Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  Stopping also to catch his breath, Redmond took a swig out of his canteen, before offering it to his portly hiking companion.

  “I know what you mean, Angus.

  Because I’m beginning to feel those additional years as well.”

  “Come off it. Jack Redmond,” countered the Scotsman.

  “Why you’re looking just as fit today as you were twenty years ago when we first met outside the town of Lahr in the Black Forest.”

  The veteran commando shook his head.

  “Thanks for the well-meaning compliment, Angus, but this old body’s logged quite a few kilometers since then. Why I’ve got pains in places I never knew existed before.”

  Looking up the rock-strewn trail as the last of the squad disappeared into the tree line, Angus voiced himself.

  “I hope Sunshine Village isn’t much further.

  These old legs have about had it.”

  Jack checked the position of the sun overhead before responding.

  “It’s not much longer now, Angus.

  Just think, you’ll be sitting in the lodge cooling your thirst with an ice-cold frosty one, while I’m still out on the trail with my boys. I’m beginning to seriously think about leaving this field work to younger, more capable individuals, like Sergeant-Major Ano.”

  “Ah, that one’s as cool and no-nonsense as they come,” observed Angus.

  “During the whole time I’ve known him, never once have I heard him crack a joke or even laugh for that matter. Does the chap ever have a light moment?”

  “Not very often,” answered Redmond.

  “Though there’s no one better with the men than Cliff Ano. He gained their respect from the very beginning, and that is the whole secret of successful command. From what little he’s told me of his upbringing, I pretty well understand his serious outlook on life. Growing up in an Inuit family that still followed the old ways and lived off the land, he didn’t have much time for childhood fun. When other kids were playing with toys and watching cartoons on television, he was out on the hunt with has father, or helping his mother repair and make clothing.

  “I’ll tell you one thing though. If there was one person on this planet who I wouldn’t mind being stranded in the Arctic with, it would be Cliff Ano.

  That fellow is a survivor, pure and simple.”

  Taking a moment to stow away his canteen, Redmond added, “Well, we’d better be pushing on. Can you make it, Angus?”

  “Can I make it?” mocked the Scotsman.

  “Why I was only needing my second wind. Come on. Jack Redmond. There’s some life left in these old bones yet.”

  To prove his point, he put the reed mouthpiece of his pipe between his lips, and as he began picking his way through the rubble, the mournful notes of “Donald Blue” vibrated through the crisp mountain air.

  It took them another hour to reach the trail’s summit.

  This put them above the tree line, on a gently sloping plateau filled to the horizon with stunted pines, weatherworn granite escarpments, and acre upon acre of lush green heather. Spots of snow covered much of this meadowland, yet the mild temperature was more like that of summer than late fall.

  With the surrounding mountain peaks providing an inspirational backdrop, the squad took a brief break.

  Removing their forty-pound packs, the men stretched their cramped muscles and munched away on chocolate-coated granola bars and oranges.

  Anxious for a proper rest, Angus McPherson scanned this new landscape and soon spotted just what he had been searching for — a tightly stretched, elevated cable that had a chair swinging beneath it.

  Forty-five minutes later, the Scotsman was actually on this lift, comfortably on his way to the lodge at Sunshine Village.

  With a good four hours of sunlight left. Jack Redmond directed his squad in the opposite direction.

  Still traversing a high Alpine meadow, they passed through a valley dotted with several crystal-clear lakes. From this point onward, a single narrow footpath had been cut through the heather, its gentle meander crossing the broad valley and disappearing in the direction of several distant, snow-covered peaks. The loftiest of these summits was a triangularly shaped formation that looked much like the Swiss Matterhorn. Known as Assiniboine, this was the mountain for which the provincial park they were about to enter was named.

  They passed by a cairn indicating that they had just entered the province of British Columbia. Jack Redmond had walked this same trail as a teenager, and once again he felt right at home in this breathtaking wilderness valley that had changed little over the years.

  To give the men a better feel for the land, he sent them off on the trail alone, at five-minute intervals.

