by Jack Du Brul
“Morning,” Ira Lasko called as he entered the wardroom. He went to the coffee urn before joining Mercer.
“Looks like you need to shave.”
Ira ran a hand around the circle of stubble on his otherwise bald head, and chuckled. “I’m thinking about letting it grow in. How’s the show?”
“Icebreaking’s more dramatic on television.”
“If we’d tried this even a month ago, we wouldn’t have made it anywhere near Ammassalik.”
“How do people live up here?”
“Most of the fifty thousand people on Greenland are native Inuits. While they’ve become dependent on Denmark for a lot of their supplies, I think they’d be fine if the Danes left ’em alone too.”
“I was reading a guidebook on the flight from the States that said Greenland’s Inuits can understand the native languages spoken in Alaska. They’re separated by a quarter of the world and fifteen hundred years of isolation and the languages are still recognizable. Remarkable when you consider that we need dictionaries to help us understand the subtleties of Shake-speare and he’s only been dead for five hundred years.”
“Have you listened to a teenager recently? I can barely understand them, and it’s only been a single generation.” They laughed and Lasko added, “Speaking of teenagers, I ran into Marty in the hallway next to the bathroom last night and he reeked of perfume. Looks like he’s going to have some fun even if he doesn’t want to be here.”
The dining room filled slowly as others came awake and went in search of coffee and food. Marty was one of the last to come to breakfast, and all through the meal he kept glancing over at a young German girl who was Geo-Research’s assistant camp cook. When their eyes met, the brunette would blush and look away demurely.
“Get enough sleep, Marty?” Ira teased.
Bishop looked wolfish. “No, and I don’t think I’ll get much tonight either.”
After breakfast, the Society team went back to their cabins for their parkas and then met on the deck. A steady wind blew across the ship, carrying with it the clean smell of ice and sea. The temperature was thirty-five degrees but the sun was warm. As they checked over their gear, layers of clothes were stripped away. While they were working, Werner Koenig approached to talk about the potential dangers they could face on the ice and warn them about not allowing themselves to sweat.
“If you’re away from the camp and your clothes become sweaty, your body heat will leach away so fast you’ll be dead before you know it. That goes especially for your boots. We’ll be wearing moon boots on the ice, and they heat up fast and take forever to dry out. If your boots get wet from your feet sweating, get out of them immediately or you’re going to get frostbite. It takes less time than you think, so just get back to the camp and change.” He moved on to give the same advice to Igor Bulgarin’s team.
Most of the loose equipment had been stored in the four Sno-Cats or their towed trailers. The machines were big boxy vehicles resembling tracked moving vans, painted red with a decal for Geo-Research affixed to their front doors. Their tracks were heavily notched, like a bulldozer’s, and extended beyond the cabins to give them a wide footprint that distributed their weight better over soft snow. Two of the trailers were basically boxes standing ten feet tall and about twenty-five feet long. They were painted a matching shade of red and mounted on spring-cushioned skis. The other two trailers were open and held sections of prefabricated walls for the base-camp buildings. There were also a few preloaded pallets of gear: fuel drums, floors and roofs for the buildings, the Society’s chemical heat, and crates of food that would be carried directly to Camp Decade by the rotor-stat.
“Why the hell don’t they lug all this stuff right to the site with the blimp?” Ira complained as he rooted through a trailer, looking for lengths of hose for their pump.
“Cost and insurance,” Marty said. “The rotor-stat is still experimental and its owners aren’t willing to use it to lift equipment from a ship at sea. Liability issues if something goes wrong, I imagine. That means we have to be tied up to a pier. And I guess it’s only rated to carry one Sno-Cat and trailer at a time. Fully loaded, these rigs weigh about thirty tons. Geo-Research wasn’t willing to pay for that many trips from Ammassalik to the base camp, so they decided to drive the ’Cats overland and have the rotor-stat make only a couple of runs with the fuel and the other heavy stuff. It’s a pain in the ass, but saved about fifty grand.
“And since we’re paying for the right to join their expedition,” he added, “the burden of driving the ’Cats to Camp Decade falls on us.”
