Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Mind you, Posterity, only her third flight. Known people who didn't learn that quickly....

  * * * *

  Based on geographic coordinates alone, Wales lies only four and a third longitudinal degrees farther north than Anchorage (65 degrees 37’ N vs. 61 degrees 13’ N). Turns out, however, geography and weather employ degrees in very different fashions—at least 30 real-world degrees colder here. Nippy temperatures combined with seriously raw onshore breeze to drill through every gap in clothing, real or imagined, moment set foot outside plane.

  Though reasonably confident, following aerial recon, no polar bears immediately in offing, stood armed guard with M-1 in case of wolves, other smaller predators, while Maggie took advantage of convenient modesty bush for postflight relief.

  Shivering from head to foot by time made it back inside plane. Rooted through duffle, dug out first planned stratum of warmer clothing: flannel-lined denim jacket, pants; poofy thick socks.

  Chilly temperatures hardly unexpected, given locales through which course necessarily leads, so have made advance preparations. As we skirt Arctic Ocean (for roughly next 2,000 miles), will add additional layers to trousseau as goosebumps mandate: longjohns, flannel shirts, sheepskin-lined leather jacket. Several additional layers available, up to all-out Eskimo stealth mode: camo-colored, down-filled, hooded parka, matching pants; insulated snowmobile-type gloves, boots.

  Maggie, on other hand, wasn't part of predeparture planning. Eyed her thoughtfully. Notwithstanding fairly widely held opinions of ignorant, uneducated (also questionably sapient and thankfully now dead) keep-'em-fenced-or-chained-outdoors pet owners of yore, nothing inherently coldproof about dogs. In fact, as temperatures approach freezing, hypothermia becomes factor. Below about 20, foot protection becomes increasingly necessary to prevent frostbite.

  Resolved to keep close eye on canine companion as mercury sags; improvise stylish puppy jacket from some of my stuff if necessary.

  Smiled then. Wondered how temperate-climate-raised, fleet-footed, furry Best Friend would view chasing Frisbees while wearing sled-dog-style, fur-lined booties.

  My reflective gaze returned by mischief sparkling from The Eye (technically, both of them). Maggie snatched up Frisbee. Wagged tail. Looked hopeful. Unblinkingly so.

  For the moment at least, concerns clearly wasted. Capersome canine obviously finds current brisk temperatures invigorating, if not downright enjoyable.

  (Of course, to be objective, Maggie finds wakefulness invigorating, worthy of unflagging, gleeful enthusiasm—unblinking stare....)

  * * * *

  Day V

  Despite surroundings, potential unwelcome guest list; despite night spent clutching Maggie in one arm, Barrett in other, managed not to dream of polar bears.

  However nattily attired.

  Unfortunately, morning turned out to be not only below-freezingly brisk, but proximity to ocean, absence of breeze, combined to produce thick coating of hoarfrost: on propeller, wings, tail group airfoils; fuselage, windshield, windows—everywhere.

  With no way to de-ice. Save by hand-scraping every square inch of aerodynamically active surfaces; not to mention windshield—which latter component would have emerged from experience scratched opaque beyond usefulness.

  And while personally have never encountered icing conditions during brief if intense piloting career, Lennel, as well as (during week's shuttle training prior to orbital mission launch), Harris and others with real experience, did share war stories; cumulative impact of which thoroughly canalized Plucky Girl Flying Ace's psyche regarding Evils & Potential Consequences of Flying in Icing Conditions. Moral of every one of which could be summarized tidily: Don't!

  So waited until nearly noon for temperatures to rise sufficiently (if just barely) above freezing; first to melt, then evaporate every nubbin of frost adhering to every square inch of all flying surfaces: wings/flaperons, stabilizers/elevators, vertical fin/rudder, prop, plus windshield (the better to see through you, my dear).

  By takeoff, a few patches still remained on ship's belly. But not of aerodynamic significance; not about to wait forever.

  Besides, really wanted to get Bering Strait behind us while weather gods smiled, however coolly. Retain unpleasant memories of pre-Armageddon TV special concerning hazards of commercial fishing in northernmost Pacific. Narrator described activities as most dangerous job in world:

  Freakish, all but unpredictable meteorological conditions—frequently below-fresh-water-freezing ocean temperatures, together with almost randomly shifting winds; waves so confused, due to many nearby land masses, as to all but moot expression, “weather patterns"—combine to make chances of survival in event of sinking, or even man-overboard, equate to wishful thinking.

