Chapter 13
The Antarctic Plateau, Near the Glacial Transition
The driver let out the clutch, allowing the gear that drove the treads to engage at a cautiously low RPM, keeping the vehicle under what he thought was exceptionally tight control. It would never do to go blindly driving into one of the monstrously wide, and nearly infinitely deep, crevasses that were known to exist in that area. The map they had was a very old one, an updated version of one of those that were produced during Operation High-Jump in the 1950s. No one had thought it mattered that the maps were old, since the mountains were pretty much in the same place as they were in Admiral Dufecs’ time of the IGY. The crevasses were not, but no one was willing to place too much credence in what a map says about that sort of thing anyway, no matter how current or how good the quality.
At first, the highest peaks of the mountains began to appear over the horizon, growing ever taller, as the caravan moved closer to the transition where the ice sheet channeled into the glacier. By then, the peaks stood majestically over the river of ice, the tongue of the glacier pointing the way through to where it poured out onto the ice shelf one hundred miles downstream. Gregore was standing up, his body twisting through the window opening so that he could get a better view and direct the driver who hoped that he would fall out and they would have done with him. It was Gregore who had insisted on being the navigator and gave the driver directions, though it was the driver who attempted to point out that by not changing direction sooner, they had found themselves on the wrong side of a river of ice and were now faced with the choice of backtracking for a very long way or finding a ford. Gregore was now endeavoring to prove that he was right by finding the way through the morass.
“Go right,” he said, confidently.
“How hard right?” the driver asked.
“Right, but not too hard.”
“How hard is not too hard?” the driver asked. Political officer or not, the driver would not kow-tow in the area of his responsibility to someone who knew nothing.
Gregore lowered his head enough to look through the window at the driver. “Right enough that you are no longer going in a straight line if you would not like to die an awful death.”
“Oh, that right,” the driver said as he pulled up on the lever that braked on the right track. The machine jerked to the right, the same action translating to the sled it was trailing, to the irritation of those who were relegated to riding in the shelter. Every time the vehicle lurched, Sokolov winced as he braced for the inevitable shock that would occur when the piston gave way. Each time it did not, he let out his breath in a long exhale.
“Vladimir, don’t look so frightened. You must have been down here too long. You should be enjoying this,” Gregore teased him, mistaking his pallor. The driver shook his head.
“It is your great intelligence that allows you to understand the stupidity in this,” he said quietly when Gregore stood back up out the window. “This is the purest madness.”
Sokolov didn’t answer and the driver continued to follow Gregore’s direction until they were nearly clear of the hazard. Once the vehicle passed through the disturbed area, it would be on a gently descending slope that settled onto the glacier.
“See,” Gregore said. “That was not so difficult. We are nearly clear.” He leaned back out the window, however, to make sure that they were, in fact, clear the rest of the way. He had not noticed until then that the crevasses he had previously observed were very easy to see because the aspect of their exposure did not allow them to have snow bridges form over their tops. That was a good thing because they were visible and plain to see. Now that the terrain had shifted, the drifting snow that was driven off the plateau was allowed to settle and form cornices that eventually formed into bridges over the tops of the crevasses, some so strong that a machine the size of theirs could have driven over them and those inside not notice that they had. That, in fact, is what they had twice just done.
They were now traveling on a straight track onto a neve, a snow field that is distinguished from a glacier in that it does not flow, when Gregore observed a sagging in the surface directly in front of them where a massive crevasse had a long bridge over it that was bending of its own weight. It was only visible because the sun did not reflect on it in exactly the same way as the surrounding area, making the depression seem darker in contrast. It took him a moment to realize what it was.
“Turn right,” he shouted at the driver.
“How hard...” the driver began.
“Hard, hard, hard, you idiot.”
The driver understood the situation immediately and pulled the brake on the right side with as much force as he could. That action made the vehicle lurch drastically to the right, putting an extraordinary amount of pressure onto the forward ski. It was inevitable that the previously compromised piston would fail under such stress. When it did, the weight of the machine shifted to the ski and the sudden pressure made the ski dive and twist; then it caught enough to track and lurched wildly to the left. The sudden swing in direction made the driver loose his grasp for an instant on the brake, but that was all that it took. The yaw to the left was unchecked and the machine leaped onto the sagging snow bridge that had no chance of supporting the weight. They broke through and the tractor flew into the abyss.
They were luckier than those riding in the shelter. Still traveling forward when it fell, the pulling machine was just long enough to span the width of the aperture and it wedged itself against the walls a mere twenty-feet below the surface. The sled, however, pulled onward into the opening, immediately aligned itself into a straight downward aspect, and breaking free from the tractor, dove downward into the unfathomable depths, those souls on board never having the chance to understand what disaster had overtaken them.
It was surprisingly dark only twenty feet down. Sokolov, who had been riding in the rear seat, was the most protected of the three and the impact left him shaken, but conscious. The other two were moaning softly in the front of the cab, but did not immediately respond when he called to them. He crawled forward in the dark, grasped Gregore’s shoulder, and gave it a shake. The Russian awoke instantly, light and thunder shrieking out from the dislocated arm.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Look to the driver!”
