Chapter 23 Cold Snap
The far eastern Chukotka Autonomous Okrug region was remote and bitterly cold, with temperatures hovering around -13°F.
Gulag could feel the biting subarctic chill even through his protective snow gear.
Before he arrived in Russia. He had chartered a private jet from La Guardia Airport, New York, instructing the Bloodies to depart on a long voyage back to the UK, before taking off himself.
After approximately 12 hours of air time slicing through the night sky.
Gulag finally experienced the whine of the engines softening, and the wheels touching down with a jolt at the Russian Air Force facility of Ugolny Airport.
Victor Petrov and Uncle were standing impatiently by the side of the runway when Gulag emerged from the passenger stairs, waiting by a Russian Ural-4320 escort truck.
Gulag was then transported to one of the many hangars lining the 3500m runway.
He also had mistakenly acquiesced to Petrov's welcome offering, gagging on a Russian fare of Borscht and pickled herring, much to Uncle's and Petrov's amusement.
After lunch, they began the next leg of the journey, a short but scenic 14.6-kilometer route to Chukotka. Stunning views of the Bering Sea stretched out before them.
Endangered Steller sea eagles soared overhead, riding the thermal air currents above the winter wonderland landscape.
Metallic earthy smells of copper, tin, and tungsten from the local mines carried on the breeze.
They passed the bustling fishing port of Anadyr.
Beyond the harbor, they could see the Beringovsky military base, a strategic staging ground for regional Special Forces operations.
It was also the departure point for Gulag's upcoming secret talks, the classified details of which only added to his jetlagged annoyance.
Now he found himself in the middle of nowhere.
Uncle broke the silence first, addressing a profound statement to one in particular.
"Through these lands once roamed mammoths and giant sloths. Now only the hardiest must survive."
His words hinted at deeper mysteries in the wilderness ahead.
Gulag, powered down his TTM-1901 "Berkut" snowmobile's Lada engine, with a breath that hung with condensation in the frigid air - wiping away the icy shroud that clung to the tinted lenses of his Oakley SI Assault snow goggles.
"You both told me your countries had the infrastructure in place for my arrival. Where are your facilities?"
Gulag groaned staring at Uncle and Petrov
"Don't worry, Gulag," Petrov said, looking through the heated lens of his BPC 10x40 military binoculars.
"You will soon see, the full power of Russian ingenuity."
"It is China's purchasing power, that makes your Russian ingenuity possible, don't you forget that, Victor."
"Be that as it may, Uncle, your flimsy Chinese crap is better suited to the electrical products section on Amazon, and we both know it."
Petrov stuffed his binoculars into the compartment of his Ratnik combat rucksack.
Icebergs of all shapes and sizes bobbed in the distance, with breeding colonies of several thousand Pacific walruses parked on the jagged contours.
They were staring back curiously at the converge of figures parked at the water's edge.
Gulag felt a pang of awe at the sight of these natural wonders.
But his attention was soon drawn to the mammoth glacier ahead - a glacier that could sink a hundred Titanics - rippling through the water towards them at an unnatural speed.
"It's more massive than I imagined," Petrov awed.
The glacier was getting closer and closer. The trembling grew violent, like the onset of an earthquake.
Gulag could see ice cracking and splintering. Its towering face blocked out the sun. It was a wall of ice, hundreds of feet tall and 2km wide.
"We need to get out of here, now," Gulag barked.
Gulag clenched the handles of the snowmobile, white-knuckled. Swinging the machine around as it spun in a daring arc, tires now kicking up a flurry of snow.
In that split second, Gulag zipped off with the wind howling, navigating the treacherous slopes and icy terrain with fearful agility.
Uncle, and Petrov with his special ops team, reignited their engines into gear and scooted away at a safe distance.
Even from that far away, they could feel the cold radiating from it. And they could hear the low rumble of its movement.
The glacier stopped with a jolt—an abrupt rupture, crevasses, and sent shards of ice cascading into oblivion.
"For all your Russian might Victor. Did your country not consider implementing a safer docking system?"
