Under the Ice

Chapter Four

Less than twenty-four hours after the USS Defiance returned to her home port, her captain was called to the base commander’s office to explain their early arrival. Matt Colter had just completed this two-hour meeting, and as the car carrying him back to the Defiance returned to the docks, the blond-haired Annapolis grad pondered the rather tense conference that had just taken place.

During his past encounters with Admiral Alien Long, Colter had always found the distinguished, white-haired officer an open-minded, compassionate individual. It had been under Admiral Long’s expert tutelage that Matt had adjusted to the rigors of his first command, and matured as both a naval officer and a human being. Yet for the first time ever. Matt had seen a different side to the admiral’s personality.

Cold and analytical. Long had proceeded as if it were Matt’s fault the mission failed.

Quick to defend himself. Colter did his best to explain the reason why he was forced to cut their mission short. With the assistance of the ship’s log, he described the three separate instances when their prototype surface-scanning Fathometer improperly interpreted the ice conditions topside, causing a trio of bone-jarring collisions. He even displayed a recently taken photograph of the Defiance’s, rudder; it clearly showed the spot where a navigation beacon had been cleanly sheared off by the force of one of these violent confrontations with the pack ice.

Seemingly deaf to this certain proof. Admiral Long continued to probe Matt’s motives for prematurely concluding the patrol. He even pulled out the transcript of the log of one of the Defiance’s earlier Arctic patrols. On that one Matt Colter had also hesitated to bring his command topside because of difficult ice conditions.

Such a move on Long’s part angered the young captain. This past incident had been more than fully explained, and concerned an attempt by the Defiance to surface at the North Pole alongside a British weather station. Though their surface-scanning Fathometer had not failed on that day, in Colter’s opinion, the polynya displayed topside had not been large enough to safely accommodate the Defiance. This was in direct contradiction to the observations of the weather station crew, who’d reported an opening more than sufficient for the three-hundred foot-long vessel.

Matt struggled to control his gathering rage, and as calmly as possible reiterated his passionate feelings on the subject. As captain of the Defiance, he had been responsible for interpreting the data available to him.

And in his opinion, the polynya that lay beside the weather station was just too narrow and jagged to attempt squeezing the Defiance into it.

“Since when is the captain of a US naval vessel allowed to be second-guessed by the civilian crew of a foreign weather station?” Matt Colter countered firmly. “As I said before, that open lead was just too tight, and I wasn’t about to risk the ship on an ascent I deemed a definite safety hazard.”

Unable to contain himself, Matt forcefully continued.

“The day I’m ordered to unnecessarily jeopardize the lives of my crew merely for the sake of adhering to a preplanned mission, that is the day I no longer want to be a part of this man’s Navy!”

Sensing his upset. Admiral Long coolly replied.

“Easy does it. Matt. As you well know, the well-being of our men is still the Navy’s paramount concern. Yet the very nature of submarine duty is full of risks. Why every time you steam out of Long Island Sound you go in harm’s way. Of course, these dangers are multiplied a hundredfold when dealing with Arctic operations.

“Don’t forget, I’ve surfaced a sub at the Pole myself, and I’ll be the first to admit I was scared as hell all the way topside. No one is questioning your bravery, Matt. But I’ve got to know if I can rely on the Defiance to carry out any mission that might be requested of it, should this Cold War we’ve been locked in for the last four decades ever heat up.”

Matt Colter answered without a hint of hesitation.

“Just give us equipment that can be depended upon and I’ll take care of the rest. Admiral. If it has the slimmest chance of succeeding, the men of the Defiance will pull it off.”

“You know, I believe you’ll do just that,” retorted the white-haired admiral with a sigh.

The tension was suddenly broken, and Long went on to consider Matt Colter’s suggestion that the laser surface-scanning Fathometer be removed, and the old unit be reconnected. A compromise was eventually reached: an attempt would be made to repair the prototype device, while the original unit was to be readied as a backup. On this conciliatory note, the meeting was adjourned.

As the sub pens loomed in the distance. Matt decided that he had pleaded his case to the best of his ability. If command was going to officially censure him for his circumspect approach, then so be it. Yet it aggravated him that not once had the admiral mentioned condemning the one responsible for this meeting in the first place — the designer of the prototype surface-scanning Fathometer. As far as Matt was concerned, this was the individual who should be having his competency looked into, but he was thankful that he had received permission to get their old unit back on-line. Colter’s attention was diverted as his driver braked the car to a halt before a central wharf. The young captain exited the vehicle and momentarily stood on the pier to admire the vessel floating before him.

