In fact, he knew exactly where to look.
The first thing General Vaughn did after entering the chamber was to have Dodge and the others tied up. He fixed Dodge in his stare even as he finished the command. "Sergeant Baughman, if one of them so much as opens his mouth to cough, you will beat him senseless with your rifle butt."
Dodge glanced at the column and the growing puddle of melt water and remembered what Newcombe had said, Three hours until the Outpost is destroyed and then more ominously, It might be heating up faster than that.
For his part, Newcombe showed no hesitation in drawing the general's attention to the unfolding crisis. "General Vaughn, you've got to listen. We're all in great danger."
As soon as he started talking, Dodge saw something flash in the eyes of the soldier tasked with keeping them quiet. With barely concealed glee, the sergeant hefted his Garand and drew back to carry out his standing orders.
"As you were, Sergeant," barked Vaughn. The eager light in the sergeant's eyes turned to a flicker of disappointment, but he relaxed stepped back. The general strode forward until he was face to face with the scientist. "Well, well, Newcombe. For an educated man, you've made some pretty stupid decisions."
A perplexed expression crossed the scientist's countenance. "Actually General, given the circumstances, my decisions were sound. If you'd just take the time to listen, you would see that."
Vaughn rolled his eyes. "Gag him."
Newcombe did not seem to understand that his direct manner had been interpreted as impertinence, but he quickly continued. "General, please. You need to hear what I have to say."
The officer glanced from Newcombe to Dodge and back again. "Sergeant, take these two topside and secure them. I'm going to give Dr. Newcombe another chance to explain to me why he shouldn't be shot for treason."
Dodge sensed that Vaughn's indulgence would not extend to him and held his tongue as he and Amelia — or rather Jocasta — were escorted by a squad of riflemen toward the tunnel mouth.
As soon as they left the domed chamber behind, Dodge felt his sense of urgency begin to erode. Without the constant reminder that the strange metal column was heating up, it was hard to believe that they could be mere hours from the catastrophic destruction of the Outpost.
"May I ask a question, Sergeant…Baughman, was it?" Jocasta's accent seemed more pronounced and her tone that was almost seductive in its innocence.
Dodge held his breath in anticipation of a violent reprisal, but instead the burly soldier leading their procession flashed a flirtatious smile. "Fire away, sweetheart."
"I was just wondering how you found us here. I thought that this location was being kept secret from the Army."
The sergeant chuckled. "We've been tailing you since you left the States. The general committed dozens of airplanes to following you."
"It's always been my understanding that aeroplanes don't function terribly well in this environment." She flashed a sly wink at Dodge. "Ours certainly didn't."
"Well, the general knew you'd be coming this way. He whistled up a couple of Tin Gooses…Geese?" The sergeant puzzled over this for a moment, then continued. "Trimotors that were already specially outfitted for polar conditions and he sent them ahead to Little America with the advance party. We‘ve been following you the whole way."
Despite his conflicted emotions at learning the true identity of the woman posing as a reporter, coming on the heels of Fuller/Schadel's treachery, Dodge felt an unexpected surge of hope as he listened to the exchange. If the real Jocasta was anything like the woman who had outwitted Captain Falcon in his semi-fictional account, then what he was witnessing now was the beginning of her escape attempt.
Jocasta did not press her advantage too hard. To avoid suspicion, she hid the salient questions in the flow of conversation. She teased and flirted with the sergeant and as they progressed into the main network of tunnels, she gradually engaged the other soldiers. Dodge stayed out of the conversation and only listened half-heartedly. His thoughts were consumed by the ticking of his wristwatch — which he was unable to see since his hands were tied together with parachute cord behind his back — or perhaps more accurately, the rising mercury in an invisible thermometer. How hot was the metal pillar now? How much time remained before the hypothesized explosion shattered the Outpost? How long until it was hot enough to melt through the earth's crust?
The journey to the surface seemed to take forever. Dodge had never made this traverse on foot and had no real concept of how many miles of ice lay between the center of the Outpost and its entrance. The walls were still glowing blue, but tunnels that seemed familiar when whooshing by at fifty miles an hour looked completely alien at a walking pace. The soldiers followed guide marks chiseled in the ice at junctions, a course evidently worked out by trial and error.
Jocasta was still fully engaged in friendly conversation with their captors when they passed through the unnaturally perfect opening in the ice that was the threshold of the Outpost. Surprisingly, the tunnel no longer let out onto the vast Antarctic wilderness, but instead was completely covered by an enormous structure. It was a huge tent, as vast as a circus big top, with heavy olive drab canvas panels that whipped and popped as the wind outside battered the exterior. The canopy covered an area at least the size of a football field. Dozens of battery powered electric lamps had been hung on the upright wooden support poles that were interspersed throughout the enclosure and at the far end of the tent, two Ford Trimotor airplanes were parked, wingtips almost touching and noses pointing inward.
Dodge let out a low whistle and broke his silence. "You fellows have been busy."
Sergeant Baughman looked at him sideways, as if trying to decide whether or not to butt-stroke him. "Amazing what you can do with enough manpower."
"How many of you are there?"
"Enough questions." The scowling sergeant directed his subordinates to settle the captives on the edge of a pallet that still held a three fuel drums. "Private Jessup, you stay here and keep an eye them."
One of the young riflemen croaked, "Just me, Sergeant? I mean, by myself?"
"General Vaughn wants us to get back to the search. Why? This too big a job for you?"
"Sergeant, you know that's Dodge Dalton."
"Who?" It was difficult to tell whether Baughman was being sarcastic.
"He writes the Captain Falcon stories."
Dodge felt a glimmer of hope. If the young soldier knew who he was, then it might be possibly to gain his trust. He kept his head down, careful not to do anything to validate the young private's concerns.
Baughman rolled his eyes. "You can ask for his autograph if you want. Just don't untie his hands."
As the squad marched back into the Outpost, the lone warden glared down at Dodge. "I like your stories, Mister Dalton, but I've got my orders. You try anything, an' I'll shoot you sure as the sky is blue."
Jessup's faint accent reminded Dodge of Hurricane Hurley's Appalachian drawl; it was a bittersweet association. As he pondered how to make his play, he felt Jocasta lean against him. "You write stories about Zane?"
"I assumed you knew already." The words were out of his mouth before he registered the familiarity of her question. Zane, not Captain Falcon. Of course, she knew him. They were romantically involved…but that was just a story, wasn't it?