by Ray Carole
The tailgate ramp gradually began to close, the lights of Punta Arenas in the distance were disappearing with each second. The long line of lamp posts could be seen hugging the road that ran parallel to the airport fence occupied by a few cars heading back into town along the coastal road.
It was to be their last sight of urban civilisation for a few days. Mick for some reason always thought about what the people he saw last before an operation would be doing that particular night. This time he observed a car driving along the fence-lined road and thought the car may be full of a family heading home from the airport, tired from a long flight and holiday in Brazil. Yeah, Rio de Janeiro he speculated as the iconic Christ the Redeemer monument with arms outstretched overlooking the city passed through his mind. Not religious by any stretch, a certain thought and image crossed his mind.
It was WHITEOUT.
In his blogs before he left for his flight after a three-week delay, he is pictured kissing the toe of Ferdinand Magellan. ‘Legend has it,’ WHITEOUT writes ‘that those who kiss the toe of the statue of this god will return safely from Antarctica.’ Thinking back Conrad had mentioned this also Mick concluded.
Mick or Robby had not visited the statue, let alone kissed the toe for a souvenir shot. Mick almost laughed at how he had conjured this quick story up from a set of rear car lights, brushing it off with a closing thought of ‘what a load of old bollocks’.
Talking of bollocks, Andrei tapped Mick’s shoulder and signalled for the guys to fasten their seat belts. An ironic gesture to two men that would be jumping off the tailgate from 10000 feet in approximately four hours and thirty minutes.
Belts fastened, lights off, Ilyushin’s 4 roaring jet engines catapulted the silver bird in to the skies high above Punta Arenas. Wrapped up warm and wearing all the kit that they would hit the ice with, Mick took advantage of the next few hours of solace and knew Robby would be doing the same.
A flash flood of thoughts entered and quickly exited his mind. Professionally executing a flawless murder is an art. Like any professional sportsperson or world-class violinist performing on the world stage, perfection was the only outcome that was acceptable.
Mick was a seasoned killer.
He had his pre-match routine or rituals all honed and mastered. Simplicity was again at the heart of him containing any anxiety caused by undue stress or mission arousal.
His self-belief was paramount followed by true belief in the strategy or plan that will get you to the point of execution. He always accepted the plan may not be perfect but knew his A-game would always make up for any shortfalls or gaps in it.
This was his biggest challenge to date, though reading the Sun Tzu Art of War he remembered a certain quote that always made him rise to the challenge. He couldn’t recite it perfectly but in short it acknowledged that in order for a warrior to continue to improve and hone his skill towards complete mastery, each subsequent fight he undertook must stretch him far beyond the previous one he had fought the day, week or month before.
This philosophy gave Mick the resolve and confidence to overcome what he possibly deemed as being out of his depth.
This philosophy was at the forefront of his mind as he again began rehearsing the final closure of WHITEOUT. Four deafening jet engines was light background interference to Mick, as he focused exclusively on killing WHITEOUT.
Robby dealt with the pre-takedown nerves in a different fashion. He was happy-go-lucky. Thinking more about his family than WHITEOUT or the operation. For him the planning, preparation and final tuning in had been done. The machine was well oiled and thinking about it anymore just led to indecision, questioning the strategy and causing undue complacency. He knew he wasn’t as strategically mature as Mick or Sean in this team when it came to planning or reacting to events. But, he was sharp on the ground, could operate under pressure and got the job done. His lack of strategic intellect didn’t bother him, he knew his place in the team.
If he were allowed an iPod he would have been wearing one right now and no doubt listening to some underground grunge, hip-hop shit that would have driven Mick to despair. Robby was happy enough running the images of his wife and two children through his head on a continuous loop. Getting back to them was his priority, above and beyond anything else in this world.
Mick’s continuous death loop was broken when the lights came on that signalled the 30-minute call to jumping in to the white abyss.
