The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  Robby had no such luxury. Ground-rush was starting to kick in as he saw Mick land safely. Trying to approach virtually on top of him, so he could gauge the height to the ground from an object as a reference as opposed to white ice.

  Literally ten feet away Robby flared his canopy that almost suspended him in air 3 feet off the ground. From there he calmly touched down whilst still remaining standing.

  ‘You flash cunt,’ Mick shouted over as he was still brushing the snow off his jacket. His landing had been more sporting and certainly didn’t involve standing.

  ‘Whoa. That was something Mick, aye?’ Robby shouted back as he pulled his riser straps in to stop the chute catching any wind. This could drag him dangerously out of control across the jagged ice field.

  ‘We did it Robby. Good work. Let’s get our shit sorted.’

  Without any instructions Robby got his chute together and then collected in Mick’s.

  Mick was on one knee looking at the GPS while pulling the antenna out on the satellite phone. While the phone was initiating Mick took in his surroundings.

  His eyes were met with absolutely nothing. He took in a 360 view. It was all the same to each horizon. No beautiful backdrop of the Ellsworth Mountain ranges, as they were too far south now, just nothing. ‘So that’s why WHITEOUT calls it the white nothing,’ Mick mused. WHITEOUT was right, there wasn’t even snow on the ground, it was rock solid ice features called sastrugi. The light wind caused spindrift but this was just a powder getting blown across the white wastelands.

  The sun was high in the polar skies. As he noticed his shadow slightly behind him again he thought about WHITEOUT. He could navigate by his shadow alone during the long days using a clock ray method. The angle of his shadow would let him know what direction he was travelling in.

  ‘Fuck WHITEOUT,’ he thought as the phone lit up with five bars and an Iridium logo on the screen. Hitting contacts, he located Gerry’s number and pressed the dial key. Already he started to realise how bitterly cold it was as he exposed his bare flesh momentarily to use the phone.

  ‘Fuck me it’s cold,’ he muttered curling his fingers up and blowing on them. Then he realised he was facing into the wind and has been for nearly ten minutes. ‘Novice mistake you idiot,’ turning and putting his back against it bowing into a crouched position.

  The phone began to ring then was picked up after one bell.

  ‘Gerry?’ he said down the phone as it is answered.

  ‘Mick it’s great to hear from you, you both okay?’

  ‘Everything is good no problems. Stand by for our grid.’

  ‘Send mate.’

  Mick sent the co-ordinates and Gerry repeated the grid back exactly. ‘Give me two minutes Mick, I will work out your approach vector to intercept ski tracks.’

  ‘Okay but make it snappy it’s getting cold being static here,’ Mick added with urgency in his voice.

  Robby had rammed the two chutes in the tube and rolled it into a natural hollow in the ice created by the large sastrugi formations. The pulk was fine with the equipment inside looking almost undisturbed by the transit and landing. Skis were not damaged along with their poles. Arranging the trace and harness Robby started to put on the shoulder straps then tightened the waist harness securely. Like Mick he had forgotten how fidgety it was wearing thick gloves. In frustration he, too, ripped his gloves off and made the final harness adjustment. Immediately the cold had a vicious bite that warned Robby not to do this too often, or for too long.

  Due to being completely insulated head to toe with a small aperture through their goggles, visually locating pockets or straps was impossible. It was a case of feeling for everything. Just checking the time Robby realized his watch needed to be on the outside of his jacket as pulling back four layers of clothing to see his watch face was proving a logistical nightmare with his mittens on.

  Doing the simplest of tasks in extreme cold weather was a pain in the ass.

  He’d read that most of the time Decker couldn’t see past his goggles as the condensation from body heat that escaped into his goggles turned to ice, blocking his view.

  As Robby finally adjusted his waist straps and relocated his watch he thought: ‘Norway was way too warm, I never even realised these little things could cause so much frustration.’

  ‘Mick,’ Gerry said down the phone.

  ‘Send Gerry.’

