Chapter 5
Beardmore Glacier Camp
Trans-Antarctic Mountain Range
Susan Engen awoke to the sound of turbo jet engines whirling, and the screeching abrasion of skis bearing the weight of the C-130 vibrating through the snow pack. As loud as it was and as close, it sounded as if it were going to crush her tiny nylon tent; it still took a moment to break through the drug-induced haze. At first, she was confused as to how she came to be in that state at all until she tried to sit up and the injuries that had by then stiffened made their presence known, and she fell back into her bag.
“Oh, God!” she said, in a tone more of disgust than actual entreaty. “How could this happen?”
She didn’t wait for an answer; besides, she already knew, and forced herself to sit up. Dressing was excruciating, but she was goaded on by the cold that she was affected by far more markedly than she would have been because of the injuries and the drug hangover. When she was finally ready, she stepped out into the glare of the sun reflecting off the snow that blinded her in spite of the glacier glasses she wore. She managed to negotiate her way to the hut and entered it.
The incoming passengers from the flight were already inside. She saw Dr. Atkinson with Arthur Fredricks, the Polar Program director. Nearby were Alistair Adams and Dr. Daniels. Her grad students, Connie and Walt, had made the flight and they came to her as soon as they saw her. They had already heard about her fall.
As they expressed their concern and inquires as to her condition, she noticed a man who had come in on the flight, standing alone. His clothing set him apart right away. He wasn’t wearing the red parka and black cargo pants of the civilians, nor was he in the green-on-green of the Navy. He had on a parka that was not dissimilar to her own, only it was new and bore insignias that she could not recognize from across the room. He saw her looking at him, and nodded to her with a smile that seemed friendly enough, but left the distinct impression that he knew a great deal about her, while she hadn’t any idea who he might be.
After greeting her students and assuring them she was fine, she went to the coffee pot where she found Jake watching the activity from the back of the room.
“How’s my patient?” he asked, solicitously.
“Lousy,” she answered, but with enough caffeine, felt that improvement could be on the horizon.
“I figured as much,” he said, nodding. “Able to sleep at all?”
“With all of that stuff that I took, that shouldn’t have been a problem,” she said. “Woke up a lot, though.” She adjusted the sling that he had given her.
“I believe it,” he said, continuing to look over the new arrivals.
Susan refilled the cup and then went and found Dr. Atkinson, who was still with Dr. Fredricks.
“Morning, Steven, Arthur,” she greeted them.
“Hello, Susan,” Dr. Atkinson said for both of them. “We were just hearing about your accident. I’m glad you’re not badly injured.”
She wasn’t sure how badly injured she was, or wasn't, but saying so was not an option. Dr. Fredricks would insist that she return to McMurdo for a thorough evaluation, and that could lead to a flight back to New Zealand. No. She would deal with it later. Besides, the worst it could be was torn ligaments or cartilage, and other than surgery, there wasn’t much to do about that but rest, and rest wasn’t an option, either.
“Thank you,” she said, then changing the subject, “Are my crates on board?"
“Already unloaded,” Dr. Fredricks said, with convivial geniality. The NSF, though made up of scientists, was a government entity, which in this scenario, served primarily as the host. They set everything up for the PI’s to come and do their work. Once they were on location, all the NSF had to do was to leave them alone. It was difficult for the former scientist to do; he was left with the vicarious conceit of pretending that he was a part of the groups working on the continent in order not to feel like an outsider in his own program. The PI’s all politely played along.
“Do we know what happened?” she asked.
Dr. Atkinson looked accusingly at Dr. Fredricks, who in spite of his scientific background, was still a fully capable political operator.
“Yes, we do,” he told her, his persona making the subtle shift from the affable host to one burdened with grave and consequential issues. “As soon as the Captain comes in from the aircraft, we will be discussing that.”
“We need to discuss something?” Susan asked, putting aside the suggestion that she wait. “I thought it was a simple error.”
“And I apologize for misleading you in that fashion,” Dr. Fredricks said, in full bureaucratic mode now. “But it was necessary.”
“Steven,” she said, turning toward Dr. Atkinson, “what is all the mystery about?”
“You will know in a minute,” he replied. “There have been some changes to the roster of projects working from our camp this summer.”
“Oh,” Susan told him. “I guess that doesn’t really matter now that we’re up to speed.”
He chose not to answer and she didn’t press him. Another scientist using the camp wasn’t such a big deal. The door opened then and the Captain entered the hut. He strode in purposefully, wearing a flight jacket rather than the green parkas the rest of his crew wore. As Captain of the flight squadron that supported the Antarctic Program, he was also the Skipper of McMurdo Station. The Captain was in charge of all military operations, which were only there to support the NSF, but their presence there was steeped in tradition from the days of Admiral Byrd. He nodded to Dr. Fredrick as he spoke.
“They’re not happy about it,” he said, “but they’ll live.”
He had just told the passengers who were en route to the South Pole and then to Vostok that they had to stay on board. They wanted to visit the camp since the plane had stopped anyway.
“Okay, then, let’s start,” Dr. Fredrick said, before calling for everyone in the room to offer their attention.
