‘“At length did cross an Albatross,”’ Franklin murmured. ‘“Through the fog it came.”’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘Poetry, Commander. You wouldn’t like it.’

‘Is it gonna be on the test?’

The helicopter swam out of the fog and towards the deck. In the Navy, they’d drop a wire to the deck and winch the helicopter in. But everyone knew the Navy were pussies. The Coast Guard liked to keep their birds free-range. As it passed the wheelhouse, Franklin could see the pilot only a few yards away, concentrating like hell.

The helicopter touched down, bounced on its wheels and settled. The deck crew raced to secure it; Parsons and her team ran out from where they’d been sheltering and slid open the door. Two stretchers came out, covered in foil blankets that flapped and crinkled in the wind. Then came the bodies. Franklin counted eleven. Last of all, Lieutenant Klein, the first officer, who had led the mission. He looked none too steady on his feet, though the crew had done a good job clearing the ice.

‘Tell Klein to see me in my quarters. And send someone to make sure Anderson stays in his cabin. I don’t want him seeing this.’

Tim Klein, Terra Nova’s first lieutenant, sat in the easy chair opposite Franklin. His family were Marines, three generations; it had been a minor family scandal when he went into the Coast Guard. But he still had the posture. He sat ramrod straight, but angled about ten degrees forward, gripping the coffee cup two-handed. He still couldn’t stop it shaking.

‘It was real bad, sir. First they burned, then they froze.’

‘There was a fire?’

‘More like an explosion. The main building was jacked up on stilts. Something blew a hole right out of it: whole thing collapsed and burned. Like a car bomb, or a missile strike.’

He stared at his reflection in the cabin window. ‘You wouldn’t think it could burn so much in this cold.’

Franklin waited for Klein’s thoughts to settle, and made a mental note to arrange some CISM counselling for him with the Chief.

‘Any idea what caused it?’

‘There were some gas tanks — but they were a ways from the Platform.’ He knitted his fingers together around the cup and frowned. ‘To be honest, sir, it looked like high explosive.’

‘It’s plausible. Anderson — the guy from the ice — he said they did seismic blasting on the glaciers there. Something could have gone wrong.’

‘Yeah.’ Klein was looking at Franklin, but his eyes were seeing something else. ‘We found these, too.’

He held out his palm. Three copper bullet casings gleamed. ‘There was blood on the snow nearby.’

‘Did you get anything from the survivors?’

‘They weren’t in a position to talk. Frankly, they were lucky to be alive.’ His voice shook. ‘There were a lot of bodies, sir. We brought back the ones we could fit, but there’s more we’ll have to go back for.’

‘There’s no hurry, Lieutenant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

A knock at the door; Santiago came in. Klein looked grateful for the intrusion.

‘The Brits emailed photos of their Zodiac people. We’ve identified three of the bodies so far — the rest got burned too bad.’ He handed Franklin the printout, three of the photos circled in red marker. ‘Stuart Jensen. Daniel MacGregor. Francis Quam.’

Franklin scanned the rest of the pictures. ‘Where’s Anderson?’

‘They didn’t have him on file.’

‘Makes sense — he said he went there in a hurry. So who are the survivors?’

Santiago pointed. ‘These two, sir. Bob Eastman and Sean Kennedy.’

‘Can they talk?’

‘Eastman had it worse — he’s still out. Doc has him rigged up in the sickbay. But Kennedy’s OK. Well, conscious. She’s moved him to one of the staterooms to keep him comfortable.’

‘Then let’s go see what he has to tell us.’ Franklin touched Klein on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done good work, Lieutenant. Get some rest.’

It was strange meeting a man you’d just been hearing about. Stranger still when he was bandaged up like a mummy, one eye and his mouth about all you could see. Kennedy was taller and thinner than Franklin had imagined him. As much as he could tell.

He held up the bottle he’d brought from his cabin. ‘I thought you might like this. Scotch — not Irish. It’s the best we could do.’

Kennedy struggled to prop himself up.

‘It’s kind of you, Captain.’ His voice was hoarse, the Irish accent almost buried in the rasp. ‘And I don’t want you to think badly of the Irish, now — but I don’t drink.’

‘Really?’

‘A disgrace, to be sure.’

Franklin was about to say more, but decided against it. ‘My apologies.’

He put the whisky on the table and took the seat beside the bed. Santiago loitered by the door.

‘Are you able to talk? I don’t want to—’

Kennedy shook his head — as much as the bandages would allow. ‘I’m better than I look. On the outside, anyway.’

‘How did you …?’

‘Survive?’ Kennedy lapsed into a fit of coughing. ‘The luck of the Irish. Bob Eastman and I had just gone out when the explosion happened. That was what saved us. From the fire, of course — and from the cold. We had our ECW gear on, you see; none of the others did. We did what we could for them, but in that climate …’

He slumped back. ‘The ones that didn’t burn froze to death.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Franklin. It sounded inadequate; it always did.

Kennedy put out his hand. ‘Perhaps I will have that drink after all.’

Franklin splashed some whisky in a plastic cup. He thought about taking some for himself, and decided against it. He had to stay sharp.

‘I’m trying to figure out what happened at Zodiac. There are folks back in Britain and Stateside who are asking a lot of questions. If there’s anything you can tell me …’

‘I’ve spent the last five days asking myself these questions. I don’t know why it happened.’

‘I understand. But maybe if you go through what happened those last few days before the explosion, you’ll remember something.’

Kennedy’s good eye flickered towards Santiago. ‘I don’t want to take up your time, Captain. You’re a busy man, you’ve a ship to run.’

‘Just give me a second.’

He took Santiago into the corridor.

‘Keep an eye on Eastman. Tell the Doc I want to speak to him the minute he comes round. And keep tabs on Anderson, too.’

‘You think something’s up?’

‘Something very bad happened at Zodiac. Until we know what it is, I don’t want to risk it affecting my ship.’

Back in the cabin, Kennedy had put his whisky down on the table, almost untouched.

‘I’ll tell you what I can.’

The dirty secret to being the doctor at a place like Zodiac is you don’t actually have much to do. Especially outside the summer season. You’ve got maybe two dozen people, mostly young and fit, all screened for every disease under the sun before they set foot there. I had a surgery kitted out like a small hospital, a dispensary to make a pharmacist weep with envy — and all they ever needed was a few paracetamol on Sunday mornings after movie night.

But you’ve got to keep busy. Some of my predecessors dabbled in science; others painted, or wrote the novel they’d always meant to get round to. I’m a fossil man, myself: Utgard’s stuffed full of them. But there’re always odd little jobs coming up that need to be done. Because the scientists have no time, they usually land on the doctor.

Now, there’s an outfit in America called Planet Climate Action. Don’t let the name fool you: it’s actually a front for oil companies, car companies, utilities, anyone who wants to burn fossil fuels like there’s no tomorrow. They’d been getting hold of some of our data and leaking it so as to make us look bad. Quam, the base commander, had it in his head that someone at Zodiac was helping them. He asked me to find out about it.