rope and helped slip it over his wrist. “Are you going to be okay?”

Michael, said, “I'm fine. I slipped. Watch out for yourself.” While he appeared unwilling to accept Noah's help, he didn't ask for his bag back.

Boucher ducked out from under Michael's arm and shoved at Noah's shoulder. “Back to the head of the class, professor.” Noah's feet skidded out from under him and he fell, landing hard on his ass. The ice shifted under him like a gymnasium floor, pressing down and springing up. Some long metal tool in his rucksack jabbed into his back and his spine arched involuntarily at the pain. He felt Jack's and Kevin's hands close on his arms and start to haul him up.

“Watch your step,” Boucher said. Noah couldn't see his face through the balaclava he wore, but he knew the asshole was smiling. He wanted to fight. And Noah wanted to settle things, too. But he also knew exerting himself out here would make the trip harder and more dangerous. Being beaten and wounded was the same as sitting down and waiting to die. As much as he wanted to stand up and show the deckboss, and
all
the men, that he wouldn't be pushed around, he wanted to get off the god damn ice even more. He shouldered Michael's pack, extended his middle finger, and turned to walk back to his spot to pick up the line that every last one of them had dropped. Everyone but Holden.

Only … where was the rope?

Where was Holden?

 

19

The rope snaked away toward the fissure faster than Noah could run to catch up to it. He dropped his pack and dove for the end of the line knowing that if he missed the loop, he wouldn't be able to get up in time to take another leap before it disappeared over the edge. He had this single chance. Although the snow wasn't too densely packed, the landing was hard. The belly flop and slide on the ice drove his breath in a great wheezing rasp from his body. Snow infiltrated his sleeves as he thrust his arms out to catch the rope. It froze his wrists and dampened the edges of his sweater underneath. He gripped at the spot he last saw the line with fat, padded fingers. He couldn't feel if he had a good grip or not. His gloves were made for warmth and gross movement. Still, he didn't dare open his hands for another try. If he did have a hold of it, letting go would be worse than never having caught it at all.

The tug at his hands surprised him and his fingers almost opened reflexively. Instead, he gripped harder, scrambling to his knees as the rope fought him. It pulled, jerking his body toward the fissure that had opened up in the ice. He leaned back and resisted. The rope stopped sliding away, but he couldn't pull it toward him. Holden was in the water. The ice opened beneath him like a gaping mouth, and he'd fallen in before he could call out. Noah remembered what he'd been told in training before setting out on his first Arctic voyage. Going in frigid water created a “cold shock response.” The first thing you do is gasp and begin to hyperventilate. The sudden chill stole your breath, and your body tried to get it back in spades. Which was fine, if your head was above water. But Holden had clearly been caught in Noah's worst nightmare. He'd slipped under the ice, and was being pulled away from the opening by the current.

Noah pulled, leaning back with all his weight. The rope slipped toward him a little and stopped, catching on the edge of the opening. A thump below gave him a terrible perspective. Holden was underneath him. Noah wasn't only pulling against the current, but also against the bend of the line dragging across the ice. He slipped and skidded closer to the edge with every pull. The water was winning. And when Holden ran out of breath, when he ran out of stamina below and let go of the rope, it would win. If Noah went in before that happened, it was doubly a victory for the ice.

“Help me!” he cried. He whipped his head around to see if anyone was rushing to his aid, but the rope yanked at him again and he almost fell forward. Still, he felt no footfalls behind him. Heard no voices raised in alarm. Although he was lucky to have a hold of a loop, he had to get a better angle of attack. Pulling at a man below and now behind him wasn't working.