“Geo-Research is sending a few of their people with us, aren’t they?” Mercer asked.
“Yeah, in case something goes wrong.”
“Hey, look at that.” Ira had a digital camera to his eye.
“What is it?”
“Land ho!” he shouted, handing the Nikon to Marty.
When it was his turn, Mercer could see a sheer rock peak smeared with snow and ice that rose from above the sea fog like a lonely sentinel. It was one of the thousands of islands that dotted Greenland’s jagged, glacier-carved coast. To the others it was an uninspiring sight, but Mercer couldn’t help but be intrigued. The rock was certainly granite, some of the toughest stone in the world, and yet it had been ground smooth over hundreds of millions of years. The tremendous pressure of Greenland’s ice sheet was a force that even the earth itself could not stop.
“That’s Kulusuk Island,” a crewman called from the bridge wing high over the deck.
“Kulusuk has an airstrip that was left over from the DEW line station on the north part of the island,” Ira Lasko said. “The old Distant Early Warning radar facility was dismantled years ago and the airport was turned over to the locals. It’s only about an hour and a half flight from Reykjavik. I think we’re pretty close to Ammassalik.”
An hour later, the Njoerd was surrounded by towering ramparts of stone as she entered Tasiilaq Bay. Here the mountains were as sharp as glass, black silhouettes that cut into the clear sky. She wasn’t the first ship of the season into the bay because a wide channel had been carved through the pack ice leading toward the town of Ammassalik. As they threaded their way deeper into the bay, they passed more bergs, twisted sculptures of ice that were as beautiful as fairy castles. The newer bergs were blindingly white, while those that had floated in the bay for a few seasons were shaded the pale blue of a natural gas flame.
The town of Ammassalik appeared off the port side. The first thing they saw was a wall of garbage sloping from the town’s dump into the sea. Behind it was a tremendous trash fire.
“Not an encouraging sight,” Erwin Puhl said. Most everyone was at the ship’s rail watching the approach.
“The natives were used to throwing garbage outside their huts,” Igor said. “Mostly bones that dogs ate. After the Danes moved them here and introduce Western packaging, they still do same thing, not knowing metal cans and plastic wrappers don’t disappear after one winter. Town used to look like junkyard. Is better this way.”
Past a clutch of huge fuel tanks, a small inlet cut into the land, and on the other side lay Ammassalik’s concrete pier backed by a large warehouse. The inlet was full of ice chunks and tired fishing boats. At its head, a stream of melt water tumbled under a bridge and poured into the bay. The town itself flanked the inlet, rising above the waters on steep hills that were dappled with snow. The houses were wood framed and colorful, as if to make up for the monochrome blandness of the surroundings. Next to most of the homes stood rickety drying racks covered with fish and chunks of seal. It was a forlorn and isolated place that sixteen hundred Inuit and a handful of Danish administrators called home.
Coming in to the dock, the ship’s air horns gave a long, mournful blast that was answered by a chorus of sled dog cries.
“Welcome to Greenland, everyone,” Werner Koenig called happily. Greta Schmidt was at his side, her blond hair shimmering like white gold. “First part of our journey is finished. The c
aptain informed me that the rotor-stat should be here in about thirty minutes, so step number two can commence. Is everyone ready?”
“The Surveyor’s Society’s all set,” Marty answered. “Equipment’s been checked and resecured.”
Werner looked to Igor. “How about it?”
“Da. Is all good.”
“Excellent. I’ve been asked to have everyone leave the ship or stay in the wardroom until the Sno-Cats and Land Cruiser have been carried up to the ice sheet. I’ve posted a manifest in the wardroom so you’ll know which ’Cat is yours for the trek to Camp Decade. Since the rotor-stat is still considered experimental, she’s not allowed to carry passengers. We’ll use helicopters to get us to the ice.”
Mercer unzipped the nylon shell he wore and plucked a pair of brand-new polarized sunglasses from an inside pocket. “I can’t wait to see this,” he said to no one in particular. Both Ira Lasko and Marty Bishop gave him a smile. His excitement about the rotor-stat was infectious.