  While waiting for the squad to thoroughly disperse, he passed his time working on his log, and sharing some advanced pointers in the demanding science of orienteering. A little over sixty minutes later, he hit the footpath himself.

  Their goal was Assiniboine Pass. Here they would set up an overnight bivouac, before continuing on to the mountain itself early the next morning. As last man on the trail, Redmond would most likely be arriving at this campsite well after dusk. Yet fortunately, the sky remained unusually clear, and because a full moon was scheduled to rise that evening, he figured he should have more than enough illumination to guide him by.

  So as to not lag too far behind, he set himself a moderately stiff pace. The muscles in his calves were tight after the climb up from Simpson Pass, and the relatively level terrain he was now following was most welcome.

  The one thing he found himself missing as he crossed through the meadows of lush heather was the sound of the Scotsman’s bagpipes. Surely this was the type of countryside in which the stirring music of the pipes could be most appreciated.

  Subconsciously whistling, “Scotland the Brave,” Redmond thought of Angus McPherson. The affable army cook had been a long-time friend and confidant.

  They’d been together on two tours of duty in Germany, and had managed to get into their fair share of trouble along the way.

  The son of an immigrant sheepherder from Edinburgh, Angus was brought to Canada as a teenager.

  His family settled in the Cypress Hills area of Saskatchewan, and it was while on a buying trip to Regina that he decided to run off and join the armed forces.

  With his parents long dead in their graves, Angus had no other family but the army. Soon to be faced with mandatory retirement, he planned to start a small restaurant near the Currie Barracks in Calgary.

  Destined to be one of his best patrons. Jack Redmond was forced to temporarily halt his improvised whistling version of “Bonnie Dundee” when the footpath began ascending up a fairly steep ridge.

  A series of switchbacks led him steadily upward.

  Conscious of the alien, forty pounds he carried on his back, he had to make a total effort to keep from halting before he reached the summit. Lungs wheezing and leg and back muscles protesting with cramping pain, he pushed himself to the very limits of his endurance. He was able to continue on only by resorting to a trick his grandfather had long ago taught him. When in the midst of a steep, steady climb, it was best to focus one’s complete attention on a tiny portion of the trail approximately a meter ahead. This allowed one to establish a constant speed, and not be distracted or discouraged by the passing scenery.

  Redmond’s pulse was madly pounding away in his chest as he turned up the final switchback. Briefly eyeing the flattened summit above, he initiated one last major effort. Step by tedious step he proceeded, until his goal was at long last attained after a final, agonizing burst of expended energy.

  Crouching down in an effort to regather his breath, Redmond wiped his soaked brow with the back of his hand and peered out to scan the ridge he had just traversed. From this elevated height he could follow the narrow footpath all the way back to the top of the Sunshine chair lift, where they had dropped off Angus.

  Knowing the Scotsman’s love for alcohol, he could imagine him at the r
esort’s lounge, pouring down an ice-cold dark ale.

  More than happy to satisfy his growing thirst with a swig of water. Jack was in the process of reaching down for his canteen when he realized with a start that he wasn’t alone. His pulse once again quickened as he slowly turned and set startled eyes on a young grizzly cub contentedly grazing less than a dozen meters distant.

  No stranger to encountering bears in the wild, Redmond immediately contemplated his options. Since a cub was not likely to initiate an unprovoked attack, his best move would be to get out of the area as quietly and quickly as possible. Forgetting all about his sore legs and back, he stood and began to make his way across the summit’s broad plateau. The cub seemed completely unaware of the mortal’s presence, and his apprehensions already easing. Jack hurried across a tiny, trickling stream.

  It was as he cut through a copse of stunted evergreens that he spotted yet another bear. This mammoth brown beast was obviously the mother, and because of a sudden shift in the wind, she had already gotten the human’s scent. Cursing his misfortune, Jack started to go for the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  But since Rangers carried no bullets while on maneuvers, it would be useless except as a bludgeon.