He struggled to his feet and sprinted as fast as he could toward the fissure. The ice cracked and roared. He leaped into space. His jump was robbed of power by the ice falling away from his feet as he shoved off from the edge. He landed half on the other side, his legs dangling in the fissure, another lungful of oxygen pushed out of his body by the impact. He clawed at the surface with a hand, the other thrust straight down between his legs, holding on to the rope. Panting to catch his breath, he raised a knee up out of the maw before the slack rope tightened and started to pull him in after Holden. He scrambled out of the fissure and rolled up onto the other side, yanking as much of the line out of the water as he could. He shoved back a few more feet from the edge, trying to make more distance, and the line went taut again, stopping him. Then he pulled as hard as he was capable. And it happened. He felt the rope slide toward him.

It came slowly, but steadily. He reached hand over hand, hauling it in. The rope was wet and frozen. It slipped and his breath caught at the panicked thought of not being able to hold on. But he didn't stop. He gripped tighter and heaved, feeling the weight of it—of Holden—sliding toward him. He pulled until he heard the splash below and a desperate sharp sound in the wind. A gasp.

From the other side of the fissure, he heard a shout go up. He couldn't focus on what the men were shouting. But they weren't on the line. They weren't on his side. He was alone.

He got to his knees and crawled to the edge of the ice, keeping the line taut. Holden was in the water, sputtering and choking. His hood was pushed back and he'd lost both his hat and shemagh scarf. He was blue as sky and looked ready to slip back under. Noah struck a hand out and shouted, “Grab hold!” Holden reached up, blindly batting at the sound of his rescuer's voice. Noah fought to catch his flailing hand, finally catching his parka sleeve instead. Although everything in him screamed not to, he let go of the line to put a second hand on Holden's arm. “Hold on to me!” he screamed against the wind and the water. Holden did.

The fissure was deep, maybe three feet, but they grasped at each other and weren't letting go. Noah fell backward again. Holden kicked up from the water and got as much of himself out as he could. Gravity worked against them, though, and he fell back, unable to keep his upward momentum. Noah fumbled and grabbed at his armpits. Holden wrapped his arms around Noah's neck, and Noah realized that this was where they would both be going in. Like a drowning victim trying to climb on top of his rescuer, Holden would push him down beneath the surface to keep his head out of the water, and then they'd both die.

Noah tried not to imagine a cold end with blue ice above glowing in the light of the dim day, and black below. The chill of it shutting his body down. His limbs instantly numb, he wouldn't be able to swim for the opening. He'd die, suffocating and alone while the men above stood helplessly, never to see him again. The Chukchi Sea, his grave forever.

His guts cramped and he felt a wad of stinging bile at the back of his throat. He panted with effort and fear, and his vision tunneled down to a single point in front of him. Holden. The man he was trying to rescue. The man whose life was now in his hands. He could have chosen to stand by and said later,
There was nothing we could do. One minute we were arguing and the next he was gone—swept away.
But if Holden was lost it would be because of Noah's weakness. His inability to do what had to be done.

The others across the ice bore witness to his imminent failure.

He screamed and arched his back, pulled his arms toward him, dragging Holden out of the water. Holden weakly scrambled up the side, clutching and clawing at both Noah and the snow until he was out and, exhausted, they both lay still on the ice.

“Away from the edge,” Noah said, gasping. He shoved with his heels, pushing back from the brink. He never let go of Holden, pulling him along.

First Jack and then Kevin leaped over the fissure. They scrambled toward Noah, babbling and asking questions on top of each other faster than he could process. Holden sputtered and coughed up a lungful of water. He choked and Kevin flipped him over on his stomach, so he could puke up the water he'd swallowed.

“Fuck, dude! That was
amazing
!” Jack said. Michael, Boucher, and Brewster stood on the opposite side of the break, gape mouthed and silent.

Finally, Brewster broke out of his trance and shouted across at Noah. “We have to get him back to the ship. We have to get him into dry clothes!”

