Jakov closed the entrance against the cascading cold. ‘Someone not like you, fellah.’
A snigger from Mullins. The two men settled back.
Jakov said, ‘Out there he die, for sure.’
Cain remembered a saying of Seneca. ‘It’s more honourable than killing.’
‘But pay not so good.’ Jakov’s laugh.
Cain watched the entrance a long time, imagining the proud man outside, his final wish frustrated. After the effort of dragging himself through the snow by his arms, the old scoundrel wouldn’t make it back.
He’d be disoriented already, his blood vessels clamping down, sacrificing his extremities to feed the heart, brain and lungs. He wouldn’t even know the way back to his tent. Soon his fast-pumping heart would slow, his skin become mottled. He’d stiffen, his pulse undetectable, become comatose.
Would he see gardens with running streams? Would he recline on soft couches, in his face the glow of joy as he was attended by ever-young boys like sprinkled pearls? Would he be surrounded by virgins fair as coral and rubies — bashful girls untouched by man or jinnee?
God knew. God knew.
It was best for him this way, Cain thought.
44
SLOT
The Hagglunds — front cabin crudely patched, tracks squeaking on hardened snow — churned through the brief March night. With each shudder, the surviving headlight and spotlights bounced pools of whiteness on white. For hours the black finger of its shadow had lengthened on the ice but now contrast had faded into gloom.
Bell drove. Cain, in the front passenger seat, stared through the crazed half-covered windshield trying to spot irregularities. Even by day there was often no sign of subsidence or difference in sheen, texture, colour on the snowband that marked a crevasse. He peered ahead, half asleep — affected by the barometric pressure and sheer tiredness. He knew they’d be slotted or stopped by sastrugi long before the fuel gave out.
Behind him, packed in with gear, were Nina, Raul and Mullins. Jammed in the rear cab with fuel drums and tents were the others. He imagined them squashed against the load trying to doze — dirty, languid, unable to think clearly and suffering from lack of sleep.
Nine people in a coffin. As for the tenth…
The ice sculpture of Zia in his long johns, knife still frozen to his mouth, was lashed on top of the back cab. In the delirium of hypothermia, the dying general had tried to strip. Raul wanted the carcass as evidence — more weight for the overloaded vehicle.
Above the noise of the diesel, Mullins yelled something and Cain turned back. The lout had one glove off and was prodding blisters on the back of his fingers. He displayed them in the dim light to Nina who sat opposite on a back-facing seat.
Bell put the engine into neutral. They slowed and speaking became less of a task. ‘What is it?’
‘My hand,’ Mullins said. ‘Look!’
‘Gross.’ Nina pulled a face.
‘I signed on to fight. Not for this shit.’
Nina sneered. ‘Major drag, huh?’
Bell called back, ‘Better than taking a round.’
‘Not if I lose my fucking hand.’
‘Put your glove on,’ Cain told him.
Despite the patching and caulking, some air still seeped through chinks. Yet the cabin was warm enough to make their inner layers feel wet and they were exhausted, uncomfortable, filthy after the effort of packing up.
Bell shoved the thing back into gear. He was pooped but his fanatic’s eyes still shone.
Cain had spent the day preparing to start the vehicle. First, he’d activated all the plastic envelopes, packed them around the engine and insulated them with anything he could find. He’d jammed some around the oil sump despite limited room, positioned more over the engine head, the intake manifold, and packed the last of them around the batteries. He’d left it for six hours, then wound the engine in short bursts, trying to warm the plugs without burning out the starter. Then he’d removed the air cleaner — the fittings snapped off in the cold — and sprayed ether from an aerosol can into the intake. A risk, he knew. Too much could break the rings.
When the thing kicked and kept going he felt an irrational sense of elation — then remembered he had to reverse the jackknifed cabs out of the plane. It took prolonged backing and filling, a few inches at a time, before the vehicle was straight enough to make it down the ramp.
Then they had to patch the front cab — using static rope to lash bivvy bags, plane lining and panels over the damage. Next came the loading of gear, topping up of tanks. The radar antenna was wrecked but they jury-rigged the GPS. It was torture in the numbing cold.
He was nodding off. To try and keep awake he glanced behind again.
Raul stared ahead, face in neutral, his eternal summer fading fast, body shaking with each jerk transmitted by the track assembly.
As Cain turned back to the windshield he spotted parallel edges of raised snow.
‘Hold it.’
Bell hit the anchors, shunting everyone, everything forward.
‘Back up.’
Bell hunted for reverse. The vehicle ground astern.
‘Stop.’
He knocked the engine into neutral.
Cain pointed. ‘There.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tracks.’
Raul chipped in. ‘Company?’
‘Our bleeding tracks.’
Raul was up, leaning over the engine cover to look.
‘Not possible,’ Bell said. He rechecked the sluggish needle of the oil-filled compass mounted on the dash. ‘I’ve been watching this the whole time.’ He checked the GPS, pulled out his map, spread it on the steering wheel, rubbed his red eyes, dragged his finger down the paper. ‘Right on target.’
‘They’re ours,’ Cain said.
‘Bullshit. Must be someone else out here. If we only had the bloody radar.’ He banged the useless VDU.
‘Can we follow them?’ Raul asked.
Cain yawned. ‘Sure. And if you do it fast, you’ll end up your own arse.’
Bell ignored him and answered his guru with his usual sickening respect. ‘We don’t know which way they’re heading.’
Mullins leered at the sleepy girl. ‘You’re cute.’
‘What’s your name?’ Nina said.
‘Mullins.’
‘Should be mullet.’ She regarded him with contempt, well aware of her effect on men.
‘See her?’ Cain pointed to the girl. ‘Why’d you think the plane crashed? Check the thing again.’
‘See him?’ Nina pointed to Cain. ‘He fucks my mother. Motherfucker.’
Bell, close to collapse, did it all a second time then slapped the map. ‘I don’t get this. Now we’re in the middle of the ocean.’
‘Some cack,’ the girl jeered. ‘Are we going somewhere? Or is this intermission?’
‘Shut up, bitch,’ Bell said.
She made a lewd gesture. ‘Suck hole.’
‘I don’t find any of this useful,’ Raul rumbled with distaste.
Bell, at the end of his wick, checked the receiver a third time.
‘Well?’ Raul said.
‘Now we’re at the equator. Shit!’
Raul licked his splitting lips. ‘Forget it and use the compass.’
A meek nod from his exhausted disciple.
Cain said, ‘You still think there’s another Hagg out here?’
Raul stared down his nose as if communing with his elemental. ‘Avoid fixed opinions. A rigid attachment to any point of view is destructive.’
‘Spare me the infomercials, Raul.’
‘I must enter a state of self-referral.’
‘What a crock of shit,’ Nina jeered.
Raul snapped at Mullins, ‘Silence her.’