by Ray Carole
Both now encapsulated within their individual microclimates they moved. Robby was admiring the surroundings that were flowing past him nicely after 30 minutes of skiing before stopping abruptly when Mick slowed around to speak to him.
‘Shit mate, schoolboy error, I’m sweating,’ Mick yelled against the balaclava and the wind. He was sweating. Sweating profusely was not acceptable Conrad warned them. Regulating your body temperature was essential. Sweat equals overheating, damp clothes, misted up goggles. All their equipment and clothing will freeze instantly whenever they stopped.
Mick looked at Robby through his misted and frozen goggles, it was like looking into the mirror, he too was the victim of a schoolboy error.
Without a word they both started stripping off their sweaty excess layers of undergarments and throwing them in the pulk.
Their goggles were another story.
‘These are frozen solid mate. We’ll have to warm them up next to our bodies later or something.’ Robby was finding it impossible to clear them, wipe them clean and throw them back on his face without a pocket of air getting inside ready to refreeze again.
‘Hence two sets of goggles each. When one set are fucked just get the others out until you can clear them both later in the tent,’ Conrad advised.
‘God bless Conrad mate.’
‘Yep definitely,’ Mick agreed as he pulled the fresh pair on.
They had only experienced skiing with misted and frozen goggles for 20 minutes. This period alone had already caused Mick extreme frustration, as it was hard to see the ice pack beneath your skis. Mick just wanted to rip them off as he kept losing his navigation point in the distance.
Another strange uncomfortable feeling was hacking away at Robby. Your face fully covered with only a few small breathing holes gave you the overriding feeling of being suffocated. He had borderline hyperventilated a couple of times, just stopping to pull the layers off his face created an air gap allowing him to take in a couple of massive breaths, alleviating his distress.
In a panic for breath Robby was lifting both layers off his face to create an air pocket. Once he collapsed the air pocket releasing the garments again the situation would repeat.
As Mick looked back at Robby to check he was still there he caught a glimpse of Robby again ripping his balaclava clear of his face to breathe. Taking in a few breaths before placing the balaclava back over his face Mick saw the painstaking process he went through to ensure all his face was fully covered again. The thought of frostbite had put Robby in a paranoid state and Mick was witnessing him taking no chances out here with his constant readjusting. Luckily there were two of them and they could visually check each other’s faces for any pieces of flesh that became exposed.
This shouldn’t have surprised him. They had read all of WHITEOUT’s blogs – he described them as the minor things that caused you a colossal amount of mental and respiratory trauma. The goggles were beyond a joke Mick pondered. He was losing his temper and wondering how the fuck he was going to put up for another 20 hours with this shit.
Two of them were airing their frustrations in the comfort of their own minds, and also giving themselves stick for it. They knew they couldn’t keep comparing themselves to the maniac they were hunting. Robby refocused. ‘I’m not competing with Decker, I am here to capture and kill him. These fucking goggles are just the small price to pay for a day. Stop whining. Tomorrow night it will all be done.’
Both readjusted, the signature double pole tap from Conrad had been adopted by Mick as he used it to signal round two. They were off again hoping this was their last episode of novice mistakes.
Mick was approaching the sharp ice feature and was pleased to confirm that two miles had been clocked up. One more mile and they should be at the predicted interception point of WHITEOUT’s tracks. So far the terrain was user-friendly, the weather still overcast with a murky grey backdrop ahead of them that was becoming darker by the minute. It was still around 30 miles away, Mick figured that it was clearly the low-pressure front heading their way.
‘Two clicks mate. How’s everything?’ he asked lifting his goggles to see Robby’s reaction.
‘Yeah that was better, I was sweating my tits off earlier and I can actually see now.’
‘It’s an impressive place isn’t it, never imagined it to be so bad but beautiful,’ Mick adds describing what he was looking at pointing his ski pole at the limitless horizon.
‘Once we get his tracks I will be happy, you noticed the weather front moving in?’
