by Steve Alten
I wasn’t particularly excited about meeting a katabatic, but I rather enjoyed the Antarctic slang, which was far different from the Highlander vernacular, yet just as alien. Created by the OAE’s (Old Antarctic Explorers), the vocabulary attempted to simultaneously label and judge everything Antarctic, from the extreme conditions to the people who visited.
I learned quickly that rookies were chastised until they earned respect, and respect translated into time on the ice. Summer visitors earned far less respect than winterers, and as such, True and I were identified as “hordes”—less than welcome newbies.
Before he had gone to bed in his “pit-room,” True had stopped by the bar for his promised nightcap. The general rule at bases is that you only drink what you bring, but Kyle Trunk was treating. Exacting his revenge, the flag officer offered the big fella a vodka on the rocks, the rocks being natural Antarctic ice, a substance that dates back hundreds of thousands of years and contains captured bubbles of environmental gas that, when warmed with alcohol, pop. Hangovers induced from “poppies” were particularly onerous, and when True awoke he had a bear of a headache. Seeking caffeine, he found his way to the mess hall where another officer presented him with a mug of coffee known as a “grumble bucket.” It seemed like a nice gesture until True drained the cup to find a lurker at the bottom of the unwashed container.
Welcome to the ice, ye Summer Jolly Merchant!
Ben was classified a “fidlet,” a winterer entering his first summer. On our jeep ride out to the bay, he taught us two new words he had learned his second week on the ice.
A “slot” was a crevasse formed when a glacier, moving over the underlying bedrock, cracks open from the top down to form a pie-shaped wedge. Being “slotted” is what happened to Ben’s Australian guide when the man stepped onto a bridge of wind-blown snow that collapsed into a twenty-foot-wide crevasse.
“It happened so fast,” Ben said. “One minute he was walking back to the sled to grab a pair of binoculars, the next he was gone. I heard him scream a full thirty seconds before his body slammed into a tight wedge a mile and a half down—a nightmare known as “corking in.” Poor bastard died down there, all busted up in the darkness while we tried to reach him. Slots scare the hell out of me. Everyone’s got to be roped in on the open ice. And don’t think you’re safer in a vehicle either; jeeps get slotted, too.”
Standing out on the frozen waters of Prydz Bay eliminated the risk of being slotted, but not the risk of freezing to death. Ben informed us that Antarctic seawater averaged twenty-seven degrees, a sub-freezing temperature made possible due to the high salt content, which lowered its freezing point several degrees. “The human body can withstand about thirty seconds of exposure in water that cold before the muscles seize and cease to function. You’ll survive fifteen minutes if you are bobbing in a life vest. Either way, your blood feels like it’s turning to lead.”
It was into these sub-freezing waters that Ben and I would be taking the Barracuda on its maiden voyage. With all the ways one could die in Antarctica, we were about to toss the dice on another—an untested machine.
Even so, the moment the tarp was removed from the submersible I couldn’t wait to get started.
Ben was right; the Barracuda was nothing like the three-man sub I had drowned and nearly died in two years ago. Sleek and torpedo-shaped, the watercraft reminded me of something you’d find on the Bonneville Salt Flats, only with a windshield that extended all the way to its front bumper. Inside this four-inch-thick acrylic pod were three rotatable seats, placed in tandem with their own command centers. I was assigned the forward position, Ben the center, and Ming in back, allowing her to control the sub’s collection tubes and grabbers. The two Valkyrie units were mounted along either side of the vessel like missiles, the collector arms and storage bins located aft of her wings, folded out of the way by her keel. The bow was reinforced, narrow, and hydrodynamic, the outer chassis surrounding the cockpit painted dark neon blue, rendering her invisible in the deep blue sea.
Ben stood next to her like a proud papa. “Stone Aerospace designed her shape so that she’d slide through the lasered ice funnel like a greased dart. Once we enter the lake, the wings hyperextend away from the chassis to give us more stability. We lose a bit of protection going with an oval interior pod instead of a standard sphere, but she still withstood eight thousand psi during lab tests, which is forty percent more than Vostok’s surface pressure and twenty percent more than the lake’s maximum depth. The acrylic is composed of quartz Lexan.
