Under the Ice

Chapter Two

A full moon cycle had passed since Ootah’s terrifying confrontation with Tornarsuk on the ice pack. In this time span, the Inuit hunter had succeeded in closing up his camp and moving his family out of that cursed spot. They traveled to the north, finally halting on the shore of the great ice sea known to the whites as Lancaster Sound. Here the fates were with him, and his harpoon took down a fat walrus. The meat of this animal was sweet and nourishing, and with their bellies finally filled, life was once again bearable.

Even Ootah’s father seemed a bit stronger. Though the cough that brought blood to his lips was still with him, Nakusiak was as feisty as ever. Demanding that he share equally in the workload, the old-timer helped build their snow house Quick to remind his son to locate the entrance to the igloo below ground level, so that the cold air that would otherwise enter their living space would be trapped, Nakusiak supervised the placement of the last of the smooth ice blocks into the structure’s rounded roof. Afterward, he assisted Akatingwah in butchering the massive walrus Ootah had triumphantly dragged into their new camp.

With the first winter storm of the season howling madly outside, they settled in to wait for the icy tempest to vent itself. Nakusiak was more than content to take his young grandson aside and teach him the ancient Inuit throat songs. While these resonant tones filled the interior of the igloo, Ootah stripped off his clothes and slipped under the thick fur blankets with Akatingwah close at his side.

His mate’s skin was warm and soft as they embraced in the way of a man and a woman. His fingers’ touch aroused the sensitive buds of her ripe breasts, and as her breath quickened, Ootah slipped his manhood deep inside her. With Nakusiak’s spirited song providing the perfect accompaniment, Ootah pulled his hips back until only the tip of his erect phallus touched the lips of his wife’s pulsating love channel.

Sensing her need, he slowly plunged his hips downward until his all was given. He repeated this process until an ever-quickening rhythm was established.

Akatingwah moaned softly in delight, and as her embrace tightened, Ootah sensed a sudden flow of hot fluid from deep inside her. It was then that his own seed rose, and a rapturous pleasure beyond description filled his being as he deposited the milk of life into her wet depths. If the fates so willed it, an infant would next be crawling from Akatingwah’s loins when the summer returned to the land of the Inuit.

With his mate still locked tightly in his embrace, Ootah listened as her previously pounding pulse slowly returned to normal. While beyond, his father’s monotonous song continued, the distant howling wind a fitting accompaniment.

Ootah’s dream was soon in coming. In this vision, he was conveyed high into the rugged mountains that lay to the east of Arctic Bay. It must have been summer, for no snow lay upon the ground. In its place, an unending carpet of bright red and gold wildflowers stretched to the horizon. As he climbed down to the floor of a particularly luxuriant valley, he spotted a herd of musk oxen grazing before him. Upon viewing the Inuit, the round-shouldered, shaggy beasts immediately took up a defensive circle, with the lead bull lowering its horned head and stepping forth to do battle. Strangely enough, even though he wasn’t armed, Ootah advanced to meet the bull’s challenge.

The razor-sharp horns of a fully grown musk ox were not something to take lightly. Many times Ootah had seen predators as crafty as the wolf and as strong as the bear fall victim to a fatal gore wound. Yet completely oblivious to the dangers involved, he found himself walking down to meet the beast, with not even a stick to protect himself.

Ootah was actually close enough to smell the musk ox’s strong scent, to see it’s bulging, red-veined eyes, when the first wave of fear possessed him. This fear turned to sheer terror when the beast bellowed loudly and took several bold steps forward. Suddenly halting in his tracks, Ootah sensed his precarious position.

Yet as he turned to run away, he found that his lower limbs were inexplicably weighted down, so that even the most tentative step was impossible to achieve.

Again the angry beast bellowed, and just as the bull lowered its head to initiate the final charge, a deafening boom of thunder filled the air. Looking up into the sky, Ootah viewed an intense, fireball of glowing red light that blotted out even the sun with its intensity.

Another thunderous peal filled the air, and as this blast echoed in the distance, the fireball flared up and then dissipated, until not a trace of it was left above.

