WHITEOUT is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF. Copyright 2008. This refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.
Warning: There is some mild use of colloquial swearing in this story, but mainly for authenticity and it touches on adult themes.
For Jan Michael Vincent, who lifted Stringfellow Hawke from the page and breathed life into him, revealing his loyalty, patriotism, strength and single mindedness and most of all, his love for his family and his devotion to his country, playing him with a warmth, sensitivity, charm and charisma that has kept the character alive in the hearts and minds of fans the world over for more than twenty years, and is still winning new hearts even today.
Thank you for giving us a hero we could all believe in.
Best wishes from all of us to you, where ever you are.
Note from the author:
The action in this story takes place at the beginning of Season 1, around the time of the episodes One Way Express which aired on February 18th, 1984, and Echoes of the Past which aired on March 3rd, 1984.
Prologue.
Центр управления полетом следопыта, где-то в СССР….
День одно - Воскресенье 11-ое февраль 1984.
Предыдущий вечер.
Pathfinder Mission Control Center, somewhere in the USSR ….
Day One – Saturday, February 11th, 1984.
Early evening.
General Anatoly Vladimirovich Popov let out a deep sigh of frustration as he listened to the monotonous voice on the other end of the telephone line droning into his ear.
He wasn't really listening; instead his attention was drawn to the floor of the control room below his large office window and the white coat clad, sombre faced scientists manning their stations with quiet efficiency.
The man on the other end of the line was some political big wig in Moscow, a yawning bore, waxing lyrical about the urgency to get the information they required, and demanding to know what was taking so long, after all, it was a simple enough request.
Popov knew that the ridiculous little man sitting there in his plush, cozy little office in Moscow had no idea what his request really entailed, the meticulous detail, the time consuming and complex calculations that were required before they could even consider taking action.
It wasn't just a simple case of pressing a button, after all, but the man on the other end of the line seemed to think that he could snap his fingers, and the job would instantly be done.
Popov glanced at the large clock on the back wall of the control room below his window and calculated that the initial call from Moscow had been received approximately three hours and thirty minutes before.
He had immediately issued the order to the scientist in charge of the Pathfinder Project, Dr Stanislav Sergeyevich Titov, to alter the Pathfinder satellite's orbit so that it could focus on the co-ordinates of an alleged new American nuclear missile launching facility, however, he knew that the calculations required to work out the new orbit, then resetting the sensitive photographic equipment and then recalibrating the computer down here at mission control to receive the new images and process them could take anything between four and six hours.
After three years of overseeing the Pathfinder Project, General Popov knew every detail of every step that was required to safely manoeuvre the satellite into a new orbit and just how diligently the scientists and engineers involved in that process worked to ensure that everything went according to plan.
It was not something that could be rushed, no matter how imperative or urgent the man from Moscow insisted.
All the steps had to be followed, in the right order, or it could spell disaster.
"Comrade, I will contact you as soon as the first data stream is received," Popov tried to placate the man from Moscow now, feeling his stomach rumble in protest that he was almost an hour over due to take dinner and thinking sarcastically to himself that if it really was a new missile launching facility, and not just some new wild goose chase, it would still be there tomorrow, and, if it was ready to go operational, someone, somewhere had not done a very good job in detecting it before now.
At last, the General set the telephone receiver back down in its cradle, and sat back from his desk with another deep sigh.
Politicians!
He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face, tired eyes stinging from lack of sleep and pouring over the reams of data figures that Dr Titov had brought to him that morning, statistics and running costs and of course, the ever increasing salary column, and wondered what he would have for dinner tonight. The Borscht was good, but boring when he was forced to have it at least three times a week!
When he opened his eyes once more, slightly blurred for a second before focusing properly, the first thing he noticed was a sudden and unusual flurry of activity on the control room floor, and a somewhat flustered looking Stanislav Titov crossing the floor on long strides, waving a sheaf of paper at the newest of the recruits to the project, and the reason for the expanding salary bill.
Popov watched Titov lean over the young man's console, ancient black horn rimmed spectacles falling low on the bridge of his nose, as he punched a few buttons, clearing the screen and resetting the columns of figures scrolling across it, and then leaned in even closer, as though he could not believe what he was seeing.
Oh hell ….
What now?
Another console failure? The General thought sourly.
How were they supposed to function properly, work efficiently, when the equipment they were forced to use was from the Gagarin era!
However, Popov immediately knew that something was wrong when he watched all the color suddenly drain from Titov's usually flaccid cheeks.
He watched with growing unease as Titov and the young controller rushed across the control room floor to another work station and asked the controller there to call up a new screen of data, then Titov moved to another position to confer with another scientist, and then, Popov watched with mounting trepidation as the elderly scientist sank down into the nearest chair, a look of horror and disbelief on his face as his legs refused to bear his weight any longer.
Popov immediately pushed his chair back from his desk and rose to his full, imposing height of six feet four inches and feeling his heart rate increase, strode to the office door, yanking it open swiftly and stepping out on to the concrete balcony that over looked the control room.
"What is going on, Comrade Doctor?"
The General deliberately kept his tone low and neutral, noting that the elderly scientist looked incredibly sick, his skin grey and clammy looking, big brown eyes bulging in his ashen face, hands visibly shaking as they clutched the reams of paper he had taken from the computer printer, to his chest.
Titov was too shaken to answer the General, and the younger man beside him shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other, as he looked from one to the other of his superiors and wondered if he should speak up.
The young man had been eager to make an impression, this being his first month on the project, but not that kind of impression.
Fortunately, the General made the decision for him and fixed him with a cold, grey stare.
"You, Borodin, tell me what is happening," Popov demanded.
"One of the retro thrusters misfired, Comrade General Popov, Sir …." The younger man gulped and stammered in a high pitched, squeaky voice, obviously very excited and terrified all at the same time.
"And this means what, exactly?" Popov asked, keeping his tone neutral, although he thought that he already knew the answer.
"We are just double checking the data, General …. But …."
"The satellite is out of control, tumbling over and over, General …." This from Stanislav Titov now, his voice hoarse and deep, expression vague as he began to clutch at his chest with his right hand.
"Can you calculate a course correction?"
"Course correction! General, the wretched thing is falling to earth and there is not a damned thing that we can do about it!" Titov exploded now. "We no longer have control, do you understand, Comrade General? We have all suddenly become …. Redundant! There is no more Pathfinder Project …."
Titov was gasping for breath now, and his young colleague was trying desperately to get him to calm down, fearing that he was going to have a full blown heart attack right there in front of him.
"Is that correct, Comrade Doctor Borodin?"
Pavel Ivanovich Borodin gulped again, giving the impression that he was choking on his own Adam's apple, as the General fixed his cold steel grey eyes on him once more.
"I am afraid so, Comrade General. The best that we can hope for is that if it survives re-entry into the atmosphere, it falls into a very deep ocean, or, if it hits land, it is somewhere where we can easily retrieve what may be left, before the Americans or any other interested party can get their hands on the sensitive equipment inside …."
"We should destroy it!" Dr Titov gasped out, still clutching at his chest, cheeks flooded with color now and eyes bulging manically behind the thick lenses of the old fashioned eye glasses. "Before it makes re-entry!"
"That is not a decision that either you or I can make, Comrade Doctor," The General gave a deep, shoulder raising sigh. "Only Moscow can give that order. How long? How long do we have before the satellite re-enters the earth's atmosphere?"
Titov remained silent, still gasping for every painful breath and clutching at his chest, so once again the young man was forced to answer.
"We are still calculating …."
