The Pole of Inaccessibility

  Chapter 17

  Beardmore Glacier Camp

  “Keep her turning,” the Captain said to his copilot.

  “Ay, Ay,” she said in reply. The C-130 was off of the ski-way, the engines turning as described, and ready to throttle up at a moment’s notice and depart.

  Dr. Atkinson and Dr. Daniels met the plane, standing to windward to avoid being engulfed in the driving snow that was kicked up by the propellers. The Captain didn’t bother to greet them over the roar of the turbo-powered engines. He motioned them to follow and headed straight for the hut. Dr. Fredrick merely looked toward Atkinson, and followed the Captain. Lieutenant Richards waited for them at the door.

  “All right,” the Captain said when the five of them were seated at a table. The crew circled around in order to better hear what was said. “Where are we?”

  “The three are asleep, or at least in their bunks, in the Jamesway. The far end has been reserved for them, as you had requested,” Atkinson reported.

  The Captain looked up. “What do you mean, as I requested?”

  “Why, the message that was passed to Barry, of course.” Dr. Atkinson turned toward the AG who was seated at the radio behind him.

  The Captain placed his elbow on the table and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger with his eyes closed. He let out his breath slowly and tried to stop the spinning in his head.

  “Keep the groups separate. Is that the message you are referring to?”

  “Of course,” Atkinson said, perplexed.

  “And that’s what you’ve done? Given them the end of the J-way?”

  “It seemed like the best spot,” Atkinson said.

  “And contact with them otherwise? Were the groups kept separate then?”

  “I would say not. They needed medical attention. Food. A short meeting.”

  “A meeting. Good. A meeting. And what did you discuss at this meeting?”

  “I was confronted in a very forthright and polite manner about what apparently has become common knowledge around the world, and I answered in kind,” the chief scientist said with as much dignity as he could garnish.

  “They knew?” Dr. Fredrick asked gently, knowing the answer, already but wanting to hear how it was expressed.

  “Yes, they knew. Not too happy about it, as I am sure you might have expected, but their appreciation for our coming to their rescue tempered what might have been said otherwise.”

  “Well thank goodness for that,” the Captain said, his sarcasm undisguised. “Anything else?”

  Dr. Atkinson looked at Jake, who returned the look, but with no clear expression.

  “There is one other thing.”

  “They are coming,” the Russian driver told Sokolov and Gregore. “This sound I would know anywhere.”

  The sustrugi was transmitting the sound of the tracks through its structure, as was the wind carrying the rumbling of the engines. It was a distinctive sound, different that the lighter Sprites that the Americans used.

  “Good, then,” Gregore said, sitting up stiffly. “We should get ready.”

  Sokolov didn’t answer, but got to his feet and methodically began to put on his outer clothes. The others could not see the tenseness in how he moved; how the worry that had been growing in his mind made him lightheaded. He would not have been able to speak for the dryness in his throat. The night had passed with no one coming into the Jamesway except those who went to their own bunks. While he looked forward to the next few moments with a dread bordering on paralysis, he also knew that his destiny lay in their outcome and so was anxious to see what they would bring. He helped the driver to sit up and slipped the thermal jumpsuit legs over his feet.

  “Thank you, my friend,” the driver said to him. A couple of weeks ago, the mechanic would not have addressed him so, but the circumstances, coupled with the proximity with which they had found themselves, gave him license to speak with familiarity.

  “It is nothing,” the scientist managed to reply. “It gives me pleasure to see you well, or at least better.”

  When they were all fully clothed and the few belongings they had salvaged were collected, they went out the door. The tractors had come to a stop between the hut and where the C-130 sat with propellers turning. Their eyes were slow to adjust to the light; two of them had been on sedatives and in the dark tent for several hours.

