Blood and Ice

CHAPTER FIVE

November 24, 4:15 p.m.

CAPTAIN BENJAMIN PURCELL, the Commanding Officer of the icebreaker Constellation, was getting impatient. From his cabin, he'd heard the arrival of the prop plane carrying his last two passengers, but that had been well over an hour ago. Where the hell were they? How long could it take to get from the airstrip to the port? It wasn't like Puerto Williams (pop. 2512 at last count) offered much in the way of sightseeing. Once you'd stopped to pay homage to the Proa del Escampavia Yelcho -the preserved prow of the cutter that had been used to rescue Ernest Shackleton's starving crew from Elephant Island in 1916-there wasn't a lot else to capture your interest. And Purcell should know-he'd been running his ship among the southernmost Chilean and Argentine ports for nearly ten years-and he still hadn't seen any more cooperation or amity between those two countries than when he'd started. To this day, there wasn't a reliable boat connection between Puerto Williams, on the northern shore of the Isla Navarino, and Ushuaia on the Argentine side of the channel.

He went up to the bridge, where Ensign Gallo had been placed on duty while they remained at dockside. Short of the aloft con tower, which rose another forty-five feet above the bridge and was used as a lookout post for oncoming bergs, the bridge afforded the best available view of the port and what passed for the town just up the hill. A few hundred yards away, at the Muelle Guardian Brito, or main pier, a Norwegian cruise ship had berthed, and he could hear one of the old Abba hits-was it “Dancing Queen”?-blaring from its party room.

“Give me those,” he said to the ensign, gesturing at the binoculars that were lodged beside the wheel. He trained them uphill, toward the Centro Comercial-not much more than a few crafts shops, a general store, and a post office-looking for anyone who might look like a photojournalist or a marine biologist. The few people he could see were elderly tourists, carefully framing pictures of each other with the towering granite needles, known as the Teeth of Navarino, in the distance behind them. But then, if you were going to take the trouble to travel to one of the most remote spots on the planet, you probably did want to have incontrovertible proof of that fact when you got back home.

“How's the doc settling in?” Purcell asked Ensign Gallo.

“Fine, sir. No complaints.”

“Where'd you put her?”

“Petty Officer Klauber volunteered, sir, to give up her cabin to Dr. Barnes.”

That was a lucky break, Purcell thought. Berths were hard to come by. The doc-one of the three NSF passengers he was to transport to Point Adelie-was an African-American woman of considerable bulk (good padding, he thought, for the Antarctic) and strong demeanor. When she arrived the day before and shook his hand, he could feel his fingers crunch in her grip. She'd do well out there. It was no country for weaklings.

Purcell swept the town again, and this time, finally, saw two men looking down at the docks, and one of them-a little guy with red hair-asking a Chilean fisherman something. The fisherman nodded, then swung one arm, still holding a chum bucket, down toward the Constellation. The other guy was tall, with black hair that was whipping around his head (this was hat country, as he would soon learn) and carried a massively overstuffed duffel bag. He also had on a blue nylon backpack that betrayed the outlines of a laptop computer case.

As the two men came down toward the harbor, Purcell saw that the little guy had also hired a local teenager to push a wheelbarrow loaded with his own gear.

“There they are,” Purcell said. “Give ‘em a kick in the ass.” The ensign obliged with a couple of short blasts on the ship's whistle.

“Single up all lines,” the captain continued, “and prepare to get under way.”

As Michael dragged his bag down the metal-and-concrete pier, he saw a crewman in navy whites descending the gangway. The boat was bigger than he'd expected-he'd have guessed maybe four hundred feet long-with what looked like a helicopter secured under an enormous tarp on the aft deck. The sides of the ship were painted red, except for a wide white diagonal stripe across the bow. At the stern, there were gigantic propeller-like screws. Break the ice with the hull, Michael figured, then chop it up with the screws. The boat, in short, was like a huge, floating ice-cube maker.

“Dr. Hirsch?” the sailor called out, “Mr. Wilde?”

“Yo,” Darryl replied, and Michael lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

“Petty Officer Kazinski. Welcome aboard the Constellation. “

Kazinski grabbed the bags out of the wheelbarrow and, while Hirsch dug out a few bills for the teenage porter, turned around on his heel and marched briskly up the ramp. “The CO-Commanding Officer,” he said over his shoulder, “is Captain Purcell. He has requested your company at dinner tonight, in the Officers’ Mess. Seven o'clock. Please dress appropriately.”

What, Michael wondered, did that mean? He'd forgotten to pack a tux. (Not that he owned one, anyway.)

Once up on deck, Michael looked around. The bridge, rising at least fifty feet above him, struck him as unusually high and wide, running virtually the entire width of the ship, and perched above that was a kind of crow's nest, mounted on what looked like a chimney stack. That must be some view. He should try to get some wide-angle shots from up there on the voyage to Point Adelie.

