“Plenty of small arms,” replied the sergeant. “A dozen M16s, half a dozen larger-caliber carbines, twenty-odd sidearms, five thousand rounds of ammunition.”

“The scientific team brought along three high-powered rifles,” said a voice. Ekberg glanced toward it. It was Gerard Sully, the climatologist. He was leaning against the rear wall by the steam trays, one hand nervously drumming on the steel railing. He was very pale.

Wolff glanced around the room. “We’ll need to make sure anyone on the move travels as part of an armed group.”

Gonzalez grunted. “Even that may not be enough.”

“Well, what else can we do?” Wolff countered. “We can’t just cower behind locked doors.”

“You can use my truck,” came another voice.

Everyone glanced toward it. It was Carradine, sitting in a plastic chair tipped back on its rear legs. Ekberg hadn’t noticed him before; she wasn’t sure if he’d been there the entire time, listening, or if he’d come in during the conversation.

“It’s like I offered before,” he continued. “My rig’s the only thing that can get people out in a storm like this.”

Wolff sighed in irritation. “We’ve been over this. It’s not safe.”

“Oh?” Carradine replied. “And staying here is?”

“You couldn’t fit everybody inside.”

“I could fit them in Ms. Davis’s trailer.” The trucker lowered his voice. “It’s not like she needs it anymore.”

“He’s right,” Gonzalez said. “You’ve got-what, thirty-three, thirty-four crew? With the scientific team that’s still less than forty. Everybody will fit inside that trailer.”

“What if they get lost?” Wolff asked.

“I never get lost,” replied Carradine. “GPS, baby.”

“Or break down? Or have a flat?”

“Ice-road truckers always carry spares and redundant equipment. And even if I can’t fix it-well, that’s what God invented CB radio for.”

“It’s simply too dangerous,” said Wolff. “I said no earlier, and I’m saying no now.”

“The situation has changed,” Gonzalez growled.

Wolff turned to him. “How so?”

“Because this time I’m overruling you.”

Wolff’s look darkened. “You-”

“What we’re dealing with goes beyond any and all conditions mandated for your stay. Your documentary has gone down the tubes. Three people are dead. There’s no reason to compound the tragedy.” He turned to Carradine. “How long will it take you to ready the rig?”

The trucker stood up. “Half an hour, tops.”

Gonzalez glanced toward Marcelin. “I want you to escort Mr. Carradine here to his truck. Don’t take any chances, fall back here at the first hint of any trouble.”

Marcelin nodded.

“Then I want you and Phillips to start evacuating the film crew. We’ll use this mess as the staging area. Bring them in half a dozen at a time. Carefully, do it by the book.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcelin unshouldered the M16, nodded to Carradine. The trucker stood up, pulling a large handgun out of his waistband as he did so. Stepping to the door, Marcelin opened it, did a quick scan of the corridor beyond, then slipped out. Carradine followed and the door closed tightly behind him.

Gonzalez reached into one of the deep pockets of his fatigues and pulled out two radios. He tossed one to Wolff, the other to Sully. “You can contact me with these. I’ve preset the emergency frequency.” He stood up, grabbed his own M16. “Lock up behind me. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Where are you going?” Wolff asked.

“To the armory. I’ll be needing more firepower.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going hunting.”

After the door shut behind Gonzalez, Wolff walked over and locked it. He stood a moment in silence, facing the closed door. Then, quite abruptly, he turned and walked to the center of the room. “Well?” he said to nobody in particular.

“I can’t leave.” It was Sully, the climatologist, who spoke. His voice shook slightly. “I’m the expedition leader. I can’t just leave all our experiments here. Besides-Evan’s missing.”

Ekberg started at this. “Missing? But I was just talking to him, not two hours ago.”

Sully nodded grimly. “He hasn’t been seen since. He’s not in his lab. And he’s not in his quarters.”

“He’ll be back,” said Logan.

Everyone turned toward the academician.

“Excuse me?” Sully asked.

“He borrowed the Sno-Cat.”

“In a blizzard?” Ekberg asked. “Where did he go?”

“The Tunit village, to the north.”

“Why?” Sully demanded.

Logan glanced around at his inquisitors. “To get answers. Look, let’s find Faraday and talk about it. In your lab.”

Sully sighed, shook his head. “All right. Once Gonzalez gets back here with the firepower.”

“And when he does get back here, he may have something to say about your little plans.” Wolff glanced around. “The rest of you?”

“Are you kidding?” It was Hulce. “I’m out of here.” There was a murmured chorus of assent from around the room.

Wolff looked at Conti. “Emilio?”

Conti didn’t reply. Since asking about the creature, he had remained silent, his gaze far away.

“Emilio?” Wolff asked again.

As Ekberg watched, Conti became slowly aware he was being addressed. “Excuse me?”

“Can you be ready to leave in half an hour?”

Conti blinked, frowned. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Didn’t you hear Gonzalez? He’s ordering everyone to head south in Carradine’s truck.”

The producer gave his head a little birdlike shake. “I have a documentary to finish.”

Wolff’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Excuse me? There is no more documentary.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” And Conti smiled faintly, as if at some private joke.

“Emilio, Ashleigh is dead. And in about half an hour, your entire staff will be heading in the direction of Fairbanks.”

“Yes,” Conti murmured. “It’s all up to me now.”

Wolff raised one arm in an exasperated gesture. “Didn’t you hear? You’ve got no crew!”

“I’ll do it myself. The old way, the classic way. Like Georges Méliès, Edwin Porter, Alice Guy Blaché. Fortnum will be leaving with the rest of them; I know he will.” And he glanced toward Ekberg.

Ekberg understood the significance of that glance; understood what he was asking of her. Despite what she had told Marshall in the Operations Center, despite her uncompromising commitment to both Conti and her career, she felt a cold thrust of fear at the mere thought. Nevertheless, she returned his look and-holding his gaze-nodded slowly.

36

The old shaman gestured to a pile of caribou skins on the far side of the fire. “Sit,” he said.

Marshall, painfully aware that time was of the essence, also understood this encounter-whatever it might produce-could not be hurried. He sat down.

“How did you know I was coming?” he asked.

“In the same manner I knew you were angering the ancient ones. My spirit guide told me.”

The shaman picked up the scatter of items before him, placed them in a small leather pouch, drew the drawstring tight.

“The others-where did they go?”

Usuguk stretched his palm northward. “To our brothers along the sea.”

“Another Tunit camp?” Marshall asked.

Usuguk shook his head. “Inuit. We are the last of our kind.”

“There are no other Tunits?”

“None.”

Marshall looked over the fire at the old shaman. So it’s true, then. “When will they return?”

“Perhaps never. Life is much easier beside the sea. It has been difficult to keep them here since their mothers and fathers died.”

Marshall sat for a moment, collecting his thoughts. It was hard to believe that this sad little encampment was the last vestige of an entire Native American tribe. It was galling to think that his own arrival at the glacier might be partly responsible for scattering it, even temporarily.

“Those markings you made, outside the base,” he said at last. “What were they for?”