The Vostok Juncture

By Matt Chatelain

The Vostok Juncture is a bobsled run of a story, hurtling headlong to an unstoppable collision. Filled with claustrophobic scenes, intense danger, murder, horror, and deadly action, the Vostok Juncture is what happens when man and nature collide.

Nature always wins.

An insane blend of Christie's "Ten Little Indians" and Carpenter's "The Thing", The Vostok Juncture will keep you guessing with every turn and twist of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Chatelain
• Release date: Jan 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9780988058255

Matt Chatelain

Born in Ottawa, fifty-two years ago, I have been the owner of a used bookstore I opened in Ontario, since 1990. I have been writing since I was ten. Beginning with poetry, I quickly moved on to short stories and non-fiction pieces. I stayed in that format for many years, eventually self-publishing a franchise manual, as well as a variety of booklets. Having semi-retired from the bookstore, I embarked on the project of writing my first serious novel, which I expanded to a four-book series after discovering an incredible mystery hidden within a French author's books. My interests are eclectic. I like Quantum Physics,Cosmology, history, archaeology, science in general, mechanics, free power, recycling and re-use. I'm a good handyman and can usually fix just about anything. I'm good with computers. I love movies, both good and bad, preferring action and war movies. I can draw and paint fairly well but am so obsessed with perspective and light that I cannot think of much else. I am too detail-oriented. I have been around books all my life. In my mid-forties, I decided to focus on writing as my future job. It took me five years to learn the trade. Now I know how fast I can write and how to develop my story and characters. I always wage an internal war to decide if my next story is going to be a mild mystery or a big stake epic. So far the big stakes are winning

Book preview

The Vostok Juncture

By Matt Chatelain

Copyrighted November 2013

Smashwords Edition Jan 2014

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, either living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This E-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This E-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase another copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy from Smashwords. Thanks for respecting the hard work of this author.

To contact author visit

www.mattchatelain.com

Cover art and design by Ebook Launch

Special Thanks to:

Louis

Editor Supreme, always in my corner.

Table of Contents

Vostok Station Layout

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Is there Gold in Lake Vostok ?

An Interview with Matt Chatelain

Alternate Hollywood Ending

Second Alternate Ending

About Matt Chatelain

Bonus excerpt-Weissmuller's Vacation

Other Books by Matt Chatelain

Vostok Station Layout

Chapter One

Somewhere in the Antarctic

WEAVER, WAKE UP and get in here.

John Weaver, the Vostok Station mechanic looked around, yawning. The others were lying back in their seats, eyes closed, trying to get some sleep. The wind hammered at the cabin, shaking it with every blow. Weaver stretched, his muscular body outlined through a gray woolen sweater. At six feet and two-hundred fifty pounds, the thirty-four-year-old was a big man.

Weaver, you awake? Hurry up and get in here. We've got problems.

It was Miron, the snowcat driver, calling to him from the front cabin. Weaver unsnapped his seatbelt and got up, nodding to John Nolan, sitting across the aisle from him. Nolan, a lean thirty-eight-year-old man with sandy hair, brown eyes, and a well-trimmed mustache, put down a tattered promotional pamphlet about Vostok Station next to his AmCorp travel orders and nodded back noncommittally.

Weaver squeezed between the two front seats. In his haste to get up front, he didn’t notice Arthur Sinclair's outstretched feet and tripped over them.

Watch out, you big oaf, snarled the scrawny Sinclair. I'm a goddamn chairman, not a sack of potatoes.

The Vostok mechanic's mouth tightened. His eyes flashed momentarily to Jessica Brandon, sitting in the chair across from the AmCorp chairman. The thirty-two-year-old brunette grinned at Weaver, the cheery expression complimenting her deep green eyes. He grinned back, dispelling the tough impression implied by his bald head and the jagged scar on his left cheek.

What the heck are you smiling at? The driver needs your help. Get in there and do it, instead of gawking at my bodyguard.

Weaver ignored the chairman and climbed through the narrow hatch into the driver's cabin. He sat down in the seat beside Robert Miron, a shaggy-haired man in his late thirties. Staring out into the storm, Weaver was hypnotized by dizzying bursts of snow and hail flashing across the windshield.

Christ. How can you drive this thing? I can't see anything out there.