The airship arrived on schedule, announcing its approach with a deep droning sound that echoed off the bay for ten minutes before it floated into view. There was a defiant serenity to the mammoth dirigible, as if it was immune to the laws of gravity. Unlike the squashed-looking Goodyear blimps, the rotor-stat was torpedo shaped but flattened along her top and bottom. At over four hundred feet long, she was also twice the length of a blimp. Her bow was shaped like a shark’s snout, and her tail had a long taper that supported four cruciform fins. Because of her partial internal skeleton, the four streamlined engine pods were mounted along her flank so that noise and vibration wouldn’t disturb those in the twenty-passenger gondola slung under her nose. The carbon-fiber skin was white, which made her look like a cloud. She was so new exhaust had yet to darken the sections behind the engines.
It was an unworldly sight and Mercer felt himself grinning as her shadow crept along the bay like an advancing ink stain.
“Jesus!” Ira exclaimed. “That’s something you don’t see every day.”
“More’s the shame,” Mercer said.
The expedition members joined a growing throng of awestruck locals on the pier when the rotor-stat came to a hover above the Njoerd, her engine pods transitioning from forward flight to station’s keeping. With the pods tilted skyward, her massive props beat the air like a helicopter’s, but until she took on a cargo load her 1.2 million cubic feet of helium kept her aloft.
The rotor-stat maintained enough altitude so the mooring rope dangling from her nose would not interfere with the heavy steel cables that were lowered from the cargo bay amidships. Deckhands on the research ship quickly secured the four cables to the skid placed under the first Sno-Cat and trailer, coordinating their efforts with the airship’s pilot via walkie-talkie. When the signal was given, the throb of the rotor-stat’s engines deepened as her twenty-five-foot blades took greater bites out of the air. The slack in the lines vanished and the cables vibrated with the strain of the thirty-ton load. As gently as a mother raising a child from a crib, the airship lifted the tracked vehicle from the deck.
A gasp went up from the crowd, and the expedition members cheered. The rotor-stat continued to climb vertically. The Sno-Cat was too big to be drawn fully into her hold, so it continued to hang about twenty feet below the dirigible. She pivoted in place, pointing her nose westward, toward the main bulk of Greenland. In unison, the engine pods tilted forward, giving the great ship some forward momentum while still providing lift. It was then that Mercer realized her hull was shaped like an airfoil that would provide supplemental lift at speed, vastly improving her fuel efficiency.
To the west, a wall of mountains three thousand feet tall separated Ammassalik island from the Greenland massif. The rotor-stat steered for a notch in the mountains, gaining altitude and speed with each passing moment. In ten minutes she was lost from view.
“They’ll be back for the second Sno-Cat in less than an hour,” Werner told them. “The top of the Hann glacier is our staging area on the mainland. It’s only about twenty miles away.”
“Provided nothing goes wrong,” Marty said, “that puts everything in place at seven tonight. Bit late to start out, don’t you think?”
“I’ve already considered that. We’ll sleep on the Njoerd tonight and head out tomorrow at dawn. The small advance team leaving from Reykjavik will arrive a day ahead of us, which gives them more than enough time to set up the first building we will use until everything else is constructed.”
“Once the base is habitable you’ll send for the rest of your scientists?” Mercer asked.
Werner nodded. “It’ll take about two days to put together our buildings and stow the provisions. And then your obligation to us is completed and you can begin to unearth Camp Decade and Dr. Bulgarin and his people can begin their own research.”
The rotor-stat returned to Ammassalik for the last time at 10:30 P.M., having made its first of two runs to Camp Decade two hundred miles north of the town. The floors and roofs of the base buildings were too bulky for the Sno-Cats and had to be flown up. The last trip was to haul food, the hotrocks, and the fuel. Then the airship would head back to Europe. It would return in September when the entire base was to be dismantled by order of the Danish government.
Mercer was on deck when the airship faded into the twilight. He’d been watching a white smear of light clinging to the distant mountains. He knew instinctively that it was the reflection of the setting sun on the vast ice sheet. He felt a deep pull in his chest and was more relaxed than he’d been in a long time.
