From the copilot’s seat I offered a thumbs-up, about the only extremity I could move. I was bound in more layers than an onion, from the thermal long-sleeve top and long johns causing my boxer shorts to ride up the crack of my ass, to the fleece trousers and sweater, everything sealed beneath a jumpsuit designed to shield the wind. Two pairs of socks, two pairs of boots (the outer layer rubber-insulated), a pair of skintight gloves covered in elbow-high mittens, scarves, head gear, and tinted goggles—every inch of my flesh was concealed. Seated on my down parka, I had been instructed to wait until the chopper landed before slipping on this final protective shell.

Below, the frozen white desert appeared as desolate as it seemed endless.

Roughly the size of France, the Ross Ice Shelf was the largest body of floating ice on the planet. Viewed from the Ross Sea, which formed its southern boundary, the shelf rose above the waterway like the cliffs of Dover, a sheer wall of ice two hundred feet high.

Wedged in clothing, I shifted my gaze back to the horizon where the aurora australis laced through the sky like a radiant green-and-white ribbon. High above, waves of nacreous clouds danced neon gold across a lead-blue stratosphere, the undulating formations reflecting the sunrise like an ethereal tide.

Major Gazen pointed ahead. Appearing on the stark white landscape was a caravan of electric vehicles and battery-powered trucks hitched to what our pilot explained were extreme weather trailers. At the center of the gathering, towering five stories over the ice sheet like a giant reflective globe was Oceanus I.

Gazen slowed the chopper, hovering over a green X painted on the ice along the western periphery. Descending rapidly, the aircraft bounced twice before it settled, only to be rocked violently by a thirty-mile-an-hour wind gust that nearly toppled us over.

Gazen yelled, “Out!”

Having donned our parkas, the four of us hurriedly exited the helicopter. The intense cold blasted through my layers of clothing like a steel scythe as I attempted to negotiate the ice. Dr. Bruemmer took the lead, pointing to a double-wide trailer. An orange flag adorned with the Greek letter “Ω” set in white designated the structure as the command post.

Bruemmer wrenched open the door for Lara Saints and General Schall, waving for me to hurry.

I ignored him, my attention drawn to a dark figure lying motionless on the ice some sixty yards away. I pointed, then half jogged, half slid across the expanse, the steel teeth of my snow boots occasionally tearing holes into the frozen plain.

Bruemmer waved me off as hopeless and ducked inside the trailer.

As I moved closer, I wondered if I was hallucinating.