  ‘Good news, you are North of him, so no doglegs required to hide your ski tracks. Simply punch in waypoint one. That is the 5 nautical hold off location behind him where you should intercept his ski tacks. Copy?’

  ‘Got that waypoint one as planned,’ Mick had already anticipated this and was already on the ‘Go To’ option on his GPS. This had a direction arrow pointing to exactly this location. Below it were numerous data fields. The one he was interested in was the distance.

  ‘Gerry we’re 3 Nautical miles away from the ski track intercept. That’s not too bad. Roman did a good job.’

  ‘Good that’s about two hours skiing and we have just received a beacon update from you,’ Gerry quoted.

  ‘I bloody hope so. That’s about the ski time not the beacon update,’ Mick slatted back.

  ‘WHITEOUT’s blog from last night.’

  ‘Yep fire away Gerry.’

  ‘Like we knew, his phone is dead. However we got a beacon reading and it gave us his latest position, and base camp don’t have this. As per the plan, he will still try and meet Trans-Ant at 1800hrs tomorrow. So that was good to hear. We can now predict the location more accurately as we’ve got the beacon data. I suggest you write this down now in case we lose communications.’

  ‘Yeah okay, give us a second,’ Mick scrabbled for his waterproof notepad and thick chinagraph pencil. Pulling it out of his chest pocket attached by a piece of cord he was ready to receive the RV co-ordinates.

  ‘Okay.’

  Gerry read the co-ordinates out slowly, repeating so Mick could scribble them down before repeating them back then plugging them in to his GPS.

  ‘Bang on Mick,’ Gerry confirmed them right back. ‘Everything is okay here at base camp too. We may have an RV ourselves with Trans-Ant team. Our intentions may be a flight in literally five hours’ time to meet them at the Pole for midday. Spend a night with them and head out for the RV the following night. They only have a few more nights here. The good thing is Steve Jones has told us that if Decker does not RV with them, it’s not a major thing, they will wait from 1800-2200hrs before they head off to Ilyushin for extraction. This brings me on to weather. You have a shit storm heading your way I’m afraid. Hence if Decker does not make the RV this will be the reason. It’s a good contingency for us like we spoke about.’

  ‘Weather Gerry, what we expecting?’ Mick asked.

  ‘A low-pressure system is about 8-12 hours out and will be moving through your area. They reckon it will last around 36-48 hours. Mainly the wind will pick up and a low-pressure system will bring increased fog. So expect it to be white-out conditions. This can work for us in all honesty. Be diligent tomorrow when following WHITEOUT if it does close in rapidly. He could stop for any reason and we don’t want you being right up his ass.’

  ‘Copy everything Gerry. Right we need to get moving it’s fucking freezing mate and as you can tell I’m starting to shiver and shake like a shitting dog.’

  ‘Great work lads. Check in when you get his tracks or actually see his tent. You have about five hours before he moves. Don’t push it too early. Get in his tracks and be diligent. Tomorrow is the big push remember. We may fly at 0800hrs and be airborne till 1400hrs, so we will not be contactable until we reach the Pole. Anything else from you two?’ Gerry enquired.

  ‘No. Right we’re off. Catch you later.’ Mick closed the conversation and cut Gerry off as he was about to say something else. Collapsing the antennae and turnin
g the phone off he put it away in the chest pocket of his fleece before quickly zipping up his outer Gortex jacket.

  Robby was next to him for the last few minutes and had heard everything.

  ‘There’s your skis and poles mate,’ Robby said handing them to Mick. A distinct crackling in his voice complemented by the visible sight of his breath in form of a vapour cloud confirmed it was cold and they needed to start skiing.

  ‘Okay mate, we’re on. Got the bearing all plugged in. We’re three nautical miles away so a few hours will warm our bones. Once we’re near the predicted ski track location I will let you know. You tuck in behind me and let’s get going.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Robby responded waiting for Mick to clip into his skis.

