Whiteout

Chapter 9

Vostok Station, controlled and operated by the Russian Federation, had a population of about forty-six, give or take. It varied season by season. The station was set up in a small grid pattern, with squat ugly building from the Soviet era, some collapsing, other with boarded up windows. The wind was stronger out here, away from ASB, causing the flags to flap with a harder snap than they did at the South Pole.

A series of colorful rope lines, connected through various poles, crisscrossed between the buildings. Storm lines. When the weather was strong enough to cut off visibility, the inhabitants would hook themselves into the lines to guide themselves from building to building. It was an old but effective method.

Thankfully the elements weren't that bad right now. Beckett could see just find, though she had to lean hard into the wind to keep herself upright as she disembarked from the Viking Air DHC-6 Twin Otter. Reggie Talbot, wearing full ECW—Extreme Cold Weather—gear, climbed down behind her, pausing to secure the plane's hatch before following her towards the compound.

Beckett reached the hatch first, spun the wheel and opened it. She held it open for Reggie, who was carrying a duffel bag with him. Once he was inside the vestibule, she followed, tugging the hatch closed behind her. The screaming wind ceased the moment she spun the wheel and locked the door. Pulling back her hood of her parka, Beckett knitted her eyebrows together as she glanced around the small room. Black coats and gloves hung from the hooks along one wall, and the safety harnesses on the other. The floor was wet and dirty, trampled with boot prints.

"Come on," she nodded to Reggie, moving towards the inner hatch, and pushed through it.

Beckett led the way down the decrepit, dimly lit hall strung with exposed pipes and wiring. Gaunt, malnourished faces looked up from the room they passed. All stared. Silently. No one tried to stop them.

"Hey, Beckett, what's with this place?" Reggie asked, his Brooklyn inflections a welcome slice of home in this miserable place.

"The Russian government barely supplies Vostok anymore," she answered as they took a left turn at a T-junction. "They have to barter with other bases for supplies. Some of these guys have been rotting here for years."

Reggie adjusted his hold on the duffel bag. "Seems more like death row than a research station."

Beckett nodded, inclined to agree. "This way," she said, gesturing to the right, and through another short hallway.

After pushing through a rotting door, they emerged into a grungy operations room that hadn't seemed to make it out of the 1980s. Ancient computers and steel-cased radios filled one wall. There was still a portrait of Lenin hanging at a tilt next to a faded red Soviet flag. On one side of the room a man in a worn green jacket and matching pants worked at welding equipment. Four more Russians sat at a table playing cards and drinking vodka. They all took their time looking her over, not even bothering to hide the lecherous gleam in their eyes at the sight of a woman, even if she was bundled up in layers of clothing that hid her figure.

"Кто здесь за главного?" she demanded: Who is in charge here? Beckett surprised them by the fluent use of their language, since they had obviously noted her red parka, which indicated her as American.

A big bear of a man with a bushy mustache, probably in his forties, stood up from the table. His arms were huge, and his face scruffy. He stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

"Who's asking?" he asked, speaking in English with a heavy accent.

"Beckett, U.S. Marshal," she greeted with a curt nod of her head.

"Yuri," the man touched his barrel chest. "What can I do for you, Beckett, U.S. Marshal?"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm here to talk to an Austrian named Tallis."

"Tallis?" Yuri inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes," Beckett nodded. "Dr. Enric Tallis. You know him?"

The big man shrugged his big shoulders. "So many people come through Vostok. Is hard to remember."

"I figured," Beckett muttered with a tightlipped expression, not at all surprised at the lack of cooperation. "Officer Petrenko did call ahead, informing you of my visit, yes?"

"Da," Yuri confirmed. "He did not mention you were beautiful woman, though."

Beckett fought to roll her eyes. She turned to Reggie and took the duffel bag from him. The pilot glanced over at her, confused as she dropped the bag on the card table. Yuri stared at her for a moment, head cocked in contemplation, before he ducked down to unzip it. Pulling it open, the big Russian found it was packed with steaks. The other Russians reacted with large smiles and the mood lightened. Yuri shoved his big hand inside the duffel, shuffling the items around, and his big smile widened. Retrieving his hand, he pulled out an old VHS porno. The sleeve cover showed a spunky blonde cheerleader with outrageous 1980s "big" hair. Beneath the video cassette tape were a stack of more contemporary pornographic magazines, each with a scantily clad woman on the glossy cover.

Yuri let out a low grunt, seemingly impressed with her diplomatic skills. This wasn't her first rodeo. She knew what men trapped down here liked, especially those in conditions such as these. Beckett stood there, hands on hips, waiting for the bear of a man to make his decision, which she was confident he would, judging by his expression.

"Tallis, you say?" he asked, cocking his head to the side, gazing at her in a different light.