An icy gust of wind hit him full in the back, and as Ootah returned his attention back to the musk oxen, his eyes opened wide with disbelief upon noting that they too had completely vanished. In their place was a wide, circular lake. This pond was completely frozen over, except for a tiny opening in the pool’s exact center. Curious as to what lay exposed inside this hole, Ootah walked over to examine it more closely.

The Inuit was somewhat shocked to find a large eider feather floating on the circular pool’s surface.

Viewing this familiar object, that was designed to fly up into the air and warn the hunter of a surfacing seal, filled Ootah with dread. Ever mindful of his last terrifying seal hunt on the pack ice a week ago, he attempted to back away from the open water. Unfortunately, this simple feat proved impossible, for his boots were frozen solidly to the ice below.

An angry gust of frigid wind scoured the valley, and finding himself chilled to the bone, Ootah had no choice but to look down to the waters of the pool.

Goosebumps formed on his shivering skin as he spotted a myriad of bubbles swirling to the surface. And below, he could just make out a dark menacing shape rising from the black depths. Unable to keep his eyes off this mysterious object, he gasped in horror upon identifying it as a human being. Its puckered hand beckoning him forward, and Ootah cried out in revulsion as he sighted the floating body’s head — for it was that of his dead mother!

It was at this point in the nightmare that he awoke.

The vision of his mother’s white, unseeing eyes was still clear in his consciousness as he stared out into the black depths of the igloo. Surely this was no ordinary dream, but one that had been placed before his eyes by the great deceiver himself — Tornarsuk!

Chilled by this realization, he scanned the darkened interior of the snow house as if seeing it for the very first time. The bare light of a soapstone lamp flickered alive at the igloo’s center, providing just enough illumination for Ootah to see the thick fur pelts covering the adjoining pallet where his father and son slept. Nakusiak’s snores filled the circular room with a resonant roar, while somewhere beyond gusted the ever-present howling wind.

Unable to fall back to sleep, Ootah decided to see how his dogs had weathered the storm. Slipping out of the covers, he dressed himself in his double-thick, caribou-skin parka, pulled on his boots and mittens, and silently crawled through the igloo’s sole exit.

Outside, he was met by a blast of numbingly cold Arctic air. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he peered over a newly formed snowdrift and caught sight of the dawn sun as it just broke the distant horizon. Even at noon, the muted orange ball would not climb much higher into the sky than it already was. Ootah was well aware that all too soon it would not even bother rising at all, as perpetual night ruled the Arctic winter.

The storm that had first arrived two nights ago had finally passed, leaving in its wake a crystal-clear, dark blue sky and mounds of freshly fallen, powdery snow.

The morning star twinkled in the heavens, and Ootah turned to check on the condition of his dogs.

He had built a windbreak for his team on the opposite side of the igloo. Though the drifting snow made finding this protective barrier difficult, he was thankful to find it still standing. He brushed away the loose snow and found his team of seven huskies gathered in a tight embryonic ball. First to open his eyes and spot the gawking human was Arnuk, Ootah’s lead dog. This would be Arnuk’s twelfth winter, and though getting old in years, he was still the dominant member of the pack.

Quick to his feet, Arnuk howled in delight and moved over to playfully nuzzle his master. As the others awakened and shook the loose snow off their backs, Ootah walked over to the igloo, where a large, hollowed-out block of ice protected their cache of walrus meat. Cutting off several large chunks of frozen flesh from the hind quarter, he proceeded to feed his faithful pack. For they needed strength just like humans did, and when meat was available, all was shared equally.

While his dogs gratefully consumed their morning meal, Ootah turned his attention to the new sled that he had been working on when the storm arrived two days ago. He brushed away powdery snow, and found it behind the same barrier that had sheltered his dogs.

Only a few days’ work need be done on it before it was ready to hit the ice.

He had designed it to carry his ailing father.

Though Nakusiak hated to admit it, his illness had greatly sapped his once-formidable strength, and it was a struggle for him merely to stand, let alone keep up with them when they were on the move to new hunting grounds. Built much like the sleds of their ancestors, its runners were formed from frozen char that had been split and tightly wrapped in soaked caribou hides. Walrus tusks and whalebones comprised the body, on which a caribou hide would soon be stretched to hold Nakusiak.

