by Ethan Jones
“No, but I have a few concerns about the implementation of your plan. We need to be even more careful, especially in light of these events.”
“Do you have any actual suggestions?”
“Yes, I do. I will stall the RCMP investigation and the spreading of the news about the casualties in Grise Fiord and the lost members of the recon team. You need to speed up the planned landing. I suggest a change in the landing coordinates. Ellesmere Island is too hot for action. There’s a very high probability of unnecessary exposure.”
“I’ll talk to the boss about it, but you know how much he hates last minute changes.”
“In that case, let’s not call this a change of plans, but an improvement to an already excellent plan. Nanisivik has a good airstrip and very few residents at this time of year. It will be a great place for landing your troops.”
“Nanisivik? Isn’t that on Baffin Island?”
“Yes, but still far away from civilization. Once you control both sides of the Northwest Passage, you’ll practically be invincible.”
“All right, I’ll talk this over with the boss, and I’ll inform you of his decision. Where will you be over the next two hours?”
“I’m going to spend the rest of the day in Arctic Bay. Once I know of the improvements to your plan, I’ll adapt my travels accordingly.”
“OK. Talk to you very soon.”
Yuliya flipped her cellphone shut and looked up. Grigori Smirnov, her boss, entered the Confession Room. Smirnov was widely known as an oil tycoon. Very few people knew he was also a Deputy Director of Operations with the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation. He marched with long steps toward her table at the end of the hall, paying extra attention not to disturb the other patrons or the hovering waiters.
“I have some bad news about our Arctic operation,” Yuliya said, “but nothing that can’t be fixed.”
Smirnov frowned. “How bad?”
“One of our depots has been compromised, so we’ll have to make some improvements to our initial plan. I’m afraid our transportation will have to be aerial, since the naval option, seemingly, is no longer on the table.”
Smirnov’s frown covered his entire forehead. He leaned forward and whispered to Yuliya, “Give me everything you have.”
Arctic Bay, Canada
April 12, 13:35 p.m.
“Distress signal? What distress signal, Constable?” Alisha asked, her sweaty palms as slippery as the tone of her voice.
“One of the geologists in your team, Ms. Anna Worthley, initiated a dire emergency SOS signal this morning at 11:30 a.m.,” Constable John Bylot of the Grise Fiord RCMP detachment said.
Alisha bit her lip.
“The MCC, that is the Mission Control Center in Trenton, received this signal, and they’re preparing a rescue team,” the constable said, “which should be dispatched… hmmm… as soon as the weather conditions improve, hopefully as early as tomorrow morning. Do you know anything about this incident?”
“Oh, yes, Constable Bylot, now that you mentioned the right word, incident, it was an incident. A mistake, I mean. Ms. Worthley accidentally pressed the button on her PLB while unloading her backpack and her personal effects.” She bit her fingernails. C’mon sucker, buy it.
“A mistake you say,” the constable replied. “The signal, according to the Canadian Forces Base in Trenton, came from Cape Combermere. The beacon transmitted for a few seconds and then disappeared.”
“Shit,” Alisha swore under her breath. I should have kept the beacon going, but it would have pinpointed the chopper’s location.
“Yes, we deactivated the beacon, in order to interrupt the signal, since, like I said, it was a big mistake. We didn’t want to bother the rescuers with a false alarm, you see?”
“Well, once the signal is emitted, the rescue team will have to go ahead with their mission.”
“By all means, Constable. I’m not trying to stop anyone from doing their job. I’m just reassuring you and your colleagues that Ms. Worthley is safe and sound.” Alisha stood up from her chair and looked out the small window of her hotel room.
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yes. We gathered our data and completed our trip. Everyone’s doing well.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Arctic Bay. Hunters and Trappers Lodge.”
“May I talk to Mr. Hall?”
You don’t believe me? Alisha reined in her thoughts. She stood up and paced around the room. “Sure. As soon as he returns.”
“Where did he go?”
