No one spoke. They were all trying to get a grasp on the situation.
In the distance was the familiar cone of Mount Erebus. Henry gazed at it for a moment before he noticed that its usually steaming top now sported a sizeable cloud.
“What the…?”
“Whuzzat?” asked the SEAL, peering at him past the general’s stony presence.
Henry pointed at the horizon.
“Erebus,” he said. “I think it’s erupting.”
Once the Cobra had settled onto its pad at McMurdo and they’d clambered out, no fewer than four naval officers clustered around the general. He walked among them towards the HQ, nodding as each of them told him their news or asked questions.
Henry looked back towards the big ice. The explosion’s plume hung like a tall thunderhead in the distance. To its left Erebus was indeed erupting, a steady flow of grey cloud belching from its summit.
He heard the general call for Grimes, himself and the pilot to accompany him into the building. Pausing, Grimes turned to the pilot and shook his hand.
“You saved our asses, Rob.”
The pilot looked at the chopper and smiled. “It was her that did it, sir. Any other machine and we’d be toast.”
“You did a great job, Walters.”
Henry and Grimes hurried to join the general. Hayes looked around at the group around the door to the HQ building. “I trust you congratulated our pilot, Kai.”
“Indeed.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Henry, “my dogs.”
Hayes frowned. “Your dogs?”
“They’re all I got, General. I need to see if Shep’s okay. It’s been two days since…”
The general nodded. “Come back when you’re done,” he said with a smile.
Henry turned and ran towards the kennels. As soon as his master came in sight, Shep bellowed a hello. In less than a minute Henry had the cage open and was hugging the huge grey-and-black malamute as though he were a long-lost love.
Josh Wallis came towards them from the generator building, waving cheerfully.
“Well, we’re down for sure. Generator’s fried.” The man eyed Henry. “Haven’t seen you since the other day.
Where’d the general take yer ass?”
“I saw it. Shit, Josh, I was right there. You won’t believe what it did to the ice.”
“Yes, I would,” said Wallis. “We felt it here, big-time.
Like a hefty shove or something. Broke every dish in the place.”
He looked at Shep and bent down to give him a pat on the head. “Poor dogs,” he said. “Ya shoulda heard ’em hollerin’.”
The two friends gazed at each other, and silence fell upon them. A moment later they were embracing.
“Shit, what a day,” said Henry into his friend’s ear. When they looked at each other they both had tears in their eyes.
He told Wallis about his experience on the ice. Wallis had heard part of the story from Liz. This didn’t surprise Henry: McMurdo’s permanent residents kept few secrets, and right now the base was fast becoming the focus of the eyes of the world.
When Henry had finished, Wallis just shook his head in complete disbelief. “And yer right in the muzzle of the gun, ain’t ya, Hank.”
“Shit, Josh, you know I hate that name. I prefer” — he struck a noble pose — “ ‘Henry Scott Gibbs of the Antarctic’.”
Wallis laughed out loud. “I can see that, Hank.” He punched Henry on his bandaged arm.
“Ow!” yelled Henry, punching Wallis back.
Shep jumped at both of them and barked. In a small way, if only for a moment, some sense of normalcy had been restored to Henry’s world.
As Henry said goodbye to Wallis and headed back to the main building, a swept-wing fighter jet streaked above the base and, dipping its wing, banked to come around for a landing. He guessed this must be the plane with the FBI sketch artist aboard, diaper and all. He watched the F-18A as it decelerated to land on the main runway, the same one used to land the big C-5As and most commercial flights. As the plane dipped lower he lost sight of it behind the buildings.
He realized the damage to the ice around McMurdo must have been minimal or the jet would never have attempted to land on the sea ice of Williams Field — the sea ice was relatively easy to smooth into a runway but the first to break up in summer. McMurdo had two airstrips, Williams Field on the sea ice and another, smaller runway on the ice shelf used as a backup during late summer. Since the F-18A didn’t reappear for another pass, Henry concluded the runway must be in okay shape. Soon, he figured, he’d be giving his description of the terrorists to a sketch artist.
Two Naval guards stood outside the door to the HQ. A glance at the colour of the badge that hung from Henry’s parka evoked an immediate salute. He smiled at them and returned the salute. “Aye aye, guys, and back atcha’. Is the general having tea?”
“Can’t say, sir,” said one, opening the door.
The collapsible metal chairs that filled the room were in disarray. There had been a lot of activity here recently. Probably several hurried briefings.
General Hayes bent over a table, pondering a map.
As Henry entered the room he stood up, smiled briefly as though it hurt, and took out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one, but Henry shook his head. “Last time I took one of those it was almost the death of me.”
Embry Hazelton, examining the maps alongside Hayes, laughed spontaneously.
“Oh, yes,” said the general, searching his memory.
“Your… what was it? Faux-Norwegians? Cigarettes… Good, Henry. You still have your wits together. That’s good.” He looked out the window. “I heard the jet. F-18A. The artist should be here soon. You stick around.”
“Oh, I intend to. Those terrorist fucks nearly killed me — twice — and they killed my dogs. I mean to see them fry.”
Grimes came in from the next room. Through its door Henry could see bristling communications gear.
“Our best guess, General,” said Grimes without waiting for Hayes’s attention, “is that the icebreaker will be here in six hours. The pack ice is still pretty solid. Slower going then they thought. They say they can run a cable from their generators to McMurdo… and we can use their radio. Luckily the Cobra’s radio was shielded.”
“Bottomline it for me, Grimes,” said the general.
“Too soon, sir,” said the SEAL. “The geologists will take days to figure this out.”
“Weeks or even months,” injected Henry, to Hayes’s surprise. “I assume you’re talking about assessing the impact on the ice. Correct?”
Hayes nodded. “We’re the ones President Kerry will be asking for when the calls get through. You know, of course, that the nuke’s electromagnetic pulse knocked out all the electronic gear in the place?”
“Know it? Shit, we saw it in the chopper,” said Henry. “And I just talked to Josh Wallis. The main generator’s kaput, he says.”
“The thing we’re trying to sort out here, Henry,” said Grimes, walking to the table and pointing at the map, “is that we have a hole in the ice a thousand feet deep. We have a billion tons of radioactive steam flowing in towards the pole. And, most of all, we have big ice that’s…”
“… about to start floating?” interrupted Henry. “I don’t think so. Not after only one blast. This ice is too big to be melted with nukes. That’s a harebrained idea.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” remarked Grimes.
“Well, Henry,” said the general with a bleak, humourless smile, “I’ll just hand you the phone when the President calls and asks for our evaluation, shal I? But didn’t the announcement at the UN specify more than one nuke in the deep ice? What’s your expert opinion on that?”