"Yes," she replied, folding her arms. "Dr. Enric Tallis. He should be with four others: Annalise Bettis, American; Casey Beckcom, British; Scanlon Fegetter, Scottish; and Daniel Herrera, Argentinian."

Yuri looked confused. "Don't know others," he said, shaking his head. "But Dr. Tallis, Da… Him I know. He offers pay us to fly him off Antarctica on our transport. We give him very good price—because plane leaves a week ago!"

All the Russians in the room erupt in boisterous laughter. Beckett forced a smile, playing along.

"Where is he?" she asked when the noise had died back down.

Yuri considered her for a moment, before shrugging his big shoulders. "Red storm line."

"Thanks," she nodded and turned away, leaving the Russians to enjoy their steaks and new entertainment.

Reggie hustled after her, struggling to keep up with her quick stride. "Red storm line?" he questioned, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in completely bafflement. He glanced back at the Russians pawing through the magazines with glee. "What does that mean?"

Beckett flicked her eyes over to him and smirked. "Remember those crisscrossing lines we saw outside, interconnecting all the buildings?"

Reggie gulped. "Oh hell no."

She laughed, and offered his arm an apologetic squeeze. "Afraid so, Reggie. Come on, let's go. The sooner I speak with Tallis, the sooner we can get the hell out of here."

XXX

"You sure you wanna stay?" Beckett asked, cocking her head to the side as she examined her pilot.

Reggie was glancing out the small port window on the outer hatch in the small vestibule. He shook his head. "I'm fine," he asserted. "I… er… always wanted to learn Russian."

Beckett barked out a laugh. "Just stick near Yuri… and if they offer you vodka, politely decline."

"Decline?" he hooted, nearly screeching. "You see the size of that guy?"

She grinned. "He's a teddy bear," she insisted.

"More like a grizzly," Reggie muttered, turning back to look out the small circular window one last time. "Getting worse," he noted, glancing at the temperature readout by the door, one of the few modern devices in the building. "Minus eighty-one. Wind at a hundred and ten knots."

He started pacing the room as Beckett worked at getting the rope harness around her waist. Her nose twitched as she caught the scent of the rich aroma from the mug of coffee in his hand. He paused near the inner door and took a slow, long sip.

"Do you have to do that in front of me?" she asked, quirking up an annoyed eyebrow. Coffee had always been her weakness.

"Oh, sorry," he put the mug down on the bench, frowning as he watched her struggle with one of the leg straps. "Give you a hand?"

"Please."

He walked around her and tugged on the loose strap, tightening the harness, and worked at the fastenings.

"Whoa, shit, momma! You're packing!" he exclaimed.

"Huh? Oh, the gun, yeah," she bobbed her head as he stepped back and she finished with the remaining fastenings. She reached for a crampon on a nearby hook.

"I thought it was against the law to have a gun down here," he said. "Part of the Antarctic Treaty or some shit like that."

"They make an exception for the Marshals and other law enforcement personnel," Beckett explained, grabbing a face mask and goggles. "I don't usually carry, but since we're dealing with a murderer I figured I might need it."

"Can't argue the logic in that, Marshal," Reggie conceded with a nod. He arched his neck and squinted at the porthole. "Hmmm, looks bad," he let out a low whistle. "Ever been on a rope-line in a whiteout?"

"Nope," Beckett shook her head, tugging the ski mask over her face. "Thoughts?"

"Yeah," he said. "Hold on tight."

Beckett let out a hard laugh. "I've been through worse than this, trust me," she asserted, thinking of the brutal recovery after getting shot in the chest. "This should be a cake walk in comparison." She adjusted the goggles over her face and then pulled her hood up over her head. Reggie retreated through the inner door, offering her a thumps up. She waited until he secured it, and then turned towards the outer hatch. Beckett cranked the submarine-type wheel lock in the center of the door.

WHAM!

The hatch was suddenly yanked from her grasp, slamming open against the building with a loud crash. A gust of window bellowed inside the vestibule, nearly knocking her down onto her ass. She had to use all her strength to keep upright.

The storm was singing in an even dull roar. A solid white wall of wind-driven ice blew past, sweeping into the room. It was midday, yet the light was oddly dim. There was a sudden crackling popping noise, and Beckett jerked, feeling her chest clench and scars sing. That sounded like a gunshot! She hastily glanced around, her heart pumping profoundly only to sigh with relief when she spotted the coffee mug Reggie had left on the bench. The ceramic had broken in half, exposing a cylinder of frozen coffee. The wind swept in like a hurricane and it rolled off the bench, where it then shattered on the floor.

Shaking off the unexpected rise of panic, Beckett fought against the strong wind, leaning hard into it as she stomped across the vestibule to the doorway. Gripping the jamb, she held herself steady as she clipped a three-foot tether from her harness to the red storm line attached to the side of the building.

And then, after one last moment to prepare herself, Beckett stepped out into the storm.