“I think he went out with his friend, Kiawak,” she said, staring at the bathroom door.
“Oh, yeah, Kiawak,” John let out a quiet laugh. “He’s got a couple of friends there, even a girlfriend I hear, although he’ll never admit it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. So, they’ll be out for a while, I guess.”
“They said something about coming back in the evening. But you can try Justin’s cellphone, if you want.” Alisha tapped the side of the table, where she had locked all personal belongings of her team members in two of the upper drawers.
“I may do that. I’ll contact the Trenton Base and see if I can get the rescue mission cancelled, especially since they haven’t dispatched it yet.”
“OK, thanks,” Alisha said.
“On another issue, my partner, Heidi, told me Kiawak is requesting that we wait for a while before we release the news about the deaths of Nuqatlak and Levinia. Strange, don’t you think?”
“Well, I recall Kiawak talking about potential accomplices that the victims may have had relationships with. Releasing the news may damage further investigations.”
“I understand. I will use ultimate discretion in this case.”
“Thank you. Anything else, Constable?”
“No, that will be all. Thank you for your help, Ms. Gunn.”
“It was a pleasure. If you need anything else, call me.”
“I will. Good bye.”
“Bye.”
Before Alisha even closed her cellphone, a low vibration came from the drawer where she had placed Justin’s phone. “Son of a bitch,” she blurted. “That constable is a real pain in the ass.”
She ignored the ring, which replaced the vibration, and looked outside the double-glazed window at the snowstorm. The walls and the roof of the one-story mobile structure squeaked and groaned under the whip of the blowing snow and the strong wind gusts. So, my friends were able to ask for help by using a distress signal. And they did this under my own freaking nose! Stupid beacon! I wonder what else they’re doing instead of freezing and dying. Stubborn little bastards! I should have shot them in the head.
She cursed her choice and swore that if the weather did not kill them, she was going to make sure she finished her job with her own hands. She walked to the bathroom and kicked open its door. Kiawak lay on the floor, blindfolded and handcuffed to the bathroom radiator. Alisha removed his blindfold and checked his eyes. They were droopy, bloodshot, and narrow because of the injection she had administered to him twice in the last thirty minutes.
A small doze of the sodium-based sedative cocktail impaired the target’s judgment, numbing his senses and instincts. Most importantly, it proved to be a reliable source of harvesting information from unwilling subjects. The substance destroyed all defense mechanisms in the victim’s brain, releasing every true fact and detail stored in their memory.
“Kiawak, Kiawak,” Alisha whispered next to his ear.
“Hhhh,” Kiawak groaned, his head jerking left and right, and his eyes rolling up and down. “What? Who?”
“It’s me, your grandma. How are you, my boy?”
“OK, OK, grandma, but it is cold, a little cold.”
“Your girlfriend called earlier. She wants to see you.”
“Tania? She’s here?”
“No, she wants us to visit her. Can you tell me where she lives?”
“Eh… eh… I don’t know.”
>
“Please, Kiawak, where does she live?”
“OK, her house is the second from the…”
Chapter Eleven
Thule, Greenland
April 12, 2:30 p.m.
Domingo, one of the technicians on duty at Satellite Tracking Station Four, was returning from his coffee break. The only thing in common between the cafeteria’s coffee and the Starbucks gourmet he used to enjoy back at his home in Seattle was the color. Two weeks into his new job as a Satellite Communications Assistant, one of a few dozen civilian contractors in the 821st Air Base Group in Thule, he was still suffering withdrawal from his preferred espresso dark roast.
“What’s up, hombre?” Technical Sergeant Bryan greeted him, as soon as Domingo stepped inside the station’s control room, a small, windowless cube. An array of cables snaked around two tables covered with electronic gadgets and notepads. He fought with them for a place to lay his paper cup, before stumbling into his chair.
