Tundra

TUNDRA

Tim Stevens

Copyright 2014, Tim Stevens

***~~~***

Licence Notes

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Cover by Jane Dixon-Smith at
JD Smith Design

F
or an instant, in the yawning silence after the last echoes of the engine had died away, Nisselovich thought he was going to make it.

Far behind and to his right, the lights of the station smudged a faint grey mark on the blackness. Around him the snowfall was gathering pace, the slanting flurry obscuring the plastic of his helmet’s visor as quickly as he wiped it clear. The susurration of the new snow on the existing knee-deep carpet crept like a ghost’s whisper into the silence.

Nisselovich hadn’t taken note of the mileage reading on the snowmobile’s dash when he’d started out. Nor had he checked his watch. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been riding, or how much distance he’d covered. But he estimated he’d been going at full throttle for about fifteen minutes, and at a speed of one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour it meant the station must be at least thirty Ks behind him. 

It was the wind that had tricked him.

The wind was a light one, nothing like the hundred-kilometre-per-hour gales that frequently swept this part of the tundra and scorched exposed skin like fire. But Nisselovich had been riding into it at an angle, heading north-north-east, and as such it had been carrying all sounds behind him away from his ears.

The wind changed course, subtly, and he heard it: the throb of an engine, growing unmistakeably louder with each beat.

Cold gripped Nisselovich’s innards, not the freeze of the bracing subzero weather against which his jumpsuit and thermal underclothes offered some protection, but the dead chill of understanding.

He was going to die.

He scrabbled at the starter switch, panic making him clumsy, the thick gloves suddenly rendering his hands as useless as cauterised stumps.
Why had he cut the engine off?
He knew why, of course: so as to be able to listen better. But now, it seemed like a recklessly stupid move, a lemming-like hastening towards the edge of a cliff.

The engine fired, too loudly, the rasp like a burst from an automatic rifle. The track at the rear found purchase in the permafrost and the sled leaped forward, the skis scything through the new snowfall and sending it fanning in twin sheets on either side. Nisselovich had given it too much throttle and he felt himself slammed back against the seat. He fought blindly to assert control of the vehicle, leaning in behind the protection of the visor, aware that the sled was slewing and weaving as he overcorrected in first one direction, then the next.

He knew what was behind him, closing in. But, like a child whose inability to see the source of the creaking in the darkness in the bedroom causes it to create monsters, Nisselovich began to fancy himself pursued by something demonic, a giant wolf-headed beast with slavering maw and eyes blazing hellfire.

The noise of his own engine meant that he couldn’t tell how close behind him his pursuer was. That was the worst part of it.

Nisselovich was competent at handling a snowmobile, but not spectacularly so. He’d grown up thousands of kilometres away in Leningrad, which had reverted to its old name of St Petersburg when he was in his late teens, and although the winters there had seen heavy snowfalls and there’d been plenty of opportunity for sledding, Nisselovich had been a bookish child and youth, and had avoided outdoor pursuits as far as possible. He’d had the same training in the use and basic maintenance of the vehicles that all of them had undergone prior to their postings at the station, but he’d never ridden one of the things in a chase situation. Had never, in fact, imagined he would need such a skill.

The snowmobile was an Arctic Cat, a superior American product, eighteen months old and slightly weathered but in good working condition. Now, as it tilted and yawed over the frozen serrated ground, Nisselovich felt the machine’s contempt for him, for this amateur upstart astride it who was expected to take full advantage of its high-end specifications but was found wanting.

Ahead of him, visibility dimmed as the snow came down harder, great wads of white pummelling the snowmobile and Nisselovich like some infinitely large, relentless invasion force. Beneath him the Arctic Cat hit a rut, bucked alarmingly, righted itself.

Nisselovich sensed the presence behind him and to his right a split-second before he turned his head reflexively. The shape was shockingly close, ten metres away at most, its dark outline obscured by the streaking snowfall.

Inside his helmet Nisselovich gave a cry and faced forward once more. The visor of the snowmobile exploded before his face, the blast of icy air through the gap hitting him at the same time as the sound of the shot assailed his ears. He jerked sideways, the movement causing him to swing the sled leftwards. He had time to register in a primitive part of his brain that the left-hand ski had hit a solid drift of snow before he felt himself carried up and off the ground, the snowmobile flipping and crashing onto its left side and skidding before coming to a sudden halt.

Nisselovich watched his new, narrowed world with a detached interest. The ground was now vertical before his eyes, the snowfall coming horizontally from the right side. There was agony in his shoulder from where it had slammed against the ground, but it was giving way rapidly to a not unpleasant numbness. Before his eyes, the visor of his helmet grew opaque, flakes of snow accumulating like limpets. Their crystalline patterns, up close, were beautiful.

As though from the other end of a telescope, his mind watched his body drag itself free from the overturned sled and crawl thickly through the snow. Each six-inch measure of progress was a victory, every second of continued movement a triumph.

Nisselovich was back in his head, in his body, with a jolt as a mighty fist punched him in the back. He lifted his prone torso up on his hands, his mouth working frantically, biting at the air, trying to draw back in the breath that had been knocked out of him. Beneath him the white evenness of the snow was spoiled by a dark, uneven splash.

One of his arms gave way and he fell on to his side, still sucking at the breath that would not come. He flopped further round on to his back, feeling nothing below his neck.

The figure stood in silence over him, no more than a black outline.

One of its arms was extended, and in the final second Nisselovich thought he was being offered a hand.

The light flashed, brilliant as a sunburst, and Nisselovich’s world exploded into darkness.