Ootah’s current job was to make the runners as smooth as possible. He did so by chewing up large mouthfuls of snow and then spraying this liquid onto the existing runners. He was well into this tedious task, when a deep voice boomed out from behind.

“Well my son, you’re certainly up early. What demon could possibly have pulled you away from the warm body of your comely wife?”

Noting the unusual manner in which Nakusiak phrased this question, Ootah looked his father full in the eye and explained every detail of his recent nightmare.

When he finished describing his horrifying vision, he looked on as Nakusiak grunted.

“You are correct in ascribing this dream to Tornarsuk, my son. For you see, I had a similar vision.”

Puzzlement etched Ootah’s face as he questioned.

“But what does such a shared nightmare mean, Father? Is it a presentiment of an even greater evil yet to come?”

Nakusiak somberly nodded.

“I’m afraid that it is, my son. The songs of the grandfathers tell of a time in the not so distant future when a star shall fall to earth. Sent from the Great Spirit, this comet shall explode in the dawn sky for all to see as a signal that the time of prophecy is upon us. As the tail of this comet falls to earth, mankind shall face the final trial. And if the Great Spirit finds the people unworthy, he shall cleanse the earth with fire, and death will walk everywhere.”

“But how do we insure that such a terrible fate won’t befall us?” quizzed Ootah.

Reaching into the pocket of his parka, Nakusiak removed a hand-sized bone amulet that had a piece of sinew strung through it.

“This holy amulet was carved by my grandfather, Anoteelik, who was a great shaman of the people. He, too, dreamed of the cursed pool and the exploding comet that signaled the end of time. My time on this earth is almost over, my son. It’s now up to you to wear this holy amulet over your heart, and if the flow of your spirit is pure, perhaps the Great Spirit will intercede, and the people will be reprieved.”

As he handed the necklace to Ootah, Nakusiak was consumed by a fit of violent coughing. Blood red spittle drooled off his lips and dropped down to stain the white snow below.

“Come, Father, you’ve been out here in the cold long enough. You must take better care of yourself.”

Ootah’s pleas were met with an angry smirk.

“Stop coddling me, boy! Don’t forget who it was who brought you into the world. Now just swear to me that you’ll wear this amulet always, and that your meditations will be as pure as the snow that my life fluid has just violated.”

Well aware of his father’s stubbornness, Ootah meekly nodded, and slipped the sinew necklace over his neck. He could only look on helplessly as Nakusiak was once again consumed by a coughing fit.

Grasping the flat bone amulet with one of his mittened hands, Ootah angled his gaze to the distant horizon. There the fiery, golden-hued Arctic dawn continued to fight off the black tide of winter, in an eternal battle that began at the very beginning of time.

From a windswept plateau eighty-five miles due east of Ootah’s camp, another individual watched the Arctic dawn develop. Bundled in his down parka, Ensign Graham Chapman of the Royal Canadian Navy felt sadly out of place. The Calgary native had originally enlisted in the armed forces as a way of bringing badly needed adventure into his life. And for the first couple of months, he hadn’t been the least bit disappointed.

Having never traveled farther than Edmonton in his home province of Alberta, Graham initially had been sent packing to Halifax, Nova Scotia. There he underwent basic training. His naturally high aptitude got him an invitation to attend the Naval Officer’s training center in Esquimau, British Columbia. Once again he crossed the wide breadth of his native country, seeing magnificent sights he’d never dreamed existed.

He was most impressed with the ultra sophisticated city of Vancouver, and it was in this exciting metropolis that he spent many a cherished weekend leave.

In order to be as close to Vancouver as possible, he took a position on the staff of the vice admiral in charge of the Second Destroyer Squadron based in Esquimalt. Such duty demanded limited sea time, and gave him an opportunity to get his own apartment in nearby Vancouver.

For the son of an itinerant oil-well driller, this was like a dream come true. The petroleum business was in the midst of lean times, and if he’d stayed in Calgary, he’d most likely been on the dole like the majority of the boys he grew up with. Yet here he had a position that commanded respect, he was making a decent wage, and he was living in one of the most exciting cities in all of Canada.

Unfortunately, all too soon his luck was to run out.