  Prognosis similarly bleak for passengers of aircraft forced down into wind-tossed, gunmetal-gray, frigid waters.

  Nonetheless, with head held high (posture mandated partially by need to see over Stallion's instrument panel), maintained stiff upper lip whole way across.

  Though could not help trying to “sit lightly.”

  While Maggie napped.

  * * * *

  Volume IV

  If Today is Tuesday,

  This Must Be Chelyabinsk

  Everything in life is compromise. Flight over potentially hostile terrain especially so; “hostile” in this context referring to dearth of relatively level ground upon which to execute emergency landing—issue quite separate from natives’ intentions.

  Remaining at 13,000 feet would improve nonscheduled landing prospects, likewise allow overflying modestly upthrust terrain with reasonable degree of safety. However, higher we fly, more we face risk of radar detection—or unfriendly eyeballs, for that matter, particularly if weather conditions at altitude cause Stallion to emit contrail....

  Staying low, on other hand—say 1,000 feet or less above ground—cuts down on naked-eye/microwave detection hazard radius, but also minimizes opportunities to come up with clever solution, identify survivable landing site, in event aircraft suddenly becomes very quiet.

  Which brings up related problem: Turbine's wail at cruise, though different from reciprocating engines’ drone, most unlikely to be heard on ground from optimum altitude, whereas down low, depending upon wind direction, engine noise audible for probably five, ten miles both sides of flight path.

  Contemplated factors, rolled dice, sighed—chose low road.

  Downside: Trip going to take lots longer. Will be detouring around, f'rinstance, any bodies of water spanning more than about five miles across, since won't be high enough to glide to safety In Event Of; plus, of course, for same reason, need to follow flattest terrain available; i.e., no adventurous mountain-pass flying....

  Accordingly, at halfway point between Diomede Islands and Siberia, started gradual altitude bleed-off. Gauged remaining height; kept enough in hand, as closed on coastline, to be able to glide to dry land from any point in descent. Completed overwater passage's final mile just 1,000 feet above wavetops.

  First Siberian soil to pass beneath wheels: easternmost tip of barren, semimountainous wart of tundra projecting toward Americas from equally barren eastern end of Chukchi Peninsula. Crossed surf just north of ghost community listed on charts as Naukan.

  Adjusted flight path northwesterly as we came ashore, aiming generally for point where Bering Strait coast bends southward in vicinity of little town named Enurmino.

  First, though, course briefly skirted stumpy peninsulette's southern coast. Then, shortly after landfall, Bering coast angled off southward, leaving us headed inland. Route soon converged upon, intersected with, paralleled Chukchi coastline, which served as almost geometrically straight-line VFR navigation aid.

  First leg, from Wales, Alaska, USA, to Izba Tynupytku, Siberia, totaled some 400-plus miles, as crow flies. Not, however, flying as crow.

  Because not crow. Am, in fact, “the very model of a modern major,” er, aviatrix. (Sorry, ghosts of Messrs. Gilbert/Sullivan.) Cutting-edge-ad
vanced, GPS-linked, big-screen “glass cockpit” primary flight-information displays offers many advantages over old-style compass/dead-reckoning/landmarks navigation. Among benefits: emancipation from punctiliously steered compass courses connecting points A, B.

  With GPS-linked PFID, always know where we are; never lose basic orientation between self, ultimate objective. Can weave, wander, meander, juke, dido, dodge to, fro to heart's content to stay over relatively favorable potential emergency landing terrain, all the while remaining aware of directestmost course to, distance from, destination.

  Following careful chart study, have determined best bet is to hug coast until all significant mountain ranges lie behind us; until can lay nearly great-circle course for south-central Urals without having to cross significantly rough, inhospitable terrain.

  Probably not coincidentally, most settled areas in these desolate regions, not to mention airports at which can fuel, service plane, seem to have grown up along coastline, though charts reflected sprinkling of villages along rivers in more inland locations.

