Cold War

TWO

With its arctic-blue body, coral side coves, and beige vinyl interior, the ’57 Corvette roadster was the car of Pete Nimec’s dreams. A bolt of glorious inspiration captured in streamlined fiberglass and a classy flourish of chrome, delivering decisive 283 dual-four-barrel go without showoff extravagance. Just over six thousand of them had hit showroom floors across the USA, and just under two hundred were pumped with Ramjet fuel injection, a handful out of a scarce, exquisite handful that were still around and running a half century later.

A ’57 Corvette fuelie. Reconditioned to its original Chevrolet standards, including minor production-line imperfections. Probably worth upwards of a hundred, a hundred fifty thou, assuming you could find one for sale or auction.

And it was Nimec’s.

Which is to say, he owned it outright.

Owned it from the crossed-flag badge over its toothy front grille back to the big twin exhaust pipes at its tail. Owned it from the removable hardtop down to the wide whitewall tires. Owned it, his dream car, and by surprise no less, having received it at his condominium with a decorative red bow and handwritten note of appreciation taped to its wraparound windshield, an unexpected present from the man he admired most in all the world.

On any other morning, Nimec would have been in an unsinkable state of bliss. And he had been while driving to UpLink’s Rosita Avenue headquarters with his Wonderbar dash radio tuned to an oldies station, while pulling the ’Vette into his reserved underground parking slot, while riding the elevator to his office on the twenty-fifth floor.

But now that mood was heavy and flat, punctured by a single click of the mouse next to his computer.

He checked his watch as his telephone bleeped. Nine o’clock. Gordian would have already arrived at work.

“Nimec,” he answered.

It was the boss, as anticipated.

“Pete, you’d better come on up here.”

“This about Megan’s e-mail?”

“Yes.”

“I just read it myself,” Nimec said. “Be right with you.”

He cradled the receiver and whisked out into the corridor.

Minutes later Nimec entered Gordian’s reception room, tipped a brisk salute to Norma, got her nod of admittance, stepped over to the heavy oak inner door that she guarded like a vigilant gryphon, and rapped twice as he shouldered it open.

He stood inside the doorway and waited. Roger Gordian sat at his desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with its view of the city skyline and, east of downtown, the solid heave of Mount Hamilton above the Santa Clara foothills. A look at him told two stories. One was about the lingering physical effects of the biological assassination attempt he’d survived last year. The other was about the force of will that had been as vital to his recovery as the gene-blocker codes grabbed during a scalpel raid on the germ factory in Ontario. This was in November, shortly before Thanksgiving. It would always stick in Nimec’s memory, the time of year it happened, because Gordian had revived from his coma precisely on Thanksgiving Day, his awakening a grace that, like so many, had been attained with terrible bloodshed and sacrifice.

Thanksgiving, not quite four months ago. It seemed longer.

Gordian had gained some weight since his illness, but was much thinner than before. Its ravages had left noticeable marks on his features: the pale cheeks, the slight wiriness of his graying hair, the finely veined skin at his temples, the dark hollows under his eyes. But his eyes themselves radiated an undiminished intensity and brightness. He was better, and with time would be better still.

What troubled Nimec on occasion was knowing that few great losses were ever reclaimed in total.

He tried not to let his thoughts slide in that direction right now.

“You knocked,” Gordian said.

“Don’t I always?”

Gordian shook his head. “It started after I got back.”

Nimec sat across the desk from him.

“Really?” Nimec said.

“Really.” Gordian shrugged. “Of course, my observation doesn’t imply an absolute preference.”

Nimec rubbed his chin. “Might just be a passing fad anyway.”

Gordian smiled a little and was quiet. The picture frame in his hands was sized for an 8X10 photograph. Nimec couldn’t see the display side from his chair, but realized Gord had been looking at it when he came in.

“With the bad news from Cold Corners, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the right time to thank you,” Nimec said. “Except I can’t think of one that would be righter. The car, well…”

He paused a moment, at a loss for words.

Gordian regarded him from across the desk. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Nimec said. “It’s… choice.”

“And it arrived okay?”