  Two track vehicles similar in design to the one that had taken them into the crevasse were coming to a stop near the hut. Sokolov looked toward the building from which people were pouring out; many more people than there were before. He saw the military uniforms of the flight crew and thought of going over to them and demanding an answer to his request when the sight of another aircraft caught his attention. It was making a steep and fast descent. It landed on the strip and taxied toward them as if in a hurry, but did not come to the main part of the camp. It stopped by a dome-shaped structure near what looked like the drilling equipment the French scientists used at Vostok to extract the ice cores. He wondered, hopefully, for a moment if its arrival had something to do with him. Surely his plea for asylum would not go ignored. That just could not be possible.

  Having had a moment to calm herself, a skill which she had had ample opportunity to practice of late, Susan began to ponder. If the Russians were coming to catch them in the act of exploring for oil, that meant that her message had been delivered to the Green Organization, and that word had gotten out as she had intended. She began to see that this was exactly the event she needed to stop this project and use the righteous indignation that must surely be building throughout the world to push through her plan to close Antarctica to mineral exploitation for all time.

  The question was how? Her timetable had been predicated on the idea that she would gather her data, present her findings in an orderly fashion through scientific publications, and enlisting those who saw the possibilities into a coalition. That was clearly no longer an option. Things would move quickly now, and if she didn’t find a way to get in front of it, it would all happen without her. No one would believe that all this was taking place without there being a certain knowledge that the caches existed, making the need for hard data no longer necessary.

  But what to do? A moment ago, she perceived the arrival of this Russian defector as a threat to everything she held dear. Now, she wanted to shout his presence from the rooftops. How many had died in his coming there, four? And for what? Enough said. All she needed to do was get him out of there. But how? If the NSF, and the Navy even allowed it, it would have to seem like another accident, anything to keep it from becoming public knowledge. That could not happen.

  She walked while she thought, and found herself between the hut and the drill site when she saw another airplane landing and heard the Russian transports coming into camp. The C-130 was making so much noise that she didn’t hear the approach of the small plane until it was on the ice. She wondered who it could be.

  The Otter came to a stop and the engines powered down. Max, the Aussie pilot, quickly unbuckled himself and reached across the aisle to open the hatch and lower the steps. The group then disembarked as rapidly as they could and began to spread out, each to accomplish their part of the mission. The pilot climbed back in after the others departed, keeping the motor turning, just like the C-130 on the other side of the ski-way. A rapid exit seemed as if it might be in order.

  Frodo and Crystal saw Susan running toward them, and went to intercept her while the other two went to stage their demonstration by the ice drill.

  “What are you doing here?” Susan shouted to Frodo over the engine noise.

  “We got your message. We hitched a ride up here to get more proof. What else is going on that we need to know about?” Frodo asked, direct to the point. He knew that he only had moments to carry out the raid before there would be trouble.

  “A lot more that I don’t have time for,” Susan answered in the same way, for the same reason. “There’s something I need you to do. It??
?s important.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Give a guy a ride out of here, and get him off the continent ASAP. Can you do it?”

  “What’s his deal?” Frodo asked. “Does it have to do with the oil research?”

  “Sort of. He will bring a lot of publicity along with him. You’ll know what to do once you talk to him.”

  “Okay, get him,” Frodo told her. Publicity was the currency in which his trade was carried out, and when someone dropped a pile of it in his lap, he wasn’t about to refuse it.

  “I may need some help,” she said, looking around. “Here, come with me.”

  Susan led them around the back of the hut to where she could look around the corner. The Russians were just leaving the Jamesway. Without being seen by anyone else, she waved her arms at Sokolov and motioned for him to come.

  Sokolov nodded to her, then tapped Gregore on the shoulder.

  “Before we leave,” he said, gesturing toward the outhouse, “I will join you by the vehicles.”

  Gregore nodded back to him. The other Russians went to meet their countrymen; Sokolov turned and walked to Susan and Frodo.

  “Go with him,” Susan said without preamble when the Russian arrived. “He has a plane.”

  “Are you with the American government?” Sokolov asked him.

  “Excuse me?” Frodo replied, looking at Susan, confused.

  “Not exactly,” she answered for him. “But if you don’t go with him now, you’ll have to travel overland.”