It started that morning he was ordered into his superiors office, and asked if he wanted to take a position of the utmost sensitivity. Fooled into thinking that this was some sort of promotion, he immediately accepted.

Little did he realize what he was getting himself involved with.

Graham’s new job certainly started on an upscale beat as he was soon on a plane bound for balmy California. Though he never made it to Hollywood, his duty did take him to Beale Air Force base, north of the city of Sacramento. At this super secret installation he was to learn a whole new craft that would eventually take him from the land of surfers and bikinis to his current forsaken assignment in the frozen wastelands of the Canadian Arctic.

Totally sickened by the abrupt turn in his luck, Graham could only sigh heavily and shrug his broad shoulders. Like a wildcatter he had gambled his future on a single throw of the dice, and he had lost. It was as simple as that. And now he would have to pay the consequences.

Absently gazing out to the eastern horizon as the Arctic dawn continued to take shape, Graham mentally calculated that he had at least one hundred and eighty days left at this icebound outpost. After that time, command had promised he’d be transferred back to Esquimalt with a full rank’s promotion.

Though it didn’t seem like that long a time, six months was an eternity here at the distant early warning station known as Polestar. Making matters even worse was the fact that he was the only Canadian in a complement of fifty-five grubby Yanks. Why the only thing he had to look forward to were the weekly trips into Arctic Bay to pick up supplies and the mail. And even those trips were depressing, for the so-called town was little more than a collection of dilapidated Jamesway huts, holding an odd collection of squalid Eskimos.

If only his work was interesting, at least that portion of his stay would go quickly. But most of his duty time was spent perched before a radar screen, waiting for a Russian sneak attack that in all probability would never come to pass.

Polestar was the newest addition to the legendary DEW line, that was first built in the 1950’s to monitor the approach of Soviet prop-driven long-range bombers. Since that time, the character of the enemy’s strategic forces had drastically changed, and it was the threat of a surprise attack by the so-called Stealth aircraft that most concerned them.

To track these sophisticated planes from their takeoff phase onward, Polestar relied on a revolutionary new technology known as Over-the Horizon-Backscatter, or OTH-B for short. The system could cover airspace for a distance of over 2,000 miles. It did so by projecting a high-frequency signal off the ionosphere.

The reflected echo returned to the sending installation by a similar route, and was all but resistant to enemy jamming because the Soviets were still confused as to the exact frequencies that were being utilized.

Though Graham didn’t doubt the system’s effectiveness, what he did have misgivings about was the necessity of such an installation’s existence in the first place. Just as the strategic delivery systems had changed over the years, so had the statesmen that controlled them. Unlike in the 1950’s, today every responsible citizen of the planet understood the folly of nuclear war. Such a conflict would have no winners, for the resulting radioactivity would poison the atmosphere and create a living hell for any unlucky survivors.

A new generation of enlightened leaders was currently changing the character of enemy number one.

The Soviet Union was no longer the evil empire it had been rumored to be in the past. Socialism was gradually mutating, blending in capitalism and free enterprise to insure its future survival.

Currently leading the Soviets into the twenty-first century was an energetic, charismatic Premier by the name of Alexander Suratov. Graham liked the man from the very first time he saw him speaking on the evening news. He was young, dashing, and full of vigor.

Publicly admitting that the unparalleled arms race that had taken place during the last four decades was decimating the Soviet economy, Suratov was an exponent of total nuclear disarmament. To begin this long, difficult process, he advocated creating nuclear-free zones throughout the globe. One of the first regions he’d picked to ban such weapons was the Arctic. And to prove the seriousness of his intentions, he was about to embark on an unprecedented journey to Ottawa, where he was scheduled to meet with both the Canadian Prime Minister and the US President to sign an Arctic demilitarization treaty. This was a bold first step, and Graham prayed that the three leaders would reach an accord quickly.

Well aware that the plane carrying the Soviet Premier would soon be showing up on their radar screen, Ensign Graham Chapman turned to take in the installation that would be tracking this aircraft. Polestar was comprised of four massive OTH-B radar units. Each of these flattened, octagonal-shaped radars was as large as a seven-story building, and was pointed northward. An enclosed walkway had been mounted on top of the permafrost. It connected the four separate radar arrays to a central structure. This massive building housed the control room, living quarters, mess hall, recreation room, and power plant. Though all the comforts of home had been included inside its thick walls, Graham still felt suffocated. Thus the reason for this morning’s early, subzero constitutional.