When he was prospecting in the field, Mercer was always the expedition leader, and he was forced to deal with the hundreds of details that cropped up on a daily basis. It wasn’t an ego issue. He actually preferred to fade into the background. But when a mining company was paying him thousands of dollars a day, sitting back wasn’t an option. They expected results. On this trip, it was refreshing not to have that kind of responsibility. Mercer wouldn’t have to deal with the burden of command. That fell on Werner Koenig, who seemed more than qualified to handle any emergencies, and Marty Bishop, who was starting to show interest.
Mercer took a deep breath, feeling the burn of icy air in his lungs. It was so clean it left his head spinning for an instant. This was one of those moments of pure happiness, a precious and rare feeling that he savored with each moment it lasted. He laughed aloud as the glow of reflected light faded to blue and then vanished altogether.
HANN GLACIER, GREENLAND
Standing atop one of the Sno-Cats so his view wouldn’t be interrupted, Mercer swept the vista with a pair of binoculars. Except maybe on the ocean, he couldn’t imagine a place with a more distant horizon. The line between ice and sky was as straight as a laser beam. It was only to the east, toward the coast twenty miles away, that the line blurred just slightly as the massive glacier began its three-thousand-foot plummet to the sea. To the west lay 850,000 square miles of frozen nothingness.
Now that the Alpha Air JetRanger had shuttled the last of the team to the glacier and flown back to the heliport at Ammassalik, an eerie silence descended over the clutch of vehicles. The occasional muttered word sounded as out of place and blasphemous as a curse in a cathedral. The wind was a constant whisper not even strong enough to stir snow off the ground, but the temperature was ten degrees below freezing. Mercer kept his hands gloved and the hood of his nylon shell pulled tightly over his head. Beneath it was his leather jacket, a sweatshirt, and two T-shirts. Over his long underwear and jeans, he wore nylon overpants and insulated hiking boots. Since they’d be driving for the next twenty hours or so, he didn’t need the heavier Arctic gear packed in his luggage, including the pair of padded moon boots.
Ira Lasko was at the back of the Sno-Cat making sure their ground-penetrating radar sled was secured for the rough overland trek. “What was that line about the moon? ‘Magnificent desolation’? Something like that?”
Mercer lowered the binoculars. “I’ve been on a few glaciers in Alas
ka, but nothing like this.” There was awe in his voice. The variety and beauty of the earth’s geography never failed to amaze him.
“They say if the ice covering Greenland were to melt, sea levels around the world would rise about twenty-five feet.”
“You’re forgetting that the weight of this much ice has actually sunk the interior of Greenland about a thousand feet below sea level. The oceans would rise twenty feet, and this place would become the basin for the largest freshwater lake in the world.”
“Last time I trade trivia with a geologist,” Ira muttered good-naturedly.
Laughing, Mercer scrambled down the ladder bolted to the back of the Sno-Cat. “Anytime you want, you can stump me about submarines.”
Tall marker flags had been attached to the lifting pallets so when the Sno-Cats returned to be retrieved by the rotor-stat, they could be found under the new snowfall certain to bury them. Werner Koenig also got a fix from a handheld GPS and wrote the satellite-derived coordinates into a notebook he carried in his parka. “We’re ready to go.”
“Let’s saddle up,” Marty bellowed and gave a cavalryman’s closed-fist gesture.
The Toyota Land Cruiser would drive point, since it was the most maneuverable and fuel-efficient vehicle in the convoy. Geo-Research had hired a former European rally racing champion named Dieter to drive it. Werner, Greta, and Igor Bulgarin, who had the most experience on the ice out of anyone on the expedition, would ride with him. Their job was to scout for the easiest routes when the ground became too broken.
The Surveyor’s Society team was assigned to the first Sno-Cat and each member would take turns driving it. The vehicle’s controls were nearly the same as any truck with the exception of the steering wheel. To change directions, the ’Cats had levers that activated brakes on the tracks.