by Chris Geater
My memories of marriage were less about birthday presents and more along the lines of, “Why are we living in the middle of the Syrian desert surrounded by Arabs Harry, I want to go home.” Our marriage ended when my wife eventually did go home while I stayed in Syria. She gave birth to a son twelve months later, not an immaculate conception it would appear.
“Peter filled me in on your investigation, certainly an odd situation this incineration thing. Wasn't much left of the poor bugger, we craned him onboard in an odd shaped box.”
“What's your take on the whole thing?” I asked.
“Well, just what Steve Broadbent, the Davis Station Leader told me last trip.” He frowned into his glass. “Apparently there didn't seem any logical reason for him to burn or at the temperature that he did, not much of it makes sense.”
“Have you heard any rumours, the crew talking?”
“Nothing substantial really, there was some suggestion of distilling liquor. While we were on passage with the young bloke onboard, he bothered the engineers for bits and pieces to make a still, boasted about the rum he used to make back home. They gave him a couple of things to get rid of him.”
“Well he managed to achieve that, in the workshop only a few weeks after he arrived.”
“Is that the reason he caught fire?”
“No, the temperature was far higher than any accelerant could achieve according to both the station doctor and the medicos on the mainland. And most of the process took place internally, as if something worked its way inside and took off.”
“Last trip I overheard one of the crew from the station who was onboard helping unload,” added Mark. “Second hand info, however he said that the young tradie wasn't alone that night but had a drinking companion.”
“That's interesting, nothing showed up in the report.” I said. If this was true, it could make my job a little easier.
“It is hearsay, but could shed some light,” said Mark.
“I suppose it's a milk run for an experienced hand like you.”
“Yes and no, the ice can be tricky, mind you, if we get seasons similar to the last I will be glad to give this run up.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well,” he continued, “it was peak hour, ships coming and going, choppers all over the place, Chinese and Russian. Even heard a rumour that the Chinese off-loaded heavy equipment onto the ice but it ended up going through into a few hundred feet of water along with a couple of their men. Expensive mistake, you gotta know what you’re doing down there.”
“Why the build up, is it out of the ordinary? Seems somewhat of a coincidence given both the Russian and Chinese bases are close to each other.”
“They do the odd renovation. We do the same now and then, or upgrade to new buildings. This was more, especially the Chinese. Our boys have flown over to the Dalk Glacier a few times and returned via the Broknes Peninsula as they often do to have a recce as our neighbours do to us. Rosco, our chief pilot reckons the Zhongshan base is very busy indeed yet no indication as to why.”
"Mark, and this is quite confidential, the Russians had their own incendiary experience almost at the same time as we had ours."
He looked up, slight frown, shrewd and intelligent. "You don't say?"
"One of their scientists went AWOL. The Russian search party found him, or what was left of him, in a similar state to Michael, partly submerged in ice and burnt to a crisp, well almost save the bits quenched by the ice itself."
"Well, well. That paints an entirely different picture, and not a coincidental one either I would have thought. How did we come by this morsel of information?"
"You know how unsecure comms are in this day and age. I imagine it was hacked by some twenty two year old miscreant at Pine Gap with an aversion to reality."
"Any details?"
"Nothing to provide clarity, more confusion if anything."
"What are the Russians up to I wonder? Why are the Chinese stirred up? Could be connected, although I can't imagine them working together. More likely the Russians are up to something and the Chinese caught the scent."
He might have a point.
Located just out of Hobart sat the Australian Antarctic Division, part of the Australian Government’s Department of the Environment and Energy. Housed in a number of modern white two-story buildings that were supposed to look like icebergs but looked more like military bunkers, this frontier scientific bureaucracy claimed to have a vision of valuing, protecting, and understanding the Antarctic, all very altruistic. Australia shared the Antarctic with a number of other countries who lay claim to various sections of this icy continent, many with less altruistic intentions as I was to discover over the next few weeks.
The girl at reception smartly dressed in a white polo shirt with ‘Penguins do it in a something’ printed on the front in an unusual font that had difficulty following the contours. The word looked like huddle or puddle or even muddle, I wasn't sure. Unfortunately the word sat over her large left breast.
“Can I help you,” she demanded, glaring, unflattered by the attention her chest received.
I broke out of my reverie, “Sorry, Harry Crook to see a Mr Simon Reeves.”
She dialled an extension without taking her eyes off me, daring me to look at her top. I still hadn't been able to figure out the correct word, and it bugged me. I felt my eyes pulled towards the word. Just as my pupils took control and headed south for the ambiguous letter a tall bearded man entered the foyer distracting me from my imminent sexual assault.
“Mr Crook,” he said offering his hand.
“Mr Reeves, good of you to make time.” We shook.
He was the head of recruitment, my job, to fill a new position as Work Health and Safety Officer due to the incident . Smurf’s Government contacts manoeuvred the appropriate people in various departments ensuring that the Antarctic Division insisted on such a person, mitigate the apparent unknown new risks. A common enough reaction in Government run organisations when things happen that oughtn't, bring in another public servant.
