Hannah Ross: The Last Outpost: An Antarctic Dystopia

“Just a little bit, if you don’t mind,” Scott said apprehensively, noticing that it’s a cognac of a label he wasn’t familiar with. He really felt he had had enough strong liquor for one day.

Not heeding him, Anders Lindholm filled both their glasses to the brim, raised his in salute, and took a contented sip. “The only thing that’s lacking right now is a good cigar,” he said confidentially. “I have a box of excellent cigars here, but smoking in any of the living or working areas is out of the question.”

“I don’t smoke, but I won’t mind if you do.”

“Thank you, but the smoke detectors would be upon me at once. And I hate the little public smoking areas. When I get to California, I’m going to enjoy a cigar on the front porch of my beach house every night.” Lindholm took another sip of cognac, and Scott did as well.

“Thank you for the dinner,” he said.

“My pleasure,” Lindholm nodded. “So, as I was saying, Buck, you aren’t part of a research team, and yes, most of your work will involve sitting your rear end on the office chair and plowing through reports and numbers, but you are the overseer, the all-encompassing coordinator at McMurdo, and there are… some things you need to see with your own eyes in order to get a clear picture.”

Scott wasn’t quite following the thread. “You mean things outside the station, sir?”

“Anders, please. Yes, that’s just what I mean. And, as the retiring overseer — as the one who is passing the torch to you, so to speak — I feel it my duty to do the showing and explaining myself. It will be my last important task at McMurdo. We will set out right after you get your clearance from the safety department — that is, tomorrow.”

“Where will we go?”

“To field camp AN-85. That’s an hour and a half or so away by helicopter. You could plow there with a snowmobile in nice weather, but I’m no longer fit to do that. A chopper is a must for old bones like mine.”

“Do I need to pack anything?”

“Nothing at all. It is to be a short tour, and we’ll go back on the same day. We’ll be a small party — just you and I and the pilot.”

Scott nodded. “And… I take this is important?” he asked.

Lindholm nodded. “Very much so. It has to do with the secrecy clause in your contract.”

Scott didn’t quite understand, but nodded anyway. He knew there was some classified research going on in the areas of Antarctica claimed by the United States, and he certainly had no objection to taking a peek at it — it was, after all, his own field of expertise. He felt a surge of excitement.

“I will look forward to this.”

“You definitely should. It’s… well, there is no use trying to explain. You have to see it with your own eyes. And remember, Buck — the safety course starts at 7:30 AM, so be sure to get your breakfast early.”

Having consumed his portion of fried eggs, bacon, toast and coffee by 7:00 AM, Scott took a leisurely circuit to the lecture hall, and found a seat by 7:15. There were three other new employees — a computer technician, a paramedic and a geologist, with whom he exchanged a few polite words before the course began.

The material was pretty dry but efficiently presented, with due consideration for the people’s time. He learned about the dangers of hypothermia and sun reflection, the importance of sunscreen and sunglasses, and what to do if one of the team members gets frostbite on a field trip. By noon, having received the safety clearance stamp, Scott walked out of the lecture hall, his head buzzing with facts and rules. This was a mere formality, though — to understand and appreciate field conditions, one would need to have a taste of them, which he was about to do.

He glanced at his watch. Lindholm was sure to be waiting for him at the helicopter pad already, but he wasn’t quite sure where to go. Just as he was about to whip out his staff guide and take a look at the station map, however, Victor Nash appeared in front of him as if from nowhere.

“Hello. I take it that you have completed the morning course? Mr. Lindholm and the pilot are waiting for you.”

With brisk and polite efficiency, Nash pointed him in the direction of the helicopter pad, set him on his way, and wished him a good journey. It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that Scott stopped to ask himself why Nash, who was supposed to be Lindholm’s — and now his — right hand, wasn’t included in the field trip. He briefly wondered how Nash himself felt about this. There was certainly nothing hostile in his demeanor, but there was nothing friendly either. The man simply gave off no vibes at all, which was a little disconcerting.

Not that there was any use or, indeed, any time to think about it — the helicopter was within view, and two figures in orange parkas were standing next to it. One, long and pale and lanky, was Anders Lindholm. The other, black, squat and square-shouldered, Scott presumed to be the pilot.

“Glad to see you found your way alright, Buck,” Lindholm said by way of greeting him.

“I was a little confused there for a moment, but Victor Nash showed me the way. I had assumed he would be joining us,” Scott added after a brief moment’s hesitation.

“Someone has got to stay behind and take care of running the station,” Lindholm said. “A lot can happen, even in a couple of hours. Well, up you get, Buck — we have all the necessary equipment, sunglasses and so on, with us. Stan, this is Scott Buckley, who will shortly be taking over from me. Buck, this is Stanley Hyman, our very capable pilot. We are in exceptionally good hands today.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Stan, briefly gripping Scott’s fingers. “You’re in luck — the weather is great for flying and, barring anything unexpected, we should make it back in time for dinner.”

The chopper looked rather old and battered, but since neither Lindholm nor Stanley showed the least concern, Scott decided to play along. Suppressing his trepidation, he stepped up into the little aircraft.

“Anyone in AN-85 besides us today, Stan?” Lindholm asked, stepping in after him and flipping back the hood of his parka.

“Not that I know of. We’ll have to make our own lunch. I’ve brought canned beans and sausages, and there are some wrapped sandwiches to eat along the way if you’re hungry.”

“Sounds fine to me.”

“I just hope,” a look of concern flitted over Stan’s face, “that I didn’t forget to bring ketchup. Sausages just aren’t the same without ketchup.”

And they were off. The chopper rose, leaving the buildings of McMurdo station below. Scott was heading for inland Antarctica for the first time in his life.

The austere scenery below, all in shades of black and grey and mostly white all around, made him catch his breath. He felt like a moth hovering above this magnificent frozen landscape, which has so far repelled the advances of men despite modern technology and the best-fitting gear. This was the last place on earth to get a respite from the throes of civilization, with its insanity and chaos and the mad dash for grabbing, holding and owning.

After a short and uneventful journey, the helicopter landed at a nondescript little pad on the edge of a snug, deep and dark valley nestled between two majestic white mountains. There were the remnants of a recently occupied field camp, as well as several signs saying, ‘Camp Base AN-85 — United States Territory — Scientific Research — Classified — Do Not Enter’. Scott and Lindholm bade goodbye to the pilot, who preferred to stay inside his cabin fixing lunch and reading a book and, having carefully zipped up and raised the hoods of their parkas, ventured out.