Beneath the Ice (3 page)

“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
anoth
er look out the window and was glad
he was not the pilot. They were flying 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 per
sonnel
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 sci
ence. 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 interject
ed. 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-signed 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.

“
Dr. Gwen James, biologist, University of California, San
Diego
. Griffin and I have been working on
subglacial bioforms. I’ve been
retained to
monitor and record any discoveries indicating microscopic life. I’m
also the team paramedic. It’s not my forte, so stay
healthy.”

“Thank you, Dr. James,” Perry said, then
asked, “Since we have two Dr. Jameses, may we call you Gwen?”

“That would be unprofessional,” Griffin
said.

“Shut up, Griffin,” Gwen shot back. “It’s
not unprofessional, and it will go a long way to make communication
error free.”

Perry pressed back the urge to smile. There
was fire in the woman, and, apparently, she was used to handling
her brother.

Skipping over his own crew for the moment,
he turned to Larimore. “Commander?”

Larimore sat up in his chair. “Commander
Trent Larimore, United States Navy. I oversee a team of six
Seabees. Our job is to erect the exploration module, maintain
environmental parameters, and generally be the life of the
party.”

“Seabees?” Gwen asked.

“We’re the construction arm of the navy,
ma’am,” Larimore explained. “ ‘We build, we fight’ is our
motto.”

Next, Perry turned to a brown-haired woman
with cover-girl cheekbones and hazel eyes.

“Sarah Hardy, robotics, King’s College,
London.” There was a slight twang to her words.

“You don’t sound British,” Jack said with a
wink.

She smiled. “I’m not. I grew up in Austin,
Texas. My family moved to England when I was a teenager. I’m with
NASA.”

“Thank you, Sarah,” Perry said. “Jack?”

The large man stood, bowed, and then said,
“Jack Dyson, civil engineering, MIT, and all-around swell guy.”
Perry saw Dr. James roll his eyes. “My job is to make sure Perry
doesn’t make a mess of this operation.”

“Translation: He’s the other project
manager,” Perry explained.

“Gleason Lane,” Perry’s friend said without
waiting for a cue. “Like Perry and Jack, also MIT, except I majored
in a challenging discipline—computer science. I handle all the tech
stuff except robotics. That’s the lovely Sarah Hardy’s
expertise.”

“Perry Sachs,” Perry said. “Project
director, Sachs Engineering, architecture, MIT.”

“Architecture!” Dr. James exclaimed. “You’ve
got to be kidding. Why would Pentagon honchos send an architect to
Antarctica?”

“Because he’s the vice president of Sachs
Engineering,” Larimore said before Perry could reply. “They have
built things in places you can’t even imagine. They’re a known
quantity at the Pentagon.”