A wave of icy water crashed over the shore, soaking everyone's boots.
Both viewer and ice giant stared into each other’s cold eyes – polar opposites poised in a David and Goliath stare-down.
After disembarking from his snowmobile, Petrov crunched his spiked Michelin rubber outsole hiking boots onto the skeletal cracked ice.
He trekked his way over the tundra toward the Arctic shore followed by the team.
Walruses congregated on the ice floe of the glacier in large groups.
Petrov raised his AK-47 assault rifle and fired a warning shot towards them.
The walruses scattered in all directions, diving off the glacier like Olympic divers, barking and trumpeting angrily.
All except for an injured cow protecting her calf in a crevice high up above Petrov's shooting range.
"What was that for?" Uncle said, shaking his head.
"Those walruses can be very dangerous, especially when they're protecting their young," Petrov said.
"And anyway, Uncle, don't lecture me about animal rights. Your country eats anything that moves."
"I see your point, Victor," Uncle said.
"Now can someone go and fetch Gulag back? I don't like this Russian weather any more than the next man."
Like a conductor controlling the tempo of an orchestra, Petrov barked out orders in Russian to the elite special forces men.
Within moments, two members had mounted their snowmobiles, speeding away in a blur before Gulag's pressed, tired grooves were smothered by the oppressive weight of winter.
Four of the other special ops men hastily constructed a fiberglass deployable access bridge - connecting it from the shore’s edge onto the lip of the glacier.
Once all was clear Petrov and Uncle stepped onto the surface.
Petrov now in range of the remaining calf and cow aimed his AK47, ejecting a volley of shots.
Exploding gelatinous chunks of Walrus blubber layered off in burning fragments, marring the stark beauty of the glittering glacier.
Petrov lowered the emptied chamber, of his gun, leaving behind a still silence.
"I think that's enough killing for one day, Victor," Uncle said.
"It is the killing that makes me feel alive, Uncle. Special Envoys to the UK, they sit in offices all day. How I long to be back in the field."
"Send the body parts to my wife in Moscow for a designer bag," Petrov, instructed in Russian to one of his men.
##########
Some distance away, twin headlamps pierced through the snowy downfall. The snowmobiles of Ivan and Sergai searching for Gulag were tearing across the frozen flats, kicking up powdery plumes.
Ivan suddenly slammed the brakes.
"There!" he yelled, pointing ahead.
Gulag's solitary figure came into focus, pacing irritably by his overturned vehicle. He was marooned at a mountainous ridge by a frozen river.
But something had caught Ivan's trained eye.
In the ridge above, a shadow crouched amid the snow-dusted rocks. Yellow eyes glared down with predatory focus.
"Snow Leopard," Sergei shouted. It had scented Gulag as prey stranded below. Gulag remained oblivious to his imminent peril.
Ivan and Sergei saw death stalking ever closer now.
"Shit!, We'll never reach him in time," Ivan cursed.
"Shoot it then why don't you! Our superiors will not be happy if we lose our escort."
"Sergei, It is too far away?"
Sergei ran calculations in his head. "Distract it then you idiot."
Ivan pressed the throttle to the max, urging his snowmobile to breakneck speed, with his AK-47 raised to the side.
Bursts of shots caused Gulag to dive to the ground behind the overturned snowmobile.
The feline once stealthily wrapped in shadow, unveiled itself from its meticulously calculated position. Enraged by the disruption.
It turned on its new antagonists with lightning speed. But Sergei and Ivan had stalked these mountains long enough to know their savage ways.
A hail of gunfire brought the giant cat crashing down
The leopard roared; springing forward in anger. Its powerful body moved with incredible speed towards the incoming Ivan, prompting the big cat to either fight or run away.
Sergei pulled up alongside, opening fire with his AK-47. The leopard was struck again, and this time it went down for good.
Ivan and Sergei powered forward. Skidding to a halt, rushing to Gulag's side, and jumping off their machines. Gulag looked up at them startled.
"A close call, comrade. This wilderness spares no trespassers," Sergei said.
"A stranger is not safe alone in these terrains," Ivan said, helping Gulag to his feet, and dusting him off.
