Page 6 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"You're underdressed." He pulls a bundle from the snowmobile's storage and tosses it to me. Heavy parka, real fur around the hood, built for arctic conditions. "Put that on. Ruth, you heading back out?"
"Got a supply run to Fairbanks, then I'm done for the week." Ruth climbs back into her plane, already running pre-flight checks. "Good luck with this one, Nate. City girls and the backcountry. Always interesting."
I want to snap something back, prove I'm not some helpless tourist, but my teeth are chattering too hard. I pull on the parka. The difference is immediate and humbling. Warmth floods back into my limbs.
Nate swings onto the snowmobile. "Climb on. We'll get you settled, then I'll brief you on the assignment."
The ride to Nate's place is short but brutal. Wind whips across open ground, and even with the better parka, cold finds every gap in my clothing. I grip the handles on the back of the snowmobile, trying not to lean too close to Nate but also trying not to fall off as we bounce over uneven terrain.
His cabin appears through the trees—larger than I expected, built solid from logs with smoke rising from the chimney. Solar panels on the roof, satellite dish, equipment shed off to one side. Homestead, not base camp.
Nate parks and leads me inside. The warmth is a mercy. A wood stove pumps heat into the main room, which serves as living space and makeshift command center. Maps cover one wall, topographic details marked with pins and notes. Radio equipment sits on a desk near the window, crackling with static and distant voices. A long table serves as both dining and work surface, currently covered in files and a laptop.
"Coffee?" Nate doesn't wait for an answer, just pours two mugs from a pot that's been sitting on the stove for hours.
I wrap my hands around the mug, let the heat seep in. The coffee tastes like tar, but it's hot and caffeinated.
"DOJ briefed me on your background," Nate says, leaning against the table, arms crossed. "Undercover work in Chicago. Cover got blown. They sent you here because you're a forensiclinguist and we've got intercepted communications we can't crack."
"That's the short version."
"Short version's all I need." He slides a thick file across the table. "This is what we've been collecting over the past six months. Skimmer drones picked up encrypted transmissions in the backcountry. Coded messages, routes, drop coordinates. Patterns suggest trafficking activity, but the language doesn't match known operators in this region."
I flip open the file. Pages of transcripts, audio waveforms, failed linguistic analysis attempts. Someone's already tried to decode these. "Who else has looked at this?"
"State troopers brought in a cryptography expert. He got nowhere. Said it's not code, it's dialect. Specific syntax, regional markers, insider terminology." Nate refills his coffee. "That's where you come in."
I scan the first few pages. He's right. This isn't encryption, it's linguistic fingerprinting. Clipped phrasing, informal, using shorthand that only makes sense in context. Chicago gang slang mixed with something else, something I can't place yet.
My pulse quickens. This is why I came here.
"I'll need workspace. Quiet, good internet connection for database access, equipment for audio analysis."
"You'll be working from a cabin about two miles northeast of here. Isolated but close enough to reach if you need backup." He pulls out another file, this one thinner. Maps, photos of a small cabin nestled against a ridge line. "Satellite uplink, generator for power, wood stove for heat. Basic but functional."
"How basic?"
"One room with a bathroom. Snowmobile for transport." He watches for my reaction, probably waiting for me to complain. "This isn't Chicago, Vale. Out here, basic means you're alive and dry. Luxury means you've got coffee."
I meet his gaze. "I didn't come here for luxury."
Something shifts in his expression. Not approval exactly, but maybe acknowledgment that I'm not folding at the first sign of discomfort. "Good. Because this assignment isn't just about analyzing data. The people running these routes are dangerous. They've killed to protect their operation. You see anything suspicious, report it immediately. Don't investigate on your own, don't play hero. Clear?"
"Clear."
"Wildlife out here is just as dangerous as the traffickers. Bears coming out of hibernation, wolves hunt in packs, moose will trample you if you surprise them." He stands, grabbing keys from a hook by the door. "Stay on marked trails. Don't wander. Don't assume you know what you're doing."
The speech is one he's given before, probably to every city transplant who shows up thinking the wilderness is romantic instead of lethal. But there's genuine concern under the gruffness.
"Let's get you to the cabin before dark," Nate says.
The ride to the cabin takes fifteen minutes through increasingly dense forest. Trees press close on either side of the trail, branches heavy with snow, shadows deepening as the sun drops toward the horizon. The temperature plummets with every passing minute.
The cabin appears suddenly, dark against white wilderness. Small, maybe four hundred square feet, built low with a metal roof and windows with open shutters. Firewood stacked under a lean-to. Simple. Functional.
Nate unloads my gear, carries it inside. I stand in the doorway, taking it in. One room, exactly as advertised. Double bed against one wall, wood stove in the corner radiating warmth, table and chairs near the window. Shelves with basic supplies, footlocker for storage, desk with satellite modem and power strip.
"Generator's behind the cabin. Flip the switch to start it, but conserve fuel. Supply runs only happen once a week, weather permitting." Nate sets my duffel on the bed. "Radio's on the desk, channel four will reach me. Emergency beacon's in the footlocker. Food supplies in the cache outside, water system runs off a well pump."
