Great. My last few minutes on Earth will be spent listening to these two getting it on in the backseat.
The cockpit began spinning in my head.
Less than six minutes of air left.
I decided to record my final goodbyes on the Barracuda’s black box and my audio journal before I lost consciousness.
“This is Dr. Zachary Wallace. We’re marooned on Vostok’s plateau, caught in a low tide, our air supply nearly exhausted. Please tell my wife that she was the only woman I ever loved. Brandy, please forgive me for not being a better husband. To my son, William: Willy, I was so blessed to have met you. I wish… I wish I had the chance to see you grow up. I wish there was a happier ending. Just know that Daddy loves you so very much and that I’ll watch over you and Mommy from heaven. I promise.”
The countdown approached two minutes.
I closed my eyes against the whirling darkness.
“Brandy, when you see Joe Tkalec, please tell him that he was a great teacher and I should have been a better student. This whole mission, it was ego-driven. Had I acted like a real scientist instead of a celebrity — so stupid, so selfish. Forgive me.”
Testing… test. This is Finlay MacDonald, True tae my Mukkers. If yer hearin’ this, then I’m deid or worse. Or maybe I’m just prepping fer my own memoir… seemed tae work for my friend, Zachary Wallace.
Zachary’s the reason I’m recording this entry, which I hereby authorize to serve as my Last Will and Testament, whereas I leave all my worldly belongings tae my sister, Brandy MacDonald-Wallace, and her son, my nephew William. Brandy, be sure tae check my savings account, as there’s a sizeable deposit jist come in. Which leads me tae tonight’s adventure and why I’m blabbing intae this device like a schoolgirl on prom night.
As I dictate this story, I’m confined inside an ADS. An ADS, William, is an Atmospheric Dive Suit tha’ looks like something an astronaut might wear fer a walk on the moon. Being self-contained and pressurized, it protects the diver against extreme pressures and the bends. But it’s a bit like carrying a cow tae market, so the joints have oil in them tae assist with movin’ aboot.
The ADS I’m standing inside of right now is called a SAM suit, which is a newer, less confining version of the JIM suit I once made my living in, workin’ oil rigs in the North Sea. I was a deep-sea plumber of sorts, fixin’ leaks in two hundred meters of water. Not a job fer the squeamish.
Wouldnae recommend this job neither, truth be told. The SAM is packed inside an aluminum pod slightly bigger than our fat Aunt Lizzy’s coffin. The pod’s attached to a sled, and the sled’s attached tae a torpedo-looking laser device called a Valkyrie which, as I speak, is burnin’ its way through a bloody mountain of ice wit’ yers truly stowed and towed as baggage.
Ben Hintzmann, tha’ bloody bastard, the moment I saw him I teld Zach he was too full of himself tae be trusted as a pilot. Made a muck of this mission, he did. Now yers truly has tae take the plunge intae Antarctica’s frozen arse like a warm suppository jist tae save my boy and keep my sister from bein’ a widow. Bloody hell.
Jist so ye ken, Brandy, t’was the gents from NASA who recruited yer brother fer this rescue mission and not Ming Liao’s team. The eggheads woke me up from a hard night’s sleep tae tell me they had lost contact with Zachary’s submersible, which had run aground. “Run aground?” says I. “How do ye run aground in a bloody subglacial lake?”
The lead gent, whose name fer any lawsuits was Stephen Vacendak, yammered about tides and volcanic rock and such, and then he put it simple: either we get Ming and the boys some air, or they’ll be deid by mornin’.
Next thing I ken, I’m bein’ dressed and hustled out of the dome intae the frigid night. A helicopter lands and they shove me in the cargo hold. Vacendak, who’s apparently a colonel, talks tae me aboot his kayaking and mountain climbing adventures in some place called Ketchum before he hits me with the mission. “It’s easy,” he says. “The laser burns through the ice, towing the supply sled and pod. You’ll be inside the pod wearing the ADS. The laser, sled, and pod are attached by steel cable to a surface winch. Once the laser melts through the ice you’ll be lowered to the lake’s plateau. Touch down, climb out, and we’ll direct ye to the sub.
“Power is the first priority. You need to connect the fiber-optic cable to the Barracuda so we can remotely open the aft hatch and give you access to change out the sub’s empty air tanks. Once you save yer friend, you’ll need tae reverse the cable connections. The Valkyrie is the first thing we’re hauling up tae the ice sheet, followed by the sled and your pod. You’ll be topside before the hole freezes over.”
Maybe these rocket scientists took me for a dumb Highlander, but I had questions — like exactly how long will I be cramped in the pod, to which he says, “Not long at all. We’ve already burrowed through, so you’ll shoot straight into Vostok. Simple.”
“Simple?” I says. “Colonel, simple is pickin’ yer nose. Carrying yerself inside an ADS on land is more akin tae pickin’ yer mate’s nose whilst the two of ye are riding high-speed motorbikes down a mountain road. One wrong move and yer on yer belly, pinned under the suit’s weight.”
Then this Colonel Vacendak fella says, “True, we’ll make it a risk worth taking.” And he offers me money tae rescue yer husband. Good money. Well, that got me tae thinkin’. First off, this entire rescue operation required serious planning and preparation. Second, ye don’t come tae Antarctica with a SAM suit unless ye’ve got an experienced diver to use it. Which means the hole they already burned through must’ve had a diver on-board, which makes me Plan-B, which means Diver-A failed in his attempt… which means he’s dead.
So’s I teld the Colonel, “Look, lad, I love Zach like a brother, but seein’ how I’m the only qualified diver on this entire bloody continent, ye’ll be payin’ me triple fer my services, with half tha’ money wired intae my account before I climb intae that sardine can of yers.” And he agrees without batting an eye.
Vacendak had the money wired intae my bank account before we landed in the middle of nowhere, on a desert of ice beneath a night sky sparkling with a billion stars. I climbed out into minus fifty-seven-degree temperatures and a wind that caught the open cargo hold and nearly blew the chopper over. Two men in orange extreme weather gear grabbed my arms and led me tae a configuration of three trailers positioned bumper-to-bumper to form a triangle. In the space that separated them was a three-story, silo-shaped enclosure. There was also two trucks holding them large satellite dishes.
They led me inside the nearest trailer and through a control room to the central area, which was the launch site for the Valkyrie sled. The SAM suit hung upright on its support post like a scarecrow, its aluminum skin reflecting the portable overhead lights. As the NASA lads stripped me down tae my thermals, a serious-looking woman with brown hair and blonde highlights joined us.
“Mr. MacDonald? My name is Ashlynn Archer, and I’m here to brief you.”
“I’ve already been briefed, lass,” says I, “but do it all again if ye think it’ll help.”
“I’m not an engineer,” she says. “I’m an animal behaviorist.”
Sorry, Brandy, must’ve dozed off. Standing inside the SAM suit in this coffin is nae tha’ bad. Sorta like bein’ in a grinding, lurching down-elevator. However, there’s lights and snacks and water inside my SAM suit, and a video monitor that plays movies. I fell asleep watching Caddyshack.