Free Beneath the Ice by Patrick Woodhead Page B

discarded crates.
    ‘She’s made this weird little nest for herself up near the top hatch on Module Four and only comes out to eat when the rest of us are asleep. She should have been rotated out on the last flight, but apparently orders from Japan were that she had to stay until we all leave next week. Idiots have no idea how bad it is. Mind you, I’d probably have gone the same way if it had been my partner who died down there.’
    ‘She and Akira were a couple?’
    ‘Yeah, a husband and wife team from Tokyo. And now his body is frozen stiff in the maintenance garage twenty feet below us.’
    ‘The garage? Why not just store the corpse outside? You’ve got enough snow.’
    ‘That’s just it. We’re getting a lot of storms at the moment, and that means massive snow accumulation. We’d either lose the bodies under a drift or spend days shovelling them out. Things are different now. The snow’s not cold and dry like it used to be. It’s too warm at the moment.’
    ‘And humidity makes snow heavy, right?’ Luca added, thinking ahead to their own journey. ‘With enough wind, that kind of snow will destroy our mountain tents. If a front hits us out there, we’ll be totally exposed.’
    ‘You don’t know the half of it. Winter’s here. And I mean
now
. I mentioned that storm before – well, by the time we had made it back to base, the wind was gusting past hurricane strength. It peaked at over a hundred and ninety-five kilometres an hour, taking down the radio mast and rolling two shipping containers. They weighed over four tons each and were anchored with steel cabling.’
    ‘Jesus Christ.’
    Joel’s eyes fixed on Luca. ‘That guy? You’re forgetting, we’re men of science. He doesn’t tend to like us much.’
    Joel led Luca across a metal gangplank to the next module. As the door swung back, Luca could immediately hear the sound of drunk people talking loudly. They entered a room filled with stagnant cigarette smoke and the smell of human sweat. A group of Russians were conversing around a makeshift table, but as Joel clanked shut the door, they all fell silent.
    Luca’s eyes ranged around the room. There were seven men in total, all similarly dressed with the tops of their padded overalls pulled down at the waist to reveal faded white T-shirts stained yellow under the armpits and stretched tight across their paunchy waists. Although they varied in height and size, each man had pale, muscular arms and callused hands engrained with dirt. Their cheeks were a deep, windblown brown set below eyes rimmed red by drink and the hanging smoke.
    Empty bottles of vodka had been placed beneath their chairs, while on the table several plastic tubs of gherkins and other snacks were being passed from one man to the next. They had stopped, some mid-chew, to stare at the newcomers in expectant silence.
    Joel took a step closer.
    ‘This is Luca Matthews,’ he offered, forcing a smile. ‘The new guide.’
    The news was greeted with indifference. Then the silence was broken by a booming voice from the doorway. ‘He is more than a guide. He is a great snow leopard!’
    Luca and Joel turned to see Dedov on the gangplank directly behind them, beaming widely. As soon as his voice echoed out there was a bustle of movement from the Russians as they scrambled over themselves to make room for their base commander. The detritus on the table was quickly cleared and a chair vacated, causing the other men to bunch up so close that their shoulders touched.
    ‘A
great
snow leopard!’ Dedov repeated, with such theatrical aplomb that Luca thought the base commander might be mocking him. But then he remembered the Russian penchant for histrionics and allowed himself to be shepherded to a seat next to Dedov. Shots of vodka and slices of cheese were summarily set before them both, while amongst the rest of the men smiles and conversation broke out once more. Dedov’s patronage of Luca seemed to be universally accepted and the matter