Terminal Freeze

37

Penny Barbour had wanted to take all the data critical to the expedition: a network image; the accessions and samples database; the online lab journals of her fellow scientists. In the end, she’d taken nothing. The two soldiers, Marcelin and Phillips-looking nervous despite their M16s-did not allow any time. Barbour, Chen, and the four others assigned to their group were instructed to change quickly into their warmest clothes and to grab some form of ID. They were assembled in the officers’ mess, their names checked off against a master list of everyone at the base, then they were escorted to the staging area. Phillips took point, Marcelin brought up the rear. They moved quickly and in complete silence through the corridors, halting at each intersection while Phillips reconnoitered. Reaching the central stairwell, they crept upward and crossed the entrance plaza-spectral in the nighttime half-light-to the weather chamber. The chamber was as crowded as the rest of the base had been empty: as they opened its door, a sea of tense faces turned quickly toward them.

Gonzalez stood at the head of the group. He had a handcart full of weapons and ammunition-enough for a small army-and he was methodically checking each in turn. He nodded to the soldiers, then racked the slide of the handgun he’d been inspecting, holstered it.

“This is the last of them?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Marcelin replied. He passed the list of names to the sergeant, who inspected it, grunted his approval, and put it aside.

Gonzalez glanced at his watch. “Carradine will be ready to load in five minutes.” He turned toward the group. “All right, everybody-listen up. I want you to don your weather gear now. We’re issuing extra gloves, scarves, and balaclavas-you’ll find them in this box. When I give the signal, we’ll head outside. You are all to follow me and make directly for the trailer. Maintain silence at all times. Any questions?”

Nobody spoke.

“Then get busy.”

There was a squeal of metal against metal as three dozen lockers were opened almost simultaneously. Opening hers, Barbour shrugged into her parka, draped a scarf around her neck, then grabbed a balaclava from a large carton in the middle of the room and fitted it over her ears. She pushed an extra scarf into one pocket and a pair of gloves into the other.

“I have a question,” a gruff voice said. It was the foreman of the roustabouts, Creel. He alone had not put on a parka, and was against the wall, burly arms crossed.

Gonzalez eyed the man, nodded.

“Just what is it you’re planning to do after the truck leaves?”

“We’re planning to put a stop to all this killing.”

“You mean, you’re going to hunt it.”

“Whatever this thing is, I think it’s done its fair share of hunting. Now it’s our turn.”

“Just the three of you,” Creel said.

Gonzalez eyed the cache of weapons, then smiled mirthlessly. “Why? You think our force is insufficient?”

“Given the state of your intel, I think the larger the force, the better.”

Now Gonzalez examined the man more carefully. “Were you in the service, mister?”

Creel threw out his chest. “Third Armored Cavalry, Desert Storm.”

Gonzalez stroked his chin. “You’re not part of this little group, right? You’re the local foreman.”

The man nodded. “George Creel. Out of Fairbanks.”

“Ever do any hunting?”

The foreman grinned crookedly. “Only uniformed humans.”

“That’s sufficient. Want to join the party, Mr. Creel?”

Creel’s grin widened. “And let me do this for free? Are you kidding?”

“Very well.”

Barbour heard her own voice almost before she realized she was speaking. “I think that’s a mistake.”

Gonzalez turned toward her. “What, exactly, is a mistake?”

“You’re hunting it with so little information. Sully and Faraday are in the lab, analyzing its blood, learning what they can. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to do it harm.”

Gonzalez’s eyes narrowed. “What can they possibly learn that will help us?”

“They can find a weakness. Learn its vulnerabilities. Make observations.”

“They’re welcome to make all the observations they want-of its carcass.” Gonzalez glanced around the weather chamber. “All right, people. Follow me.”

They passed into the staging area, where Gonzalez paused to line them up three abreast. Then the outer doors were opened and they marched into the storm. The ragged procession huddled close together, tramping through drifts that curled around their ankles. Gonzalez led the way, M16 at the ready, while Corporal Marcelin brought up the rear, lugging an improvised sled stowed with cases of water and emergency supplies.

Barbour heard the eighteen-wheeler before she saw it: the snarl of an idling diesel, filtering back through the gloom. She kept staggering forward through the storm, head bowed, until she bumped heavily into the person in front of her. Looking up, she realized the procession had stopped. There was the truck, covered with tiny yellow lights like some immense holiday offering, its headlights lancing the coruscating snow. Carradine had attached Davis ’s trailer and was framed in its wide doorway. He was busily throwing objects out of the trailer and into the snow: hatboxes, racks of expensive designer dresses, a vanity table. As Barbour watched, a small leather suitcase went cartwheeling out the trailer door. Hitting the ground, it sprang open, sending forth an explosion of cosmetics. The wind caught a flimsy negligee and scooped it up into the air, flapping and rippling like a silken kite. It got caught briefly on the trailer’s antenna before floating away and disappearing in the dark sky.

Carradine brushed one hand against the other in satisfaction. “That’s better,” he said over the rumble of the diesel. “Okay. Bring ’em on.”

Gonzalez did one last head count. “Get inside,” he told the first row of people. “Find a comfortable spot to stow yourselves.”

“Don’t all bunch up together,” Carradine added. “Distribute the weight as evenly as possible.” He jumped down into the snow. “I’ve placed a spare battery-powered CB radio inside to communicate with the cab. Somebody will need to take charge of it.”

A tentative hand went up. “I will.” It was Fortnum.

Barbour watched as the two casualties were helped into the trailer: Toussaint, slumping, clearly under heavy sedation, babbling quietly to himself, and Brianna, her head bandaged, silent and looking terrified. As the line slowly shuffled closer, Barbour could feel the heat radiating out the open door. No doubt Carradine had it cranked all the way up, warming the trailer while he still could. “I’ll need somebody up front,” he said. “To feed me directional updates if things get hairy.”

“I’ll do it,” Barbour said.

Carradine looked at her. “Can you program a GPS unit?”

“I’m a computer scientist.”

“Good enough for me. Let me check the belly tarp and the alcohol evaporator, and we’ll be on our way.”

She stepped out of the line and into the relative shelter beneath the cab. As the last of the group climbed into the trailer, Marcelin handed up the cases of water and the emergency supplies. Carradine made a final inspection of the rig. Then he climbed onto the trailer and, after briefly surveying the interior and showing Fortnum the CB, he closed the door. Walking around to the rear, he disconnected the power conduit. Instantly, the trailer went dark save for the running lights at the rear.

“Ready?” Gonzalez asked.

The trucker gave him a thumbs-up.

“Then good luck and Godspeed.”

Carradine helped Barbour up into the cab, then trotted around the front and clambered into the driver’s seat. He did a quick equipment and instrument check against a clipboard list that hung on the wall behind him, buckled his seat belt, then plucked the CB hand-set from the dash. “You with me back there?” he spoke into it.

“We’re here,” came the reply.

“Ten four.” He replaced the radio, glanced over at Barbour. “Ready?”

She nodded.

“Then let’s go.” He released the air brake, shifted into gear, eased off the clutch. The truck shuddered, then began rolling slowly forward.

Barbour looked out the window, into the scudding snow. As they headed into the wastes and the dark, her last view of Fear Base was of the three soldiers-Gonzalez, Marcelin, and Phillips-standing by the empty sled, weapons ready, watching them depart.