Alistair MacLean Arctic Chillers 4-Book Collection: Night Without End, Ice Station Zebra, Bear Island, Athabasca

None of us, not even Corazzini whose Global tractors were all diesel-powered, was an expert in engine maintenance, and this was when we came very close to despair. But despair was the one emotion we couldn’t afford, and we knew it. We kept the blow-torches burning, returned the battery to the stove, removed and cleaned the plugs, eased the frozen brushes in the generator, stripped and removed the petrol lines, thawed them and sucked out the frozen condensation by mouth, scraped away the ice from the carburettor intake and returned everything in place. We had to remove our gloves for most of this delicate work, the flesh stuck to metal and pulled off like the skin of an orange when we removed our hands, even the backs of our fingers became burnt and blistered from casual knocks on metal, blood oozed out from under our fingernails only to coagulate in the freezing air, and our lips, where they had touched the copper petrol feeds, were swollen and puffed and blistered. It was brutal, killing work, and in addition to the work our arms and legs and faces were almost constantly frozen, despite frequent visits to the stove to thaw ourselves out. It was murderous – but it was worth it. At six-fifteen, two and a quarter hours after we had begun, the big engine coughed and spluttered into life, missed, coughed again, caught and settled down into a steady even roar. I felt my split lips cracking into a painful grin under my mask, thumped Jackstraw and Corazzini for the moment quite forgetting that the latter might be one of the killers – on the back, turned and went in for breakfast.

Or what passed for breakfast. It was little enough, heaven knew – coffee, crackers and the contents of a couple of corned beef tins shared among the twelve of us, the lion’s share going to Theodore Mahler. That left us with only four more tins of beef, four cans of vegetables, about ten pounds of dried fruit, a little frozen fish, a small tin of biscuits, three packets of cereal and – it was the only thing apart from coffee of which we had an adequate supply – over twenty tins of Nestlé’s unsweetened milk. We had, of course, seal meat for the dogs – Jackstraw thawed some out for them over the stove while we had breakfast – and the fried meat of young seal is palatable to a degree. But the dogs had first claim on that. It was more important to preserve their strength than our own: should the engine of the Citroën break down completely, our last hope lay with the dogs.

Breakfast over and the dogs fed, we started off just before moonset, Corazzini driving, with the long trailing plume of our exhaust vapour, milk-white but thick as smoke in that bitter air, stretching out far behind us, bar-straight, almost as far as the eye could see in the waning light of the moon. I had arranged that the drivers should change over every fifteen minutes – as long a period as any person could stand in that unheated and largely unprotected cabin. I had heard of a case in the Antarctic where a driver had sat so long in an exposed tractor that his numbed and frozen fingers had locked so immovably that the steering-wheel had had to be unbolted and brought inside still clutched in the driver’s grasp before the hands could be thawed sufficiently to release the wheel: I didn’t want anything of that kind happening to us.

As soon as we were under way I had a look at Mahler, and his appearance certainly did nothing to inspire any great confidence in his chances. Even although he was fully dressed, lying in an eiderdown sleeping-bag that was zipped all the way to his chin, and covered in blankets, his pinched face was a mottled blue-white and he was shaking continuously with the cold, a handkerchief between his teeth to prevent their chattering. I reached for his wrist. The pulse was very fast, though it seemed strong enough: but I couldn’t be sure, so much skin had been sloughed or burnt off in the past two or three hours that I’d lost all sensitivity in my fingertips. I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘Well, how do you feel, Mr Mahler?’

‘No worse than anyone else, I’m sure, Dr Mason.’

‘That could still be bad enough. Hungry?’

‘Hungry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Thanks to the generosity of these good people here, I couldn’t eat another crumb.’

It was typical of what I had come to expect of this gentle Jew in the past few hours. Despite the relatively generous amount of food he’d had for his breakfast, he’d wolfed it all down like a famished man. He was hungry, all right: his body, lacking the insulin to break down the mounting sugar in his blood, was crying out for nourishment yet unable to find it no matter what his food intake was.

‘Thirsty?’