  She maneuvered her way around the real story to avoid having to explain to Frodo, who might get cold feet, and euphemistically described the consequences of not going now. Sokolov looked around him to see who was there, looking like he might be wavering himself.

  “Hurry!” Susan exhorted them, and they were off.

  Susan entered the hut in time to hear the Captain finish his tirade, the last of it being directed at Lieutenant Richards.

  “So, where were you during all this?” he asked, sarcasm not affected. “Making cocoa? Tucking them into their bunks?”

  Lieutenant Richards stood with his chin up, looking at the wall, clearly not intending to dignify the inquiry with a response. Jake sat next to the Captain and seemed to echo the question with his eyes and smile.

  “It wasn’t his fault the guy asked the question,” Susan said, surprising all of them, though for different reasons. “None of us even knew until a little while ago.”

  “Huh,” the Captain said, looking at the two of them in turn as if trying to discern their thoughts, or more pointedly, the nature of their alliance. “This is interesting. It would appear as if the two of you have developed a healthy working relationship after all.”

  Jake nodded affirmatively with the Captain, as if he too were discovering this for the first time.

  Susan's cheeks were rosy enough from having been out in the cold to avoid the detection of a blush. She would have flushed from anger anyway as she blustered back at him.

  “Considering what I think of the insane reason for his being here, and what has come of it already, I guess you can say that.”

  “That’s more like it,” the Captain said, finding the comfort of fulfilled expectations. “So, what’s your call? Do we snatch the Russian, or send him home?”

  “Personally, I don’t think you have a choice,” she said disingenuously, since she knew at that moment that Sokolov was climbing into the Otter. “The only way to salvage what is left of international cooperation in Antarctica is to come out with a complete mea-culpa about your intentions. Taking one of their people isn’t going to make the Russians any happier about what has happened.”

  “Huh!” the Captain repeated. “Who’d-a-thunk it. I actually agree with you on something. Not about apologizing for what we’re doing, but this is not the time and place for that type of confrontation.”

  “You can’t send him back,” Lt. Richards said. “Even if it is the expedient thing to do, it goes against everything we stand for.”

  “I don’t know what you stand for, but I stand for completing my mission as an officer in the United States Navy. And this does nothing but complicate the mission.”

  At that moment, Susan’s mission was to waste as much time as possible, and she did so in the best way she knew how: debate.

  “Of course, the Lieutenant makes a good point,” she said, smiling at him and feeling sorry for his predicament. She had come to disassociate him from his job, loving him in spite of it, choosing to believe that he had been trapped into his part as much as she had hers. “In the question of ideals verses interests, the more noble position would be to err on the side of ideals.”

  “Yes, well, as noble as that sentiment may be, other people get to decide what my ideals are at this time,” the Captain told her. “My job is to look after the nations interests.”

  Susan had spoken counter-intuitively to her own feelings, since she tended to be one who perceived interests and ideals as the same thing. For example, it was in the interest of humanity to not destroy the environment. Her ideal was to defend it at any cost necessary. The type of conflict that Lt. Richards was describing was to her a naïve, almost childlike view of good and evil. It was endearing in its way, but not something to be truly taken seriously.

  “I can see that, but…” she started to say. The Captain cut her off.

  “You can see what you want to. Right now I’m going to bid farewell to our new friends.”

  The Captain led the way through the door. He pulled the fur-lined hood of his green nylon parka over his head and adjusted his sunglasses. He saw the Russian transports with people standing around them. Then he saw the Otter, which was unexpected, and then he saw the Green Organization by the drilling rig.

  “Oh, for the love of frickin’ Pete,” he said. “Not now!”

  He strode off in their direction with the step of a man who seemed happy to have found a legitimate target on which to release his accumulated anger.

  Thumper held the sign while Sierra took the pictures. They changed positions, Sierra posing, smiling broadly, and Thumper taking the shots, making sure that all the artistic bases were covered.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s get out of here.” He ignored her and opened the large backpack that he had brought along. He took out a razor knife and a sledgehammer.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him, surprised by the unscripted action that he had begun.

  “Watch,” he replied.

