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I yank the fur ruff over my head like a battle helm as a thin cloud stretches over the hut on the distant nunatak. If that’s how Antarctica’s playing her game, fine. My final glimpse of cold sunlight indicates I have four hours before polar nightfall. Four hours until the Army drone passes over to scope my location for rescue. Four hours to discover what happened to Kierce and prove to the CIA that he didn’t desert his mission, didn’t desert me. Operatives are taught early on to view time as an asset. The cables above the pods vanish into