"Bring that information to me when you have it, Comrade Dr Borodin. Comrade Dr Titov, I think you should step outside and get a little air, before you expire on us. Pull yourself together man, for we still have need of you."
Dr Pavel Ivanovich Borodin watched as the Comrade General span on his heel and retired to his office, thinking that the man had actually taken the news quite well, all things considered, unlike Comrade Dr Titov, who still looked as if he were about to keel over at any moment, as another of their colleagues, Dr Vasili Viktorovich Leonov helped him out of his seat and supported his weight, as they crossed the room to the fire door that led to the outside world.
Borodin watched General Popov enter his office, move to the large window and pull the blind down, and he speculated that the man was about to have his own nervous breakdown, but much more privately than Titov.
Someone was for the high jump, Borodin speculated silently as the rest of the control room began to buzz with soft voices and movement as the scientists crossed the room to confer with their colleagues, double checking the data that all knew meant the end of their careers here.
Borodin did not envy the General his next task. Putting in the call to Moscow to inform them of this latest development, and he found himself praying that the General would not see fit to shoot the messenger when he went in there later with the data that he had requested.
/a\
Где-то в Москва….
День 2 - Понедельник 12-ое февраля 1984,
раннее утро.
Somewhere in Moscow ….
Day Two – Sunday, February 12th, 1984,
Early morning.
"This is intolerable! I cannot believe their incompetence!" Viktor Grigorovich Demidov raged as he ground out his burned down cigarette into an already full crystal ash tray on the desk before him.
"The situation could not be worse! Not only is the wretched thing falling out of the sky seven years ahead of schedule, now they are telling me that it is going to land on American soil!" He seethed, slamming his balled fist into the top of the desk, sending papers and cigarette ash flying into the already smoke polluted air. "Listen to me Comrade, and hear me well. It must not fall into the enemy's hands!"
"What difference does it make, Comrade?" Colonel Vladimir Iosifovich Nikitin flinched, as he asked his superior the question.
"All they will find is a spy satellite containing sophisticated photographic and transmitting equipment, and a memory chip recording details of the sites that we have been watching, none of which will be of any surprise to the Americans as they too have similar technology and aims …. But there is no guarantee that the satellite will even survive re-entry. If that is the case, then all they will find is a burned out ruin …."
"Idiot!" Demidov exploded, his face growing dark and flushed. "I am not concerned over the technology the Americans might lay their hands on. I am aware that the Americans know that we are watching them, as they are watching us. They know the places that are of interest to us, and that is all anything that they might be able to retrieve and use from the satellite will confirm …."
Demidov forced himself to draw in a calming breath now, realising that he was on the verge of losing control, however, he was incensed that this disaster should have found its way to his door. He and his department were used to cleaning up after other people, but this was something different.
"Vlad, I apologize," Demidov lowered his voice now and made a concerted effort to try to contain his anger.
The young Army Colonel seated on the other side of the desk was an old family friend, someone he had been fond of as a boy and had found useful as he got older and progressed through the military ranks. He was honest, reliable and trustworthy, as well as being a good friend.
When the younger man had branched out into intelligence and espionage, Demidov had been delighted to welcome him into his department.
"But you have no idea what we are facing here. And, I repeat, it is imperative that all material from the satellite be retrieved, no matter what its condition …."
"Material, Comrade?" Nikitin frowned, picking up on something in his boss' voice now, feeling an ominous shiver run down the length of his spine.
He was used to the kind of dirty missions that their department were handed down from on high. That was their purpose, to clean up when others messed up, to tidy up loose ends and destroy any evidence that might point to Soviet intervention in international disasters.
"What material?"
"I have no idea, Vlad. That is as much detail as I was given," but the look on the older man's face revealed that he had his suspicions and that they did not bode well.
"I do not understand, Sir. I thought we were talking about the Pathfinder Satellite?"
"Indeed we are, but, as far as I recall word at the time was that the wretched thing was put up there for more than just surveillance. It was planned as a pioneer, the first of many in a new offensive," Demidov explained, reaching out for another cigarette which he lit and then drew on deeply before continuing.
"It should not have been permitted. There were many who were against it from the start because as usual, it was not very well thought out …. But …."
He took another drag on his cigarette.
"Other voices were louder and more persistent," he let out a deep, ragged sigh, expelling blue grey smoke with it, and now it was Nikitin's turn to feel uneasy.
Demidov paused to take another deep draw on his cigarette.
"Dammit, we must get the wretched satellite back here, Vlad, without delay."
"Sir …."
"The Americans must never be allowed to get their hands on it, Vlad. Do I make myself clear?"
"But …. But …." The young Army Colonel stammered, confusion etched into his handsome features and pale blue eyes.
Demidov let out a deep sigh, expelling a fresh cloud of blue grey cigarette smoke into the atmosphere between them.
"I know little about the other reason for putting that thing up there, Vlad, but, how shall I put it …. I have been made aware that there is more at stake here than even I am permitted to know, more than just revealing our interests to the Americans. I do not know what, my friend, or I would tell you. I can only guess at what else might be involved …."
And now the younger man was surprised to see something akin to fear in his old friend's eyes, and he experienced a moment of blind panic and anxiety as the wildest and craziest thoughts flashed through his mind.
"They meant to turn it into some kind of …. Weapon?" Nikitin swallowed hard, trying to get a hold of him self.
Demidov gave a brief, non committal half shrug.
"I heard the rumours way back when the satellite was launched …. I don't know anything for certain, my friend, but, I have a feeling that for the sake of my mental health, and yours, we are better off not knowing the full story here. However, we have been given the responsibility of cleaning up this mess, and we cannot fail, my friend."
Demidov sighed deeply once more and ground out his burned down cigarette in the ash tray with the others.
"All is not lost, just yet. I am told that the satellite was sturdily constructed and the contents well protected from the cold and rigors of space. Our best guess is that it will crash to earth somewhere far from populated areas, one blessing at least …."
"Where?"
"Somewhere in the Arctic Circle, American territory, naturally …."
Demidov, his tone derisive, gave a frustrated sigh.
"Somewhere on the polar ice cap, just north of Alaska. I am assured that the capsule is well insulated and was constructed to survive a heavy landfall landing. And that is where you come in, Vlad. It is because it may have survived in tact that we need to get it back quickly, and I need you to get someone up there to retrieve it, or if it has been destroyed, to dispose of the debris, the photographic, radar and computer equipment, before the Americans get wind of the failure."
"But surely they will be able to track Pathfinder's re-entry, just as easily as we can?"
"Pathfinder was very small and compact. It is our hope that the Americans will identify it as a meteorite or space debris, nothing of interest to them."
"Where exactly will this thing fall to earth?"
"Here …."
Viktor Grigorovich Demidov pushed aside his over flowing ash tray to reveal a map already opened up on the desk before him, and he reached out with a darkly nicotine stained index finger, placing it down heavily on a spot on the map, right at the very top of the world.
Vladimir Iosifovich Nikitin leaned in closer, peering down at the splash of white on the map and let out a deep sigh of relief as he noted the longitude and latitude co-ordinates.
"I see you recognise it."
There was now a ghost of a smile twitching on Demidov's lips as the younger man raised his eyes from the map to look at him once more.
"Indeed I do. I should do, Comrade. Those co-ordinates are etched into my brain. Whiteout is not far from there …."
Whiteout Station, an internationally funded and multi-nationally manned civilian research station, was located just outside the Alaskan boundary of the ice cap, and because of the international interest in what natural resources might one day be located in the North Pole, Nikitin knew that they already had an agent working undercover as one of the scientists there, as did Demidov.
