“I thought your group were all meteorologists?”
“Nyet. Three of them investigate sunspots, I look for meteorite fragments, and Dr. Klein looks at us.”
“I never asked you, Igor,” Neuhaus interrupted. “Why go to Greenland to look for meteors?”
“Meteor doesn’t hit ground. Meteorite does,” Igor Bulgarin corrected. “We search on ice for same reason polar bear is white. White bear, white ice — no can see. Black meteorite on white ice, find easy. Meteorite in desert looks like all other rocks. Very hard to find.”
Mercer decided quickly that he liked the animated Russian. His less than positive reaction to Neuhaus was irrelevant since the German wasn’t going to Greenland. “Are you guys my ride to town?”
“Da. Others wait at hotel. Very boring. I volunteer to come with Ernst for something to do.”
Mercer’s luggage was tossed into the cargo section at the rear of the van, and he jumped into the seat behind Neuhaus’s. “I’m surprised Marty Bishop didn’t come to pick me up.”
“He’s getting drunk,” Igor Bulgarin scoffed. “Last night he learn that friend of his not coming on trip. Last-minute crisis cause him to cancel.”
“You mean there’s only going to be three of us opening Camp Decade?” Mercer had thought that four was ludicrous but losing Marty’s buddy meant they would be even more shorthanded.
“Mr. Bishop has already taken care of that,” Neuhaus said. “Geo-Research is sending thirty people to the ice. He’s made arrangements to use some of our workers as needed. Plus, we have enough equipment and provisions to last a couple of months for anything else you may need.”
“Da, is true,” Igor admitted with a grunt. “Four Sno-Cats with trailers, a Land Cruiser with special tires, and many, many preformed buildings that are supposed to go up like house of cards.”
“How are we getting all that equipment to Camp Decade?” Mercer asked. “It’s too much for choppers.”
Bulgarin twisted in his seat so he could look at Mercer. Although his smile was missing a tooth, it conveyed his boundless energy. “From dock in Ammassalik, everything is transferred to ice by blimp.”
Mercer must have made a surprised sound because Ernst Neuhaus elaborated. “It’s a heavy-lift cargo airship that Geo-Research leased for the job. I guess it’s only been flying a few months.”
“Believe it or not I know something about it,” Mercer said. “It’s got a semirigid body that supports four engine pods with tilt-rotors that can pivot from horizontal like an airplane’s to vertical like a helicopter’s. It’s similar to the system used in the Marines’ V-22 Osprey.”
“This type of dirigible’s a modification of Frank Piasecki’s ill-fated heli-stat. The owners call it a rotor-stat.” Neuhaus steered the van off the airport grounds and on to Route 41 for the drive to Reykjavik. “It will ferry the vehicles to the ice directly inland of Ammassalik, where you then drive them to the camp. The heavier stores and prefab buildings will be flown to the site. By the time you arrive, an advance team will have one building ready for your use while you erect everything else.”
“Sounds like this is going to be one hell of a trip.” Mercer had always been fascinated by airships. They represented something special in the world of aviation, an evolutionary branch that was as elegant as it was short-lived. Modern materials and computer-aided design, as well as the use of nonflammable helium, were creating a minor resurgence in these flying behemoths. That flicker of anticipation he’d felt since arriving was burning a little brighter now.
“Look.” Igor pointed to a road to their right, away from where the ocean was pounding Iceland’s black volcanic coast. “That is way to Blue Lagoon. Geothermal hot spring used as natural spa. Water in huge outdoor pool like lake. Very curative. I went yesterday with a few of the Germans.”
“The water’s actually effluent from the adjoining thirty-two-megawatt Svartsengi power plant,” Ernst explained. “They use volcanically heated water to produce electricity. It has the same salinity as seawater but it is high in silica, which helps people suffering from psoriasis.”
“I’ve been to the old Blue Lagoon,” Mercer said. Across the lichen-coated lava field, a white cloud clung to the ground just over the horizon. It was steam from the power plant. “A few years ago I came to Iceland for a conference. I understand they built a new spa about a quarter mile from the plant.”
“Yes, yes. Very nice,” Igor confirmed eagerly. “We must go tomorrow before ship leaves for Greenland.”
Mercer shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve got a meeting in the morning.” He added nothing more and his two companions didn’t pry.
They drove in silence, and eventually the rolling hills of lava gave way to urban sprawl. In Icelandic, Reykjavik means “smoking bay.” It was named for the steam that rose from the geologically active vents nearby. The city’s suburbs were newer, with a distinctive European flair. In the distance, dominating the skyline, sat the Hallgrimskirkja, a huge cement church topped by a 200-foot spire. Locals nicknamed it the “Concrete Cathedral” for obvious reasons.
The tidy old town abutting the harbor was a jumble of narrow streets laid down randomly, as though a giant had thrown a fistful of straws. The older buildings were rustic and the newer ones were given historic architectural touches. Ernst Neuhaus pulled up before the Hotel Borg, a white stone edifice across the street from a small public park.
“Home for the night,” he announced and waited while Igor helped Mercer unload his bags. “I must return to Geo-Research’s office. I can’t see you off tomorrow, so have a great trip.”
Again, Iceland’s constant wind struck Mercer when he closed the van’s side door. Igor Bulgarin didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by it and Mercer suspected he had spent a great deal of his time in climates much worse than this. “Is it this bad in Greenland?” he asked.
The big Russian laughed, hefting one bag over his shoulder for the short walk to the hotel entrance. “They have wind there called the pitaraq. Is gravity driven, like katabatic in Antarctica. It starts with small breeze from the south and then there is calm. You have about ten minutes to find shelter. Then pitaraq hits from north at about two hundred and forty kilometers per hour. Ten years ago a man I was working with was picked up by such wind. We find him twenty kilometers away. He looked like he was dragged by truck. Clothes and flesh stripped from his body by contact with ice.”
“Jesus.”
“Da.” Seeing Mercer’s concern, Igor grinned again. “Pitaraq is mostly in winter. Not so common this time of year, but must always be prepared.”
Although it was approaching ten o’clock at night, it was still light out because Reykjavik was only a hundred fifty miles south of the Arctic Circle. According to Mercer’s internal clock it was four hours earlier, but he knew he had to acclimate himself to the time change. And the best way to do that was to force himself to sleep. He got his key in the retro-1930’s lobby, thanked Igor for picking him up, and took the elevator to his room. He would meet with the Surveyor’s Society team at breakfast.
The room was small but functional and overlooked the park. Hot water would be a precious luxury once in Greenland, so he took a long shower to wash the flight from his skin. He thought about his meeting in the morning.
While researching Camp Decade on the Internet, he had come across an old article about the downed C-97 cargo plane and the subsequent search for survivors. He read that Stefansson Rosmunder, the son of one of the first men to climb Mt. Everest, had been part of the search-and-rescue effort. Because Rosmunder had been so young at the time, Mercer figured he would still be alive and he wanted to talk with the Arctic specialist about his experiences. He spent the better part of the morning before his flight to Iceland on the telephone trying to track down Rosmunder and finally reached his elderly mother just a few minutes before Harry had come over.