“Forward and aft ports house our high-definition night-vision cameras and broad-spectrum floodlights, in addition to the sonar array and hydrophone mics. Body panels are composed of titanium and a composite material called Isofloat, developed by the Aussies to withstand water pressure in excess of fifteen thousand pounds per square inch. Behind the cockpit is an accessible storage area that holds eighteen lithium-ion batteries. The engine pumps out four hundred and fifty horsepower and runs on rechargeable batteries and hydrogen cells, and I can’t wait to see what she does when we let her run in open water.”
“Why’d they make her so narrow?”
“Had to. Ice penetration rate is inversely proportional to the square of the diameter of the vehicle. Every time you double the vehicle’s diameter, you increase the power requirements by four times. Once we’re in Lake Vostok, we’ll be running autonomously. Of course the beauty of the design is that we’ll still be able to suck power from the surface generators.”
“Unless the fiber-optic cable snaps.”
“Even if that happens, we’re still self-sustained for up to twenty hours at maximum cruising speed. Stop being such a naysayer. If you’re still scared after all these precautions, then maybe the real problem is that you need to grow a bigger pair of balls.”
True stepped between us, shoving Ben backward toward the hole in the ice. “Listen tae me, sub pilot. I witnessed our boy here descend intae Loch Ness to bait himself to a fanged beast forty feet long, wearing nothing but a Newtsuit—nearly got himself swallowed whole. When you pull a stunt like that ye can go ’round setting the standard for scrotes. Until then shut yer yap hole, or I’ll shut it for ye.”
Ben grinned nervously. “Personally, I have no intention of ever using a dive suit to perform an endoscopy on a fish.”
True continued advancing, backing Ben closer to the edge of the rectangular hole in the ice.
“Oh, sorry. I can tell by the empty gaze in your eyes that my endoscopy reference went completely over your thick head. See, True, an endoscopy shoots a probe down your esophagus. In your case, however, I’d recommend a colonoscopy… to see what crawled up your ass.”
True pushed Ben again, causing the heel of the sub pilot’s right rubber boot to skid out over the rectangular hole in the ice.
“Hey, uh… Doc. Wanna call Thor off of me?”
“His name is True and he doesn’t appreciate American sarcasm. For the record, neither do I.”
Balancing on one leg, Hintzmann was no longer smiling. “I’m warning you, Doc. Call Haggis Harry here off before someone gets hurt.”
True looked back at me and winked.
Oh, geez.
“True, don’t.”
But True did. He shoved Ben in the chest with both hands—only Ben was too quick. He grabbed the big fella’s wrist and elbow as he dropped to one knee and took out his knees in a ju-jitsu move that sent my friend sprawling headfirst into the sea with a tremendous splash.
The Chinese laughed.
I ran to the edge of the hole as True surfaced, his face pale, his eyes wide in shock as he gasped for breath, his mitten-covered hands unable to grip the edge of the ice to pull himself out.
“Zach… help… me!”
“Give me your hand!”
Ben held me back. “There’s no leverage, he’ll pull you in.” He signaled to the Chinese, who were already attaching a nylon rope to the back of the jeep.
I grabbed the free end and made a quick
noose.
Barely able to keep his head above water, True managed to reach one dripping-sleeved arm up to me. I slipped the noose around his wrist and pulled tight.
Seconds later the jeep’s driver moved slowly ahead. The slack tightened and hoisted True up and out of the hole like a sedated walrus.
I stepped over the shivering Scot and untied the line. “Hang in there, buddy, we’ll have you warm in no time.” I helped him up as the Chinese wrapped him with blankets and guided him into the front passenger seat. The driver hit the gas and headed back to Davis Station.
I confronted Ben. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“Learn this now; I’m a survivor. Your friend will be fine, but if he comes after me again with that crazed look in his eye I’ll put him in the hospital for the duration of this mission and it’ll be on your head. Now you wanna take this little girl out for a test drive or not?”
