“Now,” Knebel said to the Inuits, “we have work to do.”
CARAVAN
Chief Inspector Walter Smyth looked down from the window of the de Havilland Beaver and wondered whatever possessed him to get in the ancient little plane in the first place. He hated flying even in jumbo jets — this was his worst fear. His pilot could not be over sixteen. Acne covered his face and he chewed bubble gum nonstop, blowing and popping it to the total irritation of the inspector.
This had been the only plane for hire at the tiny airstrip outside the town of Kuummiut, because it was the height of tourist season. All the other planes were being used for sightseeing and fishing expeditions. After stowing his passenger's bag, the boy had motioned for Smyth to get in and buckle up. On the third try, the tired old engine coughed to life and the boy taxied to the end of the dirt runway. Smyth, who was not a church-going man, was praying aloud as the final one hundred meters of the airstrip approached. At the last possible second, the plane lumbered into the pristine blue sky, heading west toward the great expanse of Greenland’s interior.
“So your friends are looking for the old cargo plane?” the boy said. They had left the coast and were cruising along at five thousand feet.
“Yes.” Smyth tried to warm his hands in the trickle of hot air coming through the rusted heater vent.
“Legend has is that it’s buried under a million tons of ice.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Smyth watched the endless snow and ice fields pass beneath.
“What do they want with that old piece of junk, anyway?”
“I suppose they want it for a museum or something.” Smyth’s teeth chattered. He was more uncomfortable than he could ever remember.
“Seems like a waste of time to me.”
A few black dots on the white horizon caught the inspector’s eye and he pointed. “What’s that?”
The boy pulled a pair of binoculars from under his seat. “Looks like tractors.”
Smyth took the binoculars and adjusted them to his vision. He saw two huge Caterpillar tractors pulling long trailers — their cargo piled high and covered with tarpaulins. Two smaller snow cats followed behind, their metal treads throwing up white powder. Smyth counted half a dozen men riding on the bed of each. Within a couple of minutes, the caravan passed underneath the Beaver. Smyth noticed that none of the men bothered to wave as the small plane flew overhead.
“Friendly bunch.” Smyth rubbed his hands together for warmth and squinted as he searched for any sign of the OceanQuest camp. His pulse quickened at the thought that he might soon come face to face with Henry Bristol, the man who murdered his father. The message from Matt Skyler had said only that they located the plane. There was no confirmation of finding the corpse. Skyler predicted that they would reach the plane by the time the Chief Inspector had arrived from London. Smyth trembled at what might lay ahead.
“There it is,” the boy-pilot said and pointed.
Smyth looked out the side window as the plane banked to the right and the OceanQuest base camp came into view. Against the stark white glare of the snow, he saw the bright orange dome tents and Quonset huts, the communications antennae and satellite dishes, and the huge generators that powered the Vulcan probe Skyler had told him about. Why was no one coming out to greet them? Couldn’t Skyler and his crew hear the roar of the Beaver as it circled the camp? Where were the scientists and drilling crews?
As the small plane dropped closer to the frozen surface of the glacier, a chill as cold as the arctic itself ran up Smyth’s spine. Something was wrong, he thought, staring down at the lifeless camp. Something was definitely wrong.
FLARE
“I don’t want to sound pessimistic,” Gates said as the echoes of the automatic weapons fire died at the bottom of the shaft, “but we’re in deep shit.”
“Deep water would be more like it.” Skyler swung his lantern in the direction of the tunnel.
“We’ve got to find a heat source,” Gates said.
Skyler thought for a moment. “The torch!”
“Exactly,” Gates said.
Skyler led the group down the tunnel toward the entrance to the plane’s cargo bay. The gas tanks and welding torch used to open the cargo door were still pushed into a corner out of the way. He held the light as Gates opened the valve and snapped the flint that ignited the flame.
“It’s not much, folks, but it’s all we got.” Gates turned the valve wide open, and the heat from the flame radiated out as the group circled around it.
Skyler’s mind raced, calculating all possible escape routes. The hoist was useless — he’d already tried the power switch and assumed the gunfire was Knebel blowing the control box to shreds. First priorities were to keep warm and dry, two things that were now next to impossible. The constant seepage of water was unstoppable. Without the pumps, it would turn to slush and then back to ice — layer after layer until the entire tunnel and plane filled and froze. He knew if he didn't do something fast, they were all destined to die of hypothermia long before they would be entombed in the glacier ice.
“I going to climb out,” he announced after considering all the other options.
“The rails only serve as guides for the hoist,” Peter Bjoernsson said, his words rattling like marbles in his mouth from the extreme cold. “They’re only lightweight tubing and won’t stand up to your weight.”
“Unless you’ve got a better idea, Peter,” Skyler said, “the only way out is up that shaft. We have no choice.”
“You’ll need something to use as a harness,” Gates said.
“We can use some of the scraps from the wreckage.” Skyler flipped the lantern on. While the rest of the group stayed huddled around the torch, the two men moved along the length of the plane’s interior picking up pieces of broken wood and metal. There were shards of glass, lengths of jagged conduit, huge knots of cables, wires, and hydraulics. They had to stoop in the area where the roof partially caved in.
Skyler kicked a splintered piece of crating out of his way, and then picked up a large mass of cable. “Looks like enough here to bind together and secure me to the hoist rail.”
Gates thought for a moment then bent over to examine the heavy-gage wire. “It just might work.” He yanked on it testing its strength.
The two men pulled and tugged at the mass of wire until they had separated enough pieces to assemble a makeshift harness. They took all the pieces back through the passage to the base of the shaft. Working quickly, they fashioned two harnesses — one to secure Skyler to the railing and a second to pull himself up the framework a foot or two at a time.
The tube frame secured the rails and chain drive — each horizontal tube was spaced about three feet apart. When he was ready, Skyler tied the end of the first wire harness to the frame over his head and stepped up on the thin tubing. Holding the rails, he bounced slightly and waited for the worst. But the tube held. He pulled himself up to the next tube easing his full weight down. There was a slight creaking sound and the aluminum bent in the middle, but held.
“So far so good,” he said and smiled down at Gates eight meters below.
Moving the second harness up and securing it, he unfastened the first and pulled himself to the next rung. Feeling confident, he let his weight down on the tube and was about to untie the lower harness when the fragile aluminum bent and snapped. Skyler tumbled down through the frame hitting with a thud on the ice floor. His heavy weather outfit protected him from serious injury but the wind was knocked out of his lungs as he lay in five inches of ice water.
Gates reached under Skyler’s arms and helped him to his feet. “Guess it’s time to go to plan B.”