The drone of the Casa’s turboprop engines filled Christine’s ears as it plodded steadily northeast toward the ice camp. In the unheated cargo bay of the aircraft, Christine’s left shoulder began to ache. She tried massaging it through her thick jacket, but her efforts had no effect. Brackman noticed and watched for a while, then spoke.
“Does it always hurt?”
“Only when it’s cold and my muscles tighten up.”
Brackman glanced at her legs. “How’s the thigh?”
“It’s fine.”
The aching in her shoulder and Brackman’s questions pulled Christine’s thoughts into the past, when she had been trapped in Beijing’s Great Hall of the People during China’s war with the United States. She had left a trail of six bodies, but the seventh and final death had always been difficult to reconcile. With bullets in her thigh and shoulder, and blood running down her face from a gash in her head, she had been in no mood for negotiation. Christine knew she was impulsive and it sometimes got her into trouble, but this time she had put a bullet in the head of a defenseless man who knelt at her feet.
She had replayed the scene in her mind a thousand times, wondering how different choices would have turned out. As she relived the encounter, a lump formed in her throat. She glanced at the hand that pulled the trigger, then looked out the small window, trying to divert her mind from what she had done.
Christine felt Brackman’s hand on hers, and she turned and met his eyes.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “Stop second-guessing yourself.”
Brackman had somehow known where her thoughts were. In the heat of the moment, it had seemed justified; the lives of many Americans were at stake. In hindsight, she wasn’t sure. It was murder, despite the justification.
“I can’t,” she replied.
Brackman left his hand on hers, and Christine wondered if there was something more to his gesture. She recalled his kiss in the Pentagon when USS Kentucky’s last warhead was destroyed, a kiss that lingered too long for a simple congratulation. However, Brackman had given no other indication he was interested in her. That was fine with Christine. A romance with another member of the president’s staff would have complicated her life.
As she looked at his hand, she remembered the first time she met him; there had been a faint tan line on his left ring finger. Brackman had been a recent widow, his wife and daughter killed in an accident a few weeks before arriving at the White House. Brackman had never talked about it, and up to now, she had never asked.
Christine peered around the corner, into the cockpit. Berman was chatting with the pilot, and she could see a GPS display in the console. They still had a ways to go; plenty of time to kill. She decided to broach the subject.
“What happened to your wife and daughter?”
Brackman’s head snapped toward her and she felt his body tense as he pulled away his hand.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Christine added quickly. “I was just wondering.”
Brackman stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back against the bulkhead, but the tension in his body didn’t ease. He answered, “They were killed in a car accident. They got rear-ended at a traffic light and their car burst into flames. They were trapped inside.”
It was Brackman’s turn to look away, staring out one of the windows on his side. Christine reached over and squeezed his hand. He gave no indication he noticed. They completed the rest of the flight in silence.
Her stomach dropping signaled the aircraft’s descent, and Christine peered out the window as the plane turned in preparation for landing. She spotted the ice camp in the distance, a hodgepodge of buildings and tents, with a depot of supplies to one side.
They landed with a gentle bump and the aircraft coasted to a halt. The aircraft ramp lowered and Stu Berman and the pilot emerged from the cockpit. After collecting her duffle bag, Christine stepped onto the hard-packed snow and shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the white surface.
A man approached and said, “Good morning, Ms. O’Connor. I’m Vance Verbeck, technical director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. Welcome to Ice Station Nautilus.”
50
“I take it your trip was uneventful?” Verbeck asked as he escorted Christine, Brackman, and Berman from the airstrip toward the cloister of buildings.
Christine answered, “No issues.”
As they approached the camp, she noticed the clear blue sky and calm air; not what she had imagined atop the polar ice cap. “Do you get many storms?” she asked.
“Very few,” Verbeck said. “The Arctic is actually classified a desert. The air is so cold that it doesn’t hold much water vapor, so it rarely snows. Clear days like this are the norm.” Verbeck continued, explaining the layout of the camp when they reached the outer buildings. “The camp contains three dozen berthing hooches, a command hut, galley, and generator tent. Plus there’s the rescue equipment that arrived last night. I’ll take you to your berthing hooch first, where you can drop off your stuff. You’ll be staying in Tahiti.”
“Tahiti?”
“Each ice camp has a theme for berthing hooch names,” Verbeck explained. “Submarines, naval battles, famous hotels. You could have been in the Ritz, but the theme for this camp is tropical islands. Your hooch is over there.”
Verbeck pointed toward a plywood hut with TAHITI stenciled on the side in black spray paint. “It’s the most luxurious accommodation this side of eighty-north.” Verbeck grinned as he stopped by the hut and opened the door.
The inside was no more elegant than the outside. The windowless box included six bunks built from two-by-fours and plywood. The only items not made of wood were the mattresses and bedding, two white plastic chairs and a small table, and a circular metal heater with a hose running through the wall to a fuel tank outside, plus a couple of metal hooks on the wall to hang their gear. Verbeck pointed to one of the bunks, which was neatly made up with the linen tucked in. “That’s yours.”
Christine placed her duffel bag on the bed and Verbeck led them to the hooch Brackman and Berman were assigned to, letting them drop off their gear as well, then continued the tour. Next up was the command hut.
It was the largest hut in the camp, the size of two berthing hooches mashed together. An assortment of antennas were mounted to the roof, so it was easy to spot from anywhere in the camp. Inside, two senior naval officers were reviewing a timeline posted on the wall. The older man was Vice Admiral Eric Dahlenburg, Fleet Forces Deputy Commander for Fleet and Joint Operations, and the other was Captain Mike Naughton, Commodore of Submarine Squadron ELEVEN.
Admiral Dahlenburg extended his hand to Christine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Christine shook hands as she gave the Admiral an inquisitive look. “How’s that?”
“Actually, I read about you. Captain Brackman provided your bio. Very impressive, especially your handiness with a pistol.”
Christine cast a steely glance at Brackman, who seemed not to notice.
She turned back to the Admiral. “My ex-husband taught me how to shoot.”
“He did a good job.”
Christine didn’t reply, so Dahlenburg continued. “Has Vance explained the command structure here?”
“Not yet, Admiral.”
“As far as the ice camp goes, Vance Verbeck is the Officer-in-Charge, and he’s responsible for day-to-day operations. For submarine rescue operations, there are three echelons of command. I’m the On-Scene Commander, Captain Naughton here is Coordinator, Rescue Forces, and Commander Ned Steel, who is out earning his paycheck, is the Rescue Element Commander.