Edited. Am changing my name to Can't do the-Math Girl!
28: Lost
Jeff Tracy's conversation with the sub-director of international commerce (the highest official he merited, without invoking the name 'Tracy') was almost comically surreal. For security reasons there were no visuals. His own tones had been electronically distorted, while the sub-director's voice was accented enough to need no further encryption. Over a secure line, they argued back and forth.
"You are what? Who? Repeating, please?"
Jeff clutched hard at his temper. Forcing a calm, authoritative manner, he said,
"Once again, this is the head of International Rescue, an apolitical crisis team established to respond swiftly to any major emergency situation, anywhere in the world. For reasons of security, we prefer to remain…"
"What? You are experience political crisis?"
Dammit!
"No, Mister… Fryxell, is it…? No, Sir; we don't cause emergencies, we resolve them. At this moment, three of my…er… teammates… are rushing to Antarctica to evacuate the South Pole crew and deal with the station's reactor. So, if you'll just inform your…"
"You wish evacuation? From where is your commercial flight emergency being, Sir?"
…And so forth. Eventually, (frustrated to the point of reaching through that comm line and strangling certain witless sub-directors) Jeff gave up and ended the call.
Instant, sight-unseen cooperation was probably too much to expect, at this point. Hopefully, a successful South Pole evacuation would earn them a reputation... or at least a contact person higher up the beauracratic food chain than Fryxell.
Jeff grunted morosely. He'd almost forgotten what a pain in the ass it was, trying to get things accomplished without the lubricating grease of wealth, influence and power. Maybe there was someone else he could call…?
Just as he was pulling up a list of his WorldGov contacts, someone entered the office. Jeff swiveled his chair a bit, shooting a quick glance at the open door.
"Jeffery Connal," his mother snapped, glaring at him through bottle-thick lenses, "I hope like hell you know what you're doin'!"
At nearly the same time, a smallish red button on his desk comm lit up. Leisha Bonaventure, with further news of the European 'situation'. Perfect. Wonderful...
Jeff rose at the old woman's entrance, respectful even when rushed.
"Mother, I appreciate your concern, but this isn't the time… and yes, I know what I'm doing. More importantly, so do they. Scott is former military; a fighter pilot. For him, simple rescue missions are actually less hazardous than what he was doing before."
Victoria tried to interrupt, but Jeff pretended not to notice, saying,
"Virgil's a quick learner, and his simulations have improved a hundred and ten percent, lately. He can do this, and do it well. John…"
Jeff Tracy shrugged, and then shook his grey head.
"…I don't know, Mother. I've given up trying to figure out what makes him tick. You and Lucy were the only ones who ever got anything useful out of that little…"
Victoria cut him off with a sudden sharp gesture. She'd come further into the room by now, maneuvering cautiously around all that carelessly strewn packing material.
"He ain't that hard to figure out, Jeffrey. Not if you spend some time at it. 'Cause the funny thing is, John Matthew thinks like you do. He wants money and he wants freedom to do things his own damn way, every time. Want to know what makes him tick...? Go look at a mirror."
The light was still flashing. Too urgent a matter for Leisha to consider leaving a message, evidently... and he had to pick up that line!
"Mother, you have a definite point; one that I'll take time to consider, very soon. I have urgent business to attend to at the moment, though. So… why don't we discuss this tomorrow? At lunch, say?"
It was a dismissal, and she knew it. Wouldn't accept what she'd been handed, though. …Or leave. Not yet.
"I mighta made some mistakes raisin' you, Jeffery, and I'm sorry… tryin' to harden up after losin' your sisters, I guess… but that don't mean you've gotta repeat every damn one of 'em with your own boys. Try bein' a father, sometime, 'stead of a trail boss, Jeffrey. Give 'em a little trust and respect and even John Matthew could surprise you."
But her son was more interested in his desk top than in what she had to say. Shoulders slumping, Victoria sighed.
"I ain't gettin' through, Jeffrey, and I'm too old and tired to keep wastin' my breath… but I hope for them boys' sake that you turn out to be right. I surely do hope so."
Her son gave the old woman a single, vague nod.
"Absolutely. It's a date, then. Tomorrow, at lunch."
Jeff was too preoccupied with comm and mission board to see his mother go.
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Antarctica-
Guided by ribbons of twisting flame, they stumbled through freezing, rumbling whiteness. Maybe the flares were getting closer; Darson couldn't tell. What was certain was that they hadn't much time. He'd already lost the sensation in his feet and legs, and lurched along like a zombie on half-frozen limbs that couldn't even feel the ground. Worse, he was becoming sleepy; a very bad sign.
Ahead of him, the line seemed to pause, shifting about on the heaving ice sheet. They'd encountered something? No way to tell, for he couldn't really see. Only the greenish blur of Charlie's glow stick and the wind-blown remnants of signal flares stood out from that shrieking white background. Everything else was frigidly, homicidally blank. Snow blew sideways, up and around, pushing and sawing at him from all angles; the tiny, abrasive crystals froze onto his face mask, goggles and beard like rooftop icicles, cutting off breath.
Then his hand was tugged, so he started walking again, literally forcing himself to move. A lurching step… two… and something materialized from the fanged and swirling snow; something bright orange that shuddered and rattled like a hurricane flag.
Too cold to realize what he was seeing, Fred Darson actually stumbled through the shelter's opening before grasping that he'd made it to safety. That they were… Wait.
Charlie and Susan were crouched on the dome tent's floor, being heaped with blankets and force-fed warm drinks by a postal clerk and snow plow operator (Katrina and Ahmet; good people). Others huddled closer about the space heater in parkas and blankets of their own, making room for new refugees. There were cries of relief and welcome, half obscured by the constant loud flapping of tent cloth; the creak and snap of ice.
Captain Chen hauled Fred and his daughter further within, handing them over to Kyle and Forrester for rapid warming. It would have been wonderful to relax, to rest there in orange half-light, surrounded by shuddering cloth and the smell of warm coffee. Safe, with his daughter and rescued colleagues.
…But Darson wrenched himself free. Squinting hard, he began obsessively counting heads.
Charlie, Susan, himself, Sarah, Aleksi, Tanner, Dr. Floyd, Mike, Jayna… and Gregory. What about everyone else? Where were the others?
Twenty-three people had set off from the fallen shelter. Ten were here. This meant that thirteen others… thirteen friends and coworkers… were still outside.
Darson pushed away the fragrant coffee cup that Kyle Hanson had offered him. His face was beginning to warm, and stung all over like someone had taken a belt sander to him, but Fred ignored it. Bracing himself upon the writhing floor, he seized Captain Chen and croaked,
"Still thirteen outside, Jimmy. Give… give me flare gun… rope. I'll…"
James Chen was a naval supply officer. His assistant, Lieutenant Danvers, was out there somewhere, clinging to twelve other people just as lost and alone as he was. But Chen shook his head.
"We can't, Fred," the captain told Darson, voice breaking on the icy words. "We're down to our last flare, and if you go out there again, you'll die."
Jerry Wilkins had stepped past Sarah, was struggling to refasten the shelter's inner seal. A surge of wild rejection shot through Fred Darson like that final signal flare, and he attempted to push past Chen
"Twenty feet… of rope. Just twenty feet, and a chip sensor. Let me sweep an arc, Jimmy, please. For the love of God, please. They could be just outside…too cold to move."
And there was so little time.
