Polar Strike: A Tale of the Great Crisis
James Vincett
Copyright © 2015 by James Vincett
All rights reserved
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.homininunion.com
ISBN: 978-1-943844-80-7
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The Anuvi Incident
Truth is the mother of hatred
Ausonius
“LOOK at this,” John Obuyi said. He wore a heavy green canvas coat over faded and stained coveralls. An artificial fleece-lined hood protected his head against the bitter cold. A makeshift scarf of old wool socks covered his face. His dark eyes peered out from behind a cracked set of snow goggles. His breath frosted his scarf and hood with ice crystals.
“Peters was right; there is a new checkpoint.” Charles Mackenzie stood shorter than his companion, but looked thinner, and at least two decades older; he wore an oversize set of red coveralls he had scrounged from the doghouse of an abandoned drilling rig more than five years ago. Into the arms and legs he stuffed rags for insulation. He wore a patched fleece jacket beneath the coveralls, and a patched balaclava covered his head and face.
They walked south down Centre Street in a crowd of a hundred men similarly dressed in makeshift winter clothing, the bitter south wind shredding the men’s breath. A tank blocked the north end of the bridge, its long barrel looming over the street. One soldier sat in the machine-gun cupola, while four others stood beside the vehicle. All seemed relaxed despite the cold, but Mackenzie knew they carefully watched the crowd. A canvas tent stood beside the tank, the flap closed against the cold, but a smoking chimney protruded from the top.
“These guys seem a little better fed than the others,” Obuyi said softly, “I swear the one on the machine gun has chubby cheeks.”
“Their battledress looks almost new, and I’ve never seen those rifles before,” Mackenzie said. Each of the soldiers wore a helmet he had also never seen before. By the shape of the headgear Mackenzie figured the uplink electronics were embedded in the back. From the forehead of the helmets slid mirrored shades over the soldiers’ eyes. Mackenzie thought such a device probably gave each soldier unprecedented access to information plus the ability to see infrared and ultraviolet wavelengths.
He looked up into the sky; he knew there were drones above the city right now, too high to be visible, sending tactical information to the soldiers below. The auxiliary troops that normally patrolled the city never wore tactical electronics.
A large electronic billboard stood vigil over the street, just like a hundred others set up in various locations around the city of Calgary. This device constantly broadcast USNORTHCOM propaganda, twenty-four hours a day. A deep voice provided details to whatever images flashed on the screen. Mackenzie couldn’t ignore the thing, the sound just irritating enough to keep him on his toes.
“A great victory on the Southwestern Front! U.S. forces have driven the Chihuahuan Cartel out of the city of Flagstaff. With that position taken, the 28th Infantry Division can renew its push south to Phoenix and then to the historical border of this great nation!”
“Today marks the 30th anniversary of Canada joining with the United States in an historic melding of both countries. The last three decades have seen our two peoples defend themselves against the barbaric attacks of the criminal cartels of South America.”
How much of it was true, and how much was bullshit, Mackenzie didn’t even try to guess. The images on the screen probably had nothing to do with the accompanying narration. Who knows what USNORTHCOM kept secret? More than they released, Mackenzie was certain.
“PAC-COM, the criminal military junta occupying Seattle-Vancouver, has launched a two prong offensive east through the Kicking Horse and Yellowhead Passes. Despite the horrific use of chemical warfare, U.S. Forces have driven them back so they no longer threaten the eastern slopes and the heartlands beyond. General Clark has hailed the 14th and 17th Mountain Divisions as heroes! Our Great Leader looks forward to the day when the western coast of the continent will be returned to the people of the United States!”
Mackenzie looked up at the mention of General Clark. Mackenzie thought the General definitely looked older than when he first met the man about thirty years ago. The prop screen displayed Clark inspecting soldiers and pinning medals on chests. Who knew if these images were real or computer generated.
As the crowd of men approached the checkpoint one of the soldiers put a megaphone to his mouth. “Attention, civilians! You must present your papers for scanning before you see the recruiter.”
“Papers” included old fashioned documents plus the biometric civilian control chips each resident of the city had installed in his or her commcomp. Every aspect of life, getting food and fuel, finding work, depended on those control chips, and every person guarded theirs carefully.
The men queued up in front of the canvas tent. They stepped from foot to foot or rocked back and forth, and sometimes waved their arms, all to generate a little bit more heat. The prop screen blared in the background. The soldier repeated his warning about papers every few minutes as more and more men arrived at the checkpoint.
The men remained silent as they waited in line; they knew from experience that any snippets of conversation misunderstood by the soldiers could lead to injury or death. Each man entered the canvas tent and did not emerge for several minutes. As they approached the tent, Obuyi notably glanced at one of the soldiers. Their shoulder patches read AIRBORNE above two stylized capital As.
One of the soldiers motioned for Obuyi to step forward. “Papers.” Obuyi complied and the soldier scanned the documents and looked at the man.
“Remove your headgear,” the soldier snapped.
