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After a brief stopover in the sprawling quasi-city that was McMurdo Station they headed to the helicopter operations center to board a waiting Bell 212 for the flight to the work site. When Kismet had mentioned an engineering firm, Maddock had expected to find a small army of roughnecks deploying industrial equipment and derricks to support vertical drills, but as they approached, all he saw was a bright yellow festival-sized tent, looking forlorn in the bleak white landscape, about two hundred yards from the designated landing pad. As the helicopter touched down, a figure in a heavy parka emerged from the tent, and pulled back a flap closure to permit a tracked vehicle, fitted with a large fuel tank, to roll out into the open. The man in the parka swung up into the cab of the refuel vehicle, after which it surged forward to meet the helicopter.
While the driver of the fuel truck set about the task of topping off the Bell’s tanks, the passenger came over to meet Kismet and the others. He threw back his hood to reveal a full head of dark, shoulder length hair and a young but craggy, deeply tanned visage, partially hidden behind a pair of mirrored aviator-style sunglasses. “Didn’t expect you back so soon,” the man said, gripping Kismet’s hand.
“Things happened fast,” Kismet said, then turned to make the introductions. “Jason Quinn, this is Maddock, Rose and... uh, Bones. Jason is a senior project director at ARGO.”
Maddock was familiar with ARGO—the acronym stood for Alpine Research and Geographical Observation. The Colorado-based enterprise, originally established in 1902 by President Teddy Roosevelt as a scientific agency tasked with exploration and development in cold-weather climates, had eventually gone private, transforming into one of the world’s leading civil engineering services, though they continued to work closely with the US government.
Quinn shook hands with the new arrivals one by one, but when he exchanged clasps with Bones, one of his eyebrows came up from behind a mirror lens and he grinned mischievously. “Bones, huh? And here I thought we were looking for a fully intact cadaver.”
“On that subject,” Kismet said. “Any progress?”
“Please say you found the frozen stiff and we can all go home,” Bones said, hopefully.
The man grinned. “Come and see for yourself.”
He led them on foot back to the tent. Under the voluminous yellow canopy, surrounded by huge piles of what looked like fresh powder snow, was a nine-foot wide hole, its depths hidden in shadow.
Bones’ crack about ice-fishing wasn’t far off the mark, but it was ice fishing with a high-tech upgrade.
Sitting alongside the hole was a strange-looking machine that looked like a cross between a robotic octopus and the shredder disc from the world’s biggest Cuisinart.
“That’s our baby,” Quinn said, pointing to the device. “We call it the Ice Worm. It’s an autonomous ice borer, equipped with radar and M-wave sensors.”
Maddock thought he detected a hint of pride in Quinn’s tone; it was the same pride he heard in Bones’ voice whenever he employed their remote underwater vehicle, which he lovingly nicknamed Uma.
“The cutter head is studded with diamond blades,” Quinn went on. “Diamond is just about the best conductor of heat, which means the cutter can turn at high RPMs without melting the ice and turning this place into a slushy nightmare. The manipulator arms are just there to hold it in place. All this...” He gestured to the mounds of snow piled up around them. “Is shaved ice—about 4,700 cubic feet worth. We use blower fans to create a negative air-pressure environment in here. Sucks the ice right out of the shaft.”
“You make it sound easy,” Maddock remarked.
Quinn shrugged. “There’s a lot to be said for having the right tools for the job. Unfortunately, the Ice Worm can only get us to within about six inches of the target anomaly. Any deeper, and we run the risk of accidentally shredding the target.” He walked over to a table near the machine and bent over a waiting laptop computer. “Take a look.”
A couple mouse clicks woke the computer up and a couple more brought up a grainy monochrome image. It didn’t take much imagination to see the shape of a human body, curled up as if in repose. “I think that’s our guy,” Quinn announced. “But you’ll have to do the rest the hard way.”
“Ice fishing,” groaned Bones.
“’Fraid so,” Quinn said. “As soon as Curtis gets done fueling the helo, we’ll start rigging the lines so you can go down.” He paused a beat. “I expect you’ll want to handle the recovery personally.”
Kismet nodded.
“I’ll go down with you,” Maddock said. “Two can work faster than one.” At a questioning glance from Kismet, he added, “Might as well make myself useful. What else is there to do?”
Alleviating boredom was only part of the reason why Maddock had volunteered to go into the pit. The truth of it was that Kismet’s search had fired his own curiosity.
He expected to be challenged by the other members of the party. Expected to hear Jade demanding to go in his place since she had provided the clue that had brought Kismet here. Expected to hear Bones claim that he was the better climber. Expected Quinn to pull rank or cite some made-up safety concern.
But no one spoke up. Jade stared at him, blankly. Quinn shrugged. Bones just muttered, “Well I sure as hell ain’t crawlin’ into that frozen ice hole.”
Kismet simply nodded. “Thanks.”
Maddock gave Jade a meaningful glance then nodded toward Bones. “You two... Don’t kill each other, okay?”
Jade frowned. “Don’t look at me.”
Maddock knew better than to ask for more, but doubted there would be any problems. The friction between his ex-girlfriend and his best friend was like the fire triangle; remove one corner from the equations—namely himself—and there would be no flames.
He turned to Rose. “One other thing...”