Disclaimer: Really, totally, completely Not Mine. And the dialogue is from The Rising Part 1, and belongs to Brad Wright and Robert Cooper.
Author's Note: There are days I hate myself. Today is one of them. It's all the fault of the map of Antarctica that came in the current issue of Canadian Geographic. I hate unanswered questions, and Atlantis has a lot of them. At the top of the list is this, "Where exactly is the Ancient base?" Here be a logically plotted out answer. I used reasoning, and cartography, and proper measurements (in kilometers) and everything.
I must point out that McMurdo really is a real base, operated by the USA, located at the tip of Ross Island almost directly south of New Zealand. There are on average about 1000 personnel, mostly scientists, who inhabit the place in the summer months. Willy Field is the summer runway, the other (aptly name Ice runway) is used only in the winter, when the Ross Sea freezes over. McMurdo is located right at the meeting of the Ross Ice Shelf and the 'mainland' at the end of the Transantarctic Mountains. The range starts with the Cook Mountains just south of the Mulock Glacier and stretches down to the south pole (which is skirts). From McMurdo to the Cook Mountains is roughly 200km. From McMurdo to the South Pole is roughly 1300km. In my imagination, the Ancient base is somewhere west of Mt. Elizabeth…because it was just too good to pass up.
Also, if you bother to watch the commentary for The Rising, you will know that the helicopter does indeed make its emergency landing tail down. Even if it wasn't supposed to.
Land of Ice and Snow
Of all the places he could have been reassigned after The Disaster That Was Afghanistan, John supposed Antarctica wasn't the worst. But it was close.
At least he didn't have a problem with the cold.
And in the Department of Cushy Jobs, this certainly topped the list. He spent most of his time flying scientists, researchers, and any other number of geeks out to various distant places that really all looked the same. At least McMurdo offered some sort of distraction when he wasn't on duty, and he was exceedingly grateful that he arrived during the beginning of the summer season, when the population of the base soared to just over a thousand various personnel, and there was always someone around willing to play poker at any hour of the day or go for a run around the perimeter of the base…ten times at least to make it worth while.
John spent most of the first week staring back and forth between the Ross Sea and the Ross Ice Shelf and trying to reconcile his mind to so much water, after he'd spent so much time surrounded by nothing but sand. It was a pleasant distraction.
He'd flown into Willy Field when he'd first arrived on a charter from Christchurch, New Zealand. Since then he hadn't set foot out on the ice, and preferred to stick to the air.
He had been there nearly two weeks before he actually got a full afternoon off, and he promptly set off to climb to the top of Observation hill, about 900 ft high, rising behind the base. The view from the top was spectacular, and for a briefly fleeting second John wondered what it would be like to stand at the top of Everest and look out over the world. The moment passed…thankfully.
Before he really realized it, a month had passed. He'd fallen into the routine pretty quickly, and decided he really did like the place. No one here cared about his past record, mostly because the majority of them were scientists and wouldn't understand why disobeying orders to save someone was a bad thing. Sometimes, John didn't understand why it was either.
And then, suddenly, everything changed. His superior tracked him down late one evening, though it was still bright daylight outside, and told him to report to the heli-pad at 7am sharp. John snapped a smart salute, said "yes, sir!" and as soon as he was dismissed managed to restrain himself from not groaning out loud. Early calls meant long flights; he'd figured that out pretty quickly, and though he loved being behind the controls of any type of helicopter more than he like anything else, after a few hours of shepherding various scientific personnel to some god-forsaken-remote-site even flying got old.
He was there a 6:55am. At 7:03am one of the base passenger vans, blazoned in bright red like they always were, pulled up outside the warning lines. The passenger got out, and John immediately straightened. Even from a distance of 10m, John could see the army green military jacket, and at 5m could make out the stars. A USAF general? Here?
"You flying me?" The man said, without any preamble, and seemed to ignore the salute John managed to pull off.
"Uh, yes, sir."
The general nodded and headed towards the 'copter. John stared after him for a few seconds and then ran to catch up.
"Uh, sir, if you don't mind me asking, I haven't been given a flight plan yet. Where am I supposed to be flying you, sir?"
The other guy gave him a sharp look, and then adopted a slightly exasperated air. And in a voice that was clearly used to asking "Do I have to do everything?" simply replied: "Head south along the mountain range. I'll direct you from there."
