Whiteout!

Chapter 14

'Coveney will be back,' I said.

Kelleher gave me a tight little smile. 'I got a contract. It says a whole lot of things, and one of them is that I'm in no way attached to the Corps of Engineers for discipline, right?'

'I'm not talking about afterwards. At the moment he's in a mood to mount guards.'

'Don't worry. I got it figured.' His voice took on urgency. 'First thing is to find Allen. Get going.'

'What about you?'

'I got a little ole trick to set up here. Then I'll go to the reactor trench, okay? See you there in twenty minutes.'

I nodded, wondering about the little ole trick, then decided not to wonder any more. As I began to slip on my parka, Kelleher said: 'Take one of the others. Those guys in the ward sure won't be needing parkas.'

So I borrowed one that belonged to a sleeping victim called Douglas - the name was on a strip of tape above the breast pocket - put the hood up and pulled the drawstring tighter to conceal as much of my face as was reasonable. To have drawn it really tight would have attracted, rather than diverted attention. It wasn't much of a protection, but I wasn't going far and if I kept my head down it ought to suffice. As I stepped down into the tunnel, closing the door behind me, I looked carefully around, but the long, ice-walled trench was deserted. Walking briskly, 1 turned into Main Street, heading for the command hut. There was nobody about and I wondered cynically whether they were already busy with razors and furniture polish. The command trench was two along and I made directly for it, but stopped as I passed the entrance to the ablution block. Could it be that Allen, struck by a further bout of nausea, had gone in there and perhaps collapsed?

But he hadn't. Or if he had, he'd left. The ablution block was deserted, the shower stalls and baths empty, the long line of unscreened lavatory pans unoccupied - probably for the first time in hours. As I left, three men came hurrying in, too preoccupied with speed and discomfort even to glance at me. The command hut was manned through the whole twenty-four hours : by Smales and Allen during the day and then by the duty officers. But it wasn't manned now. There was no sign of Allen and no duty officer, but the lights were on. It occurred to me that Coveney, having moved in, must now be making a tour of inspection. Probably a thorough one. And a time-wasting one, too: his own time and everybody else's. In that case, I might not be disturbed for a few minutes. I went into Barney's office, just to be sure. Allen wasn't in there, and the room was empty. So where the hell was Allen ? There was a kind of certainty and assurance about the man, and I'd been fairly sure I'd find him here. My stomach tightened suddenly. Allen had left the medical block to come here, intending to get the keys and come straight back. But I hadn't passed him and he wasn't here. So ...

There was one of those flat key cupboards on the wall. I opened it quickly and began inspecting the labels. Beneath the blue and white plastic strip that said 'Medical Block Duplicates' was an empty hook. I gave a little sigh of relief. At least Allen had been here. Then 1 corrected myself. It didn't mean that, at all. He might have been here, that's all it meant. And if he had, if he'd taken the keys and left, why hadn't he come back to the medical block?

I closed the cupboard doors, turned to leave and swore softly to myself as a foot sounded suddenly on the wooden step outside. The door swung open and Sergeant Vernon came in. A ridiculous impulse made me turn my back on him to hide my face. I must have looked as guilty as a dog caught with the Sunday joint in his mouth.

'Okay, who is it?' Vernon said.

I turned, reddening.

'Mr Bowes? What are you - ?'

I said quickly, 'Have you seen Master Sergeant Allen ?'

He was looking at me levelly. Did he know about Coveney's orders ? He knew all right. 'Sir, you are under orders to remain in the medical block.'

'Allen,' I insisted. 'Have you see him?'

'Sure I've seen him. He's in the medical block.'

'No,' I said. 'He left, half an hour or so ago, to come here. He hasn't come back. I came to look for him.'

Vernon nodded. 'I heard the Tannoy. What did he want?'

'I don't know. Didn't ask.'

Vernon said, 'You shouldn't have let him go. Allen's sick.'

'Also determined. And I lack authority. But he's got to be found. He might have collapsed somewhere.'

'Okay, Mr Bowes.' Vernon nodded. 'I'll handle it. I'll get some guys out looking. Now I have to ask you to return to the medical block.'

'I'll go,' I said. There was nothing else I could say. 'But Allen's ill. It's important to - '

Vernon 's sternness relaxed a trifle. 'Joe Allen's a friend of mine,' he said. 'I'll comb the whole goddam camp. Don't worry.'