Tell me about it. I've been navigating by GPS almost the whole trip.

Isn't that dangerous? Weaver asked, while he fiddled with the headlights. He soon gave up. On was worse than off.

Of course, it's dangerous but I didn't have any choice. Radar's useless in this storm.

So, what's the problem, Miron?

Listen, I'm a substitute driver. I was recruited in McMurdo when your regular guy didn't show. I couldn't refuse the job, my debt being what it is. Problem is, I've never gone to Vostok Station before and this is my first time in a Tucker-Terra. I spent time in a simulator but there are limits to those things.

Weaver shook his head. It's just like those disorganized bastards to send a rookie into the worst storm of the century. Go on.

The GPS conked out about three hours ago.

Why did it conk out? I thought those things were connected to a satellite.

They are. It shouldn't have stopped working. I didn't think Theodore's lightning was that bad.

Theodore?

That's the name the World Meteorological Organization gave this Antarctic cyclone we're driving through.

Seems like a stupid name.

You're telling me. On the other hand, would you want to hang around with someone named Theodore?

What's this got to do with your emergency?

Miron swatted sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes before scanning the vehicle's digital compass. Sorry, Weaver, my nerves are shot. I'm lost. There, I said it. I hate to admit it but it's a fact. I'm close to the station, I'm sure of it, but I just can't find the place. When the GPS failed, I kept driving in the same direction, using the digital compass to track the heading. I drove for two hours more until, by all rights, I should have been right on top of the station but I still didn't see it so I tried driving in a crisscross pattern. Now, I'm running out of fuel.

What? How could you make a greenhorn mistake like that?

Give me a break, exploded Miron. He leaned into Weaver and his voice dropped to a whisper. You know it's not my fault. I had filled the tanks. We had plenty of fuel, even for emergencies. I'm not the one who missed the departure time. I'm not the one who ordered us to turn back and go pick up his Lordship at McMurdo Station. And I'm most certainly not the one who prevented me from refilling the tanks because he was in a hurry.

You're talking about Sinclair, Weaver whispered back.

Of course, I'm talking about Sinclair. Who else would I be talking about? It's that idiot chairman's fault and you know it.

Sorry, Miron, I realize you're doing your best.

It hasn't been enough. Going at this speed for two days, the snowcat’s been guzzling more diesel than expected. Getting lost didn't help."

Fine, I get it. What do you want me to do?

Keep a lookout for the Vostok Station antenna. I'm told it's pretty tall.

Yeah, it's more than a hundred feet high and there are lights all the way to the top.

Great. Maybe you'll be able to spot it through the storm. Miron checked the compass again while Weaver peered out the windshield. I had my share of tough times after the world plague but my problems began long before 2024, the driver explained. I lost both parents when I was nine, you know. Ended up falling through the cracks. Probably would have died, if it hadn't been for Old Tom. He lived on the streets, just like me, but Old Tom had years of experience. 'Everybody's always out for themselves,' he'd say. 'If you need something done, you'd better do it yourself'. It's why I didn't ask for your help sooner. It goes against the grain.

Don't sweat it, Miron. In my experience, problems tend to draw people together. Even if you believe you're alone against the world, there are four of us depending on you, right now. If any of us want to survive, we have to work as a team.

I guess.

The fuel gauge was ready empty. Stop, stop, stop, exclaimed Weaver. This is getting us nowhere. If the fuel runs out, it's going to be impossible to restart the engine. We'll freeze to death in hours.

Don't you think I know that? screamed an exasperated Miron.

Driving any further is suicide. We’ll have to refill the fuel tank using diesel from the drums on the trailer.

How? It's minus eighty out there. Anyone going out into the storm is likely to freeze.

Not doing it will guarantee we all die. Put it in neutral and get the engine into the lowest idle possible. Keep it running, whatever you do. Give me the time I need.

Okay, Weaver. Be careful out there.

You bet. Weaver made his way back to the passenger cabin. The others had heard everything. Jessica was already at the rear, looking through a suitcase. Her tight-fitting service uniform revealed a toned and shapely body. With a muttered 'yes' she tugged out ski goggles and handed them to Weaver, who was pulling on his parka. He accepted the pair without a word, his eyes on Sinclair, who hadn't moved from his chair.

