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the Skipper.
    Following the GPS coordinates on his screen, the helicopter pilot pointed to the ground and gave a thumb’s up to the Skipper who was riding shotgun beside him. The Skipper winked his acknowledgement and the helicopter slowly descended among a blizzard of stirred-up ice particles. The side door slid open and boxes of provisions and equipment were tossed onto the milky carpeting below followed by the four man crew. A dervish of ice and snow rocketed in all directions as the helicopter lifted once again, heading back to the coastal base where more equipment was to be loaded. The team immediately got to work setting up a large, bright orange tent that would be their home for the short time they expected to be there.
    The tent was erected quickly and all the supply boxes were neatly stowed away by the time the helicopter returned to the site with the larger pieces of equipment that they would need for the excavation. Among the items dangling precariously from harness straps below the chopper were a bulky hot water pressure washer and a gas powered water pump, both secured to aluminum sleds for transporting in the snow. There were also long coils of rubberized hose hanging below that looked like a tangle of spaghetti swaying in the wind. After the last of the cargo had been unloaded from the chopper, the men adjourned to the tent where the Skipper handed each of them a steaming cup of coffee as they entered.
    “The weather looks to be holding out so far, Skipper,” remarked Bill Olsen, a burly hulk of a man who was second in command. He gingerly balanced his cup as he sat down on his cot. The others did likewise.
    “What’s with the dour look Skip?” asked one of the other men.
    “Ah… it’s nothing.” The Skipper answered, shaking his head. “Guess I’m just overthinking this one. Spose it’s the fact that this is virgin territory for us. We’ve never had to recover anything under the ice before. I know the equipment’s been tested but… what we’re going after… that plane and its crew… could be twenty feet or more below the surface. Any way you look at it, it’s not going to be easy.” The Skipper took a long draught from his cup. “I guess I don’t have to remind you guys that this place has the most unpredictable weather on the planet. If it holds out, I think we’ll be fine and we just might pull this thing off; if not, the whole mission might be scrubbed until…well…God knows when.”
    There was a moment of silence, then, a laugh. “Same ol’ Skip,” said Bill. “Just before every outing he’s as gloomy as a dog that just lost his favorite bone!” Everyone laughed.
    “Yeah, I spose your right,” chuckled the Skipper, but still not able to hide his look of concern. He held up his cup. “Here’s to those two poor souls that have been interred in that damn frozen meat locker for the past sixty years. We’re comin’ to get you boys… come hell or high water!”
    The men clinked their glasses together and rumbled their agreement.
    “More like,” added Bill, “come hell or high snow drifts, wouldn’t you say?”
    After spending a restless night sleep listening to the frigid winds relentlessly beating the canvas, the men finally emerged from the tent, bleary eyed  but in good spirits, eager to get the mission underway. They stepped out into a bracing cold wind. The sun was just peaking over the distant snowy ridges, its rays of light reflected back a billion tiny diamond-like sparkles upon the frozen surface. A clear blue sky hung thick and expansive over the pristine landscape. The men went right to work and donned their custom made Geiger counters. Each unit consisted of an oversized and elongated pan, which allowed a more generous coverage area than conventional units. Walking four abreast, they crunched their way through the icy snow, making measured and methodical sweeps, listening intently, hoping to detect any signatures of metal that might be below the