Nikitin was not personally involved in the day to day supervision of the man in situ, but he had overall supervision of the department that was. He had weekly reports of the man's findings delivered to him personally and was responsible for counter signing the man's orders from week to week.
There had, thus far, been little of interest to Nikitin, or to the Kremlin for that matter, but it was still a relatively new project and something might yet come of it.
Nikitin knew that it would not be difficult to get a message through to their agent on the station, during one of his routine calls 'home'.
"Yes, it seems that fortune is on our side, Comrade Demidov. "
"Indeed, Vlad. I can, of course, rely on you?"
"Of course, Comrade! I believe our man is due to make routine radio contact in the next few hours …."
"Good, good, then we are indeed fortunate. I will leave the details to you, my friend, but, there is one thing I must caution you on," Demidov reached out to take another cigarette from the pack on his desk and lighting it impatiently, drew deeply on it.
"Tell your man what he is looking for, by all means, and caution him against being discovered, to take all reasonable care and to get out of there as quickly as he can, but don't over play it. No need to unnerve the man unnecessarily. Frightened men make mistakes; draw unwanted and unnecessary attention to themselves. Am I making myself clear?"
"Yes, Comrade."
"Do not fail me, Vlad. The Motherland is depending on us. The Americans must not be allowed to get their hands on that satellite, because if they do, I fear that it could mean more than the increased prospect of nuclear war …. It could spell the end, for all of us!"
/a\
Whiteout Station - The Arctic Circle.
Somewhere on the Polar Ice Cap, Northern Alaska.
Day Three – Monday, February, 13th, 1984.
Mid afternoon.
"Storm's cleared," Dr Gregory Chandler was grinning broadly as he made his way down the narrow corridor that ran the length of the station, the main thoroughfare dividing the accommodation and recreational blocks that made up one of the two main buildings of Whiteout Station and which the residents had labelled Broadway.
Walking toward him from the other direction was Dr Sven Sorenson, a tall, broad shouldered Swede who had twinkling blue eyes and very blond hair, and he greeted the British geologist, Chandler, with a friendly wave as he continued to close the gap between them, his destination the radio room at the far end of the corridor.
"Forgive me for not getting excited, my friend, but we both know that it is only a temporary situation."
"Cynic. If it brightens up enough later, I'm thinking of organising a game of footy, out on the ice. You up for it, old man?" Chandler asked as the big Swede drew level with him, and he had to turn sideways on to allow the bigger man to pass, sucking in his chest and stomach to make more room.
"I'm not sure my knees are up to it," Sorenson smiled at the Brit.
Chandler was a decent enough fellow.
Pale of complexion, tall and lank, with a mop of fine brown hair, that was always falling forward over his brow and into puppy dog brown eyes.
Always cheerful and jovial, trying to find something to be positive about, or crack a joke about, Chandler was probably one of the most well liked and respected members of the scientific community that made up the different projects at Whiteout Station.
He had a dry sense of humour and could be relied upon to diffuse any awkward or anxious moment with a well timed off the cuff remark, guaranteed to raise a smile and release any tension.
"I assume you mean soccer, not that pale imitation of rugby our American friends call Football!"
Both men chuckled at this.
Whiteout Station was presently populated by representatives from many nations, Brits, Swedes, French, Australians, Germans, Norwegians and Danes, but they were all out numbered by the American contingent, who never let anyone forget that this was their home soil.
"Naturally. I'll put you down as goalie, shall I old chum?" Chandler grinned as Sorenson squeezed past him all the way at last and he was able to relax his chest and belly muscles. "I take it you're heading to the telecommunications shack?"
"Yes, actually I'm running a little behind schedule …"
"Won't keep you then," Chandler acknowledged.
Radio time was at a premium, with twenty odd people clamouring to use it, and they all had a strict schedule to adhere to. If you missed your slot, be it reporting in to whatever body was providing your funding, or a call home to family, you had to wait until it was your turn once more, unless it was a dire emergency.
Chandler was aware that the big Swede's wife was in the last stages of her pregnancy with their first child, and knew that Sorenson was naturally concerned to know how she was getting on.
It was bad enough that he was so far away from her at this time, but Chandler guessed that it must have been even more difficult for the big Swede, not to actually be able to speak to his wife directly, reassuring her that he was ok and that he was indeed thinking of her.
There was no direct communication with the outside world, except through the radio and messages relayed via Nome, and they were sporadic at best, because of the restrictions on time and power usage, so when the weather threw a fit, as it was inclined to do, it threw the communications schedule into chaos.
"Would you mind getting a long range weather forecast and updates from base while you're at it?" The Brit asked now, knowing that it would kill two birds with one stone. "Skies are clearing for now, but we all know how quickly that can change …."
Chandler had his own reasons for wanting to know how big a clear weather window they could expect, and this now drew a knowing smile from Sorenson.
"Sure. I'll bring it to the dining hall. I hope you have a cast iron stomach, Greg, because it's Jean-Claude's turn to make dinner …." The burly Swede reminded with a grimace now. "I just saw him rattling those pots and pans in the kitchen …."
"Oh God, why don't we just evacuate the place now had have done with it! Tell them it's a medical emergency, which it damned well will be if we have to eat any more of the Frog's cuisine …. I thought I smelled smoke!" Chandler smirked now.
This was another rota that they all strictly adhered to, the preparing of the meals, everyone having to take their turn in the kitchen, and all having varying degrees of talent in that department, and of course, varying tastes and likes and dislikes.
"What is it tonight?"
"Whatever it is, Greg, it will be Cordon Bleu …." Sorenson raised the index and middle fingers of his right hand to his lips and gave an exaggerated kiss to thin air.
"Cordon Bleu, more like ruddy prep school dinners! Damn, I do believe we're all out of Pepto-Bismol too!"
"Perhaps you should tell the CMO when she returns, to bring a barrel of the stuff!"
Both men shared another gentle smile, and then Chandler stepped away from Sorenson, allowing him to continue on his way down the corridor, whistling softly to himself as he too made his way back up Broadway, heading back to the lab where he was analysing a new set of readings from the few samples they had managed to get the previous day, in between the deteriorating weather and the mishap with the drill bit, and analysing the seismographic readings he and the blasting crew had collected that morning.
That and backing the data up to his computer hard drive.
It was the only constructive thing that he could do with himself while the weather had been so foul, and until the new drill bit arrived to replace the one that they had broken out on the ice the yesterday.
The second one they had broken in as many months, he reminded himself with a wry smile.
One replacement was already on order and with a little good fortune and a clear spell of weather, would be aboard the supply plane, along with all the other supplies and equipment they had requested, and the sumptuous Chief Medical Officer.
After waiting for Chandler to disappear at the other end of the corridor, then double checking that no-one else was around, Sven Sorenson entered the radio room and bolted the door behind him.
He sat down heavily on the swivel black leather and chrome chair before the huge, powerful radio and immediately reached out to begin fiddling with the numerous dials on the console before him, altering the transmitting frequency and channel to the secure frequency he needed to use to make contact with the outside world.
It took a few minutes, the equipment issuing forth bursts of intermittent static and whines and whistles, electronic white noise, the remnants of the last storm still affecting the equipment, the wind still buffeting the transmitting and receiving masts out there on the ice, however, he turned the dials and knobs some more, until he got a clear signal and immediately picked up the beeps and whistles that were the password he needed, being transmitted in Morse code.
Sorenson immediately reached out for the heavy earphones, not wanting anyone to be able to eaves drop on the conversation, knowing that if anyone overheard his side of the proceedings it would seem pretty routine and mundane, reporting his findings to his university backers and enquiring as to his wife's health, all carefully coded to disguise the fact that he was actually reporting to and receiving instructions from his contact from the Motherland.
