He sat in the drumming fuselage imagining the tenseness on the flight deck. The passengers seemed trusting. For most it was their first time south. He braced, waiting for the jolt, his little knowledge a disquieting thing.
They lucked it in — touched, pounded, then taxied for a while to dissipate the heat of the skis and prevent them welding to the deck. It was no fun digging skis out and meant shutting down inboard engines. He waited for the arse to open, for the shock of the frigid air.
Back in the big white.
What now?
35
ALPHA
The reception committee were anonymous shapes with faces covered against wind chill. They lumbered about in the katabatic wind, shouting instructions.
He and Hunt were told to wait while the rest were marched off. Then they were directed around a cargo sledge at the back of the plane. In five layers and 10 kilograms of clothing it was a struggle just to move and the effort of walking against wind carrying a duffel bag made him breathless. This wasn’t the coast but the high plateau and being dumped in this thin air was murder.
As he puffed around the high orange and black striped tail he glimpsed a similarly painted Hagg. The Hagglunds — a Swedish four-track-drive all-terrain vehicle — was parked front-to-wind to prevent the doors blowing off.
They slung their gear on the back seat and Cain left Hunt there with the luggage. He got out and climbed in the front to sit opposite the driver. Thankfully the heat exchanger was working. The man engaged the transmission and the rubber tracks churned snow.
They passed the other passengers trudging along a flag line — staggering in their survival gear, leaning against the blow. They were taking them toward the fuel farm. Why? Had they built pre-fabs there?
As they churned toward the entrance he tried a diplomatic ploy — floated an exploratory comment. ‘This is some business. How many down here now?’
The driver didn’t reply. Ominous. Cain glanced back at Hunt and saw she was wary, too.
The driver stopped at the entrance ramp. ‘Report to Vanqua at Command — immediate.’
They got out and the Hagg moved off.
The base was a lot deeper than in the old days when he’d been here. Newer ones were built on stilts to handle snow accumulation because older designs were progressively being buried. He slung his bag over his shoulder and followed Hunt beneath the dome to the guardhouse.
As they were processed, an addition to the rigmarole surprised him. They were relieved of their weapons. New orders, they were told.
Cleared, they crunched past familiar insulated metal buildings with small perspex box air-trap windows and thick doors secured by large levers — cool rooms that kept cold out, not in. They passed ops, the accomm block, the warm store, then entered the arched tunnel that led to the staff Command Centre. On the way he cautiously asked her, ‘Know anything about this deal?’
‘I know Ron’s down here. I know I’ll be crucified.’
But did she know about the sabotage — that she’d been spiked from inside EXIT? He doubted it.
Sound travelled in this place and there were pick-ups everywhere. He pointed to one wired beneath a pipe and was relieved to see her nod.
They reached Command annexe and got out of their freezer suits. It took minutes to de-ice and shed layers. When they entered the vestibule, Rhonda was waiting to greet them and he was surprised to see her hair was now completely grey. She looked haggard, worn, and her eyes were unnaturally bright.
Hunt glanced at her, biting her lip.
The big woman merely nodded.
Cain, more favoured, received a perfunctory hug. ‘Welcome, acclaimed campaigner. You look almost back to normal.’
‘Don’t feel it.’
‘Perfectly understandable. Right. Good egg.’
He found the silly-arse expression odd. ‘So what’s going on here?’
‘Incarceration, ordered by Vanqua. I’ve been relieved of command.’ She saluted the short corridor that led to his office door. ‘We active verbs are now separated by — not from — our auxiliaries.’
Hunt’s seamless frown. ‘Did you get my report?’
‘I did.’
‘And…’
‘Treachery, no doubt, by one with affections dark as Erebus.’
Was it a reference to the continent’s volcano? Hunt’s frown deepened as she tried to isolate the message from the medium.
‘Is John here?’ Cain asked.
‘In Block B.’
‘I can see him?’
‘You’ll have to ask our new master.’
‘What about Zia?’
‘He’s also down here, still breathing. The UK still haven’t signed off on him.’
A door opened at the end of the corridor and a tall man with sandy hair came through.
Hunt froze.
Zuiden. He grinned at Cain. ‘Hello, shitface.’ Then leered at Hunt. ‘And the super-bitch.’ He brushed past them like a favoured employee gloating over workmates who’d been fired.
They entered Vanqua’s office and the mournful surgeon CO rose to greet them. His immaculate sweater was hand-knitted and he still had the trademark tan. Be interesting, Cain thought, to see the meticulous one wintering over — to watch his skin become sallow, see him suffer from insomnia…
‘Hunt and Cain,’ Vanqua said. ‘Beauty and culture. Don’t sit down.’ He walked in front of his desk and perched on the edge, crossing his legs with self-absorbed care. ‘As Rhonda’s probably told you, I now command EXIT and your department is being dismantled. All D staff will be air-lifted down.’
You’ve got hopes, Cain thought. It was almost February. Soon flying in would be Russian roulette.
‘Not only staff are coming,’ Vanqua continued, ‘but originals as well. That includes your Kiwi family, Cain.’
‘And what does the CIA think of that?’
‘They don’t like it but have no option.’
‘Pretty dumb idea.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Importing a poltergeist to Antarctica is about the silliest thing I’ve heard of.’
Vanqua shrugged. ‘Even if such a thing exists, the solution to it will be swift.’
Hunt cut in. ‘How long do we have to stay here?’
‘Permanently.’
She looked at Cain as if willing him to protest.
He didn’t buy in. ‘And where are you going to put these hordes?’
‘That’s my concern. Department S remains operational but your staff is decommissioned, your grades and privileges revoked. It means you don’t exist and will do as instructed.’
Cain glanced at Rhonda. ‘You endorse this?’
‘I’m no longer your CO.’ A characteristic eye-roll.
‘I find this hard to take.’
‘Perfectly understandable. Right. Good egg. But how you see it is irrelevant. As our executive assassin’s just told you, we are persona non grata.’
Personae non gratae, he mentally corrected, surprised she hadn’t used the plural. And why repeat the crass ‘egg’ line? She was crude but not crass and not prone to repeat herself. As her madness mostly cloaked method, he was instantly alert.
Vanqua was talking again. ‘You have a temporary space in the old accommodation block. You’ll only have one rack, so someone will be sleeping on the floor. You’re dismissed. Rhonda will remain.’
As they walked back down the corridor he could feel Hunt’s confusion like a force. She was still at the start of her career, purpose-trained for her single great assignment, young, fit. Now she’d been condemned to an ice-tomb for life. Worse, she believed that she’d wrecked EXIT single-handed.
She murmured, ‘What can we do?’
‘There’s no “we” any more.’
She leaned against the wall, hands over her face.