I’d flown in 12:30 Tuesday night. Not that time meant much in a South Pole quarantine.
My Rosanna came to the medical bay, offering a hug, a pressure suit, and an armed escort. Next, a facemask kiss to say, “Sorry, Boyd,” then whisked me to HQ.
The Station Commander paced.
“Lieutenant Boyd, this is difficult to say to you. We’d rather send a different man instead. It’s true. But the best brains in Antarctica want the cleanest pilot here.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry.”
He dropped his prepared notes.
“Simply, the joint US-Russian probe malfunctioned; it’s leaking Freon and needs retrieved from Lake Vostok before further contaminating the subglacial ecosystem. As you’ve remained sterile since medical screening in Cape Town, your government has volunteered your services. You’ll retrieve it in our latest prototype high-pressure atmospheric suit. Basically, we’ll lower you down an old ice core shaft, 4000 meters, give or take.”
“And the last prototype?” I gulped.
He glanced at a clipboard. “Fatal osteonecrosis in test subject. Oh! I think that’s fixed. This’ll take 400 atmospheres no sweat.”
I gulped again.
Now, sliding down an ice shaft in the dark, nitrogen narcosis wipes Rosanna from my memory. And although my chest grows tight, I’ll grab that probe, sure as Dome C rises above me and the vast plateau. I know I’ll get it done despite the bursting capillaries. Hurry Boyd, there’s no time left to lose.
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