Under the Ice

Chapter Three

During the early 1960’s, engineers with the U.S. Department of Defense began blasting out a series of immense caverns inside the solid granite rock that made up Colorado’s Cheyenne Mountain. Altogether fifteen separate buildings were constructed inside this subterranean netherworld, all of which were mounted on massive, steel-spring shock absorbers, that would hopefully allow the site to survive all but a direct hit in the event of a nuclear war. Once completed, the state-of-the-art complex became home to the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD as it was more commonly called.

The facilities’ main job was to determine whether the Soviet Union was launching a surprise nuclear attack against the North American continent.

NORAD did this by monitoring a variety of sophisticated sensors that ranged from satellites to ground-based radar stations. As the centerpiece of the entire U.S. strategic command and control system, NORAD had the task, if an attack was indeed determined to be forthcoming, of implementing a variety of preplanned retaliatory strikes, whose details were listed in the SIOP — the Pentagon’s top-secret Single Integrated Operational Plan.

The individual responsible for making such a demanding decision was the installation’s commander in chief. Currently holding the position of CINCNORAD was General Thomas Laird. Born and raised in a small farming community outside of Omaha, Nebraska, Laird was an early graduate of the Air Force Academy, where he quarter backed the football team to an unprecedented national championship.

Later, as a fighter pilot in Viet Nam, he won a wide assortment of decorations for valor, and, more importantly, the undying respect of his fellow officers and enlisted men. After being shot down over Da Nang during the Tet offensive, Laird was captured and taken prisoner by the Viet Cong. For six months he lived a miserable existence, subject to constant torture and starvation. Yet he never lost hope, and when the opportunity finally presented itself, he made good his escape, while carrying one of his less fortunate comrades on his back through miles of thick jungle and snaked-infested swampland.

With the war’s conclusion. Laird moved on to Washington D.C. where he became involved with NORAD. One of the youngest generals in the history of the Air Force, Thomas Laird was appointed CINCNORAD on the anniversary of his forty-fifth birthday. For over a year now he had held this all-important position, though reliable rumor had it that he would once again soon be packing to return to Washington, this time as a full-fledged member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Though such an appointment would certainly be the pinnacle of a relatively short but full military career, Laird found himself with little time to ponder his rapid rise to power. His current responsibilities as CINCNORAD demanded his total attention. This was especially the case this morning, as a potentially serious and somewhat puzzling incident was unfolding in the Arctic skies above Canada’s Baffin Island.

Here an Ilyushin Il–76 airliner carrying Soviet Premier Alexander Suratov had mysteriously departed from its prearranged flight plan. Last recorded at an altitude of less than 20,000 feet, the so-called Flying Kremlin had departed from its intended course to Ottawa, and was believed to be approaching the ultra sensitive restricted airspace above Polestar, NORAD’s newest DEW Line radar station. Such an unauthorized overflight could have serious consequences for NORAD’s continued integrity, and Thomas Laird was taking this incident most seriously.

Currently positioned deep inside the Cheyenne Mountain facility, Laird was seated at his battle station, inside the glassed-in balcony of the central command post. Built into the wall before him was a huge, seventeen-by-seventeen-foot screen. Projected on to it was a polar view of the North American continent.

With his intense, pale green stare locked on this map, Laird studied the small, blinking red star that slowly circled the vicinity of the North Pole.

“That Bear-E still bothers the hell out of me, Ben,” grimly reflected CINCNORAD to his immediate subordinate, Brigadier General Benjamin Wagner. “If the Flying Kremlin was really having equipment problems, the Bear surely would have monitored their abrupt course change and attempted to contact the Il–76. But so far, we haven’t heard a peep out of them.”

“That’s because this little course change is all part of a carefully planned scenario,” offered Ben Wagner, whose silver-gray hair glistened in the muted green tones thrown off his computer display terminal. “It’s all too obvious what the Reds are trying to pull off here, Tom.”

“So you still think the Russkies are utilizing the Il–76 as a tickler?” retorted CINCNORAD.

“That’s affirmative,” answered Wagner. “We all know the Russians have been dying to find out what frequencies Polestar transmits on, ever since we first went on-line. Can you think of a more perfect probe than the Flying Kremlin? Assuming that we wouldn’t dare question a Mayday coming from a plane carrying their Premier, the Reds are gambling that we’ll turn on Polestar to track this so-called crippled aircraft, while meantime that Bear records the exact frequencies Polestar operates on. Then when it comes time to initiate a future attack, they’ll know just how to jam our most sophisticated Arctic radar station.”

CINCNORAD nodded. “Sounds convincing, Ben. But do you really think the publicity-shy Russkies would dare send the Flying Kremlin on such a mission? After all, I can’t think of a much more high-profile flight than this one. Why every news service on the planet is covering it.”

