Ben Hammott: Siberia

Three Russian KamAZ-53501 trucks rumbled through the gates held wide by two men and into the compound surrounded by a security fence topped with razor wire. Like a well-rehearsed ballet movement, the vehicles turned and reversed towards the largest building. With a loud hissing of airbrakes, they parked in a neat row. Men climbed out, and while some raised the shutters on the tailgates and climbed inside, two men headed for the entrance. The man spinning a key around his finger, split off, unlocked the door to the smaller hut attached to the side of the main building, and went inside. The other man halted at the main building’s single door, and slipping a key card from his pocket, he stared at the dead lights on the key lock. He glanced alongside the building when the chugging of the backup generator spluttered to life, spurting dark diesel fumes from the exhaust protruding from the roof; the main generator lay inside, situated on the lowest level.

The man turned back to the key lock when it beeped. The small green light glowed, indicating it had power. The door buzzed when he inserted the card, releasing the electronic lock.

“Shall we start unloading, Director Stanislav?” asked comrade Saveliy.

Stanislav halted his pushing on the door and scowled at the man who had spoken before casting his annoyed glare at the men waiting at the rear of the vehicles with pallet trucks waiting to be loaded. “You should have already started.”

“Yes, sir.” Saveily turned away smartly and shouted. “What are you lazy sows waiting for? Start unloading.”

Stanislav entered the building and strode over to the doors of the elevator at the far end. He pressed the call button and stepped inside when they slid open. He pressed the down button and arrived on Level 1 of The Kamera a few moments later. He stepped out into the darkness and shivered from the coldness that greeted him; it seemed colder down here than outside. The air was musty, stale, from its long confinement. Aware the heating system would soon drive away the cold and the filtration system would cleanse both when they were switched on, he crossed to a small access panel set high in the wall and pulled it open. As the elevator doors closed behind him, reducing the sliver of light seeping from the elevator, he reached for the clunky power lever. Pitch blackness enveloped him when the doors met. The winch motor filled the silence when it hoisted the elevator above ground. Stanislav pulled down the lever. A flash of sparks lit up his face when the contacts engaged. Ceiling lights flickered on along the corridor as power infiltrated through the secret facility that had been abandoned many years ago to become a storeroom for Stalinist and cold war era documents.

The rumble of pallets being loaded into the elevator filtered down the shaft. They had a week to ten days to prepare the facility for the important and highly classified task Stanislav had been charged to oversee. As he strolled along the corridor, he glanced into rooms and made mental notes as to the purpose to which each would be assigned. He had been handed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to impress his superiors and climb the ladder of success he craved. Nothing and no one would prevent him from succeeding.

Almost three weeks after leaving Antarctica, and a journey of 10,652 miles, (17,143 km) the Russian-owned ship the Spasatel Kuznetsov pulled into port. Before it had even attached its mooring lines to the dock, a truckload of soldiers appeared and lined the wharf. A few minutes later, a black car pulled alongside the quay and sat there ominously. When the ship had been moored and steps wheeled into place, two men climbed from the car and boarded the vessel.

Captain Brusilov, forewarned of their impending arrival, met them at the top of the rickety portable stairway and placed the two alien pistols on the foam padding lining the metal suitcase handcuffed to one of the men's wrist. Without a word being exchanged between them, the men turned away and headed down the steps. Before they stepped from the ship, a small black blob slithered unseen onto the suitcase-carrying man's black shoe and mimicked the shine of its polished patent leather.

Brusilov observed the men until they had climbed back into their car and driven away, before returning to his cabin. His eyes swept the line of soldiers along the wharf. There to ensure he and his crew didn’t disembark until they had all been debriefed and interrogated about the events that had unfolded during their salvage mission aboard the alien spaceship. Only then would it be decided if their mission had been a success or a failure. The outcome of that decision would determine if they received praise or punishment.

The two men in the black car—and their precious cargo—had a long journey ahead of them. Swapping charge of the briefcase when each took a turn at the wheel while the other rested, they only stopped to refuel, go toilet and grab something to eat as they drove.

After a drive that lasted four days, the car turned onto a small road that stretched into the cold, desolate Siberian tundra. After traveling for a few hours along the bumpy potholed road badly in need of maintenance, they halted at the first of the three checkpoints stationed with armed guards along the road's two-hundred-and-fifty-mile route. After a guard had scrutinized their credentials and confirmed the photographs matched the identities of the two men in the car, he handed the papers back and lazily raised an arm at his comrade beside the barrier. The guard raised the pole wound with razor wire and waved them through to continue their journey along the remote, lonely road few had travelled.

At the road's end, the driver steered the car through the gates of the security-fenced compound and pulled to a stop alongside a small cluster of unassuming agricultural buildings. The man with the suitcase handcuffed to his wrist climbed out, shivered from the biting wind that assaulted him and gazed up at the dark clouds skidding across a foreboding gloom-washed sky as he crossed to the door. He stared at the camera focused on him until a buzzing signaled the lock’s release. He entered, crossed the vacant room and pressed the button set beside the elevator doors. He stepped inside, and as soon as the door closed, the elevator carried him deep below ground.

The man stepped out onto Level 1 and was greeted by a scientist wearing a white coat.

“We thought you were never coming,” said Vadim. “We’re excited to get started on the project.”

Vadim dragged his eyes away from the man’s stone-faced expression, which unnerved him a little, and focused on the suitcase chained to the man’s wrist. Inside was what they had all been waiting for. “Follow me.”

Vadim led the man along the drab gray-painted corridor, and after a couple of turns, they entered a brightly lit workroom where a group of white-clad scientists specializing in various fields of expertise relevant to their assigned tasks waited to receive the precious cargo.

The man placed the suitcase gently on the table they were gathered around, released the shackle from his wrist and unlocked the case before stepping back. The scientists stared excitedly at the alien weapons before one of them removed one from the case. As they huddled around the weapons, pointing at various details and giving their opinions as to what might be their functions, the man, his mission completed, headed for the exit.