Chuck Stoddard held the newspaper in his hand at the National Science Foundation office in Washington. He was too thunderstruck even to be angry. How Der Spiegel got this one was beyond comprehension. There was no doubt regarding the authenticity this time. The photos depicted all of his grantees in wonton acts of drunkenness, and generally acting like idiots. The caption disregarded the fact that the reporter was there to cover the skiers passing. It was clear that the American personnel were debauching themselves in an exact characterization of what the group was supposedly doing to the environment. It was a marvelous piece of misrepresentation. That, of course, was beside the point. He was suddenly and acutely aware that his ass, as the common eulogy went, was grass. His one point of consolation was that the situation couldn’t possibly get any worse. It was then that his door opened and the Undersecretary of State came in with the Congressional Navy Attaché.
“Are you aware of the situation at the Beardmore Glacier?” the Secretary asked. Stoddard decided to take it up front. He threw the paper on the desk in front of the two.
“I am.” The two men looked at the paper, then back to the Director. The Secretary cleared his throat.
“Yes. Well, charming as that may be, that is not what we are talking about.”
“There’s more?” Stoddard blurted out. The Secretary looked at the Attaché who answered the question.
“That,” he told the Director, “is the least of your problems.”
“How’s that possible?” he asked.
“Thanks to your peoples’ ability to keep quiet down there, the Russians have no doubt concluded that they needed to come and see for themselves,” the Attaché said. “They had a science team in the area and diverted them to Beardmore in order to conduct a treaty inspection.”
“There isn’t much they can see,” the Director replied cautiously, finding something positive to cling to.
The Undersecretary waved that off. “They’ve had an accident. Word came through McMurdo. Two teams from the area are converging on the scene.”
The director was shocked. “Ours?”
“Both,” the Attaché said.
“Do we know anything about what happened?”
“Crevasse,” the Undersecretary said. “Big one. Several dead and injured.”
“They must be in an awkward position,” the Director mused, “coming to catch us at something they aren’t going to like, and then having to thank us for rescuing them.”
“Moscow doesn’t know yet.”
The Director looked up. “Doesn’t know yet?”
“That’s correct. That is why we are here,” the Undersecretary said. “We think you should make the call.”
The Director saw some hope. If he was needed for this, then maybe he wasn’t finished just yet.