"Uh, yes, sir."
They had been airborne for only a few minutes when the general directed him toward the Cook Mountains. John could see Mt. McClintock in the distance, the first of the frighteningly steep peaks of ice rising out of the snow. They flew right passed it. John knew the Shackleton Coast was coming up, the third glacier up from the beginning of the mountain range. As they flew over, the general order him to the east, following along the coast. It was a clear day, the sky startlingly blue, and even the dark glasses John was wearing weren't quite enough to stop him squinting at the glare coming off the ice that stretched in every direction. He caught the glint in the distance, and knew it was Kirkpatrick and its little sister Elizabeth even before they dissolve into two quite separate mountains. He'd spent the first three days at McMurdo memorizing the maps of the whole area for a thousand miles in every direction…well, except north-east, which was ocean. He hadn't been this far up the range before, and so the sheer height of the mountain was something of a wonder. Which was nice, because at this point in his life, so few things were. They were getting closer, when the general order him to circuit to the west.
And then, suddenly, starting talking.
"What kinda of 'copters do you fly?"
John hesitate a minute, startled by the sudden break in silence. "Apache, Black Hawk, Cobra, Ospry."
"That's a lot of training for the Antarctic."
"It was the one continent I never set foot on." Best not to mention what led him there.
"It's one of my least favourite continents."
John glanced sideways in surprise. "I kinda like it here," he admitted.
The general, his jacket said O'Neill, but John had decided sticking to "sir" was probably best, looked at him like he was crazy. "You like it here?"
John smiled. "Yes, sir." He glance out the window again, and realized he could now see a base glinting off in the distance; he had no doubt it was their port of call. "Be there in about 10 minutes, sir."
The radio crackled so suddenly, John jerked the controls enough to throw the 'copter off course for a second. Sheepish he set it back and then caught the broadcast.
"All inbound craft we have a rogue drone that can seek a target on its own. Land immediately and shut down your engines. This is not a drill. I repeat we have…"
John ignored the rest, eyes already scanning the skies. He spotted it almost immediately. "It's too late!"
O'Neill had spotted it too. "Hang on!"
A tense minute passed. "Break right!" The general suddenly yelled.
John swerved the craft left.
"I said right!"
John smiled despite himself. "I'll get to that, sir." He broke right. And then suddenly was struck by a moment of terror as he lost sight of whatever it was that was tracking them. "I can't see it."
But apparently O'Neill could. "Pull up! Pull up!"
John did so. There was still no sign of the missile. He started looking for a place to land. "What about now?" the general asked.
John spotted a place. "Now's good," he agreed. He landed so fast the tail hit first, carving into the soft snow.
"Shut it down!" O'Neill yelled, already scrambling for his seatbelt.
But John figured they were safe now. "Sir, that wasn't a—"
The other man holds up a hand. "Wait for it."
John spots it in a second. The missile is heading right for them. "Get out!" he screams, but he can tell the general is already ahead of him. John claws his way out of the restraints, kicks the door open and dives headfirst into the snow.
A heartbeat passes. Two. Three. Nothing. John gets up. O'Neill is sitting in the snow, the missile, or whatever the hell it is, because it doesn't look like any missile John has ever seen, is sitting two feet away…inactive. John breathes a sign of relief he hasn't realized he'd been holding. He climbs back into the 'copter. O'Neill does the same.
"Well, that was different." It's all he can think to say.
The general doesn't even look at him. "For me, not so much."
John stares. After a minute he recovers his composure enough to start the ignition sequence up again, and finally deems to answer the radio that is crackling as the base tries to hail them. "This is Major Sheppard. We are in the clear. The missile seems to be incapacitated. Be off the ground in a minute, reach the base in seven."
He slams the door shut. Spends the next minute getting what his brain is calling a 'huge flying metal target' off the ground. Maybe Antarctica wasn't as good as he thought it was. He was suddenly extremely sick of white.
O'Neill closes his own door, pulls his radio set on and begins to buckle himself back in. The 'copter is ten feet off the ground when he suddenly says: "I guess you have some questions."
John decides there's really no way he can answer that.
"The thing is, I'm kinda going to have to give you security clearance first. And they really don't like me doing that."
A pause.
"Oh well."