“Crazy time to get this… this dark piss they call coffee. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”
“Nope, nada.” Bryan pointed at the monitor on his workstation that displayed data signals from satellite dishes mounted above the station. “As you can see, it’s too cold even for Russian bears to roam outdoors.”
Domingo gave the screen an indifferent glance. “Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?”
“Work. For a living.”
“No, I mean, our troops here in the air base. The 12th Space Warning Squadron, the Security Forces Squadrons, these ballistic missiles all over the place, and a thousand or so people working like ants, day and night.”
“Do you want me to repeat our patriotic mission statement?” Bryan sat straight up in his chair but did not bother to stand up. “Our mission here,” he said, deepening his voice, “is to perform support for tracking and commanding operations of the United States of America and—”
“No, not that. I want Bryan’s no-bullshit answer.”
“All right then, since you’re asking for it. But no complaining after I’m done, if the truth hurts.”
“Give it to me straight, buddy.”
“We live in the new oil rush era. We’re literally sitting on a pot, no, millions of pots, barrels, of black gold. It’s all about the oil, baby. We’re here so Uncle Sam can claim it.”
Bryan put his feet up on the corner of his table, ignoring a notepad whose pages began to crinkle under the heel of his boots and crossed his hands behind his head.
“That’s it?”
“No complaining. I warned you.”
“That’s your best explanation?”
“Sorry, my poor dreamer from Seattle, but that’s the only logical explanation. What else do you want me to tell you? The Russians are going to attack us? If they held back when that crazy Khrushchev was doing the Cold War dance, why would they start a war now, when they’re not even half as powerful? Besides, you know how much defenses and satellites we have in place here? No? Well, let me tell you.”
Bryan lowered his voice. “I’ve been here three years and I’ve seen every corner of the base. This place’s a fortress. It was built in just three months in 1951 in total secrecy. The Blue Jay operation they called it. The base was built extremely fast but also exceptionally well. Some of the buildings, this one included, we still use today. At the peak of the Cold War, in 1961, this place had ten thousand people, ten thousand trained soldiers and airmen. Can you imagine all that? Jet fighters, icebreakers, a full army. We were ready to begin our assault against the Soviets and send enough bombers to blast Moscow like it was the apocalypse. The Kremlin would be pulverized before a comrade could ask, ‘What the hell was that?’“
Domingo soaked up Bryan’s explanation, acknowledging his attention with the occasional nod.
“On the other hand, our DEW, the Distant Early Warning system, had over seventy radar stations, communication centers, radio signal interception towers, the works. From Nome, Alaska in the west, and all the way to Thule, Greenland in the east, no snow goose could flap its wings without beeping its position on our radars. Regardless of the ongoing dismantling, we still have countless eyes in the sky, our stealthy satellites. So, what do you think?”
“Fascinating, but I still think we’re here for a higher mission.”
“Dude, the only thing high here is you.” Brian deepened his voice again and dragged his words as he said, “You sure that’s only coffee in your cup, and you didn’t sweeten it up? Huh, you know what I mean?”
“You’re hilarious, you know,” Domingo replied with an annoyed groan.
“I thought you were acting stupid when you first asked your question.”
“The one about what we’re doing here?”
“Yeah, bro, yeah, that one,” Bryan continued in his mocking voice.
“No, I’m really curious. I wonder if the Russians are ever going to make a move. If this is, as you say, the new oil rush, shouldn’t they be here already, to beef up their claims?”
“Oh, the Russians are here, all right. There’s always a submarine or two in international waters and sometimes in the Canadian waters. They’re just like sharks, circling around their prey, waiting for the right moment to clamp shut their jaws. I’ve no idea when and if all hell will break loose, but I hope it’s not on my watch. The thing is the Russians know it’s a war they can’t win. We’ll kick their ass in the end, of course, but the blood cost will be so high, I don’t think our generals we’ll send us into battle. Unless, the Russians throw the first punch, but, like I said, that’s unlikely.”
“So, what about the oil then?”