B
elow, the snow whipped and churned like dust, at the mercy of the blasts of air that buffeted the helicopter in random bursts.

John Purkiss heard the howling of the wind even above the cacophony of the chopper’s rotor. The pilot appeared unfazed, handling the bird easily, almost lazily, correcting for each swing so that they continued in what must have been close to a straight line. There’d been no snowfall for days, and the carpet below was thinning, the scrub and rocks beneath it protruding in scattered clusters. Above the white horizon the sky was a brilliant, crystalline black, the constellations of stars overhead so vivid they appeared artificial.

The pilot tapped Purkiss’s arm. He held up a hand, fingers splayed. Clenched his fist and opened it. Did it again. Purkiss understood:
fifteen minutes
. He nodded.

They had been in the air for a little under an hour. The pilot had reached over to shake hands with Purkiss as he climbed aboard, yelling an introduction over the noise of the rotor –
Grigorsky
– but had said nothing since. A couple of times during the journey he’d pointed out unusual sights: a convoy of trucks winding along a road invisible from the air, and, more alarmingly, a spectacular flash of violet lightning in the horizon. When Purkiss had glanced at him enquiringly, Grigorsky had shaken his head and jabbed with his finger westwards:
the storm’s headed that way
.

Purkiss had boarded the helicopter at Yakutsk Airport, thirty minutes after stepping off the Tupolev charter plane which had carried him and a half-cargo of fellow passengers almost three and a half thousand miles from Moscow. He’d found Moscow itself uncomfortably cold. But he’d never in his life experienced such raw, numbing frozenness as hit him in Yakutsk.

‘Coldest city on earth,’ the official at the gate had reminded him cheerlessly, failing to conceal a sour delight at the foreigner’s discomfort. Purkiss knew Siberia had had an unusually mild winter. Yet the digital display on the wall indicated a current outside temperature of minus forty-two degrees celsius.

Purkiss’s destination was some 280 kilometres – he had to keep reminding himself to think metric – north-west of Yakutsk. There were roads, of a sort, but traversing them would take hours. The Mi-38 helicopter was the quickest, and arguably the safest, bet. And the machine felt solid around him, a modern piece of equipment rather than some clapped-out relic from the Soviet era.

The pilot was pointing again. Purkiss strained against his safety harness to peer through the glass. Some distance away, ten kilometres or more, a cluster of pinpricks winked against the blackness surrounding them. As Grigorsky eased the Mi-38 gently to the right, the pinpricks began to separate, and the dark outlines of a complex of buildings started to define themselves.

Yarkovsky Station.

The buildings were low and broad, the main one only one storey high. The winds that periodically scoured the tundra precluded the use of tall structures. Arc lights came on as the helicopter slowed and descended, flooding the complex in brilliant yellow.

The snow at the perimeter of the complex erupted in dense whorls under the beating of the rotor blades. Purkiss felt the wheels touch hard, frost-baked concrete, the landing as smooth as could be hoped for. A door at the front of the main building was already ajar, huddled human figures visible in the rectangle of light beyond.

Two figures stepped out and loped, stooping, towards the helicopter. Purkiss turned to Grigorsky and yelled over the hammering of the rotor,
‘Thanks.’

The pilot gave him the thumbs up. Purkiss opened the door and dropped from the cockpit, the cold punching him so hard he took a moment to catch his breath. He reached back, dragged two suitcases down, and ducked beneath the sweeping blades, the ground threatening to slip away under his feet despite the deep rubber ridges of his boot soles. One of the figures, its features indeterminate under the layers of hood and scarf, reached Purkiss and took the suitcases from his hands. He didn’t resist.

The second figure hung back, and when Purkiss reached him gestured towards the open door. Purkiss preceded the man, and blinked against the brightness of the room beyond. The door closed, and the sudden muffling of the chopper’s noise was disorientating, as was the heat within.

The man who’d escorted Purkiss inside pulled back his hood, drew off a glove, extended his hand.

‘Mr Farmer. Oleg Medievsky. Welcome to Yarkovsky Station.’

He spoke English with a notable but not thick Russian accent, the typical throaty emphasis on the vowels less pronounced than was often the case. His grip was taut, slightly rough: a labourer’s rather than a scientist’s.

‘John Farmer. A pleasure, Dr Medievsky.’

Medievsky was a big man, almost as tall as Purkiss and far broader, even without his bulky coat. In his late forties, he kept his thin hair cropped close to his scalp, and together with his seamed face rubbed raw by the weather it lent him a faintly thuggish air. But his eyes, the muscles around them permanently tense from squinting against the wind, appraised Purkiss intelligently and without hostility.

The second man, the one who’d taken Purkiss’s luggage, kicked snow from his boots and fumbled off his gloves. Purkiss studied his face, ran through the images in his head, found a match.
Ryan Montrose.
He looked more the part of the academic: less physical, and the thick-lensed glasses he slipped out of his pocket and onto his face aged him instantly, even though he was still under forty. Purkiss had heard that spectacles would freeze to your face if worn outdoors in this kind of temperature.

Montrose shook hands, sharply and perfunctorily. His eyes slid over Purkiss’s like a magnet veering away from its matching pole. He muttered something that sounded like
‘Montrose’
, though it was muffled by the scarf he was taking off.

‘You had a comfortable journey?’ Medievsky held out his hand for Purkiss’s coat, which he slung onto a hook alongside a score of others. The corridor they were in appeared to run the entire length of the front of the building; it was starkly lit and functional, and lined along one wall with boots and a range of extreme-weather gear. The other wall featured a row of unmarked metal doors. Purkiss was reminded of a prison corridor.