him.
Stang sniffed deeply, then deeper again. There was nothing.
In all the years of research and planning that had gone into this mission, nobody had ever told him that Antarctica had no smell. It was an extraordinary truth, and one that, in its own way, was almost as debilitating as his loss of sight. Not as immediate or panicked, but far more insidious.
Ten months had passed, with the long dark of winter compounding Stang’s misery. Now he hankered for smell almost as much as he had done for water. The food was no help. Every dehydrated pack was the same; a simple bureaucratic oversight, but one that had left him with hundreds upon hundreds of mashed potato sachets flavoured by some kind of ubiquitous, all-pleasing spice. He had eaten so many that he could no longer taste or smell them, his mind having long since blanked out the flavours.
In the mornings he would sometimes bury his nose in his armpit, sniffing for the slightest trace of stale sweat or body odour. Just something to prove that he was still there. But after so many months, even his own odour had gone, as if Antarctica’s dead air had finally succeeded in scrubbing him away.
After placing the copy of
Vogue
back in the metal chest and carefully padlocking it, Stang pulled himself to his feet. He stared at the digital clock, a snarl instinctively forming on his lips. Time was ticking away and Pearl would be here soon.
Richard Pearl. He forced himself not to think about the man any further. He had already lost days, maybe even weeks, to that. Finally, after so very long, time was running out.
And he still had so much to do.
Chapter 4
LUCA STOOD BY the snub nose of the Russian-made Ilyushin-76 aircraft. The bloated wings arced down from the top of the fuselage, giving the plane a squat, bulldog attitude. Across the trailing edge of the wings, Jet-A1 fuel leaked out through the rivets, instantly vaporising in the African sun.
Squinting against the glare, Luca walked around the front of the plane. He shook his head, never before having seen a relic of the Cold War so close up. He could see his reflection in the tinted glass of the navigator’s hatch. The glass made it appear as if the fuselage had great, gaping jaws perpetually trying to swallow the air in front of it. The plane looked incongruous against the business jets lining the apron at Cape Town International, but then again, so was its destination.
‘Go! Go!’ shouted one of the Russian loaders. It was the single English word in his vocabulary, but all that he had ever needed when dealing with the melee of scientists and construction workers who usually boarded these flights. He eyed Luca cautiously, wondering why someone would be going
into
Antarctica so late in the season. The weather was already changing, the wind and dark of winter only a week or so away. Everyone was focused on getting home before the continent shut down, with even the pilots performing their safety checks with uncharacteristic haste.
The loader paused, wincing as the sound of the massive jet engines rose in pitch. He signalled impatiently for Luca to clamber up the metal steps, bundling his kit bag after him with a well-practised disregard for its contents. At the top of the steps Luca paused, staring back at the bustling airport. It was so alive – there was colour and sound everywhere he looked. Even the air was heavy. The sea was only a few miles away and he could almost taste the salt in the air. Luca took it all in, knowing only too well that this world was the diametric opposite of the one he was about to enter.
Inside, the plane was a mess of loose wires and tubing. Cyrillic lettering was stencilled over every clean surface, while cargo netting held down hundreds of barrels of fuel that stretched deep into the belly of the plane. As Luca pulled down one of the seat flaps, the loader grabbed on to his shoulder. The noise of the engines made it impossible for him to speak so instead he mimed smoking a cigarette
Stang sniffed deeply, then deeper again. There was nothing.
In all the years of research and planning that had gone into this mission, nobody had ever told him that Antarctica had no smell. It was an extraordinary truth, and one that, in its own way, was almost as debilitating as his loss of sight. Not as immediate or panicked, but far more insidious.
Ten months had passed, with the long dark of winter compounding Stang’s misery. Now he hankered for smell almost as much as he had done for water. The food was no help. Every dehydrated pack was the same; a simple bureaucratic oversight, but one that had left him with hundreds upon hundreds of mashed potato sachets flavoured by some kind of ubiquitous, all-pleasing spice. He had eaten so many that he could no longer taste or smell them, his mind having long since blanked out the flavours.
In the mornings he would sometimes bury his nose in his armpit, sniffing for the slightest trace of stale sweat or body odour. Just something to prove that he was still there. But after so many months, even his own odour had gone, as if Antarctica’s dead air had finally succeeded in scrubbing him away.
After placing the copy of
Vogue
back in the metal chest and carefully padlocking it, Stang pulled himself to his feet. He stared at the digital clock, a snarl instinctively forming on his lips. Time was ticking away and Pearl would be here soon.
Richard Pearl. He forced himself not to think about the man any further. He had already lost days, maybe even weeks, to that. Finally, after so very long, time was running out.
And he still had so much to do.
Chapter 4
LUCA STOOD BY the snub nose of the Russian-made Ilyushin-76 aircraft. The bloated wings arced down from the top of the fuselage, giving the plane a squat, bulldog attitude. Across the trailing edge of the wings, Jet-A1 fuel leaked out through the rivets, instantly vaporising in the African sun.
Squinting against the glare, Luca walked around the front of the plane. He shook his head, never before having seen a relic of the Cold War so close up. He could see his reflection in the tinted glass of the navigator’s hatch. The glass made it appear as if the fuselage had great, gaping jaws perpetually trying to swallow the air in front of it. The plane looked incongruous against the business jets lining the apron at Cape Town International, but then again, so was its destination.
‘Go! Go!’ shouted one of the Russian loaders. It was the single English word in his vocabulary, but all that he had ever needed when dealing with the melee of scientists and construction workers who usually boarded these flights. He eyed Luca cautiously, wondering why someone would be going
into
Antarctica so late in the season. The weather was already changing, the wind and dark of winter only a week or so away. Everyone was focused on getting home before the continent shut down, with even the pilots performing their safety checks with uncharacteristic haste.
The loader paused, wincing as the sound of the massive jet engines rose in pitch. He signalled impatiently for Luca to clamber up the metal steps, bundling his kit bag after him with a well-practised disregard for its contents. At the top of the steps Luca paused, staring back at the bustling airport. It was so alive – there was colour and sound everywhere he looked. Even the air was heavy. The sea was only a few miles away and he could almost taste the salt in the air. Luca took it all in, knowing only too well that this world was the diametric opposite of the one he was about to enter.
Inside, the plane was a mess of loose wires and tubing. Cyrillic lettering was stencilled over every clean surface, while cargo netting held down hundreds of barrels of fuel that stretched deep into the belly of the plane. As Luca pulled down one of the seat flaps, the loader grabbed on to his shoulder. The noise of the engines made it impossible for him to speak so instead he mimed smoking a cigarette
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