Beneath the Ice

by Alton Gansky

  “Antarctica looks cold to you?” Perry said. “You are a sensitive soul.”

  “Even Canada was warm.”

  “Spring is just ending in Canada, my friend. Down here winter is just around the corner.”

  “That I know,” Jack said. “Like I said, I don’t like the cold, and it’s only going to get colder.”

  “That’s why we have to work fast,” Perry said, leaning back in his seat. “We have to leave before winter sets in, or we’ll be stuck down here for more months than I care to think about.”

  A whining noise filled the long bay in which they sat. “We’re descending,” Jack noted. He looked at his watch. “Right on time. These flyboys are punctual.”

  A voice came from behind them. “That’s because the sooner they land this beast and unload, the sooner they get to go back to McMurdo.” The passenger who’d spoken rose and stepped into the narrow aisle formed by the cargo boxes that ran the long axis of the aircraft.

  “I thought you were sleeping, Commander,” Perry said.

  “I was, but that last bounce told me that I had too much coffee—if you catch my drift. I’m gonna hit the head before we land.” Commander Trent Larimore, United States Navy, passed a hand over his thin face. Two years older than Perry, Larimore had dark hair lightened by too much gray for a man his age.

  “Better make it quick, sir,” a fresh-faced young man said, making his way back from the front of the large plane. He was the loadmaster for the trip. “The skipper wants everyone in their seats. We’ve begun our descent.”

  “Never fear,” Larimore said. “Semper paratus.” He moved aft, leaving the young loadmaster looking puzzled.

  “Always prepared,” Perry translated.

  The young man nodded and moved along the aisle repeating the information about landing.

  “I should have asked him for peanuts,” Jack said. “He’d make a good flight attendant.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Perry replied. “You might hurt his feelings.”

  “I thought the navy handled these flights,” Jack said. “Or at least the air force.”

  “The navy used to, but they stopped in 1999. These days the New York Air National Guard handles supply flights. They were available, so we arranged a ride.”

  “Frankly, I’m tired of riding. The sooner they put wheels—I mean, skids—down, the better.”

  Perry agreed. He had tired of sitting and was ready to exchange the crowded cargo plane for some open air. He thought about the work before them, the task they had been retained to do—something never done before. The familiar mix of anticipation and anxiety stewed in Perry. It was a sensation he had come to love, and one he had felt on many occasions. It was what made him feel alive.

  As vice president and senior project manager, Perry had traveled the world for Sachs Engineering, an international construction company founded by his father decades before. Since 1975 Sachs Engineering had erected buildings and structures across the globe, many for Western governments. Secrecy was a valuable commodity, and Perry’s father, Henry Sachs, knew how to market it. When a situation demanded nontraditional construction—such as underground facilities—Sachs Engineering was often the first called.

  Perry had never known another job. He worked on small, local projects while in high school and filled summers off from college working in deserts, swamps, and on mountainsides. He worked his way up through the ranks. Being Henry Sachs’s only child bought him no favors. Dad insisted that advancement came with experience, education, and production. That was fine with Perry.

  “Look at Gleason,” Jack said, nodding forward. “I’ll bet he’s read that file a dozen times since we went airborne.”

  “Did you expect otherwise?” Perry asked, and Jack shook his head.

  Gleason Lane was the head techie of the group. He specialized in making electronic equipment do more than designers imagined. Like Perry and Jack, Gleason was an MIT graduate. While Perry took a degree in architecture, and Jack a degree in civil engineering, Gleason had studied computer science. It didn’t take him long after graduation to realize that pounding computer keys in a cubicle wasn’t for him. Perry arranged a field job for him, something at which he excelled. His reputation had made him a much sought after consultant.

  “We’re asking him to do the impossible,” Perry continued. “Of course, he’d be offended if we asked anything else.”

  “So what did you promise his wife this time?” Jack asked. Perry and Jack had remained unmarried. They traveled to places they couldn’t discuss to do work they couldn’t explain—and not return home for six months. It was difficult to keep a woman interested in that kind of relationship.