Obuyi complied. He pushed back his hood and removed his scarf and goggles to reveal his deep brown skin and tightly curled black hair. The soldier looked at him then his documents, then passed the papers back to Obuyi and pointed at the tent. Without looking back Obuyi parted the flap and disappeared inside.
Several minutes later the soldier’s radio squawked; he beckoned to Mackenzie.
“Papers.”
Mackenzie handed the soldier his documents. He kept his eyes focused on the snow-covered pavement.
“Remove your headgear.”
Mackenzie removed his balaclava; the cold wind bit into his fair face. He had long since lost the hair on the top of his head, and only a red and gray fringe remained. His blue eyes watered in the wind, the tears freezing on his cheeks as the soldier looked at his face and compared it to the image on his documents.
“How old are you? And don’t bullshit me.” The soldier’s accent was obviously southern U.S., maybe even Texas.
“Fifty-two.” The announcement over the network had said that men up to age fifty-five were needed.
The soldier handed the documents back to Mackenzie and pointed at the tent. Mackenzie gently took his papers from the soldier’s hand, parted the flap, and stepped into the tent.
Warmth. Warmth he had not felt in months. The apartment he and Obuyi and the two men’s families shared hovered around 15 degrees C. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light.
A squat man, as bald as Mackenzie but probably twenty-five kilos heavier, sat at a portable table peering into a monitor glass covered with text and figures. He wore blue coveralls and a cap embroidered with the words NORTHWEST OIL & GAS in white text. Beside the table stood another soldier. As Mackenzie stepped to the table the soldier watched him carefully.
“I’m Marcus Elliot.
Recruitment. Well, c’mon, what have you got?” His accent was also southern U.S.
Mackenzie handed his documents and commcomp to the man and stood looking at the wall of the tent. The man plugged Mackenzie’s commcomp into a small computer on the desk and scanned the text and figures that appeared on the monitor glass.
“Experience in the Montney Formation.”
“Yes, sir.”
The recruiter continued to scan the information. “You have close to eight hundred oil and gas wells completed?” He looked up, his pale blue eyes wide with surprise.
“Yes, sir. Mostly in the deep basin of the northwest, but I’ve done a few hundred in the Pembina Oilfield, some SAG-D stuff in the Wabasca, and in the Front Range reservoirs of the McConnell Thrust.
“Why are you still in the field?”
“Sir?”
“That kind of experience is valuable, no matter what your age. You’re more valuable as a teacher. We need more workers in the field; you could be much better compensated as a trainer, larger living quarters and better rations.” The man continued to scan the text on the glass and the documents.
Mackenzie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, waiting for it.
“Ahhh, now I understand,” the man said. He looked up and smiled. “When and where did you fight?”
“’44 through ’47, near Sudbury.”
“You were one of Colonel Cruddy’s Crazies? Fantassins du Diable?” He let out a low whistle. “You boys caused quite a lot of havoc.”
“It was a long time ago,” Mackenzie said. “Almost thirty years now. We were pardoned by President Yolli-Holden.”
“I was in the 15th.”
Mackenzie’s knees nearly buckled. The 15th Air Assault Division had attacked in force one moonless winter night early in ’46. They flew in low over Georgian Bay and the city of Sudbury in stealth VTOL aircraft. With fire support from pinpoint satellite kinetic weapon strikes and small area EMP bursts they succeeded in taking the city. This after so many assaults had failed. That assault, along with the “shakes” subtype of H3N2 flu that ravaged the ranks of the Royal Highlanders, finally broke the spirit of the defenders. Mackenzie had fought on for ten more months as a guerrilla while the 15th hunted them through the lake and forest country north of the city. He almost starved to death those last few months.
The images came back in rapid succession. Mackenzie almost flinched at the memories.
“Were you at the Ottawa trials?”
“No, sir. I was still imprisoned in Camp Kuhu in suburban Toronto when the pardon came down from the President.”
Elliot looked at him for a moment longer. “Well, water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned, but, as you probably know, USNORTHCOM does give a shit about this sort of thing. You’ll do in the field, though.” Eliot extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
Mackenzie shook it. “Thanks.”
“We’ll provide you with everything: microscope, chemicals, instruments, log computer, and twenty-five hundred calories a day. As lead geologist you’ll share quarters with your second, the fellow I just talked to, but no-one else. A thousand dollars will be deposited to your commcomp account each week. Expect to be in the field for the next three months.”
Elliot handed back Mackenzie’s documents and commcomp. “Come back to the checkpoint on the morning of the 5th. That’s seven days from now. Got it?””
“Yes, sir.” Mackenzie exited the tent through another flap; Obuyi stood in the cold waiting for him.
“I’m lead geologist,” Mackenzie said.
“And I’m second,” Obuyi replied.
“Good. Let’s go home.”
A DECADES-OLD twelve floor apartment building several blocks north of the Centre Street Bridge served as home. Like other buildings, it sat back from the main street behind a line of tall concrete barriers. The military government confined residents to their homes except for work and to pick up food from local distribution depots. Soldiers stopped Obuyi and Mackenzie three times as the two men walked back through the cold. Each time the soldiers demanded to see their documents and electronically stamped passcodes, and after a cursory examination, waved the two men on their way. The two men had long ago learned to walk in silence, waiting for the safety of closed doors before engaging in conversation.
