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Mid-January, 2008
RCMP/Ministry of Extraordinary Threats Emergency Hangar
Alert, Nunavut, CA

Even in times of the highest tension and most danger, people find ways to keep themselves busy, and neither the Ghostbusters nor the men and women of the world's northern watch bureaus were any great exception. "Ray? Ray! Ray, check it out." Venkman shook his friend's shoulder. "Egon's in a fight with one of the Inquanok guys."

Ray opened an eye and glanced sideways. Several of the Danish contingent and a couple of the Pohjola Project's Sami members were gathered in a semicircle centered on Egon and a broad-faced, dark-eyed man in Danish uniform. "Wow. Spengs is looking kinda..."

"Green," Winston finished for both of them. "That's freaky. What are they fighting about?"

"The worst thing they've ever eaten," said Venkman. "Eske's winning."

Ray and Winston exchanged glances. They both knew Egon's eating habits. "How?" Ray finally asked.

"That's not food," Egon suddenly said, loud enough to be heard over the snickering Greenlanders. "That's biological waste. You can't consider anything with that level of ammonia in it to qualify as edible."

"This from the man who admits to eating casu marzu," said his opponent with the serene smile of a man who knows he's won. "Hákarl is nothing-"

Winston shook his head. Ray gave up on the possibility of a nap and stood up. "Has anyone seen where Captain Korpan went?" he asked, and one of the Finns pointed. "Thank you."

He found the Canadian in the tiny office attached to the hangar, one hand pressing his headset against his ear and the other taking frantic notes. As Ray walked in Korpan lifted his eyes, winced, and held up a piece of paper that read:

Magnetic fields flaring
Deep ones report Russian helicopter near 82.7° N 114.4° W
Radio comms dorppinng like brick

A moment later Korpan scribbled one last line:

Dammit, I can spell. Marines on the way. Tell the others. We're going in.

Ray shuddered, nodded, and went in search of a better door.

[OOC: Assume everyone will be arriving from Milliways within five minutes of each other. Also, don't click on the food links above if you have a weak stomach.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"And have there been any rumors about his...stability? Or loyalty?" Someplace in the back of his mind, the captain recalls that the events on the space station and at mission control were brought about by the wrong people being in the wrong place at the right time. He wonders if there's some sort of connection.

"Not the loyalty, no," Petliura responds instantly. "Never the loyalty. Matochkin has always put Russia first, even in the old Soviet days."

Apalkov rumbles something under his breath, which Tsybenko translates as, "Matochkin wants to be on the winning side, is all. 'My country first- the rest get the pieces'."

"Surely he can't think that unleashing whatever is on the the other side of the rift is going to serve the interests of anyone on Earth.

"Or is he as much of a doubter in matters of the seemingly paranormal?" It would explain the origins of the rather foolish Russian policy.

Steadily, Jim and his guides get closer. He listens for any sign of the stooges.

"Oh, he is doubter, all right," growls Apalkov through Tsybenko's translation. "If you call the source of the national policy a doubter. He is first and loudest in-"

The rest of the sentence goes untranslated, because Tsybenko breaks off and starts swearing under his breath at a degree of vulgarity that leaves even the sailors looking shocked. "How does the English run?" asks Tsybenko when he can get civilized again. "'Methinks he does protest too much'?"

"Perhaps, and I agree that we probably don't have the time for such details, but if we can get this fixed, it might not be a bad idea to have the Ministry debrief him, and much of the crew."

Jim looks around, knowing there will be a fight, and trying to find something that might be a good weapon if needed.

The thing about highly technical areas of a submarine is that they're usually heavily protected. It takes tools to get to them. Big, heavy tools. Wrenches, for example. There's several of those available if Kirk happens to look in the right places.

Petliura holds up a hand and points straight ahead silently. There's a turn in the corridor up ahead, and if you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of someone who isn't supposed to be there, breathing.

"Who is that," Jim whispers while steeling himself.

"Who is that?" is the response, echoing from the corners on stale and foetid air.

A startled, low-voiced exclamation comes from up ahead; our heroes aren't the only ones who can hear the words at the edge of words, after all...

"One of Matochkin's goonds," mutters Petliura. "There will be one other. Are you ready?"

Jim nods silently. No more talk.

Tsybenko's mouth slants wryly; he's... not really all that accustomed to physical fighting. But he does reach for one of the wrenches and move to follow as Kirk and the others make their move.

The two men in the narrow corridor are uniformed and heavily armed for their rank, and have a gleam to their eyes that suggests they don't so much march to a different drummer as that they've wandered off to follow a different parade altogether. The look of surprise when they spot the two unfamiliar figures behind the naval crewmen, though, that's unmistakable. One of them draws breath to speak- and promptly gets a boot to the kneecap from Apalkov. As he staggers, the other one swings one enormous, thick-fingered fist at whoever happens to be nearest.