After the burst of Morse, he did not have long to wait to hear the familiar male voice on the other end of the now secure line, the transmission being scrambled and jammed by the Russian submarine currently secreting its self somewhere under the ice on the Russian side of the Arctic Ocean, and as he listened, with mounting excitement and trepidation, his heart rate increasing and his palms beginning to sweat, Sorenson realised immediately the importance of the task he was being charged with, and it's significance, both to the Motherland, and to himself.
If he pulled this off successfully, it could mean quite a significant promotion, away from this wretched freezing white hell, and perhaps a chance to spend a little time with his parents in Leningrad, before going on to a new posting.
The conversation concluded, after taking a moment to assess what was required of him, trying to formulate a plan of action, Sorenson drew in several deep breaths and then set about resetting the dials on the radio, tuning the frequency back to the one used by their headquarters back in Nome, Alaska, then he put in a call, giving a general status report and requesting a long range weather forecast from Katie Morgan, who quickly relayed the information back to him, along with two pieces of news that he knew would please everyone.
There was an expected thirty six to forty eight hour window of good weather forecast, which meant that the supply plane could get in to deliver much needed supplies and equipment, and that, all being well, and if she could time it just right, Dr Leigh Roland would be onboard, back after her recent compassionate leave following the death of her father.
Sorenson knew how pleased that would make Gregory Chandler.
Sorenson was also aware that it would not give him much time to accomplish his mission and be ready to go back on the plane when it returned to Nome.
If Moscow's information was correct, and the satellite was expected to make it's re-entry before nightfall this evening, he would just about have enough time, but it could be a close thing.
"Bad news, old bean," Gregory Chandler greeted Sorenson as he walked into the Recreation room/dining hall, about twenty minutes later. Chandler was at the counter, pouring out strong coffee into a fat blue mug and waved the coffee pot at the burly Swede, who declined by shaking his head gently.
"Jean-Claude burned down the kitchen?"
"No, Cobber, that would be good news!"
This remark came from Shane Preston, an Australian microbiologist who chimed in, grinning from ear to ear. He was seated at one of the laminated tables, a mug of coffee before him and papers strewn out around him, graphs and water temperature readings and the like.
"I'd rather eat bush tucker than another one of the Frog's burnt offerings!"
"Footy's off," Chandler set down the coffee pot now and reached out for a can of evaporated milk, adding a splash to his coffee to both color it and sweeten it at the same time.
"Out voted by the yanks again, I'm afraid. They are, as we speak, breaking out the ice hockey equipment and taking bets on who will be brave enough to stand in goal for our side! Oh well, it should be a laugh, if nothing else …."
And they could all do with one about now.
"So, what gives in the outside world?" Preston asked, eager to know what was happening beyond this uniform white, ice waste land.
"Oh, you know, same old same old …." Sorenson shrugged.
"How are things back home?"
"They just told me that Anna had called them, frantic that the doctors think that she should have a caesarean section, just to be on the safe side," Sorenson grew solemn now. "They are concerned about her blood pressure. She is very scared, and she wants me to come home. So, I had better get in there to see Dr De Wit and request some leave of absence. They want to know how soon I can get there so they can schedule the procedure," he gave a deep sigh.
"Then don't let us keep you, pal,"
"There was some good news from out there …."
"Yeah?"
"Sweden beat England 3 – 1 in a friendly in Stockholm," Sorenson grinned broadly now and watched the smile slide from Gregory Chandler's handsome face.
"Bloody hell, I don't call that being friendly, chum. Just you wait until the next World Cup!" Chandler sneered. "Is that the weather forecast?" He suddenly noticed the scrap of paper in the Swede's big paw.
"Sure," Sorenson held it out to the Brit now.
"This looks more like surfin' weather than ice hockey weather! Time to dust off the old bikini!" Chandler threw back his head and roared with laughter as he realised the implications of the forecasted fine weather.
Maybe she would be coming home, at last ….
"Here you go, chum, better get in there and make nice to Dr De Wit. He'll be pleased about that forecast, means he can plan the itinerary for this little pleasure cruise up to the end of the week. Tell him he can put me down for the shuffle board on Friday!"
"I think you will have other things on your mind, come Friday. Supply plane will be able to get here, and we both know what that means!"
"Soft toilet tissue and real eggs instead of that damned powdered stuff …." Preston got into the mood now and tried to smother a guffaw at the precious look on Greg Chandler's face.
"You should be all set to hitch a lift home, just in time to see little Sven make his grand entrance …."
"And Dr Roland should be on that plane too. They say that she has been chomping at the bit to get back here. If she can get to Nome before Wednesday, my guess is she will try to bully the pilot into taking off in a blizzard!"
"Poor bloke, wouldn't want to be in his shoes!"
"That's Leigh, always in a hurry …."
"I wonder why that is?"
"Could it be that she is missing a certain charming and handsome British geologist by any chance?"
"It's a bit soon, don't you think?" Preston speculated now, although he hated to burst Chandler's bubble. He had been noticeably grumpy and not quite his usual self since the Chief Medical Officer had taken her compassionate leave almost a month ago.
Preston would also be glad to see Leigh Roland as she was his assistant, and she kept him on his toes. He had begun to fall behind on some of the paperwork since she had been gone, and he would be glad to have her calm efficiency whipping him back in to shape, as well as her gentle sense of humour and her wicked smile to brighten up his day.
"Her father only died two weeks ago, right?" Preston asked now.
"Right," Chandler confirmed. "But, if I know Leigh, which I do of course, she probably just wants to get back here and throw herself into her work. It hasn't been easy for her. She and her father were estranged for a very long time, and then, to discover that he was dying …. It will be good for her to get back here, amongst friends," he gave a soft, wistful sigh.
"I knew that she was keen to get back, but the last I heard, she was fuming because she was being delayed in Los Angeles, problems getting some of the equipment that Dr De Wit requested. She was still hoping to get to Nome today or tomorrow though. Guess she didn't make it yet."
"If she planned to get there in time to make the supply plane, I wouldn't take any bets on that particular blonde not getting her way!" Preston chuckled.
"That's my girl!"
Gregory Chandler watched now as the burly Swede silently took his leave and exited the dining hall, heading down the hallway to Dr Wilhelm De Wit's office, a small frown marring his handsome brow.
Something didn't feel quite right about the Swede's sudden need to get home, despite what he had said about his wife's health concerns.
Sorenson was a pretty even tempered sort of chap and not inclined to show extremes of emotion, but one might have thought that he would be a little more concerned, or even excited at the prospect of impending fatherhood, Chandler mused silently, as he took a sip of his coffee.
Still, what did he know about having babies, he reminded himself.
He only knew how he would feel if he were in the other man's shoes.
He hadn't realised just how close Anna Sorenson was to her due date, and if Leigh had been here, she would have set him straight with the medical facts.
Naturally, his thoughts now turned to Leigh Roland, the Chief Medical Officer, the pretty natural blonde Australian, in her early thirties, who had made such a devastating impression on him just over two years before, and a gentle smile began to curve at his lips.
He really was a lucky sonofagun.
Truly blessed.
Having gotten to know her, he knew just what it meant to her to trust him, to reach out to him ….
To offer him her heart in return for his.
There was something about Leigh that had immediately melted his cool British reserve along with his heart, although, he recalled now, it hadn't been the most auspicious of meetings, her natural inclination being to distrust and shut out everyone and everything, which had made it hard to get to know her, and her indifference, and complete lack of encouragement in the romance department had made it even more difficult for the shy, inexperienced Brit to know if he was actually making any progress in winning her heart.