  Gleason, on the other hand, had married during his senior year in college and now had two preteen children. Any time Perry required Gleason to leave home for more than two weeks, he sent gifts to the family. Fortunately, Gleason was seldom required to be gone as long as Perry and Jack. He came in, did his work, and left. It took less time to set up a computer system than it took to tunnel out a mountain or build a bombproof building.

  “I sent the kids a new video game player and got the missus a DVD recorder. That way she can record all the shows she likes to watch with Gleason.”

  “She’s an understanding woman,” Jack said. “Not many around like her.”

  “Feeling lonely in your old age?”

  “Old? I’m a good deal younger than you, Pops.”

  “Three months cannot be defined as ‘a good deal younger,’ not even in your world.”

  “Yeah? Well, at least I’m still pretty. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “The only thing pretty on this flight is Sarah Hardy, and you ain’t her.”

  “Ah, the lovely NASA robotics expert,” Jack said with a smile. “Thinking of asking her out for dinner and a movie?”

  “For the next few weeks, dinner will be coming out of a can or plastic pouch. And as for movies, I didn’t think to pack a theater.”

  “Just as well. You know how you are around women.”

  Perry looked at his friend. “And just how am I around women?”

  “You know, tongue-tied, intimidated, and—let’s be honest—you can be a little irritating.”

  “Not me, buddy. I’m as soothing as hand lotion.”

  “I believe last year a certain small-town mayor named Anne Fitzgerald planted the palm of her hand on the side of your face.”

  “She tried, but failed,” Perry rebutted. He had met Anne in Tejon, California, the previous year. She had been a problem from the beginning, interfering with a project that Perry was doing his best to keep undercover. Before it was all over, she had saved his life and he hers.

  “Do you still see her?” Jack asked.

  “From time to time,” Perry said, but offered no more. The truth was, there was nothing more to offer. She had continued on with her mayoral duties, and he had gone back to Seattle, then to Japan for an extended period.

  “Did I miss anything, gentlemen?” Larimore asked as he returned to his seat.

  “Just the in-flight movie,” Jack quipped.

  “Yeah, right,” Larimore said. “I wasn’t gone that long.”

  The plane banked left and continued its descent. The loadmaster was making a final check of the onboard crates, inspecting the lines and cargo netting.

  “Doesn’t seem right,” Jack said, “a plane this large with this much equipment landing on ice. Doesn’t seem natural.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Larimore said. “I’ve been in these things when they’ve landed on sea ice only six feet thick. Ice is incredibly strong. It’s done all the time.”

  “Thanks. I feel better now,” Jack said.

  “Sarcasm,” Larimore said. “I recognize it.”

  “Jack never outgrew it,” Perry said.

  The conversation lulled as the plane dropped through the cloudless sky toward the barren continent of ice. Perry stole another look out the window and was glad he was not the pilot. They were f
lying over a featureless terrain that made determining altitude impossible. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  It seemed a good time to pray.

  Touchdown was as smooth as any Perry had experienced, except for the unusual sensation of the plane moving along on its skids. Instead of the roaring of rubber wheels against fluted concrete runway, he heard the whisper of a quiet gliding action.

  The engines powered down, and a few moments later, the loadmaster appeared again. “Time to open the door, folks,” he said, and a chorus of groans greeted him. The nearly 250-foot-long C-5 was capable of carrying 270,000 pounds of cargo. They had come close to that, and this was the second flight in. An earlier flight had landed on-site two weeks before to set up crew quarters, communications, and monitoring equipment. Now Perry and his team would begin their work.

  Commander Larimore led the exit, followed closely by Perry, Jack, Gleason, and Dr. Sarah Hardy. Larimore’s team of navy personnel poured out a moment later.

  It was a different world.

  It was a painful world.

