Terminal Freeze

Conti put down his pen, sca

Wolff put down the guns. “Time for what?”

“To film the hunt, of course. It’ll start any moment. I can’t take the risk of losing them.”

Wolff frowned. “Emilio, you can’t be serious.”

Conti picked up the video camera, examined its settings. “I would have liked to shoot the truck leaving, but I couldn’t take the chance-Gonzalez might have forced me to board it. But we can always stage that later.” He put down the camera. “The hunt, however, can’t be staged. It’s the moment we’ve been waiting for, what everything has been leading up to.”

“But that’s crazy.” The words were out almost before Ekberg had spoken them.

The director turned toward her. “What do you mean? I’ll stay well back from the soldiers. I’ll shadow them, follow them by ear-they’ll never know I’m there until the action starts and it’s too late to do anything about it.”

“But you won’t be safe-” Ekberg began.

“Do you think I’m safer here? Personally, I’d rather be close to the machine guns.”

“But Kari’s right,” said Wolff. “The soldiers are intentionally walking into danger. That means you’ll be exposed, as well.”

“Then come along.” Conti nodded toward the guns. “Bring those. We’re better off sticking together.”

Wolff didn’t reply.

“Listen to me,” Conti said. “We came up here to film that beast. Don’t you see the opportunity we’ve been given? This is a new story, and a far greater one than we ever expected. Do you really believe I’ll stay in this room, sitting on my hands, while the shot of a lifetime-maybe the shot of all time-is taking place a stone’s throw away?”

When nobody replied, he stood up and began to pace the room. “Of course there’s a degree of danger. That’s just what will make this the most exciting documentary ever. We’re living the actual events as they unfold; the raw materials are all around us. We three-the director, the field producer, the cha

As he spoke, Conti’s face flushed and his eyes glittered. His voice trembled with an almost messianic conviction. Despite her fear, Ekberg began to feel stirrings of excitement. Wolff listened in silence, his eyes following the director as he paced back and forth.

“And there’s something else,” Conti said. “Ashleigh is dead. She gave her life for this project. We should do it for her. I will be the narrator now.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Wolff spoke. “Do you really think you could pull it off?”

“I trained as a cinematographer, didn’t I? I’ll get shots that will make Fortnum retire his camera in shame.” Conti turned to Ekberg. “I’ll do the filming, but it will be a smoother sequence if you handle the sound equipment.”

She took a deep breath. “I’ll get the field mixer wired up.”

Conti nodded. “I’ll prep the rest. Kari, you hold the radio. We’ll leave in five minutes.”

39

Marshall maneuvered the Sno-Cat as quickly as he dared through the spume of snow and ice. The snow had slackened somewhat but the wind was worse than ever, screaming around the doors and windows of the big vehicle. The half dawn could not be far away, but time seemed strangely irrelevant in this no-man’s-land of monochromatic gray. At times it felt like being underwater, as if earth and air had been merged by the violence of the storm into some strange new element, some chemical suspension through which the Cat was forcing its way.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Usuguk sat cross-legged in the back of the cab, medicine bundle on his lap. He had left his battered carbine behind and was unarmed. Hood pushed back and weathered face exposed, the man seemed dwarfed by the parka that surrounded him. Although Marshall had tried to draw him into conversation several times, the Tunit had said little during the trip south, instead swaying gently-with a motion that had nothing to do with the bouncing of the Sno-Cat-and now and then chanting softly to himself.

He tried once more. “Back at your village, you told me your hunting days were over. You used to be a hunter?”

Usuguk roused himself. “I was. I was a great hunter. But that was years ago, when I was still a little man.”

Little man? “There’s something I don’t understand. Why do you live so far inland, away from the sea? You can’t grow anything in this climate. There’s no food to harvest except the occasional polar bear. You said it yourself: life would be so much easier if you lived near the coast.”

Again, it took Usuguk a moment to answer. “I have no interest in an easier life.”

“Do you mean to say that, if the others don’t return, you’ll just live out here in the wilderness by yourself?”

A long silence. “It is my roktalyik.”

Marshall glanced again in the rearview mirror. The man knew something-that seemed clear-but would it be of use? Would it turn out to be a tapestry of myth and ritual, interesting but completely useless? He could only hope not.

They continued southward in silence, Marshall keeping one eye on the GPS and the other on the swirling snow. Mount Fear was close now, and he reduced speed, straining to spot any lava tubes or magma fractures that might yawn treacherously before them under a concealing mantle of snow. Within ten minutes a tiny pinpoint of light winked out of the darkness to the left; then two; then half a dozen. Marshall corrected course and moments later the perimeter fence appeared, skeletal in the headlights. Instead of parking at the motor pool, he maneuvered his way past the gate and between the outbuildings, nosing the Cat toward the central entrance. To his vast surprise he noticed that both Carradine’s rig and Davis ’s trailer were gone. A large vacant spot just inside the fence marked where they had sat, footprints and tread marks scoured clean by the wind.

He parked as near the double doors as he could, then killed the engine and nodded to Usuguk. The Tunit came forward and together they exited the vehicle, ducking through the icy squall. Marshall opened the doors and stepped inside. After a pause, Usuguk followed.

The weather chamber looked like a war zone: a dozen lockers hanging open, cold-weather gear and ration boxes strewn across the floor. A large cache of weapons and ammunition stood in one corner. Marshall walked over and-feeling a huge reluctance-picked up an M16 and a couple of thirty-round magazines. He stuffed the magazines into his parka pockets and slung the semiautomatic over his shoulder.

The entrance plaza beyond was dark and empty. Marshall paused a moment, listening. The base seemed almost preternaturally silent; there was no hollow echo of footsteps, no distant chatter of conversation. He led the way to the central staircase, heading toward the living quarters on B Level. Usuguk followed him at some distance, looking neither left nor right. The Tunit seemed disinterested in his surroundings. In fact, he seemed to be trying to notice as little as possible. There was a remote, almost pained look on his face, as if he was in the midst of some internal struggle.

B Level seemed just as deserted. As they passed by rooms that in previous days had been abuzz with activity-the Operations Center, offices, and the living quarters- Marshall grew increasingly puzzled. What had happened? Where was everybody? Had they all retreated to someplace deep within the base, a safe haven-or last redoubt?

There was one spot he felt certain would be occupied: the life-sciences lab. And as he approached it he found he was correct: faint voices could be heard inside. When he opened the door he found not only Faraday but Sully and Logan as well. All three jumped as he entered. Logan stood up quickly, looking curiously at Usuguk. Sully, who was sitting at an adjoining table, just nodded, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo. One of the high-powered rifles used to guard against polar bear attacks was leaning beside him. Faraday looked from Marshall to Usuguk and back again.