Vostok

by Steve Alten

  “Point taken. But why would a fish become an air-breather in the first place?”

  “Adaptations are necessitated by changes in diet and environment. I just think it’s easier to accept an aquatic animal evolving an alternative means of processing oxygen and carbon dioxide than a wolf or bear entering the sea, losing its fur, limbs, and pelvis and growing a fluke.”

  “Want tae ken whit I think?” True interrupted, not waiting for a reply. “I think deid is deid. A million years from now, no one’s gonna care if I breathed out of my mouth or my arse, or if Susan’s eyes were slanted different than Ming’s. What matters is love and who ye share yer sleeping bag with tae keep ye warm.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “but I bet you’d care if a million years from now some archaeologist claimed your ancestors were English.”

  “Or jackasses,” muttered Ben, a bit too loud.

  “Excuse me, friend, but this is an A and B conversation, so C yer way oot of it.”

  I stepped in between them, guiding True to an aluminum vat filled with pea soup. I ladled us each a mugful while he filled our other cups with hot chocolate. “Ease up with the sexual connotations, big guy.”

  “I’m jist playing. Whit are ye doing?”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Oh, please. To be honest, Susan, I’m more interested in intraspecies communication, specifically among orca. Maybe ye can tutor her later in yer tent.”

  “She’s a grad assistant studying to be a marine biologist. We were talking shop.”

  “Sure ye were. Jist do me a favor, and next time ye engage a woman not my sister in conversation, ask yerself if yer tryin’ tae impress her with that big brain of yers, or the wee small fella dangling between yer legs.”

  Scientists, academics, and technicians from China, Australia, the United States, Canada, New Zealand, Britain, Germany, Japan, and France filed into the Army tent, quickly claiming one of the thirty folding chairs placed in a semi-circle facing a dry erase board. There may have been delegates present from other countries, but those were the only flag patches on ski jackets I could see from my vantage.

  Missing from the meeting were members of the Russian Antarctic Expedition.

  Ben and I found empty seats in the back, next to a large satellite photo of Lake Vostok taped to an easel. A white circle marked the location of the drone.

  Ming was in a heated discussion with someone on her walkie-talkie. Ending the conversation, she took her place at the front of the tent. “Good afternoon. Dr. Jokinen is in the lab, finishing the analysis of water samples taken two days ago from Valkyrie Unit-1. While we are waiting, I’d like to introduce Dr. Zachary Wallace, our lead marine biologist, and Captain Ben Hintzmann, our submersible pilot.”

  Ben and I gave curt waves from our seats.

  A silver-haired American turned to face us. “Kevin Coolidge, United States Geological Survey. With all due respect, Dr. Liao, most of us here agree it’s way too early in the game to be sending a manned submersible into Vostok. NASA spent a lot of R and D money to develop their fleet of ROVs, as I’m sure these other marine science foundations have as well. Why risk your life and the lives of these two gentlemen when a sortie of drones can be deployed to cover a far larger area and bring back ten times the amount of raw data?”

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  Ming Liao seemed unaffected by her mutineers. “Dr. Coolidge, in preparing for this mission, I’ve formed a basic understanding of how remotely operated vehicles are designed. There are two forces in play that affect the stability of any object immersed in water: the center of buoyancy and the center of gravity. The distance between the two determines the vehicle’s ability to remain upright, the drone’s neutral buoyancy being a key factor in maintaining its maneuverability. It is a delicate balance and an important one. A bottom-crawling ROV that cannot sink is as useless as a drone that cannot maintain neutral buoyancy.”

  “Appreciate the lecture, Dr. Liao, but let me assure you, these ROV’s were thoroughly field tested before they were shipped to Antarctica.”

  “Yes, but they were tested in freshwater tanks. Preliminary lab results indicate Lake Vostok is a hypersaline environment.”

  The news stunned the crowd, setting off a dozen side conversations.

  The USGS administrator whistled for quiet. “How the hell is that possible? This is an inland rift lake, at least partially fed by meltwater.”

  A female scientist in a white lab coat and orange parka entered the tent.