However, he had been determined that win her heart he would, no matter how cold and prickly she was, and he had persevered, soon coming to realise, the more he spent time with her, that she had suffered some terrible tragedy, some devastating trauma in her past that had affected her deeply.
She preferred to keep the world at arm's length, not allowing anyone or anything to get close, and not making any effort to reach out to anyone either.
The Ice Maiden had been her well deserved nickname back then, despite the fact that it was in complete contrast to the way that she looked.
Cool, aloof, detached, introverted and withdrawn.
Seemingly unreachable.
However, Gregory Chandler had persisted, using his boyish charm and humour to win her over, that and appealing to her innate caring and compassionate doctor's nature, playing on his need to have someone take him in hand and take care of him.
Thank God it had worked!
Finally, she had capitulated, but there had been numerous times when he had doubted that he would ever be able to get through her tough exterior and reach the warm, vibrant and incredibly loving woman within.
Leigh was an attractive woman, tall and slender with hair the colour of spun gold and amber eyes, shrewd and intelligent and wise, like an owl, or a jungle cat, and it was such a pity that she had felt the need to hide her true self away all those years.
It was her eyes that had given her away in the end, for in unguarded moments, they had revealed to him her warmth and humour, her sharp intelligence, and her sadness and vulnerability.
She had quickly endeared herself to him in so many ways she could never have understood, despite herself, and Gregory Chandler had known that he would never give up trying to convince her that what he felt for her was real, and deep rooted and enduring, all the time praying that one day he would see love, for him, in her unusual eyes.
It had taken time, but eventually he had convinced her.
Even when she was silent, thoughtful, pre-occupied and introvert, Leigh Roland was still better company than some of the scientists he was currently sharing Whiteout Station with.
His own personal ray of sunshine.
He missed her.
He was worried about her.
Her father's recent death had hit her hard, much harder than she might have expected, especially as they had not spoken for over twelve years, before the old man had finally reached out to his daughter, knowing that his health was deteriorating and that he did not have much time to build bridges and become reconciled with his only child.
He hated the idea of her having to deal with Bruce Roland's death, tying up the loose ends of his life, and her grief all alone.
If she was dealing with it at all, that was.
Leigh had a natural tendency to close down, shut herself off completely emotionally. It made people think that she was cold, hard, unfeeling and uncaring, when in fact the reverse was true. She was over sensitive and felt things very deeply, and the Ice Maiden façade was a long established way of protecting herself from more hurt and heartache.
He was aware now of her past, aware of the tragedy that had touched her and made her retreat from life at such a young age, existing, functioning on some level, but not really engaging in life, not really living, and certainly never allowing herself to be loved, for with that came the responsibility of loving in return.
He understood what drove her now, what made her tick, but even now there were still times when she would not even let him in.
She knew that he loved her, and he knew that she loved him too, but sometimes, Leigh reverted to type and shut herself off, the only way she could deal with things when the world crowded in on her and she felt that things were beyond her control.
It certainly made life interesting, even if sometimes, it was much harder work than it needed to be.
God bless her!
He wished she would hurry home.
Suddenly Chandler's attention was abruptly returned to the here and now by a commotion coming from outside, loud excited voices shouting.
Damned Yanks ….
Excitable lot!
All that ruckus over a friendly game of ice hockey, Chandler thought sourly, assuming that it was his American colleagues giving in to a little high spirits after days of being cooped up inside the station.
However as the excitement continued, he allowed his gaze to be drawn to the large single window over his left shoulder and spotted several figures, indistinguishable because of the heavy cold weather gear they were wearing, in the snow bleached wastes just beyond the main compound boundary, rushing about excitedly and waving their arms over their heads, indicating toward the uniform gunmetal grey skies overhead.
Watching their antics for a moment, Chandler realised that something was going on out there, and a frown began to mar his handsome features once more as he realised that their attention was focused on something specific in the heavens over head, as they continued to point upward and shout excitedly.
What the ….
Curious, Chandler set down his mug of now tepid coffee and sauntered over to the window, followed by an equally curious Shane Preston, who grinned at the British geologist as he pressed his face up against the Perspex window, his warm breath instantly fogging it up.
When their colleagues outside realised that they had finally drawn some attention from inside, they began to wave excitedly and shout louder, and curious to know what was happening, Chandler cracked the window open, just a shade, to hear what they were shouting.
"Hey man, come take a look at this!" The man closest to the window, breathless and grinning excitedly from ear to ear, stumbled a little closer to them.
Greg Chandler now recognised the man as Tyler Keegan, an American metallurgist whose interest at Whiteout Station was studying rock samples for signs of precious metals in the rock layers under the ice.
Keegan moved a little closer, his face partially covered by the fur lined hood of his heavy dark winter Parka coat as he turned away from them again to fix his attention on the skies overhead.
"Steady on old chap …." Chandler grinned back. "What's all the noise about?"
"Come look for yourself, Chandler."
"What is it, Keegan? Little green men from Mars?" Preston teased, but this made the big American turn around quickly, still grinning, eyes shining brightly from the cold and from excitement at what he could see streaking across the sky.
"Maybe. Something up there is coming down real fast!" He was still grinning, what they could both see of his face, flushed, lips pulled back revealing twin rows of perfect white teeth.
"Could be a meteorite. If it comes down close to here, I say we go out there and find it for sure!" He stumbled, slipping in the snow and ice beneath his feet, throwing out his arms to keep his balance. "Give us something different to look at. A rock from outer space …."
Keegan rushed away then to join the others who were clumped together right on the far boundary, heads back, eyes tracking the fiery object they could see streaking across the sky.
"You coming?" Preston asked, already reaching out for his Parka which had been thrown over the back of a nearby chair.
"No thanks. Way too exciting for this dull Englishman to stomach. Besides, the generators are due to switch over shortly so I need to go and make sure that the computer has finished saving my data before the power fluctuation. It has a nasty habit of crashing if there is a drop or surge in power and I lose everything. Can't afford to ruin another day's work, and, I suppose for the sake of appearances, I should at least look like I'm earning my fat salary!"
"Bloody hell mate, that thing really is close!" Preston yelped as he cracked open the nearest door and stuck his head out, eyes focused on the flaming object rushing across the unbroken grey of the sky, leaving a smoky trail in it's wake, losing altitude rapidly.
Chandler opened the window just a little wider and leaned out, catching the object as it hurtled toward the horizon and the distant snow tipped hills, aware as he did so that more and more of his excited colleagues had rushed out on to the ice to get a look at what was causing all the fuss, like a bunch of kids on Christmas Eve, bright wide eyes fixed on the heavens to see if they could catch a glimpse of Santa Claus and his reindeers skimming over the chimneys and rooftops.
It did indeed look like a fiery shooting star, and just for a moment, inexplicably, Chandler felt his legs go weak beneath him and his heart trip erratically in his chest, the breath suddenly catching in the back of his throat, and he caught himself wondering if it was a primitive reaction, as old as man, to the unknown.
An omen of impending doom ….
Don't be ridiculous! He told himself sternly.
It was a totally irrational reaction for a well educated man of science like himself, but he could not deny his sudden unease, as he watched Shane Preston dashing out onto the snow now to get a better view.
Chandler watched the visitor from outer space with mixed feelings, as it continued to fall rapidly to earth, calculating from it's speed and rate of decent that it would indeed make landfall relatively close to their location, and that it would not be beyond the realms of possibility that Wilhelm De Wit would agree to someone going out there to try to find it.
It was far too good an opportunity in terms of scientific research to waste.
However, Chandler himself was also not stupid enough to volunteer for such a crazy expedition.
