Authors: Ann Turner
‘At this point it’s just you and one other – a German safety engineer, Professor Rutger Koch from Berlin University. He’s done work for the Antarctic Council before. One of their favourites. And that’s it, I’m afraid. Cost cutting. You’ll be going into the buildings as part of your report and even though they’ve been checked, Koch will make sure everything’s still stable.’ Georgia shifted in her chair. ‘Staff at Alliance will give you transport and technical support. But Laura, if you do find you need someone else, just call me and I’ll see what I can do. In terms of protocol, your findings are strictly confidential. So no gossiping down there. No saying anything to anyone except Rutger unless you clear it with me.’
• • •
Lying on my bunk, I opened my laptop and tapped in
Fredelighavn
, searching for images of the abandoned whaling station. But after many tries with different key words, I still couldn’t find any images. All I could see was a short piece that outlined how the bay and the whaling station had initially both been called Fredelighavn –
Peaceful Harbour
– but the bay’s name had been changed to Placid Bay in 1911. In 1961 South Safety Island had come under the Antarctic Treaty, and in 1973 Placid Bay, and Fredelighavn Whaling Station with it, had been set as an Exclusion Zone, recognised as an exceptional wildlife-breeding site. No one, including scientists, was allowed in. It was completely off-limits.
I racked my brain to think where I’d seen the few photographs of Fredelighavn I remembered. I tried some different journals, but nothing came up. Was I thinking of the right place? When Georgia first raised the name, I was sure I had seen it. In my head were black and white images of sheds, white clapboard buildings and a church, stretching around a glistening bay, with penguins and seals everywhere.
I looked up Alliance base. Unlike most other bases, there was no comprehensive website, just a lean description:
British station committed to carrying out scientific research, with emphasis on inviting colleagues from the USA and Australia to participate in certain programs on an annual basis
; and a paragraph proudly stating it had an airport with a blue ice runway – where the ice stayed thick and hard all year, allowing wheeled aircraft to land.
I tapped
Rutger Koch
into the search engine and found he’d been to Antarctica as many times as I had. In his late thirties, he was tanned, fair-haired, square-jawed, with intelligent grey eyes. Manly. A Germanic David White. Even from the photos I was attracted. I stopped myself immediately. I was just lonely, and he’d certainly be attached. Strong, good-looking men had proved bad for me, and I was going there purely for work. I dropped him a quick email introducing myself.
• • •
We winterers were a close mob; we’d become an endearingly eccentric family. I tried to hold back tears, not wanting to look like an idiot, as I said goodbye. By the time I returned at the end of the season to catch the plane back to Australia, most would have already flown out, replaced by fresh personnel.
I saved my biggest hug for Georgia. Georgia, who I wanted to ask about David White but couldn’t bring myself to. I wondered if he’d had children yet.
‘Look after yourself, mate,’ said Georgia, punching my arm.
‘You too,’ I said, although I suspected she wouldn’t have any problems.
• • •
The warm Hägglunds, like an orange truck with huge rubber tracks and two cabins – on this day, one for passengers and one for gear – took me to Wilkins Runway, a field of ice high above sea level, from where I was flown to the USA’s McMurdo base. We landed on its sea-ice runway, where security was high. The peaceful continent wasn’t allowed to arm itself, but the American guards seemed very military. I was kept at the airfield until my flight arrived. A small British-run Dash 7 took me, with its strong propellers, over the vast white continent, across the frozen Weddell Sea and Antarctic Peninsula, descending over a blue and white patchwork of broken sea ice to the expansive South Safety Island, sitting at a latitude of 62°15’S, outside the Antarctic circle but just within the area governed by the Antarctic Treaty.
The plane banked sharply around the north-east coast as it came in to land, quickly obstructing my view of the sparkling Placid Bay but flying over the abandoned buildings of Fredelighavn. There was a whitewashed church with a surprising golden orb on the top of its steeple, and the black and white mass of an Adélie rookery. Along the shore sprawled red-roofed sheds, with industrial smoke towers sprouting from them, and the huge, wooden-planked flensing platform. On the beach, gigantic whale skeletons were strewn about. Close to the mountains that rose on both sides were clusters of large round oil tanks. And among more sheds was a small settlement of red-roofed houses. It didn’t look like the photographs I remembered at all. But then, they’d been taken at sea level, not from above.
My stomach moved uncomfortably as I took in this pristine slaughter yard, a feeling not helped by the rough landing on the long blue ice runway; it took minutes before the Dash 7 finally turned towards the airfield buildings.