Looking sleek and deadly, the USS Defiance sat low in the water, with barely half of its black, teardrop-shaped hull exposed. Gathered behind its tall sail were a group of three dungaree-clad sailors. One of these individuals wore a bolstered pistol and alertly carried a combat shotgun. Anxious to return to the environment that he felt most familiar with, Matt Colter briefly scanned the dock site.

Parked in a nearby staging area were the support vehicles that were assisting with the current refit. A large, corrugated steel warehouse stood nearby, with the gray waters of the Thames River flowing in the background. It was a brisk late fall afternoon. The trees on the opposite bank had long since lost their leaves, and a sharp northerly wind hinted at the bitter, New England winter that would all too soon be upon them. Tbrning the collar of his light jacket up to meet these penetrating gusts, Matt gratefully strode forward to return to his floating home away from home.

Below deck in the Defiance’s wardroom, Lieutenant Commander Al Layman was contentedly nibbling away on a fresh cake donut when the sub’s commanding officer entered the compartment. Seated at his usual place at the far end of the rect angularly shaped table, the XO noted Matt Colter’s solemn expression and greeted him cautiously.

“How did it go. Skipper?”

Heavily seating himself at the head of the table, Matt replied.

“The usual cock and bull, Al. As if I had anything to do with that damn Fathometer’s failure.”

From out of the nearby galley, an alert steward soundlessly appeared. He placed a cup of steaming hot black coffee and a platter of fresh donuts before the captain. Warming his hands on the side of his mug. Colter added.

“At least it seems I was able to get a portion of our case across. The admiral has given us permission to hook up the old ice machine as a backup.”

While self-consciously wiping off the excess crumbs of powdered sugar that had gotten left behind in his thick mustache, the XO nodded.

“That’s certainly good news. Skipper. I’ll get the chief on it at once.”

As he jotted down a note on the half-filled legal pad resting on the table, Al Layman continued.

“Speaking of that newfangled Fathometer, we took on some support personnel soon after you left for your meeting. They’re currently up in the sail trying to figure out what went wrong with the frigging thing.”

Matt Colter seemed impressed with this revelation.

“Well, I’ll be. Command certainly doesn’t seem to be dragging its feet on this one. I can’t wait to hear what excuses they’ll come up with to save the reputation of the pencil pusher responsible for dreaming up that device.”

“I’m sure they’ll be good ones,” reflected the XO as he reached into his pocket and removed a well-worn briar pipe and a pouch of tobacco.

“I still think the laser was improperly calibrated. That would account for the discrepancy between the pictures of the ice conditions fed into our Nav system and those we actually ran into.”

As the rich scent of vanilla-and rum-soaked tobacco filled the air, the captain responded.

“But why in the hell do we even need such a system in the first place? Though they might take a bit more sweat and effort on the part of the crew, the old machines have been in service over three decades, and never once have I heard of one of those units failing.”

“I guess there’s no use trying to buck progress,” the XO offered. “You must admit, when the bugs are finally worked out, having such a sophisticated system on board will certainly save a lot of time and worry on our part. Not only will the lasers accurately plot all available surface leads to the tenth of an inch, they’ll determine the pack’s precise thickness as well. And then all we have to do is sit back on our duffs while this data is incorporated into our Nav system, and look on as ‘big brother’ automatically handles the ascent from there.”

“It still sounds like a pipe dream to me, Al. If this system works as planned, pretty soon a human crew won’t be needed at all. Why risk lives when computers can handle the whole damn show?” Thoughtfully taking a sip of coffee. Matt Colter grinned.

“I imagine many similar conversations filled the wardrooms of past warships when other radical changes were about to be incorporated into the fleet. I’ll bet the sailors of a hundred years ago turned a skeptical eye on the introduction of fossil-fueled engines into ships and preferred sails.”

“And don’t forget the recent advent of the nuclear reactor,” added Al Layman.

“If it wasn’t for the vision and tenacity of Hyman Rickover, who knows if under-the-ice missions would even be possible today. No, Skipper, though it might take time to smooth out the kinks, I say it’s impossible to ignore the advances technology brings our way.”

Quietly absorbing this statement. Matt Colter worked on his coffee. He was a good halfway into the mug of strong brew when he again spoke.

“What do you have planned for your leave, Al?”

The XO replied while tamping down the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.

“Actually, this will be the perfect time for me to make good on that anniversary celebration I missed out on last week. I thought I’d surprise Donna and make a reservation at the inn on Nantucket where we spent our honeymoon.”

“How long has it been now, Al?”

“Believe it or not, we’re going on our eighth year, Skipper. Though in that time I’ve only been here twice to celebrate on the actual date of our anniversary.

“How about you? This would be the perfect opportunity for you to winterize your place in the White Mountains before the first big snows hit.”