Noah looked at where the Old Man stood and couldn't picture them getting Holden back across the gap without dumping him back in the water, maybe even losing one or more of them in it as well. He looked left and right for a narrower portion, or even an end to the opening, but the fissure extended as far as he could see in both directions, as if the plates had become completely separated. How could it have broken apart without them feeling it—without warning? Then he remembered hearing the crack while they argued over Michael. An unbidden image of the ice falling away under Holden's feet intruded in his thoughts and he imagined more of it letting go near the edges or even along another weak line where separate plates had frozen together.

There was no way back.

“We can't. We have to get him to … whatever the hell that is!” Noah pointed at the thing looming larger than ever. It was still maybe a mile away. But closer now than the
Arctic Promise.

“He'll die!”

Boucher shouted, “Tie him to the rope and throw it back across. We'll pull him over.”

“I'm—I'm n-not going b-back in the water,” Holden said, coughing. Without his scarf, the water on his bright red cheeks had frosted.

Noah was through arguing. The longer they debated what to do, the lower Holden's body temperature dropped. His cheeks were bright red and blistering and the tip of his nose was already turning dark gray. Noah imagined his fingers and toes in wet gloves and boots blackening with frostbite as well. Even if they got Holden out of his wet clothes and into shelter, he still might die from the complications of frostbite instead of hypothermia. Either way, it was time to move. He was guaranteed to die here.

Noah leaned down and pushed Holden onto his back. The man didn't resist. Grabbing an arm, Noah tried to pull him to his feet, but Holden wasn't moving. He shivered and panted, trembling from head to toe. He wasn't getting up on his own. He kept his arms and legs tight against him. “Help me!” Noah shouted at Kevin and Jack. He pulled Holden's arm over his shoulders and ducked under his armpit, getting under his body as far as he could. “Help me lift him.”

“What are you doing?”

“Fireman's carry. We have to get him to shelter.” Noah pointed. Blurry and mostly white in the blowing snow, in between wind gusts, they could see the red shape. Whatever it was, it wasn't an iceberg; it was manmade, and it was their only hope of getting Holden out of the cold.

Jack and Kevin helped Noah lift him. Noah was thankful Holden wasn't a giant like Boucher or Mickle. They were roughly the same size. Lean too. Good for Noah; bad for Holden. Without a layer of fat to insulate him, he'd freeze to death faster.

Noah took a halting step forward. If it was twice as hard to walk in the snow, it was ten times as difficult with a full-grown man—no matter how thin—on his back. But what choice did he have? He took a step. And then another.

And then he fell.

Turning to the side so Holden wouldn't land on his neck, he crumpled, dropping the man in the snow, his own spine twisting painfully. Holden groaned, his utterance vibrating with the uncontrollable shaking of his body. Jack and Kevin ran to help. “You can't do it,” Jack said. “You'll never make it.”

“I have to try. Help me get him back up. I can do it.”

“No,” Kevin said. “You can't.”

“Wait a minute,” Jack interrupted. He ran back to the fissure. “Serge, throw me your pack! Noah's going to kill himself trying to carry Holden.”

“Let him!” Boucher called back.

“Throw me the pack, motherfucker! I don't give a shit what you think of Cabot. It's for Holden.”

Brewster's face darkened as he slipped the rigid red pack off Boucher's back and tossed it almost casually across the fissure. Jack leaned forward to catch it, barely snagging a strap before it fell in the water. He glared at the Old Man with a look of pure poison and spit at all of them on the other side of the line.

Returning to the others, he fumbled the thing open. The two hard-shell sides of the pack became sled treads while he extended and locked the rigid poles and stretcher into place. Noah wished he'd remembered that Boucher was carrying it. Fortunately, he had Jack and Kevin. That it would work was more important than who could lay claim to the idea.

They lifted Holden onto the drag-along stretcher and secured him with restraints so he wouldn't tumble off. Kevin stripped off his watch cap, pulling it over Holden's head, assuring him he'd be all right. They helped Noah fasten the pull straps around his waist.

“Let's go,” Jack said.

“You guys get back to the others.”

“We need to stay together.”