Zhang grimaced. “Our rocket comrades can be . . . difficult . . . thinking they are the elite of the People’s Republic’s armed forces. But I will do what I can.”
“Thank you, General. The final recommendation is to insert someone onto Ellesmere and have the person approach the base unseen, make observations, take photos, and get those back to us. If you remember a previous meeting we had with Colonel Chan, we talked about the Yupik Eskimo who wandered into northern China after escaping the Russians. We successfully used him on a six-week insertion into the Chukotka Peninsula. This was a test. The region is his home. We wanted to see if he could blend in with the native population, make observations regarding a few Russian facilities, and then be picked up again by submarine on a designated day and place. It was not much of a mission, and we did not worry about giving him a radio. It all went well. On the assigned day, he paddled a local craft . . . something like a version of a kayak . . . two miles to sea off a point in northern Chukotka. The submarine partially surfaced, picked him up, and he brought back thousands of photographs and local radio intercepts using short-range equipment he took with him.
“As I said, this was mainly a test. Because it was successful, we planned more ambitious targets for later missions. However, given what we have learned about the Americans’ Ellesmere Island base and the curious apparent connections we do not understand, I recommend we insert this Yupik . . . he goes by the name of Tupilaq . . . on the shore of Ellesmere Island. The terrain is difficult, but nothing worse than this man has traveled before. We should be able to land him without detection within thirty to forty kilometers from the base. The only security patrol is the five-man military team stationed at the base on a rotating basis. Equipped with the right cameras, the Yupik should be able to take photographs of the base from ground level and obtain enough face images for us to use facial recognition. He would also be there in case we decide further actions are needed.”
“Further actions?” questioned Zhang.
“Nothing I would propose now,” said Song. “Just an asset for future contingencies. The one difference from Tupilaq’s mission in Chukotka is that we’ll need the data sent back while he remains in place. We should be able to arrange times to link back to the submarine for directional data burst transmission. Given the remote location and directional transmission, it will be all but impossible to intercept. We decided this was simpler for the Yupik than trying to communicate with him via satellite.”
Zhang frowned. “Still . . . it is a completely foreign land to this Yupik. No matter his ability, I have my doubts.”
Song smiled. “We have anticipated this proposal or something similar for the last month. We have an asset close enough to travel to Ellesmere in time to meet Tupilaq. The asset is an Inuit Eskimo named Aramuq—that seems to be his permanent name. He has casually passed on information to us for the last fourteen years. We believe he either does not understand he is passing information to a foreign government or does not care. He is originally from a settlement in Alaska, but he seems to prefer a nomadic life and has roamed from northwest Alaska to the western part of Greenland. There are Yupiks in western Alaska where this Aramuq picked up enough of the language to understand Tupilaq. At least, that is what our linguists tell us. They may speak different Yupik dialects, but the similarities are sufficient for this mission.
“Until recently, Aramuq was at the northern end of Baffin Island in a settlement named . . . well . . . I cannot pronounce it, but the Canadians called it Arctic Bay. In anticipation, we instructed him to move to the settlement of Resolute, which is better situated in case we want to utilize him with respect to Ellesmere. He moves freely across the entire North American Arctic—something of a wanderer who likes to keep moving for whatever reason. He is known to all the settlements, so it would not be surprising to locals if he appears, stays a few days or weeks, and then moves on. If we decide to send Tupilaq to Ellesmere, Aramuq can make his way to a place where the submarine carrying Tupilaq can pick him up and take them to this location.” Song laid a map of Ellesmere Island in front of Zhang.
“This finger of water is Blind Fiord. It should be mainly ice-free for the next several months, and years can go by without any type of vessel entering its waters.”
Song nodded to Chan, who closed his folder.
“There you have it, General,” said Song. “We have made our analysis as best we can with the existing information, have reported to you, and now it is your turn to decide where this should go next, if anywhere.”
Zhang did not speak immediately. The other two men waited. From their experience, Zhang was known to carefully consider issues but was decisive in the end. Five minutes passed—long enough for Chan to worry. Finally, Zhang sat up straighter and put both hands on his thighs.
“All right. I will discuss this with a higher authority. Overt personnel actions into Canada will need careful consideration, as do satellite changes. However, I will recommend your suggestions. Thank you, Colonel Chan. You are dismissed for now. General Song and I will continue the discussion.”
CHAPTER 28
A DAY UNDER THE MIDNIGHT SUN
3:30 a.m.
As she always did, Kathy Zerlang awoke with a languorous awareness of the world, in this case triggered by the faint pulsating hum from her alarm. As always, she felt a conflict between the warmth under the covers and the need to get to work. The snugness of the bed was only missing another body, but this was just a fleeting thought. She loved her job. As one of the three cooks at the site, today was her turn to be the lead cook. Yesterday she had been Houdini’s assistant, and tomorrow would be her day off. The three-day rotation meant two long days, with every third day free. Sally Ingersoll would be her assistant today.