"You must come quickly, the bridge is being prepared!" Ivan said.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
"What bridge? Did Petrov and Uncle get out in time?"
"They are fine, now ride with me."
Sergei invited Gulag on the back of his two-manned snowmobile.
"I thought I was under attack by gunfire," Gulag said confusingly.
"We need to get out of here," Ivan said. "There might be other leopards around."
"Leopards?"
"You were just nearly attacked by a snow leopard, not by us," Sergei laughed.
"They're savage animals, You are lucky that we were here to save your skin."
Gulag frowned but swung onto the back anyway. The younger Ivan raced ahead at a gnarly speed.
Gulag caught a fleeting glimpse of the leopard's body in passing, its claws still taut in a predatory embrace - suddenly realizing what could have occurred.
Not before long the monumental glacier appeared on the horizon, through the spinning snow, towering above the churning sea.
Gulag saw the recognizable forms of Uncle and Petrov - Petrov was firing rounds, while the ops team was loading supplies, gathering their way across a bridge.
Gulag dismounted and swaggered his way through a path onto the flexible structure.
It swayed under his weight but held firm. Once he was on the merciless field of ice.
He glimpsed at one of the men scraping up the flubber steak of dead walrus chunk.
"What the hell is that?" Gulag asked.
"Victor wanted to relive his youth as a KGB spy," Uncle said, acerbically.
"You almost got me killed out there. What is all this bullshit?"
"Ah Gulag, don't be a sourpuss, we didn't want to spoil the surprise.
Did you see anything nice on your impromptu excursion?"
"Apart from the odd leopard and a broken fuselage. No Petrov."
"You've been on foreign soil too long, Gulag. Your stomach has grown as soft as a Russian poodle."
"Poodle? If you mean me jumping through hoops and doing all the donkey work for both of you. Is that what you mean?"
Gulag was just getting started.
Sergei and Ivan were the last stragglers across the access bridge. They discarded the snowmobiles, leaving bits of low-grade military equipment.
Then they ratcheted the ramp off the side, while Petrov let Gulag have his prima donna moment, with Uncle rolling his eyes.
"Please keep cool," Uncle said. "We're about to..."
"Uncle, let the poodle finish his speech," Petrov interrupted, chuckling. "It amuses me."
"Oh really. Does it amuse you that I have produced one of the greatest viruses that man has ever known, on a shoestring budget, I must add?
Or was it me who single-handedly sent the entire United Nations to fucking Gonzo?
What is it, Petrov? Pick one. I can add orchestrating the greatest Ponzi scheme in the world to my distinguished list of accolades as well if you like.
Bernie Madoff ain't got shit on me."
"Cancer, Aids, Gulag? You can't take credit for those," Petrov Joshed.
"I am not working for the Americans. I am working for you.
You are dealing with a rock star here Victor. And this Poodle wants to get paid.
Where is my fucking antidote, and where are my facilities that were promised to me?"
At that very moment, the glacial mass slowly shifted, as though taking a ponderous stride backward, away from the edge of the water's edge - like a dormant titan waking from an afternoon snooze.
"Sergei, can you escort our rock star poodle and us, please?" Petrov said extending a hand.
"Yes, comrade," said the veteran operative.
"Rexal, Gulag. you are in safe company," Uncle, said sensing Gulag's mistrust.
Gulag had decided to bite his tongue out of respect for Ivan and Sergei; they had saved his life after all.
But he was no fool either. Well aware of the fact that - that this was no natural glacier.
The party patrolled forward through a flat-bottomed glacial trough. Where the surface had been slippery and highly hazardous before.
The tread of their hiking boots gave way to the comfortable feel of unctuous synthetic ice, which felt easier on the grip.
Gulag planted his eyes over the terrain suspiciously, disbelief warring with curiosity.
He didn't like surprises, especially surprises when heading into the unknown.
Sergei and Ivan pressed forward; entering through an arched crevice, which led onto an open canyon.