'Right.' 1 moved past him towards the door.

'How are those guys in there ?'

'Smelly,' I said. 'A bit more peaceful now. But Mr Coveney hasn't exactly made a friend of Kelleher.'

He gave a little shrug, expressive for all its economy. It reflected wry patience, long experience of the curious ways of officers. 'We got a slipping situation. He's got to hold it tight. Better get back there, Mr Bowes. I'll get things moving here.'

'One more thing. How's Major Smales?'

'He'll pull through.'

'Where is he?'

'Hut fourteen. Right where he collapsed. Why?'

'I wondered.'

'Give you some advice, Mr Bowes. Stay away. You aren't too popular, right?'

I nodded wearily. As I left he was picking up the telephone.

Moving into Main Street, I thought about Barney Smales and hut fourteen. 'He'll pull through,' Vernon had said. But meanwhile he'd delegated his command to Coveney, and done it voluntarily, which must mean that Barney was not only feeling foul, but expecting to feel foul for quite a while. On the other hand, since it had been Barney's decision, he must have been conscious to make it. I could imagine that Allen's thoughts would have run along the same lines; that Allen, having first got the keys, had then decided to approach Barney himself. He'd been fairly sure, earlier, that Barney would listen to him. A small hope now flickered in my mind. If Allen had gone to see Barney, it explained why I hadn't met him, and why he hadn't returned to the medical block.

Hut fourteen wasn't difficult to find, since there were notices at the entrance to each trench. But having found it, I hesitated. It hadn't needed Vernon's warning to tell me what Barney thought of me. If Barney was conscious and I went into the hut, he'd simply order me back to the medical block. How, then, could I discover whether Allen was in there? The huts had no windows and their wooden walls were so well insulated as to make them pretty well soundproof. I was contemplating the doubtful possibility of opening the door and simply calling Allen's name in a phoney American accent, when I was saved both the trouble and the likely humiliation. The door opened and a soldier came out. I said, 'Is Master Sergeant Allen in there?'

'No, sir.'

'Thanks. I thought he'd be with Major Smales.'

'No, sir. Lieutenant Coveney's the only one with the major, sir.'

'He's there now?'

'Yes, sir.' The soldier's face was red and resentful, I noticed. Coveney must have been exercising his charm.

'Well, thanks anyway.' I left the soldier to his misery and set off for the reactor trench and Kelleher. As I passed the entrance to the trench housing the diesels, two soldiers were coming out. One said sharply, 'Hey, you.'

I stopped and turned.

'You seen Captain Carson?'

'No,' I said, 'I haven't.'

'Beg pardon, sir. I didn't recognize you.'

'You're still searching?'

He shrugged. 'Captain Carson, he's gone. Whole camp's been searched twice. He just ain't here.'

I said, 'What's the theory?'

He shrugged again. 'Who knows? He's gone topside, something like that. No place down here we haven't looked. It's kinda spooky, you know, sir. Guy just vanishes.'

Since they'd been searching the camp, I asked 'Have you seen Master Sergeant Allen?'

'He disappeared too, sir?' It was a weary joke.

I dodged the question. 'Just looking for him.'

'No, sir. Haven't seen him.'

As I walked away, a thought struck me, and then another, and I didn't like either. The first was that only I knew Allen was missing. Kelleher was concerned, but didn't know as I now knew. And I was doing exactly what I'd done about Carson: failing to report the fact. No, not quite true; Vernon knew too and Vernon had promised a search. Damn it, I couldn't even think straight! I tried harder with the other idea that had stamped into my head and was more deeply worrying. I thought about it until I was sure my mental processes hadn't got this one scrambled, too. The fact was that everybody who'd had anything to do with the medical records was now gone or out of action. Doc Kirton was dead; the orderly was severely disabled by food poisoning, and Allen, who'd gone to get the keys, had vanished! Quick conclusion: there was something important in those damned records. But it was quicker and more facile than I liked. The medical orderly had been caught in the wide swathe of mass food poisoning; Allen wasn't known, except by Kelleher and by me, to be remotely interested in the medical files. Unless . . , u nless somebody had seen him collecting the keys in the command hut!