No stranger to cold weather, the young ensign surveyed the bleak landscape and disgustedly spit. Last night, thoughts of desertion had actually crossed his mind. Yet in this isolated, godforsaken wilderness there wasn’t even anywhere close by to desert to!

Shivering when a cold gust of Arctic wind hit him full in the face, Graham turned back toward the compound just as a high-pitched whistle broke the frigid air. A single individual wearing a bright orange parka could be seen standing beside one of the structure’s entry ways waving his arms. As he put his ungloved hands to his mouth, this figure’s deep, bass voice clearly boomed out.

“Hey, Canuck, are you going to join me or not?”

Only then did Graham remember his earlier promise to have a drink with one of his coworkers. Signaling that he had heard himself called, the Calgary native began his way back to the compound.

“I heard that you Canadians were a hearty lot, but this is stretching it a bit,” greeted Air Force Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield. “Do you realize that with the wind chill it’s twenty degrees below zero out here?”

As the likable New Yorker led them inside, Graham replied, “Your blood just needs a little thickening, Sergeant.”

The interior passageway that both of them were soon walking down was so well heated that Graham had to remove his parka to keep from sweating.

“See anything interesting out there. Ensign?” quizzed the American, who continued leading the way.

“Actually, I was just taking in the sunrise,” returned Graham.

“Pretty soon, we’ll be losing it altogether.”

“Ah, the infamous black Arctic winters,” reflected Stanfield. “I always was a night person, so this should suit me just fine.”

They passed by a bisecting corridor that led to the central control room, and the American continued.

“I know some would say it’s a bit early, but are you still up for that drink? I don’t know about you, but after that nine-hour shift we just completed, I certainly need to unwind before hitting the chow line and then the rack.”

“I think that I could manage a nice hot toddy,” answered Graham, who followed his escort into the recreation room. Part health club, part library, the rec room was currently deserted except for a single portly figure grinding away on an exercise bike.

“That’s the way, Smitty,” greeted Jim Stanfield playfully. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before taking a second helping of Cooky’s pie.”

“Up yours, Stanfield!” managed the sweat-stained bike rider, between gasps of air.

Grinning at this response, the American master sergeant ducked into yet another corridor. Graham Chapman remained close on his heels. The lighting was subdued in this portion of the complex, and in the distance echoed the spirited sounds of recorded reggae music.

The corridor led them to a narrow entranceway. Here the door had been removed and replaced with long ribbons of green crepe paper that extended from the top portion of the frame. A bamboo sign was hung above this portal. It read: The Golden Ussuk Club-Member’s Only!

Inside, a warm, clublike atmosphere prevailed. Tropical plants lined the walls, and a half-dozen cozy bamboo booths were set to the side of a central bar behind which was an expertly rendered mural of Waikiki beach.

Two khaki-uniformed figures sat in one of these booths, sipping their beers and in the midst of a spirited conversation. Jim Stanfield gave them a brief wave before leading Graham over to the bar and commenting.

“Sounds like Jonsey and Pops are talking football again. You know, a damn war could break out, and those two would still be carrying on about whether or not the Bears’ defense was overrated.”

Graham chuckled at this and sat down on one of the bamboo bar stools while his Yank drinking companion walked behind the self-service bar, donned an apron, and asked in his best imitation cockney accent.

“What will it be, mate?”

“A hot buttered rum would certainly warm the cockles of my heart,” answered Graham.

“Sounds good to me. In fact, I’ll join you. Two of Doc Stanfield’s famous hot rum toddy’s on the way.”

While the American expertly mixed their drinks, Graham glanced up at the series of nine-inch-long, rectangularly shaped bones that were hung on the wall just above the mural. There were two dozen altogether. Though their scientific name was Ussuk, the natives knew them simply as walrus penis bones.