That would be Kirk. Who would kick himself for not grabbing a wrench the first chance he had. But finds it a lot more effective to kick the big Russian even as he takes the blow to his face.

A blow that only years of reflex make less than totally effective. Teeth are intact, but Jim has a bloody lip.

Well, he's better off than Petliura, whose attempt at tackling the other guard before he could straighten up got him a fist to the gut and then another to the back of the head for his pains. Apalkov roars something that's got to be vulgar, grabs the junior officer out of the way, and snaps two meaty fingers at Tsybenko. "Oh, ёб твою мать," swears the ex-cosmonaut before lunging at Petliura's attacker.

Kirk's attacker is grinning and crouching for another swing. Some men strike and the force comes down their arm straight from the shoulder. This one's gearing up for a blow with all the muscles all the way down to the small of his back- and not guarding himself very well as a consequence.

A sucker punch to the gut and a quick drop to the deckplates is called for. And while Jim really regrets that he can't do what he could when he was 30, he's ar least relieved that his assailant seems to have no real training.

And maybe that the old saying about the bigger they are is true.

Tsybenko is having a harder time of it than Kirk, for all that he's the one with the weapon; his stooge is faster, and tougher. On the other hand Tsybenko is in such a monumentally annoyed mood right now that even though he gets hit so hard he really ought to be spitting teeth, he keeps right on going. His opponent topples to the floor with a thud, and Tsybenko sways a little on his feet. "Hah," he says, shifthing his grip on the wrench. "Two more like that and I get free name change to Gordon Freeman-"

He staggers and grabs at Apalkov's shoulder. "We get the reactor fixed now, da? I need to sit down."

He'll ask what a Gordon Freeman is later.

And moves closer to Tsybenko, in case the Russian needs any help getting to that chair.

It's not far, thankfully. The door with all the signs you don't need even a word of Russian to read is just ahead, and there's a stool close to hand just inside. "Thank you," says Tsybenko, and lowers his head almost to his knees.

Apalkov growls something and moves forward on his own, eyes gleaming. Tsybenko translates without looking up. "He says five minutes. Maybe ten. Then we run like scared baby ponies." The visible part of his mouth quirks. "Is not good time for showing of indomitable Russian spirit, for any of us."

Jim nods, and leans against a wall. The throbbing in his lip feels like it's spreading. He'll never admit he's getting to old for this, but his body must dispute it.

He watches, not having a clue what Apalkov is doing.

The Starshina's recovered enough to stand up straight. Wincing a little, he makes his way over to one of the walls and pulls down a first-aid kit. Wordlessly, he smashes a gel-pack of some kind against the wall, then hands it to Kirk as its internal temperature starts to drop.

Apalkov mutters something; without looking up Tsybenko says, "Annealing process beginning. He heats the control rods up to two-fifty Celsius to bleed off the Wigner energy so we do not heat up to two thousand five hundred Celsius instead. We do not leave until the bleed is finished."

The waves were dark and purplish, almost black, and clutched at the yielding red mud of the bank as if with uncouth, greedy hands. I could not but feel that some noxious marine mind had declared a war of extermination upon all the solid ground, perhaps abetted by the angry sky...

"Thanks. I guess I need those workouts I'm planning with a friend more than I thought." Assuming he gets home. Though he will have some tale to tell.

All the same, the unease is growing. At best, a nuclear sub might have to be scuttled. That's never good.

By now Apalkov is muttering a constant stream of what sounds like four or five of roughly the same words over and over. Either he's praying, which is understandable under the circumstances, or he's cursing, which is probably more likely. Either way, Tsybenko doesn't translate. He just nods. "Me," he says, "I think I invest in good steel-toed boots, and end the next fight before it begins."

Petliura murmurs something to Tsybenko and darts out of the reactor room. The cosmonaut says, "He goes to ensure the men are evacuated properly."

"I just hope the men don't come rushing back into the sub when they see the Deep Ones. They aren't really trained to handle this much of the unexpected." Then again, is anyone? Jim's seen hardened Starfleet officers lose it over less. Though rarely.

"Hah. Yes, that will be interesting." Tsybenko smiles crookedly. "Even I have not the stomach for it, and once I was cosmonaut. The tin-can sailors, they have no imagination at all..."

Which is probably just as well; a sound in the background not unlike that of titanium claws slithering over and into reinforced metal could probably be taken the wrong way.

Jim's hackles get up. Fast.

"What was that?"

Tsybenko looks up to the ceiling. Apalkov pauses in his invocation of the Virgin to lift his eyes as well.

And Petliura comes running back down the corridor, shouting about the sonar-

And behind him a familiar, if somewhat squelchy voice- Lua'al-rei's- calls out, "Every scanner is going mad! We leave, now! Move yourselves, humans!"

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