Terminal Freeze (9 page)

All day the temperature crept slowly upward, past ten degrees Fahrenheit, then twenty, causing Conti to scramble his film crews for shooting a flurry of snow-covered landscapes, just in case. Under brilliant sunlight, the mood of the documentary team improved noticeably as military-grade parkas were traded for woolen sweaters and down jackets. From the direction of Mount Fear, the sharp cracking and booming noises returned as the face of the glacier began calving away once again. Gonzalez deployed his team of army engineers to replace bad bearings that had caused one of the generators to seize up. After lunch, the bulk of the local roustabouts-their initial construction work completed-were ferried south to Anchorage in two cargo helicopters, not to return until the shooting was complete. Only Creel, the burly crew foreman who looked like he consumed steel bolts for breakfast, remained on the base. Around three in the afternoon, Ashleigh Davis emerged from her über-trailer, surveyed the surrounding works with distaste, and then set off for the base-accompanied by her personal assistant in the trench coat-apparently to be briefed by Conti.

After dinner, Marshall returned to the lab where he’d spent the day hard at work, seeing no one. With the bulk of the documentary staff out of doors preparing for the following day’s broadcast, the base had been relatively quiet and he’d had few distractions. Now he was bent over an examination table, so engrossed in his work that he didn’t hear the lab door open softly. He didn’t realize he had company, in fact, until a feminine voice over his shoulder began to intone:

“And soft they danced from the Polar sky and swept in primrose haze;

And swift they pranced with their silver feet, and pierced with a blinding blaze.

They danced a cotillion in the sky; they were rose and silver shod;

It was not good for the eyes of man-’twas a sight for the eyes of God.”

He straightened and turned around. Kari Ekberg was standing there, leaning against a table, dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck. A smile played at the corners of her mouth.

He quoted in return:

“They writhed like a brood of angry snakes, hissing and sulphur pale;

Then swift they changed to a dragon vast, lashing a cloven tail.”

“So,” he said. “They’re out again?”

“And how.”

“You know, ever since I got here and first saw those lights, I’ve been waiting for somebody to quote Robert Service. Didn’t think it would be you.”

“I’ve loved his stuff ever since my older brother scared me half to death, reading ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’ aloud in a pup tent by the glow of a flashlight.”

“Guess my story’s pretty much the same.” He glanced at his watch. “My God. Ten o’clock.” He stretched, glanced back up at her. “I’d have thought you’d be rushing around with all sorts of last-minute details.”

She shook her head. “I’m the field producer, remember? I do the advance work, make sure everybody knows their dance steps. Once the talent hits the ground I pretty much take a backseat and watch it unfold.”

The talent,
Marshall thought, recalling the non-encounter he’d witnessed between Ekberg and Ashleigh Davis that morning.

“And you,” she said. “I haven’t seen you all day. What grand discoveries have you made?”

“We paleoecologists don’t go in for grand discoveries. We just try to answer questions, fill in the dark corners.”

“Then why work so late? It’s not like all this is going away.” And she waved a hand roughly in the direction of the glacier.

“Actually, it’s going away a lot faster than you might think.” He turned to the table, picked up a small yellow flower. “I found this just outside the perimeter wall this morning, poking up out of the snow. Ten years ago, the northerly range of this flower was a hundred miles south. That’s how much global warming has changed things in just a decade.”

“But I thought global warming helped your work.”

“Glacial melt helps me collect more samples, more quickly. I can collect everything from the face of a melting glacier-pollen, insects, pine-tree seeds, even atmospheric bubbles for sampling the amount of CO
₂
in ancient air. It beats the hell out of drilling ice cores. But that doesn’t mean I’m enthusiastic about global warming. Scientists are supposed to be objective.”

She looked at him, wry smile deepening. “And is that what you are? Objective?”

He hesitated. Then he sighed. “If you want to know the truth…no. Global warming scares the hell out of me. But I’m no activist. It’s just that I understand the consequences better than most. Already we’re losing control of the situation. The earth is remarkably resilient, she’s hugely capable of repairing herself. But this warming trend is accelerating too quickly, and a hundred chain reactions are under way-” He stopped, laughed quietly. “I’m supposed to be neutral on the topic. If Sully heard me talking like this, he’d have my head.”