It was a sight to behold. The grandeur of the sheer-walled valley curled around the natural contours, of a partially concealed aviation runway, semi-camouflaged in a sea of whiteness.
"We're here," said Sergei. Guiding himself and Ivan down a steepish incline onto a pathway, to what looked like a dull glint in the ice face.
"Are you sure this is the right location?" Ivan asked quizically.
"Of course you fool, It was me that disclosed the location in the first place."
Sergei produced an ID card from his rucksack, swiping it across the verticle face like he was paying for his Diners Club card through a credit card scanning machine.
It was then, the metallic shafts of sturdy rivets jutted out from an icy slumber. Each turned, spinning harmoniously in mechanical rotation.
With a mighty deep grumbling, a rectangular panel slid open, revealing a blindingly lit cargo hold within.
Big refrigeration trucks queued single-file, confined to the width of the hold.
"Welcome to your new outpost," boomed Petrov's voice over the sound of distant forklift trucks and the swoosh of engines below.
"I think you'll find our facilities more than adequate, poodle."
Gulag gasped. He had been to many unique locations in his time, but nothing to this level. The king's submarine facility was not a patch on this strange place.
They were following Ivan and Sergei now, up a set of narrow and steep cargo stairs, with the rest of the ops team filtering off down the cargo bay
"Alright, Petrov, it's about time you included me in your exclusive club of declassified secrets. I've been waiting long enough..." Gulag said intriguingly.
"You're on a mission, Gulag," Uncle said.
"Where secrets are whispered, and alliances are formed. You are expected to conduct yourself with the proper etiquette."
"He is too much of a diva," Petrov laughed. "A rock star, right?"
"It pleases me, Victor, that we have established my elevated position. Sergei, you can proceed," Gulag instructed.
After Gulag's instructions and a brief reassuring roll of the eyes from Petrov, Sergei confidently took the lead.
Taking the group through to a tubular corridor made entirely of crystal-clear glass.
Their senses were greeted by the metallic tang of stainless steel, accompanied by the sharp scent of ethanol.
The cool breeze from the vents brushed against their skin, reminiscent of a gentle wind tunnel.
They were suspended up high on pylons, the long corridor seemed to float in mid-air.
Periodic sections, tapered off by sets of stairs, leading into a fully functioning production line.
Gulag was mesmerized by the intricate functioning of the factory floor below, in a display of full-on chemistry porn.
The capsule-filling machine's mechanical heart thrashed and thrummed with life.
Their robotic arms, working in perfect unison; pumping and ejecting thousands of capsules per minute, fueled by two hoppers.
One hopper, fed granules into the industrial scale machine; while the other supplied the awaiting capsules.
The ingredients were then merged, measured, and sealed, dispensing onto a conveyor belt, where machinists boxed them up onto towering piles of pallets.
Forklift drivers maneuvered their prongs, lifting the stacked pallets, and transported them away to the cargo hold where the refrigerated trucks patiently awaited for their precious cargo.
Technicians donned in bio suits and goggles hustled and bustled amid towering vats, armed with pens and papers - noting down every fluctuation and change they observed.
The iridescent blue radiance shimmered off the vats, reflecting a spectrum of rainbow colors that bounced off the glass dancing in a prism beneath their feet.
Gulag halted to a stop. Getting a full panoramic view, of the facilities.
"Victor, really this is phenomenal. Am I correct in thinking, that this is my patented antidote in full production right now?"
"This is just one of many Gulag. We have boatloads - literally just like this one, moving through the oceans of the world right now," Petrov said.
"By design really, we are just in transit on a heavy icebreaker covered in an ice shell, the stealth aspect of the glacier is really where the power comes in," Uncle pointed out.
"Exactly," Petrov said with a sense of national pride.
"What legitimate foreign military is going to waste their budgets, carrying out recognizance on giant blocks of ice for Christ's sake?"
Gulag pondered at the scientific aspects. Though he had briefly touched upon the cryospheric sciences at Eaton, it was not his specialty, and he was no seaman either.
"The synthetic ice, the realism? How did you do it?" Gulag asked.
"I know scientists have been studying the possibility of creating artificial ice for years. But as a covering for a ship..."
