Seven hours earlier, Christine had departed Joint Base Andrews just outside Washington. Pam Bruce at ONI had assembled a team of experts on short notice; there was no lack of volunteers. Stu Berman and Greg Hartfield sat behind Christine and Brackman, with both men gazing out the window while Brackman sat in an aisle seat beside Christine, his eyes closed.
They were flying over Spitsbergen, the largest and only permanently inhabited island in the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard. Through a break in the clouds, Christine spotted the town of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, with a population of two thousand. In Norwegian, Longyearbyen translated to Longyear City; the town was founded by John Longyear, an American who established a mining operation on the archipelago in 1906. A more appropriate name, however, would have been Longnight City.
In late October, the sun sets for the last time each year, remaining below the horizon and shrouding Longyearbyen in the Arctic night for almost four months. Thankfully, it was mid-March and the sun rose at the respectable time of 6 a.m. In another month, the Arctic day would begin, the sun not setting until late August.
As they prepared to land and begin the final leg of their journey to the polar ice camp, Christine figured the first-class seats would be the last creature comforts she would experience for a while. A few minutes later, the C-32 touched down at Svalbard Airport and coasted to a halt opposite the terminal and adjacent hangar. While she waited for the staircase, she examined the scenery through the cabin window. The airport was running out of parking space.
Lining one side of the runway were fifteen C-17 aircraft, their ramps down and cargo bays empty, while a CH-53E Super Stallion, the U.S. military’s most powerful cargo helicopter, hovered above the pavement, attached to the last load of equipment. In addition to the American aircraft, a dozen Russian Anton AN-74s were parked alongside the runway, their ramps also lowered and cargo bays empty. It looked like Svalbard Airport had become a staging point for both countries establishing ice camps.
Christine nudged Brackman and his eyes opened. After a glance out the window, he stood and pulled Christine’s luggage from the overhead, then his. They donned their coats and Christine headed toward the front of the cabin, followed by Brackman and the ONI team. The cabin door opened and a blast of frigid air hit Christine. As she descended the staircase, several four-person transporters approached, stopping near the base of the stairs. The driver exited the first vehicle and greeted Christine as she stepped onto the tarmac.
“Good morning, Ms. O’Connor,” he said loudly over the whine of the C-32’s jet engines. “I’m Bobby Pleasant, director of the Arctic Submarine Lab. I’ll get your team geared up for your stay at the ice camp and send you on your way.”
Christine thanked him and climbed aboard with Brackman and Berman, and the vehicle took off with a jolt. Pleasant spoke into a handheld radio as the transporter curved toward the hangar, and the forty-foot-tall double doors slid open. Inside, men were placing equipment on cargo pallets and rolling fifty-gallon drums toward awaiting aircraft. There was a row of offices on the left side, and along the back wall, arranged on hanging racks and shelves, was an assortment of winter clothing. Pleasant stopped beside a rack of black jackets, each with a fur-lined hood, an American flag on the left shoulder, and the Arctic Submarine Lab patch on the right breast. After they exited the vehicle, Pleasant eyed Christine, then pulled a jacket from the rack and handed it to her.
“Try this on.”
Christine removed her coat and slipped into the thick insulated jacket. The arm length was right, but it was loose fitting otherwise.
“It’s a little big,” she said.
“It’s perfect,” Pleasant said. “Once you’re bundled up in the rest of your gear, there won’t be extra room.”
He handed jackets to Brackman and Berman, who tried them on. After a nod of satisfaction, Pleasant sorted through a box and retrieved three black leather name tags with gold lettering on the front and Velcro on the back. He pressed one tag onto Berman’s jacket, over the corresponding Velcro patch on the left side, then slapped the second onto Brackman’s jacket. He stopped by Christine and was about to press her name tag onto her jacket when he pulled up short and handed the tag to her instead. The Velcro patch was over her left breast.
“You should probably put this on,” he said.
Christine smiled. “No problem.”
Pleasant led them down the line of clothing, explaining what the items were as he piled them in their arms. “On the polar ice cap, you’ll wear three layers of clothing: the parka and bib overalls, a mid-layer fleece pullover and pants; and a base layer of thermal underwear.”
He added a balaclava to keep her head and neck warm, gloves, and four pairs of wool socks. Finally, he stopped by a bin and pulled out three green duffle bags.
“Stow your gear in these,” he said, “then put on two pairs of socks.”
After donning the socks, Christine tried on a pair of boots Pleasant provided, which were a perfect fit.
“There’s an empty office where you change into your gear. Hop in.”
The transporter took off with a jolt again, leaving the rest of the ONI team behind as they accumulated their clothing, and Pleasant pulled up to the empty office.
“When you change,” he said, “turn your cell phones off. They won’t work on the ice cap. No signal. We use special Iridium phones.”
Once Christine and the two men were properly clad, Pleasant guided them toward an aircraft with its rear ramp lowered, explaining the Casa C-212 twin turboprop cargo plane would take them to the ice camp. There were no executive transports; everything hauled cargo. Inside the aircraft were a dozen fifty-gallon drums, six on each side, leaving the center aisle clear. At the front of the cargo bay were two bench seats facing rearward.
Pleasant disappeared into the cockpit and reemerged with a man who looked like a backwoodsman, with a bushy beard, knit cap, sweatshirt, and coveralls.
“This is Frank Salimbene, your pilot.”
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Salimbene said, breaking into a grin as he gestured to the bench seats, outfitted with thin, worn pads. “We’ve got a two-hour trip. If you want,” he added, “I’ve got an extra seat in the cockpit, if anyone wants to join me.
Stu Berman immediately perked up but didn’t say anything, and Christine could tell he was waiting for her to accept or decline.
“Why don’t you join Frank?” Christine said.
Berman smiled. “Thanks, Ms. O’Connor.”
“Well,” Pleasant said, “that wraps things up on my end. You’ll be in good hands from here on out. The rest of your team will follow in additional aircraft.”
Pleasant shook everyone’s hands, then headed down the cargo bay ramp. Christine and Brackman deposited their duffle bags on the bench seats on one side of the aircraft, then settled into their seats on the other side, with Christine by the window and Brackman along the aisle again. A moment later, the ramp lifted upward, and she felt the vibration in the deck as the twin turboprops began spinning. There were six small portals on each side of the cargo bay, and Christine looked out the nearest one as the Casa exited the hangar, then taxied onto the airstrip and took off.
This time of year, the Svalbard archipelago was ice-locked, and it was only a few minutes before the island of Spitsbergen faded in the distance, leaving nothing but a white landscape. As far as she could see, there was nothing but flat ice, interrupted only by ragged ridges that marked where the edges of the ice floes met. From their altitude of only a few hundred feet, the ridges looked like raised ant trails, wandering randomly across the polar ice.