The flight down from Argentina had been monotonous, as most military flights were, and, except for landing on skis on a runway made of ice, there was little to distinguish it from the hundreds he had taken before.

They were here to spearhead security in the wake of the annexation announcement. If the United States or any other power was going to attempt to force the Argentines out of Antarctica, it would happen soon, and most likely be attempted using commandos air-dropped by parachute. With a Chinese Kilo-class submarine recently purchased from Russia patrolling the choke point between the extreme tip of South America and the peninsula, an air assault was the only viable option.

Espinoza and a hundred members of the Ninth Brigade were sent southward on two transports to stop them.

The rationale was simple. When Argentina invaded the Maldives in 1982—the islands the British called the Falklands—the English had telegraphed their intentions to retake them with a months-long deployment of ships from their home ports. This time, the Argentine high command believed, there would be no warning. The reprisal would be a lightning-quick attack by Special Forces troops. If they could be met with an equally prepared group of soldiers, the first attempt to retake Antarctica, if repulsed, would most likely be the last.

“You have to love the Army,” Lieutenant Jimenez said as he strode up to Espinoza’s side. “A couple days ago, we were sweating our butts off in the jungle, and today they’re turning colder than frozen hams.”

“I was all that I could be,” Espinoza replied, a private joke between them referencing an old American Army slogan.

Jimenez called out to a Sergeant to see to the men while he and Major Espinoza followed Laretta on a tour of the installation.

They had timed their landing in the brief period when weak sunlight poured over the horizon. It wasn’t much more than twilight, but it was better than absolute darkness. The shadows they cast on the ice and snow were indistinct, more like murky outlines than hard silhouettes.

“How many men are down here?” Espinoza asked. Laretta had a warmed-up snowcat waiting at the edge of the airfield. The men would have to hike the mile to the facility, though their gear would be transported on towed sledges.

“Right now, only four hundred. When we ramp up oil production, there will be better than a thousand here and out on the rigs.”

“Amazing. And no one knew a thing about it.”

“Two years of construction, under the worst conditions imaginable, and not a hint of rumor about what we were doing.” There was well-deserved pride in Laretta’s voice. He had been in charge since the beginning. “And we lost only two men the entire time, both from the sorts of accidents you see on any large construction project. Nothing to do with the cold at all.”