Sammy opened up Capt. Louis Townsend’s record. He had been the commander of B Company from April 1971 through January 1972. His Officer Efficiency Report (OER) for the time period of Eternity Base made no mention of the base and made it sound as if he had been in Vietnam his entire tour of duty. He even had a Bronze Star for the Vietnam tour. The citation read:
For numerous heavy construction engineering assignments under adverse conditions in hostile territory.
She looked at the other file. It was Lieutenant Freely’s — the picture taker. His record held no hint of Eternity Base either. Tomkins returned with the other two lieutenants’ records and Sammy went through them. Nothing in either one referred to Eternity Base or cold weather or held even the slightest indication that the men had been deployed out of Vietnam for four months in 1971.
Tomkins was sitting on the other side of the desk, pretending to look at his computer screen. When Sammy closed the last file, he raised an eyebrow. “Find what you needed?”
Sammy shook her head. “No.”
“Maybe if you tell me what you’re looking for, I can help you find it.”
Sammy closed her eyes and thought furiously. “How about medical records?” Medical records for military personnel were considered government property; when an individual went off active duty, the entire folder for his career time was sent to St. Louis.
Tomkins stood up. “Yeah, we got the active duty ones for those people. You want all four?”
While he was gone, Sammy wrote on her index card the last known addresses for the four officers. She had just finished when Tompkins returned. She found what she was looking for in the second folder: Lieutenant Freely’s. The entry was hand written on a diagnostic form dated 19 November 1971:
SM suffering from severe frostbite, second and third digits, left hand.
The consulting physician’s name was typed at the bottom of the page: Doctor John Reynolds, Major, U.S. Air Force. She had two more pieces of the puzzle, although it wasn’t clear where they fit:
Freely hadn’t gotten frostbite in Vietnam. And why had he been treated by an air force doctor and not an army medic?
“Do you have any records on an air force major — name John Reynolds? He was a doctor. Social security number 185-35-9375.”
Tomkins typed for a few seconds and then looked up. “Nope. You have it all. He got out of service in ‘75. Died in ‘83.”
With these new items, Sammy took her leave quickly, short-circuiting Tomkins’s attempts to make conversation. She already knew the next thing she had to check.
“Want to go to lunch?” Brad stopped by her desk.
“No thanks,” Sammy answered.
Brad didn’t leave right away. He perched on the edge. “Are you all right?”
Sammy looked up in surprise. “Of course.”
Brad shook his head. “I don’t know. You’ve been acting a little weird lately. Are you sure everything’s OK?”
Sammy gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, Brad. Just a little tired, that’s all. I watched my sister on the news late last night and didn’t get much sleep.”
“How’s she doing?”
This time the smile was true. “She looked really good.”
Brad stood. “Well, when you talk to her again, give her my best wishes. She seems to really be on the way up.”
That was an accurate way to describe Conner, Sammy reflected. When Brad was out of sight, she headed into the stacks. Unerringly she went to the correct shelf. Doctor Reynolds’s 201 file was in a box containing those of other former air force officers who had died in 1983. Sitting down cross-legged on the concrete floor, Sammy opened the file and started reading, going from his medical school and commissioning through his various tours of duties. The man’s professional life was open before her.
From late 1968 through 1970, Reynolds was stationed at Bethesda Naval Hospital in Maryland. As 1971 began the doctor was still in Maryland. Then she found what she was searching for. In May 1971, Maj. John Reynolds, M.D., USAF, was given a set of TDY orders assigning him to a place called McMurdo Station for six months.
Sammy had heard of McMurdo Station. She frowned in thought for a few seconds, then it came to her. McMurdo was the United States’ primary research station on the seventh continent. Eternity Base was in Antarctica.
Chapter 3
“What about the hearings?”
Stu Fernandez shook his head. “We’ve got that covered. They’re going live on most of the channels anyway.”
Conner Young tapped a finger on her desktop. Stu was an assistant producer for the Satellite News Network (SNN) twenty-four-hour news, and as such he was in the same position as she — one step away from prime time. “But what about a different angle? What if we—”
Stu held up a hand. He’d been here four years now and had heard it all, or at least thought he had. “Conner, listen to me. The senate hearings are dead. People are tired of them. We need something totally different. This is an up or out business. You either make it — and keep making it — or you’re out.”
Conner had graduated from the local news in Chicago to SNN only three weeks ago, and already the pressure was on. This was not a place where you could take a moment to pat yourself on the back. That attitude started at the top and insinuated itself into every room of the large building in Atlanta that headquartered the network. It made for great ratings and a high burnout rate.
Conner’s physical appearance belied the inner strength necessary to fight one’s way into this building, much less the stamina to endure and survive. Many adversaries were still smoking in the ruins of their underestimation of Conner’s tenacity. She wasn’t a woman you glanced at, but rather a finely made specimen who caught your attention and held it long enough to create admiration. Her facial features were elegant and classic — thin, finely sculpted nose; wide, evenly placed dark eyes; and a generous, well-defined mouth surrounded by a soft, creamy complexion that caused fingers to clench with the desire to touch.
Conner’s trademark, though, was her hair — thick, black, and cut in a short geometric style. She had Sammy’s height and slender body, but, as if God couldn’t find enough gifts to bestow, Conner also had a full bosom that her slim hips only accentuated. She was beautiful and she knew it. Although her looks mattered little to her, she was always aware of their effect on others and used that to her advantage.
Stu was beginning to lose the glassy-eyed look he’d had the first week Conner was here, and for that she was grateful. She hated it when people spoke to her about professional matters yet stared in that way she had grown accustomed to — distracted by her appearance.
Stu turned to leave. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the tape room. I’ll see you later.”
Conner didn’t have an office. She had a cubicle, just off the main studio where the news was fed out nonstop, every hour on the hour. The schedule was brutal. Not only did the anchors have to do a four-hour on-the-air shift five times a week, but they also had to research and present two five-minute special features a week. It was the ability to put together these features that separated the good reporter from the pretty face that could simply read a teleprompter. Conner knew she had to prove she was one of the former; the latter didn’t last long at SNN.
Conner sighed as she continued working the computer’s mouse, searching the extensive SNN database for something she could suck up, refine, and use. SNN used not only the United Press International (UPI) and Associated Press (AP) lines but almost every other source of information available, both human and machine. The chief executive officer of SNN, J. Russell Parker, liked to boast that the SNN mainframe computer contained more up-to-date world information than the National Security Agency’s.