  Perry had tried to prepare himself for the moment. He had read everything he could find and had been briefed by experts on Antarctic conditions. Mental preparation was one thing; experiencing the harsh reality was something else.

  Perry and the others wore clothing designed for the subzero conditions, but he immediately felt frozen to the marrow. He walked down the ramp that lowered from the rear of the C-5 and strolled from beneath the tail that towered six stories above the ice.

  His heart pounded; his breathing was irregular. He caught himself panting. His lungs hurt, and his lips burned. A slight wind blew past his face, fluttering the fur lining of his parka hood. The breeze felt like a thousand razor blades across his skin.

  “I . . . hate . . . the . . . cold,” Jack whispered.

  Perry tried to respond but only managed a nod.

  In front of them a wide dome rose fifteen feet from the surface, as well as two large structures that looked like cargo boxes on steroids. All three buildings were flown in on the previous C-5. A door opened in the dome, and two figures garbed in dark blue snowsuits approached. They walked with their heads down until they stood before the gathering.

  “Good day,” one of them said. He seemed unbothered by the cold. “I’m Dr. Griffin James, chief scientist for this project. Welcome to the bottom of the earth.” He threw his arms wide. The other figure stood a few feet to his right and a couple of steps behind. “This is my sister, Dr. Gwen James. She is our associate director, so you’ll want to treat her well.”

  “I’m Perry Sachs—”

  “You may have noticed that it’s a little chilly here,” Dr. James went on. “That’s to be expected. You’re not far from the place where the coldest temperature was ever recorded—a negative 89.2 degrees Celsius. That’s 128.6 degrees below zero to you nonmetric folks. It makes today seem positively balmy, doesn’t it?”

  The weather didn’t feel mild to Perry. He felt frozen. His legs were beginning to shake.

  “Dr. James—” Perry began again. His lungs tightened, and his chest began to hurt.

  “By now you may have noticed that your lungs hurt,” Dr. James continued. “That’s because of the altitude. You are standing on the highest, driest, coldest, windiest, and emptiest place on the planet. Beneath your feet is 70 percent of our planet’s fresh water, and below that—well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We’re at over twelve thousand feet above sea level. Not much oxygen, just extreme cold and mildly filtered ultraviolet light. Be sure and wear sunblock when tanning.” He laughed at his own joke. He laughed alone.

  Perry turned to look behind him. Heavily garbed men, the men assigned to Larimore, unloaded the plane. They worked efficiently. Most, he knew, would be returning with the plane as soon as they had finished offloading everything. For a moment he envied them.

  “If you develop headaches, dizziness, disorientation, then tell Gwen immediately. She’s our paramedic. Altitude sickness can be a serious problem. Most of you will adjust just fine.”

  Perry drew a ragged breath, and then said, “Dr. James, may we go inside?” He motioned toward the large, squat geodesic dome.

  “I’m not finished,” Dr. James protested. “As chief scientist, I am in charge of this operation. Questions and comments should be directed to me, and no work should be commenced without my approval.”

  “Who does this guy think he is?” Jack whispered.

  Dr. James stopped and directed hard eyes at Jack. “Who do I think I am?”

  “Uh-oh,” Jack said.

  “Five minutes on the ice and you’re already in trouble with the teacher,” Gleason chided.

  “You’re John Dyson, right?” Dr. James asked with clipped words.

  “Everyone calls me Jack.” Perry saw his friend flash his best winning smile.

  “Everyone calls me Dr. James and—”

  “That’s it,” Larimore snapped. “If it’s all right with you, Perry, I’m going in.”

  “I haven’t dismissed anyone,” Dr. James said.

  “Listen, little man,” Larimore said. “As a military man, I’m well acquainted with chain of command. According to my orders, Mr. Sachs is in charge, not you.”

  “I’m the chief scientist—”

  “So you keep saying,” Larimore shot back. “And just so there’s no confusion, I don’t care. My orders are to serve as military liaison and assist this man—” he motioned to Perry with his thumb—“in whatever way I can. I handle military personnel, Ms. Hardy handles robotics, and you and your sister advise us on issues of science. Sachs oversees everything. Got it?”

