Terminal Freeze by Lincoln Child Page A

of air brakes, the vehicle shuddered into silence. The door of the cab opened and the ice-road trucker-a young, thinly built man, deeply tanned and dressed in a lurid Hawaiian shirt-jumped down and began uncoupling the trailer. Then the passenger door opened and another figure emerged. This one descended much more gingerly. He was fair-haired and tall, perhaps forty-five, with a closely trimmed beard. He slid to the permafrost with obvious relief. Collecting a large duffel and a laptop bag from the semi’s cab, he hoisted them over his shoulder and began walking stiffly toward the base. He nodded to Marshall and Barbour as he passed by.
    “A bit green about the gills, that one,” Barbour said with a chuckle.
    Another roustabout appeared, unreeling heavy orange power cables from a large spool, and began attaching them to a panel in the side of the trailer.
    Marshall nodded toward it. “What do you suppose it’s for?”
    “Her highness,” Barbour replied.
    “Who?”
    But even as Marshall spoke he became aware of a new sound: the whine of an approaching helicopter. As it grew louder he noticed it didn’t have the hollow, thin drone of the workhorse choppers that had been ferrying equipment to the site in recent days. This was smoother, lower, more powerful.
    Then the bird came into sight, moving low against the brightening horizon, and he realized why. This was no puddle jumper: it was a Sikorsky S-76C++, the ultimate in luxury helicopters. And he knew instantly who “her highness” must be.
    The Sikorsky came in fast, hovered over the base for a moment, then settled onto the permafrost alarmingly close to the perimeter gate, throwing up stinging clouds of ice and snow pellets. The onlookers quickly scattered, covering their faces and retreating behind the nearby structures. As the whine of the turboshaft engines eased and the ice storm subsided, a hatch in the chopper’s belly opened and a blade-thin woman in a Burberry trench coat emerged. She descended the steps, then stopped, looking around at the scattered outbuildings with an unreadable expression. Then, opening an umbrella-which was buffeted mightily by the prop wash-she mounted the stairs again. Another form emerged-this one wearing what looked to Marshall like an ermine coat-and the two descended together. Marshall craned for a look at the second woman’s face, but the woman in the trench coat was shielding her so adroitly from the prop wash it was impossible to see anything but the end of the fur coat, the flash of shapely legs, and the glitter of black high heels stepping over the permafrost.
    The steps folded inward and the hatch closed, the whine of the turboprops increased, and the Sikorsky rose, blades slapping the air. As it moved away, quickly rising and gaining speed, Barbour scoffed audibly.
    For the first time, Marshall noticed that Ekberg had been standing nearby, watching the landing. Now she came forward to intercept the new arrivals. “Ms. Davis,” Marshall heard her say. “I’m Kari Ekberg, the field producer. We spoke in New York, and I just wanted to say that I’d be delighted to do anything I can to make you more-”
    But if either woman-the one in the trench coat or the one in furs-heard, they gave no sign. Instead, they walked past, mounted the metal steps of the gleaming trailer, slipped inside, and closed the door heavily behind them.

14
    All day the temperature crept slowly upward, past ten degrees Fahrenheit, then twenty, causing Conti to scramble his film crews for shooting a flurry of snow-covered landscapes, just in case. Under brilliant sunlight, the mood of the documentary team improved noticeably as military-grade parkas were traded for woolen sweaters and down jackets. From the direction of Mount Fear, the sharp cracking and booming noises returned as the face of the glacier began calving away once again. Gonzalez deployed his team of army engineers to replace bad bearings that had caused one of the generators to seize