I glanced back at the submersible. The Chinese handlers were opening the sleek machine’s interior pod. “The front seat is mine?”
“Best seat in the house. The first two cockpits have dual controls. The middle console has the master override. It’s easier if you remove your boots before you climb in. Once we crank up the heat, we’ll stow our jackets in back.”
Following his advice, I climbed into the forward cockpit, noticing my bow compartment and grey leather bucket seat were sunk a foot below Ben’s, sort of like the cockpit of an Apache helicopter. Sacrificing warmth for comfort, I removed my jacket and buckled the safety harness so that the dual straps crossed my chest in an X configuration.
“Get in already; I’m freezing my ass off.”
Ben climbed in and hit a control switch to close the hatch. When it sealed, he buckled in and then pointed to a power switch on my forward dash. “Care to do the honors?”
I removed my mittens and pushed a gloved index finger to the control.
The pump-jet propulsor engine growled to life beneath us. The vents blasted us with cold air, forcing me to use my jacket as a blanket.
“Give it a few minutes. It’ll warm up.” Ben pointed to a joystick attached to my right armrest. “The joystick controls direction, pitch, and yaw. Flip the toggle switch up and the system activates. I have to power mine off to activate yours. There are two foot pedals on the floor. Each controls one of the props.”
He pointed to the center of my dashboard at a sonar array. “Headphones are on that hook by your right knee. Ever use sonar before?”
“Assume I know nothing.”
“Okay, I’ll teach you once we’re moving. Ready to go?”
“That’s it? Isn’t there some kind of checklist you need to go over?”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Should I buckle these straps dangling by my legs?”
“Seems like a good idea.” I heard him buckle his.
“What about the rest of these controls? I’d like to know how to use them, just in case something happens to you.”
Ben smirked. “What’s going to happen to me down there that isn’t going to happen to you?”
“I don’t know. You could have a stroke. The point is I want to be prepared.”
“That’s the problem with you eggheads; you always have to read the instruction manual before you test drive the car. Me? I prefer to hit the highway and learn on the job.”
Rapping his knuckles on the glass above his head, Ben gave one of the techs a thumbs-up.
I held on as the four men pushed us toward the freshly carved rectangular hole in the ice. “This is how you’re going to launch us? By pushing us in like… like my father taught me how to swim?”
“Yours did that, too?”
“Oh, geez!” I gripped the seat as we plunged bow-first into the dark blue world, our weight distribution continuing our forward roll into a full somersault as we fell like a sinking dagger.
With a sickening crunch, the Lexan dome struck bottom. Naturally buoyant, the sub bounced upward, only to be spun and inhaled by a powerful current that grabbed our inverted vessel and propelled us along the bottom.
I saw ice and then I saw stars as the Barracuda plowed bow-first and upside-down into the narrow space between the molar-shaped underside of an iceberg and the silt-covered sea floor.
“Well done,” I said, the blood rushing to my face. “I hope this death trap has a reverse gear.”
“Sit tight, I got this.” Ben tapped the thrusters, attempting to torque us free, only to jam the inverted starboard fin in deeper.
“You’re a maniac. No wonder the Air Force gave you the boot.”
“Hey, you don’t know shit about it, so shut up. And this little setback, it’s all part of the learning process. Get the kinks out. We’ll be out of here in no time.”
“Maybe we can get a tow from a passing flock of penguins?”
“Stop talking and let me think.”
“See, that’s the trouble with you action-types, there’s always time to think after you get your big balls caught in a vice.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Butts are for crapping. Answer my question. Does this acrylic coffin have a reverse gear or not?”
“I was going to say you first have to manually reverse the drive shaft.”
“Which I’m guessing you don’t know how to do.”
“It was on the top of my to-do list. There’s a manual in the compartment by your right knee. Make yourself useful.”
I fished the thick booklet out, my head throbbing. “Oh good, it’s in Chinese. What’s Mandarin for dickhead?”
“Screw the reverse gear. I’m powering up the Valkyries.”
My pulse raced. “Have you ever done this before?”
“I haven’t done any of this before. Should I give it the old Ivy League try, or would you prefer to just sit here until our air runs out?”
