Metrace was standing close by at his side, and he could feel her shiver. Dr. Trowbridge had emerged from the deckhouse as well and stood at the rail a few feet away, not speaking or looking at Smith and his team. Other members of the cutter's crew were also coming topside, watching the passage of the pallid sea specter.
The first enemy was in sight. Soon the battle would begin.
Chapter Nineteen
Wednesday Island
"Core water samples, series M?"
"Check."
"Core water samples, series R?"
"Check."
"Core water samples, series RA?"
Kayla Brown looked up from where she knelt beside the open plastic specimen case. "They're all here, Doctor Creston," she replied patiently, "just like yesterday."
Dr. Brian Creston chuckled and flipped his notebook shut. "Have patience with an old man, child. I've seen Mr. Cock-up drop in on many an expedition at the last minute. There's no sense in getting sloppy in the home stretch."
Kayla snapped the latches on the case and tightened the nylon safety strap around it. "I hear you, Doctor. I don't want anything to come between me and that beautiful, beautiful helicopter tomorrow."
"Really?" Creston reclaimed his pipe from the cracked chemistry retort he'd been using for an ashtray, and bent down slightly to peer through one of the laboratory hut's small, low-set windows. "Actually, I'll rather miss the place. I've found it...restful."
For the moment there was a hole in the weather over the island, and the low-riding sun struck white fire off the drifted snow outside. The Wednesday Island Science Station consisted of three small, green prefabricated buildings: the laboratory, the bunkroom, and the utility/generator shack, set side by side in a row and spaced some thirty yards apart to eliminate the risk of a spreading fire.
Established near the shore of the small frozen bay at Wednesday's western end, the station was protected from the blast of the prevailing northerlies by a shoulder of the Island's central ridge. Thus, each flat-roofed hut had been only half-buried in drift.
Kayla Brown stood up and brushed off the knees of her ski pants. "It's been a great experience, Doctor, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world, but like we say back home, 'Can we please stop having fun now?'"
Creston laughed. "Understood, Kayla. But aren't you going up with the crash investigation team when they arrive? After all, you were the one to first spot the wreck."
The young woman's face fell. "No, I don't think so. I've thought about it, and it would probably be interesting, but...the men aboard that plane might still be up there. I'm willing to give that a pass."
Creston nodded. Leaning back against the big worktable in the center of the laboratory, he began to lightly fill his pipe from the dwindling stock in his tobacco pouch. "I quite understand. It might not be the most pleasant of experiences. But I must confess, I'm getting bloody curious about that old bomber, especially given how they keep ordering us to stay away from it. It makes a person suspect there might be a bit more to this story than's being let out."
Kayla Brown braced her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes in feminine practicality. "Oh, come on, Doctor! You know how historians and archeologists are. They hate to have amateurs fumbling around a dig, jumbling things up. You wouldn't want someone messing with your core samples or radiosonde balloons, would you?"
"Point taken." Creston struck a wooden kitchen match. Holding it to the bowl of his pipe, he puffed experimentally. "But trust a woman to squeeze all the mystery out of things."
At that moment Ian Rutherford slid open the accordion door in the partition that separated the main laboratory from the little radio room that took up one end of the hut. "Got the latest met gen, Doctor," he said, holding up a sheet of hard copy.
"How's it look, Ian?"
The young Englishman grimaced theatrically. "I suppose you could say mixed. We've got a mild front moving in. It might hold off through tomorrow, but for a day or so after that we're going to be spotty."
"How big a spot, lad?"
"Variable northerly winds up to force five. Low overcast. Intermittent snow squalls."
Kayla rolled her eyes once more. "Oh, nice! Perfect flying weather!"
"And that's just the start," the youthful Englishman went on. "We've been put on a solar flare warning. Commo's going to be dicky as well."
"Dear me." Doctor Creston sighed a cloud of aromatic smoke. "Someone put the kettle on. I think I hear Mr. Cock-up coming up the walk."