avoid.
As Barry led him to the forward bulkhead, Nimec saw that several of the twenty-five men and women who shared the hold with him were stretched out against the supply pallets jamming the aisle, their duffels and bedrolls tossed loosely atop the wooden planks. The majority were American researchers and support workers traveling to MacTown. There were also some drillers headed for Scott-Edmondson at the Pole, an Italian biological team on their way to Terra Nova Station, and a group of boisterous Russians hitching a partial ride to Vostok, located deep in the continent’s interior at the coldest spot on earth… which seemed curiously appropriate given their national origin. The rest were extreme skiers from Australia who’d somehow arranged for slots aboard the flight and had occupied five consecutive seats to his right at takeoff.
Out to make the first traverse of some polar mountain range, the Aussies annoyed Nimec despite their attempts to hobnob. He had trouble with people who took frivolous risks with life, as if its loss could be recouped like money gambled away at a casino. He understood the competitive impulses that drove them, but had seen too many men and women put themselves in jeopardy — and sometimes die unlauded — for better reasons than seeking thrills and trophies.
Barry ushered him into the cockpit and then ducked out the bulkhead door. Occupied by a pilot, copilot, flight engineer, and navigator, the compartment was lined with analog display consoles that showed the true age of the plane, although they’d been gussied with some racked digital avionics. As promised, its sound insulation dampened the roar of the Allisons, and the field of view offered by the front and side windows was magnificent.
The pilot turned from his instrument panel to glance at Nimec.
“Greetings,” he said. “I’m Captain Rich Evers. Enjoy the scenery, we’ve got ideal approach conditions.”
“Thanks,” Nimec said. “I appreciate the invite.”
The pilot nodded, turned back to his panel.
“Wouldn’t want you to think I’m trying to sway anybody about my niece’s job ap with your company… it’d be at that new satellite radio station UpLink just launched,” he said innocently. “Her name’s Patricia Miller, super kid, graduated college with honors. A communications major. Her friends call her Trish.”
Nimec looked at the back of his head.
“Trish.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sure she’ll get a square evaluation.”
Evers nodded again.
Nimec moved to a window as they descended through wisps of scattered, patchy clouds. Soon the ocean came into sight beneath the Herc’s nose, its calm ice-speckled surface resembling a glass tabletop covered with flaked and broken sugar cubes.
“Looks like a dense ice pack down there,” Nimec said. “That how it is the whole way to the coast?”
“Depends,” Evers said. “In summer months the floes tend to cluster around the mainland in a circular belt, then give way to open water. What you’re seeing’s actually a moderate distribution. The big, flat blocks are tabular bergs that have broken away from the ice shelf. They’re very buoyant, lots of air trapped inside them, which is why they reflect so white. An iceberg with darker blotches and an irregular form is usually a hunk of a glacier that’s migrated from inland and rafting mineral sediment.”
Nimec kept studying the ice-clogged water. “How big is ‘big’?”
“An average tab is from fifty to a hundred fifty feet tall, and between two and four hundred feet long. Take a look out to starboard, though, and you can see one I’d estimate goes up over three hundred feet.”
Nimec spotted the iceberg out the window, surprised by its illusory appearance.
“Wow,” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Bear in mind the visible mass of a berg is maybe a third of what’s below the water. That’s by conservative measure. Sometimes the base is nine times as deep as the upper portion is high.”
“Tip of the iceberg.”
“Exactly,” Evers said. “I’ll tell you something… it’s been a little over three years since my Air Guard unit took over Antarctic support ops from the Navy’s Squadron Six. The Ice Pirates. They’d been hauling supplies and personnel to the continent for a half century, got disestablished because of spending cutbacks. About a year later I’m transferred to Cheech from our home base in Schenectady, New York. The twenty-first day of March, 2000. That very day NOAA polar sats pick up the largest iceberg in recorded history calving off the Ross Ice Shelf. A hundred and eighty-three
Nimec released a low whistle. “And you’ve been hoping it was just a coincidence ever since.”
“Rather than figure it was a Western Union express to me from the Man Upstairs?” Evers turned to him again, rolled his eyes heavenward. “Got that right, my friend.”
Nimec smiled, went back to looking out the window. He was still trying to adjust his sense of scale.
Evers noted his expression.
“The sprinkles of white around the bergs are mostly pancake ice mixed in with growlers… slabs the size of cars,” he said. “Proportions are deceptive from this altitude in the best of circumstances, and impossible to judge in poor weather. It’s why fog and overcast concern us as much as flying snow. When the sunlight’s refracted between a low cloud ceiling and snow or ice cover on the ground, everything blends together, and there’s no sight horizon.”
“Zero visibility,” Nimec said. “I’ve gotten stuck driving in blizzards more than once. Feels like there’s a white blanket across the windshield.”
At his station, the navigator shifted toward Nimec. The blue laminate name tag on his breast identified him as Lieutenant Halloran.
“It isn’t quite the same,” he said. “Any flier will tell you there’s no worse pain in the ass than getting stuck in a fog whiteout.”
Nimec looked at him, thinking his tone was a bit too purposefully casual.
“If there’s a heavy snow alert, you know to stay wheels-down until the storm passes,” Halloran said. “But say you’re airborne over the ice and hit a fog bank. Around the pole it can happen just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “The way our eyes and brains are wired, we use shadows to judge the distance of things on a uniformly white field — and in a whiteout you lose shadows. So even if the air’s dry under the clouds and you’re able to see an object, the perspective may be false. No, scratch that… it
“Meaning it won’t cast much shadow.”
“That’s right. Unless you’re keeping a close check on your instruments — and sometimes even then — you can get disoriented, fly upside down without realizing it, smash into the ground while you think you’re still a mile up. Or drop off the edge of a cliff if you’re on foot. Happened to some of Scott’s men. Around the turn of the last century, wasn’t it, Chief?”
Evers nodded. “The
Halloran looked pleased with himself.
“And isn’t just humans that are affected,” he went on. “You know what a skua is?”
Nimec shook his head.
“Think of a seagull, but smarter, wilder, and mean as the devil. Those birds can dive from midair, snatch a tiny piece of food out of your hand without nicking a finger, swoop in on the tits of a nursing elephant seal to drink her milk. But for all their sharp instincts and reflexes, I once saw hundreds of them, a whole flock, splattered over an area of a quarter mile after a whiteout lifted.”
Nimec gazed out the windows in silence. The transition to clear water was as abrupt as Evers had described. For a while he could see nothing but the thick crowd of bergs floating below him in apparently motionless suspension, and then the plane was past the ice belt and over the open sound.
Looking ahead into the near distance, Nimec was struck by a long, solid border of white that rose up against the calm blue-gray sea and then swept back and away to the furthest range of his vision.
He recalled the briefs he’d studied in preparation for his mission, and instantly knew they were nearing the forward edge of the Ross Ice Shelf.
“We enter our final approach pattern in a couple of minutes,” Evers said. “There’ll be an unloading and
