Chapter 6

Consternation!

The P-3 Orion pilot diverted to McMurdo station on his return leg, radioed a detailed report of finding a survivor at the Siple Island camp, and when requested by the American base commander he landed and filed a complete report. Commander Blevins was anxious to glean every detail possible about the condition of the site, what the flight crew observed, the wreckage and site conditions, and the probable physical state of the survivor.

"He appeared to be quite active, actually. He had rigged a signal panel, and a cross of burning oil pots. He was able to leg it from his tent to light the pots under his own power. He appeared to have an injured leg, but he was standing upright, and vigorously waved a flare at us."

"Interesting! And there was only the one individual? No one else?"

"No, Commander Blevins, no one else. We did get to chat him up on the VHF. He had an aircraft band portable. He said his name was Michael Hawthorne, and that he'd been stranded when the ship's helicopter crashed. He did report two fatalities, the helo pilot and a fellow who was to be his helper for survey work they'd engaged to do. He also said all of their long-range radio gear and survey equipment was destroyed when the helicopter crashed and burned in the midst of it. Fortunately he'd stacked the food and survival stuff by the tent. It escaped damage."

"Amazing. He's incredibly lucky to be alive. We've had some severe weather already. Did he say what the state of his supplies is? How much longer does he think he can hold on there?"

"Not much longer, I'm afraid. He said he's near the end of his food and stove fuel. Maybe another week, possibly more if he goes on short rations, but he can't cut back much or he won't survive the cold."

"Right. We'll get a rescue flight in there, right away. One more favor. You said you completed a low level survey grid over the entire island west of the volcano. Would you and your crew be so kind as to give my adjutant a briefing on the possible surface and landing conditions? We'll have to go in there with a C-130 on skis. And, thank you for the report, captain. We're grateful for your assistance."

Rob Blevins clamped down hard on his reactions. He'd come within an eyelash of tossing that insolent, half-hysterical woman researcher in the brig following her brash entrance into his office. She'd thrown an obviously forged piece of seaweed paper on his desk and shouted a cock-and-bull story about an abandoned man halfway down the Marie Byrd Land coast. She refused to answer how she got hold of the message. She'd kept insisting that he check it out if he didn't believe her.

He'd put her under house arrest, confined to her quarters. A roving guard was assigned to check her whereabouts every hour. Where could she go, anyway? It was early winter at McMurdo and she wasn't going anywhere!

Now this ... this eyewitness report from an air crew. Very well. Apparently it was true and he had no choice but to call up an immediate air rescue mission. Somebody had better have an up close and personal connection with the weather gods. They'd need a small miracle to get there and back before a storm swept down on them.

The deputy director bit down hard on his knuckle to keep from exploding into a shouting stream of curses. Damn and blast! Their contract survey flight found a survivor! Someone was alive and walking around in that miserable frozen hell, and the news was spreading all over the southern half of the world. A stranded survivor in Marie Byrd Land! At this moment an all-out effort was underway to get a rescue airlift up and flying. The agency had gambled, assuming that everyone had died, wanting to keep everything under the radar. Now the whole blasted world was getting ready to hear sensational reports on the 5 o'clock news! Damn it to hell, anyway.

"Janice, get me Barringer on the line, immediately. He's supposed to be in Christchurch. I want him on the horn five minutes ago!"

"Steve? It's hit the fan. Hawthorne survived, and our survey flight found the bastard up and waving at them. He's been huddled in his tent, living on the supplies they'd managed to stash before the chopper crashed!

"Yeh, Steve, I agree. If it gets out that we left him there to freeze, we'll look pretty bad. We'll try to contain and spin this thing from here, but I need two things from you. First, I'm sending two agents to Christchurch, immediately. I want them there to intercept Hawthorne as soon as they can get their hands on him. You know he'll be taken there for medical treatment and evaluation. I want him in our sight every minute! When they turn him loose, I want him grabbed. Got it? You meet them, brief them, and give them any local details they need.

