Ice Station Zebra by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

the British trawler _Morning Star_, the vessel that picked up the previous broadcast. Message stated that Major Halliwell, Officer Commanding, and three others, unnamed, critically injured or dead, no indication who or how many of the four are dead. Others, number again unknown, suffering severely from burns and exposure. Some message about food and fuel, atmospheric conditions and weakness in transmission made it quite indecipherable. Understood from very garbled signal that survivors in one hut unable to move because of weather. Words "ice storm" clearly picked up. Apparent details of wind speed and temperature, but unable to make out.
      _Morning Star_ several times attempted contact Drift Station Zebra immediately afterward. No acknowledgment.
      _Morning Star_, at request of British Admiralty, has abandoned fishing grounds and is moving closer in to Barrier to act as listening post. Message ends.

      I folded the paper and handed it back to Swanson. He said again, "Sorry about this, Carpenter."
      "Critically injured or dead," I said. "In a burnt-out station on the ice cap in winter, what's the difference?" My voice fell upon my ears as the voice of another man, a voice flat and lifeless, a voice empty of all emotion. "Johnny Halliwell and three of his men. Johnny Halliwell. Not the kind of man you would meet often, Commander. A remarkable man. Left school at fifteen, when his parents died, to devote himself to the support of a brother eight years younger than himself. He saved, he scraped, he sacrificed, he devoted many of the best years of his life to doing everything for his younger brother, including putting him through a six-year university course. Not till then did he think of himself, not till then did he get married. He leaves a lovely wife and three marvelous kids. Two nieces and a nephew not yet six months old."
      "Two nieces--" He broke off and stared at me. "Good God, your brother? _Your_ brother?" He didn't, for the moment, seem to find anything peculiar in the difference of surname.
      I nodded silently. Young Lieutenant Raeburn approached us, an odd expression of anxiety on his face, but Swanson abruptly waved him away without even glancing in his direction. He shook his head slowly and was still shaking it when I said abruptly: "He's tough. He may be one of the survivors. He may live. We must get Drift Station Zebra's position. We _must_ get it."
      "Maybe they haven't got it themselves," Swanson said. I could see that he was grateful for something to talk about. "It _is_ a drifting station, remember. The weather being what it is, it may have been days since they got their last fixes, and for all we know, their sextants, chronometers and radio direction finders have been lost in the fire."
      "They must know what their latest fix was, even though it was a week ago. They must have a fairly accurate idea of the speed and direction of their drift. They'll be able to provide approximate data. The _Morning Star_ must be told to keep transmitting non-stop with a continuous request for their position. If you surface now, can you contact the _Morning Star?_"
      "I doubt it. The trawler must be the best part of a thousand miles north of us. His receiver wouldn't be big enough to pull us in--which is another way of saying that our transmitter is too small."
      "The B.B.C. have -plenty of transmitters that are big enough. So have the Admiralty. Please ask one or the other to contact the _Morning Star_ and ask it to make a continuous send for Zebra's position."
      "They could do that themselves direct."
      "Sure they could. But they couldn't hear the reply. The _Morning Star_ can--if there's any reply. And she's getting closer to them all the time."
      "We'll surface now," Swanson nodded. He turned away from the chart table we'd been standing beside and headed for the diving stand. As he passed the plotting table