Looking down to lose himself in the mural, the Canadian admired the stretch of pure white sand, the crystal blue water, palm trees, and the distinctive volcanic formation known as Diamond Head. He had never been to Hawaii, but as soon as his orders arrived transferring him from Polestar, he promised himself that his first extended leave would take him straight to the exquisite tropical setting displayed on the wall before him.

From the other side of the bar, Jim Stanfield noted the forlorn expression that was etched on the young Canadian’s innocent face as he studied the mural. He had seen this same look before, and made certain to pour a bit more of the dark Virgin Island rum into his coworker’s mug. He topped this off with a half-cup of hot water, a dash of cinnamon, some cloves, and a dab of rich butter.

“Bottom’s up, mate,” interrupted the Yank as he picked up his own mug in toast.

Suddenly brought back to reality, Graham solemnly reached out for his drink.

“Now come on, lad. Things can’t be as bad as all that,” reflected the American. “Just think, we could have been left out in this icebox without a drop of booze to console us. Now that would be serious!”

Graham couldn’t help but laugh at this innocent statement, and seeing this, Jim Stanfield added.

“That’s more like it. Now are you just going to sit there, or are you going to try some of my magical elixir that’s guaranteed to cure what ails you?”

The Canadian lifted up the white enamel mug, took an appreciative sniff of the fragrant steam rising from its golden surface, and toasted.

“To your health, my friend.”

“And to yours,” returned the American, who raised his mug to his lips and took a cautious sip. Instantly liking what he tasted, his rugged face lit up in a full smile.

“This is just what the doctor ordered. Finish this baby off, and I promise you that those homesick blues will be gone.”

“How did you know that I was homesick?” questioned Graham, in between sips of his toddy.

The American winked.

“I don’t know, lad. Just call it an educated guess. May I ask where you were stationed when you got the orders sending you on your way to Polestar?”

“I was in Esquimalt, British Columbia,” Graham answered directly.

“I know the place,” replied the Yank. “Me and the wife spent part of our honeymoon on Vancouver Island and really loved every moment of it. Why with those thick coastal woods and all, it’s hard to believe that there’s even a military base hidden away out there.”

Graham nodded.

“It’s beautiful country, all right. Having spent most of my life as an Alberta flat lander those coastal mountains were like a breath of fresh air. Have you ever been to Waikiki beach, Sergeant?”

Stanfield took a long drink before answering.

“That’s Jim to you, and yes, I have been to the island of Oahu. In fact, I was stationed at Hickam Air Force base when I got the papers sending me to the Arctic.”

With his gaze locked on the mural, Graham sighed.

“You must have been really disappointed with your new assignment. Hawaii sounds to me like it’s the closest thing to paradise we have on this earth.”

“Believe it or not, I actually requested this transfer,” revealed the grinning American. “You see, I was brought up on a farm in upstate New York, and all that Hawaiian sunshine was finally starting to get to me. There’s certainly nothing wrong with the cold, as long as you’re dressed for it. If you ask me, it makes a man feel totally alive.”

“I beg to differ with you, Jim. All my life I’ve had nothing but fickle Canadian weather. When it finally does warm up in the summer, the mosquitoes and flies are so bad that you really can’t enjoy yourself. And the winters, why they’re the worst. I’m sick and tired of having cabin fever for six months of the year. You can give me a warm beach and a shapely Polynesian lady any day of the week, and I guarantee you won’t be hearing any complaints from me.”

Jim Stanfield chuckled.

“I still say that it would get to you eventually. In a couple of months you’d be begging for a cool spell, so that you could finally stop sweating. Although, I must admit, this Arctic weather is a bit extreme. How long are you up here for?”

“Six months,” replied the Canadian. “And you?”

“The same,” answered Stanfield as he warmed his large hands on the sides of his mug.

“Isn’t that an awfully long time to be away from your wife?” asked Graham.

The American polished off the rest of his drink before answering.

“Not really. You see, we split up this past spring. The last I heard from her, she was living in Waikiki with a Hawaiian surfing instructor. I should have known that she would go native on me. That one was never satisfied from the very start.”