“Okay, okay. But listen first. Don’t try to blast out the Holland tunnel. Just melt enough ice so that we have room to spin around in a tight circle and get out the way we came in.”
“Got it.”
“No, you don’t got it! Evaporate too much ice in these conditions and it will create a vacuum effect which could suck us in deeper beneath the iceberg.”
He paused as my words sank in. “Tap it and turn. Got it.”
“Not yet, you don’t. This has to be done simultaneously. One of us works the laser; the other jams one foot pedal down to the floor while turning the joystick hard to the same side. But only just enough to turn us 180 degrees, or we’ll spin right back where we started, only deeper.”
The berg groaned around us, sending the internal pod’s psi readings from green to orange.
“Okay, Zach, which one do you want to do?”
“Give me the laser.”
“I wanted to do the laser.”
“What are you, a five-year-old? We need you to steer the damn sub. Now show me how to use the Valkyrie.”
He pointed to an instrument panel on the center console. “The red light means the unit’s powering up. When it turns green, engage the lasers by pressing these two buttons. Press them again to stop the beams.”
I activated the fuel cells and waited, the blood rushing to my head, sweat dripping down my neck into my scalp. “Okay, it’s green. You ready?”
“Yeah. Wait, quick question. If we’re upside down and I want to turn us counterclockwise—”
“Tap your left foot on the throttle and follow it with your joystick.”
“Which is now on my right, right?”
“Right. I mean, yes.”
“Okay, we blast on three. One… two … ”
I stole a quick glance at the starboard Valkyrie, its business end glowing red.
“Three!”
I pressed both buttons. The sea boiled in a veil of orange bubbles as we spun hard seventy degrees counterclockwise and jammed, the wounded iceberg groaning above our feet. We continued firing and throttling until our field of vision yielded deep blue again.
; The submersible leaped into the void. Ben executed a quick semi-barrel roll, which returned our world right-side up, then stabilized our yaw by extending the vessel’s pectoral fins.
For several moments we simply laid our heads back and breathed as the sub rose slowly in neutral.
We both jumped as the acrylic dome above our heads collided with a ceiling of sea ice.
“Want to teach me how to use the sonar now, or would you rather wait until you plow us into a wall of glacial ice?”
For the next forty minutes, Ben taught me how to distinguish objects in the sea using active and passive sonar, as well as how to comprehend the sub’s fuel gauge, battery range, and life-support system readings.
Finally feeling more like a copilot than a passenger, I called out obstacles on sonar while Ben steered us through a frozen labyrinth.
What was it like to dive the Antarctic sea in a submersible? In a word: breathtaking. The extreme cold was an exotic entity of nature that affected everything around us. As sea ice, it formed a seemingly endless ceiling that resembled an overcast December sky, its thicker patches dark and gray, its thinner veils streaked in bolts of neon-blue sunlight. Brine channels hung surreally from the frozen surface like hollow stalactites, their tubular openings bleeding liquid saline into the clear blue underworld.
Below us, bright pink starfish and clumps of anchor ice that resembled crystal tumbleweeds spotted a silt-brown bottom. Every so often a sea urchin or a rock would seem to defy gravity and rise from the sea floor, shanghaied to a glob of ice whose buoyancy would pin it to the ceiling.
Touching the inside surface of the acrylic pod, I could feel the penetrating cold held at bay by technology. Listening to the sea, we heard strange chirping sounds, the mating calls of Weddell seals mixed with the rumblings of grounded icebergs. In the coming weeks the sea ice would crack open and release these masses from a winter’s purgatory, and their roots would plow the bottom as they flowed out of Prydz Bay, ripping out long gashes that would create new havens for marine life.
Leaving the bay, we headed out to the open ocean. The sea ice dissipated, and our surroundings became liquid blue. Pinging the area, I detected something immense floating on the surface a mile to the east. It was a tabular berg, the largest type of iceberg. Formed when large portions of an ice shelf break off and drift free, these glacier-like ice sheets can span several square miles, their sheer white cliffs towering hundreds of feet above the surface and reaching a thousand feet below.