The days were getting longer, yes, but when darkness fell it did so swiftly and completely, all encompassing blackness, bringing with it rapid temperature drops and often, unpredicted high winds and snow storms that gave the station its name. Zero visibility blizzards that caused the effect of total whiteout.
Chandler could already see the tell tale signs of a change in the wind, little eddies of the recently settled powdered snow being lifted, swirling over the compact ice on the ground, and he let out a deep sigh.
He had lived up here at the top of the world just long enough to know that nothing was predictable or reliable, especially the weather.
Everything changed so quickly, you had to keep your wits about you at all times, if you wanted to survive.
Chandler remembered the long range weather forecast that he had just glanced at before Sorenson had taken it through to Dr De Wit and knew that forecasts didn't always mean anything.
Ma Nature had her own mood swings, and could be perverse and cantankerous just to spite them.
He recalled that they were due to get a thirty six to forty eight hour reprieve from the storms, but, he also recalled, the predicted clear weather window wasn't due to begin until dawn, and it looked as if it was going to be another wild night.
In his opinion, it would be risky to allow anyone to go out beyond the compound boundary at this time of the day, on a wild goose chase, but, everyone was so excited, and it really was a tremendous opportunity to learn more about the make up of objects that fell to earth infrequently from outer space.
De Wit would perhaps weigh up the pros and cons of waiting until the morning, against the possibility that all trace of the thing would be obliterated overnight.
Like excited children rushing out into the first snows to throw snowballs and build snowmen, they would all clamour for the glory of being chosen to go out and find the meteorite.
But not this cowardly Brit!
No, Chandler decided, he would get his kicks out of the thing if and when some other fool brought it back safely to the compound, and he had his chance to analyse it along with everyone else.
In the mean time, as he had told Preston, he had work to check up on, and the generators were due to change over any second so he had better hustle if he was going to make sure that everything was safely backed up to his computer hard drive in time.
/a\
Los Angeles, California.
Dr Leigh Roland's hotel room.
Day Seven – Friday, February 17th, 1984.
Late afternoon.
Dr Leigh Roland, seated on the bed in her clean, comfortable, light and airy, but soulless hotel room, absently raised her left hand to her brow, using the lightly freckled back to blot the perspiration dewed there, then directed her index finger to her lips and began nibbling on the neatly manicured finger nail in frustration.
She held the telephone receiver in her other hand, pressed close to her right ear, as she listened to the continuous drone of the line ringing out, with a heavy heart.
She was fast running out of patience, having spent the best part of the afternoon trying to reach someone at Whiteout Station's home base in Nome, Alaska.
Roland stopped nibbling long enough to lower her hand to glance down at the simple gold watch with the thin black leather strap, that graced her left wrist, and sighed deeply, knowing that as there was only an hour in time difference between here and Alaska, Nome being one hour behind Los Angeles, there was no excuse why someone shouldn't be manning the telephone.
Still, it was possible that whoever was on duty today could be tied up with other things, after all they were short handed up there, and people often had to double up on duties as it was.
Calm down ….
She chastised herself sternly and chewed on the nail some more, before realising that she was ruining an expensive manicure.
Throughout the afternoon, each time she had dialled the familiar number, Leigh Roland had gotten an automated message that the line was temporarily out of order, which she knew sometimes happened if weather conditions were particularly bad, or atmospheric conditions were not favourable.
Sometimes, however, the message kicked in by accident, just to be contrary, and the base staff didn't know what had happened until someone finally managed to get past the message and actually spoke to a human being.
After a short break for a brisk walk around the hotel grounds, needing exercise and a little fresh air, Dr Roland had returned to her room and tried again, this time getting a continuous busy tone for over an hour, and now, after making a few calls to her people at UCLA to see if there was any way she could get access to a high powered radio so that she could try to reach Whiteout Station direct, and just running into a brick wall there too, now the line was ringing out continuously.
C'mon someone, answer the darned thing!
As if it wasn't bad enough that there was no direct telephone link to Whiteout Station, and she had to rely on the staff at the home base in Nome to relay messages to her colleagues, and back from them, it was so damned frustrating when no-one picked up the telephone!
This call was particularly important.
She needed to inform Nome that she had finally gotten together all the supplies and equipment that she had been made responsible for gathering together, including that wretched titanium drill bit that Gregory needed to continue his work, and needed to know what the long range weather forecast was for the next few days, so that she could plan her trip back to Nome's airfield, so that she would be there in time for the next spell of clear weather and be able to join the crew of the supply plane on its next scheduled run.
The last thing that she wanted was to arrive in Nome and then find herself grounded for another week because of bad weather.
Ever practical, Leigh Roland knew that if that was the case, she could better use the time here in Los Angeles, tying up the loose ends to do with her father's estate, his house and his belongings.
His attorney was dealing with his finances, but the house needed to be made secure until such a time as she decided whether to place it in the hands of a realtor to sell or to put up for rental, or if she wanted to live there herself.
Most of his furniture and all of his clothes had been disposed of to various charitable organisations, but there were a few other, precious things that she had been unable to part with that needed to be placed in storage.
And then there was his car, and making sure that the other small bequests he had made in his will were carried out correctly, and that the stone mason understood exactly what she wanted carving on her father's headstone ….
If there was a major storm front brewing up there at the top of the world, Leigh knew that she could better spend the time putting things in order here, so that there would be no more need for her to return.
Once she left Los Angeles this time, she knew that it would be a long time before she would be able to face returning, so she needed to get as much sorted out as she could, rather than leave it for her father's attorney to attend to in her absence.
In truth, Leigh had little or no intention of returning to the city of Angels for anything except to beg for more funding for her work, or to submit her reports to the project backers at UCLA and NASA.
As Chief Medical Officer at Whiteout Station, aside from making sure that everyone stayed as healthy as they could under the circumstances, and being on hand in case of a medical emergency, Leigh was studying the effects of prolonged living in Arctic conditions on the human mind and body, as well as assisting her Aussie colleague, Shane Preston with his microbiology work, and her sponsorship for her own work had come, in part, from her old alma mater, UCLA, where until six months ago, she had been involved in lecturing on epidemiology and toxicology.
Being back here made Leigh very uncomfortable, raking up memories that she would prefer to forget.
Memories associated with years of alienation and loneliness from her beloved family. Memories of the shock and disappointment she had felt when discovering that through all the time she had been working here, her father had been so close.
Leigh had been born and raised in Australia, but after becoming estranged from her family, she had travelled extensively, after gaining her medical degree, mostly in Europe after gaining a junior post with the World Health Organisation, but then she had come to the United States to further her medical experience in the study of toxicology and contagious diseases, joining the prestigious team of doctors working to identify new viruses and bacterial infections and to prevent epidemics around the world, at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia.
Eventually she had been offered the teaching place at UCLA, and from that she had been selected for a project backed by NASA to study the effects of prolonged exposure to extremes of climate on the human body, and from there, she had been allocated a place at Whiteout Station.
It was while she had been at UCLA that she had learned by accident that her estranged father was living just a few miles away, after seeing his photograph in the social pages of the newspaper, attending some political rally or fund raiser for one of the candidates it was hotly tipped would wind up as the next Governor of California.
Hope had flared in her heart, and she had tried to make contact with her parents back then, but the brief, succinct telephone conversation she had shared with her father had only highlighted the gulf between them.
His tone had been abrupt and clipped, his manner so cold, so remote, his position as unyielding and hard and unforgiving as she had remembered, Leigh had known immediately that nothing had changed. She had known that she was still outcast and alienated, and so, she had thrown herself into her work, and told herself that she was better off without her family in her life ….