Not awaiting the signal from Roman, the guys were up and about. A few things needed to be checked over before they threw their jumping rigs on. First was their personal locating beacon. Set up for sending a pulse every two minutes, this was essential. If they had a fatal jump, got separated in the air or could not establish satellite communications at least Gerry and HQ would know where they landed and could monitor initial movements.
‘Okay mate, they’re both set to two minutes and I’ve just done a check-in with both of them,’ Mick informed Robby as he stuffed the beacon into Robby’s jacket pocket whilst tying it on with a clove hitch so it wouldn’t separate. As per standard Mick had also put some masking tape across the red emergency distress lever. This made sure any snagging did not accidentally set it off. ‘Cheers mate,’ Robby responded as he fidgeted with his altimeter.
‘GPSs are both on and here’s your sat phone ready to go.’ Mick naturally took the lead with all procedures. The last technical piece of gadgetry was the two-way radios. If they were separated at the drop zone they could establish communication regardless of bad weather, to within 4-5 kilometres. These would work even if the satellite phones didn’t.
All these critical pieces of equipment were placed in the interior pockets of their Mountain Equipment Gortex jackets and secured the same way Mick secured Robby’s beacon.
‘The only left thing left to do is calibrate our altitude metres mate. I’m going to brief Roman on the run-in procedure to the release point. I will determine the altitude on his dials too.’
‘Okay Mick, I will just give the tube a once-over and check all the straps and hooks,’ Robby shouted back.
Making his way to the cockpit past all the other logistical supplies he tapped Roman on the shoulder.
Andrei handed him a set of headphones and indicated to flick the pressel switch to talk.
‘Roman how long till Release Point?’
‘20 minutes,’ he replied whilst flicking his right fingers out to indicate physically.
‘Wind speed?’
‘Only 5 knots south-westerly good conditions,’ Roman looked up at Mick with his thumbs up. Mick was trying not to laugh at Roman’s goggles. They were a classic set of Biggles World War Two numbers that a spitfire pilot would wear. Like a crazy professor of the skies, there was a surrealism that gave Mick comfort. Having this mad, crazy bastard in the jump seat seemed to cap off this whole fucked-up assignment he thought.
‘We need to have a headwind run-in remember Roman.’
‘I know you stupid man, I have dropped jumpers off before and it’s how we always land you know,’ Roman annoyed and sarcastically answered Mick’s novice request.
Without trying to patronise Roman again, he asked to view the Release Point co-ordinates on the internal navigating system.
Comparing them to that of his GPS, they were spot on. Mick put his thumbs up then asked for the altitude reading.
Pointing at a dial they were currently at 28400 feet.
Mick calibrated both of their altimeters.
This would start to decrease shortly as Roman began to descend to the correct drop height of 10000 feet, at the exact release-point location. Even the Ilyushin had the technology to automatically calculate and execute this.
Roman would only really manually take control on the final 30 KM run-in. Everything was set.
Robby gave Mick two slaps on his left shoulder followed up with the thumbs u
p. Having thoroughly checked off every essential harness clip and tightened each strap into a comfortable position, Mick’s free-fall rig was fitted correctly and ready for the jump.
Mick had done the same for Robby. The only difference was checking the 50kg transit tube, made from lightweight reinforced cardboard. Inside the tube was all the mission essential equipment ready to go, once they hit the Drop Zone. Mick had attached the tube to his quick-release harness, via a slightly stretchable umbilical cord measuring 12 feet. If the tube was causing Mick major problems for some reason, and he couldn’t get stable in the air, he could jettison the tube by simply pulling the quick-release strap. Independent of his parachute set-up Mick would then descend without it, as the tube would free fall to destruction below him.
If this scenario happened it was mission failure. The kit would be destroyed depending on what height it jettisoned from, plus the visibility. They would probably never locate it as it had no locating beacon inside.
Robby had a bivvy bag stuffed down his jacket. This provided a simple shelter and a good windbreak to limit wind chill, if they entered pure survival mode. They had enough kit to survive a few days if the tube got trashed to pieces and never retrieved.
