by Greig Beck
“This would be a good thing,” Yuri said.
“Okay, we’ll show him around, and I’m sure he’ll want to see the bear and where it came from.” Carter rubbed his chin. “If he plans on going wandering around near the lakeshore, we’ll definitely need to take those claymores down… all of them.”
“Yeah, I hear that blowing up Moscow officials might just get a black mark in your ledger,” Red sniggered.
“When’s he arriving?” Yuri asked.
She shrugged. “As soon as he could get transportation. But I think he’ll be here by tomorrow evening.”
“Fine. Red, you and Mitch take the ordnance down and store it. I want no trace. And get those cameras set up—in and outside the compound. Everyone else, let’s clean the place up before the brass arrives.”
*****
Carter walked up the slope with Sara, stopped at her front porch, and looked up at the leaden sky. The cloud was thick and heavy as usual, but today it was so low that he could see it moving through the treetops.
“Snow again soon,” he murmured.
“Another day in paradise.” She sighed and then looked up at him. “Everyone is wound up pretty tight, huh?”
“Yep, and I just think that right about now a single thing could push them over, and then they’ll run for the hills.” He jammed his hands in his pockets.
“I might just run with them.” She gave him a watery smile and then sighed. “This place certainly has its own unique blend of problems.” She counted off her fingers. “Foreign country, remote, mafia gangs, weird bears, legends about things in the lake.” She held up another finger. “Oh yeah, and we live in a place that’s called the haunted mill.”
He laughed softly. “Yeah, but that’s my point. Everyone has their limits and if something else weird happened, it might push us all over. Collapse everything.”
“Not a chance; we’re tougher than that.” Her brows knitted.
“That we are.” He gave her a small salute. “Let’s just hope this haunted mill has thrown the worst it has at us.”
“Sure.” She snorted softly. “Good luck today, Carter.”
*****
That evening, the dark and silence was only broken by the tiny red lights of the motion sensors detecting movement. The cameras turned on and watched. They also had motion-sensitive target-following and swiveled on their bases to track the movement.
This time, they followed the moving object all the way into the camp, and with their unemotional electronic eyes, watched as it went from door to door, and then to Dmitry’s cabin house. His door slowly opened and then closed.
It was an hour later that the man exited, standing naked on his front deck for a moment, before walking up the snow-covered hill to then vanish into the forest where the disturbance first arrived.
CHAPTER 31
Mikhail Ivanov looked down from the snow plane’s window as they flew over the frozen lake. The plane was a small six-seater with a combination of floats, wheels, and snow skids for all cold-climate terrain landings—perfect for the Russian winters.
On the other side of the plane was his best biologist, Anna Ledvedev, who specialized in genetics. She seemed lost in thought as she stared out the small window at the frozen landscape below. Anna had a formidable mind, encyclopedic knowledge of DNA characteristics, and was one of the few experts to have had the opportunity to review the Tunguska samples. She had achieved all this and was only 28 years old.
In the front of the plane, the pilot turned to yell back into the cabin, “Coming down.” He held up a splayed hand. “Five minutes.”
Mikhail nodded, and he saw Anna straighten as well. The pair buckled in tight, as coming down on ice was always a risk. Though the sheets were usually uniform, in some places, the pressure of fast-growing ice could cause folds, ridges, and holes that could be catastrophic if the plane were to strike one on landing.
Mikhail felt his stomach flip a little as the plane came down fast and then began to bank. The pilot had obviously sighted their destination and perhaps a potential strip of long, flat surface ice to come down on.
As the plane tilted, Mikhail caught sight of the mill house and its compound—one large warehouse-sized building right on the waterline, and possibly a dozen houses, big and small, dotted about. A few people had come out to stare up at the approaching plane.
Anna leaned across to him. “They are all Americans?”
He shook his head. “No, the owner is an American. Her name is Sara Stenson. The original owner, Marcus Stenson, vanished, and now his brother, Carter, is helping out. The rest are Russian citizens.” He shrugged. “Mostly locals.”
“Friendly?” She tilted her head.
“Yes, yes, I think so,” he said uncertainly.
“And do they know what happens if the samples turn out to be what we suspect they are?” She tilted her chin.
He smiled sadly. “No, they don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then let’s hope they stay friendly.” She turned back to her window, and Mikhail did the same on his side.
He hoped so too. Because if there was evidence that another Siberian incident had occurred in the past like that of Tunguska, then the entire site would need to be sealed off, especially from the public. Unfortunately, Russia had a habit of evicting people from their land, and their only redress was the courts that were labyrinthine, mostly acting under orders, and worked at a glacial speed. By the time any adjudication was handed down, coincidently, any cleansing work that was being undertaken had long since been completed.
“Hold tight,” the pilot shouted back at them as they dropped and came in fast.
The plane came down smooth and level, but soon as the skids touched the rock-hard ice, it was like they were traveling over corrugated iron. The vibrations made Mikhail’s back teeth hurt, and he clamped them together and gripped his armrests so hard his hands became claws.