  Ming waved her to her side. “Dr. Helmi Jokinen is overseeing the analysis of subglacial lake chemistry. Dr. Jokinen?”

  The Finnish biologist looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Yes, sorry for the delay. To respond to Dr. Coolidge’s question, Lake Vostok is situated on a mineral bed. Residual salts from ancient oceans have rendered it a hypersaline chemocline. For those of you giving me strange looks, chemoclines are found in meromictic lakes—lakes with layers of water that do not intermix. The culprit in the case of Vostok is the presence of geothermal vents that release superheated mineral waters from out of the East Antarctic rift. Because of these vents, Vostok’s waters run warmer the deeper you go.”

  I glanced at Dr. Coolidge, who seemed caught between frustration and an attraction for the Scandinavian scientist. “If you could give us the density readings, that would help.”

  “Yes, well, the density of fresh water to which your drones were set was 1.00 gram per milliliter. A typical density for salt water is 1.03 grams. The sample we drew from Lake Vostok measured 1.07 grams per milliliter. In short gentlemen—and ladies—as configured, your drones don’t possess enough ballast to sink in this particular saltwater environment.”

  The USGS representative shook his head as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and turned his back to the biologist. “Gene, it’s Kevin. We got us a major clusterfuck out here under the dome. Lab reports indicate Vostok is salt water. Contact NASA and tell ’em they need to recalibrate the ROVs’ buoyancy gradients using water density markers set at 1.07 grams per milliliter.”

  Dr. Jokinen waited awkwardly while similar calls were made in half a dozen different languages. “For what it’s worth, Dr. Coolidge, I suspect the Russians already knew this.”

  “Of course they knew it, only someone decided not to invite them to the party.”

  Ming smiled curtly, her almond eyes livid. “Is that all, Dr. Jokinen?”

  “No, ma’am. The Russians and other experts had assumed Lake Vostok to be an oligotrophic extreme environment, meaning one void of nutrients. In fact the exact opposite appears to be true. Upon entering the lake, the Valkyrie drone passed through a brown algae field commonly associated with kelp. So far we’ve identified five different genera of kelp that trace back to the Miocene era and are most likely being nourished by hot springs flowing out from the geothermal vents. Two of the genera—Nereocystis and Macrocystis—are fast growers known to produce dense kelp forests along the coast of Norway, flourishing in water temperatures between forty-three and fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. These kelp forests function as a food source for tens of thousands of invertebrates, not to mention thousands of aquatic species. To say the least, this is a huge discovery, the foundation of what could very well be a flourishing subglacial food chain.”

  With Dr. Jokinen’s words, the aura inside the tent seemed to change. All eyes fixed on Ming Liao, awaiting her orders.

  “Do what is necessary to re-ballast your drones. Dr. Wallace, Captain Hintzmann, get some rest. Our submersible is scheduled to make its first descent in the morning.”

  9

  “I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”

  —Lewis Carroll

  Try as I might, I couldn’t sleep.

  Wrapped in my sleeping bag atop a nest of blankets, alone in my tent yet at the mercy of lights and voices and the occasional echoing clang of construction, I could not shut down my mind.

  How did Neil Armstrong manage to
sleep the night before his Apollo 11 launch? Was he on caffeine when he took his historic walk on the moon?

  Minutes became hours, the glow from the battery-powered alarm clock advancing steadily until I freed myself from my goose-down cocoon at 3:42 a.m., my frustration getting the better of me. Even if I were to fall asleep now, I’d barely get four hours of rest.

  Finding my boots, I tugged them over my wool socks, unzipped the tent, and emerged into the light, making my way through an alley of tents to the first-aid station.

  I found the physician asleep on his exam table, his security tag identifying him as Zeb Gnehm.

  “Excuse me? Yo, Doc. Some help, please?”

  The physician sat up, bleary-eyed.

  “Sorry to wake you, but I can’t sleep and I need to be able to function in four hours. Could I get a sleeping pill or something?”

