Killing In Kamchatka

2 | SREDINNY MOUNTAIN RANGE

SREDINNY MOUNTAIN RANGE

MONDAY 7 A.M.

A Russian Mi-8T helicopter sailed northwestward at four kilometers up. From the comfort of a leather chair, Jeff Ganthner-the fifty-six-year-old president, CEO, and founder of Subvertical Pioneers, a multibillion-dollar oil and gas exploration company-took in the view of the late April dawn streaking soft orange lights across the contours of valleys. He appeared lost in the pristine vista below. The lines on his face alluded to a life riddled with hardships and toils.

Across the aisle from Ganthner sat the vice president of research and development, Jeb Jacobson. Cursed with a receding hairline that he negotiated with a shaved scalp, the thirty-six-year-old was also mesmerized by the glaciers and granite. He turned to comment to his superior but thought better of it. One could mistake Mr. Ganthner for a cold mountain with his white hair and stony countenance.

Jeb's stomach sank at this thought, but it could have been from the change in altitude as the aircraft was descending. Their destination: some remote area in the central mountains, unreachable by basic ground transportation. The helicopter could comfortably accommodate eight, but Ganthner had paid extra for a private charter, and so six seats were empty.

The cockpit housed a crew of three men: the two Volkov brothers-Sergei and Vlad, pilot and copilot- and the flight engineer, Yuri Rulin. This two-hour flight was routine: deploy the hunters at the designated landing zone, a location a few kilometers from the remote wilderness "where the big ones roam," then extract them ten days later. Complete with a guide, cook, cabins, polar tents with camp stoves and cots, snowmobiles, sleds, and a large all-terrain vehicle, they would not exactly be roughing it in the rough country.

Jeb observed the approaching meadows covered in deep snow. There came a shift in the pitch of the twin-turbine engines, and they touched down. Through his window, the shadow of the helicopter blades transformed from a soft tinting to a strobing, then to opaque dark shapes slowing to a stop.

Yuri emerged from the cockpit sporting a furry aviator's hat and a handlebar mustache. His bright blue Slavic eyes squinted as he brushed by the two passengers with mumblings in broken English about "remaining in your seat until further instructions." As quickly as he had entered, he exited into the rear cargo bay.

Loud mechanical grinding from turning gears and the whining of hydraulics invaded the cabin and then retreated as a dim orange light filled the portal of the cargo door. It was apparent that Yuri had lowered the rear ramp of the helicopter. The sound of a diesel engine roaring to life dissipated as a vehicle drove down the incline. Jeb peered out his window and saw an armored tank-like transport resting several meters away with a snowmobile and sled tied to its roof. A thought raced through his mind about storming the beaches of Normandy.

A curious Ganthner unbuckled and leaned over Jeb to take in the spectacle. "I feel like Dr. Frederick Cook," he said, then reclined back into his seat and closed his eyes.

Jeb rubbed away his morning eye gunk and smeared it between two fingers. He knew Ganthner was baiting him.

"He was the first explorer to reach the North Pole in 1908," Ganthner said.

"You mean," Jeb corrected, "Robert Peary was the first."

"Yes-in 1909."

Jeb discreetly bit his upper lip. "Is it Peary or Cook?"

"Back then, it depended on what newspaper you read," Ganthner said. "Both men were American explorers; both had their supporters and their detractors. One article said, 'Cook was a liar and a gentleman, and Peary was neither.'"

Yet another ambiguous answer from Mr. Ganthner, Jeb thought. "If someone asked me who first explored the North Pole, the correct response would be..."

Ganthner adjusted his headrest. "You'll have to answer that for yourself, Mr. Jacobson. You can read the evidence, factual or fabricated, and come to your own rational conclusion. But frankly, truth or not, people believe what they want to."

Jeb's eyes wandered the interior, and upon finding Russian text above the cockpit door, he tried to read it.

"So, which is it for you?" Ganthner asked. "The man who explored it first but claimed it second, or the man who explored it second but claimed it first?"

Through his passenger portal, Jeb observed Yuri wrestling hunting packs into the vehicle. How he wished to be outside with the poor Russian, but Ganthner would be expecting an answer.

"As an explorer at heart, Mr. Ganthner, which of the two do you believe to be the irrefutable conqueror of the North Pole?"

Ganthner sat up as if invigorated by Jeb's question. "Between the two men, I have favored one whose descriptions of his ventures were corroborated by later expeditions as well as my own: Cook."

Jeb rubbed his temple several times. "I defer to your expertise and concur. Frederick Cook was the first explorer of the North Pole."

"No. I said he first explored the North Pole in 1908." Ganthner settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.

Jeb wanted the conversation to end there, but he had to admit he was curious. "Then who was the first explorer of the North Pole?"

"A starving Inuit named Nanook of the North."

Jeb dropped his head into his hand. He pinched his nose. He pretended to pop his eardrums. Having dreaded Ganthner and his games for years, he now found himself singled out-most likely-for the entirety of the trip. In a defeatist posture, Jeb dropped his shoulders and lifted his head. To his surprise, he discovered Ganthner was cracking an unprecedented smile while peering at him through one eye.

Jeb laughed.

Ganthner, a brilliant man with ambition and unyielding determination, remained the personification of his work: a life built upon the seeking out of old dead things hidden miles below the ground. He was a recluse with no wife or child, no heir to his fortune, nothing to give him life or a sense of joy or a sense of humor for that matter. But here and now in the wilds of Kamchatka, Jeb found himself the sole audience to Ganthner's first joke.

Yuri reappeared in the cabin. "Gentlemen, we can begin boarding transport vehicle."

Now in good spirits, Jeb pointed out the window. "You mean the Batmobile?"

"Yes, I will be Batman. You be Boy Blunder," Yuri said, exiting through the passenger door.

Ganthner rose to his feet and followed Yuri out with a chuckle. "Chalk one up for the Motherland."

Jeb forced a smile. His connection with Ganthner, as quickly as it had come, had vaporized. He emerged from the helicopter and immediately lamented the loss of its amenities. The deep snow enveloped his lower limbs in an intense cold while the frigid morning air assaulted his upper body, tightening his cheeks with a frosty pinch. He flipped up his hood and kept balance as he followed in the deep tracks of his companions trudging to the all-terrain vehicle.

He stopped to catch his breath and inhale the scenery: the subdued landscape, the whispering of the wind tumbling through the pale topography, the surreal quiet that made one's deep thoughts feel like outbursts, and the crisp cleansing air that purified the lungs with a burning tinge-he had never felt more alive.

Ganthner slipped into the back compartment of the tank-like vehicle, and Jeb sat shotgun next to Yuri.

Belted in, Jeb observed the helicopter's ascent from his window. In the predawn hours, he hadn't noticed its immensity, but now, more awake and under better lighting, he felt in awe of its power and size-something out of a war movie. On the side of the chopper was a logo for KGB HUNTERS. He craned his neck, watching the blades chop up to speed, and the graceful ascension of the Russian brothers ensued. Then it was gone, and a strange sense of security left Jeb.

For now, they were three men in a hunk of metal on treads.