Sixty Degrees South - Beyond The Ice Wall

Chapter 1

Sunday 22nd January 2023 – The Southern Ocean

A powerful, streamlined boat ploughed its way southward through heavy, grey seas. The vessel, a New Zealand-registered sportfishing boat, The Antarctic Truth, was heading due south, current position approximately three hundred and fifty miles off Campbell Island, New Zealand, latitude 59°, just 7° shy of the Antarctic circle. Aboard were its three crew members, fifty-seven-year-old skipper Jerry Taylor, his nephew, Brett Taware and Brett’s girlfriend, Janine Morrison. All three, residents of the South Island town of Invercargill, had sailed out twenty-four hours earlier on a clear, calm, January summer morning from Bluff Harbour, the most southerly port in mainland New Zealand.

Jerry Taylor’s normal day aboard The Antarctic Truth at this time of year involved taking big game anglers marlin and bluefin tuna fishing in the turbulent waters off Stuart Island. But this time, as well as a good selection of fishing tackle, the sixty foot Bertram 61 was heavily laden with ten days’ food supplies, sufficient diesel to travel over three thousand nautical miles and plenty of winter clothing.

Though capable of much higher speeds, Jerry was keeping the ‘Truth’ at a steady eighteen knots to conserve fuel and enable a smooth, level passage through the heavy swell.  ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ by Billy Joel was blaring out from the Bluetooth speaker strapped to the bulkhead. Taylor absolutely loved Billy Joel, much to the consternation of his two younger companions and, as skipper, felt he was entitled to dictate the playlist for the voyage. Janine, completely oblivious to Joel’s warbling was scouring the horizon through her binoculars whilst Brett was down in the galley cooking breakfast. The smell of eggs and bacon wafted-up from below, nectar to Jerry’s nostrils after a long night at the wheel. He inhaled deeply—boy was he looking forward to this—when he was rudely awakened from his fry-up euphoria by Janine shouting from the stern.

“We’re being followed Jerry... and they’re closing,” she exclaimed, trying her very best to sound calm.

“What a fucking surprise eh Jan? Not!” replied Jerry, outwardly unconcerned but inwardly feeling anything but.

The pursuing boat was moving fast, very fast, quickly catching up with The Antarctic Truth and eventually pulling alongside. Its markings and livery revealed it to be the U.N. Gunboat, Shackleton, an intimidating, state-of-the-art fighting machine that would not have been out of place on the front line of any naval conflict.

Antarctic Truth’s radio crackled briefly and then burst into life. “Antarctic Truth, this is the U.N. Gunboat Shackleton. Turn around and head back north immediately. Over”

“This is Antarctic Truth, Shackleton. Why? We’re only heading out for some whale watching and fishing. Over.” Janine, in control of the radio, tried to sound as nonchalant as she could but failed to disguise the slight tremble in her voice.

“Antarctic Truth, you are about to enter restricted and forbidden waters, contrary to the 1959 Antarctic Treaty. Over,” came the unequivocal response.

“

And…? Over.”

“You are posing a serious risk to international security,” snarled the Shackleton’s Captain sternly. 

“And if you do not return immediately we cannot guarantee your safety. Over.”

“Which means? Over.”

There was no mistaking the menacing tone—or the intent behind it. However, Janine was still, despite her trepidation, trying to bluff her way out of what was rapidly becoming a thoroughly sticky situation. Meanwhile Brett, picking up this exchange from down below, abandoned his cooking duties temporarily and climbed up on deck looking deeply concerned, an expression which was shortly to turn into blind panic.

“…We shall be forced to destroy your vessel and attempt to rescue any survivors. Over,” came the stern declaration from the gunboat.

“But what harm are we doing? Over,” Janine pleaded.

The Shackleton’s skipper was evidently in no mood to discuss anything.  “I am not interested in a debate about this,” he barked. “Turn around now or we will use reasonable force. Over.”

“We know all this Antarctic Treaty stuff is just bullshit so why don’t they?”  Janine asked her two companions. 

“Well, if it were my job to blow innocent people out of the water,” replied Brett, “I’d certainly have looked into the reasons and the history behind it but psychos like that don’t care. They just blindly follow orders.”

“Yeah mate, most people just do as they’re told and don’t ask questions so why should these bastards be any different?” Jerry added, increasing the ‘Truth’s’ speed slightly. 

“Well, I don’t reckon they mean it.” Janine’s defiance was becoming ever more apparent.  “Ignore ‘em I say.”

