Cold War (2001) by Clancy Tom - Power Plays 05

Author:Clancy, Tom - Power Plays 05 [05, Clancy, Tom - Power Plays]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2011-03-17T20:23:46+00:00

Chapter Twelve.

ROSS DEPENDENCY, SOUTHERN OCEAN (66deg25' S, 162deg50' E) MARCH 13, 2002

A STORM WAS COMING, AND THE PETRELS AND SKUAS were its outriders, brawling up from the bare sea cliffs in wild sprays of gray-white wings.

Above their Bellany Island rock colonies a moist, restless warm front from New Zealand had bumped against the outer bounds of an Antarctic air mass. Cold and dry, heavy as the breath of a slumbering frost giant, it presented a resistant barrier.

In collision, the two fronts took on a clockwise rotation, generating great eddies of wind around a central area of low pressure. Rising above the dense mass of cold air, the buoyant warm flow pulled its moisture higher into the atmosphere to be cooled and condensed into radiating bands of clouds.

As the fronts continued to spin in conflict, their winds gained speed and intensity, sucking up more water vapor from the low-pressure trough, pushing the clouds further toward its edges, evolving into a potent cyclonic cell that whirled southward across the Antarctic Circle, racing over archipelagoes, open sea, and pack ice toward the continental landmass.

A storm was coming.

Streaming from their bleak slopes, the rousted seabirds were first to know its aggressive force.

Soon many others would as well.

South Victoria Land, Antarctica

(Approx: 74deg50' S, 164deg00' E)

They tramped over the snow berm ferrying a pair of cargo-laden banana sleds toward the first of their widely separated destinations.

The team consisted of ten men. Their parkas, wind pants, and duffels were white. White too were the ski bags they carried over their shoulders on padded nylon web slings, their lightweight fiberglass sleds, and the canvas tarpaulins over the large, sealed crates that had been left at the drop-off point some three quarters of a mile back. This was a heavily crevassed area, and Granger had refused to land his helicopter any closer to the depot.

At the rear of the small column, two men hauled their freight of equipment on sturdy polyfiber tow cords, harnesses buckled around their chests and waists.

They marched along the north side of the trench with a kind of slow wariness, the lead walker probing the un-tracked snow ahead with a telescopic avalanche pole, its shaft locked at its maximum six-foot extension. Far from any known camp, their chances of being detected by ground or aerial recon were slight. Their clothes and equipment were furthermore designed to blend with the terrain, and the sun's prolonged descent toward austral winter had butted it increasingly low toward the horizon, leaving no appreciable shadows to betray their movement.

The wind blew hard and cold. They moved on toward their goal, their leader repeatedly thrusting his probe into the rumpled snow, locating a masked drop, and then steering them around it. The depot's location had been programmed into their GPS units, and they would reach it soon enough if they stuck close to the berm line. Their main interest right now was getting safely past the crevasse field, past those fissures waiting beneath the snow, their open, icy mouths filled with darkness.

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