Matt Colter shook his head.

“Afraid not, Al. You see, the last I heard, Kay and the kids were still living there. Seems she’s got something going with the owner of the lodge she was selling her paintings at this summer, and she asked if it was okay to have the place for the rest of the season.”

Conscious that he was treading on delicate ground, Al Layman carefully responded.

“I didn’t realize she had left Boston, Skipper. The last I heard, she had that great teaching position at Wellesley.”

“So she did,” reflected Colter. “But just like Kay, she goes and blows her tenure on a summertime fling. I pray this relationship works out for her, at the very least for the kids’ sake.”

The somber mood that had suddenly descended on the wardroom was broken by the arrival of a smiling, khaki-suited sailor carrying a half-filled duffel bag.

Quick to note the no-nonsense looks on the faces of the ship’s two most senior officers. Petty Officer First Class Stanley Roth sucked in his slightly bulging gut and stiffened to attention.

“Sorry to bother you. Captain. But you asked me earlier to give you an update on that sonar system’s checkout before I took off, sir.”

“That I did, Mr. Roth,” returned Colter, instinctively putting personal concerns out of his mind. “But first off, how are you feeling? Did that medicine Pills prescribed for you do the job?”

The ship’s senior sonar technician nodded.

“I’m feeling much better. Captain. The fever’s gone, and all I have left is a little discomfort in the lower left portion of my jaw.”

“Good,” replied Colter. “I hope you’re still planning to see the base dentist.”

“That I am, sir. In fact, I’m headed there right now. I talked it over with the guys, and they said if I didn’t go to the clinic right away, I’d most likely put it off until the end of my leave. And that’s not exactly something to look forward to, is it, sir?”

“No it isn’t, Mr. Roth,” answered the captain. “Get that problem looked after professionally and we can all rest easier on our next patrol. After all, I can’t afford to have my best man in the sound shack down with any kind of ailment. Speaking of the devil, how did that equipment check out?”

Still basking in the warmth of the unexpected compliment his commanding officer had just given him, Stanley Roth quickly replied, “We’re still showing a problem in the aft passive range-determination array, Captain. I think it’s merely a software glitch, sir. To find out for certain, I’ve got Seaman Warren running a complete program analysis.”

“Very good,” the captain nodded. “Make certain Warren lets the chief know if it’s anything more serious than a software screw up. There’s no telling how long we’re in for, and if we’ve got a major problem, I’d like to get at it with all due haste.”

“Captain, I’d be more than willing to do the rest of the check myself,” the petty officer volunteered.

“I’d like nothing more than that, Mr. Roth. But have you forgotten about that appointment at the dental clinic? Have that tooth looked after, and then go out on the town and enjoy yourself for a night. Lord knows you’ve earned it. Besides, Seaman Warren seems like a capable enough fellow. Don’t you agree, XO?”

Al Layman took the scarred bit of pipe out of his mouth and succinctly answered.

“He’ll do. So listen to your captain and hit the gangway. Roth.”

“Yes, sir!” the petty officer snapped as he turned to exit the wardroom.

Enlivened by the likable sonar technician’s visit, the XO stood.

“Looks like I’d better get the show on the road myself. Skipper. The crew manifest is on your desk. Lieutenant Marshall is the current officer of the deck. On the way out, I’ll make certain the chief gets the word on hooking up the old ice machine.”

As Layman began gathering up his belongings, he remembered one last detail.

“By the way. Skipper, you never did say how you were going to spend your leave.”

Standing himself, Matt Colter answered.

“Right now, it looks like I’ll probably just hang around here for a while. I’ve got plenty of paperwork to get caught up on, and if I do get the hankering for some solid land under my feet and a little fresh air, maybe I’ll go up to Mystic for a day.”

“You do that,” advised Al Layman firmly. “Because if there’s anyone on board this ship who deserves some time to himself, it’s you. Skipper.”

“I don’t know about that, XO. It seems to me you put in your fair share of overtime on this last patrol. So get out of here, and enjoy that second honeymoon!”

Mockingly saluting, the XO smiled and turned for his cabin. Alone now in the wardroom. Matt finished off his coffee and decided to take off for the ship’s conning tower to see how the technicians were doing with the repair of the faulty surface-scanning Pathometer. To get to this portion of the Defiance, he exited through the forward hatchway. This put him in an equipment-packed passageway lined with stainless steel piping.