Conscious now of why the American had most likely requested a transfer to such an isolated outpost, Graham turned his attention back to his drink. The rum was strong, and he could already feel its soothing effects. No longer feeling all alone in his misery, the Canadian began tapping his foot to the spirited reggae music that continued to blare forth from the room’s excellent stereo speakers. Ironically enough, he identified the song that was currently playing as Bob Marley’s, “No Woman, No Cry.” While wondering if his suddenly morose drinking companion had ever really listened to the clever lyrics to this piece, Graham became aware of another’s presence behind him. He turned and set his eyes on a tall, khaki-uniformed black man who hurriedly entered the room and spoke excitedly.

“Ah, I should have known I’d find you in here, Stanfield. You asked me to let you know the moment we had the Flying Kremlin on the scope. Well, we’ve got ‘em all right, clear as day, just leaving Siberian air space.”

This surprise revelation served to immediately divert the broad-shouldered New Yorker from his thoughtful reverie. Catching his drinking companion’s eye, Stanfield winked.

“Well, Canuck, shall we go and see what a real live Ilyushin-76 looks like on an OTHB?”

Already standing, Graham polished off the rest of his drink and turned for the exit. Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield followed him, all the while busily ripping off the apron that he had previously neglected to remove.

They arrived in the central control room along with several other curious observers, likewise drawn from other portions of the compound. To facilitate their viewing, the commander had activated the main display screen. Fully occupying one entire wall of the cavernous room, the screen was filled with a large polar projection map. A constant circular blue light, that was set on the northern extremity of Baffin Island corresponded to their current position, while the only other visual illumination was a flashing red star, located off the coast of central Siberia. It proved to be the senior duty officer, Captain Carl Schluter, who provided them with the latest update.

“They should have crossed Severnaya Zemlya by now. From here on in, there’s nothing but the frozen Arctic ocean between them and Ellesmere Island.

“We picked up the first blip about a quarter of an hour ago. Conditions in the ionosphere are excellent today, and we tagged ‘em way beyond the two-thousand-mile threshold. The prearranged flight plan will take them over the pole in another hour. Interestingly enough, they seemed to take off a little early, though there’s a pretty brisk tail wind that could be helping them out a bit. That means in less than three hours they’ll be almost directly overhead. Just to insure that they aren’t carrying any ELINT gear aboard, we’ll be going off-line long before then. Thule will take over for us at that point. We all know the Soviets would just love to get a definite trace of our frequencies, and we’re not about to let them have the opportunity.

“Their ETA in Ottawa…”

While the bespectacled American captain continued his emotionless briefing, Graham couldn’t help but ponder one disturbing element of his discourse. Even in the midst of peace talks, the paranoid Americans were worried about Soviet machinations. As if the Premier’s plane would be carrying any spying gear on it! This was the very attitude that promoted the unparalleled arms race of the last four decades. Trust was the key to world peace. Without it, men would always be looking over their shoulders, always fearful that the other side was trying to unfairly gain the advantage.

As far as Graham was concerned, the time to set aside these childish paranoid fears was right now, before a new crisis once again brought the world to the brink of nuclear destruction. Since the Soviets appeared to be sincere with their desire to demilitarize their portion of the Arctic, the Americans could at the very least keep Polestar active as a gesture of international goodwill. For if this Arctic treaty indeed became reality, installations such as the one they currently occupied would eventually become as extinct as the great woolly mammoths that once walked these same frozen plains thousands of years ago. Certain of this fact, the Canadian yawned and discreetly excused himself. He headed for his bunk, lack of sleep and the toddy he had just consumed finally having caught up with him.

Three hours later, Graham was roused out of a sound sleep by a firm hand on his shoulder. Snapped instantly awake, the young ensign looked into the concerned face of Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield.

“Get up and throw on some clothes,” the Yank whispered. “There’s something you won’t want to miss going on in the control room.”

Not bothering to take the time to question the American, Graham wiped the sleep from his startled eyes and rose to dress himself. Minutes later, he was standing in the control center, along with some other concerned technicians. All eyes were focused on the main display screen, where a single red star was visible directly over the North Pole. Glancing up to the large digital clock that was mounted above the screen, Graham spoke.

“I don’t get it. If that’s the correct time, why hasn’t the Flying Kremlin progressed farther than that? I thought that they’d be flying almost directly above us by now.”

“They most probably are,” replied Jim Stanfield succinctly.

