Page 84 of Stars
“Judging by the skeletonization, my people think forty years.”
“Forty years,” Ethan murmured, listening in. “Same as the satellite.”
“Do you have anything that could help us narrow down who he was? He was in a separate grave. He may have been special to whoever buried him.”
Dr. Mendoza sighed. “This is not definitive, Jack, but my people believe he is an Evenki man. My doctors have spent years among the Evenki, treating them, operating on them, living with then, and have autopsied their dead. They think he was a young Evenki tribesman.”
“Someone alive might know who he was. His friends, people he knew. He’d be sixty years old now, if he’d lived.” Ethan sounded hopeful.
“His parents would be dead,” Dr. Mendoza said. “But if he had friends, or siblings, they might be able to tell you more. Perhaps they remember many of their people being taken. Judging by the photos you sent of the skulls in the mass grave, many of those buried there were Evenki.”
“Where do the Evenki live? If we wanted to find out more, where would we go?”
“The Evenkiysky District is their homeland. Most are spread across a million square miles, almost a third of Siberia. But there is a capital. An administrative district. More of a village than anything else. But they have a post office, a clinic, and, most importantly, a small airport.”
“Where?”
“Tura. You can charter a flight from Krasnoyarsk or pay a postal worker to fly you out on their biweekly runs.”
Jack met Ethan’s gaze. He saw his decision mirrored in Ethan’s eyes.
They’d just decided on their next move.
* * *
From the propeller plane,they could see an evergreen blanket covering the ground, merging in the distance with the gray that marked the fuzzy boundary of the sky. Fog and sky and earth became one, pine needles drenched in a mist that turned to ice that melted to haze as the world spun into and out of the sunlight. But still, the gray remained. Ink-black lakes dotted the ground, and patches of snow sparkled in the endless forest.
Denis, their pilot, took a swig from his flask and burped. “Why the fucking interest in Tura,” he grumbled in Russian. Jack, in the front seat, turned his head slightly, eavesdropping on his mumbles. “‘Take me to Tura,’ fucking hell,” Denis said, sighing. “Miserable fucking place.” He downed another gulp. Vodka fumes filled the cabin.
Behind Denis and Jack, Ethan and Welby sat on the edge of broken plastic seats bolted to the plane’s frame, staring at Denis like they could kill him with their minds alone. If anything went wrong with the landing, Jack had no doubt Ethan and Welby would toss Denis out the window and take over, never mind neither man knew how to fly. Surely someone sober would be better than any drunk pilot? Pete and Blake squatted in the cargo hold, clinging to the team’s two packs. They’d consolidated in Krasnoyarsk, leaving the rest of their gear with their now definitely stolen SUV, which they’d parked out of sight in the forest and covered in branches for camouflage.
They bounced four times down the old runway, cracked asphalt on the edges of the tarmac crumbling into old snowmelt and dirt. Evenki men guided the mail plane with waves of their hands as if they were beckoning children to them. Beyond the runway, a small village spread on the bank of a river, simple wood-frame houses in the same one-room design set up in an efficient Soviet grid.
“This shithole is Tura,” Denis growled. “You staying? I don’t come back for another three days, so decide now.”
Across the runway, Jack spotted a man standing alone. His hair was long and dark and streaked with gray. He was slender, his skin the deep tan of a native Siberian, his face broad and flat. “Ethan.”
“Oh my God.”
“You staying?” Denis snapped.
“Yes, we’re staying.” Jack pushed open the door to the plane and hopped down. He stared at the man. The wind blew, ruffling the man’s hair and the white sweatshirt he wore. It was dingy, but emblazoned across the chest was the giant NASA logo, the same one they’d seen Sasha wearing on his training shirts when they visited him in Houston.
Ethan and Welby bracketed Jack as Pete and Blake shouldered the packs and followed, muttering confusion under their breath. Jack led his team down the airport, heading for the lone man. Halfway there, the man raised his hand in a wave.
“Aja bishindi,” the man called. His voice was warm and as wide as Siberia. Jack felt the timbre in his soul, felt his bones vibrate.
“Privet,” Jack answered.Hello. “I like your sweatshirt. I also know a man in NASA.”
“We know the same man. Sasha Andreyev,” the man said, smiling. He looked up. “Myhutechiis among the stars. Every step he has taken in his life has led him to this moment.”
“Your…hutechi?”
“My son.”
Jack and Ethan shared a long look as the man smiled again as if he knew the secrets to the universe, secrets Jack could never know. Behind them, Denis’s plane sputtered to a start, the twin propellers buzzing in a ragged rhythm as he turned the plane around and lined up for his departure.
“My name is Kilaqqi,” the man said. “I’ve been waiting for you. You’re here about the dead.”