  Shortly after regaining coast, crossed two more bays opening onto Chukchi Sea. First hardly more than tidal lake; second resembled low-sided fjord. Neither triggered elevated “over-water” blood pressure.

  After passing Enurmino, some 50 miles farther east, coast curved more westerly, then broke up into string of low, almost barrier-island-type formations separating bay/harbor on left from Chukchi on right.

  Not quite 50 miles beyond that, we hop-scotched out along another sketchy chain of islands leading most of the way across bay sufficiently long, broad to have been named on charts: Ostrova Serykh Gusey.—No, wait; seem to recall ostrov means island. Name probably refers to rocky landmass near bay mouth.

  Transliterated Russian chart identifiers consistently unhelpful in that regard. Hate being, in effect, functionally illiterate like this...!

  Thereafter course edged back north to coastline, following chilly gray surf along another string of barrier islands, which played out at little town listed as Ryrkaypiy, which marked tip of big, scallopy bight off Chukchi Sea, necessitating brief westward detour.

  Arriving shortly thereafter at Izba Tynupytku, first performed low, slow, vicinity flyover, local polar bear survey. Determined none in immediate proximity. Landed, fueled, serviced, tied down plane.

  This far north (69 degrees, 15’ north latitude), summer days lots longer. Despite just under five hours’ flight since icing-delayed noon departure from Wales, landing at Izba Tynupytku found sun still well above western horizon. (Actually, more on order of north-north-northwestern horizon.)

  So had dinner, conducted protracted Frisbee session by way of apologizing to Maggie for long, boring day; grudgingly endured canine dervish's enthusiastic response to raw, horrid, cutting-to-bone breeze driving off ocean—which, despite all this “Chukchi Sea” nonsense, really is no more than southern fringe of Arctic Ocean.

  (Somewhere out across which, according to more authoritative Old Wives’ Tales, Norse gods invented, handed down original concept of cold.)

  * * * *

  Day VI

  Good morning, Posterity.

  Happily (seldom has adjective been so narrowly focused), though temperatures overnight dipped into teens, relative lack of humidity (despite ocean's proximity) mostly prevented frosted-up wings, windshield: patch here, speckles there; nothing worth delaying takeoff for.

  Maggie got me up shortly after sunrise. We had breakfast followed by another Frisbee session. Frisbees fly well in dense air generated by subfreezing temperatures. On other hand, Frisbees thoroughly slimed with dog spit seriously cold to bare fingers’ touch. Thank heavens for foil-pouched Handi Wipes.

  Periodically throughout session, checked Maggie's feet. But no signs of frostbite; no diminution of enthusiasm. Guess weather still within BC's operating parameters.

  Wish my parameters so tolerant. Added several additional layers of clothing, but suspect will never be warm again.

  Turbine fired off promptly despite bracing temperatures, then we launched again into blue.

  Planned midday destination this time much closer, in as-crow-flies distance: Rauchua, at mouth of good-sized river (do wish chart-makers had bothered to identify smaller landmarks), only about 300 miles in straight line. But huge bay in between necessitates detour; actual flight distance closer to 450.

  * * * *

  Siberian coastal tundra, even with low mountainscape generally visible on left, Chukchi Sea dominating view on right, not most inspiringly scenic vista have ever overflown. Usually when flying low, candid glimpses of wildlife on ground, opportunity to observe otherwise inaccessible terrain, keeps interest piqued (or arguably, around mountains, peaking—or even peeking: down into long-gone residents’ backyards).

  Regardless of spelling, however, flight over tundra generates little interest. Endless flight over rolling, essentially featureless grassy expanse terminating in surf pounding at rocks on one side, blending with age-softened, nondescript big hills/low mountains on other, unlikely to make way to apex of list of Sights Without Which Life is Not Complete.

  In fact, staying awake actually became issue. Switched off autopilot; hand-flew for several hours just to keep eyelid margins above pupils.

  Was a bit surprised to discover how closely coastal mountains regularly approached water's edge. In places, safe emergency landing sites not as abundant as expected, though nowhere nearly as scarce as along Canadian/Alaskan west coast.

  However, turbine continued to wail (more a hum, actually, inside cabin); miles continued to tick off, 200 every hour; and eventually we came upon, then detoured around, huge bay; landed at Rauchua well before noon.