He nodded. Perhaps he thought he was on safe ground there, but it was another and invariable symptom of the developing acuteness of his trouble. I was pretty certain, too, that he had already begun to weaken, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he began to lose weight rapidly. Indeed, he already looked thinner, the cheekbones were more prominent, than even thirty-six hours ago. But then that was true of all the others also, especially Marie LeGarde: for all her uncomplaining courage, her determined cheerfulness, she now looked more than old: she looked sick, and very tired. But there was nothing I could do for her.

‘Your feet?’ I asked Mahler. ‘How are they?’

‘I don’t think they’re there any longer,’ he smiled.

‘Let me see them,’ I asked sharply. He protested, but I overruled him. One look at that dead-white ice-cold flesh was enough.

‘Miss Ross,’ I said. ‘From now on you are Mr Mahler’s personal Gunga Din. We have a couple of rubber bags in the sled. I want you to keep these alternately filled just as soon as you can get water heated – unfortunately, it takes a long time to melt that damned snow. They’re for Mr Mahler’s feet.’ Again Mahler protested, objecting to what he called ‘This babying’, but I ignored him. I didn’t want to tell him, not yet, that frostbite in the feet of an untreated diabetic could mean only one thing: gangrene and amputation, at the least. Slowly I looked round the occupants of the tractor cabin and I think that had I known for certain who the person responsible for all this was, I would have killed him without compunction.

Just then Corazzini came in. After only fifteen minutes at the wheel of the tractor he had just yielded to Jackstraw he was in a pretty bad way. The bluish-white bloodless face was mottled with yellow frostbite blisters, his lips were cracked, the fingernails were beginning to discolour and his hands were in a shocking mess. True, Jackstraw, Zagero and I were little better, but Corazzini was the only one who had driven in that intense cold: he was shaking like a man with malarial fever, and from the way he stumbled up the steps I could see that his legs were gone. I helped him to a vacant seat by the stove.

‘Feel anything below the knees?’ I asked quickly.

‘Not a damned thing.’ He tried to smile, but the effort was too painful, the blood started to well again from the open cuts on his lips. ‘It’s pretty vicious out there, Doc. Better rub the old feet with some snow, huh?’ He stooped and fumbled uselessly at laces with his numbed and bleeding fingers, but before he could move Margaret Ross was on her knees, easing off his boots with gentle fingers. Looking down at that slight figure lost beneath the bulky layers of clothing, I wondered for the hundredth time how I could ever have been crazy enough to believe about her all the things I had done.

‘In your own idiom, Mr Corazzini,’ I said, ‘snow is strictly for the birds. Just an old wives’ tale as far as these temperatures are concerned. You’d be better rubbing your skin off with emery-paper.’ At 70° below, snow had the hard crystalline structure of sandstone, and, when rubbed, granulated into a gritty white powdery sand. I nodded to one of the snow-buckets on the stove. ‘When the temperature there reaches 85°, stick your feet in it. Wait till the skin turns red. It won’t be pleasant, but it’ll work. If there are any blisters I’ll puncture and sterilise them tomorrow.’

He stared at me. ‘Is that sort of thing going to go on all the time, Doc?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

And it did go on for all the time – or for the next ten hours, at least, during which time the temperature dropped down to the low seventies, halted and began its slow, ever so slow, upward swing again. Ten hours while the snow-buckets were never off the stove, ten hours while Mrs Dansby-Gregg, her maid, Helene and, later on, Solly Levin held blow-torches against the sides of the buckets to hurry up the melting and heating process, ten hours while we drivers suffered the regularly recurring pounding agony of circulation returning to our frozen limbs, ten hours during which we began to build up an almost pathological dread of the moment when we must again plunge our feet into hot water, ten hours during which Mahler grew steadily weaker and Marie LeGarde, falling silent for the first time, slipped down and lay huddled in a corner, eyelids closed, like one already dead. Ten hours. Ten interminable indescribable hours of suffering borrowed from purgatory. But long before these ten hours were up something happened to change the picture completely.

At noon we halted the tractor. While the women were heating up soup and using a blowtorch to thaw out two cans of fruit, Jackstraw and I rigged up the radio transmitter, strung out an antenna and started triggering out our GFK call-sign. Normally, on these hand-cranked eight-watt jobs, a morse key was used for transmission while reception was by a pair of earphones, but thanks to a skilful improvisation by Joss who knew how hopelessly awkward morse was for everyone in the party except himself, the set had been rigged so that the key was used only for the call-up sign. After the link was made, a hand microphone could be used for transmission: and simply by throwing the receiving switch into the antenna lead, the microphone was transformed into a small but sufficiently effective loudspeaker.