  The guys had been on the ice now for about twenty minutes and both were feeling the effects of the biting cold. WHITEOUT had called Antarctica Goliath and him David in his blogs, he had mentioned that this was a place that any blatant show of disrespect would be met with punishment that would be life-changing. Whether that was a few missing fingers to frostbite, blindness neglecting the use of goggles when the weather was nice, or skiing over cracks that could swallow you up in to the depths of the unknown if they shattered. Twenty minutes had confirmed Antarctica was the gatekeeper and the boss here.

  It was real now.

  The real game was about to commence. Almost like the main event at a boxing night. All warm-up acts had finished and everyone was eagerly awaiting the main card.

  *****

  There was a frenzy of activity behind the hi-tech screens that were in front of the two operators monitoring the tracking screens. Similar to an advanced radar detection system you would expect to find on a submarine, the detection probes ran a continuous 360-degree loop identifying any new movements or objects.

  The activity of all other incursions in Antarctica was also being monitored. On a featureless plateau it wasn’t difficult to locate every person, vehicle or movement across the continent.

  A combination of expeditions, climbers, researchers or tourists produced various dots on the flat-screen displays to the operator’s front.

  This wasteland had nothing of any interest really to an unsuspecting eye watching the updated activity unfolding in front of their eyes. The reassuring fact was the technology was all working properly. Multi-million pound investment into sensitive programs that had this global reach capacity, with an almost instant tracking and monitoring system had to deliver results.

  When the two new blips or signatures appeared on the screen it was reassuring the technology was working seamlessly. From out of nowhere Mick and Robby had made an entrance and were placed about 5 nautical miles behind WHITEOUT.

  WHITEOUT had been monitored now for almost 40 days and the operators watched his slow progress to the South Pole.

  The emergence of Mick and Robby so close behind him and to have come from nowhere was easily explained to the operators at The Clinic’s HQ.

  The operators taking an incredible interest in the newcomers were not at The Clinic’s HQ. They didn’t even speak English. They couldn’t be any further away from The Clinic’s HQ. For 15 minutes the operators were rerunning the radar tracking systems acquisition software to try and work out when and where these two infiltrators came on the grid.

  They all knew who Harry Decker was. He was the soloist trying to create history. They had all been following him on this radar screen and on his blogs. They knew he was a former SAS agent as this open-source information had gained intrigue from supporters of his epic journey.

  The operators were his biggest followers as his daily statistics and blogs broke up the monotony and gave this green blip on their screens a personality.

  The problem they faced was this.

  Why have two people just turned up from nowhere in the middle of the most extreme continent on planet earth, 7 nautical miles behind a former SAS agent.

  The operators after futile deliberations decided to inform their supervisor who would be more adept at filling in the blanks but who was currently asleep.

  The senior operator turned to his colleague and announced, ‘This situation is a little strange I don’t understand it. Go and wake the commander.’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ was the quick response followed by his swift departure.

  The fact these commands were given in Russian added another dynamic to Op IGNITION. Something wasn’t right and the Russians were about to take a vetted interest in every single activity and piece of information that they could intercept and collect.

  Vostok the Russian weather station like the British and American ones was always a subject for speculation and suspicion. Each side played their cards close to their chests and had always mutually left each other alone.

  In the grand scheme of things what did Antarctica actually have to offer strategically to any of these great nations?

  For the first time it wasn’t the continent itself that was a strategic asset, the strategic asset that was unknowingly skiing for his life was no longer mutually exclusive to himself.

  WHITEOUT was 24 hours from death.

  The Russians were a 4-hour helicopter hop from WHITEOUT.

  Chapter 26

  Decker took in the mantras clearly spelt in capitals to inspire him when times were bad. Listed next to them, in red marker were all of his daily distances and position co-ordinates. Like a schoolboy’s essay, the first lines were neat and tidy, the last few barely legible on the tent inner.

  ‘Maybe it’s all washing away for a reason,’ he smirked to himself as he read out ‘WHO DARES WINS’. The SAS’s motto he noted, was his philosophy for guiding him through life, and yet now another chapter seemed to be opening to erase the previous one.

  He jumped up throwing his sleeping bag off exposing his skintight undergarments. Quickly putting his duvet-style snow boots on, he grabbed an item from a stuff sack, then gripped the shovel from the tent outer and was out of the door in a shot.