  Dr. Gnehm responded with a contagious yawn. “Are you allergic to anything?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Ambien works well, but you shouldn’t take it if you’ll only get half a night’s sleep. Same with Lunesta. Best to go with either Rozerem or Sonata, both of which stay active in the body for only a limited amount of time.”

  “What’s he on?” I pointed to Ben, who was passed out on a cot, headphones over his ears.

  “Hintzmann? He’s on a prescription for Desyrel. It’s an anti-depressant used for anxiety. How about a Valium?”

  I popped the pill and returned to my tent. I zippered myself inside my sleeping bag and grew more irritated as my bladder reminded me I should have visited the port-a-potty while I was up.

  Looking around the tent, I spotted a half-empty container of Gatorade. Two long swigs drained the wide-mouth bottle, which accommodated me just fine as I refilled the plastic jug with urine.

  Relieved, I crawled back inside my goose-down womb, the digital clock winking 4:12 at me as the Valium pulled me under.…

  “Zachary, you’re not thinking, son. Wake up.”

  I opened my eyes to find my mentor seated in a canvas folding chair. Joe Tkalec’s brown hair was long and Albert Einstein wild, his matching goatee showing a touch of gray. His kind yet inquisitive brown eyes were magnified behind the same pair of rectangular glasses he had worn every day while teaching middle school science.

  Transferring to a new school is never easy, especially when coming from another country in the middle of the academic year. I arrived in America with a Highland accent as baggage and a ninety-five-pound physique. It was deer hunting season—and I was Bambi.

  Mr. Tkalec shielded me from the abuse. He helped me to overcome my accent while encouraging my love of marine biology by allowing me to borrow books and research papers from his personal library. His roommate, Troy—a retired semi-pro football player—introduced me to weight training and conditioning drills when I was thirteen. His coaching tips helped me to earn the starting halfback position on our high school football team.

  Joe remained my mentor throughout my teen years and helped me get into Princeton. It had been three years since we had last talked.

  What was he doing in East Antarctica?

  “Listen to that katabatic wind, Zachary. It sounds like an earthquake, like machine-gun fire pelting the outside of the dome.”

  “Why are you here, Joe? Did you travel all this way to wish me luck? You know, if it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

  The kind eyes vanished. “Now that’s a helluva thing to say. I trained you to think like a scientist, not a reality show buffoon. First, that nonsense back at Loch Ness— and now this? You disappoint me, Zachary.”

  I sat up, my heart racing. “But I resolved the identity of the Loch Ness Monster. I thought you’d be proud.”

  “Proud: Derived from the word pride, as in self-pride, the abuse of which amounts to ego. Yes, son, you resolved the mystery of a large biologic inhabiting an ocean-access lake and then identified the species and the circumstances which led to its extraordinary adaptations. Only you weren’t satisfied, were you? You went after the creature by using yourself as bait. Do you think I would have been filled with pride at your funeral? Is that why I encouraged you to become a marine biologist, so that one day I could brag to your wife and child at your gravesite how I had mentored you back in school?

  “And Vostok—where’s the scientific method in this mission? You should be launching a thousand drones into the lake, shooting video, and taking water samples to analyze every square mile of its Miocene elements. There’d be enough data to study for the next twenty years. Instead, you fell for the lure of stardom, choosing to risk your life in a manned submersible just so you could say you were the first. That’s what I’ll say at your eulogy: ‘Zachary Wallace, best student I ever had, and the first schmuck in history to die exploring a subglacial lake.’

  “There’s no science in committing suicide, son. At the end of the day, it’s a selfish act that leaves behind only sorrow. You need to wake up, Zachary. Wake up… .”

  “Zachary, wake-up!”

  I was dead to the world, my brain encased in wet cement; yet through the inebriated fog, I felt a smooth velvet tingling of delight working its way around my groin, and through its arousal I awoke from my drug-induced stupor.

  Then I realized the hand rubbing the inside of my thigh didn’t belong to my wife, and my eyes flashed open in sudden panic.

  True stood over me, a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. “Ken that would wake ye. So who was ye dreamin’ aboot? Ming or my sister?”

  “No one, you big douchebag. What time is it?”