Normally I would have undergone the standard recruitment all other members of the Davis base had been subject to but Smurf’s contacts expedited the process, bypassing the normal recruitment minefield and removing any obstructions or resistance from within the organisation.
Simon Reeves didn't look happy.
“Very unorthodox Harry,” he said once we had settled in his office on first name basis. “I’m not comfortable sending someone down for the season without the normal thorough evaluation. A tight team, specially put together from hundreds of applicants, psychologically selected for compatibility.”
“I understand Simon, but I have extensive experience in remote operations, a lifetime of health and safety knowledge and spent years in extreme cold climates,” I said lying through my teeth as per my years of training. Taking this sheltered bureaucrat for a ride was second nature to me. If there were any real technical questions about the Safety Act though I would be in trouble.
“Well, your qualifications and resume are impressive and certainly fit the bill. We are, apparently in need of a specific person with your credentials due to a recent change to the regulations.”
“Can I ask you, what was the driving factor for these changes?” Trying to find out the extent of his knowledge.
“Ahh, yes, unusual. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“I’m just concerned, if something bad happened or if the rest of the base is in some sort of risk or danger….”
“No, nothing like that. We're not sure, all I can say is, a member of the team did pass away and if he had applied his training to the situation we wouldn't be chatting here today. A good lesson for you to take away, get them to stick to the training.”
“So there’s no chance of the same thing happening again?”
“No, no, no, well one chance in a million and we are taking steps to remove that one chance. Other than the normal hazards of living in that environment you will be per
fectly safe.”
This guy was a better liar than me or he really didn't know what happened.
“There’s a Russian station and a Chinese station nearby, do you have anything to do with them? I asked nonchalantly.
“Yes, Progress and Zhongshan, not much really. Occasionally we help each other out, spare parts, some medicine, standard interaction. Now, your transport, it really is dependent on the weather this time of year. Your plane could take off after receiving a favourable report and by the time it flies half way there the weather could deteriorate causing the aircraft to return. Even if we manage to land at Wilkins Aerodrome, the weather may not allow the ongoing flight to Davis. We’ll do our best but I'm not sure exactly when we'll get you there.”
Moscow oversaw most of Russia’s Antarctic operations, about as far from the southern continent as you could get. Surprisingly Russia had many fingers in many pies outside the Motherland. There was however an organisation called the Antarctic Ocean Alliance, a collection of environmental and conservation groups of which Russia was a member. Representing Russia’s keen interest in Antarctica was a learned scientist called Boris Malantov, apparently a keen whale watcher who also claimed to be a whale whisperer. Under the pretext that I was a reporter writing an article on the Sea Shepherd organisation and Japanese whaling, Smurf arranged an appointment for me to meet the alleged Cetologist. The group occupied a small set of offices at the Commission for the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources in Hobart’s CBD. The building resembled a church more than an office, spires and all. Appropriate really given that the environmental cause is almost a religion to many.
The receptionist made a call letting Mr Malantov know I, Nigel Sampson, had arrived and asked me to sign in. Her blouse was free of graffiti allowing me to enjoy the colonial decor of the building without the temptation of errant letters printed on contoured T-shirts. Boris waddled down the staircase, red faced, wide berth, smiling.
“Mr Sampson, how are you?” he beamed.
“Nigel, please,” I replied. “Nice to meet you, grateful for your time.”
“Then you must call me Boris, no?”
“Boris it is.”
He led me up the marble topped stairs to a long corridor lined with small offices. Hanging from the ceiling were signs indicating that this was Antarctic Ocean Alliance holy ground. The signs also told me that my carbon footprint was almost certainly larger than it should be. I took a size nine shoe but like most blokes, I always wanted big feet. Another sign suggested that I should relentlessly reduce my emissions on a daily basis to prevent catastrophic failure of the earths atmosphere. I reminded myself to refrain from flatulence in his office.
A door emblazoned with the Russian flag opened into a well lit modest office decorated in mahogany furniture, stained oak panels and huon pine bookcases. A large air-conditioning unit pumped warm air by the cubic metre. The sign in the corridor must have been referring to somebody else’s earths atmosphere.
“I was told it was about whaling?” Boris kicked off.
“Yes, I wanted an opinion piece, Russia’s general view about the Japanese, ignoring the international moratorium on whaling, the Sea Shepherd organisation, those issues.”
“I cannot speak for Russian Government you understand?”
“Of course. The article is not a political statement but rather an overall feeling of the environmental scientific community. Your personal interest in whales, Russia’s membership in the Antarctic Ocean Alliance, it all points to a strong sense of responsibility on your part for the planet.”
“We take environment seriously, responsible nations should,” said Boris sweating over his antique mahogany as he sat in the artificial hot blast.
“The Minke whale is considered a delicacy in Japan, is whale meat sought after in Russia?” I pointed to a picture of a southern blue whale which is about three times bigger than the minke.
“Ahh yes, the minke whale, an unusual member of these mammals,” he said staring at the picture of the breaching blue whale to which I had pointed.
