The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  ‘Decker is currently here. Now the two men, well one called Mick whose accent sounds weird appeared here.’ Again the man pointed with his pencil.

  Intercepting conversations out here was standard and ‘Mick’ and ‘Gerry’ were the only two names associated with this strange development.

  ‘They have moved about three miles to here then made that call we have just had replayed. They are tracking this man Decker obviously. But why? They have not mentioned why. We need to find out if this is some sort of military exercise maybe, is Decker still working for one of the cells wings we know about at Hereford? We know the British do some crazy exercises and maybe this is another?’

  No one responded, whether this was because that’s the way the Russian command structure worked or the others in the room had no idea what the commander was talking about.

  ‘Okay, let’s keep monitoring this situation. But I want a team on stand-by. Work out the helicopter flight plan to their locations. What fuel caches do we have out there that will get us there and back if we need it? Re-calculate the no-fly zone in case we need to carry out a legitimate exercise of our own. We don’t want to upset the Americans at the South Pole station, and cause an international incident by flying in their protected areas of scientific interest. Get to it men, I want an operations order for a team to locate those men if they need to. I want it in the next hour and I want more information on Harry Decker, who the hell is this man because something tells me he isn’t just an explorer.’

  Chapter 28

  Mick knew exactly what he was looking for at the two-hour stop point, especially as the weather had become inclement. WHITEOUT’s blogs always included a photo of him flaked out next to the pulk, exhausted. He always placed the pulk across the line of the prevailing wind and dug a quick hole to sit in. With the raised height of the pulk and a foot-deep trench, he was completely sheltered from the wind.

  This way he could eat and drink in slight comfort for seven minutes whilst donning his huge down expedition jacket, looking back on his line of travel if the visibility was clear, no doubt admiring his daily stint.

  Five metres visibility and a frosted ski mask, Mick squinted his eyes to try and pierce through the wall of whiteness. It was then that he fell. Slamming into the ice beneath his feet. ‘Fucking weather,’ he shouted in frustration. He felt as though he’d been poleaxed by a few mugs from behind.

  Robby observed Mick crawling around on the ground trying to get back on his feet, it was a classic Bambi on ice moment, as he tried to get up as fast as possible to limit his embarrassment, which resulted in hitting the deck again even harder.

  Taking a moment to cool his head Mick got it together and realised something. He had fallen because of a dip in the ground. This dip actually calmed him instantly as the sideswipe from nowhere was due to WHITEOUT’s little pit he had dug to protect himself, exactly as he had described it.

  The hollow was clearly man-made.

  On closer inspection Mick noticed the telltale signs of broken crumbs resting on the snow and ice.

  Fuzion flapjack bars, 780 calories to be exact Mick thought.

  ‘That fucker,’ Mick bellowed out.

  This was a surreal feeling for Mick. The man he wanted to kill badly was sat here a few hours ago chewing away on his flapjack bar. Mick was face down in the exact place WHITEOUT’s ass cheeks would have occupied.

  Thinking that Mick catapulted to his feet with the aid of his two ski poles in a nanosecond. Brushing himself down he once again contained his anger, bitter frustration and eagerness to end this ordeal.

  ‘This is the spot Robby,’ he shouted over choosing not to use his radio and instead competed directly with the wind. Shouting felt great to vent some tension as his voice caught Robby’s attention.

  Robby closed in tight with his face inches from Mick.

  ‘This is where his first 2-hour stop was. Look…’ Mick pointed at the small trench peppered with the remainder of WHITEOUT’s flapjacks that fuelled his day’s exertions.

  ‘Right I am going to work out the time-distance equation, give us a few minutes.’ Robby gave Mick the thumbs up before turning his back to the wind.

  Frantically fumbling with GPS rubber-covered buttons Mick was collecting relevant data from various data fields. Looking at the distance they had covered from the tent pitch and their start point to this first stop point.

  The distance covered was 2.4 miles.