“Antarctic Truth, this is your final warning. Turn around now. Over,” announced the Shackleton, menacingly.

“OK Guys, hold on tight,” shouted Jerry, increasing speed rapidly, the ‘Truth’s’ bow rising sharply from the water. Brett and Janine grabbed hold of the rail firmly, worry and anxiety etched on their faces.

The Shackleton responded by speeding-up, effortlessly gaining on them. “That is a serious piece of kit”thought Jerry, realising very quickly that their chances of outrunning the gunboat were slim to non-existent. The sound of gunfire then filled the air as the U.N. vessel fired a salvo of warning shots across the stern of the ‘Truth,’ ripping the flag to shreds and splintering the gunwale.

“Shit!” exclaimed Brett. “They mean it Jerry. Turn around—now!”

“Nah, Brett, they won’t do it,” countered Jerry somewhat unconvincingly. “They’re bluffing.”

“They fucking will do it Jerry, I’m telling you”, screamed Brett. “For Christ’s sake man, turn around now. I reckon….!”

“Look don’t panic Brett, it’s a bluff,” said Jerry cutting him short. “I’m telling you they’re bullshitters.   What do you reckon Jan?”

“I reckon they’re bluffing too, Jerry,” replied Janine. “Let’s try and outrun them!”

Jerry increased throttle to the ‘Truth’s’ maximum thirty-six knots, resulting in the Shackleton increasing its speed accordingly. On the bridge of The Shackleton, Captain Ed McMaster and first mate Colin Williams stared at each other in disbelief.

“The stupid bloody idiots—they don’t believe us Williams. Full throttle guys, they mean business this lot.”

Within a minute, the gunboat had reeled-in the distance between it and the Antarctic Truth, and was soon speeding alongside her, a hundred metres to starboard, its torpedo fully-armed and ready for action.

“Prepare to fire,” ordered McMaster to the crew manning the torpedo tubes. “We’ve wasted enough time on these fools.”

Chapter 2

Friday 9th September 2022 – Adam’s Posting

RAF Squadron Leader Adam Haylock, from Cambridge and based at RAF Coningsby in Lincolnshire, glanced nervously at his expensive Omega Seamaster Coaxial watch, a wedding gift from his ex-father-in-law, and with more than a hint of irritation stared at the second-hand in its customary sweep around the dial for almost thirty seconds.  The time was now 10.38am on this sunny but breezy early September morning in 2022 and he should have been out on a training mission but instead had been summoned to Group Captain Iain Moffat’s office for a ‘very important briefing’ at 10.30am.  Yet here he was in Moffat’s office, no sign of the captain as yet and not an inkling of what the briefing could be about. After nineteen years in the RAF, fifteen as a fully operational fighter pilot, with the last seven flying the Eurofighter Typhoon, he fully expected his senior officer to keep him waiting like this. He always did. They all did. A bunch of upper and middle-class manchildren with superiority complexes and a huge sense of entitlement who just loved to make a subordinate squirm and fidget.

Iain Moffat was the descendant of a long line of Moffat clan chieftains based around the Scottish border region of Dumfriesshire. He could trace his ancestry all the way back to Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland in the late 13th century—and way beyond. His wealthy parents, Sir Francis and Lady Isabelle had of course made sure that he received the best private education possible, culminating in a scholarship to St. Andrew’s University following which he maintained recent family tradition by joining the RAF, as was expected of him.

A further five whole and immensely frustrating minutes passed before Group Captain Moffat blustered through the door, powerfully slamming it shut behind him. A tall and stocky Scotsman, six-three, early fifties with a developing beer belly, he had been Adam’s Group Captain at Coningsby for just over three months. Adam knew very little about him, nor cared in the slightest about finding out. However, Moffat was his commanding officer and as such worthy of some respect, however superficial or begrudging that may be, so he slowly began to lift himself from his seat.

“Don’t stand, Haylock for heaven’s sake,” he snapped in his distinctive, mild Scottish lilt, “…no time for that bloody nonsense—but thanks for waiting. I’ve been reading the report I’ve been sent about you and your most recent escapades. Very enlightening I must say.”

“Enlightening sir?” Adam asked, looking puzzled.

“Yes, well…but before we go into any of that, I’d first like to say well done on your promotion to Squadron Leader. It says here you’ve got an exemplary, if rather unorthodox record and you’re certainly one of the very best Typhoon pilots we have. You fully deserve it, I think.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Adam, somewhat unconvinced and sensing that he was being ‘damned with faint praise,’ as the old saying goes.

