The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 188

Inside the cockpit.

Cassandra's hand was perfectly still, the flight stick seemingly an extension of her arm. The altitude numbers on the dashboard fluctuated wildly. She cast a brief glance at the screen, flicked a dial, and the erratic jumps stabilized. The wind speed indicators spiked; she adjusted the blade pitch, and the helicopter leveled out with a brief shudder.

Her movements were minuscule. Her fingers barely traveled across the console, yet every adjustment was executed with the flawless precision of someone who had practiced it a thousand times over.

No wasted motion. No hesitation. No guesswork.

"Cassandra," Garrison spoke up abruptly.

"Yes."

"How many times have you flown in Antarctica?"

"I lost count." She paused. "Over a hundred, at least."

Just then, a light flared on the dashboard—a harsh, blinding red amidst the sea of blue screens.

Garrison's breath hitched, his fingers instinctively clamping down on the armrest.

Cassandra glanced at the warning light, her expression entirely unreadable. Her right hand left the flight stick, punched three buttons on the panel, and flipped a switch. The red light died. The entire sequence took less than three seconds. Her hand returned to the flight stick, her posture completely unchanged, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Ice on the sensors," she said evenly. "False alarm."

Garrison slowly released his grip, his palms slick with cold sweat.

A few minutes later, the impenetrable gray wall ahead suddenly cracked open.

It didn't gradually disperse; it tore open violently, as if someone had taken an axe to a concrete wall. Patches of brilliant blue sky bled through the fracture, revealing the endless, grayish-white ice sheet below, shimmering with a cold luster in the dim light.

"We are approaching The White Lake, Mr. Foster," Cassandra announced calmly.

"The one near the South Pole?"

"Yes. I will find a stable area to touch down momentarily."

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