  It had taken Mick and Robby 2 hours and 4 minutes to cover this distance as they had backed off to be cautious. Mick could only assume this was exactly WHITEOUT’s two-hour stop point due to his mechanical nature and extreme discipline. Using the calculator function he started to work out the distance covered divided by time to equal WHITEOUT’s speed. Then he stopped, thinking, ‘What a twat.’

  2.4 divided by 2 hours wasn’t exactly brain science.

  WHITEOUT was travelling at 1.2 miles per hour.

  This was slow but he had 120Kg to pull behind him. Mick could easily do 3 miles an hour but this wasn’t a cut-and-chase pursuit, it was a covert stalk, letting WHITEOUT have the distance advantage until he stopped for the day.

  ‘Robby,’ Mick yelled out. Only a few metres away Robby shuffled backwards. Face to face once more.

  ‘He is travelling at 1.2. I estimate he is 3 hours ahead as we started to move at 0830, it’s took us ninety minutes to get to his tent position and just over ninety to get here. That equals about 3.6 miles ahead. That’s a good buffer I think, even if these brief weather windows open up a huge expanse, 3.6 miles is a massive distance to see us even if we’re caught in the open.’

  ‘This weather is doing my nut in with these bizarre white-outs. Sometimes I think I am moving but have come to a complete halt, it’s ball-breaking annoying,’ Robby said.

  ‘Ha, it’s not just me then mate, I keep doing the same. What a weird feeling when it happens hey?’

  ‘Fucking roll on tonight is all I can say.’

  ‘Not wrong. It’s killing me knowing we’re within touching distance but knowing we still have to wait.’ Taking a quick glimpse at the GPS to check the time, Mick confirmed, ‘About 15 hours and we’ll be done, finished tonight.’

  Mick and Robby throughout the day had confirmed that WHITEOUT was indeed a mechanical mechanism. Almost to the minute and distance his two-hour stops were spot on. Discipline was critical in every aspect of this endeavour. WHITEOUT carried every element out to the letter, whether that was time travelled, the way he looked after his body, to the exact bite-size of flapjack he would tear off to eat at each stop.

  From what they could gather from his blog he never thought about family or finishing this ordeal as Robby was, WHITEOUT was always living in the moment on the move.

  After the third stop position they both knew this is what he called his lunch break, having 20 minutes to give himself a hot meal from a small Stanley flask. On days like this one with crap weather he’d commented on what a real morale booster it was to eat hot meat, peas and mash.

  Both guys were now living and breathing WHITEOUT’s daily existence. Each clue to his presence was treated like a scientific area of interest. The physical evidence of his activities was immediately rolled into their own imaginary screenplays. It was like a superimposed character was walking around them, an almost ghostlike figure they could watch in complete silence going about his business.

  Lunch break signified another key moment in WHITEOUT’s day as he then broke his legs down in to three ninety-minute stints on his skis as opposed to two hours.

  Mick knew he would have to factor this in again to make sure he was still locating WHITEOUT’s stopping positions. Each stop position was in effect a countdown marker, a tick-off feature and unknown to WHITEOUT, the diminishing existence of his life.

  WHITEOUT in his blogs described how he only played upbeat dance m
usic during this period to drive him forward. Listening to the exact same music each time he knew how much time he had left and adjusted his almost sprint-like finish to perfection. Each day was a race to WHITEOUT and he never stopped early, never reduced his level of intensity and never looked back during this last push.

  WHITEOUT had made Mick’s job easy from a tracker’s point of view. It even made Mick shake his head at WHITEOUT’s rigid regime and strict routine. As Mick smirked to himself, ‘You might have been unpredictable at home WHITEOUT but you should know that predictable patterns are what kills and you sure as hell are predictable out here,’ he noted with a sly smile. Mick again signalled for Robby to close in.

  ‘This is our three-hour point. WHITEOUT will travel another three hours from here that works out at roughly 3.5 miles. We move any closer and this weather lifts, we may be too close and exposed. Let’s play it safe, use this natural trench over there and hold tight.’ Mick had seen a natural trench that afforded them protection from the elements, and most importantly cover from the view of WHITEOUT if the visibility became wide open.

  ‘Roger that mate,’ Robby as usual agreed with Mick which was no surprise as Mick generally did make good decisions.