But it was getting me nowhere; it was all maybes and possibilities, all ifs and buts and nothing hard anywhere - nothing to point to a man or a group of men ; nothing to indicate purpose. The truth was that somebody, somewhere, had a motive. Whoever he was was sociopathic, too: a man able to appear normal while carrying on a mad murderous campaign against the whole installation and everybody in it. The door to the reactor complex was locked. I hesitated, then banged on it, and after a moment a key turned and the door swung open and one of the engineer sergeants looked out at me enquiringly.

'Mr Kelleher here?'

'Nope. He's in the hospital, sir.' The sergeant held a hefty stick. I pointed to it. 'What's that for?'

He gave a tight smile. 'From here on in, we repel all boarders.'

I thanked him and turned away, sick now with concern, not to mention a growing fear for the safety of my own hide. Now Kelleher was missing! Well, this time I was going to do the right thing, immediately and without debate. The first job was to report it. With two men disappearing inside an hour, and three in a day, the sheer weight of statistics must now overwhelm both Smales's belief in runs of simple bad luck and Coveney's obsession with military order. I'd march down to the command hut, see Vernon and get the place turned upside down. I also thought mirthlessly that Coveney's hunt for Kelleher wouldn't lack determination.

Approaching the entrance to the medical block trench, though, I hesitated. It was just possible Kelleher was still there; that his 'little ole trick' had taken longer than he expected. Better check. Turning into the tunnel, I felt suddenly colder, and halted. Cold air blew through Camp Hundred the whole time, but here the current was stronger, prickling icily at the hair in my nostrils. I stepped to the wall and looked along the trench, past the sides of the huts, then moved forward again. There was nothing to be seen. The snow walls and the arched roof looked as they always looked: the packed snow was greyish in the dim light that came in from Main Street. But as I moved forward, still close to the ice wall, I knew I wasn't mistaken. There was a sharp current of icy air blowing along the trench. I came level with the first hut and entered the narrow passage between the hut's side and the trench wall, and the air current strengthened, flowing round me like very cold river water. I broke into a clumsy run, felt my boots skidding on the crystalline ice and stumbled towards the far end of the trench, already knowing what I'd find.

Even before I got there, I could hear it despite the parka hood. As I came closer, the jet of air battering down at me carried with it the roar of the brutal weather above us. I stopped then and looked upwards, watching the flying white of snow across the open hatch cover twenty feet above my head. I raced up the spiral steel stairs. Loose snowflakes were falling fast around me and already the treads were treacherous, each with its inch or so of fresh white snow, indented with a footprint. Somebody was out there !