  “Time tae get dressed. Ye launch within the hour. That yer Gatorade?”

  “Yeah, but don’t put your lips to it. I can only imagine where they were last night.”

  “If yer referring to one Ms. Susan McWhite, she prefers her men scrawny and smart. Here’s tae ye.” He unscrewed the lid and took a big gulp, his eyes bugging out as he gagged on my urine.

  I smiled. “If you’re hungry, lad, I can shit you a turd sandwich to go with it.”

  The subject of bowel movements always comes up for astronauts and submersible pilots. Occupying a cramped cockpit over an extended period of time requires proper preparation. It was one thing for Ben and me to use a urine bottle and pop a few pills to temporarily shut down our bowels while we dove in Prydz Bay; Vostok was an entirely different mission. Each dive would average between fourteen and thirty hours.

  Upon arriving at the dome, our submersible techs had swapped the Barracuda’s leather bucket seats for advanced models with built-in waste-collection systems. A suction hose disposed of urine into a cache beneath our seat. Bowel movements required the removal of a section of the seat, exposing a wastehole a third the size of a normal toilet. A privacy curtain separated Ming’s cockpit from ours. I won’t provide the rest of the gory details other than to say the three of us ingested plenty of large intestine suppressants in the hope of rendering the matter moot.

  To utilize the waste-collection system required wearing a specially designed jumpsuit with easy access panels. Thus was born the ECU: Extreme Conditions Uniform. Lightweight and flexible, the ECU had panels in all the right places and contained built-in sensors to monitor our vital signs, an internal heating unit with a scalp-tight hood with ear holes for our headphones, and circulation cuffs fitted around the biceps, thighs, and calves, which inflated and deflated periodically to prevent cramps and blood clots.

  Having consumed our pre-launch meal and used the toilet one last time, Ben and I emerged from our tents in our black ECUs like two modern-day Ninja.

  Ming was dressed in her bodywear and looked incredible. Her technical team led us to the gantry where the Barracuda was suspended horizontally in its harness with the acrylic cockpit open. We climbed into our assigned seats while our techs plugged the hoses from our uniforms into their appropriate sockets.

  True held up his iPhone to snap a photo. “For Brandy and William… and the Inverness Courier.”

  For
some reason, my thoughts turned to my old science teacher, Joe Tkalec.

  True clicked off a few shots. “Oh, and ye’ll be happy tae learn tha’ Susan found me the perfect job. I’m working with the team that’ll be sealing yer borehole. I equate it ta givin’ Antarctica a suppository, followed by a frosty enema chaser.”

  “You’re a class act, Finlay True MacDonald.”

  We both smiled, but there was a look in my friend’s eyes that I’d not soon forget. It was the same look of worry I had seen moments before he launched me into the depths of Loch Ness.

  Ming was a combination of nervous and giddy. Before settling into her cockpit, she offered each of us a yellow pill. “It’s just a little something to relax you. After all, there’s nothing for us to do during the descent, which will take hours.”

  Having still not fully recovered from the Valium, I passed.

  Ben pocketed his.

  The three of us went through our checklists with the Mission Control techs while a small crowd gathered outside the gantry fencing. At 10:05 a.m. we received clearance to launch. We rotated our seats one hundred and eighty degrees to face astern.

  Our pod’s hatch was sealed, causing my heart to flutter. A moment later the gantry activated, rotating the harness vertically so that the Barracuda’s nose was pointed at the ice, placing us on our backs like astronauts launching into Hell. We adjusted our harnesses, tightening any slack.

  “This is Vostok Command. Captain Hintzmann, you have clearance to activate your Valkyrie lasers.”

  “Roger that, Vostok Command. Activating Valkyrie units on my count: Three… two… one… activate.”

  The two tubes on either side of the sub ignited, the lasers’ heat reflecting crimson against the ice, which was already steaming. We dropped two feet, then two feet more so that we were now ground level. Then we slipped beneath the ice, continuing a rough, herky-jerky descent as the frozen surface crackled and screamed in protest beneath the intense heat.