As I speculated, the Russian representative was no more a whale specialist than I was a health and safety expert. He was here to keep an eye on the Australian Antarctic Division and other environmentalist movements, a preemptive heads up for anything that could influence their operations.
He turned and referred to my question, “No, whale meat is not a common Russian ingredient except for those savages up north.” Must be from Moscow, most Muscovites had no time for Siberians.
“Have you ever ventured to the Antarctic Boris?”
“No, sadly the opportunity never presented itself,” he replied venturing closer to the heat just at the mere thought of that cold place. “Very beautiful I understand, crucial to earths climate, important to monitor and protect, this we are doing.” He may as well have read that off a pamphlet.
“Yes, some very important work carried out by everybody, tough climate to operate in though, extreme conditions,” I said.
“We have all done our duty. Our people are comfortable, Russian facilities world class.”
“Of course.” I leaned forward and said quietly, “There was a rumour of an incident down there recently, apparently it doesn't pay to ignore the dangers of the extreme climate.”
He threw off the mask of an absent minded professor, his face became shrewd and alert. “Incident? I did not hear of incident. What was this incident?”
“Well, you know how rumours are,” I said in a conspiratorial tone. “Apparently someone received serious burns, serious as in he died.”
His complexion paled, his tongue darted around the lips, I was looking at one rattled Russian low class KGB operative.
“Burnt? Who was this person? How did this burning take place?” he asked trying to pull himself together.
“It's not clear, but apparently the temperature melted some of the ice around the victim. Probably some stupid accident with fuel, I don’t have any real details, very sad situation though.”
“We…we… have not had such katastrofa, aahm, incident, nothing like this has occurred at our stations,” he stuttered, forgetting his English for a moment.
“Oh goodness me, no. I wasn't referring to the people of Progress, this was an Australian. Why did you think I was talking about someone from one of your stations?”
He laughed nervously, brushing off his mistake, “I don't know how I got silly idea. Of course you were talking about Australian. We experienced a bad fire there ten years past, not wanting a repeat.”
I laughed, at him not with him, not that he knew that.
“Yes, very sad situation. Well, we have finished here, yes?”
He wanted to get rid of me. The wording of his communique already forming in his mind to ensure maximum credit to his good self.
“We haven’t discussed the whales and your feelings towards the Japanese,” I complained.
“Maybe another time,” he said looking at the clock on the wall. “I just realised that I have appointment, your people can call and book again.”
He ushered, more like herded me out of his office.
“You can find your way?” he said pointing down the corridor.
“Yes, thank you for your time.” I pretended to sound cranky but in reality, I had found out all that I needed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Four passengers sat in the Airbus A319, outnumbered by the aircrew of five. The early spring weather in the Antarctic was still problematic, the pilots were in constant contact with the Wilkins Aerodrome operators receiving thirty minute updates concerning the weather and strip conditions. Smoothening machinery ran over the runway without stopping, maintaining the surface until the aircraft arrived. We received silver service on our five-hour flight in the comfortable business class style seats.
Two of the passengers sat together, 'specialist scientists' as they introduced themselves. The other passenger, my colleague the replacement mechanic, a distinctly reticent individual of Asian appearan
ce muttered something about wanting to sleep and sat as far away from me as he could. Suited me, my preferred pastime when entering a mission zone was to think, meditate, immerse myself in the cover role, almost like an actor as they embark on a make-believe adventure in front of the camera.
Antarctica was a location on this planet I hadn't visited. It was the fifth largest continent on earth and about twice the size of Australia except almost all of it was covered in ice whereas Australia was covered in sand...., and snakes. But it did have one similarity to Australia, the Antarctic only received around two hundred millimetres of rain per year classifying it as a desert. There were no indigenous inhabitants and virtually no vegetation. The native organisms were restricted to essentially algae and moss.
Antarctica doesn't belong to any one country and is governed by the fifty or so member countries of the Antarctic Treaty. This benign treaty kicked off during the beginning of the Cold War as an anti-Russian thing designed to prevent any military activity, atomic bomb testing or mining. So it really was the last frontier. No sovereignty, no country borders, a free-for-all should a country be crazy enough to have a go.
As I thought about the task ahead it was becoming apparent that the climate would present unique operational challenges.
My mission was solo, no support, extremely remote, undercover, difficult comms. Not ideal. For all I knew one of the specialist scientists could be undercover for ASIS or the Federal Police or another obscure agency. Clearly there was a Russian connection to the demise of our mechanic as revealed by the communique intercepted by Pine Gap. What this meant was unclear. Human spontaneous combustion, much of which in this case had occurred internally was the stuff of science fiction. The polar ice caps were not the place you would expect this to occur. One Australian mechanic and one Russian Scientist, only a single known connection, how they died. What could have caused the high temperature? How could the deaths of both these men be the same and so unusual? From different stations, separated by some of the most inhospitable terrain and climate on the planet? What were these two doing away from their respective bases and where was the Russian scientist off to?