“Last night. A guy rolls it up to my building, has the doorman buzz the intercom, tell me somebody’s dropped off an oversized package. That I might want to come down to the lobby and get it.”

Gordian nodded approvingly.

“He can follow a script,” he said.

Nimec looked at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“—let you know how much I value everything you’ve done for me over the past decade? I’m the person who needs to be grateful, Pete.”

Nimec kept looking at him.

“Hard to believe it’s been ten years,” Nimec said.

“To the day,” Gordian said.

Another pause.

“Still,” Nimec said. “I’ve got a pretty fair idea what that car must have set you back… ”

“I can afford it.”

“That isn’t the point… ”

“Would you have preferred something more conventional? Say, a jeweled tie clip and cuff link set? You’ve never seemed one for dressing up.”

“I’m security chief,” Nimec said. “You hired me to manage the protection of our employees and corporate facilities. And I do it the best way I know how.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t deserve the job if I gave less.”

“Enough,” Gordian said. “There aren’t many companies engaged in the sort of high-risk ventures UpLink International tackles. I could mention a dozen offhand that would pay whatever salary you demand, without requiring that you be on standby to zip off around the world in a flash. We both know why you’re here. Why you stay. So ease up and enjoy the car. I was thinking it would complement the old Wurlitzer jukebox and soda bar in that ratty pool hall of yours.”

Nimec raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize you’d heard about it.”

“Murmurs and whispers,” Gordian said. “I’d be glad to see it sometime. Test my skill at Fourteen-one Continuous.”

Nimec gave his surprise a chance to wane.

“You’re on,” he said.

Gordian nodded, his face becoming serious. He took a slow, deep breath that worked as a kind of unintentional segue.

“Now,” he said. “We need to talk about Antarctica.”

“Yeah,” Nimec said.

Gordian hesitated. He glanced down at the picture frame again, then back at Nimec.

“The missing search team,” he said. “Do you know any of its members?”

Nimec shook his head. “I’ve read their personnel files. That’s about it.”

“I’ve met them all at one time or another,” Gordian said. “My association with Dave Payton and Shevaun Bradley has been strictly in connection with the rover project. They’re top people in their field. And they’re our people.”

They looked at each other in silence. Our people. Nimec fully grasped the connotations of that short phrase. Nothing meant more to Gordian than the safety of his employees in the far-flung regions where UpLink had established many of its outposts. His Dream, capital D, was to bring greater freedom, prosperity, and stability to the citizens of corrupt and oppressive governments by opening them up to information that otherwise might be blocked by their political leadership. Staking his legacy on the old axiom that knowledge was democracy’s best tool, he’d brainstormed and funded the world’s largest telecommunications network with a fortune earned in military aviation technology. That had involved building and staffing satellite ground station facilities on some very dangerous turf. It had also made him some very serious enemies. Bad guys in places high and low got touchy when their control was threatened. Thus Gordian had spared no cost putting together a global corporate security division superior to the armed forces of many countries. Dubbed Sword, it was conceived as an antidote to their enemies’ rabid impulses. A way of staying a step ahead of them. But the unpredictable was always a factor. Sometimes the enemy had the cunning and stealth to lurk beneath your radar until he was ready to strike. Sometimes his claws were sharper, and his reflexes quicker, than you thought. And sometimes it was just a fluke accident that got you where it hurt.

If experience had taught Nimec anything, it was that there was no guaranteed inoculation against human vulnerability.

“What can you tell me about the guide?” he said. “Scarborough… that his name?”

“Alan Scarborough,” Gordian said. “We were introduced at our send-off for the original outfitting crew at Cold Corners. He’s ex-Marine, took officer training at A&M, saw combat as a platoon commander in the Persian Gulf… 2nd Division, I think. A strapping, brawny Texan with a personality to match. The type of man that you like right away. And feel you can depend on whatever the circumstances.”

“Understandable why Meg would choose him to head the expedition.”

Gordian nodded.

“If his party was in distress, I’m convinced Scarborough could manage the situation until help arrived. And he wouldn’t need to wait for Cold Corners to launch a rescue effort. There are scattered NSF encampments closer by. Helicopters regularly fly out of McMurdo Station to monitor them and provide emergency aid. Short term, he’d have access to reserve caches of food and medical supplies that have been airdropped throughout the valley system.”