“You'll be sharing a cabin aft,” Kazinski said. “Follow me, and I'll show you to your quarters.”

As they headed for a narrow stairway several sailors hustled past them, and Michael heard a few others clattering down the stairs above their heads. He heard some shorthand comments about mooring lines, switching fuel tanks, and some crack about a sonar tech that made no sense to him but made the sailors laugh uproariously. The ship was clearly being readied for immediate departure.

“How many men do you have on board?” Michael asked.

“The crew consists of one hundred and two men and women, sir.”

Michael stood corrected. He hadn't seen any females yet, but apparently some were around. As if to prove the point, a tall, thin woman with a clipboard tucked under one arm of her uniform suddenly emerged from a hatchway; Kazinski immediately stood at attention and saluted.

She acknowledged the salute, then extended her hand to Hirsch. “You must be Dr. Hirsch. I'm Lieutenant Commander Healey-Kathleen-the Operations officer on board.” She had a crisp, no-nonsense attitude about her; even the short brown hair peeking out from under her cap seemed cut for maximum efficiency. “And you're the journalist?” she said to Michael. “I'm sorry, I saw your name in the morning report, but I've forgotten it.”

Michael introduced himself and said, “Glad to be aboard.”

“Yes, we were waiting.”

Michael began to get the impression that he and Hirsch had been holding up the works.

“You're the last of the NSF contingent,” Healey said.

“There are others?” Hirsch asked.

“Only one. Dr. Charlotte Barnes. She arrived two days ago.”

There was another long, blaring whistle from overhead. Three more sailors went flying by. The deck rumbled with the sound of the starboard engine coming online.

“If you'll excuse me…”

Michael nodded, and as she strode off, he could hear her calling out orders right and left.

“This way,” Kazinski said, disappearing into the hatchway. Michael waited for Hirsch to go through, then followed. The passageway was so narrow it was tough to maneuver with the huge duffel-especially as it contained his camera equipment, painstakingly packed to protect against breakage; the camera and gear were in metal cases at the core, further insulated by all his clothing wrapped around them. But the bag was damn heavy, as a result.

“The Constellation, “ Kazinski was saying, “is among the largest icebreakers in the Coast Guard fleet. She weighs just over thirteen thousand tons, and she runs on half a dozen diesel engines and three gas turbines. We're carrying over one million gallons of fuel. At full throttle, she can muster seventy-five thousand horsepower and travel through open water at seventeen knots. In high seas, she has a maximum roll of ninety degrees.”

What, Michael wondered, would that feel like? He'd seen some heavy weather off Nova Scotia, and been caught in a squall in the Bahamas, but he'd never been on an icebreaker in an Antarctic storm.

“Any chance of that?” Hirsch asked. “Rolling ninety degrees, I mean?” He didn't sound like he'd be looking forward to it.

“You never can tell,” Kazinski said, stepping over the threshold of another hatchway, then warning, “Watch your step there. Summer seas are not as bad as winter down here, but it's still Cape Horn. Anything can happen, at any time. Watch your step again.”

He took them down another short flight of metal steps, and the portholes suddenly vanished: Michael figured that they had just descended to below water level. Even the air became closer and danker. Fluorescent tubes in the ceiling flickered, and as they continued to make their way toward the stern, the vibrations in the floor got stronger. So did the noise.

“And here we are,” Kazinski said, ducking into a cabin door. “Home sweet home.”

When Michael and Darryl followed him in, there was barely room for the three of them to stand. There were two narrow bunks attached to opposite walls, with striped woolen blankets pulled military tight; a flat metal tray was folded down from the wall between them. There was one overhead light fixture, burning brightly in a frosted globe, and a plywood door that led to the head; Michael could smell the mildew.

“Is this the deluxe cabin?” Michael joked, and Kazinski laughed.

“Yes, sir. We save this one for visiting dignitaries only.”

“We'll take it.”

“Good decision there. Last two berths on board, sir.”

Darryl, fortunately, didn't seem to mind, either. As soon as Kazinski left, he unzipped one of his bags and started tossing some things onto the bunk on the right. “Say,” he said to Michael, stopping for a second, “did you want that one?”

Michael shook his head. “It's all yours.” He slung his backpack off his shoulder and onto the cot. “But if they leave us chocolates on our pillows at night, I want mine.”

While Darryl unpacked, Michael dug out one of his digital cameras- the Canon S80, good for down-and-dirty wide-angle shots-and went up on deck. The Constellation had left the dock, and was passing slowly southeast down the Beagle Channel, named after HMS Beagle, the very ship that had carried Charles Darwin into those waters in 1834. The air temperature wasn't bad, maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven degrees, and since the ship was still in a relatively protected waterway, the wind was mild. Michael was able to get off a few shots without worrying about gloves and without his fingers going numb. He probably wouldn't be using these for the piece anyway, but he always liked to have a few photos recording every important phase of his trip. He used them as memory aids when it came to the writing part, and it never failed to surprise him that something he remembered one way would show up quite differently when he looked at the photos. The mind could play a lot of tricks on you, he had learned.

