GPS Coordinates: –75.250973, –0.071389
March 18, 2010
Located sixteen kilometers from Williams Field—a seasonal airstrip carved into the frozen backbone of the Ross Ice Shelf—McMurdo Station was an outpost in the strictest sense of the word. Isolated well beyond the fringe of civilization in a region whose rumored existence was the stuff of globetrotting heretics until only recently, the modest community, a collection of rusting Quonsets and prefabricated warehouse-style buildings had the rugged look of a boomtown. There were no roads in or out, only a few sloppy brown tracks that allowed for travel within Antarctica’s only permanent fixture besides ice—mile upon mile upon mile of ice. Not that it would have made a difference. Cut off from everything but itself, McMurdo was truly the end of the earth. The farthest point south accessible by ship, the gritty outcropping resembled an enormous scab on an otherwise pristine slab of white.
A large storage yard stacked with dozens of shipping containers stood at one end of the itinerant community. Without year-round assistance from the outside world, it would’ve been nearly impossible for a small family to eke out an existence no less a population that in the summer months could swell to more than a thousand. Every ounce of supplies had to be imported. Similarly, every ounce of waste, either human or manufactured, had to be disposed of elsewhere. The nearest sewage treatment plants, landfills and recycling centers were thousands of miles away. Claire shuddered at the thought of the awful tonnage periodically bellied away in sewage tankers. Although she was an Einstein when it came to the mathematics of consumption and waste, the environmental implications of such equations always had the unpleasant effect of awakening her to her own contribution to the ongoing global disaster of overpopulation. The fact that she was now in a place where natural selection had successfully excluded Homo sapiens only augmented her reservations about being here. Or maybe it was the realization that in a matter of days the sun would go into hiding for the next six months and leave her alone to be gnawed at by every soul-sickening anxiety she’d ever had—thousands of miles away from humanity in whose presence she realized both comfort and catastrophe. Poof! Gone. . . . Fade to black.
Currently, McMurdo was a hive of activity. The majority of its residents were packing up in anticipation of the long, dark winter months ahead. In less than a week, the population would shrink to a skeleton crew of less than two-hundred, and the sloppy black roads would be virtually empty. It was on one such road that Claire and the others rumbled through town in the mud-splattered four-wheel drive van that had collected them at Williams Field.
After ten minutes of jostling they skidded to a stop in front of a row of brown, two-story dormitories. The identical steel-paneled buildings, four in all, served as temporary shelters for anyone crazy enough to travel this far off the beaten path. It wasn’t exactly dark out—the sky was stained with rich sepia hues, but snow landings were tricky enough in the best conditions. They would stay here until the sun reappeared before covering the remaining distance to their final destination nearly six-hundred miles farther south.
Almost nostalgically, Claire remembered the trip she had taken with the high-school ski club so many years ago . . . Remembered the budget accommodations in which she and a half-dozen of her classmates had cranked up the heater after skiing all day, and gotten tipsy on peppermint schnapps. Everything had been great until one of the girls had gotten drunk enough to ask Claire about what had gone on between her mom and dad. Was it true that she had watched her mom stab her own husband, Claire’s father, to death? What was it like knowing that your own mom was “. . . so hardcore?” Did Claire have trouble finding guys who weren’t afraid to date her? And of course there’d been other questions, mostly harmless, but Claire had chosen not to remember them. She had dismissed the girl’s queries with a tolerant smile, intimating that she never dared break the rules set by her mother for fear of the consequences.
The reality, however, was less imminent than she had let on. The beatings, the verbal abuse, the aloneness—had broken her mother. Rules in Claire’s house, for that matter any guidelines whatsoever, were virtually nonexistent in the wake of her father’s death. It was true that she and her mother had coexisted under the same roof until Claire was old enough to get out and live on her own, but they were essentially strangers to one another. In life, James Shelby’s abusive behavior had brought them together, engendering a need for solidarity and support. In death, he became an impassable void between them.
A cutting wind was blowing off the water, salting them with ice crystals as they hurried between the idling transport and the inn’s entrance. It was good to get out of the cold, away from the wind that slashed through the lightweight pullover Claire had been wearing tied about her waist in Los Angeles earlier that day. Although the accommodations weren’t exactly brimming with the old world charm of a Swiss chalet, it was warm inside and right now Claire would have gladly traded charm for warmth. The furnishings were strictly functional—phony wood grain, chromed steel, vinyl upholstery—stuff you’d expect to find in a suburban Elk’s Club hall. Her room was more of the same—neutral indoor/outdoor carpeting, a swaybacked twin bed, abrasive war surplus blankets—and sadly, no bathtub. The walls were modestly decorated with framed photographs and Xeroxed newspaper clippings of Antarctic explorers from the late nineteenth century to the present day. Not much had changed over the past century. Aside from technological advances in polar gear, the modern day adventurers seemed to be cut from the same cloth as their forebears. They all squinted into the camera as if afflicted with the same visual impairment. Some things were timeless. The view from her window—a green neon sign advertising chico’s mexican food of the south pole—wasn’t one of them. She drew the shade and went back to sleep, jet-lagged. She stayed in her room the remainder of the day—going over her research and drifting in and out of fitful sleep—before freshening up and joining the others for dinner.
Chico’s was the worst kind of dump imaginable. Although Ethan had found Zagat and the Michelin Guide to be consistently reliable in the United States and Europe, their restaurant listings in Antarctica were decidedly scant. He’d eaten here with Alan and the others a couple of months ago and had only recently been able to put the experience behind him. Nothing had changed since then other than the fact that the place was less crowded now that three-fourths of McMurdo had flown anywhere but south for the winter. Not the strands of chili pepper Christmas tree lights hanging from the ceiling. Not the gargantuan velvet sombreros and musty wool serapes tacked to the dingy walls. Not the greasy odor of a half-dozen equally grim menu selections, all of which suffered the same glistening skin of melted cheese. It wasn’t that Chico’s was simply the worst place in town—it was the only place. Fuck it—he was here to blow off some steam, and to take a few measurements. It was time to find out just how deeply he was buried in shit.