Weaver shook his head, baffled by the chairman's indifference to their plight. He buttoned the parka to the top, covered his mouth and nose with two scarves, then adjusted the goggles carefully. With a pull on the drawstring, his forehead disappeared under the hood. Jessica examined him for exposed skin. Seeing none, she gave him a thumbs-up, her face crisped in concern.

Don't worry, this is a walk in the park, Weaver said, his voice muffled by the scarves.

The mechanic cautioned Jessica and Nolan back before opening the door. The two huddled at the rear. Weaver grasped the handle and pushed. The wind fought him, howling into the cabin and causing the temperature to drop rapidly. Weaver put his shoulder into it, shoving the door open enough to step onto the track.

The door slammed shut with a loud clang, exposing him to intense wind bursts and driving snow. He kept hold of a rail near the door and tried to head towards the back. His feet slipped sideways, the wind pulling at his legs viciously.

He dropped to his knees and crawled along on all fours. Near the rear of the Tucker-Terra, he opened a utility box riveted under the cabin floor and retrieved a hand-pump attached to a tightly-coiled rubber hose. He slid his arm through the loops of frozen hose and continued crawling to the end of the track.

The snow reduced visibility to the point where Weaver could barely see the trailer. His goggles were steaming up from the inside, frosting the glass, and his scarf was covered with ice crystals from his breath. The howling wind kept snagging at his limbs, making it almost impossible to move.

Using his right hand to grope the bottom edge of the snowcat cabin, he located a rail and grasped it and let himself slide off the end of the tracks. His feet were swept out from under him and, for a few moments, his body blew back and forth in the storm, his handhold the only thing keeping him from flying off. He pulled his limbs in tight to his body, forced his feet to the ground, and dropped between the two tracks.

The mechanic felt around, located the hitch, and wrapped his right arm around it, in order to move forward. Once at the trailer, he stood carefully and crooked his elbow over the side railing to maintain his position. A tarp covered the supplies, secured by a nest of frozen ropes. Weaver spotted a diesel drum wedged in the trailer corner and slid to it.

He removed his glove, reached into a pocket, pulled out a small knife, and snapped it open. With a quick flick of the wrist, he cut the rope. The tarp soared skyward, whipping back and forth, barely held in place by the other three tie-downs. Careful of being smacked by the flapping tarp, the mechanic climbed onto the trailer and felt around for the diesel drum cap.

It was frozen solid.

Weaver's numb fingers dropped the knife in the snow. He cursed, forced to put the glove back on or lose complete control over his freezing hand, and fished for the blade again. Blinded by foggy goggles, it took forever to find. Holding it clumsily, he tugged himself back up to the railing and smashed the knife pommel repeatedly against the metal cap. It did not loosen.

Out of desperation, he turned the knife around, aimed the blade at the cap and struck repeatedly. On the third attempt, the tip of the knife pierced the metal. After a few more swings, he succeeded in enlarging the jagged hole enough for the hose. He pawed the blade shut with his gloved hand, inadvertently dropping the knife between the drums again.

After a few moments of pointless search while muttering curses under his breath, Weaver gave up on the blade and jammed the hose through the pierced cap into the thick diesel fuel. Once done, he crawled back towards the snowcat. The hose refused to uncoil properly, frozen into a giant spring.

Weaver tightened his grip on the hand pump and, as he came up against the snowcat, jerked the coil hard, to gain enough slack for the nozzle tip to reach the fuel intake. Satisfied with his efforts, he squeezed his barely-thawed hand over the fuel cap and twisted but was unable to get a firm grip.

The engine up front was coughing instead of idling. He had no choice. It was now or never. Muttering under his breath, he removed the glove again. The minus eighty-degree wind instantly froze the skin on his hand but, despite the burning pain, Weaver wrenched the fuel cap.

It refused to turn.

He put his shoulder into it, the agony in his hand intense. With a last desperate effort, the cap loosened with a metallic squeal and came off, stuck to his palm. He shoved the hand, cap and all, back into his glove with a grunt of pain.

The mechanic inserted the nozzle and cranked the pump with his good hand. The mechanism was sluggish but it worked. The diesel, thickened by cold, resisted but Weaver kept pumping. After a few minutes, increased resistance in the handle told him diesel was at the nozzle. He pumped faster, his hand cramping in protest.

