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.”
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.’