  With the knife he slashed through the canvas wall of the tent that covered the equipment that operated the drill. Tearing a larger swath through the material after making the original cut, he went inside and surveyed the layout. There was a large spool of braided wire that held the bit, which was operated by a sophisticated looking winch, which was controlled from a panel of switches and dials. This was what he was looking for. He took the hammer and began to smash everything that he could. It would not take much to make the machine inoperable.

  Sierra watched in fascination and horror. She could see what he was doing, but the impact of it was outside her immediate understanding. It seemed like some sort of hallucination, like hearing a dog sing "The Ode to Joy." It was only a matter of seconds before his work was done.

  “Now we can go,” he told her, surveying the damage calmly, professionally.

  “Jesus…” she said, spellbound by the sight.

  “…had nothing to do with it,” he finished for her while he put the pack back on. “He’s completely off the hook, as are you. I’m sure that’s what you will all want to hear. We wouldn’t want anyone to have to take responsibility for doing anything now, would we? Not when everyone can just keep on talking forever. Don’t worry about it.”

  She looked at him like he was a stranger. All the time back at the ornament, he had kept quiet, mostly; watching her, and the others. It had been as if he made up a part of the audience for whom she performed the drama of her life.

  She followed him out of the tent, sil
ently, knowing that things were seriously changed, and that there would be more changes to come.

  “Hey, you, stop!” the Captain yelled, loud enough to be heard over the engine noise. He started to run toward the drill site, where the retreating saboteurs were leaving. They heard him, and, in turn, started running back to the Otter. They made it there first and Sierra climbed on board. Thumper swung the sledgehammer at the Captain, not earnestly trying to make contact, but with enough sincerity to convey the impression that he would not brook interference.

  The Captain backed off a pace and looked through the hatch. He saw Frodo inside, and yelled to him.

  “Now you’ve done it. This isn’t a game anymore, you goofy bastard. You don’t get to pull something like this and then have us just roll over. You’re done!” he yelled.

  Frodo hadn’t seen what had taken place at the drill site, and thought that the Captain must be talking about Sokolov, who was sitting next to him, and who must know something very damaging to the Americans to get that kind of reaction.

  “You’re the ones who are finished!” he yelled back. “Everyone is going to know what we’ve done here to stop you. You won’t be drilling here anymore!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, when I get my hands on you, you’re going find yourself headed stateside in chains. An attack on American property here is an attack on the nation. You’ve just declared war, you idiot!”

  Max slammed the hatch shut before any more pleasantries could be exchanged, and immediately gunned the engines, sending them hurling toward the ski-way.

  “What did he mean by that?” Frodo asked Sokolov. “Attack?”

  “I do not know,” Sokolov answered, bewildered.

  “So, what do you know about the drilling?”

  “I do not know anything. What drilling do you speak of?”

  “The oil drilling, of course. Why else would we be here?” Frodo asked, exasperated.

  “For me, I thought,” Sokolov said, more confused than before.

  Frodo looked at the Russian as if he were an imbecile, before starting to sense a pit forming in his stomach.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, affecting calmness. “Who, exactly are you, and what exactly are you doing here?”

  “I am Vladimir Sokolov. I am a Russian physicist from Vostok who has requested asylum in America. You did not know this?” Sokolov asked in disbelief.

  Frodo stared at him with a blank expression, until he grasped what had happened.

  “I’m going to kill her,” he said softly. “I am going to find her again someday, and then I’m going to kill her.”

  “That still doesn’t explain what he meant by saying we attacked them,” Crystal said.

  “Ask him,” Sierra said, pointing with her chin toward Thumper, who said nothing.

  “Looks like he’s not talking,” Frodo said. “Maybe you can fill us in.”

  There was a brittle quality that came to his voice when he felt like he was losing control of a situation, which bore a semblance to bitter sarcasm. It was nearly breaking at this point.

  “You ask him - you’re supposed to be in charge here,” she told him as she looked away, mistaking his tone for reprobation of herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Frodo said, managing a forced smile which contrasted with his wild eyes, which still carried a hunted look.