I emerged from the plane to be met by a tall, prim man in his early sixties wearing a starched white shirt and bow tie beneath his bulky polar jacket.
‘Welcome to Alliance, Doctor Alvarado,’ he said formally, shaking my hand in a weak, clammy grip, his lips pulled tight like string. ‘Professor Harold Connaught, Base Commander. I have a Hägglunds waiting.’ He insisted on carrying my luggage – a large suitcase and a smaller carry-on bag – but even with this British chivalry, he left me with the distinct impression that he wasn’t glad to see me.
3
T
he airfield at Alliance was bigger than I had imagined. High on a plateau, a Twin Otter plane with skis beneath its wheels sat on the ice. Nearby, a hangar housed another Dash 7 and a Twin Otter plane with large floats above its wheels. Several outbuildings hid their function and contents behind huge steel doors; and inside a shed were three Hägglunds, their enormous rubber tracks and sleek glass windows making them look like giant all-seeing bugs. Unlike the usual orange metal frame, these had been hand-painted with sunsets and icebergs and Antarctic wildlife images. Connaught watched my surprise with clinical interest.
‘We had an artist-in-residence here,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ I couldn’t hide my amazement at this supposedly secretive station having such a thing. The shadow of a smile crossed Connaught’s lips but he said nothing. We continued on in silence to another Hägglunds, painted in three-dimensional trompe l’oeil style to look like a helicopter, with its blades appearing to stick out into thin air.
‘Novel,’ I said.
‘We thought so,’ he replied glibly as he opened a door in the front cabin, standing away to allow me to haul myself up.
‘Hi, I’m Travis Roberts,’ said a young American behind the controls, wearing a fluorescent orange jacket and moleskin trousers, offering me his smooth boyish hand. He looked about nineteen but I presumed he was older. He was pink-cheeked, with blue eyes and glossy brown hair, and slightly overweight. His smile was trusting, his teeth perfect. He had the air of someone from a very good family, and from my limited knowledge I guessed he was speaking in a cultured New York accent.
As we shook hands his grip was confident and reassured, strong without crushing. He looked me squarely in the eyes. I took an immediate liking to him.
Whales often hunt in pods: humpbacks blow nets of bubbles to confuse fish, orcas surround their prey and close the circle ever tighter. I knew that if I was to have a good summer here I’d need to find a new family. Travis Roberts could be my little brother for the season. I flashed him a smile and his perfect white teeth grinned back as he roared the Hägglunds to life.
As we left the airfield, mountains rose large on the horizon. White and craggy, with icy blue folds of shadow tumbling like silk, they could have been out of a fairytale. Pointed tips ran down to a solid triangular base. All it needed was a herd of frosted deer in front to be a Christmas postcard. Or a group of penguins. But we were inland and there was no wildlife in sight.
‘Great to be here,’ I said and Connaught ignored me, turning to look out the window.
‘And we’re pleased to see you,’ said Travis. ‘You’re the first female company this season, like the first robin of spring.’
‘Surely not.’ I was used to being in the minority but not the only one. ‘Will there be others coming?’
‘Not for a few weeks,’ said Connaught without shifting his gaze from where it was now fixed in the middle distance between the mountains and us.
‘You’ll be sharing with me, a couple of other engineers and your German colleague when he arrives later tonight,’ said Travis, ‘in Block Number Three.’
‘Hope you don’t snore?’ I asked.
He laughed loudly. ‘Separate rooms. And we each get a bathroom.’
‘Luxury,’ I sighed and Travis slapped my thigh, his fingers pressing in slightly, lingering for a moment. He was such a puppy that it felt more playful than sleazy. Still, I must take care not to lead my little brother on if I wanted to avoid his wandering hands. I’d met plenty of boys like Travis in the science world and I’d learned the hard way that clarity of intent was crucial. I’d been accused of giving mixed messages. These days I tried to be more aware, and not send the wrong signal.
My eyes widened as Alliance Station came into view, like a floating mirage in the ice. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected but I hadn’t imagined it would be so modern. The buildings were raised on stilts and beautifully designed – sheeted in steel that glowed a pearly blue, making them simultaneously stand out but also fit in with their icy surroundings. Their windows were large and reflected the starkly beautiful ice field and mountains, and behind this mirror image was a shimmering, a beckoning. It was the most inviting base I’d ever seen, a vision suffused with hope, at one with its environment, with no rundown buildings or leaking detritus from the past. As we moved closer it sat ever more lightly on the ice. It looked like it could simply be packed up and taken back to England and no one would ever know it had been there.
‘I wish all bases were like this,’ I said.