‘How can you miss it, it looks pretty angry doesn’t it?’
‘Let’s just find his tracks and hopefully that weather won’t hit us until just before we find him tonight,’ Robby indirectly hinting to get a move on.
‘That’s here in three or four hours mate. We’ll batten down the hatches for that fucker. Okay let’s keep going,’ placing his goggles back on and no sooner realising they are frozen up after lifting them off his head. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he muttered under his breath.
0530 hours gave them another two hours before WHITEOUT was up and about to start his daily routine of melting snow to cook food and boil up flasks for his day’s skiing. Finding his tracks was priority especially before the weather front descended upon them.
Both now squared away with small clothing adjustments it became apparent how man-hour intensive it was, constantly adjusting items for comfort. The head was a critical area as you had three or so pieces of clothing stacked around each other. The white balaclava protected the face but was difficult at times to breathe through as it iced up fast.
Digging their heels in, an hour flew by and the GPS indicated a few hundred metres till the expected interception of WHITEOUT’s tracks.
Flat light levels and frozen-up goggles meant locating a single set of tracks was no easy feat, the heavy weight of the pulk didn’t even make an imprint on some of the hard pack ice.
Mick stopped.
Robby came up alongside.
‘We’re almost at the intercept point, that means WHITEOUT is around 5 miles away,’ they were both looking to their front as Mick was talking. ‘Obviously the ground to our front is rolling at the moment so we’re safe from compromise. I think we need to spend the next 20 minutes trying to locate his tracks. There is no point heading towards his location until we do, in fact two seconds…’
Mick flicked through the data fields on the GPS. Clumsily pushing a few more buttons with his thick gloves he found what he wanted. ‘Right he is 4.7 miles away mate and in that direction,’ pointing to the 2 o’clock position in front. ‘He is over there somewhere.’ Scanning the general area, the ground rose up gradually for a few miles but on an oblique angle sloping left. This was good news at this stage of the pursuit, they were out of sight for sure so once WHITEOUT’s tracks were identified they could be bolder and close in a few more miles without compromising themselves.
‘Who was it that said “There are no straight lines in nature and this is the fundamental reason for detecting something out of place in the wild” mate?’ Robby asked Mick. Antarctica was certainly different. Surrounded by razor-edged ice formations, some perfectly linear fracture lines crossed the different layers of snow pack. ‘We’ve got a ten-metre radius maximum to catch a glimpse of a sharp set of manmade lines.’ Robby nodded. A tricky find with frosted goggles but a find they needed fast.
‘I reckon we just do a quick jack box search,’ Robby suggested. Mountain rescue talk for avalanche areas. Starting at the centre point and taking one step forwards, turning 90 degrees and taking 2 steps, turning 90 degrees and taking 3 steps, this process continues for as long as the area allowed.
Mick agreed as it effectively covered a box area ensuring that all of it was searched within a metre. ‘OK I will start from 100 metres over there on this bearing. If you do the opposite and head out across that way, it
will give us a fighting chance with two boxes. Okay let’s turn our radios on, as we will be 3-4 hundred metres apart when we reach our outer limits. Just smash your ski poles in the air if you discover them Robby, if the radios don’t work.’
‘Okay I will keep the pulk on, let’s do it.’ Robby was keen to get this bit nailed as the idea of just tracking WHITEOUT purely on a bearing without his tracks worried him a little.
Walking off in opposite directions all eyes bored in to the ice and snow to discover the tracks. Their alertness naturally heightened one more time, their competitive natures overriding anything else as each one of them wanted to be the one to discover the tracks first.
To think they were a few metres from WHITEOUT’s tracks was madness. It was only seven days ago that they had had a briefing in the back of the VW camper in London Mick recalled. He remembered looking through WHITEOUT’s file and hiding his shock the moment Gerry told them it was on this continent.
They were only a few hours behind him now, freezing cold, without M4 rifles but with an optimism that boded well. Mick was in his element.