“All the more reason for them to think they can pull it off,” Wagner shot back. He scanned the central display map and suddenly saw a pair of blue flashing lights become visible just off the northwestern coast of Greenland.

“It looks like the ceiling has finally lifted in Thule, because there’re those blessed Eagles we’ve been waiting for all morning!”

This hopeful statement was accented by the shrill, distinctive ring of a telephone. Briefly catching his subordinate’s concerned stare, Thomas Laird reached down to the console and picked up the sole red handset.

“Yes, Mr. President,” greeted CINCNORAD. “…I understand, sir. But if you’ll just give us another fourteen minutes, we’ll have this mystery solved once and for all. You see, those F-15’s we’ve been waiting to launch have finally gotten airborne.”

A worried expression crossed Thomas Laird’s face as he intently listened to his Commander in Chief.

“But Mr. President, what about that Bear recon platform that’s still circling the Pole? We feel it’s all too obvious that what we’re witnessing is not a mechanical breakdown at all, but a deliberate attempt by the Russians to further probe our air-defense system.”

Thomas Laird winced as the voice on the other line came through even stronger. There was defeat in CINCNORAD’s hushed tone as he humbly replied.

“Yes, Mr. President. I understand your position. We’ll do so at once.”

As he hung up the receiver. Laird solemnly addressed his second-in-command.

“Get back on the horn with Oilie Paxton, and tell him to crank up Polestar.”

Looking on as disappointment registered on Benjamin Wagner’s face, CINCNORAD grimly mumbled.

“I hope to God the President is right. Because if this isn’t a legitimate air emergency, the Russkies are about to reap a god damned intelligence field day!”

The night that had just passed had been one of the longest of Ootah’s young life. Kept awake by his father’s worsening cough, both Ootah and his wife did everything they could to relieve the old man’s discomfort. Extra fat was thrown on the lamp in an effort to sweat the evil spirit out of Nakusiak’s diseased body. With the assistance of several fur blankets, his fever broke, yet the hacking cough that continued to bring blood to his lips seemed to further intensify. It had gotten so bad that it was difficult for the old man to even breathe properly. Unable to get down any of the walrus meat, Nakusiak’s strength continued to ebb. His cheeks and forehead were sallow, and it took supreme effort for him to sit up and relieve himself.

Remembering the sorrow that had crossed his heart when his mother had died, Ootah became desperate. In no mood for another burial, he racked his mind in an effort to come up with a cure. It was Akatingwah who suggested making a trip into Arctic Bay to bring back one of the white medicine men.

Ootah was seriously considering such a drastic move when Nakusiak forcefully intervened. Between violent fits of coughing he implored them to keep such a sorcerer far from their igloo.

“Please son!” he pleaded between gasps of air. “You mustn’t dirty my soul now that I’m about to be visiting our ancestors. If I must die, let it be amongst my own people.”

Ootah did not dare go against his father’s iron will, and gracefully backed down, suggesting instead that he go and fetch Powhuktuk, the shaman. Nakusiak gave him his assent, and off Ootah went on this desperate mission of mercy.

It was a rare windless night. A myriad of stars twinkled in the sparkling-clear heavens, while on the distant horizon, the northern lights painted an ethereal canvas of spiraling, pulsating color. Taking these conditions as a good omen, Ootah roused his dogs and hitched up the sled. There were tears in Akatingwah’s eyes as she bid him farewell before returning to the snow house to attend to Nakusiak.

Ootah only had to use his sinew whip but once, to turn the pack to the west, where Powhuktuk’s snowhouse was located. His lead dog, Arnuk, seemed to sense his master’s urgency, and pushed on his furry brethren with a maddening fierceness. Onward they raced over the ice pack, the knife-sharp runner’s of the sled smoothly cutting through the surface of the frozen sea with a loud hiss.

Oddly enough, the shaman was fully dressed and seemed to be awaiting Ootah’s arrival. With barely a word spoken between them, Powhuktuk shouldered his medicine bag and crawled beneath the blankets of the sled.

The trip back was a bit more strenuous. The dogs were tiring, and to make matters even worse, a headwind had developed. Forced to use the whip, Ootah sprinted beside the sled, to create as light a load as possible.

They arrived back at camp just as the first hint of dawn was coloring the eastern horizon. Akatingwah ran outside to greet them. Once again there were tears in her eyes as she explained Nakusiak’s deteriorating condition.

Powhuktuk completely ignored her emotional state, and calmly went about his business. First the shaman removed a brightly painted mask from his bag. It had the features of a demon, and was designed to fit over Powhuktuk’s head with the aid of a piece of sinew string. Next he pulled out a whalebone rattle, and a flat, hand-held drum that he began furiously beating.