Calling up Joss was only a gesture. I’d made a promise and was keeping it, that was all. But by this time, I estimated, we were 120 miles distant from him, near enough the limit of our small set: I didn’t know what effect the intense cold would have on radio transmission, but I suspected it wouldn’t be anything good: there had been no aurora that morning, but the ionosphere disturbance might still be lingering on: and, of course, Joss himself had declared that his RCA was entirely beyond repair.

Ten minutes passed, ten minutes during which Jackstraw industriously cranked the handle and I sent out the call-sign, GFK three times repeated, a flick of the receiver switch, ten seconds listening, then the switch pulled back and the call-sign made again. At the end of the ten minutes I sent out the last call, pushed over the receiving switch, listened briefly then stood up, resignedly gesturing to Jackstraw to stop cranking. It was then, almost in the very last instant, that the mike in my hand crackled into life.

‘GFX calling GFK. GFX calling GFK. We are receiving you faint but clear. Repeat, we are receiving you. Over.’

I fumbled and nearly dropped the mike in my excitement.

‘GFK calling GFX, GFK calling GFX.’ I almost shouted the words, saw Jackstraw pointing to the switch which was still in the receiving position, cursed my stupidity, threw it over, called out the signs again and then, quite forgetting the procedure and etiquette of radio communication, rushed on, the words tumbling over one another: ‘Dr Mason here. Dr Mason here. Receiving you loud and clear. Is that you, Joss?’ I threw the switch.

‘Yes, sir. Glad to hear from you.’ Static lent a flat impersonality to the crackling words, robbed them of meaning. ‘How are you? What weather, how far out?’

‘Going strong,’ I replied. ‘Cold intense – minus 70°. Approximately 120 miles out. Joss, this is a miracle! How on earth did you fix it?’

‘I didn’t,’ he said unemotionally. There was a pause and then his voice came again. ‘Captain Hillcrest is waiting to speak to you, sir.’

‘Captain Hillcrest! What on earth is Captain Hillcrest—’ I broke off abruptly, not through astonishment, great though that was, that Hillcrest, whom I had believed to be almost 250 miles to the north of our IGY cabin should have suddenly turned up there, but because the warning glance from Jackstraw had found an echoing answer in the back of my own mind. ‘Hold on,’ I said quickly. ‘Will call you back in two or three minutes.’

We had set up the transmitter just to the rear of the tractor cabin, and I knew that every word said on both sides could be heard by those inside. It was just then that the curtains parted and Corazzini and Zagero peered out, but I ignored them. I never cared less about the hurt I was offering to anybody’s feelings, just picked up the radio and generator while Jackstraw unstrung the antenna, and walked away from the tractor. Two hundred yards away I stopped. Those in the tractor could still see us – the brief light of noonday was flooding over the ice-cap – but they could no longer hear us.

We rigged the radio again, and I tried to tap out the call-sign but it was hopeless, we’d been out too long in that dreadful cold and my hand was beating an uncontrollable tattoo on the key. Fortunately, they knew or guessed at the other end what was happening, for Hillcrest’s voice, calm, confident, infinitely reassuring, came through as soon as I pressed the receiving switch.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ the mike crackled mechanically. ‘Ok, Dr Mason, from what Joss has said – and the recent delay – I guess you’re a good way from the tractor. At seventy below you won’t want to stay there too long. Suggest I do all the talking. I’ll keep it brief. Receiving me?’

‘Loud and clear. What on earth are you – sorry, carry on.’

