Cold War - Jerome Preisler [87]
Granger took a deep breath. This was about the worst foul-up he could imagine. The fucking worst.
“Nothing besides wait,” he said at last, and started unbuckling his harness.
Victoria Land
They raced ahead of the storm, the wind hard at their backs, streaking cross-country over miles of snow and ice.
The sky pressed down on them, a low flat deck of clouds. Whiteout had cut visibility to thirty yards, and each rider kept his eyes on the trail of the vehicle before him to avoid separation from the group, their headlights and reflectors of no use in the stirring mist.
In the lead position, Burkhart rode with his thumb heavy on the throttle, squeezing every last bit of speed out of it, his determination a red-hot knife stabbing a passage through the soft barrier emptiness.
He leaned forward as he straddled his seat, knees locked around its leather, gloved fingers tightly gripping its handlebars. The ’mobile dipped, then nosed up, pitching with the terrain’s rise and fall. Powder sprayed from its track in flying ramps, shredding across the curved surface of his windshield. He porpoised down into a steep trench, shot along its bottom, and topped its opposite bank at a full tear, skis springing over the snow.
He could feel the storm at his neck, tumid, angry, coursing overland with unexpected swiftness. Some of his men had wished to suspend travel, find a protected spot where they could hunker down until it lifted. Their tents were designed to withstand the force of the gale. But he’d insisted they bear on at a constant pace.
Let their targets be stationary captives of the elements. His team would be a moving force.
The storm was like a rushing stallion, and they could either stay in front of the charge or be trampled.
Cold Corners Base
Ten minutes after exiting the chopper, Nimec was in Megan’s square, monotone-blue office, still wearing the wind parka he’d donned for his scratched departure.
“They think they can ground us, they’re wrong,” he fumed, standing in front of her desk. “McMurdo doesn’t have any right butting into our affairs. They’ve got no authority.”
She regarded him from her chair. “Pete, calm down, this is just as frustrating for me. . . .”
“Then get on the phone with somebody over there. Explain that we appreciate their concern for our safety, but have decided to do what’s necessary to find our people.”
“I can’t for a lot of reasons. Russ is one of their pilots—”
“Okay, then we’ll use our own. The guy who was jockeying the pols around is back, why not him? I know he isn’t as familiar with the Valleys. But it’s not like he’s green. . . .”
“I told you, Russ is only part of it. Cold Corners operates under special arrangement with USAP. We receive direct sponsorship from the American government. In a sense, we represent an extension of its foreign policy interests here. Though we’ve never locked horns over anything, McMurdo Station is an official United States base, and we’re arguably subject to its auspices.”
Nimec leaned forward over the desk, knuckling its edge with both hands.
“And you know, and I know, and these walls know we’ve bent the rules before,” he said.
Megan sighed. “The air-travel restrictions were called with good reason. You’ve never been through a Condition II Antarctic storm. I have. And trust me, MacTown’s alert is absolutely nothing to disregard.”
“Who’s doing that? I checked the weather outlook. The storm’s still miles to our southwest. Even further from Bull Pass. And Granger told me we’d need an hour at most to fly from here to there. I’m not thinking to go ahead with the kind of thorough search I wanted, but if I can accomplish anything at all it’s worth a try. Give me three, four hours and I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Megan shook her head. “You’re still missing the point,” she said. “Maybe a little intentionally. You know how forecasting works. Anyone who’s ever gotten drenched in the rain because the local weatherman predicted a sunny beach day knows. It’s a matter of estimates. Especially in this place. The situation could deteriorate