Thorpe's Candle

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.