Tom Grace: Polar Quest

‘Fouquet, Cochin,’ Duroc said into the tiny microphone nestled at the corner of his mouth.

‘Oui, Commander,’ both men replied.

‘Come outside and collect the other prisoner. Secure both in their sleeping quarters for interrogation.’

Overhead, the second LC-130 circled LV Station and began its descent. Duroc smiled, pleased with how well the mission was proceeding. If everything continued to develop according to his plan, no one would ever know they had been here.

‘Ten-minute warning,’ the pilot announced, his voice clear over the speakers imbedded in Kilkenny’s helmet.

‘Roger,’ Kilkenny replied.

The cargo hold of the LC-130 reverberated with a low steady drone. On her wings, four massive Allison engines beat the frigid air with the combined pulling power of fifteen thousand horses in a synchronized effort to keep the sixty-ton plane aloft. Designated Skier-98 by the New York Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing, she was one of a handful of specialized heavy-lift aircraft servicing some of the coldest and most remote places on Earth. From October to March, Skier-98 plied her trade between New Zealand and Antarctica.

The hold of the Hercules was empty save for Kilkenny and the two crewmen who now stood on either side of the personnel door. All three men were breathing from portable oxygen systems, the air in the depressurized hold far too thin and cold at this altitude to sustain them.

Kilkenny’s presence on board was the direct result of some Pentagon muscle-flexing by the man in charge of the navy’s special warfare group and Kilkenny’s former commanding officer, Rear Admiral Jack Dawson. When Dawson learned of Kilkenny’s involvement with NASA’s project at Lake Vostok, the admiral used his considerable influence to quietly add an equipment test for the navy to the project task list.

Kilkenny stripped off the NSF-issue parka and stood in the center of the empty hold to stretch his muscles. The matte gray suit that covered his body like a second skin felt thin and light. Other than his face, which was concealed by a helmet, not a square inch of Kilkenny was exposed, and vulnerable points on his body were protected with molded panels of Kevlar.

The suit – called SEALskin by the company working with the navy to develop it – incorporated the latest in combat electronics, chemical and biological warfare protection, and exceptional thermal control. Under laboratory conditions, the suit had performed well, but Kilkenny’s old C.O. wanted to see just how well it would fare in more realistic settings. Antarctica, in Dawson’s mind, was the perfect place to see if SEALskin could keep a man warm.

The two crewmen in the hold with Kilkenny stared at him with puzzled disbelief. He didn’t blame them a bit, because he was about to attempt a HAHO (High-Altitude High-Opening) jump out the side of their plane at 35,000 feet and parachute onto the glacial ice below.‘I have contact with an inbound aircraft,’ the radar operator announced.

Sumner Duroc glanced down at the image on the radarscope. ‘Range?’

‘Eighty kilometers.’

‘Keep tracking.’

What intrigued Kilkenny about this jump, and the reason he agreed to do it, was the location; Antarctica was the only continent he had never parachuted onto. Only a few people had ever attempted a jump over the southernmost continent, and three of the most recent to do so became so disoriented with altitude sickness that they never opened their chutes and plummeted to their deaths at the South Pole.

‘Sixty-five kilometers and closing,’ the radar operator called out.

‘Are all systems ready?’ Duroc asked.

‘All systems are green and ready to go.’

‘Good. Bring them in a little closer.’

‘Five minutes,’ the pilot called out.

‘Roger,’ Kilkenny answered. ‘Switch homing beacon on.’

The voice-activated computer strapped to his chest began transmitting a signal that would allow the plane to locate him in the event of an emergency.

‘We are receiving a strong signal,’ the copilot said. ‘Everything looks A-okay for the jump.’

Kilkenny ran through a final inspection of his rip cords and chute containers. He patted his thigh and found his combat knife strapped right where he wanted it – insurance in case the main chute failed and he needed to do a quick cut away before deploying the reserve.

‘Gauges on,’ Kilkenny commanded.

A bar strip of information appeared to float in front of him; the face shield of his helmet served double duty as a heads-up display. Kilkenny studied the compact image that displayed his heading, altitude, airspeed, longitude, and latitude – all gleaned from the constellation of Global Positioning Satellites orbiting the planet.

‘Fifty-five kilometers and closing,’ the radar operator said to Duroc.

‘Two minutes,’ the pilot called out. ‘Sergeant Boehmer, open the door.’

‘Door opening,’ Boehmer replied.

A blast of frigid air roared into the cargo bay and the low rumbling of the Hercules changed in pitch as the pilot slowed the aircraft down to 135 knots. Kilkenny grabbed hold of the steel anchor line cables and stepped up to the side door.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Boehmer shouted over the wind, ‘but why are you doing this?’

Behind the tinted visor, Kilkenny smiled. ‘Do you know what NAVY stands for, Sergeant?’

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Never Again Volunteer Yourself.’

The red caution light blinked off and the jump light flashed green.

‘Those are words to live by,’ Kilkenny shouted. ‘See you on the ground.’

Kilkenny leapt into the turbulent slipstream behind the plane and felt an immediate jolt of acceleration as gravity pulled him downward. With arms and legs outstretched, he sailed through a 6,000-foot free fall. The altimeter on his heads-up display quickly counted off his descent. Beneath the altimeter, a digital readout clocked his rate of fall approaching 140 miles per hour.

His heart pounded in his chest. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream as his body reacted instinctively to the unnatural sensation of falling. Kilkenny felt the dull sting of air-borne ice particles impacting against his body through the SEALskin, but thankfully the navy’s new miracle suit was performing as advertised.

‘Range to aircraft is twenty-five kilometers.’

‘Lock on target,’ Duroc ordered. He then scanned the light blue sky for the aircraft he could not see but knew was there.

At 29,000 feet, Kilkenny pulled his main rip cord. Looking over his right shoulder, he watched the rectangular parabolic wing unfurl and catch the air. The heads-up display showed his altitude at 27,250 feet and his airspeed nearly zero. The deafening roar of wind that accompanied his free fall was gone, and Kilkenny’s ears rang in the silence.

‘Display flight path to target.’

In response to Kilkenny’s voice command, the computer calculated the straight-line distance from his current position to the known coordinates of LV Station and projected a bright yellow line on the display that graphically showed the most direct flight path. The imaginary line, which was updated several times a second, appeared to run from the center of Kilkenny’s chest to a point several miles in the distance.

He reached up, grasped the control toggles for the right and left risers, and pulled to release the brakes. The ram-air chute surged forward in full flight mode, rapidly picking up speed. The design of the canopy allowed Kilkenny to control his flight with great precision. Given the right wind conditions, he could stay aloft for hours. Below, an undulating sheet of white spread out in each direction toward the horizon.