The engine coughed hard once and settled into a smooth idle.

He kept working the hand pump for another twenty minutes before letting the coiled hose go. It snapped back towards the trailer, clanking against the metal frame. Climbing back onto the track, he pulled himself forward with his good hand.

The wind was fierce, the blasts shoving him around. He pushed the tip of his boot in the gap between two of the tracks, curling his toes up to wedge his foot. Hugging the track as best he could, Weaver let go of the traction ridge and pushed himself forward until he could grasp the next one. He lifted his foot out from between the tracks and repeated the maneuver until the cabin door was within reach.

Cradling his hand, he struggled to a standing position. The door opened unexpectedly, smashing into his face. Weaver's goggles shattered and he fell back, teetering on the edge of the track. A hand reached out, grasped his coat, and dragged him inside. Weaver fell into the cabin, his body smacking the floor heavily.

Nolan pulled the door shut with a grunt. The wind died down in the cabin and a relative quiet fell over its occupants. Jessica removed Weaver's frost-covered scarf, exposing his face. My hand! With a grimace, he tugged at his glove, exposing the fuel cap stuck to his palm.

I'll get some water. It should make it easier to remove. Jessica hurried to the galley while Nolan helped the groaning mechanic out of his coat.

You did it, Weaver, you did it, screamed Miron through the narrow doorway.

I did more than that, Miron. When my goggles were knocked off, I caught a glimpse of the antenna array. Head to your right. We should be there in minutes, croaked Weaver.

Good man, Miron returned as he revved the engine up.

Jessica came back with a bowl of steaming water. Weaver dipped his frozen hand into it, grimacing. Can we call the doctor at the station? she asked.

No can do, Miss Brandon replied Miron. The storm's conked everything out. No radio, no GPS, no nothing.

Sinclair's brow furrowed. No radio? How will I be able to contact AmCorp?

All I can do at this point is get us to the station as fast as possible, Miron replied

Jessica, stop dawdling with that mechanic and come find the list of Vostok Station personnel on my laptop, a frowning Sinclair called out from his chair. I need to review the list one more time before we get there.

Jessica appeared discomfited as she slowly took her hands out of the water bowl and dried them with a small towel.

Come on, Sinclair, give her a break, Weaver exploded, still in agony. She's trying to get this cap off. What's your rush anyway? We're a thousand miles from nowhere, heading to the most isolated research station in the world. What crisis could possibly be so important that Jessica can't help me?

I don't explain myself to mechanics. Why don't you mind your business and allow me to do the same.

Weaver removed his hand from the water, stood up, wavered dizzily for a second, then rushed to Sinclair, grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck with his good hand and lifted him out of his chair with one big heave. The thin man squawked, his legs and arms flopping awkwardly. Jessica jumped between the two men and twisted Weaver's thumb with an expert hold forcing him to release Sinclair. The chairman fell back into his chair, where he nervously worked his hair back into place with trembling hands. Sorry, John, but it's my job to protect him.

Don't apologize, Jessica. He's broken the law, manhandling an AmCorp chairman like that. I'll get the Vostok Station chief to throw him in the brig. When we return to McMurdo Station, the authorities will deal with him.

I've got news for you, Mr Sinclair. We are very far from your corporate headquarters. You and I both know the ratified Antarctic Treaty still forbids military presence here, even if mining has been allowed. Plus, there's no brig at the station. Your threats are empty.

You probably are AntiCorp, Weaver. It's too bad their damn plague didn't wipe you out.

Jessica's head snapped around. I lost my mother and my sister when the plague was released. I had to fend for myself when I was barely fourteen. I wouldn't wish that on anybody.

You did all right, Jessica. Look where you ended up. Being my assistant is the envy of the bodyguard division and you know it.

You can't be serious, Weaver said, laughing cynically. Working for you must be a nightmare. Anyway, you're wrong about AntiCorp, Sinclair. They didn't release the plague...

You stop right there, Sinclair retorted angrily. I know what you’re going to say and it’s simply not true.

Then, explain to me how come no one in your ‘corporate headquarters’ died from it? returned the mechanic.

Sinclair Those are rumors.

"You can't deny facts, Sinclair. I read the leaflets. I lost my wife and