hour the day’s work was well under way: he could hear hammering, shouts, the whine of a cordless drill. There was another sound, too, in the background: something familiar, yet elusive. Barbour led the way through the thicket of outbuildings, pausing not far from the vault, where a small knot of onlookers had gathered. With a faint smile, she pointed out past the perimeter fence.
Marshall stared into the gloom. At first he saw nothing. Then, in the distance, two pinpricks of light resolved themselves. As he watched, they grew larger: angry-looking yellow spots that reminded him uncomfortably of the eyes that had stared up at him out of the ice. As they continued to approach, other, smaller lights became visible. The background noise he’d noticed grew louder, as well. And now he recognized it: a diesel, and a big one.
“What the
hell
…?” he began.
A huge eighteen-wheeler was approaching them across the snow. It grew and grew in size, until at last it drew to a stop in the pool of lights beyond the perimeter fence, its engine idling. The tires were covered with heavy chains, and the cab was laden with filigrees of frost. Ice fog lay thick on the windshield, and the headlights and the canvas-covered grill were almost completely obscured behind a densely packed coating of snow and rime.
Barbour dug an elbow into his ribs, chuckled. “An articulated lorry. Now that’s something you don’t see every day in the Zone.”
Marshall looked at it in wonderment. “How did it get here? We’re a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest road.”
“He made his own road,” Barbour said.
Marshall looked at her.
“I asked the same question. That lot over there-the ones who told me it was coming-sorted me out.” And she pointed at the nearby onlookers. “Seems the driver is what’s known as an ice-road trucker. People like him drive the ‘winter road’-a road that exists only in the coldest months, a straight line over the frozen lakes, a temporary ice highway to get goods and equipment to remote camps and communities with no regular access.”
“Over frozen
lakes
?”
“Not a job for the fainthearted, is it?”
“I’ll be damned,” Marshall said. It seemed so wildly anachronistic-a big rig here, in the Federal Wilderness Zone-he could hardly believe it.
“Normally they travel between Yellowknife and Port Radium,” Barbour said. “This was a special trip.”
“Why? What’s so important it couldn’t have been ferried in on a plane?”
“That.” And Barbour pointed to the trailer behind the cab.
Marshall ’s attention had been fixed on the cab of the truck. But now, as he glanced back toward the load it was carrying, he saw that it wasn’t the typical boxy container, but something more like an Airstream trailer-except several times larger. The sun was just now beginning to peer above the horizon, and the trailer gleamed in the newly minted light. In a perverse way, it resembled the submarines he sometimes saw berthed in the Thames when he drove through New London on the way to his parents’ house in Danbury. Its metal-covered flanks rose smoothly toward a gently curved roof, which in turn sported a small forest of antennas and satellite dishes. The large windows were hung with expensive-looking curtains, all carefully pulled shut. A small balcony with deck chairs-a truly bizarre touch, given the harsh environment-was set high up in the rear wall.
The semi’s engine rose to a roar again and it pulled forward, tire chains clanking. Two burly, leather-jacketed roustabouts detached themselves from the group of onlookers, trotted toward the security gates, and pulled them wide. The truck shifted into reverse and-with a succession of ear-shattering chirps-began backing its burden into the compound. Guided by the roustabouts, it crept back until the trailer was well within the perimeter fence. Then the diesel’s revolutions slowed; the driver shifted into park and killed the engine; and, with a hiss
Marshall stared into the gloom. At first he saw nothing. Then, in the distance, two pinpricks of light resolved themselves. As he watched, they grew larger: angry-looking yellow spots that reminded him uncomfortably of the eyes that had stared up at him out of the ice. As they continued to approach, other, smaller lights became visible. The background noise he’d noticed grew louder, as well. And now he recognized it: a diesel, and a big one.
“What the
hell
…?” he began.
A huge eighteen-wheeler was approaching them across the snow. It grew and grew in size, until at last it drew to a stop in the pool of lights beyond the perimeter fence, its engine idling. The tires were covered with heavy chains, and the cab was laden with filigrees of frost. Ice fog lay thick on the windshield, and the headlights and the canvas-covered grill were almost completely obscured behind a densely packed coating of snow and rime.
Barbour dug an elbow into his ribs, chuckled. “An articulated lorry. Now that’s something you don’t see every day in the Zone.”
Marshall looked at it in wonderment. “How did it get here? We’re a hundred and fifty miles from the nearest road.”
“He made his own road,” Barbour said.
Marshall looked at her.
“I asked the same question. That lot over there-the ones who told me it was coming-sorted me out.” And she pointed at the nearby onlookers. “Seems the driver is what’s known as an ice-road trucker. People like him drive the ‘winter road’-a road that exists only in the coldest months, a straight line over the frozen lakes, a temporary ice highway to get goods and equipment to remote camps and communities with no regular access.”
“Over frozen
lakes
?”
“Not a job for the fainthearted, is it?”
“I’ll be damned,” Marshall said. It seemed so wildly anachronistic-a big rig here, in the Federal Wilderness Zone-he could hardly believe it.
“Normally they travel between Yellowknife and Port Radium,” Barbour said. “This was a special trip.”
“Why? What’s so important it couldn’t have been ferried in on a plane?”
“That.” And Barbour pointed to the trailer behind the cab.
Marshall ’s attention had been fixed on the cab of the truck. But now, as he glanced back toward the load it was carrying, he saw that it wasn’t the typical boxy container, but something more like an Airstream trailer-except several times larger. The sun was just now beginning to peer above the horizon, and the trailer gleamed in the newly minted light. In a perverse way, it resembled the submarines he sometimes saw berthed in the Thames when he drove through New London on the way to his parents’ house in Danbury. Its metal-covered flanks rose smoothly toward a gently curved roof, which in turn sported a small forest of antennas and satellite dishes. The large windows were hung with expensive-looking curtains, all carefully pulled shut. A small balcony with deck chairs-a truly bizarre touch, given the harsh environment-was set high up in the rear wall.
The semi’s engine rose to a roar again and it pulled forward, tire chains clanking. Two burly, leather-jacketed roustabouts detached themselves from the group of onlookers, trotted toward the security gates, and pulled them wide. The truck shifted into reverse and-with a succession of ear-shattering chirps-began backing its burden into the compound. Guided by the roustabouts, it crept back until the trailer was well within the perimeter fence. Then the diesel’s revolutions slowed; the driver shifted into park and killed the engine; and, with a hiss
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