  As the adult grizzly scanned the portion of the plateau that lay downwind, Redmond was thankful for the bear’s poor eyesight. With his white fatigues, he would be hard to spot as long as he didn’t make any quick, jerky moves.

  The possibility of sliding back into the thin thicket of trees crossed his mind, but the evergreens would provide little cover and were much too fragile to climb. Even if a climbable tree were available to him, a bear could follow him up into the branches just as easily as it could run him down on an open field. That left him with but three options. He could furtively slink off and pray that the grizzly failed to spot him, directly confront the beast and attempt to scare it away, or — the third alternative was probably the safest bet, but was surely the most difficult to do — he could lie down, cover his pulse, and play dead.

  Because the beast had yet to locate him. Jack decided to try to soundlessly slip away through the thicket of trees that lay behind him. Not daring to completely turn around, he took a shaky step backward.

  He followed this with another and could actually feel a tree limb scrape up against the back of his leg as a muted, high-pitched grunt caused a sickening heaviness to form in his stomach. Breathlessly turning his head, he peered through the limbs and had his worst fears realized — the cub was suddenly galloping straight for him!

  Sandwiched between the two bears as he was, and certain that the curious offspring would all too soon give him away. Jack did the only prudent thing left to do. He dropped to the ground, gathered himself up into a tight fetal ball, and began praying in earnest.

  He was well into his second Hail Mary, when the cub reached his side. The beast sniffed his prone body from head to toe, and Jack was positive that his pounding heart was going to pop right out of his chest.

  His terror further intensified when the air vibrated with a deep, throaty roar. Daring to open one of his eyes, he focused in on a horrifying sight that would stay with him for all eternity. For standing directly before him, less than a half-dozen meters away, was the mother grizzly, her huge brown frame fully erect, her red eyes locked directly on him. He snapped his eyes shut as the bear let loose with another deafening roar, and seconds later, the beast was upon him.

  It was the smell that gave the adult away. Its heavy musky odor sickened Jack, and as he fought back a rush of nauseous bile, he felt a series of hard poking jabs to his back. Another series of blows were centered on his legs, and when the bear’s cold nose actually touched the back of his exposed neck, the Arctic Ranger lost control of his bowels.

  Fighting the natural instinct to get up and run like hell. Jack desperately tried to center his thoughts.

  Never one to easily frighten, his panic filled him with a sickening dread, and for the second time in his life, he prepared to meet his maker. Past experiences suddenly flashed in his mind’s eye as clearly as if they were being projected on a picture screen, and he instantly relived his first brush with death almost ten years ago. He was assigned to a tank batallion in the Black Forest, and a noxious engine fire and a stuck turret hatch claimed the lives of two of the tank’s four-man crew. Miraculously, Jack had been one of those pulled alive from the smoking wreck, though it took two full days of cardiovascular treatment to bring him back to consciousness.

  Had his luck finally run out? Certain that it had, the commando took another series of blows to his back and neck, and was just about to cry out in utter desperation, when a distant, somewhat familiar chopping sound diverted his attention. The bear seemed to be distracted by this constantly increasing noise also, and as it temporarily backed away from its strange find, Jack was filled with a wave of new hope. His expectations further heightened as the throaty grinding roar intensified to a point where he was able to identify this sound as belonging to an approaching helicopter!

  Still fearful to break out of his fetal ball, or even open his eyes for that matter, Jack knew his prayers were answered when a powerful, amplified voice boomed down from the heavens.

  “Lieutenant Jack Redmond?”

  Wondering if this wasn’t some sort of hallucination, Jack gathered the nerve to peer upward, and his gaze focused on a wondrous sight, a hovering Huey helicopter.

  “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” quizzed the resonant voice.

  Somehow Jack was aule to move one of his arms and signal that he was, indeed, still amongst the living. And at this sign, the helicopter landed on the plateau to a swirling, earsplitting gust of blowing debris.

  Soon afterward, the Huey was once again airborne, this time with an additional passenger in its hold.