The three cooks had different styles, which added variety to the site’s cuisine. Sally tended toward American and ethnic favorites, while Kathy’s main courses ran more into the “meat and potatoes” school left over from her years of making meals for a family with four brothers and later cooking at a logging camp in British Columbia. She made up for the main courses’ unimaginativeness by creating inspired desserts originating from her three years as a pastry chef on several cruise lines. She had recently worked four months at an oil rig site in Alaska before bailing out—too few other women and too many men with delusions of their appeal.
Harry “Houdini” Houdin was the experimenter of the three cooks—he came up with strange-sounding and -looking menus that somehow worked. As much as Kathy acknowledged his cooking skills, he made her uneasy. He was a serious womanizer and had made early moves on her. However, she appreciated that when she made it clear that his interest was not reciprocated, he took it cheerfully, and it never came up again.
Houdini vanished from her thoughts as the need to get going rose to a threshold sufficient to pry her out of bed. Then it was a quick shower and off to the mess hall.
By 4:00 a.m., she was in the kitchen. Start the coffee. Pull fifteen pounds of thawed bacon out of a refrigeration unit. Back to the freezer to retrieve four racks of frozen biscuit dough balls to thaw in preparation for popping in the oven later. She glanced at the “midrats” (midnight rations) section of a refrigeration unit. There was always food available for microwaving, mainly for staffers on night shifts. Site manager Lindskold had transferred the name from his time at McMurdo in Antarctica.
She busied herself until the coffee was ready, then poured herself a cup and let the aroma wash over her. She would take her cup, sit by the window in the deserted dining room, and enjoy a few minutes of quiet, plus the aroma and taste of the coffee, as she looked outside. Whatever the season, the alien-like barren landscape always seemed to elicit fantasies of different worlds and times. It was HER time—before Sally showed up at about 5:00 a.m. and the three staff personnel around 5:30 a.m. to take their monthly turns at kitchen duty. Thus, she treasured the interval of solitude preceding the bustle of the day.
Kathy stopped abruptly when she saw someone else sitting an
d looking out one of the windows. Momentarily annoyed, she took her coffee and sat a couple of tables over from the “intruder.” She recognized one of the new people, the one called Willie. She had seen him only from a distance when the newbies first arrived, usually in the dining hall eating with the other new arrivals, along with catching occasional glimpses of him outside the buildings. Her impression, albeit from a distance, was of a somewhat forbidding character. So, what was he doing here at this hour?
He either didn’t notice her, or she was being ignored. She looked out the window, wondering what he was looking at. From this position, no other structure obstructed the view across the slopes, the hills, and the more distant peaks. She was accustomed to the view this time of year changing only by the length of the shadows. It was beautiful in its austerity, though nothing like the few times she’d seen auroras during the dark season. They were rare this far north, according to the scientists—something to do with Site 23 sitting on top of the magnetic north pole where auroras were seldom seen except during high sunspot activity. She forgot the details.
Rare or not, the aurora was breathtaking enough that she remembered it from those mornings when she’d sat at the same table, sipping her coffee. Now, for a time, she gazed at the terrain and forgot where she was, what her plans for today were, or who was this man two tables over?
A movement in her peripheral vision brought Kathy back to her chair and the now cold cup of coffee. How long had she been here for the coffee to get cold? She looked for the other viewer, but his table was empty. A sound made her turn in time to see him disappear into one of the lounges that also served as the site library. She went into the kitchen to warm her coffee, then walked to a spot where she could look into the lounge, not conscious she was making an effort to walk silently.
When she didn’t see him, she moved closer and observed him sitting at a corner table. He noticed her and quickly closed a large book, put it back on a shelf, and left without making eye contact or saying anything.
My, what a friendly sort, she thought, watching his back until he turned a corner. She was about to leave when she stopped. Now, I wonder what kind of book our happy friend was looking at?
Feeling intrusive but only slightly so, she grinned to herself and went to the shelf where he had put the book. It featured “coffee-table” books—those large-format picture books you tended to see in a doctor’s office or in someone’s living room.
From the book’s size, she guessed it had something to do with sports, women, guns . . . something to fit her image of the man. She’d caught a glimpse of an orange cover. There, in the middle of the shelf, was such a book. She pulled it out.
“Arctic Wildflowers,” she read aloud.
No way, she thought, putting it aside and looked through the rest of the books on that shelf. No other orange-covered book. Arctic wildflowers? Somehow, the connection didn’t compute. She thought for a few moments.
Okay, Kathy, step back. You know nothing about this guy. You’re making up who you think he is out of thin air. Be fair. Maybe he’s actually a botanist who just happens to look and act like the Hulk.
She shrugged, put the wildflower book back on the shelf, and left.
Suddenly, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. A quick glance at the clock on the wall—5:03 a.m.! Sally would be showing up any second. She was already a few minutes late. Kathy raced into the galley.
An hour later, she prepared to remove the first batch of biscuits from an oven. She looked around for hot mittens and spied a pair she hadn’t seen before.