“I don’t know how much news you all have received out here about the situation in the Middle East. It’s been developing quickly, so what I say may already be out of date, but this is what we know. Iran has fallen into the hands of the fundamentalists in a revolution that has overthrown the Shah. They have taken the American embassy hostage and there are rumors that they will announce that the hostages will stand trial for ‘crimes.’ Iraq is already probing the Iranian defenses and an attack is widely anticipated.”
He paused for a moment and looked at the Captain, who kept silent, so he continued. “It would be really hard to know whom to back in that fight. Iran hates us because we supported the Shah. Iraq is bent on conquest. Hussein has imperial ambitions.”
“That is correct,” the Captain agreed, jumping in now. “This is way worse than '73, if for no other reason than we are directly involved this time. There is a new element to all of this, too. Before now, Byzantine-type kings, sultans, caliphs, and whoever ruled the region. Then we had military dictators, like Hussein taking power. Now we have religious fanatics toppling the regimes. All three have two things in common. They are the worst kinds of sons of bitches, and they keep themselves in power by keeping their own people impoverished and hopped up on religion. Appears that this time, it bit them in the ass. There is not one democratically elected government in the region, except the Israelis, and there is, obviously, little hope of their talking reason to these fruitcakes.”
Susan settled down with Connie and Walt as Dr. Fredrick began to speak. She was still significantly cross-eyed, and force-feeding herself the black coffee, actively and earnestly prayed for the latest round of painkillers to take effect quickly. Not really paying attention, she had heard all about the situation on the news before deploying to the ice, until the last part.
“Wait a minute,” she said, her inherently factious and contrarian nature shifting into automatic response. “First of all, whom do you think you have to thank for that? We supported a brutal, repressive regime for no other reason than
because they were opposed to the Communists. Now you are unhappy that those people who suffered under him don’t like us for that? Thanks for the news, but you didn’t exactly need to come all the way out here to tell us that.”
The Captain looked at Dr. Fredrick, who looked embarrassed.
“Susan, when you submitted your proposal to the foundation for a research grant, you hypothesized about certain geological formations you expected to find here,” Dr. Fredrick said, carefully phrasing his answer in scientific terms. “A hypothesis based on previous findings, as well as what one might theorize, based on what has been discovered in similar locations.”
“Yes, that’s right,” she said, her brain still moving a step slow, but with growing unrest.
“Some of the things you suggested that you might find were mineral concentrations and fossil fuels. You said that there was a likelihood of super-concentrations of oil somewhere between here and the Ross Sea.”
“I specifically said that there was a great likelihood of some concentrations, a good chance of significant deposits, and a reasonable expectation that there may be large caches, but that was the merest speculation based on mathematical probability,” she said, backpedalling on the meaning of her hypothesis. “There is no evidence to support that supposition.”
“Not yet,” Dr. Fredrick pointed out.
“No, not yet,” she allowed. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with what is going on in Iran.”
It was, however, apparent to all that she knew exactly what it had to do with it. They could see the emotions all trying to take hold at once: fear, anger, consternation. She was waiting for someone to say something to somehow mitigate the blasphemy she thought she was hearing. Dr. Fredrick looked relieved when the Captain handled it.
“What this has to do with that,” the Captain said, “is that we are now in full crisis mode. Despots and fanatics are positioning themselves to dictate our strategic destiny to us, and that is unacceptable. If the opportunity to locate and mine a new source of oil exists, then we need to do that now.”
The statement brought a general uproar in the room. Dr. Fredrick jumped to his feet.
“Whoa, there, everybody. Hang on! That is not what is going to happen, at least not until a whole lot of other things happen first. All we are going to do this season is to see if we can identify possible locations and amounts. Then we will see what will happen next.”
“So how are you planning to do that?” Susan Engen demanded, her voice brittle. She forced herself to be calm. The plan she had laid out for herself was more than merely being threatened. She was now keenly aware that she was personally and directly responsible for this unfolding disaster. Her research, which was supposed to demonstrate why the continent needed to be protected, was now being used as an excuse for its demise.
“That is what I’m for,” the person she noticed earlier, with the insignia-clad coat said, smiling mildly. “Let me tell you all a little about myself. I am Lieutenant Richards. I’m in the Air Force, assigned to a research project with NASA, which has loaned me to the NSF to come here.”
The calm tone he employed helped to quiet the uniformly agitated group he was addressing. The announcement that he did research for NASA piqued the interest of the science community enough that they were willing to listen for the moment.
“What I do for NASA involves exploring the possibility of a future lunar station, and though that would not come to fruition for quite some time, the process is in place to work out the details of how it could. My role is to design systems to locate and exploit existing resources, such as ice, to use for water as well as separating the materials for breathable air and fuel for propulsion. It is assumed that seismology would play a part in that exploration, and that is why I have been sent here to help with this project.”
The opiates were finally starting to take effect on Susan’s badly damaged tendons. While reducing the considerable pain, they also helped to take the edge off her suddenly frazzled nerves. They also served to soften her inhibitions, and she found herself girding up for battle.
