Discovery Point might as well be little Moscow. They are the only ones who have both the knowhow and equipment to drill through more than a mile of this crazy ice.” He pauses for a bit as I take this in. “And make a big enough hole to not collapse in on itself.”
“As it is more than 900 miles to Discovery Point, how does an aircraft with a range of 700 miles fly the distance? Will we stop to refuel?”
“No worries, ma’am,” the pilot answers with a laugh. “Although we do cut it rather close, these Sea Stallions are retrofitted for both cold and extended range. About 1,000 miles is the farthest my bird can fly before dry. Because of this, gotta be careful concerning the weather and all.”
No more words spoken and five jarring hours later, I sleepily gaze upon a settlement more fitting for a colony on Mars than the shoddy buildings that make up McMurdo Station. Lit up as if a Christmas tree – even with the midnight sun shining down – it is a beautiful sight. Fittingly, concerning the time, it is close to midnight London time. Five massive half-spheres rising from the ice now work to awaken my heavy-lidded eyes.
Drenched in blood red and directly in the center of it all sits the largest of these ‘bubbles’. The other four are the exact same distance apart from both each other and the middle bubble. Intrigued by this, I gaze at the compass on my watch. Sure enough, they match exactly the four cardinal points. The colors of the outer quartet of bubbles are as such: north awash in blue, east a canary yellow, south painted a forest green, and west glowing as orange as would the setting sun.
Lights of a pale blue color shine in every direction skyward as if desperately trying to catch a UFO’s attention. From each of these four bubbles extends a tunnel, appearing as if made from glass, into the largest red one. Just to the south of all this lays scattered equipment more massive than any I have ever seen. Enough floodlights, a few of them lit, to light Wembley Stadium tower above these machines. To the east of Discovery Point is a heliport with eight helipads – twice as many as at McMurdo. And to the west – what in the world ?
Small hills of steel and other sturdy materials rise out of the glacier. Another army of floodlights even larger than those to the south stands guard. As to what all this is for, I will ask not the pilot, but Admiral Vanderbilt.
The excitement of our trip cannot hide one obvious truth. Beautiful, pristine, majestic in spots and its own special way, Antarctica owns a dreary dullness with seemingly no end. And just as I realize this, our flight does end.
After a perfect landing, I thank my pilot for a safe trip and we exit the helicopters. The swirling air bone-chillingly cold, I gather with my eight companions. We now huddle together in a tight circle as if penguins trying to keep our eggs warm. After a minute or two of this, the leader of my soldiers, retired UK SAS Major Gavin Sinclair, points over my shoulder and we turn our heads to follow. An older woman bundled up tight meets our warmth-craving stares. Saggy skin around her peeking eyes gives away her advanced age. No badge, no logo, no indications of rank; for all I can tell, she might be a maid or might be in charge of everything. She points to her left, but says nothing and walks in that direction. Despite such an aloof greeting, as there is no one else around, we swiftly follow.
She takes us to an open door that leads underground. After some words with another using a pink (really?) walkie-talkie, a small group – just as tightly bundled up as she is – marches passed us and through the shielding door. My soldiers watch warily as these workers bring our precious cargo safely inside. Everything accounted for and the nine of us desperate for sleep, the woman closes the door and takes off her outer clothing above the waist. To describe her as homely
“As it is more than 900 miles to Discovery Point, how does an aircraft with a range of 700 miles fly the distance? Will we stop to refuel?”
“No worries, ma’am,” the pilot answers with a laugh. “Although we do cut it rather close, these Sea Stallions are retrofitted for both cold and extended range. About 1,000 miles is the farthest my bird can fly before dry. Because of this, gotta be careful concerning the weather and all.”
No more words spoken and five jarring hours later, I sleepily gaze upon a settlement more fitting for a colony on Mars than the shoddy buildings that make up McMurdo Station. Lit up as if a Christmas tree – even with the midnight sun shining down – it is a beautiful sight. Fittingly, concerning the time, it is close to midnight London time. Five massive half-spheres rising from the ice now work to awaken my heavy-lidded eyes.
Drenched in blood red and directly in the center of it all sits the largest of these ‘bubbles’. The other four are the exact same distance apart from both each other and the middle bubble. Intrigued by this, I gaze at the compass on my watch. Sure enough, they match exactly the four cardinal points. The colors of the outer quartet of bubbles are as such: north awash in blue, east a canary yellow, south painted a forest green, and west glowing as orange as would the setting sun.
Lights of a pale blue color shine in every direction skyward as if desperately trying to catch a UFO’s attention. From each of these four bubbles extends a tunnel, appearing as if made from glass, into the largest red one. Just to the south of all this lays scattered equipment more massive than any I have ever seen. Enough floodlights, a few of them lit, to light Wembley Stadium tower above these machines. To the east of Discovery Point is a heliport with eight helipads – twice as many as at McMurdo. And to the west – what in the world ?
Small hills of steel and other sturdy materials rise out of the glacier. Another army of floodlights even larger than those to the south stands guard. As to what all this is for, I will ask not the pilot, but Admiral Vanderbilt.
The excitement of our trip cannot hide one obvious truth. Beautiful, pristine, majestic in spots and its own special way, Antarctica owns a dreary dullness with seemingly no end. And just as I realize this, our flight does end.
After a perfect landing, I thank my pilot for a safe trip and we exit the helicopters. The swirling air bone-chillingly cold, I gather with my eight companions. We now huddle together in a tight circle as if penguins trying to keep our eggs warm. After a minute or two of this, the leader of my soldiers, retired UK SAS Major Gavin Sinclair, points over my shoulder and we turn our heads to follow. An older woman bundled up tight meets our warmth-craving stares. Saggy skin around her peeking eyes gives away her advanced age. No badge, no logo, no indications of rank; for all I can tell, she might be a maid or might be in charge of everything. She points to her left, but says nothing and walks in that direction. Despite such an aloof greeting, as there is no one else around, we swiftly follow.
She takes us to an open door that leads underground. After some words with another using a pink (really?) walkie-talkie, a small group – just as tightly bundled up as she is – marches passed us and through the shielding door. My soldiers watch warily as these workers bring our precious cargo safely inside. Everything accounted for and the nine of us desperate for sleep, the woman closes the door and takes off her outer clothing above the waist. To describe her as homely
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