“Hello there. Who are you? Hey, Sally. Are these yours?”
Ingersoll looked up from turning over bacon on a grill. “No. Where did they come from?”
“No idea,” said Kathy. “Let’s see if they fit.” She slid her right hand into the appropriate glove. “Hey, that’s nice.” The other hand also fit nicely. She walked to where Ingersoll was working and held up her hands. “You’re sure you’ve never seen these?”
“Like I said. Negative. Where’d you find them?”
“Sittin’ right next to today’s menu, and they weren’t there last night. Someone must have put them there. You’ve heard me bitch enough times about how all the ones we have are too big for me.”
“Maybe someone heard your griping and found a pair they thought would fit.”
Ingersoll walked over and looked at the mittens. “You know, I think I saw the material but didn’t know what it was. Also, Willie was carrying something that looked like this when I visited May over in the shops. The material looks the same, anyway. He was somewhat secretive about what he was doing, so I only got a quick look at whatever it was.”
“Willie? The big guy?”
“Yeah. Nice guy. Everybody in maintenance likes him. Always ready to help out. Kind of quiet, though. Not much for long conversations. Wouldn’t surprise me if he made them for you and just dropped them off without a word.”
6:36 a.m.
Jeremy Wingate was one of the three IT staff members in Level 2. He, Alfredo Ramos, and Manny Cardoza had the primary responsibility of keeping the computer systems and other electronics operational to support eavesdropping on the Russians, the Chinese, and the North Koreans.
Wingate was Canadian—one of eighteen at the site. He was also a lieutenant commander in the Canadian Navy with specialization in intelligence and electronics. In theory, the Americans didn’t know he was there to report directly to the Canadian Joint Operations Command on happenings at the site. The Canadian higher command had not been pleased when the prime minister had told them to leave it alone, asserting that if the Americans were paying for the entire site and Canada got equal access to the covert listening operations, that was sufficient payoff. The Canadian military command naturally disagreed and immediately worked to place one of their officers in a position to learn more.
This latter purpose was the source of Wingate’s frustration. During his five months at the site, he had learned nothing about the part of Level 2 he didn’t have access to. Doubly frustrating was that they worked in the same building. He had dutifully reported on all new arrivals, including the large crates that had been treated as if they contained some fantastically fragile treasure, which he suspected they did, although what exactly the treasure was composed of he had no clue. He also reported on the two new maintenance and safety staff members: Marjek and Larson. Whatever they were, he disbelieved that safety and maintenance were their primary specialties. They reminded Wingate of a few of the U.S., French, and Israeli special operations people he had met during joint maneuvers with Canada. If they didn’t have a similar background, he’d eat his hat.
Wingate finished sketching out his weekly report, encoding it with the software provided by Canadian intelligence, and included it in his weekly email allotment to be sent out the next day after cursory screening by the site manager’s and commander’s offices.
What only Sinclair and Zooty Wilson knew was that all outgoing messages were fed through decryption software based on decoding known Canadian cyphers. Wilson was one of the Level 3 computer staff members and a convicted hacker. Those halcyon days were well into Wilson’s past after an eighteen-month prison sentence twenty years ago. Normally, a felony record would have curtailed most people’s prospective careers. However, in the burgeoning world of computer security, the U.S. government had marked Wilson as one of their own, whether he wanted to be or not. It was explained to him that there were endless opportunities for computer mischief and mystery unraveling to satisfy his interests—as long as he worked for them. Alternatively, he would be under endless surveillance and forbidden to ever touch a computer keyboard again. Wilson, being more enthralled with the capabilities of the computer world than any semi-ideology, patriotically volunteered to serve his country. In the ensuing years, his assignments were not always up to the promised levels of interest, but the variety, the relative freedom, and the occasional exciting projects were enough to satisfy a reformed hacker.
Getting assigned to Site 23 Wilson took to be a payoff for his services and a balancing of the books for all the previous mundane assignments. As a bonus, decoding Wingate’s messages to Canadian intelligence was one of his minor pleasures each week, along with his few minutes of briefing Sinclair on the latest dispatches from Wingate.
His glee was premature. The software failed to detected anomalies with Helen Lin’s letters.
6:56 a.m.
The newest and oddest staff member was currently in the final stages of his nighttime routine. Bobby typically was asleep by 9:30 p.m. and awoke like clockwork within ten minutes of eight and a half hours’ sleep. Fortunately for his mother, if he woke earlier, he had no problem playing with the available stuffed animals and other softer toys at hand until she rose. When the evening hours were added to the usual two-hour nap he took in the afternoon, Jill had worried that he slept too much and that it might indicate some problem. Detailing her worries to two different doctors had finally assured her it was entirely within the normal range of sleep patterns for someone Bobby’s age. The second of the doctors had been a woman with three children of her own, whose advice had come after she got Jill to admit that Bobby seemed happy and active. The doctor said that Jill should get down on her knees and thank God for a happy, active toddler who slept nearly half the day.
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