Gallen fished out a smoke, lit it. ‘Where does Reggie come in? He an oil guy?’
She shook her head. ‘Harry has been trying to flush him out, see exactly who he represents and what he can do.’
‘So that meeting in Kugaaruk.’
Florita looked away. ‘I’ve said too much.’
‘You haven’t told me a thing.’
‘You wouldn’t believe the confidentiality contracts I signed to get this job,’ said Florita. ‘And I’m not throwing it away because I can’t keep my mouth shut.’
‘Good job, huh?’
‘I was a fourth-year associate in a big LA law firm, beavering away for my theoretical chance to make partner, some day, perhaps, if I kept wearing the tight dresses, if I kept being the cute Latina laughing at the stupid Anglo jokes.’
‘Then along comes Harry.’
‘The Oasis partner was in Tokyo and his associate was on compassionate leave in Dallas. A contract needed to be checked and signed overnight, and when I saw it I called the number on the cover page to make sure they understood what they were signing.’ Florita warmed to the story. ‘So Harry Durville picks up the phone, and here I am talking with this big-time oil guy, this billionaire you see on the cover of Time and Forbes, and we’re taking clauses out and putting others in.’
‘Saved his ass, right?’
‘Next thing you know, I’m on the Oasis jet, doing the deals, meeting the Arabs and the Indonesians, and my firm doesn’t like it, tells me to move over, let the Oasis partner back in the game.’
‘I had no idea it worked like that.’
‘Sure,’ said Florita. ‘So about three weeks later, when I’m back in the tight dress, pretending to laugh at some lame prank, Harry asks me out for lunch. He makes me an offer: he’ll double my salary, give me stock options and a VP title — chief legal counsel.’
‘And he paid for discretion.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Florita.
Gallen wanted to argue, to put on some pressure. But he admired people who stuck to their undertaking. It was the single most important character trait for a combat soldier, in his opinion, trumping bravery and strength and even intellect.
‘I understand that,’ he said, realising her face was close to his.
‘You do?’ she laughed. ‘Wish you’d tell Kenny that. Harry’s scared of him, doesn’t want to be left alone with him.’
‘Heard of his reputation in the Ghan,’ said Gallen, thinking about the Canadian’s past.
‘No,’ said Florita, confused. ‘Harry used to watch him in the Western Hockey League. Says Kenny once put his stick through the plexiglass.’
The shape started as a speck on the horizon. Gallen stood, dislodging the hand that Florita had placed on his leg, and pressed the field-glasses to his eyes.
He was sure he’d seen movement against a small mountain range about fifty miles away. Scanning the whiteness, the maritime glasses good at cutting out glare, he strained his eyes to catch it again.
‘A snow flurry?’ Florita stood beside him. ‘Maybe a bird?’
Letting the binoculars fall to his chest again, Gallen put his sunglasses back on, not taking his eyes off the horizon. ‘It was something,’ he said. ‘Maybe a bird, but maybe a reflection.’
‘Which means glass or steel?’ said Florita.
‘I was hoping.’
They stood awkwardly, jostling for position.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’d better get back to the water still.’
‘Yeah, um…’ Gallen tried to think of something mature to say. ‘I guess.’
She turned to him and leaned in, and as Gallen saw the look in her eyes — way back in the darkness of the snow hood — he caught movement at the edge of his vision. Pushing her away, he lifted the glasses again, his heart pumping into his throat.
Scanning across the mid-distance, concentrating on the ten-mile zone, he picked it up.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Helicopter… Kenny, Mike!’ he yelled into the radio mouthpiece. ‘Pick up! Kenny, Mike!’
As he waited, he motioned for Florita to get the flare box.
The Aussie snarl came on the radio. ‘What’s up, boss?’
‘Get the cushions on that fire!’ he yelled. ‘I got a black helo doing grids about ten miles north-west of our position. Get that black smoke in the air!’
The helo was going back and forth as shouted voices rose from the crashed plane below them. It looked like a small MH-6, the kind the US military called a Little Bird. It wasn’t what he’d expect for a search-and-rescue helicopter, but he’d fly out of there hanging off a kite if that was what was available.
‘Florita, got that flare gun?’ he said, eyes locked on the helo.
‘How does it work? ‘
‘Take out the gun, grab the barrel and break it,’ he said.
She fumbled for a few moments, the cold and gloves making small movements hard. The sound of the gun breaking echoed through the silence.
‘Put a red charge in the barrel, and make sure the solid end is facing you.’
She did as she was told and closed the breech before Gallen could tell her to.
‘Point straight in the air and pull the trigger,’ he said. ‘It won’t hurt you.’
The flare rocket exploded on its way with a whooshing sound and Gallen pulled his eyes from the glasses long enough to see it arc five hundred feet in the air before bursting, then floating.
‘They’ll see that, won’t they?’ she said, both of them breathless with excitement.
‘We got smoke yet?’ asked Gallen. ‘Shit!’ The helo was flying away.
‘Is it going?’
‘Hope not.’ Gallen watched the low-flying helo duck behind a ridge. ‘Hope they’re doing a search pattern.’
Lowering the glasses, he looked down and saw thick black smoke rising to their position at the lookout, the chemicals in the foam cushions doing their job.
The radio crackled. ‘We got all the cushions on the fire,’ said Winter. ‘This is it, boss. You set that flare?’
‘That was us,’ said Gallen. ‘Florita found a box.’
‘Then where’s that helo?’
‘Headed west.’ Gallen ran arcs with the glasses, trying to catch another glimpse. ‘Keep the smoke coming.’
Waiting for three minutes, their breathing rasping in the cold, they could hear the occasional shout of urgency and excitement coming from the camp below. The smoke billowed and the tension built as Gallen wondered what he would do if this failed. There was no Plan B except to get that radio working. As people started dying, there would be the issue of eating the flesh, and for him the answer would always be ‘no’; once the sanction on cannibalism was lifted, when would hungry men make the decision to kill another to eat him, rather than waiting for him to die?
The noise started as a low throb, not unlike the distant undercurrent of an ocean hitting the beach. Turning his head and the field-glasses, Gallen swung for the direction of it. The throb started to come in sets of two and then three.
‘Hear that?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ said Florita.
The throb grew and then Florita was shouting, hitting Gallen on the back.
Letting the glasses fall, Gallen turned to her and saw it, the Little Bird hovering two hundred yards behind their position, where it had obviously emerged having circled through a valley. As they watched the nose of the rescue craft pointed their way.
‘Over here, over here!’ she said, at a volume that took Gallen by surprise. Stashing the flare box in her pack, the executive started running for the helicopter.
The radio crackled. ‘We can hear the helo, boss. You see ‘em?’
‘They’re here,’ said Gallen, waving his arms. ‘They’re here.’ He followed Florita towards the aircraft; as they struggled in snow up to their armpits, they yelped and whooped like young children.