“Then what’s that red star doing above the Pole?”continued the confused Canadian.

“That, my friend, is a Soviet Tupolev Tu-20, Bear-E reconnaissance plane,” returned Stanfield. “We first tagged it a little over two hours ago, right before the Flying Kremlin began altering their flight plan.”

Looking again to the giant display screen, Graham again queried.

“What do you mean, altering their flight plan? Has something happened to the Premier’s plane?”

Stanfield shook his head.

“Right now, we just don’t know. All we’ve got for certain is that approximately twenty minutes ago, the Ilyushin-76 carrying Premier Suratov left its prearranged cruising height of 42,650 feet, and began steadily descending. Since Polestar was scheduled to go off-line at this same time. Captain Schluter contacted Cheyenne Mountain and received permission to remain active, for as long as it took to get a firm lock on the Premier’s plane. We thus remained briefly on-line, and what we subsequently learned shocked the dickens out of us. For the Flying Kremlin was located flying less than twenty-thousand feet off the ice pack’s surface, and headed straight for us!

“Needless to say, with that Bear recon circling nearby, we immediately went silent. What you’re seeing now is being relayed to us by Thule.”

“Maybe they’re just having mechanical difficulties of some sort,” offered the optimistic Canadian.

Nodding thoughtfully, Jim Stanfield pointed to the glassed-in balcony that directly faced the glowing display screen.

“Though I seriously doubt that’s the case. Right now those two are the only ones around here who most likely know what the hell is going on up there.”

Looking up to the balcony, Graham spotted two seated officers. One of these bespectacled figures was Captain Carl Schluter. Sitting close beside him, his bald scalp shining in the bright track lighting, was the base commander. Colonel Oliver Paxton. With a red telephone handset cradled close to his ear, Paxton seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation.

“I’ll bet my pension that the old man is on the horn with CINCNORAD. He most probably wants to know if Polestar should go active or not.”

Graham nodded, and with his eyes still glued to the glassed-in balcony, watched as Captain Schluter picked up a white telephone. Seconds later, the phone at the monitor console that lay directly beside Graham began ringing. An alert technician quickly answered it, and with his palm covering the phone’s transmitter, began frantically scanning the lower portion of the control room. He halted his search when his gaze locked in on the gangly figure that stood beside the coffee machine.

“Hey Kowolski, the captain wants you on the double!” cried the seated technician.

Graham watched as Sergeant Vie Kowolski hurriedly made his way over to the console. The two had played chess together, and Graham had been somewhat surprised to learn that Kowolski had been born in the Soviet Union, though his parents had emigrated to the United States when he was but a youngster.

Kowolksi was the type of individual who always seemed to be in some sort of disciplinary trouble, yet he was on his best behavior as he took the telephone from the technician, listened to what the caller had to say, mumbled a brief reply, and hung up the receiver.

As he addressed the airman who had called him over to the phone, Graham scooted over closer so that he could hear for himself what the Russian-born sergeant had to say.

“The colonel wants me to contact the Il–76. Can you get them for me, Smitty?”

“No trouble, Vie. Hang on a sec while I give them a ring.”

Reaching up to activate his transmitter, the technician expertly dialed a large, black frequency knob, waited a second, and then turned to give Vie Kowolski a thumbs-up. Without hesitating, Kowolski picked up a lightweight headset and began speaking fluent Russian into its miniature transmitter. As he pressed the speakers to his ears to listen for a response, he somberly shook his head, and tried yet another burst of Russian into the microphone. He tried several more times before giving up and reaching for the intercom.

“It’s useless. Captain. I can get through to them all right. But all they give me is some frantic, garbled crap saying that their radio is on the fritz. It certainly doesn’t sound kosher to me, sir.”

Listening to these words, Graham felt his gut turn sour. If Vie Kowolski was right and the Soviets were playing games with them, then what in the hell did they hope to gain by attempting such a foolish charade?

Praying that this wasn’t the case, the Canadian returned his glance to the glassed-in balcony, where Polestar’s bald-headed senior officer sat with the red phone cradled close to his ear, his somber stare locked on the central display screen, while their destinies hovered somewhere in the frigid skies above.