  Perry studied the navy commander for a moment. He seemed unfazed by the cold or thin air.

  “And if I don’t get it?” Dr. James asked.

  “That plane leaves in an hour,” Larimore replied. “As far as I’m concerned, you can be on it. It makes no difference to me.”

  Griffin’s jaw tightened. Larimore took a step forward.

  “Griffin, don’t,” Gwen James said. Her words carried concern and annoyance.

  “Thank you for the warm welcome, Dr. James,” Perry interjected. He took another deep breath before continuing but felt like he was sucking oxygen out of an empty jar. “Let’s continue the party inside. Perhaps you’ll give us the ten-cent tour, Dr. James.” He started forward, but Griffin remained rooted to the ice. “All right then, maybe the other Dr. James will provide the tour.” Perry stepped around Griffin and trudged across the white surface toward the warmth of the dome. He didn’t look over his shoulder until he reached the thick door. Larimore, Jack, Gleason, and the others were right behind him. Bringing up the rear of the pack was Gwen.

  Perry didn’t wait for her; he opened the door and waved his companions in as if he owned the place. It was too cold, Perry decided, to stand on ceremony.

  Thirty minutes later, key personnel gathered in a semicircular room in the center of the dome. Dr. Gwen James had given the group a tour, showing them the sleeping quarters, bathrooms, and galley. It was a tight fit. The six men—all navy Seabees—were housed in one of the square buildings a few feet away from the dome. The other rectangular structure Perry saw held food, medical, and other supplies for six months. If things went well, they would be on-site less than a third of that time.

  Heavy coats had been sloughed off, but warm clothing was still the order of the day. Perry wore a white, long-sleeved undershirt, thick pants, and boots. The others wore something similar.

  With the parkas and thick, fur-lined hoods gone, Perry could better see the faces of the others. Nonleadership personnel had been asked to give the team leaders some space and privacy. Perry, who always worked aboveboard with his crew and who encouraged participation from every worker, felt guilty for sending the others from the room, but on this trip, he wasn’t making the rules.

  The room, with its dark, insulated dome ceiling, made Perry feel like he was in a spacecraft. The furniture was utilitarian, de-si
gned to be unfolded and set up on a moment’s notice and with as little effort as possible. Everything about the place was Spartan and indicated the hasty setup.

  Dr. Griffin James entered the room last, noted where Larimore was seated and took an open seat farthest away. Larimore studied him for a moment, then smiled and offered a tiny nod. It wasn’t a friendly gesture. Everyone who needed to be there was present. It was time to get to work. Perry stood.

  “You’ve all received files on our mission, including biographies for team leaders,” Perry began. “I expect you have all reviewed them, but let’s introduce ourselves to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

  “I get it,” Jack said. “It’s like a party, and this is the icebreaker.”

  A few people groaned.

  “Wouldn’t want another misunderstanding,” Dr. James growled.

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Perry responded, unfazed by the snipe. “Since you spoke up, Dr. James, let’s start with you.”

  “Everyone met me outside, remember?”

  Perry felt his patience with the man growing thin. According to James’s personnel file, Griffin was thirty-two years old, never married, and a rising star in his field. Perry judged him to be five-ten and 160 pounds. His hair was sandy blond, his eyes dark blue. His mouth turned down as if chiseled in that position. Perry could tell Dr. James was a man who didn’t laugh much.

  Griffin frowned then said, “Dr. Griffin James, glaciologist, Ohio State—chief scientist.” He offered no more.

  “Dr. James will provide guidance about the ice and the problems we may face.” He smiled and nodded at Gwen James. Her hair was dark, a shade lighter than Perry’s. Smooth, alabaster skin covered a serious face. Unlike her twin brother, she struck Perry as less impressed with herself. She took the cue.