Fade to Black

8. Antarctica: Approximately 150 Miles from the South Pole

78 Antarctica: Approximately 150 Miles from the South Pole GPS Coordinates: –89.23321, –19.6875 March 19, 2010 From Williams Field it took nearly four hours to reach their final destination, a vast basin flanked on one side by a range of white saw-toothed mountains, and on the other by a blinding desert of snow stretching to the horizon. The basin was a sort of natural reservoir—a mile long and half again as wide—the upper nine-tenths of which was crusted over with layer upon layer of icy strata. It was here, beneath thousands of feet of ice and snow that life had somehow managed to hold on for millennia . Although Claire had theorized the existence of such an ecosystem, she was having difficulty believing it herself now that she was actually here. No wonder the skeptics had called her crazy. Life in this place? Under all of that? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. But it was true, and she was encouraged. If simple vent organisms could survive without light in a hostile environment for thousands of years, then surely she could manage for a few measly weeks. Although it couldn’t compete with the boundless urban sprawl of Los Angeles, one end of the ice field was home to a ramshackle encampment. She hoped the cluster of battered Quonsets and peripheral debris wasn’t Hatcher’s idea of home sweet home. Rusted-out machine parts lay strewn about the haggard perimeter, leaking waste oil and bright red hydraulic fluid that streaked the snowy landscape like blood. It was a veritable bone yard, an auto dismantler’s paradise, a burial ground where all things mechanical went to die. Had it not been for the dirty footpaths snaking in and out of the depressing field of debris, Claire would have guessed that the area had been deserted for decades. As they passed over the grim settlement a half-dozen fugitive figures in heavy olive drab parkas trudged out of one of the drafty sheet metal huts, raised their arms and began . . . “Jesus!” shouted Claire, snapping her head back from the window. “They’re shooting at us!” Josh Pryor ~ 79 “That’s just the Russians saying hello,” Hatcher offered routinely. He smiled. “Don’t worry about them. They’re just a little stir-crazy. They staff the weather station year round. Things get pretty lonely down here.” “I’d hate to see how they say goodbye,” said McKenzie, peering cautiously back at the volley of muzzle flashes now well behind them. “Why do they need guns?” asked Claire. Hatcher shrugged. “You can ask them yourself. I thought we’d pay them a visit— see if they know anything we can use.” The research station once staffed by Alan and the previous team occupied a place at the opposite end of the ice field. Much as Claire expected, it looked as if a bomb had gone off. Nearly half the station had been obliterated by the blast. What was still standing was scorched and broken. Beneath the scattered wreckage was the ashy imprint of the fireball that had killed six men in a fraction of a second. Against the blazing white palette of snow, the blast area resembled an ugly black flower. The halfmile -deep hole in the ice at its epicenter had been sealed off with a heavy steel door that looked like something you’d find guarding the federal gold repository at Fort Knox. Apparently, the CDC wasn’t taking any chances until Claire and the others determined who or what was to blame for the explosion. Further ahead, fifty yards or less, was the site of the new research station. The state-of-the-art facility, a radially symmetrical complex consisting of small outbuildings spoked into and about a larger hub, had the basic configuration of a wagon wheel. It was sleek and black and geometrically precise. The hub building, about the size of Eric’s house in El Segundo, would serve as both their laboratory and lounge. Twelve smaller modules were spaced equidistant from one another around the perimeter of an octagonal ring. Of the twelve, eight were numbered—eight in broad Day-Glo yellow characters easily visible from the air. Each of these was crowned with a single police-style flasher, though at present all eight of the blue strobes were dormant . These were their sleeping quarters. Each comprised a generous eighty square feet of personal living space. The other four modules included...