Free The Orion Protocol by Gary Tigerman Page A

bitch.
    “If you all will excuse us . . . ?”
    Bertrand herded his guys together, away from the anxious civilians. It was his task to assess, make recommendations up the chain, and then ultimately implement whatever decision came back down.
    While the Spec Ops team huddled, the heavily dressed foundation scientists stood around looking exhausted and depressed, arguing about how to handle the next press cycle.
    The media had either been tipped off or somehow read the Web-traffic tea leaves and had gotten wind of the Antarctic evacuation. CNN, MSNBC, and the wire services were pressing McMurdo Station hourly for details. So far, the NSF had only put out a cryptic, one-page press release from McMurdo saying there was no “general evacuation,” that a dozen people were being “normally rotated out,” with the exception of a doctor who “needed an unexpected operation” and a few astronaut trainees who were simply “homesick” and taking advantage of the unscheduled air transport out.
    But the numbers, like the story, didn’t really add up. There were going to be questions about the military hospital in Auckland, demands for interviews with the personnel flown up there and others still remaining on-station. It was a mess. And until they had a solution in place, in progress, the situation totally “under control,” they were terrified of involving the media.
    “Captain?” the lead NSF scientist called across the hut. He hadn’t slept much the last seventy-two hours and his voice sounded ragged and impatient.
    Captain Bertrand turned away from his huddle and focused on the civilians. There was no magic wand to make this all go away. They all knew that, but he said it out loud anyway.
    “Well, in and out and nobody gets hurt? We cut the goddamn drill loose, let it melt its way down as far away from people as it’ll go, andthen we seriously close that hole. But I suppose there is a good argument against that.”
    In his fur-lined hood, the lead scientist looked bleak. When he spoke, angry little puffs of condensed air formed in front of his face like clouds.
    “We’re standing over the first and only pristine prehistoric biosphere on the planet. To contaminate it with radioactive machinery would be a criminal act, not to mention the grossest possible violation of the UN no-footprint rules. American science would be disgraced, banished, and we’d all be out of our jobs.”
    “That’s pretty much what I was thinking.”
    Captain Wesley Bertrand and everyone else knew that any real solution to this mess would be slow, nasty, dangerous, and seven-figure expensive with mega lift-tons of blame to go around. All the science folk and Army engineers could do was put in their two cents and wait until Bertrand’s official recommendations set the process in motion. For the civilians, the scientists, this was not what they had worked so hard to be down here for. Not to preside over this huge messy disaster that could only blight their careers.
    But Bertrand was here because, for him, disasters were kind of fun.
    “All righty, then,” he said, already dividing the operation into doable pieces, organizing, prioritizing, and saving the craziest, most risky “fun” for himself. “The way I see it, we’re looking at mechanical retrieval of the drill; complete biohazard and radiation containment and cleanup; airlift and disposal of all contaminated water, ice, materials, and equipment. I see at least three lift sorties, maybe five, and we’re gonna need hazard experts, radiation experts, one helluva winch that will still work at fifty below, plus a shitload of support from HAZMAT, the NRC, the Air Force. And is there someplace down here where my boys can get hot coffee and take a warm piss?”
    Everyone in the freezing hut grinned and looked visibly relieved for a moment. The lead scientist did the honors, heading toward the insulated doors.
    “This way, gentlemen.”
    Hundreds of what-if and if-then concerns began