  Rushing a few metres to the side of the tent he drove the blade of the shovel into the ice. Quickly whipping his bottoms down, squatting whilst resting his right hand on the shovel, he paused. Expelling a deep breath before allowing nature to take its course, officially marking the start of another day.

  As he admired the crisp morning ice particles flickering to infinity, and relaxed with the relief of the obvious, he noticed something else.

  ‘Today is the first time I have not unzipped the tent slowly, looking to the front and rear before moving out.’ Relieved to be noticing this change, he cleaned up. Normally this scheduled morning activity would allow him to try and locate smells of a human nature, including cooked food, or litter flying in the wind. Always looking for early-warning signs that there may be a killing squad nearby, who had dropped the ball.

  Looking at his shit, it was solid as normal. Dehydrated rations did that to the digestive system. 7000 calories a day produced a pile of shit the size of a molehill back home. Thinking whilst still looking, he chuckled as he thought out loud, ‘Fuck me I have to pick up all my shit from 120NM out from the Pole.’

  Antarctica had a strict green policy. Not only would he have to do a huge box movement taking him miles off direct course, to avoid scientific areas, he had to pull his own shit too.

  One hour of rustling inside the tent saw him emerge fully kitted with only the tent to pack up. Quickly rolling it up then lying it flat on top of his sled, he pulled the heavy duty zips to close it all up.

  Without even consciously thinking, he looked at the shadow the sun cast off his body. Shuffling on his skis he turned until the shadow was lying directly to his 9 o’clock position. At 8am every morning he knew this would be his line of travel for the next two hours.

  He always used nature as opposed to technology if he could. These little observations when stacked up made life easier all round and came na
turally to him. Many a time he had grabbed an ashtray to ram into an attacker’s face in a pub, or used his car as a deadly weapon instead of his gun. Life to him didn’t need to be complex, he started to ski.

  He knew that two had passed when his shadow was now at his 11 o’clock. Looking through his Oakley shades instead of his mask surrounded by a thick balaclava, and Gortex jacket hood, he felt amazing. This was now like a ski holiday he thought. Admiring the view.

  ‘Polar expedition tours,’ he said to himself. ‘That’s an idea, I could be a polar guide, take people to the North and South Pole.’ That idea alone made him drive his poles in harder, really pushing down on his skis to get a bigger kick to slide forward. Somehow the idea was fuelling his energy and enthusiasm. Why wouldn’t it? He loved the solitude of the outdoors, relished the extreme challenge and was a great leader.

  ‘Yeah I can do that, yeah fuck it,’ knowing that the going price for leading an expedition of 3-4 people down here would be at least 50-70K a season. His mind was starting to race away. ‘3 months work down here, a few training camps in Greenland for 7-10 days, online support, training programs…’ He then thought of Conrad. ‘Maybe we could team up together for the first season to show me how it’s—

  WHOOMP!

  ‘Fucking hell!’ he screamed out, trying to spin his body around. In a state of full panic with no ice beneath his skis. Quickly registering this was a full-blown crevasse, and no underlying patch of ground to break his fall, he was free falling with nothing beneath him.

  In the spilt second, he acknowledged he was in the shit, and recalled this area was riddled with crevasses. A novice mistake. So high on life and riding the FEAR from his mind, he had forgotten to check his maps for these danger areas.

  Managing to twist his falling body 90 degrees in the air, he could see the sled a few metres from the crevasse edge. With no tension on the trace line yet, it was static, but that could change quickly if his body kept heading south. Nothing would stop it falling in after him, when the strain of his body started to pull the sled. Ironically, not one boulder or piece of jagged sastrugi was present to wedge it and stop it tumbling in on top of him, then past him, dragging him to his death. His right ski was kicked and scratched the ice wall in blind panic. With his body at a ninety-degree angle to the crevasse ice wall, the right side of his body slid down it. Reaching out with his right hand to grip whatever he could, he was powerless, even the right side of his face was trying to halt the fall, tearing his flesh instantly.