“If Scarborough’s as competent as you say, I’d expect him to send out an SOS,” Nimec said. “But he doesn’t. One morning his team starts out from camp. Next thing you know they’re gone.”

Gordian took another deep breath, released it.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the bottom line.”

Nimec was thoughtful.

“There family members we need to contact?” he asked.

“Payton’s divorced, with a teenaged son. Bradley’s single. The next of kin listed on her employment record is a sister in New Mexico.”

“And Scarborough?”

“No wife. No children. No siblings. Parents deceased.”

Nimec looked at him.

“Sort of makes us his only family.”

“Yes.”

They sat without speaking. Gordian stared at the picture in his hands for a long time, holding its frame by the edges with particular gentleness, almost as if it was fragile to the touch. Then he turned it so the photo behind the glass was facing Nimec.

Nimec recognized the sixtyish couple in it immediately. The man had thick, wavy silver hair, an intelligent face, and wore wireless spectacles perched high on his nose. The woman next to him was a slender, fine-boned beauty that age had transformed without diminution. They wore elegant formal clothing, and stood posed before a shimmery portrait backdrop the color of rose petals.

“The Steiners,” Nimec said. His voice was low. “Jesus, they made a good-looking pair.”

“Yes.”

More silence.

Arthur and Elaine Steiner had been maintenance technicians at the UpLink compound in Russia when it was attacked by hired terrorists some years back. Hours before the strike they drove out into the countryside to investigate a power failure and never returned. Their bloody bodies and wrecked jeep were found once the offensive was repelled, in a blast crater torn into the ground by a rocket grenade. They had come to a bad place at the worst possible time, crossing paths with the hit squad, who’d knocked out the electrical lines as they rolled on toward the compound.

“This photo was mailed to guests who’d attended their fortieth wedding anniversary dinner,” Gordian said at length. “Their Ruby Anniversary. Did you know that? The traditional symbol, I mean.”

Nimec shook his head. “Being single… it isn’t something I’ve thought about much.”

Gordian looked at him. “For the first fifteen years of marriage, each one is considered a small milestone. The first is Paper. The second Cotton. Then Leather, Flowers… and so forth.” He sighed. “After that stretch, the special anniversaries are marked every five years. I’m not sure of the reason. But I know the magic number becomes five. I’ve been married to Ashley for thirty-two years. In another three we’ll be celebrating our Coral Anniversary. Then, a half decade later, knock wood, our Ruby. Next comes Sapphire, Gold, and Emerald. Diamond would be our sixtieth. It’s an interesting question whether etiquette’s caught up with present-day longevity statistics and gone past that. Ash could probably tell us. Women know. Sometimes, I think they know everything the instant they’re born.”

“A head start like that’s kind of hard to beat,” Nimec said.

“I’d be happy to finish with a tie,” Gordian said. “Those anniversary symbols, Pete. Before the Steiners were killed I couldn’t have run them down for you if my fate hung on it. Didn’t have the slightest notion what they were, and I’d been married almost three decades. If Norma hadn’t reminded me with a scolding that still rings in my ears, I likely wouldn’t have known my Silver was coming up. UpLink had consumed so much of my life, I’d forgotten how to share it with the woman I love.”

“And when Art and Elaine died?”

Gordian was quiet, sitting with the picture frame still turned toward Nimec. His gaze seemed at once there and apart, distant and tightly focused, as if telescoped onto some horizon that lay far outside the walls of the room.

“It changed things,” he said. “I recall the day their bodies were flown back to the States. They came aboard a NATO plane. An IL-76 transport. There were twenty-three dead. Many were victims of the attack in Kaliningrad. Others lost their lives in our raid on the terrorist hideaway. Twenty-three human beings arriving in coffins. This was at Kennedy Airport, in New York. Waiting for it to arrive, I couldn’t feel anything but guilt. I’d put them all in harm’s way. Friends, employees. But I couldn’t cover them. Couldn’t do anything besides wait for that plane to bring them home for burial.”

