An aide raised his hand. “Isn’t there a snow road from here to McMurdo Station?”
Cass nodded. “The South Pole overland Traverse, or the SPoT. When your plane takes off from here, look out the window to your right and you’ll see it, a trail of thin blue sticks leading away from the base. It ends almost a thousand miles away at McMurdo Station. But it’s operational only during the summer, when the sun shines twenty-four hours a day. Even then, it takes more than a month for a fully loaded convoy to reach Shackleton. If it made the run without freight, it might make the trip in half that time. And, of course, there are frequent flights, like the one you’ll take back to McMurdo. But during winter, neither is possible due to the constant darkness and the potential for extreme winds.”
“So what would you do in case of a real emergency?”
“We’d have to take care of it ourselves,” Cass said. “We’re equipped to handle almost any contingency. We have a full trauma center—we’ll see that later—and possess the power, food, and emergency equipment to last the nine months until the summer crew arrives.”
“No one can fly in, even in an emergency?”
“There have been three recorded winter flights, all of them small craft performing life-saving medevacs,” Cass conceded. “But winter winds have been clocked at hurricane force and the skiway has no lights, which, as you can imagine, is particularly inconvenient when there’s complete darkness for half the year. No plane can take off or land in those conditions. Those three flights were major exceptions.”
“So it can be done, but only in extremis and, I imagine, only for one or two lucky—or unlucky—souls,” Sikes said.
“Exactly. The reality is, we’re stuck here.” She smiled, getting ready to deliver the punch line in three . . . two . . . “During winter-over, what happens at Shackleton stays at Shackleton.”
That got the expected chuckle and, rapport established, she coaxed them into moving with her down the corridor, showing them the science lab, the gym, the galley and mess hall where everyone took their meals. If one ignored the setting, it was the stuff of tours at college campuses and army bases everywhere and not the most scintillating stuff. To snap the group out of its complacency, she paused to point out the flags and medals from various visiting dignitaries from around the world, as well as memorabilia—South Pole markers from years past, a harpoon from a nineteenth-century whaling ship, and the station’s prized possession, a page from Ernest Shackleton’s journal during his time as a young mariner on the Tintagel Castle . Sikes and his clan murmured and hummed their appreciation, then they climbed a short set of stairs to continue to the library, the lounge, and the movie room.
“They didn’t spare any expense, did they?” This from one of the young staffers who had laughed the loudest at the VIP’s joke. “I guess TransAnt wants its people to be treated to the best.”
“The shortest staff assignment at Shackleton is the summer rotation, at just four months,” Cass explained patiently, “but the winter crew is required to stay for nine, and some elect to stay for the entire calendar year. You can see how morale can be a problem if there aren’t at least a few comforts. Over that long winter, we also have to combat T3 syndrome, a mental fugue state brought on by the lack of sunshine and the repetitive environment. Four decades of human behavior studies concluded that it would be foolish to spend millions on a scientific research facility only to fail because the crew had cabin fever.”
“Speaking of research, the experiments are still conducted to the standards set by the NSF?” He furrowed his brow.
“Yes,” Cass said, then plunged into the corporate message she’d been told to memorize. “TransAnt maintains a one hundred percent commitment to preserving the original mission of the base, which is to advance science in any and every capacity.”
“Except that TransAnt is assured of research and patent exclusivity, correct?”
Cass hid a grimace. The benefits their employer would receive for taking the reins of Shackleton away from the NSF were well known and difficult to defend. With the possible exception of TransAnt employees like Hanratty, Taylor, and the base psychologist, Dr. Keene—those who were not either new hires or remnants of past South Pole crews like the rest of them—no one on base was excited about increasing TransAnt’s bottom line instead of working purely for science. But that was beyond their pay grade. For most, the South Pole was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and if they needed to be employees of TransAnt to come here, so be it.
“I’m personal friends with most of TransAnt’s board of directors, Jimmy,” Sikes broke in testily. “I’m sure there’s nothing untoward about the situation.”