However, her father had had one last shock in store for her, when he had finally told her that he had moved here seven years ago, after her mother had died, and Leigh had been devastated to realise that he had not even made any kind of effort to locate her and let her know the news.
Her mother had been gone for seven years, and her father had made a new life for himself in a new country, and she had had no idea, until three months ago, when he had made contact again, writing to her, via her team at UCLA, to ask if next time she was in Los Angeles, she might be prepared to see him.
It was then that he had told her that he had pancreatic cancer, and not much time left. He begged for her forgiveness and asked if she would be prepared to build bridges, and despite the fact that she was extremely hurt to learn that he had known that she was in Los Angeles all this time, and that he still had not tried to contact her, as a doctor she understood all too well the nature of his disease and what he was facing, and realising the enormity of what he had been asking, and what it must have cost him, Leigh had found her self agreeing.
She had needed the reconciliation.
It had been difficult, uncomfortable, having to watch a man who was ultimately a stranger, but who was still her father, dying, knowing that even though he had reached out to her after all these years, it was not because he had forgotten what had driven them apart, or that he had forgiven ….
Nor because he loved her.
No. It was purely because he did not want to die alone.
And Leigh had finally had to accept that she was not there for him at all, but for herself.
She had needed closure.
She had needed to draw a line under it, so that she could finally move on.
He had failed her, just when she had needed him most, and although she could no longer find it in her to be angry with him, or to hate him, nor could she find forgiveness for him in her heart either.
Now, with her father gone, there was nothing to keep her in Los Angeles any longer.
Gregory Chandler, and more immediately, Whiteout Station, were her future, home, from now on, at least until that project ended, and they were forced to find alternative employment elsewhere, preferably somewhere much further south, and boasting temperatures considerably higher than 40 below!
A wry half smile tugged at Leigh's lips now as she allowed her gaze to wander to the photograph she had placed on the nightstand beside the hotel's single bed, that first night, after her father had died, unable to bear the thought of sleeping in his house alone. The hotel was clean and functional, but Greg's photo had made it feel less austere and empty.
Dratted man, he would probably assume that by 'somewhere further south' she meant another lunatic project in Antarctica!
Losing patience with the endless drone of the unanswered telephone line, Leigh set the telephone receiver back down in its cradle, resisting the urge to slam it down, and let out a deep sigh.
She knew that her impatience and frustration stemmed mostly from the fact that she wanted to get away from all the painful memories being resurrected in her heart and mind, that and of course, her father's illness and death, but, most of all, it was because she missed her dopey Brit!
A year, or maybe even six months ago, she would not have believed just how much he would come to mean to her.
They had first met two year ago, when Gregory had been teaching at UCLA and she had thought no more of it than when she had met any other work colleague, but somehow he had wheedled his way deep into her beleaguered heart, with his charm and his daft sense of humour and his outrageous Englishness, and now she found herself wondering how she could possibly face another day without him.
Every moment that she had spent away from him in the last month had been pure torture.
The fact that he had fallen in love with her had not come as a surprise to Leigh, after all he hadn't been able to hide the fact that he was taken with her, and without being conceited, she was aware that she had all the qualities that men admired. A pretty face and a good figure, a wicked sense of humour and keen intelligence, but, she was unique amongst women in so much as she said little, keeping her thoughts to herself.
Over the years, she had found herself admired by many men, however, it had always been her choice to keep them at arms length, allowing no-one close, because then she would be opening herself up to more disappointment and ultimately, rejection.
No, to Leigh Roland, the miracle was that she had actually begun to fall in love with him too, for she had long thought that emotion dead in herself.
For so long, to Leigh Roland, the idea of loving again meant betrayal and sorrow and heartache, and she had had more than enough of that in her young life.
She had no idea why it had suddenly been different with Greg, except that he was an exceptional man, persistent and charming, funny and endearing in a boyish kind of way, despite the fact that he was ten years older than she was, and he had brought out the maternal instincts in her, appealing to her need to take care of him and tidy up after him, as well as the loving, caring compassionate, and yes, passionate woman, that dwelled within the ice façade that Leigh Roland usually presented to the world.
He had also been a tower of strength and support to her during her reconciliation with her father, and during his illness.
All her colleagues at Whiteout had been supportive and tolerant of her need to keep returning to Los Angeles, aware of her father's deteriorating health and that he needed to be hospitalized from time to time, but Greg had been the one who had held her and comforted her ….
Loved her ….
When she had gotten word that her father was back in hospital this last time, and that he was not expected to survive, he had wanted to come with her, to be there for her, and although she had appreciated the offer, she had gently made him understand that it was something that she needed to do alone.
She wasn't sure, even now, if he had really understand the need in her, but he had respected her wish to face it alone, and she had promised him that when she got back, he would have her undivided attention.
Her need to return to California had proved fortuitous for Dr De Wit, Whiteout Station's Administrator, for there had been a list of supplies and equipment that he had needed, which she had gladly offered to collect and ship back.
With another deep sigh, she lifted the telephone receiver once more and, decision made, dialled the number for her father's attorney's office wanting to catch him before he left for the weekend, and set things in motion with regard to her father's house, the outstanding bequests and his car, informing him of her plans to leave town after the weekend.
She simply could not face staying one more day beyond that, so no matter what the weather was like up there at the top of the world, she would put up with being cooped up with everyone at Nome, no matter how long it took the weather to clear.
At least it would not be Los Angeles, with all the pain and heartache she associated with it, and she would be just a little closer to her precious Gregory.
After concluding her telephone call, she rose carefully from her perch on the edge of the bed and walked to the adjacent bathroom, leaning over the sink and splashing cool water on her overheated cheeks. After patting them dry with a soft, fluffy white towel, she scrutinized her face in the mirror, not liking what she saw, the over brightness of her eyes and the flush on her cheeks, then she stuck out her tongue and pulling a sour face at what she saw, groaned, quickly taking it back into her mouth.
Just what she needed right now, to be coming down with something. She thought miserably.
Drawing in a deep breath, she helped herself to a couple of Aspirin from the bottle she had placed on the glass shelf over the sink, swallowing them down quickly with a gulp of water, but somehow they seemed to get lodged in the back of her throat and she had to take several more gulps to push them down at last.
She opened her mouth and using the mirror over the sink, scrutinised the back of her throat this time.
Say ah ….
Yuk!
She was definitely coming down with something …. She thought to herself sourly, as she noted the deep reddening of the back of her throat and tongue.
Nice diagnosis doctor!
Probably just the beginnings of a head cold, but with the ache she could feel in her lower back and the burning sensation she could feel between her shoulder blades, and just under her ribs, and the nausea she had been battling on and off all day, she wouldn't be surprised if it turned into flu.
Damn.
Never mind that now!
She wasn't going to allow feeling a shade under the weather to stop her from getting herself and the supplies back to the top of the world as soon as she could.
She returned to the bedroom and used the house telephone to order a light dinner from the room service menu, not because she was hungry, but because it was something to do to kill a little time, then turned on the television to briefly flick through channels, and then turning it off in disgust, went back to the nightstand and finally reached out for the telephone and again dialled the familiar number for Nome, crossing her fingers, praying that this time someone would pick up.
Shortly, her prayers were answered and a familiar female voice spoke hurriedly and breathlessly into the telephone receiver at the other end of the line, sounding anxious and harassed, Leigh noted immediately.
"G'day Katie, its Leigh Roland …."
"Oh, hello, Dr Roland, I guess it must have been you who was calling a little while ago …."
"Sure was."
"Sorry about that, doctor, but I was on the radio to Elmendorf, the USAF base …."
