Read Online Blazing Ice by John H. Wright - Free Book Online

menu.
    â€œPretty good,” I looked up from the menu to Dave. “Fascinating … no cook … that opens up a whole bunk space. Maybe a second heavy mechanic? Maybe a surveyor. Maybe a mountaineer?”
    The first evening in Brest, we five Americans found ourselves strolling its pleasant streets, checking out restaurants for exciting menus.
    George and Jason paired together for a while. Jason, a sharp young engineer newly on board at CRREL, was also new to me. George had Jason in mind as CRREL’s technical contact in support of our project. The scope of CRREL’s opportunity occupied their discussion. Jason had never been to the Ice. For that matter, neither George nor Jason, nor even Dave had ever traversed.
    Dave strolled apart, deep in thought. I commented to Ralph: “You know … Patrice has been there. We’re hearing from a guy who’s fought his way down the trail.”
    Ralph and I had been on some tough traverses. We shared an admiration for Patrice because we recognized his struggle. Ralph added, “When things are going good, it’s all good. When it hits the fan, it really hits it. I wonder if these other guys understand that you’re on twenty-four hours a day? That saps you. You know it.”
    I did know it. And I’d been meaning to talk that up with Dave. He strolled ahead of us across a broad plaza decked with granite-gray flagstones, bronze statuary, and brass handrails leading up stone stairsteps. High summer at Brest’s northern latitude brought full sunshine at this late hour. I caught up from behind, leaving Ralph so Dave didn’t feel we were ganging up.
    â€œDave, you and George worked up the feasibility study that launched the current project. Do you remember the section that dealt with shift cycles and hours of work?”
    They’d concluded that the best shift cycle ran twelve hours on and twelve hours off. Better than twenty-four hours around the clock, hot-bunking multiple crews. Better than two shorter shifts back-to-back. The standard work contract on the Ice called for six nine-hour days per week. We’d have to pay extra for daily twelves. I wouldn’t depend on the goodness of dedicated hearts to give it up. And I needed good people, especially when we were getting started.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” Dave reserved judgment.
    â€œI don’t know yet how to manage this with the support contractor, but I do know that if we don’t pay for the extra time, then all I’m going to give
you
is six nines on the trail.”
    Dave asked about weekends and holidays. I’d stay silent on those and make them field calls. We’d all want to make hay when the sun was shining, but if weather or breakdown stopped us, I’d call break.
    â€œWhat do you need from me?” he asked, pausing momentarily, his eyebrows knitting.
    â€œYour support for winning appropriate pay for twelve-hour shifts. I don’t know how
pinche
NSF would be about that.” I spoke the latter with an accent of Mexico.
    â€œNSF won’t be that way if your request is reasonable. See what you come up with out of your own offices and make a proposal. I’ll support you.”
    The pay hike didn’t come that first year crossing the Shear Zone, so we put in nines. The hike came the next year, and we launched our fleet with twelves.
    Our berthing and energy production sleds came straight from French plans. We modified their fuel tank sled with a longer but smaller diameter cylinder. For the same three thousand gallon capacity, we both lowered the sled’s center of gravity and improved its stability. The French elastomeric bushings, which were actually bridge support components that accommodated structural squirm, found their way into our fleet in abundance.
    I never saw Patrice again, but over the years we corresponded frequently. We exchanged my route notes and operations reports for his annual traverse summaries. My heart