Chapters (23)
- Praise
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- ONE - BULL PASS (77°30’ S, 161°80’ E) MCMURDO DRY VALLEYS, ANTARCTICA FEBRUARY ...
- TWO - SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA MARCH 1, 2002
- THREE - NORTH HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND MARCH 2, 2002
- FOUR - PARIS, FRANCE MARCH 2, 2002
- FIVE - ROSS ICE SHELF, ANTARCTICA (70°00’ S, 30°42’ W) MARCH 4, 2002
- SIX - INVERNESS, SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS MARCH 6, 2002
- SEVEN - ABOVE MCMURDO SOUND, ANTARCTICA (77°88’ S, 166°73’ E) MARCH 12, 2002
- EIGHT - SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS
- NINE - 93,000,000 MILES FROM EARTH MARCH 12, 2002
- TEN - MOUNT EREBUS (77°53’ S, 167°17’ E) BULL PASS, ANTARCTICA MARCH 12, 2002
- ELEVEN - PARIS, FRANCE MARCH 12, 2002
- TWELVE - ROSS DEPENDENCY, SOUTHERN OCEAN (66°25’ S, 162°50’ E) MARCH 13, 2002
- THIRTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002
- FOURTEEN - NEAR COLD CORNERS BASE VICTORIA LAND, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002
- FIFTEEN - ASOTNA, SWITZERLAND MARCH 12, 2002
- SIXTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 13, 2002
- SEVENTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 15, 2002
- EIGHTEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 16, 2002
- NINETEEN - COLD CORNERS BASE, ANTARCTICA MARCH 17, 2002
- EPILOGUE
He took a breath to relax and settled into the canvas webbing of his seat. Master Sergeant Barry, a loadmaster with the Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing—and more specifically, its flying component, the 139th Tactical Squadron—stood before him in the cabin of the Hercules ski bird. He was mouthing words Nimec couldn’t hear.
Nimec held up a finger to indicate he needed a second, then popped out the foam earplugs he was given at the Clothing Distribution Center in Christchurch.
The ceaseless noise and vibration of the engines throbbed into his auditory canals.
Barry leaned forward, cranking his voice above the racket. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Nimec. Captain Evers is a huge booster of UpLink International, and he’d like to show you the view from the flight deck. This close to touchdown it’s really impressive.”
Nimec was relieved. He’d been ready to learn they’d boomeranged again. Air travel from New Zealand to Antarctica took eight hours by turboprop, slightly under that if you caught a nice tailwind. The previous day a heavy fog over the continent had forced his flight to double back just short of the point of safe return—about sixty degrees south, two thirds of the way there—resulting in seven wasted hours in the sky. The day before that one wasn’t quite as bad; his plane had returned to Cheech only an hour out.
Nimec looked up at the young loadie. The Herc’s cargo hold was a crude, bare space designed for maximum tonnage rather than comfort, windowless except for a few small portholes at the front and rear. He felt as if he’d gotten stuffed into the barrel of a rumbling cement mixer.
“Tell me the deck’s got soundproofing,” he said. “Please.”
“New acoustical panels, sir—”
“Lead the way.”
Nimec rose stiffly in his cold-weather gear. The red wind parka, jump suit, goggles, mittens, bunny boots, and thermal undergarments were his own, as were the extras in his packs. At the terminal prior to departure, loaners had been issued to passengers whose clothing and equipment hadn’t met the emergency survival specs mandated by the CDC under the United States Antarctic Program’s rule book.