by Chris Geater
Steve continued on about various hazards, protocols, emergency procedures, clothing and a quick virtual tour so that we would have our bearings on our live tour.
We then assembled in a sort of ante-room called the ‘Cold Porch’ where we completed our prepping for outside. The various layers required for surviving polar conditions were numerous but essential, especially footwear. Frostbite of the feet contributed to many fatalities in sub-zero conditions.
The cool of the cold porch prepared you for the bite of the outside air which was fortunate. The external temperature of minus 10°C felt fresh on the throat. Our tour on foot had been predetermined by many committee meetings both here and in the monolith called the Hobart head office. Apparently a great deal of scientific thought-power went into it, I just wanted to wander around. The idea was to undergo an anti-clockwise route taking in all the facilities during approximately one and a half kilometres of circuit. Thick snow crunched underfoot as we walked the gravel streets, we were informed that it was really ice as snowing was a rare occurrence in the desert climate of Antarctica. The sun, cold but blinding, magnified by the covering of pure white, tinted goggles or glasses essential to ward off blindness.
A kaleidoscope of different colours and building styles, the Davis station was an ongoing evolution of shapes and contrasts. A tiny town designed by ten different councils at ten different times only minus actual houses, more like an industrial estate or a space colony scanning sixty years of development. Red and green were the predominant colours with the odd grey, blue and yellow thrown in, a vast array of boxes, shipping containers and equipment scattered throughout. Large elevated platforms supported various pipes and cables that ran here and there supplying various buildings with utilities. A ghost town like atmosphere, wise people spent as little time outside as possible. Steve was informative and interesting in his description, it was obvious he felt pride in the Davis base capabilities. John asked quite a few questions for a mechanic and showed less interest in various garages and machinery within than he should have, I wondered where his interests lay.
At the northern extreme of the station sat the meteorological building. Steve introduced us to Jeff Cox who was in the middle of releasing a large weather balloon into the atmosphere.
Jeff explained the purpose of his balloons and their importance to weather forecasts in the region and beyond. Glancing through the large doors of the balloon release building I noticed a modified dart board. A variety of weather states replaced the normal numbers on the board, very scientific and probably more accurate. The balloons are filled with hydrogen instead of helium as they can manufacture it on site using a process that separates hydrogen and oxygen from pure water. A large no smoking and no naked lights sign hung off the wall, sensible given the explosive nature of hydrogen.
We entered a large red building marked workshop. Haggs, pioneers, quads of various descriptions sat around the cavernous well lit void, Steve led us to one corner. Tucked away behind a well kept metal lathe sat a piece of impressive equipment, Diesels rum distillery. Obviously created with effort and love, the copper, glass and stainless steel contraption looked like it meant business. A morbid shrine to the life taken by something unknown.
As we continued further down the street an even larger green building, the ‘green’ store and gymnasium.
“Our climbing wall,” Steve claimed proudly as we stood in front of a tall section of interior wall.
An enthusiastic climber spread himself like a spider against the backdrop of different coloured blobs, his mate below holding a rope attached to the harness.
“Keeps us fit, prevents boredom,” Steve continued. I wondered if he saw the irony.
Two hours into the tour and almost at its completion we were at the door of the emergency food storage hut, designed to provide emergency supplies in the unlikely event the main food supply in the living quarters was destroyed by fire or inclement weather. Close by, the rumbling noise of the generator providing power to the station.
Forty metres away was the shore line and Steve pointed to it, “Just off the beach there, that's where Michael came to grief.”
I asked if we might have a look. Steve agreed but suggested that there may not be too much to see due to recent storm activity.
We walked carefully over the rocky beach onto the ice and out to a spot led by Steve. As we approached what appeared to be an irregularity in the smooth surface I heard hurried footsteps. Peter, the AFP squad trotted over the ice panting and pointing, I couldn't make out what he was saying so I kept walking to the location. We stood around an indentation in the ice about two metres across and half a metre deep, the edges rough and marked, speckled sections of black were visible through the opaque material.
Peter slid to a halt, gasping and protesting, “You can't be here, this is a crime scene! I must ask you to back off twenty metres!”
Steve’s beard bristled, “Peter, you and I have had conversations like this, I am in command of the base, you are a visitor. There is no reason to believe a crime has been committed. It is reasonable for Harry to see the location. Besides, everybody on the base has been out here, not to mention the excavator that dug poor Michael out.”
Peter still panting hard, hands resting on his knees, “We're in Australian federal territory and I have jurisdiction over criminal cases.” He took that seriously, AFP patches were hand sown onto the arms of his thick polar over-jacket.
“I still don’t understand why you feel this is a criminal case,” I piped up. “Unknot those thermal knickers mate, you’re going to have a heart attack. Why don’t you head back to the mess, maybe a donut or two?” I wasn't very fond of this bloke.
He straightened up, squared his shoulders and came around the hole with the intention I suspect to get into my face causing maximum intimidation. His route lacked the necessary circuitousness however and with arms and legs flailing that would have made an aerobic instructor proud he fell into the slush that once held young Michael in its frozen grips. Impossibly slippery we offered our hands to assist with extraction.