"I am not an expert myself," Uncle paused.
"But I was briefly briefed by my superiors at the Chinese Federation. They explained to me that they had created some kind of polymer.
Once added to water, it creates a special type of ice that is stronger and more stable than regular ice."
"I get the science," Gulag explained. "Polymers are long molecules that can form strong bonds with each other. That is kinda of kindergarten stuff.
When they are added to water, they can make the ice stronger and more resistant to melting. But doing it on this type of scale?"
"I know it is hard to get your head around it, Gulag," Petrov said taking the baton.
"But, Russia has found a way, for the ice to be kept cold through natural and artificial means.
"What do you mean, Victor?" Gulag asked quizzically.
"The synthetic ice also serves as an efficient conductor for solar-powered energy.
Powering the entire infrastructure we are standing on right now"
"You would need to remove the salt and other impurities, to stop the ice from melting?" Gulag said.
Ivan and Sergei excused themselves from the expedition on Petrov's orders; splintering off down one of the stairs, back to their quarters.
The production line had melted away, giving way to the sight of the desalination units and refrigeration units humming away with a deep resonance.
"Now we are at the very heart of the whole ship. Look at those babies in action." Petrov marveled.
The desalination units, like alchemists of the sea, worked tirelessly to transform the salty brine into pure, crystalline water.
Through a network of pipes and filters, the water flowed, shedding its impurities and emerging as a pristine liquid, ready to be sculpted into frozen art.
Engineers were scurrying around the towering structures that resembled giant silver silos. They used their hands to adjust the valves and check the gauges.
The refrigeration units were even more impressive than the desalination units.
These mighty boxes harnessed the ship's formidable power, channeling it into an operation of cooling and freezing, turning the once-warm seawater into serviceable synthetic ice.
"It is quite an operation you have here," Gulag, said in comprehension - like a cog that had just clicked into place.
"That it is," Uncle said.
They had come to the end of the transparent path now.
There stood an isolated door, that looked quite regal with intricate carvings - carvings that Gulag could not understand.
It seemed to pulse with a life of its own as if the door was waiting for Gulag to enter.
They gathered on a looking deck, a narrow ledge that clung to the side of the tube, offering a vast expanse, from which to witness this extraordinary sight.
The wind whispered through their hair. Convoyed formations of glaciers glided slowly over the Bering Sea, leaving the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug region in its wake.
They all paused, watching the creation of the ice taking shape, sculpting itself from the fresh batch of purified inflows. Water flowed from a series of taps, like miniature waterfalls.
Any melted or damaged ice was recycled, forming a perfect cycle, thanks to a network of pipes. The glimmering surface was constantly replenished, mirroring the natural ice of the glacier.
"This is the end of our tour, Gulag," Petrov said tightening his coat around his ample body. "Our clearance levels, have reached our ceiling from here."
"So what's next?" Gulag questioned. "I gave you the virus and the cure. I have carried this torch for far too long.
I need to dial back now and live like a baller."
"That you have," Uncle concluded.
"Go through that door. And remember what I told you about conducting yourself with the correct etiquette."
Uncle and Petrov exited the viewing deck with a final wave, leaving Gulag atop the Glacier.
In these unfamiliar new surroundings. Gulag had that same abandoned sinking feeling of being alone again, like when his parents left him at Eaton.
After a minute or two, he returned to the warmer confines of the tubular passage.
Gulag stood in front of the door with a final look behind him. Uncle and Petrov were now gone.
He pushed open the door, nervous about what was waiting for him on the other side.
He stepped in and was faced with the sight of President Zhi Wang the president of China, who was standing next to President Pushkin the president of Russia.
President Zhi Wang, with his commanding presence and sharp eyes, greeted Gulag with a nod.
"Welcome, Magister," he said in a deep voice.
"We have been expecting you."
President Pushkin, shorter but just as distinguished, extended out his hand.
"Gulag, come and join us."
Gulag took a moment to compose himself, then stepped forward, shaking both presidents' hands.
Gulag had finally arrived.