It felt like it went on forever before they finally slowed and the pilot revved the engine one last time and turned the nose of the plane back toward the mill house. They taxied in closer, and then he cut the power. The single, large propeller stopped spinning almost immediately.
He flipped off his seatbelt and turned to look out his small porthole window. Several people were coming across the ice to greet them, and the pilot came down the cabin to unlock and open the side door. He stuck his head out, shouted a greeting, and then flipped the stairs down.
“This is our stop.” Mikhail got to his feet.
The pair grabbed their carry-all bags, and the pilot helped them with their larger luggage. Anna looked out of the door.
“How long do you think we’ll be here?”
Mikhail shrugged. “Not long; a few days at most to do the onsite analysis. Just enough time to get a feel for what we are dealing with.”
The pair came down the steps, and a large man waved. Mikhail waved back.
“Mr. Stenson?”
“Nyet, Yuri Revkin, menedzher,” Yuri responded.
“The manager, good,” Mikhail replied and turned to the next man, a youth. “And?”
The young man grinned widely. “Nikolay Grudinin, and it is a pleasure to meet you at last, Dr. Ivanov.” He stuck out his gloved hand.
Mikhail took the hand and pumped it. “Please call me Mikhail.” He stood aside. “My colleague, Dr. Anna Ledvedev.”
Even under all his furs and wraps, Mikhail saw Nikolay’s eyes light up. He seemed to nod, bow, and maybe blush all at once.
“Dr. Ledvedev, it is my pleasure.”
“Anna…” She smiled and held out her hand to shake his.
Behind them, the pilot had finished unpacking their large cases containing their equipment and climbed back into his cockpit.
Mikhail waved him off and then turned toward the compound. “And now…”
“Of course, of course.” Yuri ushered them to the slope of the land.
Mikhail was amazed at the size of the site. He’d seen pictures of the old mill comple
x during its working days back in the ‘70s, and then it just looked dirty and cramped, a collection of old industrialization-type warehouses that seemed like no one ever bothered to clean up.
He always suspected there might be toxins hidden beneath the soil, as many older companies used mercury to keep the logs free from algae and bacteria, but their testing over the decades had shown nothing above background normal, so he was hopeful they were clean.
Mikhail pulled the knitted scarf he had over his chin up a little higher. He was looking forward to analyzing the samples that had been found, and also seeing the source material—the animal—that they came from. It might just turn out to give them answers to a century-old mystery.
Yuri dropped the cases on the wharf where another couple of men waited, and gave them instructions to take the personal bags to two cabins close together for Mikhail and Anna, and to also take the technical equipment to the laboratories.
“Mrs. Stenson and Mr. Stenson are looking forward to meeting you,” Yuri said. He leaned closer. “They are not married, and it is very complex, as—”
“I know, I know.” Mikhail waved it away. “I’m sorry for the loss of Marcus Stenson. And I know this is his brother here now.”
Yuri nodded. “Okay, good.” He pointed. “This way.”
They trudged up the hill to where a man was waiting on the front porch of the main house. Mikhail had seen pictures of Marcus Stenson, who was slightly bigger than an average-sized guy, handsome, and enthusiastic-looking. He could immediately tell this man was related to him. But he was larger, more menacing-looking, and held himself with a calm authority that the scientist found a little intimidating. He bet his last rouble this Carter Stenson had some sort of military history. And not one where he sat at a desk.
“Mr. Stenson?” Mikhail asked as they stopped at the bottom of the few steps up to the porch.
“Carter,” the man said in a deep American voice. “Come on up, get warm. Sara is waiting for you inside.”
They climbed the steps and stamped snow off their boots. The door opened and Sara Stenson stood there smiling back as Mikhail and Anna crowded the doorway.
Sara ushered them inside. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I saw in my husband’s notes that you personally were of great help to him in procuring the correct testing sites and also facilitating the fish and egg batches.”
Mikhail nodded. “It was a good project plan and for a long time, we in the scientific community had raised a flag about the dire situation the Beluga sturgeon were in. Your husband was the first person to actually have a well-thought-out plan to arrest, and eventually reverse, the decline.”
“And he, now, you all seem to be doing it,” Anna added.
“Thank you,” Sara said. “I’m sure you’re both tired and if you like, Yuri will give you a quick tour. Tomorrow morning, we can then meet at the mill house and share what we’ve found.”
“Perfect,” Mikhail said.
Carter then walked them to the door. “I’ll show you to your cabins and get you settled in.” He turned back to Sara. “Anything else?”
The woman seemed to think for a moment, and then turned to Mikhail.
“My instructions to everyone were to be open and honest with you. I hope we can have that courtesy returned.”
“Of course.” Mikhail gave her a small bow but felt Anna’s eyes briefly flick to him as they went out the front door.
CHAPTER 32
Central Irkutsk, Siberian south
Arkady Tushino sat with the small cup of coffee in front of him that was so dark it could have been crude oil. He stared straight ahead at the blank wall in front of him but his mind was hundreds of miles away at an old paper mill compound on the shore of Lake Baikal.