Raising his deep voice to the heavens, the shaman sang out in prayer. All the time quickening his drumbeat, he circled the igloo three complete times before ducking through it’s tunnel-like doorway.

Ootah and Akatingwah had been instructed to remain outdoors while the ceremony of healing was initiated. They passed the time by attending to the dogs. First they unhitched them. Then Ootah unsealed the cache and cut off several thick pieces of walrus meat. Hungry after their spirited journey, the dogs ate heartily before settling in behind their protective wall for a well-deserved rest.

Ootah was also beginning to feel the effects of their long sleepless night, and was just about to suggest to his wife that they curl up beneath the sled blanket, when a loud, rattling sound broke from the snowhouse. They turned toward this alien noise and caught sight of Powhuktuk, who had the mask over his head and was shaking the whalebone rattle with a furious intensity. Once again the shaman completely circled the igloo three times before halting beside the entranceway and abruptly silencing the rattle and pulling off his mask. Gazing out with wide eyes to the rapidly developing dawn, Powhuktuk cried out to the glowing heavens.

“Great Spirit, Nakusiak your son awaits the arrival of the fiery sled that will take him on his final journey. Tarry not, for this great hunter longs to return to the land of his ancestors.”

Spreading out his arms overhead, the shaman let loose a bloodcurdling wail. So loud was this banshee-like scream, even the dogs were awakened from their deep slumber.

“Ootah, your father calls for you!” shouted Powhuktuk forcefully. “Go bid him farewell on this longest of trips from which no mortal returns.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Ootah left his mate’s side and headed straight for the interior of the snow house. He found his father lying peacefully beneath the covers of the sleeping pallet. Curled at his side, sound asleep, was his grandson.

Touched by this innocent scene, Ootah’s expectations soared. Somehow Powhuktuk had performed yet another miracle, and Nakusiak would live! Yet any high hopes on his part were abruptly crushed when Ootah spotted the large pool of bright red blood that stained Nakusiak’s lips, throat, and upper torso.

With the flickering flame of the soapstone lamp casting a somber shadow, Ootah kneeled down beside his dying father. No sooner did he reach this position, when Nakusiak’s eyes popped open. So weak was the strained voice that followed, that Ootah had to bend his ear to his father’s lips to hear him.

“Ootah, my son. You mustn’t mourn my passing. For I go on a journey that I travel of my own choosing. Yet before I depart to rejoin the ancestors, you must promise me one thing.”

Nakusiak halted a moment to clear his dry throat before continuing.

“The bone amulet that I gave you, do you still have it, my son?”

Immediately grasping the sacred charm that hung from his neck, Ootah replied.

“Of course I do. Father. Why I’ll never take it off!”

Nakusiak managed a weak smile.

“I knew that I could rely on you, my son. Now, remember our shared dream. And when the comet arrives in all its fiery glory, recollect the prophecy that the grandfathers handed down to the people at the very beginning of time. And perhaps the Great Spirit will intervene, and mankind will be spared.”

With the conclusion of these words, Nakusiak was caught up in a fit of violent coughing. And as the blood poured down the corners of his cracked lips, the elder shut his eyes and initiated the first steps of his final journey.

Beside him, Ootah was strangely affected by his father’s passing. No tears fell down his cheeks. Rather, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him. And it was in this spirit that he began making the burial arrangements.

Later that morning, not long after Nakusiak’s corpse was deposited in a shallow grave at the utskirts of their camp, Ootah was drawn to the very edge of the pack ice. As he gazed up into the clear blue heavens, he felt a strange feeling overcome him, and for a brief, fleeting magical moment he touched upon the oneness that guides mankind’s destiny. Suddenly no longer afraid of that final journey he, too, would have to eventually face, the Inuit scanned the vast Arctic sky, finally fixing his gaze on a thin white line that cut the heavens like a knife. No stranger to the vapor trails left in the wake of the white man’s airplanes, he knew this track was lower than the others he had viewed, and somehow different.

Ootah was in the midst of contemplating what made this sky trail unique when the heavens exploded in a fireball of dazzling color. This blindingly bright shaft of light was followed by a deafening boom, that seemed to shake the very ice beneath him.

Mesmerized by the intense wheel of fire that seemed to be falling toward the earth, Ootah suddenly got an inspiration. Could this be the comet his father had warned of? And if it was, did this blast signal the end of the world that the grandfathers prophesied?

Trembling at this thought, Ootah brought his hand up to the smooth bone amulet that hung from his neck. He had sworn to Nakusiak that he would carry on the tradition handed down by his father’s father.

This was a great responsibility, and to insure that he didn’t fail, he could do but one thing. With his eyes still locked on the smoking debris that continued to fall from the heavens in the distance, Ootah determined that he would initiate a holy pilgrimage to gather these remains and determine if they were indeed from the realm of the Great Spirit.