Chapter 11
Somewhere On the Antarctic Plateau
The Russian tractor had been plowing its way through the sustrugi, over the highest portion of the Polar Plateau, on its way toward the transition where the ice picks up speed and flows into the Beardmore Glacier. This was where the group would conduct the meteor search. Gregore held the map, produced by the U.S. Geological Society, on his lap, trying to pinpoint their location. The progress they made each day was tangible and satisfactory, but as they neared the transition where the ice was forced into channels, it would become more dangerous, and they would need to slow down. The funneling of stable ice into streams produced, without variation, fields of crevasses. Sokolov sat next to Gregore.
They both looked beyond the transition on the map to the “X” that marked the spot where the Americans made their base at the Beardmore. Though it was unknown to the other, they each planned a visit to the station, though for vastly different reasons. Gregore pulled on the driver’s sleeve from the seat behind him.
“We will stop here,” he yelled over the engine noise. The driver immediately let the throttle in, and the track vehicle slowed to a stop. He shut off the engine. “Good. Enough of this endless vibration.”
“We have made good time, this way,” Sokolov said. They had run almost constantly since leaving Vostok, the drivers taking shifts in attempting to sleep in the shelter on the platform.
“But we need to prepare for the next part,” Gregore told him. Sokolov did not think of disagreeing, since it was imperative that they make a stop sometime soon. “Tell the men in the back that we will take a break here to fuel and maintain the machine. We can make a decent meal also,” Gregore told the driver, who nodded and got out of the cab. Sokolov stretched as well as he could in the confined space.
“I will check the ski,” he told Gregore, who agreed.
“When you are finished, come into the shelter,” Gregore commanded.
“Very well,” Sokolov said.
He took a shovel from the cargo bed and carefully removed the buildup of ice around the front ski. The ski worked as a steering mechanism, though not the only one. The main directional control was done by braking, slowing one or the other of the tracks, a maneuver that created drag on that side, pulling the vehicle toward the side on which the brake was applied. The primary function of the ski apparatus was to act as a shock absorber for the forward half of the machine. There was a large piston strut attached to the ski that performed that function. If it were to fail, the ski would become uncontrollable.
Sokolov worked quickly. There was an exposed bolt that was just out of sight enough to be missed in a casual examination, but without being well secured, it would eventually lead to the piston coming free. An excessively hard jolt would make it break loose. He figured it would hold for several kilometers, but then it would inevitably fail. When it did, the party would be stuck until a new part could be brought to them or assistance could be rendered. Being this close to the Americans, it would be absurd to do anything but call them for help. He loosened the bolt, his heart pounding in his ears, with a large crescent wrench, listening for anyone coming around the machine. When he finished, he put the tools back quietly and went into the shelter on the trailing platform. An unusually good meal was being served, considering the circumstances. Cabbage soup, salted beef, black bread from a can. It was reminiscent of home.
“Very well,” Gregore said to the group when Sokolov joined them. “I have waited, on Moscow’s orders, until now to tell you about a small alteration in our plans. Before we proceed to the area of scientific interest, we will make a treaty inspection at the American base. We go merely as a courtesy. We will not be there long, and will only announce our arrival just before we come in.”
Sokolov did not allow the surprise he felt to show on his face; at least no more than was expected.
“A treaty inspection?”
“Yes. It is our right as a signatory nation. A political statement.”
Sokolov acknowledged the statement as a matter of course, but he reeled at the news. All the risk he was taking was for nothing; the same result would have come from doing nothing at all. He thought that he might undo what he had started, but then he would have to take the same risk again. In fact, by sabotaging the piston, he might have ruined his chances of getting to the base. What if the equipment failure were to dictate a different course and the visit was cancelled? He must go back to replace the bolt. He stood up, as casually as he could manage.
“Relax, Vladi. We will leave as soon as we have another cup of tea.”
“But I…”
“No. Stay. We will go together in a moment,” Gregore said, trying to be friendly.
Sokolov sat back down; as there was nothing else he could do.