“You need to get those boots off ASAP,” Steve told him frostily. “Head into the accommodation and dry off, you’re no good to anybody with amputated toes.”
Head high, Peter walked off, pride not intact.
John asked Steve what he thought caused the fire, did he think it was suicide?
“We did consider that. Psychologically Michael showed no signs of stress or inclinations towards ending his life. He had a happy disposition albeit maybe too fond of rum but a capable mechanic,” Steve replied. “As to what caused it, we have no idea, it's a complete mystery, I've never seen anything like it. But we have a good team here now, we'll get to the bottom of it. Don’t want a repeat, whatever it was.”
Back at the dining room after defrocking in the cold porch, I enjoyed some offerings from the pastry refrigerator, which fortunately was not full of vegan delicacies. When one is in their forties one has to be careful how much one consumes so I limited myself, only two custard tarts. Roger sat down across from me with a fresh spinach sausage-less roll and a cup of green tea. We chatted for a while before I raised the incident with Michael the mechanic.
“The Antarctic is a unique place, different to anywhere else on the planet,” Roger informed me. “It doesn't look like there's a lot of life here but the place is alive, like no other.”
According to the information we gathered prior to my deployment Roger holds a degree in psychology and a masters in social science, here on the station to monitor remote close-knit communities and assist in personnel issues.
He continued to wax gibberish. “Michael was a victim of malevolent thinking, not holding the respect he should have for the Antarctic, abusing his position, mocking the spirit.”
I must have looked confused.
“Are you a believer Harry?" I told him I believed in lots of things but he needed to be a little more specific.
“If you were a true believer you wouldn’t need
to ask me to be more specific.” He shook his head in disgust. “We need believers Harry, people who embrace the aura, believing and fighting against the evil our planet is subject to as us humans destroy it, there’s no room for atheists in this front line of survival.”
“Can you explain how this brought about Michaels demise?” I asked in an attempt to restore sanity to our conversation.
“Michael wasn't a believer Harry, the planet resists non-believers, it resisted him, sent us all a message, you be careful it doesn't send you a message.”
I wasn't sure if he was making a threat or he was just continuing in his loony rhetoric. Some of these environmental types have been known to become dislodged.
“Are you threatening me Roger, seems like you’re suggesting I watch my back?”
It was his turn to look confused. “No, goodness me no Harry,” he lowered his voice. “Nature is the one you need be careful of, she has her own way of resisting.”
He stood and walked off, left me wondering how many more unstable people there were with whom I was stranded.
Natalie sat with a fresh cup, noticed my two empty foil tart holders, glanced at my stomach and then my face. “A bit peckish Harry after your big walk? Want me to get you a tray?”
I ignored her attempt at flirting.
“I just had an interesting conversation with Roger, well interesting may be an exaggeration, more weird than interesting.”
She laughed, “Roger’s harmless, he’s intelligent and capable though, just has a few funny ideas about life, a combination of Freud and Attenborough.”
“Is he the right person for here?” I asked her. “I mean, wouldn’t it be better to have someone more balanced?”
“He’s OK, has the stations interest at heart.”
“He felt that nature had run its course with Michael and might even do the same with me, as a non-believer.”
“You spooked Harry? You don’t seem the superstitious type to me.”
“I'm not really, I do believe it's bad luck to drink instant coffee though.”
A shake of her head accompanied by a derogatory glare.
“But Doc, are you a believer?”
She sat back and looked at me, that overworked eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what to believe about you Harry.”
“Tell me about Michael. You carried out the post-mortem, what was it like?”
“How did you know that?”
“I'm the safety man remember, here because of the incident involving him, I’ve been fully briefed.”
“I can't really tell you much, coroners reports are confidential of which my report is a part.”
“Okay, fair enough. Without going into the medical details, just tell me what you think happened, and why.”
“Michael suffered almost complete incineration, the temperature reduced some of his bones to small pebble like gravel, what a body does when it's cremated only this temperature was even greater.” She blurted it out almost relieved to be sharing with somebody, get some weight of her chest, confidentiality taking a side step.
“The medical info from Hobart said his weight was 87kg, about right looking at him when he arrived. When we weighed him after he was dug out of the ice he weighed 27kg. I think the only reason he wasn't even lighter was the extinguishing effect of melted ice.”
“How would something like this happen, did he spill fuel or something over himself?”
“No, nothing like that, in fact the combustion took place predominantly from the inside.”
“How is that possible, was it an ingested fluid?” I asked.
“I don’t think so, it got very hot in there. In the spine and hip area the bones were subject to the highest temperatures of all especially on one side, completely broken down. The rest of the skeletal remains were less damaged, exposed to less heat. The internal organs had almost entirely disappeared. The inner skin layers, the subcutis and dermis were completely consumed and yet the epidermis around the torso was less damaged to some extent. The legs, although badly burnt and contracted were exposed to even less heat again mainly due to the melting ice.”