  “We just got done with the pictures,” Sierra said, relenting, “and he pulls out this hammer and smashes the place up. Cut it up, too.”

  Frodo snorted through his nose while arching his eyebrows over closed eyes; then he muttered something to himself.

  “Didn’t we discuss this before we landed?” he asked, trying to act the part of leader again.

  “Oh, yeah, we discussed it all right,” the saboteur said, finally deciding to speak. “You can keep on discussing all you want, too. I’m done discussing.”

  Frodo started to speak, but stopped. No one else spoke either, until Sokolov looked at each of them, still amazed as if transported into another reality.

  “May I ask you the same question that you have just posed to me? Who are you, and if you did not come for me, what was the meaning of your being there?”

  “We’re people who discuss things,” Thumper said. “We fly around and have discussions. It’s very effective. Everybody has a wonderful time, too.”

  “Would you shut up?” Frodo yelled at him.

  “Of course,” Thumper continued, “there are those times when no one wants to discuss anything. They can be very interesting as well.”

  Sokolov murmured a curse in Russian, which no one on board understood, but the gist of it wasn’t hard to recon.

  “We are environmental activists,” Frodo said, proudly. “We are here to expose the Americans' attempt to exploit the continent for mineral extraction.”

  “Oil,” Sierra explained.

  “I am aware of what are minerals,” Sokolov replied to her, the fear from his escape having dissipated and his consternation turning into anger. “What I am not aware of is how I came to be with you, and what you intend to do with me now.”

  “Do?” Frodo said, his attention now fully engaged after nearly lapsing into distraction. “I’m not doing anything with you. First, that witch, Susan, cons me into thinking you have something to do with the oil drilling, and now this idiot (he pointed at Thumper, who smiled contentedly) has the whole navy coming down on me.”

  “I assume that you are not going to drop me off on the next street corner,” Sokolov said, giving in to a sarcasm that flowed from the broken dam of his reserve. “Where are you going?”

  “McMurdo,” Frodo said sheepishly. “Unless there’s somewhere else we can go?”

  He addressed the question to Max, who seethed behind the controls. He shook his head in the negative. This wasn’t what he had bargained for either.

  “The American base of operations. Excellent,” Sokolov said. “Maybe you can just drop me off, then.”

  “They’ll want to send you back,” Frodo said, starting to see it. “That’s why Susan wanted you to come with us. They have enough problems with us catching on to what they’re doing without the Russians coming down on them. They’ll send you back and act like it never happened. That’s what she meant by publicity. We have to get you out so you can tell the whole story.”

  “I don’t want to tell stories. I don’t know of what story you want me to tell. I want to go to America and continue with research at university.”

  “Sure, sure,” Frodo said, now on more familiar footing. “And they are going to want you, badly. Especially after you’ve helped to save Antarctica from ruin, scientific cooperation from extinction, maybe even stopped a war. You’re the only one who can do it. It was providence that brought us together.”

  Frodo didn’t much believe in providential occurrences, but he knew how strongly others did. And weird shit did happen, after all.

  “You believe they would send me back?” Sokolov asked, visibly shaken by this suggestion. While his experience in the Soviet Union had taught him to be wary of all, his isolation also left him woefully naïve about the motivations of foreigners, and unequipped to navigate his way through the strange maze into which he had been dropped.

  “I do. But we have friends, millions of them, who support the environment and a peaceful world. We’ll get you out, and into friendly hands.”

  Frodo laid it on pretty thick, but he saw his words take effect. Even that arrogant pilot who would have killed him with a glance a moment ago was softening around the eyes. He pressed his advantage.

  “We came here today to fight the good fight, and while things didn’t go completely according to plan (he shot a bitter look at the rogue saboteur), I believe that fortune has offered us an opportunity to do some real good. I think I have an idea of how we can proceed.”

  He had no idea how he was going to get out of this, but he saw how the others seemed to regain their trust in his leadership and commitment to the cause. He knew he would come up with something. He
always did.