  ‘I will phone in and give an update of our position and also see if WHITEOUT has checked in yet, if his phone is not completely dead again. Hopefully he will have checked in for the last time to give an indication of distance, before we ski in later to take him down.’

  ‘Okay Mick I will get start getting the tent up.’

  ‘Wait one mate. I will make the call and if he has checked in we will know his position. If he has got a major spurt on then we can move closer first.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Both jumping in the natural ice trench Mick got the Sat phone out and hit a few buttons. Shielded from the wind he awaited a response.

  ‘Gerry,’ Mick shouted in to the phone, awaiting his response.

  ‘Mick,’ Gerry replied. ‘Send mate.’

  ‘All good here, we have located all his stops and are currently at his second from last stop, approximately 3 hours from him. Has he sent an update?’

  ‘No news and we probably won’t know now either. We have just landed at the South Pole station. We will pitch a tent here tonight and, depending on your success later, cancel our meeting with Trans-Ant team tomorrow. We told them it might not happen so they won’t be spooked.

  ‘If for any reason there is a delay taking down WHITEOUT then we will go with Trans-Ant and RV with WHITEOUT. Again this is the contingency plan in the instance that any unforeseen scenarios get played out. This is the final cut-off position effectively. Don’t worry if this is the case, Sully is working up the projected extraction for this alternative play. If you guys are stranded due to weather or just can’t locate WHITEOUT by tomorrow night head to EP 1. Do you copy this Mick?’

  ‘Yeah got it, so if we don’t close the deal at 0200hrs and can’t locate him by tomorrow’s RV then head to EP 1. What’s the met report for next 24 hours?’ Mick asked.

  ‘Straight up it’s getting slightly worst hence my last comments, it’s only the weather that will fuck this first attempt up so stay tight guys,’ Gerry said.

  ‘We are going to throw the tent up and wait till 2200 before moving. I reckon by 0100 we will be in the Final RV position ready to launch the takedown,’ Mick added.

  ‘All copied mate. Give us a comms check at the Final Rendezvous – FRV, so I know you’re about to launch so I can carry out a time appreciation if it all goes tits up due to weather or unknowns.’

  ‘Will do Gerry.’

  ‘Anything else to report?’

  ‘Found a lot of blood at one point, next to a crevasse hole, but no more since, probably fell and smashed his face or something. Everything is going as planned. Weather is fucking hideous at times but we are both in good shape, no cold weather injuries.’

  ‘Great stuff guys, glad it’s all panning out. Another 12 hours we’re out of here on the Ilyushin, homebound. They have a flight in later tonight and overnighting. The skidoos are on board for the EP 1 pick-up.’

  ‘We’re all good Gerry. We will check in at the FRV,’ Mick said.

  ‘Okay speak later.’

  Robby had got the gist of the conversation and had started getting the tent ready to pitch. Knowing the powerful gusts of wind could rip the tent out of his cold hands and across the plateau he stopped short of erecting it himself. If the tent went flying it would be a cold twelve hours huddled up to a very pissed-off Mick counting down the clock.

  Mick unclipped his skis and moved over to start bellowing in Robby’s ear as his gripped the tent that was now acting like a windsock.

  ‘No change mate, as you heard he is over three miles away. We will stay here. Let’s get this tent up then we can chat once we’re out of this wind tunnel.’

  Both began to pin the tent down in order to erect it. The force of the wind threw the tent all over the place. Like a spinnaker on a sailing boat, once it caught a gust it exploded into a red sail requiring both men to rein it back in.

  After ten frustrating minutes the tent was up as they both shook their arms violently to get the blood flowing again before finally taking refuge inside to regroup.

  With minimal cooking equipment and dried frozen food rations they melted snow in the pan, boiled the water and served up a quick meal. Due to the wind blowing downwind from WHITEOUT’s anticipated position, Mick was happy for them to eat hot rations. He deemed the threat of the Thai green curry scent piercing through the upwind and alerting WHITEOUT as impossible.