“Dinner and drinks are on me,” he announced generously. “I want us to have a good time. What d’ya say—tequila shots all the way around? Christen the voyage.”
“Last one standing calls a cab,” boomed McKenzie.
Before long everyone was feeling good. Everyone, that is, but Sergeant Price. He was one sober Muslim. Even Claire was letting loose, pacing the guys shot for shot. Funny what a little sex appeal could bring to the table. The wet little jewel between her legs was the real catalyst behind the raucous frat-house atmosphere, not the booze. Four shots in and Witzerman’s eyes were swimming in his skull but there was no way in hell he was going to bow out gracefully. As long as tits were present, the guy’d drop dead before he’d say no to another round.
DeLuca was a different story. He was like an oil tanker—the more booze he poured into himself, the smoother he rode.
Ethan stole a look at Claire out of the corner of his eye, the slow burn of alcohol exposing a moment steeped in slippery subtexts. She was chatting it up with Bishop and Price. Vanilla and chocolate. The three of them were really having a good laugh about something. Pure fucking hilarity.
Remember Alan, you dumb bitch? I said I wanted us to have some fun, not forget why the fuck we’re here. And what’s going on in that thoughtful gray head of yours, Dr. McKenzie? ‘Doc.’ Maybe you’d like to watch Shaka Zulu and Pee Wee Herman lay the pipe to our girl? I bet that’s it. Mrs. McKenzie isn’t the horny young wet-mop she used to be. Or maybe you’d like to pop a couple of Viagra and take a stab at Claire yourself? Why the hell not? She’s not going to see LA ever again, is she?
Witzerman—fucking bald fuck! You’re too fucking ugly to scare me. I’d kill myself if I looked half as bad as you. I really fucking would. You would’ve been a crib death in my house, you Rogaine-soaked Q-tip. Try anything with me and I’ll carve my freakin’ initials into your scalp and send your bald head home in a Rice Krispies box!
Price—you could be a handful. You one hard mo’ fo, ain’t you, Homeboy? Okum’s muscle, am I right? You goddamned uptight holier-than-thou Koran-readin’ A-hole. But you can bet, first chance I get, I’m going to clip those muscle-bound wings of yours.
“Ethan. . . . Hell-O! Earth calling Dr. Ethan Hatcher . . . Come in Dr. Hatcher . . .”
Claire: she was passing her hand back and forth in front of his eyes as if he was some sort of catatonic.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I was thinking about Alan.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about him too,” she said. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”
Ethan stared at her. “Don’t do that.”
“What?” asked Claire.
“That ‘he’s gone’ bullshit. Alan’s not gone, he’s dead.” Ethan looked around the table to see if the others were getting it. Whatever Okum had told them, he wanted to set the record straight. Alan was no traitor. He was a good scientist and a better friend. “Dead,” he repeated defiantly. “End of story.”
“Relax,” said Price. “She didn’t mean anything by it.”
“What the fuck do you know, Price?” Ethan was seething. Alan’s death hadn’t really struck him, not really, but now that he had returned to the scene of the crime the truth was inescapable. Plain and simple, he was a murderer. “He wasn’t your friend.”
Price bristled but restrained himself. “I know that the captain is supposed to go down with the ship, and that you’re probably beating yourself up because you weren’t here.” He turned to DeLuca. “Isn’t that right, Major? The shrinks call it survivor’s guilt.”
That word . . . Guilt. It must have set him off. Before he knew what he was happening he lunged across the table and swung on Price.
So much for being a badass. A split-second later Ethan was face down on the table, a stabbing pain shooting through his left arm. In a single fluid motion, Price had grabbed him by the wrist and spun him flat onto his chest, scattering the table’s contents. Ethan’s shirt was covered with refried beans and salsa.
Claire jumped on Price and tried to pull him off of Ethan. “You’re hurting him!”
“Sergeant, let him go.” DeLuca’s tone was calm but decisive. He positioned himself between the two men. “What the hell’s gotten into you two? For god’s sake, this isn’t high school. You’re professionals. We’re a team—act like it.”
Ethan straightened up and massaged the kinks out of his shoulder. The table was a mess. Witzerman looked as if he’d pissed his pants. McKenzie was mopping up a spill with a wad of napkins before it could work its way onto the floor. Price had backed off a few paces, but was still tightly wound, his eyes focused and hard. Bishop righted an overturned glass and checked to see if anything had gotten on him. And Claire—she was beautiful in her anguish. A guardian angel. His protector. She was probably the only one there who didn’t have it out for him.
“Your friend is the reason we’re here,” DeLuca continued, gazing into Ethan’s eyes. “Please, keep that in mind. We’re here to help.”
But Ethan wasn’t hearing any of it. He was imagining Alan—his friend’s charred corpse lying on the ice somewhere—broiled to the bone and lightly dusted with snow. And all because Ethan had done what every American did come tax time: cheat a little. Price had nailed it—survivor’s guilt.
The air temperature outside Chico’s hovered near fifty below. Ethan’s first breath was like inhaling liquid nitrogen into his lungs. But he needed it this way. The more it hurt, the better.Tequila shots—stupid, stupid, stupid! You know better than to go splashing alcohol on an open flame. Chem 101—basic shit. You’ve burned yourself badly enough already. Remember, this is about saving your ass. Alan’s gone. Get it through your fucking head. Alan’s dead because of you! Don’t turn this into a murder-suicide.