“Maybe the technology exists for that type of precision on the moon,” Susan interrupted him with, “but I assure you, it doesn’t here on earth. I know that much at least. When you say ‘explore’ for oil, that means drilling. And, there is no way, no matter how much is discovered, that this could be economically feasible. The technology to even extract it doesn’t exist.”
She said this in the full knowledge that this was exactly what could be done, and why she had committed herself to stopping it.
“True,” the Lieutenant conceded, “and I assure you that no one is going to take these steps unless there is a very good chance that the oil is actually there.”
“Economically speaking,” the Captain said, taking over again, “you are partially right. Normally, we would allow a free market to decide when and how to explore. This is a security and strategic concern now. The government will make the decision, and contract and subsidize the operation after that.”
Dr. Atkinson had listened quietly so far. He was the chief scientist and there were things he needed to know.
“All right then. I take it the government has decided to do this, at least this far, or else Dr. Fredrick and the NSF would not have pulled all this together so quickly.”
Dr. Fredrick nodded vehemently, grateful for the opportunity to get off the hook a bit. It was no secret where the science community stood on matters such as these.
“How is this supposed to impact our field season here? Our resources are slim; time is precious. What exactly is it that you want from us?”
Dr. Fredrick handled it. “We are going to leave Lt. Richards here,” he said, sensing that the worst was over. All things considered, it looked like they were taking it well. “He has equipment and materials already on station. He and Dr. Engen will work together. The places described in her grant to be explored are also the prime locations the government wants to get data on.”
“What?”Susan exploded. She jumped out of her chair, knocking it over. “You are going to detour my project for… for this?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Fredrick said. “The Lieutenant will just tag along and do his work at the same time.”
This picturesque description elicited a small smile from the Lieutenant.
“ No. No way. You are not going to use my hypothesis as the excuse to destroy the ecology. No way!” she repeated adamantly.
“Susan, I really don’t think that is going to happen - at least I hope not,” Dr. Fredrick said, turning a sharp glance at the Captain. “We will truly appreciate your help. You have two more years on your grant, and I will do everything I can to make sure you get whatever you need for the remaining two years.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped. Two more years. It suddenly occurred to her that there was a threat veiled in that statement. Don’t help and there may not be another two years. She considered her position. For the first time in years, she was speechless. Her grant meant everything to her. By defending the environment, she was now going to lose her grant? She had the presence of mind to close her mouth and keep it closed. She nodded once and looked away.
“Okay then,” Dr. Fredrick said, clapping his hands as though he was breaking up a huddle.
“I thought that the treaty prohibited this sort of thing - that the whole continent was preserved for scientific research,” Dr. Daniels said, also trying to grasp the enormity of what he had just heard. He had been brought partially up to speed on the trip out from McMurdo by Dr. Atkinson, despite the firm admonition not to. A communications blackout was in effect, and in Dr. Atkinson's case, that applied to conversation as well.
“You are half right,” Dr. Fredrick allowed. “The treaty allows everyone equal access to information and to pursue their research, but it does not discount territorial claims. It does not address material resources at all. Deliberately, I think. It is my understanding that the United States would not allow langu
age of that type to be included, not wanting to preclude that eventuality. There are no provisions against mining. The issues will be about sovereignty, not exploitation.”
“Sovereignty?” Dr. Daniels asked.
“Absolutely,” Dr. Atkinson said, taking up the point and nodding thoughtfully. “While there are no prohibitions excluding the extraction of mineral wealth, there may be disputes regarding one’s rights to the claim itself.”
“The Kiwis claim this section,” Alistair reflected out loud. “And they are part of the Commonwealth. Are you planning on stealing our oil?”
“And the treaty neither confirms nor denies those claims,” Dr. Atkinson continued, ignoring the question. “It merely puts the topic on hold. It is ambiguous. If this were to proceed, the most likely outcome would be that someone would either contest the claim because they want it for themselves, or they would try to stop it simply because it goes against their interests.”
“The Russians,” Dr. Daniels suggested, which got a raised eyebrow from the Captain.
“This turmoil has to benefit them,” the Captain said. “They have as much oil as the Arab countries, but are so backward in their ability to extract it, that it can’t be profitable to export. When the price of oil spikes, they suddenly see something they’re desperate for, hard currency. I would expect them to contest our rights here, fiercely. The longer we can go without their becoming aware of our intentions, the better.”
Susan looked up sharply at that last statement, but said nothing. She had grown increasingly accustomed to the idea of being a driving force in the protection of the environment, only to find in the last moments that she had unwittingly managed to arrange for its demise. Now, a new strategy was starting to form. All, perhaps, may not be lost after all, she thought.
There was quiet in the hut as everyone tried to grasp the new reality they were faced with. It seemed like an opportune moment for Dr. Fredricks and the Captain to make their escape.
“We had better get going,” Dr. Fredricks said to Dr. Atkinson, making a sign to the Captain. “We have a group going to the Pole on board. Then we are making a call at Vostok on the way back, to drop off one of our people to assist the French there this summer.”
With a warning to all to keep silent about what they had just learned, they left.
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 9