As he skied along looking for ground signs a momentary glance up sent a chill down his spine. His heart raced uncontrollably as he dived to the floor for cover. He started fumbling around frantically for his Glock pistol inside his jacket pocket.
Only when the Glock was tight in his right hand did he try and compose himself to take another look at WHITEOUT. It felt too close to speak to Robby via the handheld radio. He was on his own for this encounter. The adrenalin was flowing and the fact his bare hands were grasping the Glock, resting on the ice had no bearing. Minus 20 degrees did not imminently factor into this equation. With his knuckles white as the ice beneath him, Mick quickly and silently slipped out of his ski bindings trying not to raise his profile above the ice formations. Running a quick script through his head, he braced himself for what he was about to do next. WHITEOUT was sat down on his pulk with his head slumped in his hands. The only thing that divided them was 30 metres of sastrugi and ice rubble. Mick knew as soon as he got up he had to run at him, the risk of crawling up without being able to see him would be dangerous. Mick ran a quick combat appreciation. ‘WHITEOUT still has skis on and is sat down, if I run for it I will make it, no problem. Once he sees me coming with a pistol he should freeze. If not I will shout and fire a warning shot off to get his attention.’ Mick could feel the familiar effects of adrenalin around his body as he was shaking internally. Flight response had elapsed this time around as it wasn’t an option. Fight response, or total all-out aggression was about to kick into action when he got himself together. Taking a few deep breaths to regulate and gather his thoughts for the next ten seconds of his life, Mick was primed.
‘Okay Mickey boy, here we go, over the top straight at him. Don’t shout until he sees you. When he looks up just shout STOP. Then move in with the pistol trained on him. He won’t try and escape as he is attached to the pulk. Okay we’re good’. He ran a three count through his head, on one Mick exploded up on to his feet and made a beeline for WHITEOUT. He felt slightly disorientated upon standing, and he didn’t pick him off straight away, after fives metres he stopped, pistol extended in front of him. Breathing heavily, he scanned the area. ‘Where the fuck is he?’ Quickly looking behind him. His heart pounding in his panicked state. There was no way he was falling for that trick, but there was nothing to his rear. Dammit WHITEOUT was too seasoned for mistakes. ‘Where the fuck is he?’ he said again. Looking back to his front he finally makes out the pulk with a body slumped over. Remaining completely still and undisturbed by Mick’s antics, WHITEOUT remained motionless.
Mick squinted and then relaxed. ‘Fuck. What’s happening to me?’
Heightened paranoia in imminent anticipation of WHITEOUT had allowed these ice formations to play funny tricks on his mind Mick thought to himself, relieved. Like the clouds above you can interpret all sorts of shapes, objects and figures. Mick had a quick dig at himself knowing he had just fallen foul to the beauty of naturally formed light and curvatures reflecting off the ice. ‘Shit my heart is still pounding.’
Trying to smile at his buffoonery, he breathed out fully then turned around to go and put his skis back on.
No sooner had he turned his heart was sent racing again, Robby was waving his poles frantically. Evidence of WHITEOUT had just been located in a physical form, not the imaginary mirage version Mick had just tried killing.
Mick skied over to Robby hoping that he hadn’t caught a glimpse of him hunting a holographic enemy in his mind. Mick berated himself inwardly. ‘I am losing it, why would I possibly think an ice formation was WHITEOUT? I must be on edge? Come on sort it out, you’re well up for this.’ Robby was proudly pointing to the tracks, visibly chuffed he had found them. It was a relief. ‘Well done mate, that makes the job ten times easier now.’ The wind was beginning to pick up, so with their backs bolstered against it, Mick got his phone out and looked at his GPS data whilst dialling.
‘Gerry?’ Mick asked.
‘Mick what we got, everything okay?’
‘We have his tracks and these are the coordinates, stand by.’
‘Send,’ Mick relayed slowly and concisely the track coordinates and listened as Gerry repeated them back correctly.