The coroners report from Hobart confirmed the results of Natalie’s post-mortem, Michael ignited internally, consumed from the inside out.
“What do you hope to find Harry?” She asked, a fellow confidante and conspirator.
I hoped to find the reason why two temporary Antarctic residents spontaneously combusted fifty kilometres from each other and why.
“Until we find an explanation there’s a danger it might happen again,” I explained. “We can't have people running around the place catching fire, imagine what the penguins would think?”
She left the table looking a little nonplussed, didn't even say goodbye.
CHAPTER SIX
As the station Occupation Health and Safety Officer, I understandably attended the safety committee meetings. The committee, made up of six members from different departments met weekly to discuss issues surrounding the safety of the station. Steve, Roger, myself and three other members sat around a table in the small conference room. My automatic position as chair meant I kicked the meeting off, a little out of my depth but figured I had winged more complex meetings in my time. I simply went round the table asking for input.
One member introduced as Suzie tabled an issue regarding the kitchen exhaust fans. Apparently her and her colleagues smelt the cooking fumes in their section of the operations building. These yummy aromas caused distractions, made the workers feel continuously hungry and as such were piling the weight on, now a safety issue. The committee discussed this at length even suggesting the kitchen cook less aromatic and flavoursome meals but this met with muted disapproval from members at the table who were showing obvious signs of a healthier appetite than others. Those resisting the suggestion happened to be the very ones who tabled the safety issue in the first place, coincidently.
Roger raised a potential catastrophe or even fatality at the imminent Antarctic Olympics. Apparently the ‘sack race’ was in jeopardy. Assessed as a high risk event a risk analysis was tabled to prevent injuries. After another round table discussion to which I found myself unable to contribute for fear of giggling, a solution was reached where participants would race with only one leg in the sack rather than two.
I expected further topics that might included wearing cut-resistant gloves when playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey or establishing a Safe Operation Procedure for moving chairs around offices. The temptation to table a mental health issue regarding the threat to my sanity was almost irresistible.
I approached Steve for an opportunity to spend time discussing the history of occupational health and safety on the station, good for my cover and possibly gain more intelligence. We agreed to the following day at 0900 straight after the ‘penguin huddle’ as he unsurprisingly called the morning meeting of department heads.
The next day we sat in his cluttered office, a framed photo on the wall behind his head showing several men fully dressed for business in army fatigues holding Steyr AUGs and a couple of HK416.
“One area I’m not very familiar with Steve is the incidents of safety in the Antarctic, specifically Australian stations.”
“I must admit Harry, other than my time spent here and a few stories of incidents occurring in the past I don’t have a lot to tell you. If you wanted to go over the incident reports I can give you access to the file on the server but really it's just full of minor injuries, a few vehicle accidents out in the field, some infractions of the safety Golden Rules, nothing that you wouldn't expect in this line of work.”
“Any incidents that stand out?”
“Well, we did have the helicopter crash three years ago, it was all over the media, no fatalities but two badly injured crew. Towards the end of last season one of our Haggs, our nickname for the Hagglunds ended up in a crevasse, a few broken bones. There was a small fire in the laboratory recently, that's all you’ll find I'm afraid.”
“What about our neighbour
s Progress and Zhongshan, do you hear about any issues they experience?”
“They keep to themselves most of the time. But some of our people visited both the bases last season and came back with a bit of a horror story.”
“Horror story, sounds a bit extreme.”
“It was the Russian Progress station, apparently they lost two of their old Ivans, what we call their thirty five tonne Kharkovchankas. They were involved with a drilling program down on the Ranvic Glacier. Two holes were drilled to a depth of about 1000 metres in order to obtain samples of the seabed. According to the Russian tradesmen who related the story to our people, two of the Ivans were returning to Progress with a load of samples but they both caught fire not far from the drilling site.”
“Ageing Russian equipment, no surprises there.”
“That’s true Harry, much of their gear is archaic and held together by bandaids but in this case both of them caught fire almost at the same time and were totally destroyed. The crews were unharmed, one of their quads travelling with them was able to get back to the drill site and bring transport to retrieve the men.”
“Did they give a reason?”
“No, and it didn't appear that they were being reticent, they just couldn't explain it. The burnt out hulks are still out on the glacier where they melted into the ice. Winter was on them before they could retrieve their equipment so this summer will be the first opportunity for them to dig the old Ivans out.”
“More than a coincidence surely when you remember our recently departed friend Michael.”
“Of course, but there is no way to explain it. It could very well be a coincidence, Russian equipment fails all the time as you pointed out.”
He didn't sound convinced and neither was I.
“Is it possible to visit the site of the Ivans?” I asked.
“Yes, quite easy this time of year, there is plenty of sea ice to traverse on. But I don’t think there will be much to see. Both vehicles will be difficult to find after the winter, they were almost completely submerged in the ice to begin with. We do have the coordinates from their initial mayday call though so we should be able to locate the general area.”