It took longer to bring the driver around. The fall had thrown him against the control bars in front of him and Sokolov suspected that he had several broken ribs. Sokolov was at a loss for what to do next. The first thing that he became aware of was that the engine was dead and that the extreme cold air was pouring through the shattered windows. Time would not be their friend for long. He stood up as far as he could and unlatched the bolt that closed the top hatch. Then he lifted it enough to be able to see directly upward.
“We are less than ten meters down,” he informed the others.
“What is the difference in that?” Gregore asked. “We have no better way to climb ten meters of sheer ice than we do to climb one in this condition.”
“It is certainly better than for those we were pulling.”
Gregore thought of them for the first time. “Why?”
“Because I do not see them at all.”
That brought the political officer completely around. “Let me see.”
Sokolov helped him to stand so he could look out the hatch, then to look out the window into the seemingly bottomless darkness. At the sight of the complete emptiness below, Gregore then directed his eyes toward the walls to see how well the vehicle was secured. It appeared to be firmly lodged in the ice, but it was impossible to know how well.
“This is not good,” he announced.
The driver actually laughed at the understatement.
“No,” Sokolov agreed. “Getting out would be only the beginning of our problems.”
“Is there power?” Gregore asked the driver.
“Wait,” the driver said, working the switches. “Yes, but the engine won’t turn.”
“That does n
ot matter.” Regardless of his other duties, Gregore was, in fact, a qualified radio operator. He tried keying the microphone and appeared gratified to hear static as a result. He then looked to the antenna and seemed less pleased. It had broken off and was dangling by its wire from the front of the engine compartment.
“We need to get a long line of wire onto the surface to act as a dipole to be able to transmit a decent signal unless…” He thought for moment. “Vladimir, did you not tell me that the Americans are working in this area?”
“Yes,” Sokolov answered, the irony that he could not keep out of his voice not understood by the others, who had other things to do than question him. “The same as we are. Meteorites. On the plateau and in the catchments.”
“It will be far easier to transmit VHF than HF. I can extend the wire to the antenna. If we can throw it onto the surface, it will give a range of one horizon, maybe thirty-five kilometers.”
“They may be that close,” Sokolov said. “If they have radios and they are listening and we are on the same frequency, we may have a chance.”
“I have all the frequencies they use. We need to get the antenna.”
Sokolov looked at the black whip antenna hanging from the front of the machine.
“How?” he asked.
“You go and get it,” Gregore said firmly. “Clearly we cannot. I will give you a rope.”
There appeared to be no other choice. Sokolov tied the rope around his waist and crawled over the others and through the opening where the windshield used to be. The cold metal hood was slippery under his feet. He lay down on his chest, trying to place as much surface area of his body in contact as he could to keep from slipping. It was still difficult.
“Keep the rope tight,” he called over his shoulder.
“I am.”
“Tighter,” Sokolov insisted. “Let me pull the rope from you. Don’t feed it out.”
“All right.”
He inched his way across the hood, trying not to look down or up. He did anyway and was rewarded with vertigo that made him feel that he was already falling. He still had to reach over the edge to be able to grasp the wire.
“Hold the rope firm now; don’t let any more out. I need to extend over the front to reach it. Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gregore said. “Go ahead.”
The scientist took a deep breath and stretched his body, keeping his eyes on the wire. He felt himself start to slip.
“Hold on!” he yelled.
With his one good arm, Gregore braced for the fall. The rope was around his body and he thrust the fist that was holding the rope between his legs and squeezed with his thighs around his wrist to keep the rope from slipping. The sudden weight nearly pulled him through the opening, but he was able to hold on. Sokolov found himself dangling over the emptiness that reached up from below. He was surprised to find the antenna wire still in his grasp.
“Pull me back in,” he said quietly, as if a louder noise might awaken the danger that had him within its grasp.
“Help me,” Gregore said to the driver, who despite the broken ribs pulled fiercely on the rope. When Sokolov was back in, he sank back into the rear seat and closed his eyes, fighting off the vision of the bottomless death that had nearly captured him. It was worse with his eyes closed, so he opened them and looked back into the front of the cab.
“Will it work?” he asked.
“I think so. That is the good news. The bad news is you will have to go back out to try and throw it onto the surface.”
Sokolov sighed in the back of the cab. “Give it to me.”
This time, he crawled out of the hatch on top of the cabin. Placing his feet on top of the seats, he was able to extend up to his hips through the opening, a position he found much more comfortable than being on the hood.
“Would it be better to throw the antenna and leave the wire in a spool on the roof?” he asked. “Or have the wire hang down and let the antenna pull it up as it goes.”
“Neither. Throw the whole thing at the same time. The weight of the coil will help carry it over the top.”
“Very well.”
He practiced the motion of throwing the antenna assembly several times. When he was confident that he could do it on the first try, he took three deep breaths and let it fly. It carried well over the edge.
The Pole of Inaccessibility Page 25