  “Lieutenant Redmond, I still think it’s a miracle you weren’t even scratched by that grizzly. When we first spotted the bear on top of you, we thought you were a goner for certain.”

  His nerves somewhat settled by the flask of brandy he had just consumed. Jack replied in a cracked voice, “You and me both, pardner. May I ask what brought you out to this godforsaken valley in the first place?”

  Having to repeat this question to be heard over the whine of the spinning rotors. Jack listened intently as the jumpsuited airman explained their mission.

  “Actually, we were sent out here from Calgary to look for you. Lieutenant. Seems you’re wanted back at the Currie Barracks in a real hurry. Command’s sending in a Sikorsky to bring in the rest of your squad.”

  “Any idea what this is all about?” quizzed the breathless Ranger.

  Momentarily hesitating, the airman shouted, “Though this is all mere scuttlebutt, rumor has it that it’s all tied in with the recent disappearance of the Soviet Premier’s plane somewhere over the Arctic.”

  “The disappearance of what?” repeated Jack, his tone filled with disbelief.

  Scooting over, the airman cupped his mouth with his hands and spoke right into Jack’s ear.

  “Premier Alexander Suratov’s plane has gone down somewhere over Baffin Island, sir. And we believe your squad has been called in to be one of the units sent up there to find out what in hell happened to it.”

  Shocked by this sobering revelation, Jack Redmond caught the airman’s glance and knew in an instant that this was no joke. Diverting his gaze to the nearby Plexiglas porthole, Redmond absorbed this astounding disclosure, all the while taking in the quickly passing terrain, his encounter with the grizzly all but stripped from his mind.

  Chapter Five

  Thirty million years ago, an event of cataclysmic proportions tore apart the heart of central Asia. At this time the continent split in half latitudinally, causing the earth’s crust to buckle and creating a voluminous fissure more than a thousand miles long, thirty miles wide, and as much as three miles deep. Over a period of thousands of years, this chasm filled with the runoff from the surrounding mountains and it was in this manner that Siberia’s Lake
Baikal was born.

  As Admiral Mikhail Kharkov stood on the windswept ledge gazing out to the lake, he attempted to mentally visualize these great physical forces at work.

  The white-haired veteran knew that though erosion had filled in a portion of the original fissure, Baikal was still the world’s largest and deepest freshwater body. And as such was home to hundreds of species of plants and wildlife that were indigenous to this portion of the earth only.

  Thus, in this very special part of the Motherland, Kharkov had decided to locate his dacha. Though the great responsibilities of his lofty position in the government kept him sequestered in Moscow or visiting naval bases for most of the year, those rare free weekends and cherished vacations sent him packing for the four-hour plane flight that would bring him to his beloved wilderness home.

  Unusual though it was, official State business had brought him to the nearby city of Irkutsk only three days ago. At that time he had participated in an unprecedented meeting of the thirteen members of the ruling Politburo. This conference had several purposes.

  Because of the growing importance of the vast reaches of Siberia to the Soviet Union’s future economic development, the Party was determined to pay this region the respect it deserved. As a fitting way of reminding their hardworking Siberian comrades that they were not being snubbed by the major power centers that lay west of the Urals, this forum was inaugurated. Here problems unique to the region could be discussed in a relaxed, informal atmosphere.

  Since vast tracts of undeveloped land still lay to the north, plans were unveiled that included the establishment of over a dozen new cities. Many of these population centers were to be situated above the Arctic Circle, and would be created to help extract from the earth the copious amounts of oil and mineral wealth that lay buried beneath the permafrost.

  It had been their Premier, Alexander Suratov, who had personally chaired this portion of the conference.

  Born in the Siberian town of Yakutsk, on the banks of the Lena River, Suratov considered this meeting a second homecoming. In fact, his entire family flew down from Yakutsk to be with this vibrant, popular leader as he opened the meeting with a sumptuous cocktail party, that would be the talk of the town for months to come.