Steve Alten - Vostok

It is with great pride and appreciation that I acknowledge those who contributed to the completion of VOSTOK .

First and foremost, many thanks to Ken Dunn and the great staff at Next Century Publishing/Rebel Press, with special thanks to editors Shane Thomson and Simon Presland. My heartfelt appreciation to my agent, Melissa McComas, CEO at Tsunami Worldwide Media Productions.

Very special thanks to Bill Stone, explorer, inventor, and CEO of Stone Aerospace, for providing me with invaluable information regarding his Valkyrie laser robots, which will one day penetrate Vostok as well as the frozen ocean on Europa. Thanks also go to Dr. Steven Greer, the world’s foremost authority on extraterrestrials, as well as his wonderful wife, Emily. As always, forensic artist William McDonald contributed with his brilliant artwork and submarine designs.

Thanks as always to the tireless Barbara Becker, to whom this book is dedicated, for her editing and her work in the Adopt-An-Author program. And to my webmaster, Doug McEntyre, at Millenium Technology Resources for his excellence in preparing my monthly newsletters.

Last, to my wife and soulmate, Kim, our children, and most of all to my readers: Thank you for your correspondence and contributions. Your comments are always a welcome treat, your input means so much, and you remain this author’s greatest asset.

Steve Alten, Ed.D.

To personally contact the author or learn more about his novels, go to www.SteveAlten.com

VOSTOK is part of ADOPT-AN-AUTHOR, a free nationwide program for secondary school students and teachers.

For more information, click on www.AdoptAnAuthor.com

Thomas Nilsson definitely had his “monk-on.”

“Monk-on” was Antarctic slang for being in a foul mood, and the fifty-one-year-old marine biologist’s temperament fit the bill. His day — if you could call four hours of sunlight a day — had begun twenty hours and eighteen hundred miles ago back at McMurdo Station with a “Dear John” e-mail from his wife, Keira. She had begun the transmission with, “ You know how I’ve been telling you how unhappy I’ve been ,” and ended with, “ I sold the house. Your belongings are in storage. I left the dog with your mother .”

Twenty-two years of marriage… deleted in an e-mail.

In Antarctica, they called it being “chinged.” It happened a lot among the scientists and support staff stationed at McMurdo and the other thirty-seven international bases located around the continent. It wasn’t enough to work in the coldest, driest, windiest, and most isolated environment on the planet. Accepting a research grant to go there, if you were crazy enough to winter on the ice, meant leaving your loved ones for a minimum of six months.

Like most of the four thousand visitors (there are no indigenous people in Antarctica), Nilsson’s six months had begun at the start of summer, which ran from late September through February. In Antarctica, the difference between winter and summer was literally night and day. When the vernal equinox arrived on March 20 the sun would disappear, casting the continent into six months of frigid darkness, with temperatures plunging as low as minus seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Nilsson was scheduled to fly out on one of the last C-130 transports and had been counting the hours until he would see his nineteen-year-old daughter again, could take his first hot shower of the New Year, and could make love to his wife.

He would have to settle for two out of three.

For twenty minutes he had stared at the laptop monitor, contemplating a response. For inspiration, he rolled up his left sleeve and glanced at the tattoo on his forearm. Contemptus mortis, pulchra vulnera amor laudis . “Contempt for death, beautiful wounds, joy for victory.”

Keira had just stabbed him in the heart; his only response was to find a way to make the wound beautiful.

His base commander knocked and entered moments later. “Hey, Tom. Heard you’re the newest member of the Ching Club. Been there twice myself. My condolences.”

“You tell Shaffer the next time he hacks into my e-mail, he’ll wake up bound and gagged in his long johns out on the ice.”

“It’s a rough gig. The strong relationships survive; the weak crumble. I remember my first winter—”

“Paul… another time, okay?”

“Right. I actually came by with an assignment. Got a transmission this morning from the Aussies. They’re in desperate need of a marine biologist out at Davis. You’re one of the few remaining eggheads still left on the ice. There’s a cargo transport leaving in twenty minutes if you want the gig.”

“Davis? On Prydz Bay? That’s clear across the continent. And why the hell do the Aussies need a marine biologist? Aren’t they studying the Amery Ice Shelf?”

“A Tasmanian team apparently discovered a fossil or something frozen in a fissure, and they need help.”

“Field work? In this weather? It’s gotta be fifty below outside. You know me, Paul, I’m a city mouse. Ask the Russians stationed at Progress or Vostok to send one of their “beakers.” Those guys have anti-freeze in their veins.”

“The Aussies don’t want to involve the Russians on this one. You’d score me serious points with Scripps if you manned up and took the job. Won’t cost you any time on your homeward bound. I’ll have the Chalet director fly you out of Davis as soon as you’re through.”

Nilsson’s trip had been a rough one, strapped in the cargo hold of a C-130 buffeted by head winds. Their flight plan had taken them east over the Trans-Antarctic mountains, then northeast over the East Antarctic circle — the coldest, most desolate region on the planet. Four-and-a-half hours later, the plane had mercifully set down on an ice field along the coastline of Princess Elizabeth Land.

Davis Station was located on Vestfold Hills, an ice-free stretch of geology facing Prydz Bay, located just south of the Amery Ice Field. Two other stations shared this gravel-covered rise: Progress Base, operated by the Russians, and Zhongshan Station, which was run by the Chinese. The Australian base functioned as both a scientific research center and a staging area, its primary focus to study the effects of global warming on the Amery Ice Field.

Nilsson disembarked from the rear of the massive aircraft on wobbly legs, stepping from the relative warmth of the cargo hold into an ice box, the predawn temperature — a snot-freezing minus forty-nine. The scientist was bundled in multiple layers of loose-fitting clothing that covered every inch of his flesh, from his battery-heated thermal long johns to his fleece trousers, sweater, jumpsuit, and parka. Two pairs of socks, two pairs of boots, a pair of skin-tight gloves covered in elbow-high mittens, scarves, head gear, and tinted goggles — and still Nilsson felt the icy wind penetrating his bones.