‘Gerry? Where are you?’
‘In the air,’ said Gallen. ‘Just going through the plan for the Ariadne launch. What’s this about the ArcticWatch people going down there? I assume we’re taking them off with Florita?’
‘Ixnay on that, Gerry. They’re down there for the first three-month shift.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m just the security guy, Gerry, case you hadn’t picked it. This comes from above.’
‘This a Joyce thing?’
‘I think Joyce helped create ArcticWatch,’ said Aaron.
Gallen paused, the bullshit factor too strong. ‘Okay, Aaron. So nothing to worry about?’
‘Nothing.’
The Oasis Challenger landed at Baker Lake Airport, powering through the slush and ice, past the famous green terminal, to where an Oasis Sikorsky S-92 was waiting.
Putting on their arctic gear, Gallen and Winter checked their SIGs and deplaned, walking across the wet surface to where a pilot was giving the thumbs-up in the cockpit of the large yellow helicopter.
‘You really think that retrieving this Newport Associates report is going to stop the teams?’ said Winter as the beeping of the turbine’s starter motor sounded.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gallen as he took the loadmaster’s hand, ‘but if we have the thing, we at least control that much.’
He let himself be pulled into the cargo hold and took a seat as Winter was hauled in to join him. Leaning into the flight deck, Winter handed over the coordinates and joined Gallen in the load space seats.
‘You okay?’ said Gallen, as the Canadian was seated. He seemed nervy.
‘Remember I said that there was probably more than one team out there?’ said Winter. ‘There was something weird about those shooters at the Britannia yards.’
‘You mean they didn’t come on like a rescue team?’
‘I guess that’s it,’ said Winter. ‘You think they killed Dale?’
‘Rather than let him talk with me?’
‘Yes.’
Gallen took the helmet and visor offered him by the loadmaster as the side door was slid shut with a bang. ‘I don’t know, Kenny. I’m all out of answers. Could be nothing to do with Oasis — could be other shit.’
Kenny turned slightly as if to talk, but Gallen pulled on his helmet and the conversation was over.
The loadmaster joined the pilot on the flight deck and the helo lifted into the sky.
It was early dusk when the helo crested the ridge and flew down towards the site of the crash.
Gallen and Winter leaned into the flight deck, watching the site in the red glow as the pilot banked off to land. Feeling emotional, Gallen pulled on his mittens and his Thinsulate double-layer balaclava before pulling the fur-lined hood forward and zipping the arctic parka all the way to his nose.
Helping each other put on their military snow shoes, they prepared to trek across the drifts. The Marines also issued hard plastic snow shoes for icy conditions, but Chase Lang had supplied the ‘tennis racquet’ variety — the much-hated footwear that 1st Recon Marines were forced to patrol in during their stints at the Mountain Warfare Training Center in Bridgeport.
Throwing the small backpack over his right shoulder, Gallen waited for the loadmaster to drop the fold-out stairs and walked down them into snow.
The two men struggled through the deep snow to where a hump of packed powder was all that showed the world what had happened in this place. The snow was about to start its thaw, but there’d been enough flurries to cover the whole crash site in a white veil.
Halfway down the gentle fifty-yard slope to the plane wreck, the area was illuminated as the helicopter’s floodlights went on. The last rotations of the rotors whooshed through the air and then Gallen was alone with his breathing.
Arriving at the starboard side of the fuselage that had sheltered the survivors from the elements, Winter pointed to where the entrance should be. Removing their fold-up shovels from their backpacks, the two men dug for several minutes until the snow caved in and the doorway to their hut was exposed.
The air accident investigators and the RCMP detectives had torn down the sacking and insulation that had once formed a door, and as they looked around the fuselage, illuminated by their flashlights, they smelled the burning rags and gasoline soot that had defined their survival.
Going to the ruined cockpit, Winter announced that the investigators had removed the flight deck avionics and probably the black box too. Harry Durville’s corpse was gone and so were those of the two pilots. Donny McCann’s body was back in Los Angeles, where his mother had buried him.
They stood in silence, looking at the beds that Harry and Donny had been afforded as they died, given pride of place closest to the meagre fire.
‘So,’ said Gallen, ‘Donny McCann was probably working for Paul Mulligan. His job was to steal the documents Harry Durville was carrying…’
‘The documents that were safe inside the bodyguard perimeter, but which weren’t so safe when one of the bodyguards was the thief,’ said Winter, lighting a smoke and offering one to Gallen.
‘Now, we know that Donny didn’t have the documents on him when he died.’
‘Check that, boss,’ said Winter. ‘We buried him naked, and there weren’t no documents.’
‘Correct,’ said Gallen, exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the cold air. ‘When we retrieved Harry’s satchel, there was nothing in there.’
‘That’s right. Which means he stashed them somewhere in the wreck.’
They searched the fuselage in a grid pattern for half an hour, establishing where Donny McCann could have hidden Durville’s documents. They went through every leather-bound seat that hadn’t already been stripped for its insulation. They searched all the overhead lockers — which were underfoot — but came up empty.
‘He couldn’t move,’ said Winter, exasperated and panting for breath as he finished sorting through a pile of debris. ‘So I don’t know that searching in the snow is going to achieve anything.’
Taking a seat, Gallen realised the helo’s spotlights were illuminating the fuselage and he switched off his flashlight.
‘It’s like Donny just chucked the documents down a hole,’ said Winter, hawking and spitting.
‘A hole?’ said Gallen. ‘A hole!’
‘Yeah?’
‘That’s where Donny was thrown when the plane landed,’ said Gallen, standing. ‘I found him in that ice cave, under the dome.’
‘He couldn’t move, even then,’ said Winter.
‘Yeah, but he was conscious and he’d been that way longer than me.’
‘You think Donny did the theft on the plane?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gallen, moving out of the fuselage and into the night. ‘But we’re going to find out.’
The two of them slammed their shovels into the peak of the dome as they were held suspended in their safety harnesses beneath the thumping Sikorsky.
The lights from the undercarriage made Gallen squint and the noise and wind effect was terrible as they tried to break through the dome, a death-trap that turned solid as concrete when you needed to dig through.
After ten minutes, Winter broke through the crust and promptly disappeared into the dome, the safety rope tensing as he was held aloft. A split-second later, Gallen also fell into the cavern.
‘Okay, Oasis One,’ he said into his mic, as he dangled in the dappled light. ‘Take us down.’
The winches let out the cable and the two of them landed on the wet floor of the cave, the noise and light from the Sikorsky bouncing around crazily.
‘This way,’ said Gallen, unclipping from the safety line.
Leading Winter through the cave, he struggled to get his bearings: which way had he walked when he’d regained consciousness that afternoon? The light effects from the helo were disorienting and within minutes every twist and turn looked the same.