“None of it was your fault,” Nimec said. “People can’t always be protected.”

Gordian nodded.

“I know, Pete. I came to realize it standing there on the tarmac,” he said. “It was sunset when the plane touched down, and the light was golden on its wings… gold on gray. Then it deepened to orange. And then violet as the coffins were brought out. I’d arranged for a band to be present, and they were playing Bach, an excerpt from one of his Passions. I remember the music. Solemn, meditative. But something about it, coupled with that majestic sunset, helped lift me above the sorrow and despair. Something that was untouchably hopeful. Or that aspired toward hope. And I remember promising myself I’d re-commit to my own marriage, make it a testament to the love that Arthur and Elaine had had for each other. Remember vowing I’d press forward, continue using whatever resources and influence I had to do some good in the world. I owed it to them. Owed it every one of the people who’d been killed. They can’t always be protected from violence. But we have to keep our watch.”

Nimec stared at the photo and thought for a while. Then he switched his attention to Gordian.

“Meg was clear about wanting me at Cold Corners,” Nimec said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re with her on it.”

“Yes,” Gordian said. “Your thoughts?”

“I have to wonder what difference I’d make. Our staff down there knows the territory. They’re getting an open assist from MacTown. We’ve got to believe they’re doing everything they can.”

Gordian looked steadily at him.

“They’re racing against the calendar,” he said. “The Antarctic winter is just three weeks off. Months of darkness and bad weather. Once they have to bunker in, that’s the end of any sort of investigation. Megan doesn’t want to waste time. And she knows what you can accomplish given very little to spare.”

Nimec suddenly felt thickheaded. Investigation, he thought. He’d misunderstood Megan Breen’s request. This wasn’t about whether his involvement would effect the conclusion of their search. Wasn’t about conclusions at all, but rather undefined suspicions. Megan’s, Gordian’s, and his own. Antarctica was a brutal place. Nobody went there without a keen awareness of that fact. But the back-to-back disappearances of Scout IV and its S&R team equaled a huge, ominous question mark. And a likely tragedy. Something strange was going on out in the dry valleys, and Nimec was being asked to help get to the bottom of it. That was where his participation could be of important benefit.

The problem was that he considered his principal responsibilities to be with Roger Gordian in San Jose.

“I’ve got some questions before I hurry to pack my bags,” Nimec said. “With Ricci deep in the field, who’s left to man home plate? He pressed hard for my go-ahead, and it would be a mistake to pull him back without good cause. In my opinion we don’t have it. Not yet.”

“Ricci can carry on with his assignment. I don’t expect you’ll be gone too long. The last flight out of base is in three weeks. And you’ll have a reserved seat, I promise,” Gordian said. “Meanwhile, Rollie Thibodeau is here to handle things in your absence.”

“The way he’s been acting, I’m not sure Rollie can—”

“I am,” Gordian interrupted. “And I would think you’d have faith in the rest of our local Sword team.”

“Not the issue,” Nimec said. “We’ve had some close calls in the past few months. And the snakes responsible are still holed away underground.”

Gordian kept his gaze on him.

“I don’t need constant babysitting, Pete,” he said. “What are your other concerns?”

Nimec paused. It had taken about five sentences to exhaust his arguments. That left him scuffling for a dignified surrender.

“My Corvette,” he said “You going to take care of her for me?”

The faintest of smiles touched Gordian’s lips.

“She’ll be okay.” He carefully put down the picture frame. “That’s promise number two.”

Nimec sat there looking at Gordian for about thirty seconds. Then he gave him an acquiescent nod, rose from his chair, and started out of the office.

“Pete, one final thing…”

He turned to face Gordian.

“An old friend of ours with NASA is due to shepherd a small delegation of reporters and Senators around Cold Corners. The timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s part of a government funding push that can’t be called off,” he said. “At any rate, give my regards to Annie.”

Nimec stood with his hand suddenly tight on the brass doorknob. “Annie?”

“Caulfield,” Gordian said. “You remember her, of course.”

Nimec swallowed.

“Sure, I’ll say hello,” he said.

And strode from the room.