  No polar bears there either.

  Shortly after takeoff, skinned past mountain-wannabe ridge reaching almost to water's edge at seaside town labeled Dvurechye. Bent course slightly southward at that point to skirt broad bay into which huge Kolmya River system emptied.

  Thereafter, terrain became slightly more varied: laced with streams, dotted with lakes. Crossed another major river identified as Alazeva; skirted some more rolling lands. Ultimately dead-centered Shevelela airfield, located at point at which Indigirka River's delta commences.

  Landed, serviced, tied down plane. Ate. Frisbeed. Went to bed well before sunset.

  * * * *

  Day VII

  First half of morning's flight was over territory reminiscent of Alaska's northwestern outback: endless expanse of patchy plains, forests, speckled with lakes, streams. We hooked around tip of big V-shaped bay opening onto More Laptevykh (yet another euphemistic attempt to make Arctic Ocean sound warmer).

  Hugged coast all the way to town called Sokol, on point of land beginning Lena River delta: massive sprawl of channels, islands, etc., which also ultimately dumps into More Laptevykh.

  Performed routine polar bear sweep; landed, serviced plane. Ate, frisbeed Maggie. Launched again.

  Terrain desolate as followed Lena's westernmost main channel to exit into More Laptevykh at Ulakhan-Krest. Then headed just south of due west across mostly fertile-looking flatlands, landing some 800 miles later at Chemaya, on Pyasina River, where, slightly cross-eyed after roughly 1,400 miles, over eight hours’ flying time, called it quits for night.

  * * * *

  Kim Mellon's Journal:

  If I were a proper mother (or maybe even a decent person), I would never even have considered taking Lisa with us on this mission—I mean, she's six, for heaven's sake!

  However, unnatural mother and terrible person that I am, it never occurred to me, until much later, even to question the fact that everyone, including Lisa herself, had simply, unquestioningly assumed she's going. After all, Terry is full-time mindlinked with Candy; obviously he's going so we can keep track of her. And Lisa, mind- and emotion-linked to him, usually is able to clarify Candy's ofttimes cryptic Terry-relayed observations, as well as her sometimes even more ambiguous dictated communications.

  In addition, of course, in th
e absence of our favorite, if most worrisome, adopted sister, Lisa is the primary designated caretaker of Candy's “retarded adopted twin brother.” So of course she's going.

  Actually, she's been more than earning her passage: Almost single-handedly my amazing baby daughter has been monitoring and memorializing Candy's progress via Terry's mindlink during our superkid sister's every waking moment virtually since she left. Lisa hasn't tried to cherry-pick what to record; she has taken down in Pitman shorthand every single word to come out of Terry's beak since Candy's departure.

  Like long-departed court reporters of my past acquaintance, her theory is that we can discard anything which, upon leisurely review, we conclude is merely the product of Terry's everyday rambling; however, she points out more than a little snidely, it would be difficult in the extreme to retrieve something that hadn't been written down but which we might realize, after-the-fact and only dimly remembered, was in fact Candy-related.

  Thanks to Lisa's efforts, we know where Candy is within a fair degree of accuracy, as well as how her expedition is developing. If everything goes as planned—hers as well as ours—we should get there in time to intercept her, keep her out of trouble, as well as retrieve her foster father.

  Toward that end, Adam has thrown himself into the operation with an intensity that those who haven't had previous occasion to observe him in one of these nonstop berserker states find at least eye-opening, if not actually a little alarming.

  He's joined Kelli Watts and “Watts” Washington Kelly, our two best particle/wave scientist/engineers, and me (I was an electrical engineer Before, specializing in computers), in the care and feeding of the intelligence-sniffing/analysis installations aboard the Globemasters.

  If it weren't for the tension, working with Kelli and Watts would be almost too much fun. They're a visually spectacular, pepper-and-salt couple who maintain a deadpan running joke based upon the potential confusion arising from their names: an “assumption” that no one can tell them apart—this notwithstanding their relative pigmentation; she's one of the darkest-skinned people I've ever met, whereas he's an Icelandic blond whose hair, in direct sunlight, is probably visible from orbit.