His sniper, Stanislov Borga, had vanished. He had worked with the man too many times to think that he had failed or had simply quit and left the job. For him to disappear meant he could only be dead. He went to Lake Baikal and never came back.
He grit his teeth; this Carter Stenson was proving more tenacious and formidable than he expected.
He just prayed Gennardy Zyuganov never found out, as his big pumpkin head would break into its normal grinning sneer at how Tushino was once again underestimating his target and fumbling his duties. It would be seen as another failure, and Tushino didn’t think he had many more failures left in him before he’d be bundled into a sack and dropped in some cold river on a moonless midnight. His lips turned down cruelly. Or maybe as the ultimate insult, he’d be dropped into Lake Baikal.
It seemed that his chances of fully acquiring a stake in the Beluga caviar business were close to zero while Carter Stenson was there. Tushino’s only real option was to remove this Stenson mudak, and then force the woman to countersign the contract. Or maybe remove her too.
Tushino steepled his fingers and sat back, still staring straight ahead. There was one unforeseen risk; if they acquired the business without the Stensons fronting it, then the bureaucrats in Moscow might not want to continue supporting them.
His lips curved up at the corners. There was another option—a delicious one: burn everything to the ground, kill everyone there, and just walk away. This would mean a significant human capital and financial investment already expended would be lost, but it was the choice that brought the greatest satisfaction to him, and one he could sell to the big boss as him sending a message to the people to not mess with Arkady Tushino.
His hand curled into a fist as his appetite and desire for chaos filled him to the brim. This bastard American had caused him to lose face amongst his peers and his boss, and only blood and pain would ever restore it.
He bit it down hard and resolved it would be the final option. There was one last chance—he knew that the woman was the weak link. And American women were soft and pampered. If he could get her by herself, with a little bit of encouragement, she would agree to anything. He bet he’d only have to remove an ear or maybe one or two of her fingers.
Tushino’s mind worked on his plan, trying to think through the variables. What if the woman held out? Thinking her hero would save her? Simple, he thought. Remove the hero. If Carter were taken out of the picture, she would have no choice. She would be alone then.
Tushino smiled. The fact was, he always wanted to kill Carter Stenson, and any plan he came up with had his death sitting right at the center of it. His grin widened as he leaned forward to pick up his phone and dialed one of his lieutenants.
“Stavros…” His eyes burned with intensity, but his lips had curved into an oily smile. “I have a job. Get the men together—all of them.”
CHAPTER 33
The next morning, Carter was first into the mill house before anyone else was awake. There was a breeze coming off the ice sheets that felt like it could strip the flesh right from his bones so his skin would then fall to the ground as frozen flakes.
However, the previous night had been as still as a graveyard, and he rewound with interest the last evening’s surveillance footage. On the walk to the mill building, he noticed more of those weird spindly tracks coming into the compound. Whatever those little bastards were, they were still hanging around, and still avoiding detection. But now, he hoped to finally see exactly what their late-night visitors looked like.
The footage from all the compound’s cameras fed into a central online folder and the computer software then organized it into a single, logical, time-organized stream as the motion sensors were each activated. As a sensor was triggered, the associated camera came to life and it’d record until it was handed over to the next sensor. In effect, it should act like someone was following the intruder with a single lens and tracking it right throughout their camp.
That was the plan, and it was one that Carter had used on night surveillance when they were guarding outposts and ammo dumps in the Middle East.
He started the footage thread and underneath was a position ID that identified a designated camera so he could work out which was being triggered and wh
en. This was largely unnecessary, as he could see from the clarity of the images where they were pointed. But the time was critical, and it told him that whatever entered the camp did so at about 1 am.
“Okay, let’s see what we got here.”
He leaned on his hands as he watched the camera footage play out. The sensor light came on first at the tree line. Then a few seconds later, the next sensor light came on a little closer to their group of cabins.
Carter frowned and leaned forward. Another light switched on and its associated camera in among the cabins came to life. But strangely, there was no sign of what it was that might have triggered them.
“What the hell?”
Carter stopped the film, backed it up, and then ran it again. But no matter how many times he did that, there was nothing showing on the film.
What happened—malfunction? he wondered. Were the cameras pointed in the wrong directions? Was the recording too slow or was the creature too fast for them?
One after the other, the sensor lights and the cameras came on, tracking something that it wasn’t recording.
Until they got to Dmitry’s cabin.
Carter squinted at the screen as the tracks went up to the door, and then after a few seconds, the door was slowly pushed inward as if by a breeze and then gently closed.
He waited and watched. The small time counter in the corner progressed but nothing happened. Carter sped the film up—10 minutes, 20, 30, 40, and it was only after 55 minutes that the door was opened again.
To Carter’s surprise, it was Dmitry who stood there. But he was stark naked.
“You gotta be shitting me.”
Carter knew that even though the air was calm, it was still around zero degrees and would have been near unbearable on the bare skin, no matter how tough the local men were.
“Crazy-ass Russians,” he whispered.
The older man walked stiff-legged down the steps and then trudged off into the snow. The cameras followed him as he walked up the hill, with a strange stiff-legged gait, arms hanging dead by his sides.