Before they put on their Pro-Tec helmets and goggles they both checked their altimeters.
12000 feet.
In about 5 minutes they would be at the drop altitude of 10000 feet.
This was the vector Roman was flying to, for a direct fly-past 7 nautical miles North of WHITEOUT’s tent. Roman had WHITEOUT’s location loaded into the internal navigation system. Mick had passed this on from Gerry’s update hours before they took off. The perfect approach to the release point put them directly to the rear of WHITEOUT. This meant if the drop were spot on, they would end up about 5 nautical miles from WHITEOUT on landing. If there was a delayed exit it could mean 10 nautical miles. Distance equalled time so any mistakes put the team behind schedule.
The GPS mounts on their forearms had the intended landing point. Opening their chutes at about 6000 feet gave them roughly 4-5 minutes of playtime or transit time. Depending on wind they could cover well over a kilometre in the air before touching down. This should be plenty, enough for them to hit their landing co-ordinates if Roman nailed it straight off.
0237 hours.
10000 feet.
Andrei comes walking over with his hands pushing against his headset earpieces. ‘He has obviously just heard what I have,’ Mick thought.
Mick throughout had been listening to what was going on in the headset he kept on. Most of the communication was in Russian between Roman and his co-pilot Sergei. Every 10 minutes from the 30-minute call Roman spoke to Mick. His latest transmission was 5 minutes till Release Point.
Pointing to his headphones Mick gave the thumbs up. Andrei nodded his head and squeezed past them. Attaching a harness around his waist, Andrei buckled it up as tightly as possible. Momentarily breathing in before his huge gut embarrassingly flopped over the harness. Sweating profusely he was obviously absolutely shitting himself. In a moment he would initiate the hydraulics system that lowered the tailgate.
‘Okay mate, once we’re at one minute we’ll get a few feet from the edge with the tube laid flat.’
‘Roger that,’ Robby responded
‘Once I am set I will give you the thumbs up. All I need from you is two slaps on my shoulder. I will nod a few times. You then start pushing the tube out and I will follow. Obviously you jump a few seconds behind me.’ Mick was literally face-to-face with Robby as he shouted commands in his ear. Both were sweating, but had an alertness and intensity in their eyes that reassured each other. Holding the gaze Mick said: ‘This is it Robby boy, if you lose me, follow your own GPS as planned and we’ll talk on the ground. Keep an eye on the Altimeter near landing, these flat light levels are a fucker to judge. Keep everything tight prior to impact. We both know this shit inside out so let’s have a good one brother.’
‘No worries Mick see you on the ice-’
‘Mick this is Roman.’
‘Go ahead Roman,’ Mick replied.
‘Two minutes wind speed three knots on our correct heading, 10000 feet. Cloud base clear at 6000 feet.’
‘Thanks Roman, have a vodka for us when you get back. Good job,’ Mick replied.
Chapter 25
Mick removed his headset and throws it to the side. Placing his Pro-Tec helmet on over his heavy-duty Gortex hood with only his eyes visible through his balaclava, he gave Robby the nod before placing his Oakley ski goggles on. Hood drawcord pulled completely tight so only his goggles were on view in the middle of a mass of fur. Gortex jacket and bottoms protected every inch of his body. Underneath that were layers of insulting down jackets and bottoms with inner and outer gloves to protect their hands.
They would be in the air for at least eight minutes at high altitude. Luckily the wind was relatively calm which reduced wind chill and made hitting the Drop Zone easier.
Andrei and Robby started helping Mick move the tube to the edge of the tailgate. They were finally set as the one-minute call was given by Andrei.
A last visual check of each other, they indicated their pull handles and reserve handles to each other. A quick thumbs up by Mick. Both the men were two feet away from disappearing into the white nothingness of Antarctica.