The port had slipped into the distance, and the coastline was dusted with a pale green cover of moss and lichen. Patagonian Indians had once populated the wind-ravaged country, and when Ferdinand Magellan, searching for a sheltered westward route in 1520, had seen their burning campfires dotting the barren hills and shore, he had dubbed it Tierra del Fuego, or “The Land of Fire.” There was nothing fiery, or warm, about it now, and certainly no sign of the original Patagonians; they had been decimated by disease and the usurpation of their home by the European explorers. The only signs of life that Michael could see onshore were flocks of snowy petrels, darting among the scoured cliffsides, tending their nests and feeding their young. When his fingers got too cold to handle the camera anymore, he tucked it back in his parka, zipped the pocket closed, and simply leaned over the rail.

The water below was a hard, dark blue, and broke from the sides of the ship in a constant curling motion. Michael had been reading up on the Antarctic ever since getting the assignment from Gillespie, and he knew that this ice-free water wouldn't last long. As soon as they left the channel and entered the Drake Passage-and Cape Horn-the sea would become the roughest on earth. Even now, in the southern hemisphere's summer, icebergs would pose a constant threat. He was actually looking forward to their appearance. Photographing bergs and glaciers, bringing out the delicate hues that ranged from a blinding white to a deep lavender, was an artistic and technical challenge of the first order. And Michael liked a challenge.

He'd been standing there for some time before he became aware of a fellow passenger also at the rail-a black woman with braided hair, bundled up in a long, green down coat. He wondered how long she'd been there. She was maybe twenty feet away, and fumbling with her own camera. From where he stood, Michael thought it looked like a Nikon 35 mm. She was aiming at the water-a couple of sea lions had just popped up, their sleek black heads glistening like bowling balls-and Michael called out, “Not easy from a moving boat, is it?”

She looked over. She had a broad face with high cheekbones and arched brows. “It's never easy,” she said. “I don't even know why I try.”

With one hand on the rail for balance-the sea was fairly calm, but the boat still rolled on the swells-Michael strolled over.

“You must be the photographer we've been waiting for,” she said.

“I am.” He was starting to feel like the class problem. “And you must be the doctor who got here ahead of time.”

“Yeah, well, when you're coming from the Midwest, you make the connections you can.”

They introduced themselves, and Michael glanced at her camera. “You're using film,” he said.

“I've had this camera for ten years, and I've used it maybe twice. What's wrong with film?”

“Right now, it'll be okay. But when the polar weather really hits, you can run into some problems. Film cracks pretty easily in extreme cold.”

She looked at the camera in her hand as if it had betrayed her. “I only brought it ‘cause my mom and my sister said I had to bring back pictures.” Then she brightened. “Maybe I can just borrow some of yours. They'll never know.”

“Help yourself.”

The sea lions bleated, then ducked their heads back under the waves.

“You work for the National Science Foundation?” Michael asked.

“I do now,” she said. “I've got a ton of medical-school loans to pay off.”

Michael guessed that she couldn't have been out of med school more than five or six years.

“Plus, the hospital I work for in Chicago is under active investigation by about six different agencies. I thought it might be a good time to get away.”

“To the Antarctic?” Michael was already making mental notes, thinking she'd be a great character in the Eco-Travel piece.

“You know what they pay for anybody crazy enough to sign up for a six-month stint?” A gust of wind suddenly kicked up, blowing the braids of her hair, some of them streaked with a hint of blond, back over her shoulders. “I can tell you this-it sure beats working in the ER. In fact, I heard about this gig from a friend there, who did it himself about a year ago.”

“And he lived to tell the tale?”

“He said it changed his life.”

“Is that what you're looking to do?” Michael said. “Change your life?”

She pulled back a bit, and paused. “No, I'm pretty happy with my life so far.” But she looked at him a bit warily. “You sure seem curious.”

“Sorry,” he said, “bad habit. It goes with the job.”

“Photographer?”

“I'm a writer, too, I'm afraid.”

“Okay, then-at least I know what I'm up against. But let's take it slow. We've got a whole lot of time, I think, to get acquainted.”

“You're right,” he said, thinking to himself that his interviewing technique might have gotten a bit rusty. “Why don't we just go back to the photo tips and start over?”

He quickly ran down a few pointers for her on taking photographs at sea, especially in the peculiar light so far south, then headed back to his cabin. Take your time, he reminded himself, let your subjects open up on their own. At the door to his cabin, he remembered that he'd been told to dress appropriately for dinner, and he knew he'd have to dig out his least wrinkled flannel shirt, slip it under the mattress, and lie down on it for a while.