“...and it’s caught someone’s attention,” Moffat added. “Somebody very, VERY high up and as a result, you’re being assigned to Special Operations in the South Atlantic.” 

“The South Atlantic? What the hell is going on down there, sir? Falklands kicking-off again?”

“No, nothing to do with the Falklands or the Argies, thank God. Actually, it’s more Southern Ocean than South Atlantic,” he explained. “In fact, to be precise, it’s a Chilean installation called…” Moffat stared down at the report. “Teniente Rodolfo Marsh Martin Airbase on King George Island—latitude 62° south, over 500 miles off Tierra Del Fuego.  Ever heard of it, Squadron Leader?”

“No, I haven’t sir,” replied the young and by now rather puzzled airman. “I didn’t even know there were any military bases that far south.”

The senior of the two officers peered at his notes once more. “Well, technically, it’s not a military base Haylock but the Chilean Air Force have ‘loaned’ a couple of fighters to the U.N. who have deployed them there for the purposes of this operation.”

“But may I ask sir—why me precisely?” Adam enquired.

Moffat continued, “Well, apart from your top-notch flying ability and outstanding, though as I said earlier, unorthodox service history, you’re single. OK, divorced but with no children or living parents and very few close relatives.  You’re far less likely than most to get lonely down there and start missing people, which is vitally important given it’s going to be at least a twelve-month posting.” He glanced down at the report again. “And according to our records you are romantically unattached at the moment.  Is that correct?”

“Err…yes sir, that is correct—unfortunately.” Adam admitted, slightly embarrassed.  “So, these Chilean fighters, they won’t be Typhoons, will they? I mean, the Chilean Air Force don’t have them as far as I know.” He had quickly changed the subject to a topic more comfortable to him.

Moffat paused for a second, thinking.  “Well, no, you’re right. They don’t. They’re actually two ex-US Air Force F-5 Freedom Fighters from the 1960s they tell me—ancient as hell but, and I have no reason to doubt this, both aircraft are fully airworthy, well maintained—there’s a small crew down there looking after them—and combat-ready.  It’s a U.N. thing so they’re in their livery and you’re going to be flying one of them. You will receive full training when you get there but a man of your calibre will find them a piece of cake, I’m sure.”

“So, what’s the brief, sir?” asked Adam, looking and feeling rather perplexed. “Can you give me any more details, as it all sounds rather odd to me?”

Moffatt waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, you’ll find out exactly why soon enough Haylock but all I’ll say for now is it’s something to do with protecting and defending Antarctic airspace. Can’t really tell you any more than that for now. But don’t worry—although it’s bloody cold down there, most of the time below freezing I believe, the sun does still shine. Well, occasionally anyway.”

Adam paused for a while, wondering what on earth would be expected of him so far south in such a godforsaken part of the world. Then with a sly grin on his face asked, “And my exemplary yet unorthodox service history you mentioned earlier sir?” 

“Oh, I can’t be bothered with any of that malarkey right now Haylock,” answered the now preoccupied Group Captain, “...and I’m sure you can’t either. Look, I’m expected at another meeting in around ten minutes, so I need to get a bloody move on. Here are your transfer papers. All the very best young man and I’m sure it will be a very interesting posting. Dismissed, Squadron Leader.”

“Thank you very much indeed sir.” breathed Adam sarcastically to himself, standing and saluting as Moffat turned on his heels and strode manfully out of the office, slamming the door heavily again behind him, leaving Adam alone once more, puzzling at this sudden and very unexpected posting and intrigued by what the next few months would bring.

Chapter 3

Thursday 6th October 2022 – Adam’s Arrival at Teniente Rodolfo

On a bitterly cold, grey afternoon with light sleet falling, the lumbering RAF C130 Hercules transport touched down on runway two-niner at Base Teniente Rodolfo Marsh Martin Airbase, 62° south, five hundred and twenty miles off the tip of Tierra del Fuego in South America. The transport plane pulled on to the small, concreted apron area and shut down its four Allison T56 turboprops. The crew and its single passenger unbuckled their seatbelts and gathered their belongings together.

Just a few minutes later, Adam disembarked down the aircraft’s rear cargo ramp and surveyed the scene around him.  The base, which also served as a civilian airport for Antarctic sightseeing tourists, comprised a couple of white-painted hangars, a cluster of grey outbuildings which, he surmised, could be accommodation blocks, the odd freight container here and there and away to one side, the main control tower and terminal building. 

“Not a lot here,” thought Adam, “How the bloody hell will I last a year in this bloody dump?”