Looking out the tailgate there was a cloud base present that was not penetrable. It was a blank screen. Roman had said the cloud base clears at 6 grand so this was not a problem. In all honesty this was a preferred view when leaving the tailgate with a 50kg tube attached to you Mick thought.
Two slaps on Mick’s back.
A couple of nods to confirm he felt them.
The tube was edged over the tailgate. It got to the halfway point and started to leave the plane by its own momentum. This was Mick’s cue to step over the edge in order to avoid a shock loading effect of the tube, once the umbilical was at full stretch.
Mick stepped into thin air, hitting the 120 mph jet stream and was thrown aggressively into the clouds.
Robby was just looking at Mick’s back almost touching him. Leaving a gap of two seconds he was also at the pure mercy of gravity as he entered the clouds.
Hidden in complete white-out, almost suspended in time, the only indicator of them plummeting to the ice was the rushing noise of air as it was displaced beneath them. An initial rush of adrenaline and the violent exit caused by the slipstream delayed any immediate thoughts. After a few seconds Mick took stock, flashing the internal checklist up in his mind and started to perform life-saving procedures.
Mick was talking himself through it ‘ Okay, okay Mick, happy days relax, let’s gets stable, that’s it. Okay check tube below, that’s good, all round me, check altimeter, 8000 feet.’
Robby was no different. It was common practice and a universal teaching to throw the inner monologue away, and just shout out the checks through it all. Once they got to the point where they knew everything was okay with respect to being stable, things calmed. Even falling at a terminal velocity of 120 miles per hour they did actually relax.
Being stuck in the clouds was akin to being stuck in the pitch-black boot of a car driven at 120 miles per hour, having no control over anything.
Suddenly without warning the cloud base was clear. The first look at Antarctica was below them and closing in fast.
‘Check altitude,’ Mick told himself.
5800 feet.
‘Okay Mick, stand by for opening. Look and locate pull handle. Done. Pull.’ Mick ripped the handle aggressively like ripping a rag doll from a Rottweiler’s jaws. He then anticipated the canopy opening that would feel like he was being ripped back up towards the clouds. Though really it was just rapid deceleration from the canopy drag.
A violent tug on both his shoulders ensued and he rode out the ferocious whiplash that
was deceleration. His head being thrown forward he watched the tube swing out of control beneath his legs.
As soon as he had control of his body again he immediately checked the canopy. ‘Good canopy, all cells inflated. Locate steering toggles.’ These were Velcro-strapped to the canopy risers that were the main four straps that connected the canopy to his body harness.
‘All good, full pull down on left riser, full pull down on right riser, happy days steering is okay. Check Altitude check GPS.’ He could now concentrate on tracking toward the LZ. First he looked for Robby. Nothing to his front and above, he pulled down on his right riser handle. This slowly turned him ninety degrees to the right. As he started to face rearwards he caught sight of him.
‘Happy fucking days,’ Mick grinned.
It was clear Robby had located him as he was starting to spiral. This was a move that allowed Robby to rapidly lose height. What he was doing was dropping close to Mick so he could track him closely so they landed together.
Mick recognising what he was doing automatically checked the GPS direction arrow and set himself up to follow it. He knew Robby would stay behind him now.
Bearing 058 degrees. Distance 1.8 kilometers. Altitude 4 grand.
‘Thank fuck this is all going as planned,’ he thought. Two other setbacks in the previous 12 hours had rocked them a little. This was great news, actually easier than he thought it would be.
It was only now that he could take in exactly what they had just done. The first ever free fall into Antarctica out the back of an Ilyushin at 10 grand, and living to tell the tale.
With that thought he quickly remembered why they were doing it. Straight away he started looking to locate WHITEOUT’s tent. A small red dot was all he was looking for. There were pockets of cloud and mist so it was difficult, but curiosity kept him observing.
Robby was doing the same whilst tracking Mick all the way in. As promised the flat light was about to make the landing tricky. For Mick it was not too bad as the tube hit the ice first 12 feet below him, this let him know to brace for landing.