The propaganda screens continued to drone. “U.S. scientists are close to granting the United States a return to orbit! USNORTHCOM will then have the ability to use satellite communications and imagery in its constant fight your survival, decades after the last satellites were destroyed by the evil Persian Empire.”
The elevators hadn’t worked for the fifteen years Mackenzie and his family had lived in the building. The two men trudged up the stairs to the fourth floor and walked down the dark hall, dimly lit by a single LED light every three or four meters. Wise people reserved the daylight hours for going outside; the halls, staircases, and streets became dangerous at night, with desperate people looking to steal anything not bolted down, and troublesome soldiers looking to take advantage of the unwary.
The military took precedence in everything: energy, space, food, and water. But the two men thought themselves lucky; they and their families shared a large two-bedroom apartment. Obuyi lightly tapped the door in a complex series of knocks. After a number of knocks and scrapes the door opened a crack. The two men leaned close as someone inside shone a light into their faces, then into the hall behind them. The door snapped shut and after another series of clicks and scrapes it opened again and the men stepped quickly inside.
Obuyi’s wife, Fiddausi, let them in. Obuyi hugged his wife while Mackenze turned and secured all of the locks on the metal door.
“Did you get something?” she asked.
“Both of us,” Obuyi said. Tall and thin, Fiddausi had large eyes set into a gaunt face. Mackenzie thought she looked thinner than usual; she had probably been feeding her two children her own ration of food.
“Where are the boys?” Obuyi asked.
“Studying,” she replied. “The new commcomp is a big hit.” She smiled.
The little gift had cost the two men almost twelve weeks of pay, but it was worth it. The boys needed to learn.
Fiddausi looked at Mackenzie and touched his face. “You dear man,” he said, tears in her eyes. “Thank you.” She hugged him.
Mackenzie looked at her with wide eyes. “For what?”
“We couldn’t have got the new commcomp without you. You and Margaret have been too good to us.”
“Ahh, it wasn’t anything,” Mackenzie said, and removed the woman’s arms from around his neck. “Something smells good.”
“It’s the same you always get,” Fiddausi said as she took her husband’s hand, “spiced lentils and vegetables.”
“Sounds good to me!”
The young boys, wearing thick coats, emerged from one of the bedrooms.
“Are you ready?” Obuyi asked.
The boys nodded, bright smiles on their faces. Fiddausi put on an old blue overcoat.
“We’re off to school this afternoon,” Obuyi said. The families in the building had organized school for the young children. It didn’t happen every day, but as often as was possible.
“Have a good time,” Mackenzie said. He locked the door after they left. He took off his winter coveralls and hung them up and stepped into the kitchen. Margaret stood there, stirring the food in a pot over a single gas burner.
The same age as him, but a foot shorter, Margaret had thick but short hair, a slender body, a graceful neck, and bright green eyes. She wore patched jeans and a heavy sweater made from three other garments. She looked up at him and smiled. “Good news!” she said.
“Yes, my love,” Mackenzie said, and hugged his wife. “It sounds like the children are doing well.”
“They are,” she said, “and it is good we can help.” Her eyes teared up and she turned back to the burner to stir dinner. Their own three sons were dead; two were pressed into the army when they turned
sixteen; a few years later the parents received word their children had died fighting on the Southwestern Front. The third son died of the flu a year later.
Mackenzie had met Obuyi three winters ago; the two worked as geologists on the same rig north of the Rocky Mountains near the Peace River. The two men quickly became friends, and Mackenzie invited the man and his family to live in the apartment. Margaret had been skeptical at first, but she soon warmed to the young family. The young boys now called the older couple grandma and grandpa.
“Peters came by again,” she said quietly. “He wanted to know if you found something; he said he would be back sometime before dark.”
Mackenzie sat at the dining table. The young man Peters had appeared almost a year ago; he claimed to have served with Mackenzie’s two sons. His proof was pictures of himself with the two young men, but those could easily have been faked. He said he only wanted to befriend the people that raised his two friends to be men of such good character. In the time Mackenzie had known him, Peters had not asked for anything. Indeed, the man had been very generous with news and rumours as to what was happening in the rest of the world. And without Peters, they never would have been able to purchase the new commcomp for the children.
But there was something about the young man; the way he never looked Mackenzie in the eye; his vague answers about what he did for a living or where he lived; his mysterious comings and goings; how he managed to acquire the information and goods he had.
He suddenly heard a rapid but soft series of knocks at the door. The pattern was correct. Mackenzie made his way to the door and opened most of the locks. He opened the door and peered out, shining the flashlight on the figure standing in the hall. He recognized the large nose and thin face of Graham Peters.
Mackenzie closed the door, unlocked the rest of the locks, and opened the door to let the young man in. Peters wore a long military coat, patched but clean, with an old gray scarf around his neck. He had a full head of dark, wavy hair, and intelligent dark eyes. He carried a backpack over his shoulder. “Hey Mack,” he said with a smile, extending his hand.
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