‘Thanks. We heard Monday afternoon, on both British and American broadcasts, of the overdue airliner. Tuesday morning – yesterday, that is – we heard from the Uplavnik base. They say this hasn’t been announced officially, but the US and British governments are convinced that the plane has not been lost at sea, but that it has landed somewhere in Greenland or Baffin Island. Don’t ask me why they’re convinced – I’ve no idea. Anyway, they’ve mounted the biggest air-sea rescue search since the war. Merchant vessels of several nationalities have been diverted. American, British, French and Canadian fishing trawlers are moving in to the Greenland coast – the west coast mainly. The east’s already blocked with ice. A dozen US air force search bombers are already operating from Thule and Sondre Strömfjord. US coastguard cutters are on the job, a flotilla of Canadian destroyers have been rerouted from mid-Atlantic and are steaming at full speed for the southern entrance of the Davis Strait – although it will take them at least thirty-six more hours to get there – and a British aircraft-carrier, accompanied by a couple of destroyers, has already rounded Cape Farewell: we don’t know yet how far north she can get, the ice is solid on the Baffin side, but it’s open at least to Disko on the Greenland coast, maybe as far as Svartenhuk. All IGY stations in Greenland have been ordered to join in the search. That’s why we came back non-stop to the cabin – to pick up more petrol.’

I could contain myself no longer, threw over the receiving switch.

‘What on earth’s all the mad flap about? You’d think the President of the United States and half the Royal Family were aboard that plane. Why no more information from Uplavnik?’

I waited, and then Hillcrest’s voice crackled again.

‘Radio transmission impossible during preceding twenty-four hours. Will raise them now, tell them we’ve found the missing plane and that you’re on your way to the coast. Any fresh developments with you?’

‘None. Correction. One of the passengers – Mahler – turns out to be an advanced diabetic. He’s in a bad way. Radio Uplavnik to get insulin. Godthaab will have it.’

‘Wilco,’ the microphone crackled back. A long pause, during which I could faintly hear the murmur of conversation, then Hillcrest came on again. ‘Suggest you return to meet us. We have plenty of petrol, plenty of food. With eight of us on guard instead of two, nothing could happen. We’re already forty miles out’ – I glanced at Jackstraw, caught the sudden wrinkling of the eyes which I knew to be the tell-tale sign of a quick grin of astonished delight which so accurately reflected my own feelings – ‘so not more than eighty miles behind you. We could meet up in five or six hours.’

I felt elation wash through me like a releasing wave. This was wonderful, this was more than anything I had ever dared hope for. All our troubles were at an end … And then the momentary emotion of relief and triumph ebbed, the cold dismaying processes of reason moved in inexorably to take their place, and it didn’t require the slow, definite shake of Jackstraw’s head to tell me that the end of our troubles was as far away as ever.

‘No go,’ I radioed back. ‘Quite fatal. The minute we turned back the killers would be bound to show their hand. And even if we don’t turn they know now that we’ve been in contact with you and will be more desperate than ever. We must go on. Please follow at your best speed.’ I paused for a moment, then continued. ‘Emphasise to Uplavnik essential for our lives to know why crashed plane so important. Tell them to find out the passenger list, how genuine it is. This is absolutely imperative, Captain Hillcrest. Refuse to accept “No” for an answer. We must know.’

We talked for another minute, but we’d really said all there was to be said. Besides, even during the brief periods that I’d pushed down my snow-mask to speak the cold had struck so cruelly at my cut and bleeding lips that I could now raise scarcely more than a mumble, so after arranging an 8 p.m. rendezvous and making a time-check I signed off.

Back in the tractor cabin curiosity had reached fever pitch, but at least three minutes elapsed – three excruciatingly uncomfortable minutes while Jackstraw and I waited for the blood to come surging back through our frozen veins – before anyone ventured to speak. The inevitable question came from the Senator – a now very much chastened Senator who had lost much of his choler and all of his colour, with the heavy jowls, hanging more loosely than ever, showing unhealthily pale through the grey grizzle of beard. The very fact that he spoke showed, I suppose, that he didn’t regard himself as being heavily under suspicion. He was right enough in that.

‘Made contact with your friends, Dr Mason, eh? The field party, I mean.’ His voice was hesitant, unsure.

‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘Joss – Mr London – got the set working after almost thirty hours’ non-stop work. He raised Captain Hillcrest – he’s in charge of the field party – and managed to establish a relay contact between us.’ I’d never heard of the phrase ‘relay contact’ in my life, but it sounded scientific enough. ‘He’s packing up immediately, and coming after us.’

‘Is that good?’ the Senator asked hopefully. ‘I mean, how long—?’