Free Tundra by Tim Stevens Page A

wind.

Eight
    ‘O ut of the question,’ said Haglund.
    He stood, tall and burly, his head lowered, truculence set in his face, distress twitching at it.
    ‘It’s not out of the question at all,’ said Purkiss. ‘It’s one of several possibilities.’
    They were all there, the entire team, for the first time. The living room could have seated all nine of them, but nobody appeared to want to sit down. Even those who had taken chairs,  Oleksandra Budian and Avner, looked ill at ease. Only Clement sat quietly, without restlessness, gazing at Purkiss.
    ‘A complete assessment of the vehicles’ functionality,’ said Haglund. ‘I conducted it immediately before you set out.’
    ‘You might have missed something.’ Purkiss said it neutrally. The Swede raised his head, stared into his eyes.
    ‘I didn’t.’
    Medievsky pushed himself away from the wall, unfolded his arms. ‘Okay. No arguing.’ He stepped forward, not quite between Purkiss and Haglund but positioning himself so that he made it clear he would intervene if he had to. ‘It is highly unlikely that the leak was present before you set out. Highly unlikely, but – and you have to admit this, Gunnar – not impossible. So. The other explanations are that the fuel tank was damaged on the way to the outpost, or that the fault occurred on the return journey.’ He looked at Purkiss, Montrose and Wyatt in turn. ‘Most likely it was this last scenario. I ask again: was there any obstacle in the terrain which might have caused the damage?’
    After a moment’s silence, Montrose said, ‘Nothing I saw, or felt.’
    ‘Me neither,’ said Wyatt. ‘And we were riding in convoy. It was a straight route, Oleg. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
    Haglund hadn’t taken his eyes off Purkiss. ‘Something about the way you handled the machine?’
    Montrose spoke up first. ‘No, Gunnar. He rode it well. I was right behind him.’
    They’d arrived back at the station ninety minutes earlier, the remaining snowmobiles side by side, Purkiss on the back of Wyatt’s. Halfway there, the all-terrain truck had approached from the opposite direction, slowed briefly, then moved on as Montrose waved it past. Montrose had called the station on his satellite phone before they’d set off. Purkiss saw two men’s indistinct shapes through the truck’s windscreen as it passed: Haglund and Medievsky.
    The truck had returned to the station three quarters of an hour after the snowmobiles, the remains of the ruined Arctic Cat salvaged. Purkiss was in the living area, drinking sweet tea and surrounded by the others, most of whom peered at him with a combination of alarm and embarrassment. The medic, Keys, had given him the once-over in the infirmary, checked his limbs and his lungs, muttered a terse: ‘You’re okay.’
    Haglund said: ‘I will examine the vehicle in more detail. But I have to say there’s not much left. The tank is completely gone, and there is no way of telling how large the fault was, or what caused it.’
    On the sofa, Avner swept a hand across his face, murmured, ‘Jesus, man. Hell of a fuckin’ welcome.’
    Purkiss said to Medievsky, ‘Can I talk to you in private?’
    There was a shifting in the room, a collective tensing. Purkiss glanced at the others. Avner and Budian looked away. Montrose frowned at his hands. Wyatt raised his eyebrows, while Haglund glowered.
    Keys rubbed his forehead, and Purkiss noted the sweat-slick on the man’s palm.
    Clement’s eyes were flicking over the others in turn.
    ‘Of course,’ said Medievsky.
    They walked in silence to his office. Purkiss was aware of Medievsky brooding beside him. Once inside, Medievsky remained standing.
    ‘My sincerest apologies,’ he said, before Purkiss had a chance to speak.
    Purkiss tilted his head. ‘It could have happened to anyone. It was just bad luck.’
    ‘I am responsible for mistakes made at this station.’
    ‘Oleg, I didn’t ask to speak to you so that I could apportion blame. Field