"Good. Second thing, get yourself to McMurdo immediately after you get them squared away. I want to know everything that base commander knows, and anybody around him. And I want this thing put under a lid. I'm calling him on a satellite link to try and clamp down on any reckless chatter with the press, and I'd like him to lock down their press guy for a couple weeks, if he can figure a way to do it. Anyway, I want a blanket over that whole news thing, as much as we can get it.

"Your job is to run down every trace of information you can. What was reported, what was seen at the site, who heard it, and what else is going on down there. This whole damn thing has exploded like a grenade in an outhouse—there will be shit flying everywhere!"

He dumped the handset into its cradle, resisting the urge to slam it down. He'd learned not to do that. Whenever he did, his secretary outside the door jumped two feet out of her chair and came running into his office, worried about his state. "Fine, fine, I'm just goddamned peachy-keen fine!" he'd usually shout, and then she'd have her feelings hurt and would sniff and sulk at her desk for the rest of the day.

Two more urgent matters lay on his desk. The first was dealt with by another satellite call to New Zealand. He used a bit of leverage with the mineral survey contractor to "buy" a few weeks of vacation time for the aircrew of that survey plane. Somewhere remote, preferably away from telephones and reporters. He suggested that if he heard no interviews or saw no television footage of the heroic pilot and his crew, he'd make sure the company would enjoy a very profitable year. But if he heard otherwise, they might consider cutting their losses by moving away—far, far away.

The second urgent matter was totally confusing, and he was not at all looking forward to the briefing he would soon have to give his friend, the Director. Friendship went only so far. This pile of news would not only strain their friendship but might even put a kink or two in it.

He'd received the preliminary report from the low-level magnetometer and penetrating radar survey. It was a whole can of worms, according to his analyst team. They tended to be restrained in their choice of words, being cautious and careful to remain within the limits of their data. They tried to take a conservative view, even.

"Impossible" was a word they never used. Until today.

"That airplane flew a tight grid, GPS tracks spaced 100 feet apart both lengthwise and crosswise on that island, and we're talking a total area of 60 miles by 20 miles, on average. And they did a hell of a good job. They were an average of 100 feet above the snow pack, give or take only five feet the entire time. With their instrumentation, speed, and consistent altitude, we should be able to count rivets and trace seams on whatever the hell is buried down there. We should damn near be able to weigh it, see what color it is, and read whatever is painted on its sides!"

The chief analyst was obviously having a very bad day. He was on the verge of throwing a fit.

"So after what must have been an incredibly expensive survey flight, dangerous as hell to do down there, as low-level as they could manage, what the hell do we get? A blob. A god-damned blurry, indistinct, weak, almost shadowy, fuzzy blob!

"I can't goddamned believe it! What in hell could that be? It is absolutely huge, whatever the hell it is, and it shoves the gravimetric readouts off the goddamned scale! Two miles wide, and 16 miles long, and it sits there like a ghost! We can't get anything useful out of this whole blurry pile of data! Al, we had more useful information from the long-range satellite survey. It seems that getting right on top of it just gave us an out-of-focus picture. Nothing! Not a single damned useful thing!"

The deputy had to get up out of his chair, walk around his desk, and physically calm the man down. He was certain that the analysis lab leader would be frothing and foaming at the mouth, if he didn't have a stroke first.

"Okay, okay ... it's alright. Yes, it's a mystery. Yes, it's a disappointment, and nobody is blaming you or your team. We know the data is good, because that New Zealand survey outfit has an international reputation for doing good work. If there's a chunk of mineral the size of a golf ball in the middle of the Australian desert, they'll find it. There's nothing wrong with the data they got from this job. Go tell your crew I'm very satisfied with the work you've all done on this project, okay? Why don't you tell them to take tomorrow off, get some rest, go to the beach or something. And you, Phil, for heaven's sake! Calm down and go home. Go play golf or run a go-kart around the track. Blow off some steam, okay?