‘It’s the future,’ said Travis. ‘Everything’s more up to the minute than the minute. It’s taken the design from the Brits’ Halley base – the raised buildings – but here it’s at a whole new level. So to speak.’ He roared with laughter and slapped my thigh again as he drove the Hägglunds past the main building, which was the size of a large office block. Up close I realised that although it was on stilts, there was an inner part that went right down to the ice. And on closer inspection, it looked like it went through the ice.
‘Does that go underground?’ I asked.
‘Sure does.’ Travis waved his hand. ‘There’s a series of chambers under the ice.’
‘That’s enough,’ snapped Connaught and we both turned in surprise. ‘Doctor Alvarado is here to carry out an EIA on Fredelighavn.’
Travis nodded, impressed.
‘She won’t be coming into the main building. The mess hall is over there.’ Connaught pointed to a building with glass on all four sides. It was like a beautiful chalet on stilts. ‘And the gymnasium is there.’ A smaller building hung suspended down an immaculate road of ice. ‘Any entertainment is in the mess hall. There’s also a library and mini-supermarket there for your supplies. Gratis, you won’t need to pay for anything. And of course there’s a bar. Whether you pay for that depends on what you drink and when. We have quite a few theme nights where the liquor is on the house.’
I nodded, amazed at the facilities and curious about who was funding them. Perhaps the Americans were chipping in with the budget? Travis stopped the Hägglunds at the third in a row of sleek buildings, raised on elegant steel poles about four metres off the ground, with a wide metal staircase up to the first floor. ‘Home sweet home,’ he said. Connaught stayed in the back while Travis grabbed my bags and led me up.
Inside was spacious and light. Floor-to-ceiling windows captured the brilliant blue sky and a widescreen view of the mountains glinting in the distance. Down a polished timber corridor was a series of colourful doors. Travis opened the fourth door, which was bright green, and a spacious bedroom with ensuite bathroom lay in front of us.
‘This is a five-star hotel,’ I said as I took in the king-size bed, leather sofa and chairs, small desk and glorious mountain vista. ‘How will I ever leave?’
Travis placed my luggage down. ‘Careful what you wish for,’ he joked. ‘Now, if you’d like to give me your computer and phone and tablet if you have one – anything you want connected to the internet – I’ll take them to Jerry, our go-to IT guy, and he’ll check there are no bugs. Then we’ll give you the Alliance code and you can use them. Don’t think we’re being intrusive, it’s just a standard thing down here.’
‘Standard protocol at my base too,’ I said, turning them on and handing them over, including my digital camera, which was linked wirelessly to everything else. I was prepared for this, so there was nothing they could see that I didn’t want them to. ‘I was hoping to do some work this afternoon. Shall I come and collect them?’
‘This won’t take long. I’ll bring them straight back.’ Travis smiled and left.
Without my lifelines there was nothing much to do. I unpacked, carefully folding clothes into drawers and hanging items in the large wardrobe. My new room was quiet and hushed. I moved to the bed and lay down. It was supremely comfortable, not like the lumpy bunks at base, but I didn’t feel like sleeping, I felt like working. I was growing impatient and just as I started to think of taking a shower to kill time, there was a knock on the door.
‘Dinner’s at eight,’ said Travis as he presented me with my electronic babies and a printout of the access code. ‘See you there.’ He grinned, shutting the door with a loud click.
I plugged my phone into the docking station on the desk in the corner and put on Beethoven’s piano sonatas. The soft tones of
Moonlight
lilted out, which fitted the mood perfectly. I was starting to feel at home. I fluffed the pillows, lay back on the bed, nestled the computer on my lap and looked up the esteemed Professor Harold Connaught. He was attached to a new, regional university in the Midlands in England. That was my first surprise. I’d assumed he’d be from Oxford or Cambridge. Reading further, I saw that he had indeed been at Cambridge, and also for a short time at Harvard. Why then, and how, had he ended up in the university equivalent of a desert? And yet, to head Alliance Station was a prestigious job. He was a puzzle. After I’d read everything I could on him, I punched in
History of Alliance Station
. Nothing came up. It took many tries tapping in every conceivable way of asking the question before I found what I wanted. Finally I saw, buried deep in British Antarctic Survey documents, that the base had been opened in 1975 – two years after the Fredelighavn whaling station had become an Exclusion Zone. There were no photos, but in any case it had been completely rebuilt since then into this modern masterpiece, which could be no more than a few years old. Intriguingly, whatever buildings had originally been here had been demolished and taken away. When? The pristine quality of Alliance was so unusual.