‘Pull on this,’ Mati replied, pointing to a black T-shaped plastic handle mounted to the upper hull above his right leg. ‘Pull and hold. The brake drops from underside of boat and drags across the ice. When you let go, the brake will spring back up.’
Yasha crouched by the front runner. Near the tip of the combination blade/ski, Kilkenny saw a square metal hoop pin connected to the top of the runner. ‘Once you stop, point the boat into wind and set this brake in place.’ Yasha flipped the metal hope over the front of the runner. ‘It will keep boat from blowing away.’
Kilkenny and Yasha assisted Mati in preparing the ice-boat for a sail. Mati fine-tuned the seat to accommodate Kilkenny’s six-foot frame. Ten minutes later, they opened the overhead door on the leeward side of the building and carried Mati’s iceboat out into the Antarctic night. They then installed the thirty-foot fiberglass mast and unfurled the Dacron sails. When the boat was rigged, Yasha and Mati gave it a quick visual inspection.
‘You’re ready to go,’ Mati said.
‘Great. Mati, you’re my backup. Keep monitoring the radio for transmissions from LV. If you hear anything that sounds like a routine departure, that means I failed. Notify McMurdo immediately about what really happened.’
‘I understand. Good luck.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
Kilkenny climbed into the iceboat and pulled the bubble canopy over his head, then signaled that he was ready to go. Mati and Yasha began pushing the iceboat forward, the wind blowing a steady twenty knots from Kilkenny’s right. Beyond the protection of the building, Kilkenny’s sail fluttered as it filled with air. Once the sail caught hold of the wind, the Russians let go. Kilkenny quickly pulled away from Vostok Station, the bow aimed at the first way point.
As Kilkenny became more comfortable handling the iceboat, he trimmed the sail to pick up speed. The composite runners attacked the rough surface, alternating between gliding over and slicing through the granular particles of snow and ice. He was amazed at how quickly the sleek craft accelerated, and the zigzag pattern of his tacks kept him on course while using the wind to his advantage. Then, ahead, he caught sight of a small white cyclone forming on the ice.
‘Oh, shit!’ Kilkenny cursed.
The snow devil raced toward him, its turbulent winds snapping his sail wildly. The iceboat shuddered violently as the snow devil struck it broadside just behind the canopy. The collision broke the grip of the rear runners on the ice and threw the craft into a broach. Kilkenny’s shoulder slammed into the hull as the craft lurched into a spin. White rooster tails sprang from each of the runners as their honed edges scraped sideways across the ice.
Kilkenny’s shoulder ached and his breathing came in hungry gulps. He braced himself inside the cockpit and pushed hard on the foot pedals, trying to steer in the direction of the spin. The iceboat spun past 270 degrees before the snow devil released it and the runners finally caught hold of the ice again. Weakened by its encounter with the iceboat, the snow devil rapidly lost coherence and dissipated.
After regaining control, Kilkenny eased the sail, pointed the bow directly into the wind, and pulled on the brake. The iceboat quickly came to a stop. Kilkenny lay in the cockpit staring up at the blue sky for a moment, letting the adrenaline rush subside, then pulled himself out of the cockpit to check the boat for any sign of damage from the broach.
Kilkenny knelt down to check the long flat plank beneath the iceboat’s stern and, thankfully, found no cracks. He then cleared the coating of shaved ice that covered each of the runners and found them undamaged.
Kilkenny released the parking brake, grabbed hold of the left side of the cockpit, and pushed the iceboat forward. As it moved, he turned it back toward his destination. The sail fluttered, and Kilkenny continued pushing until he felt the wind take hold. He then leapt into the cockpit, braced his feet on the steering pedals, and pulled the canopy closed. After tightening the stays a little, Kilkenny steered into the next tack.
When he reached the outermost of the windward way-points, Kilkenny turned toward LV Station. The wind now blew in his direction of travel and he jibed the iceboat to take the best advantage of it.
The ice that covered Lake Vostok was remarkably flat and covered with rows of ice particles lined up like wind-driven ripples on a glassy lake. Tired and lulled by the drone of blades carving the ice and by the monotonous view, Kilkenny struggled to keep his eyes open.
As he fought to remain awake, one of ripples rose up sharply out of the ice forming a jagged ridge inside of the starboard runner. The brittle ice grated loudly against the carbon-fiber plank, threatening to tear into it like a chain saw. Kilkenny hiked the iceboat onto the port side, pulling it up forty degrees from level.
‘C’mon, baby,’ Kilkenny urged.
The mast leaned toward the horizon under the load, with the lines straining to keep the sail attached to the iceboat as Kilkenny carved a shallow arc away from the ridge: Ahead, the pressure ridge abruptly turned across Kilkenny’s path and he struck it squarely. The iceboat sailed ninety feet through the air, righting itself before slamming down on the ice. Kilkenny’s helmet smacked loudly against the canopy.
He blinked to clear the stars from his vision, then checked the GPS and corrected his course.
The drowsiness he’d felt a moment ago was gone.
Kilkenny slowed the iceboat as he turned into the final leg of his journey. He sailed with the sun directly behind him, the white hull and blinding sunlight serving as camouflage. Ahead, LV Station stood out from the icy plain. Beyond what was considered the front of the station, Kilkenny saw two large planes with streams of exhaust trailing from their engines.
One hundred yards from the station, he eased back on the sail, turned into the wind, and pulled back on the brake cable. Beneath the hull, a quarter-circle wedge of stainless steel pivoted out like a pelvic fin and dug into the ice. The iceboat quickly scraped to a halt.
Kilkenny opened the canopy and eased his body out of the cockpit. The throb of engines filled the frigid air. The temperature display on Kilkenny’s helmet read-48 degrees Fahrenheit. He crouched behind the bow of the iceboat, set the brake, and took a careful look at the station.
Two men on patrol walked around to the back side of the station. Both were dressed in thick white fatigues and cradled a submachine gun. Kilkenny waited for one of the men to spot the white iceboat parked in the distance, but the glare made it almost impossible for either to pick it out from the landscape. The sentries continued their circuit and disappeared around the opposite side of the station.
He unsheathed his k-bar knife and silently crept forward, keeping the station between him and the planes. Each step was a deliberate movement designed to avoid the barking sound made by a careless footstep on dry, tightly packed snow.
Kilkenny reached the end of the windowless storage module and waited. No alarm sounded. No footsteps rushed in his direction. He had crossed the open field undetected.
He carefully rounded the end of the storage module and slipped into the next triangular quadrant of the cruciform station. The low angle of the sun cast a long shadow off the storage module, darkening the area in front of him. Staying in the shadow, he moved up to the next module, crouching beside its thick steel supports. Peering from beneath the elevated module, Kilkenny saw two LC-130s with markings identifying them as Skier-98 and Skier-99 of the New York Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing.
That one sure as hell is false-flagged, Kilkenny thought, knowing all that remained of the real Skier-98 was a wide-strewn field of charred debris.
Several men busied themselves loading crates into the hold of Skier-98. The tail door of the other plane was already closed. Two men with side arms stood between the aircraft. Kilkenny