  Looking at Robby’s tired face as he hungrily devoured the food, Mick spoke: ‘Mate now it’s time to relax if that’s at all possible. All the drills are in our minds, discussing any further now is going to develop more unlikely scenarios and effectively skull-fuck us both.’

  Robby thinking more of his family nodded.

  For now they had the luxury of letting the stove burn away on a low-level flame and enjoying the heat engulfing the tent. Both men lay silently addressing the thoughts that flooded their minds.

  *****

  2304 hours.

  Judging by the battering the tent walls were receiving they knew a full-blown Antarctic hurricane was in session, terrorising the landscape around them. A sudden huge blow to the tent wall was akin to a bomb exploding beside them and lucky too as Mick jumped up in shock and habitually took a glance at his watch. ‘Shit, Robby wake the fuck up. We’ve overslept,’ shaking him in a moment of panic. With the weather drowning out his alarm on his watch, Mick quickly checked the phone paranoid Gerry may have called. Viewing the standard screensaver without a ‘missed call’ notice he sighed, knowing the wrath of Gerry on his back now would put the weather into mere insignificance.

  ‘All right Robby, it’s obviously the perfect storm by the sound of it, so let’s make sure we are all sorted before we leave the tent.’

  ‘Yeah, it doesn’t seem too friendly out there, let’s hope the visibility is okay.’

  ‘We will know soon enough aye, fucking Antarctica, come on!’ Mick shouted to spur himself on.

  Five minutes later and they were both fully wrapped up and ready to face the elements. Only their ski masks left resting on their heads.

  ‘Robby, we will collapse the tent, stow it, then head off following the tracks again. It should take about two hours to get a visual on his tent I hope. Once we have a visual I will decide how close to get before we stop, but around 500 metres I reckon, ground dependent. I will make the call then that’s us ready to rock and get this fucker out of the way. Okay?’ Mick asks.

  ‘All good let’s do it mate.’

  Unzipping the tent Mick eagerly anticipated what the visibility would hold for them on this critical leg. From inside the weather sounded atrocious but this was magnified due to the tent bashing.


  As he peered out he was surprised. Visibility was still around 500 metres as the spindrift was being thrown about violently. Mick shook his head. ‘Fucking weird continent.’

  Quickly disassembling the tent and throwing it in the pulk for Robby to pull, Mick started skiing off after checking his watch.

  2328 hours.

  The terrain was still a boulder field that made the going slightly slower, but this also made them more vigilant as it acted as a natural braking system. Complacency due to anticipation of locating the tent had to be avoided at all costs and Mick was being vigilant as he scanned the horizon ahead as they skied solidly for an hour.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ Mick shouted, almost shitting his pants on the spot, he threw his left arm out to signal to Robby whilst kneeling down. Heart almost jumping out of his jacket he almost made a conscious effort to catch it.

  About a hundred metres away Mick caught a glimpse of red underneath a thin layer of accumulated snow spray. It was clearly the red fabric of WHITEOUT’s tent. As suspected, WHITEOUT had put it smack bang behind a huge ice bolder to act as a windbreak. Mick closed his eyes and opened them again to ensure it was real this time.

  It was only when Mick went to ground and looked closely the whole picture unfolded. He could now make out the pulk in front of the tent almost completely covered by snow. This would have WHITEOUT’s skis and poles inside plus all the other stores as he’d explained in his blogs.

  Behind the snow-covered pulk was the front end of the tent known as the bell end. Facing away from the wind, snow walls about a foot high surrounded the tent, pinning down the valet sheet, acting like a small fortress wall. It was only the entrance that didn’t have any walls. This was so WHITEOUT could get in and out of the doorway easily if nature called.

  Behind him Robby had already guessed something was wrong watching Mick kneel down, Robby could see for himself exactly what had startled him nearly into cardiac arrest.

  Thinking WHITEOUT was at least 3 miles away they were completely wrong, he was in fact half that distance and had caught them out completely. Focusing on the good news that they had located the tent, Robby closed in without Mick having to signal. This part they both knew like the back of their hands. They had rehearsed, talked through, and rehearsed it again many times over.