“I’m not telling. I appreciate your speaking from the heart.”

He shrugged. “Actually, it’s pretty ironic. In the short term I benefit from the glacial melt. But once the glacier is gone, all the evidence I need for my research will be gone with it. Everything will be washed into the ocean. This is my one best chance to study the glacier, collect specimens.”

“Hence your burning the midnight oil. Sorry to barge in.”

“You kidding? I appreciate the visit. Anyway, I’m not the only one who’s busy. Look at you: asking questions, doing the legwork, making the star look good. A star who, by the way, doesn’t seem particularly grateful for all your hard work.”

She made a face but refused to be drawn into the line of chat. “We field producers have our crosses to bear, just like you do.” She glanced over. “You play?” And she pointed at a MIDI keyboard that was leaning against the far wall.

Marshall nodded. “Blues and jazz, mostly.”

“Are you any good?”

He laughed. “Good enough, I guess. Couldn’t make a living at it, but I play in the house band for a club back in Woburn. Mostly I love tweaking synthesizers. These days, of course, you don’t have to anymore-the sounds are all pre-rolled, you just select the waveform you want from a computer menu-but growing up I loved manipulating oscillators and filters. Built my own from scratch.”

“You’ll have to play for us sometime.” She motioned to the door. “Guess I’d better get back outside. I set up a segment about the northern lights a little while ago, and Emilio’s probably filming it by now.”

Marshall rose. “I’ll come along, if that’s all right.”

Up in the weather chamber, Marshall noticed the thermometer read twenty-eight degrees. He shrugged into his lightweight parka, then followed Ekberg through the staging area, out of the base, and into a scene of controlled pandemonium. Despite the late hour, the apron was alive with sound and light. Grips were arranging camera stands and moving large trusses into position around the vault, preparing for the next day’s shooting. Not far from Davis ’s trailer, a gaffer was setting up a sun gun to add light to the impending segment. The soundman was in animated conference with Fortnum. Wolff, the network liaison, stood motionless in the shadow of the Sno-Cat, hands in pockets, observing the scene silently. And a dozen others were just hanging around in small groups, staring up at the night sky.

Marshall looked upward, following their gaze. What he saw took his breath away. He’d assumed that the bright illumination around him was all artificial: instead, he saw it came from the most bizarre and spectacular display of aurora borealis he’d ever witnessed. The entire sky was ablaze with layers of undulating light. It seemed to have corporeal form, a viscous, mercurylike glow that crawled slowly across the heavens. It hung so low over his head that Marshall felt a crazy urge to duck. It was a color that he found hard to describe: an incredibly rich, dark crimson with a haunting, faintly radioactive glow.

“Jesus,” he murmured.

Ekberg looked at him. “I’d have thought you’d be jaded by now.”

“These are no ordinary northern lights. Usually you see shifting bands of color. But tonight, there’s only one. Look how intense it is.”

“Yes. Like wine, maybe. Or perhaps blood. It’s creepy.” She glanced at him, her face spectral in the reflected glow. “You’ve never seen these kind of northern lights before?”

“Only once: the night before we discovered the tiger.” He paused. “But tonight the effect must be twice as strong. And it’s so low in the sky you can almost touch it.”

“Is it my imagination, or is it making sounds?” Ekberg had cocked her head to one side, as if listening. Marshall found himself doing the same. It was impossible, he knew. And yet, over the clank of equipment and the drone of generators, he could hear something. One minute it crackled like distant thunder; the next it was moaning, like a woman in pain-and always in time to the ebb and flow of the lights. He remembered the old shaman’s words:
The ancient ones are angry…Their wrath paints the sky with blood. The heavens cry out with the pain, like a woman in labor…

Marshall shook his head. He’d heard stories of the northern lights groaning and crying, but he’d always ascribed them to legend. Perhaps, because the lights were much closer to the ground tonight than normal, there
was
some kind of associated auditory phenomenon. He was about to step back inside to alert his colleagues when he caught sight of Faraday. The biologist was standing between two temporary sheds, magnetometer in one hand and digital camera in the other, both pointed heavenward. He’d obviously noticed it, as well.