Leigh Roland's heart sank like a stone as she heard the words.
"Did something happen?" She demanded in sharp tones, impatient and anxious now. "Katie, did something happen at Whiteout?"
"We don't know for sure yet, doctor. Their radio is out. The weather got real evil up there, and we haven't been able to raise them."
"Still!" Roland exclaimed.
She knew that when she had called the base at Nome yesterday morning with an update on her progress, Katie had told her, along with the disappointing news that she had missed the supply plane this week, it having left the previous morning, laden down with goodies for the besieged scientists, that the weather was closing in again and that they were experiencing difficulties with communications between Whiteout and themselves. However, Leigh had assumed that in the interim, Nome would have been able to raise them.
"How long have they been out of radio contact?"
"Since the day before yesterday, doctor."
"Wednesday! Bloody hell! What about the supply plane? Didn't they radio in to say they had left?"
"That's just it doctor," Katie Morgan's voice wobbled slightly and Leigh Roland suddenly felt her heart skip a beat in her chest. "The pilot radioed in to say that he was leaving, bringing back Dr Sorenson because his wife was going to have the baby early …."
A small sob escaped the other woman's lips now, and Leigh Roland's knees suddenly gave way and she sank down heavily on the single bed behind her, as her stomach lurched violently and bitter bile rose up into the back of her throat.
Oh no ….
No …. No …. No ….
"The plane never made it back, Dr Roland …."
Oh God ….
"That's why I was on the radio to Elmendorf, requesting an aerial search, but they say that the weather is just too bad. All their aircraft are grounded, indefinitely …." Katie Morgan's voice trailed off then, and Leigh Roland knew that she too was thinking of those poor men.
The pilot, co-pilot, Sven Sorenson, and his poor wife, widowed even as she labored to bring their child into the world.
Leigh Roland suddenly realised that her whole body was shaking violently.
No, dammit, get a grip!
She told herself sharply, knowing that she could not allow herself to think about that now.
"And you still can't get anything from Whiteout?"
Leigh Roland's voice quivered just a little as she asked the question, and drew in a shaky breath, and she found herself hoping that Katie would realise that she was genuinely upset about what might be happening to her friends, the people she cared about, up there so remote and isolated, at the top of the world.
"No, doctor …."
Dammit, this just couldn't be happening!
Please God ….
Please, let them be alright ….
Let Greg be alright ….
Oh God, don't do this to me!
Pull yourself together, right now, dammit!
Getting hysterical isn't going to help!
She needed to get up there, as fast as she could, but no matter what she did, Leigh knew that she would come up against all the same obstacles as the Air Force.
Not even she could tame the Arctic weather.
Greg!
Oh my darling ….
"Keep trying, Katie …."
"Of course I will!" The other woman responded impatiently now, but Leigh Roland could hear the grief behind her impatience.
"I'm sorry, Katie, I know you're doing your best," Leigh Roland softened her voice a little now, knowing that the young woman on the other end of the line was shocked, frightened and probably way out of her depth, having to cope with everything alone.
"What's Dr Gordon doing?"
Bernard Gordon was the Director of Nome home base and it was his responsibility to oversee everything to do with the smooth running of Whiteout Station.
No doubt he was doing everything physically possible, but would also be limited to what actions he could take because of the weather conditions.
"He tried calling in all the favours he's owed, but …."
"Until the weather clears, no-one can help," Leigh Roland solemnly completed the sentence for her.
"Ok, look, Katie, I'm coming up there, as soon as I can arrange it. I have the things Dr De Wit requested, and I will try to arrange for them to get shipped up to you, but right now, what is more important is trying to find out what exactly the situation is up there at Whiteout, and getting someone there ASAP," she reasoned calmly, drawing in another shaky breath.
"I'll try to get to Nome as soon as I can, so that the first chance we get to send a plane up there, I can be on it. They might need medical assistance …."
God forbid!
Oh damn, what the hell is going on up there!
Calm down!
Think, woman, think!
"I'll let Dr Gordon know you're coming."
"Thanks. I'll let you know my actual travel plans when I've finalised them, and I'll work something out about the supplies, but Katie, if you hear from Whiteout, call me, straight away, please."
"Of course I will doc. I promise."
"Thanks …."
Leigh Roland set down the telephone receiver, and noticed the tremor of her hand as she did so.
For just an instant, she felt tears stinging at the corner of her eyes as she imagined some horrible disaster having befallen Greg and the others up there at Whiteout Station, then again told her self to stop that right now.
She had to keep her head.
She had to be calm, and composed, because is something really was wrong up there at Whiteout, she was the only one who could convince someone that her friends and colleagues might need help, that they needed to get someone up there straight away.
She didn't know anything for certain, and more than likely it would turn out to be nothing more sinister than the weather playing havoc with the radio equipment.
However, there was one truth that she could not get away from.
The supply plane's failure to return to Nome could mean only one thing.
It must have come to grief somewhere on the return journey, and that probably meant that everyone aboard was dead. If not killed in the actual impact, the effects of exposure to those kinds of temperatures and climatic conditions, over night would surely have finished the job.
Again her thoughts turned to poor Anna Sorenson.
Oh God, that poor, poor woman ….
Leigh Roland didn't know the woman, had never met her, but she could strongly sympathise with her, and she found herself praying that someone would hold off from telling the woman that her husband was dead until she had safely delivered their child.
At least she still had some hope that Greg was alive, that he was ok, but for poor Anna Sorenson there could be no such hope.
Despite all her efforts to control herself, Leigh Roland suddenly gave a loud, dry, heaving sob, and buried her face in her shaking hands, unable to rid herself of the feeling that something catastrophic had happened up there at the top of the world.
Not again, please, not again ….
I couldn't bear it!
Greg ….
Oh my love ….
Dragging in long, ragged breaths, she forced herself to regain her composure, racking her brain for options to solve her dilemma of getting to Whiteout Station quickly, despite the weather, and then it came to her, like a flash of inspiration, and dashing away her tears she reached out to the nightstand for her car keys, scooping them up in one hand and her purse in the other, she hurried toward the door.
It took her thirty minutes of negotiating late afternoon Los Angeles traffic to get back to her father's house, and she was frantic by the time she got there, rushing up the short paved driveway like a wild woman and fumbling with the key in the front door lock, before stumbling over the threshold and hurrying into the study, to his much loved old mahogany desk that she had not been able to part with, because it was one of her strongest childhood memories, from the den in their home back there in Sydney, to where she knew her father had kept his address book.
She almost pulled the heavy desk drawer out of its housing as she yanked it open and fished around inside, pulling out a small black leather bound book at last and quickly found the right page.
Thank God!
She dialled the number with shaking fingers and waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line.
Please God, let him be there, let him be there!
He was Senator Samuel Gilroy, an old friend of her father, the man whom he had been helping to raise funds for, a man she vaguely recalled from brief visits to her home during her childhood, the man her father had spent years interned with in a Japanese POW camp in Hong Kong during the second world war, but whom she had not seen in more than twelve years, until a few days ago at her father's funeral.
There, he had clasped her hand lightly in his own, gazed sincerely into her eyes and told her in a solemn voice that if she needed anything, anything at all, she should give him a call.
She hoped that unlike many other politicians, Sam Gilroy was still the man of his word, the hero she recalled from childhood, who had befriend her father and helped him to survive in the camp.
The telephone was answered on the fourth ring, and with her heart pounding erratically in her ears, instantly recognising the male voice on the other end of the line, Leigh Roland decided that now was not the time for small talk.
"Senator Gilroy, this is Leigh Roland. I'm sorry to be so blunt about this, Sir, but I could really use your help about now …."