At the top I shoved my head and shoulders out through the hatch, and promptly ducked down again as the sheer force of the wind threatened to knock me from the steps. Huddling down, I drew the parka hood tighter until there was no more than a two-inch aperture. Kicking the loose snow from the stair treads, I took a firm grip on the steel handrail before I raised my head again, like a cautious tortoise. Peering through the narrow opening of my hood at the hell outside, I saw nothing. Visibility was no more than two or three feet and the hard snow was flung against me by a shrieking, banging gale of frightening malevolence. To try to see footprints outside was absurd. Whoever had gone out into that must already be beyond hope and help. Nor was there a lifeline tied, as per regulations, to the hatch cover. Thankful to hide myself from the storm's anger, I withdrew my head, pulled the hatch cover down and began to fasten it. Then I stopped. Better leave the catch undone. If somebody had gone out, was struggling to get back and by some miracle succeeded, a locked hatch cover was a death sentence. Slowly, almost despairingly, I climbed down the steel stairs, my head still ringing with the violence of the Arctic wind. With the hatch closed, all was still and silent and even the cold walls, seen by the dim light visible from Main Street, seemed somehow almost indecently safe and secure. I was trying hard to think what reason any man could have to venture out through the hatch into the deadly and implacable world of the empty, intolerant icecap. Only a madman would . . . But the madman was below and secure. Backing down the stair was awkward. I turned to face the way I was going and my foot slipped on snow-coated steel and I stumbled, tried frantically to recover my balance, failed, and fell eight or ten feet to the tunnel floor below. It was a painful, bruising fall, but the heavy padding of my Arctic clothing must have absorbed some of the worst of it. I lay grunting and cursing for a few moments, then began to haul myself to my feet. As I did so, my hand touched something beneath a pile of loose, dry snow that had drifted through the open hatch. I brushed the snow rapidly aside. Allen lay beneath it. Pulling off my mittens, I touched his face and it was icy cold. I bent painfully, took hold of his arm, hoisted him in a rough fireman's lift and staggered back along the trench to the hospital block. I knew there wasn't an empty bed, so I took him straight into the little operating theatre and dumped him on the table and stood beside him for a moment, looking helplessly at the lifeless grey colour that had invaded his fine dark features. I was sure he was dead. His arm hung limply down, his mouth gaped, and as I bent to put my ear to his mouth, 1 could neither hear nor feel any trace of respiration. Ripping his clothes open, baring his chest, I bent again to listen. Nothing. I calculated the time since he'd left the block and then went to rummage in Doc Kirton's desk for the stethoscope. Finding it, I fumbled the earpieces into place and tried to listen for Allen's heartbeat. My total inexperience didn't help. I seemed to hear only the movement of the instrument in my own ears. But then, very briefly, I heard something - a faint flickering sound like a few drops of water gurgling out of some faraway wash basin. Seconds passed. There it was again! Whipping off the stethoscope, I bent, placing my mouth against his icy lips, and forced my own warm breath into him. Another breath: pressure on his rib cage to force it out, then another breath; a minute passed, then two. And suddenly, joyfully, I watched his ribs lift a fraction and then lower. It happened again, and then, after an agonizingly long pause, a third time. I stood back drenched in sweat and relief, watching him breathe, very slowly and shallowly at first, then more steadily, and there were odd, low but audible sighs to confirm to my ears what my eyes could see. It was once considered unwise to warm too quickly a body which might have been attacked by frostbite. The practice then was to rub the victim with snow in the hope of minimizing the murderous pain as circulation returned to frozen flesh. Nowadays a different view is taken. Warmth should be applied as soon as possible. In the next few minutes I had stripped off Allen's boots and trousers and draped towels soaked in warm water over feet and legs. A few moments fiddling with the anaesthetic apparatus and I'd got oxygen flowing into the face mask and with that clamped to his face, Allen's breathing strengthened and steadied. About ten minutes after I'd carried him inside, I was wringing out a new towel when I heard his voice, muffled, through the mask.

As I turned to him and lifted the mask away, he lifted his arm weakly, and said, 'Gee, my head.'

'Can you hear me?'

'My head. God, my head!'

Moving behind him, I drew my fingers gently through his hair. His breath hissed and he winced suddenly as I touched a lump like a small mountain at the back where his hair was thinning. He hadn't got that collapsing in the snow!

I said, 'Who did it?'

Allen's head moved weakly from side to side.

'Who?'

He blinked up at me; real consciousness was returning now.

'Somebody did hit you?'

'Sure he did.' Allen's eyes closed tightly.

'Who?'

'Didn't see who. Had his .., his parka hood tight. That's all I saw. Then - Bam!'

'You've no idea? No clue at all?'

'No.'

'Where did it happen? Before or after you got the keys?'

Allen looked puzzled for a moment, then said slowly : 'Oh yeah, the keys. Never got that far.'

All the same, the keys had gone from the rack.

'Coffee?' His eyes had closed. He didn't open them as he nodded. Walking out of the theatre to the coffee machine in Kirton's office, I felt chillingly alone. Allen was in no condition to help; there was no sign of Kelleher; and inside me lurked an uncomfortable certainty that I was next on the list of targets.

I still had no idea why.

My hand shook a little as I filled the coffee-cup. My brain pounded with that question: Why? Why the long chapter of destruction, the skilled sabotage, the readiness to kill men, singly like Kirton or indiscriminately with the blunt sweep of poisoned food? Why, why, why? But I had only questions. No answers. And even if the answers had been there to reason out, my brain now seemed incapable of hard thought; Hundred had deadened it and there was just dull reaction to events, followed by weary frustration at a deadly riddle which grew hourly less answerable. I took the coffee in to Allen and watched morosely as he sipped. The acute discomfort in his guts and the brutal bang on the head combined to make him almost helplessly weak. He needed to be warm in bed, not lying awkwardly on this damned operating table. If only there were a bed . . . Then I groaned at my own stupidity. Of course there was a bed; there was the one Kelleher had occupied. I went through to check and stared in astonishment. Kelleher was in it, his eyes glaring up at me!

'What the - !' But the sight told its own story. Kelleher was back in the straitjacket, the straitjacket was fastened to the bed, and there was a wide strip of surgical tape across his mouth!