Fade to Black

7. Williams Field, Antarctica

76 Williams Field, Antarctica GPS Coordinates: –77.8675, 167.056667 March 19, 2010 Duringthelong,lopsidednightalloftheirgearhadbeentransferredfromtheC–130 to a smaller aircraft better suited for landings on the brittle snow pack they would encounter further south. Part helicopter, part airplane, the peculiar vehicle looked like something conjured from the pages of Leonardo DaVinci’s famous sketchbooks. Hatcher and Price had made their way to the airfield well before dawn to ensure that everything they needed for the expedition was in place. When Claire and the others finally arrived, he and Price were standing just beyond the shade of a weather-scarred hangar with their backs angled to the sun. Today it would struggle to rise just above eye level. Tomorrow the pale yellow wafer might not make it to Claire’s shoulders. In less than a week, darkness would rule the world. “Glad to see that you two have kissed and made up,” DeLuca called as they piled out of the van and crunched through the snow toward the hangar. “The last thing we need where we’re going is a lover’s quarrel. It’s plenty cold already.” “I was out of line,” Hatcher admitted. “Let’s just get the answers we’re looking for and go home.” Claire was impressed. The Hatcher she knew never admitted fault. Maybe he had changed. “I’ve got some B-complex in my bag if you’re interested,” McKenzie offered. “It’ll help take some of the edge off the hangover.” “A little suffering might do me some good,” said Hatcher. “Penance.” “Is this some kind of joke?” Bishop wondered aloud. He scowled at the strange aircraft awaiting them on the helipad and rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you expect us to fly in that ridiculous contraption?” “That ridiculous contraption is a Bell Helicopter V22 Osprey.” The voice came from inside the hangar. “The future of military aviation.” Josh Pryor ~ 77 A man wearing nothing but snow boots, Levi’s and a white thermal top stretched tight as a drum skin across his broad chest emerged from behind Price and Hatcher. He smiled at the rest of them, his eyes concealed beneath a pair of black wraparound sunglasses with orange reflective lenses. Although his legs were short and stocky, his upper body evoked the powerful forequarters of a pit bull. His torso was girded with solid muscle. Crisscrossed by a network of fine interlocking scars, his face was hard and angular and lean. His chin was stippled with wiry cinnamon scruff, the pale rusty hue of which was echoed elsewhere in his eyebrows and the hair on his forearms . “She takes off and lands like a helicopter, and flies like an airplane,” he said, his voice flat and inevitable. “Has a range of 2,100 nautical miles. Ideal for the conditions we’re dealing with.” “This is our pilot, Lieutenant Kent,” said Price. “The LT’s our only way in or out, so be nice to him.” As they lifted off Claire noticed what resembled a flock of big black birds winging in from the west. There were four of them grouped loosely together, heads slung low and forward like vultures scanning the earth below for unsuspecting prey. It didn’t take long for her to realize that they were not birds at all but massive helicopters. These too were like nothing she had ever seen before—all cockpit and no passenger compartment. The front half of aircraft was connected to the tail rotor by a long, slender thorax. Up close they no longer reminded her of birds but of giant mechanical hornets. “I guess I don’t need to ask why we aren’t taking one of those instead,” Claire remarked to Price. “Nowhere to sit.” Price looked past her head at the incoming helicopters. “Those are Sikorsky Skycranes ,” he explained. “They’re used for hauling cargo mostly. Each one can carry close to 30,000 pounds. They drop down on whatever it is they’re after—usually some sort of shipping container—latch on and up, up and away.” He demonstrated with his hand. “What are those big canisters next to the wheels?” Claire asked. The pessimist in her thought they might be bombs or something. “Extra fuel,” said Price. “They’re probably unloading a supply ship that’s anchored offshore. Folks here are getting ready for the long, lonely winter.” “But they’re not carrying anything,” Claire observed. By then however the Osprey’s tiltrotors had rotated into the...