Deep Ice Read Free Page B

without dogs. All he could do was survive until a rescue party found him. But he knew that wouldn’t happen, because no one would look for him. McMurdo wouldn’t notice he was missing for at least two weeks, and by then it would be unlikely he’d ever be found.
    “The only way out of this is to take a fifty-mile hike, I guess. No problem. Piece of cake.”
    Shep’s bark echoed across the ice, and then the voices of other dogs.
    Henry ducked down next to his sled and started looking for his rifle. He ripped it from its carrying bag and began assembling it as quickly as he could. Adrenaline started pumping through his veins as he snapped a clip into the base of the survival gun and pulled back the bolt.
    Shep appeared suddenly at the top of the ice hill, then ran towards him. A second later three of his other dogs appeared. Soon they were on top of Henry, licking his face and panting gleeful y, glad to be alive and reunited with their true leader. Eventually all the dogs took turns examining the bodies of their col eagues, but soon they were grouped near the sled, ready to be hitched up and mushed on their way back to McMurdo.
    Henry Gibbs was not a religious man. The loss of his family had convinced him of the blank unholy randomness of nature. He admitted the power of faith, if only to give each of us false hope –better than no hope at all, he reasoned. Even so, as the deep blue sky domed above him and he reflected over his amazing luck, he had to say a silent prayer of thanks to the powers above for the second chance he’d been given. Four dogs were far short of the nine he needed, but, if he stripped his gear and carried only his essentials, they might just get him to McMurdo.
    He hiked to the top of the ice hill and surveyed the horizon with his binoculars. He was alone. Whoever those fake Norwegians were, they had acted very efficiently, like military professionals. They’d left no trace of themselves or their mission. As far as he could see, they’d come and gone like ghosts.
    Finally, after three painful hours of sorting through his gear and giving his slaughtered dogs a decent burial, he was at last on his way to McMurdo. Shep and the three others had to strain to get the sled moving, but soon they managed to bring it up to walking speed. Tired and in pain, Henry would gladly have ridden on the sled, but he knew his weight would be the difference between getting to McMurdo and freezing to death out here on the ice.
    The strangers had taken just about all of his food, leaving only some high-energy snacks and his sack of dog biscuits. Whatever food value the biscuits had would have to go to the dogs. That left him only the ten granola bars and two packets of powdered milk he’d stashed at the bottom of his knapsack.
    He decided to act as though he had no food at all. Even his granola might have to go to the dogs before he got home.
    #
    Every hour he stopped the dogs and let them rest.
    During those times he’d give each of them one dog biscuit and some water. He had allowed himself only one granola bar, to begin his journey, but had mixed up the powdered milk with some water in his canteen. After about twenty minutes’ rest, he would check his compass, take a sip of milk, and mush the dogs onward towards the north. He knew he had to head towards the magnetic South Pole – this in spite of the fact that the geological South Pole was in the opposite direction. Things could get very confusing in Antarctica.
    As he moved farther away from the site of his encounter with the faux -Norwegians, as he now thought of them, his sadness and fear began to subside, to be replaced by rage. Perhaps he was spoiled by the usual courtesies of the local Antarctic citizenry, but he had to admit it was damned rude to shoot a stranger just for asking about the weather. Of course, there might have been some justice to it. He was, after all, a weatherman.
    “Figured I was gonna steal their radio. . . start my own weather