Surrounding the airbase the landscape, flat and greyish-brown with no trees or vegetation to be seen, stretched away from the coast to the north, south and east before giving way to snow covered mountains, their summits shrouded by the low-lying cloud.   It felt very chilly indeed, -2°C according to his newly-acquired smartwatch, so he zipped up his parka, pulled the fur-lined hood over his head, braced himself against the icy blast and walked briskly across the tarmac toward the terminal building. 

He entered by the door marked ‘Arrivals,’ finding himself in a room no larger than twenty feet square with a desk along the right-hand side under a sign stating, ‘Baggage Reclaim’ and a couple of Perspex-fronted booths on the left declaring themselves as ‘Passport Control.’ He paused momentarily, and as nobody was manning either the desk or the booths, decided to take the exit door at the far end. This led into what was obviously some sort of lounge area containing a small bar on the left, four low tables each with a set of well-worn armchairs around them, a pool table to the right and in the far corner, on the wall, an ancient, battered dart board that looked more like a pincushion than anything else.

Behind the bar, polishing glasses with a checked tea towel, stood a tall, stocky, bespectacled man, whom Adam assumed to be in his early fifties with greying blond hair, bald at the crown and interspersed by the odd wispy combover. Adam recognised him instantly. Wing Commander Prendergast from his time in Cyprus.

The familiar figure suddenly broke the silence.

“Good afternoon Haylock and welcome to the arse-end of nowhere. Good to have you back in my life again,” he declared cheerily but with more than a hint of sarcasm.  “As I’m sure you remember, my name is Prendergast, and I’m still Wing Commander Prendergast officially, but everyone here calls me Mike—or worse! I’ll be your superior officer throughout your time at Teniente Rodolfo but to be honest, my main job these days is manning the mess bar—and do you know, I’m bloody good at it too!” He put down the glass and tea towel and offered his hand across the bar. Adam stared at it and paused for a second before shaking it rather awkwardly. He normally greeted his superiors with a salute.

“Good afternoon, sir—sorry, Mike,” he replied. “Good to see you again after all these years,” he lied—reasonably convincingly, he hoped!

“Pint?” chirped Prendergast, “I can’t remember what your favourite tipple was back in Akrotiri? It’s a straight choice between Budweiser and Guinness here I’m afraid but they’re both on draught, which is good.”

“God, I could kill for a pint sir—err sorry, Mike. I’ll have a Bud please, if I may?”

“I’m sure you could old man, coming right up.” Prendergast poured a pint of the golden liquid into one of the recently and very meticulously polished glasses, poured himself a Guinness and then walked around the bar, setting the glasses down on one of the tables and beckoning Adam to take a seat.

“Cheers,” he declared, holding his pint aloft. “Here’s to…well, whatever.”

“Cheers… Mike,” Adam responded, clinking glasses with his commanding officer.

Both men took a large quaff from their respective glasses and Prendergast wiped the froth from his lips with his sleeve. “So, my friend, welcome to the arse-end of nowhere!” he repeated. “I’m sure you’re going to find it rather interesting down here with all that’s going on at the moment. It’s not for everyone I can tell you, which is why you’ve been specially selected.”

“We sure are a long way south here sir, so what exactly is the mission?” quizzed Adam.

“Well basically, we’re protecting the sixtieth parallel and the restricted Antarctic air space south of it,” Prendergast explained. “Been doing it since the late fifties actually and for most of that time it’s been pretty quiet down here. Just the odd incursion now and again. For some reason though, since 2020, there’s been a massive increase in people trying to get south of it and overfly the continent. Boats are pretty easy to deal with, the maritime patrol guys sort them out with little trouble but private executive jets have become a lot faster and have a greater range than they used to—so we’re finding ourselves a little busier than usual.”

“So it’s our job to scare them off then?” asked Adam, his curiosity growing. 

“Yes, and most of the time we’re successful,” Prendergast answered, slightly uneasily.

Adam didn’t like where this was going. Not one bit. “Most of the time sir… sorry, Mike?” he added, not really wanting to hear the obvious answer to that implied question.

Prendergast looked down awkwardly, pointedly ignoring the question and shuffled uneasily in his chair. “It says here you’re good at following tough orders so you’ll do just fine. Your F-5 training starts in two days so go settle in, your billet is room 3 in accommodation block A. Unpack, maybe take a shower, and meet back here at 17.00 hours. And guess what, there’s another reprobate in this God-forsaken hole who you’ll remember from those halcyon Akrotiri days—and he’s very much looking forward to meeting-up again.” 

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