There was movement to one side and Marshall turned to see the ice-road trucker and his passenger approaching. Despite the chill, the trucker was still dressed in a gaudy floral shirt. “Hell of a sight, isn’t it?” he said.

Marshall simply shook his head.

“I’ve seen my share of northern lights,” the man went on, “but this beats all.”

“The Inuit believe they’re the spirits of the dead,” Marshall replied.

“That’s true,” said the passenger with the trim beard. “And not particularly friendly spirits, either: they use the sky to play football with human skulls. Legend has it that if you whistle when the northern lights are out, those spirits might come down and retrieve your head, too.”

Ekberg shuddered. “Then please-nobody whistle.”

Marshall looked curiously at the new arrival. “I never knew that.”

“I didn’t either, until my layover in Yellowknife.” The man nodded at the trucker. “That’s when this fellow kindly offered me a lift.”

Marshall laughed. “You didn’t look too happy about it getting out of the truck.”

The bearded man smiled thinly. He’d recovered his composure after what had clearly been a harrowing trip. “It seemed a good idea at the time.” He extended his hand. “My name’s Logan.”

The trucker did the same. “And I’m Carradine.”

Marshall introduced himself and Ekberg. “Something tells me you’re not from around here,” he told the trucker.

“Something tells you right. Cape Coral, Florida. The pay up here’s great, but otherwise Alaska ’s got plenty of nothing I need.”

“And is what you don’t need anything you can talk about?” Ekberg asked.

“Snow. Ice. And men. Especially men in red flannel shirts.”

“Men,” Ekberg repeated.

“Yep. Far too many of them. Up here, the ratio of men to women is ten to one. They say that if a woman’s interested, the odds are good but the goods are odd.”

They laughed.

“I’ve got to return to the base,” Logan said. “Seems my letters of introduction didn’t get here in time, and the good Sergeant Gonzalez needs an explanation for my presence. A pleasure to meet you two.” He nodded at them in turn, then headed for the main entrance.

They watched him leave. “I don’t recognize him,” Ekberg said to the trucker. “Is he part of Ashleigh’s retinue?”

“He’s on his own,” Carradine replied.

“What’s he doing here, then?”

Carradine shrugged. “He told me he’s a professor-called himself an enigmalogist.”

“A what?” Marshall asked.

“An enigmalogist.”

“So he’s with you?” Ekberg asked, turning to Marshall.

“Nope,” Marshall replied. “He’s a mystery to me.”

He glanced around again. There was a palpable excitement in the air that even the bizarre display of light couldn’t fully explain. Despite the anthill-like frenzy, everything appeared to be running on schedule. Already, the carefully calculated thawing of the ice block had begun: he could see the occasional bead of meltwater dropping from the vault floor. Tomorrow at 4:00 PM-coinciding with prime time on the East Coast-the cameras would roll and the live documentary would begin. Ultimately, the vault would be opened. And then- Marshall realized quite abruptly-the crew would pack up, calm would descend once more over Mount Fear, and it would be business as usual for the remaining two weeks of their stay.

Marshall was very eager for that calm to return. Even so, he couldn’t deny there was something special about this night, something unique and exciting that he felt absurdly pleased to be part of.

Now Davis stepped out of her trailer, accompanied by Conti, the personal assistant, and a publicity flack. They headed toward a small clearing near the old security checkpoint, where Fortnum, Toussaint, the gaffer, and the key grip were waiting. “You’re sure you’re warm enough?” Marshall heard Conti ask fawningly as they walked by.

“I’ll be
fine,
darling,” said Davis in a martyr’s tone of heroic resignation. She had exchanged her expensive fur for a stylish Marmot down jacket.

“The shoot shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, tops,” Conti said. “We’ve already gotten the process shots and the backgrounds.” They didn’t glance toward Marshall or Ekberg as they sailed past.

“Well, I’d better make myself useful,” Ekberg said. “I’ll catch up with you later.” And she joined the flack at the rear of the small procession.

Carradine grinned and shook his head. He was chewing a massive wad of gum that swelled one cheek like a hamster’s. “What say you? Shall we stick around and watch this dog and pony show?”

“If you can stand the cold,” Marshall replied, nodding at the trucker’s flimsy shirt.