Chapter 30: Operation Snowdrop

The trio of C-130 transports thundered overhead, dropping down to minimum altitude above the snow field for the big cargo chutes to open before their heavy burden smashed to pieces on impact. A long stream of crates, machinery and fuel bladders poured from the cargo ramps hanging open under their fat bodies, tumbling in the slipstream of the Antarctic air. Chutes popped open like dandelion seed sails, spinning and rocking wildly until they slammed into the hard-packed snow field. The airplanes turned to soar away, disappearing into the grim overcast of the half-lit Antarctic day.

Crates and machines and pallets of fuel, food, and shelter lay strewn in a long, ragged line, waiting for helicopters to bring the men.

Soon the thumping sounds of helicopters were heard over the snarling wind. The black machines flew, landed, and discharged squads of workers who sorted among the precious cargo to locate the tools and porta-huts. Another squad hurried to the snow-cat. It roared to life. It pulled the sledge-bottomed pallets stacked high with porta-hut panels into place and like swarming ants, the men lifted and pulled and positioned the heavy wall and roof panels onto the base plates. Very soon, two huts were up, their systems installed and running, fuel tanks connected and room heaters working. Now the men had shelter.

"Start the work rotations. First Crew, go inside for food and rest," crew boss Andersen ordered. "Second crew, square away the drilling and electrical generating equipment and start their engines. Be sure everything runs," he cautioned. "Hook the small generators to the big equipment engine heaters. Keep someone on generator watch to monitor them. Stay alert—we can't afford to be careless!" he ordered.

"Breckwell, set your radios up in the first hut's command room. As soon as you have it working, call the ships and tell them we're ready to receive the assault squads."

Andersen consulted his GPS map display and cursed softly under his breath. They were two kilometers away from their target area. He hadn't realized how difficult it was for the cargo pilots to find the drop zone in the poor light and featureless landscape, but it wasn't important now. His immediate problem was their distance from the drilling operation. He'd let the assault team commander worry about how much farther his troops must go to reach their objective.

The base camp was operational, the men fed, and the first shift of workers bedded down within the first 24 hours. All their equipment was found, unpacked and checked, and the engines started. Auxiliary generators droned in the darkness.

Porta-hut Two was filled with the mercenary assault squads commanded by Captain Hopkins. The combined helicopter fleet from the two ships ferried the armed contingent to the base camp flawlessly, without injury or incident. The men were equipped for polar conditions; their weapons were checked and ready. Combat helmet radios and GPS systems linked to computer packs carried by the squad leaders linked their men into a tightly-coordinated fighting force. It all checked out. Hopkins felt ready for the assault that would begin in twelve hours.

Four passenger-carrying snow-cats sat outside, their systems and engines checked out, warm and ready to roll.

The mission. That was the great unknown in Captain Hopkins' mind. There was no way to charge into their objective except to go straight down from the top in a rappel-line assault. He knew it was reckless to drop his force into an unscouted location against an unknown opposing force. But his orders were clear: "Enter and suppress. Report when objective secured."

Captain Hopkins hated that he hadn't the faintest clue what to expect. He'd been assured their quarry had shown no overt signs of hostility. 'But then, we haven't tried to suppress or kill them, have we?' he worried to himself.

The mercenaries were spread out in a thin advance line, finger-tip to finger tip, their white camouflage snowsuits blending with the wind-blown snow field. The snow-cat engines stalled five kilometers from their objective and would not restart. The men were on foot, stumbling and struggling toward the gaping hole. They called to report their situation but the radios in their combat helmets were dead. So were the backup radios in their belt packs. All their systems were silent, useless.

They struggled forward, blind without their light-enhancing helmet goggles. They could not communicate among themselves except by shouts or hand signals within arms length of each other.

Their weapons—mechanical assault rifles and squad automatic weapons—still worked. The RPG firing circuits were fried. Men threw their heavy rocket packs down in disgust and stumbled onward.

"This is suicide," the men cursed to themselves. "That damned hole! Two hundred meters deep! Too far to fall, too shallow to parachute into, and one hell of a long rappel, even without somebody shooting at us!"

Three men in each squad pulled sleds behind them loaded with coils of climbing rope and snow anchors. They would anchor the lines all around the rim; the coils would be hurled over and men would scramble to hook on and slide down in waves so quickly—they hoped—that enough of them would reach the bottom alive to fight and neutralize any opposing force. That was the plan, at least.

Within five hundred meters of the hole, men began to yell in alarm. Shadowy dark figures popped out of the snow behind the men, holding thin metal wands in their ... flippers?! Men threw their weapons down while screaming and plunging their smoking mittens into the snow. Their weapons were so hot that rounds exploded inside their clips and magazines. Rifle breeches blew open. Not one shot was fired at the aliens who popped up to fire their energy beams. They moved too quickly. They plunged into the snow pack and disappeared.

Captain Hopkins couldn't believe it. He spun around too late to focus on his attacker, but it would have done him no good. All he glimpsed was a shimmering, shifting blur where his enemy should be. He ripped his holstered sidearm away from his body. It was so hot the holster was smoking. His parka began to char and smoke. His insulated mittens protected his hands, but their outer shell charred and flaked away before he could drop his pistol. It was smoking, glowing a dull red color.

Their assault was over, their equipment useless, their communications dead, and their weapons lost in melted holes in the snow. The men stood in small groups, helpless, shocked beyond belief. Their GPS mapping units were fried and useless. Captain Hopkins trudged to the closest group and raised his hand for attention.

"Pass the word to the others. Check yourselves for injuries that need immediate attention. If everyone can travel, we will form up in a double line and make our way back to base camp."

I hope someone remembered to bring a compass and a map. If we don't hurry, our tracks coming in will be blown over and obscured. Heaven help us if we get lost out here! He dared not say that aloud; he kept his fears to himself.

They did get lost. The wind came up and erased their incoming track. The compass was useless. No one had the specialized grid map training for south pole trekking, or understood the polar magnetic field distortions on the compass readings. They would do better to have no compass or map to deceive them.