Chapter 22
McMurdo Station
Connie caught up to Walt who was peeking out from behind the door of a Quonset building at a group of men dressed in ‘bunny suits’, the full length red coveralls that mechanics wore while working outside. All that the suit lacked was a white puff in the appropriate place to look like a child’s rabbit costume. Some ears couldn’t hurt either.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet. Just seeing what is going on right now.”
“Oh,” she said. “What is going on?”
“These guys are working on a truck. Looks like they’re almost done,” Walt said, without explaining why that was of interest.
“And?” she prodded, trying to extract more information.
“This is a workshop. The workday is almost over. Workmen hang keys on pegs, they don’t put them in their pockets,” Walt told her.
“Oh,” she said again. “So…?”
“Exactly,” he confirmed.
It was the same shop from where he had stolen the beer earlier in the season, and there was another case in the spot where the other had been, waiting for the men to finish their day. Walt felt it would be practically unforgivable to not steal it again just for humors sake, but as he was on a mission that was nearly almost legitimate from a certain point of view, he fought the temptation. He was saved by the clock striking five, and the men took the case and headed toward somewhere more comfortable to consume it.
“Let’s go,” Walt said when they were gone.
He dashed across the floor to where he saw the mechanic hang the keys and grabbed them with a swipe. Connie ran to the passenger side and slipped in. They coasted out of the garage and turned down the hill. There was still a commotion going on up the hill where Thumper had set off the explosion. While it would have been almost too easy to have gone there to get the fuel before the fire was started, it didn’t hurt that most of the attention of the station was focused up the hill. Walt drove slowly over the ash roads through the base, looking no different than any other scientist might on the edge of Antarctica.
“There should be fuel at the airstrip,” Connie said, trying to get into the spirit.
“Yeah, but it would be JP8 or DFA.”
“What the hell are those?” Connie asked.
“Jet propulsion; don’t know what the 8 is for, or diesel fuel. Arctic blend.”
“So where do they keep the gas?”
“A couple of places. Finding it isn’t a problem. It’s doing it in style that counts,” Walt said, driving around to the back of the Navy Operations Center. Next to the command post was the Captains private quarters, and by which there was a drum mounted on skis which contained fuel for his private use. It had a ball hitch on the front for towing.
“That’s better,” Walt said, driving slowly by and trying to look inconspicuous while doing recon on his target. “Much, much better.”
“No such thing as the easy way, is there?” Connie asked, her voice answering the rhetorical question for him.
“This is easy. Doesn’t make it any less fun, though.”
He circled around one more time to be sure the way was clear before backing up to the fuel barrel and attaching it to the truck. He drove away slowly, smiling broadly and waving happily to everyone they passed.