Mick had already loaded the new coordinates and the data field told him they were precisely 4.5 miles away from WHITEOUT’s position. The time was 0621 hours, nine minutes before WHITEOUT awoke.
‘I expect you have done it Mick, but he’s just over 4.5 from your position. What’s does the terrain look like on his bearing?’ Gerry was debating how much further they could push forward without any possibility of compromise
‘It’s good Gerry, a gradual incline for about 2 or 3 in his direction on an oblique angle. I am happy to push forward and go firm before the brow.’
‘Your decision Mick, just don’t get greedy too early. In two hours he will be on the move again. You have got his tracks to play it safe for a few hours, what do you reckon?’
‘We’ll push forward to the brow and see how the terrain turns out Gerry, but yeah you’re right we have time. No need for any compass rush antics,’ Mick responds cupping his hand around the Iridium voice mic and his mouth to shield his transmissions from the wind that was picking up.
‘Gerry, we’ll play this out with caution for a few hours. When the weather starts to pick up even more we can get slightly more ambitious if the visibility closes in. We’re all sorted and good to go from here on in. I will check in again in two hours,’ Mick confirmed eager to get on with skiing again, the wind was freezing them both.
‘Negative Mick, we’re flying out of here in under two hours at 0800. Unless there is something urgent don’t call us till 1400hrs. We should be at the South Pole by then to meet Trans-Ant team. Once we know exactly what we’re doing with them we can give you a clearer update reference the RV. As it is at the moment there is no change, WHITEOUT will meet them in 36 hours, again that is 1830 tomorrow.’
‘Got it mate. Right it’s fucking freezing again so we need to get moving Gerry, speak in eight hours. Out.’ Mick looked at Robby to make sure he understood the conversation that just took place.
‘Robby as you have gathered we’ll head off on his tracks to the brow ahead then cool it for a bit. We need to stay calm and not get too tunnel-visioned. The plan is going to script so let’s not take any shortcuts. You happy?’ Mick enquired.
‘Fine mate, fine I will keep the pulk.’
Mick nodded whilst checking his bearing that was now pointing directly at WHITEOUT’s tent position before heading off once more. In front the low-pressure system was starting to show its hand. Lower cloud base and visibility was down to about three miles.
Both men were draped in white overalls, white balaclavas and white sprayed skis, poles and pulk and Robby felt as though they looked like a pair of Arctic-trained c
ommandos. In a white-out the only visible signs of their presence were the black lenses of their goggles that lit up against the white backdrop. Moving in unison they closed in on WHITEOUT.
*****
Smoke clouds filled the dark room that was now occupied by more people than it ever had seen before and certainly the conversation was more stimulating than anything witnessed in the past. A six-month posting to a small station in Antarctica was a time to embrace solitude, read, research and save every penny you were paid.
Despite the crowded arena, the mini operations room was silent with only the tracking systems bleeping every second in the background as they scanned radar screens. Everyone was a little confused as to how this scenario was developing. Vostok was a Russian outstation that only those listening directly to the Commanding Officer’s orders knew of its real purpose, and potentially not even then. However, this situation had aroused huge suspicion and the CO was not going to let it go undetected.
‘Interesting. This is very interesting. What the hell is going on out there?’ the base commander mused openly before giving his appreciation to the team thus far.
‘We have Harry Decker, former SAS Agent, now a Polar explorer attempting to create history.’ This he read from a printout of WHITEOUT’s expedition website profile page.
‘Today, four hours ago two other men appear from nowhere. We can only assume it was from a US aircraft heading to the South Pole station maybe? Correct?’ he asked the men listening. They simply nodded. Knowing better than to interrupt him.
‘Look here,’ directing the men to stare at the flat-screen computer generating the positions of the three men in real time.
‘Decker started at Hercules Inlet and has continued on this bearing for the last 38 days covering over 600 miles,’ tracing the route with a pencil the Russian commander then pointed to where Decker was now.