“Oh, the Russians are trying their hand by launching all kinds of scientific expeditions, geological, topographical, measuring the continental shelf, and all that science bull. They’re playing nice, for the time being.”
Domingo reluctantly took a sip of his coffee, and his distorted face showed its bitter taste.
“If it’s so bad, why do you keep drinking it?” Bryan asked.
Domingo swallowed his poison and opened his mouth to explain the long-term effects of caffeine withdrawal. But the phone ringing on Bryan’s table took away his chance. Bryan rolled his eyes, waited until the third annoying buzz, and punched the hands-free button. “Yes, Dave, what can I do for you?”
“Bryan, what’s the hold up there? You playing Solitaire?”
“Dave, step out of your cave, and into the digital age. Solitaire was hip in the eighties! Call of Duty, baby. It’s all the thrill now.”
Dave snorted. “Makes sense. The only weapons you’ll ever shoot are in video games. In real life, you troubleshoot our network and fight viruses. That gets your blood pumping, doesn’t it?”
“You got it, Dave. What’s your trouble today? Can’t find your computer’s start button?”
Domingo grinned, suppressing his laughter. Technical Sergeant Dave Manning called them — or ‘badgered’ them, as Bryan considered the calls — every time he needed some assistance with the communication satellites of the base.
“I found the start button just fine. Thanks for your concern. We’ve noticed some movements earlier today over the coastline of southeast Ellesmere. Helicopter flights.”
“Yeah, you didn’t read the memo?”
“What memo?”
“The one about the Arctic wargame. Denmark’s engaged in some High Arctic military maneuvers over the weekend and next week, depending on the weather conditions.”
“Do you know what gear they’re bringing?”
“A few planes, Lynx choppers, and two icebreakers. They may carry out a few missile tests overland. Nothing of interest to us, since we’re not invited to their party. Too bad, ‘cause it would have been lots of fun and a good break from this monotony.”
“The chopper in question is not a Lynx, and it’s flying over Canadian airspace.”
“Maybe it’s a Cormorant of the Canadian DND?” Bryan suggested.
“It can’t be. Our radar imaging sho
ws something of a smaller size, probably a civilian chopper.”
“Isn’t it too early for expeditions this year?”
“I don’t know. There’s always a crazy son of a—”
“All right, all right. I’ll point one of our satellites in that area for close-up shots,” Bryan said and tapped the mute button on the speakerphone. “Most likely it’s nothing, but I’ll do it, or he’ll badger us all day,” he said to Domingo, who shrugged with indifference.
“We last traced this chopper over Cape Combermere. We lost it soon afterwards because of a heavy overcast in the region.”
“Cape Combermere? That’s only one hundred and forty miles east, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get some images, if the chopper’s still around.”
“Bryan, I was thinking it would be a good idea to send in a drone.”
“Why do you want a drone if I’m gonna get you the shots through the satellite?”
“In case the thick clouds don’t let you get clear images.”
“You’ll have to run this by the commander. He’s responsible for dispatching aircraft, whether they’re remote controlled or not.”
“I know, but I’ll need your support, in case he asks for your opinion, which I’m sure he will.”
“OK, I’ll back you up on this, Dave, but only ‘cause you’re asking nicely, and I’m getting curious. The last two weeks have been so dull. A little excitement would make me feel alive again. What do you think, Domingo?”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Domingo replied with a nod.
Cape Combermere, Canada
April 12, 1:10 p.m.
It was quite an exaggeration to call the two wooden pieces secured together with polyester fabric paddles. Still, at the bow of the raft, Justin rowed as fast as possible, careful not to splash Carrie and Anna sitting at the stern and sculling through the icy waters. The only useful objects salvaged from the Danish depot were a few logs and wooden boards, in addition to an abundance of tent liners. Justin and Carrie had built a makeshift raft, barely buoyant, but sufficiently stable to carry the weight of the crew. Steered by their determination and helped by the current, they were flowing southbound, about one hundred and fifty feet from the closest ice floes.