With a fluid ease, he passed by the locked radio room, picturing the state-of-the-art receivers and transmitters in this all-important compartment, equipment that allowed them almost instant contact with command even when deeply submerged. Next, he walked by the sonar room, or sound shack as it was affectionately called. The door to this room was open, and Colter could see Seaman Lester Warren hunched over one of the consoles. Though Warren was fairly new to the Navy, he was a self-proclaimed computer nerd, his fascination with such equipment having begun in grade school. A quick learner, the Texan had graduated first in his computer-science class while in basic training, and when it was learned that he had above average hearing, he was steered into the arcane art of sonar detection. So far he showed great promise, and with Petty Officer Roth’s expert guidance, the youngster could have a bright career.

Confident that the sonarman could find the glitch Roth had suspected, the captain continued forward.

This brought him into that spacious portion of the vessel where the sub’s central control room and attack center were located. Several members of the crew were gathered around a console under the capable direction of the ship’s current OOD, Lieutenant Don Marshall.

The slightly built, redheaded Georgian was the Defiance’ full-time diving officer, and was not known for sartorial splendor. Yet in this instance the captain found Marshall dressed in a crisp pair of khakis, his perpetually loose shirt bottom neatly tucked into the sharply creased pants. Noting that the enlisted men working at the OOD’s side were similarly dressed in fresh coveralls, Colter suspected that they had been anticipating a visit from the base commander, and had dressed this way to impress him.

Certainly not disappointed that his men were suddenly taking an interest in their outward appearances, the captain loudly cleared his throat to announce his presence.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope I’m not breaking in on anything important.”

“Not at all, sir,” Marshall replied in his deep southern drawl. “I was only going over the diving procedures with those seamen interested in qualifying during this tour.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from continuing,” returned Colter as he looked past the periscope well to the access hatch cut into the base of the sail. “Tell me, Lieutenant, the civilian engineers on board, are they still inside the sail working on that Fathometer?”

There was an unusual gleam in the OOD’s eyes as he answered.

“That they are, Captain. Shall I call them down for you?”

Colter shook his head.

“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I think under the circumstances it’s better if I crawl up there unannounced.”

“Whatever you say, sir. But it certainly won’t be any bother for me to go up there and fetch ‘em for you.”

A bit puzzled by this reply. Colter turned to the sail.

“You may return to your business, Mr. Marshall. I’m quite capable of handling this matter on my own.”

The men’s stares seemed to be following him as he ducked through the hatch and began to go up the narrow, steel-gauge ladder. Putting out of his mind the notion that his men were up to some sort of mischief, Colter made the climb up to the exposed bridge. A whiff of cool, fresh air, rich with the scent of the sea, met his nostrils, and in the distance he could just make out the sounds of muffled voices. In the hope that this repair team could explain precisely what had malfunctioned on the prototype Fathometer unit, he proceeded up the remaining rungs.

As Colter crawled through the final hatch, he viewed the backs of two workmen, busily digging through an exposed panel that was set near the bridge’s latticed floor. Both were dressed in woolen hats and identical heavy, navy blue coveralls that had Naval Arctic Laboratory stencilled in white below their shoulder blades. It was evident that they were completely unaware of his presence, and Colter took advantage of his surprise appearance by going directly on the offensive.

“I hope one of you will be able to explain just what went wrong with that damn unit. If the pencil pusher who invented it only knew its malfunction almost cost the lives of one hundred seven men, he’d hopefully be more careful the next time. This is no laboratory experiment that we’re running out here. It’s reality of the harshest sort!”

“I doubt if you’ll have to worry about another failure,” retorted one of the kneeling figures in an unnaturally high voice.

Only as this individual swiveled around and stood did Colter realize this technician wasn’t a man as he had assumed, but a young woman, and a pretty one at that. With her dark, almond-shaped eyes locked onto his startled gaze, she took a step forward and added.

“You must be Captain Colter. I’m Dr. Laurie Lansing of the Naval Arctic lab, and I believe we just found the problem that caused the unit to malfunction. It seems that during installation, the lasers weren’t calibrated properly.”

“This is a hell of a time to figure that one out,” snapped Colter. “That damn machine of yours was almost responsible for our deaths on three separate occasions.”

“You have every reason to be upset,” Dr. Lansing responded in a conciliatory tone. “I would feel the same way if our situations were reversed. But now that we know the problem, I’m certain it can be rectified.”

Capping these words off with a brave smile, she removed her woolen hat and shook loose a long mop of silky black hair. This feature served to further enhance her natural beauty, and Matt Colter’s wrath was temporarily quieted. Sensing this, Laurie Lansing continued.

“I know excuses are meaningless now, but this whole problem came into being when I was forced to miss the unit’s final fine tuning. I pleaded with Admiral Long to hold off your sailing date, but he said it would be next to impossible to do such a thing for a mere double-check of the equipment. I prayed that the lasers were tuned properly, and when I heard about your close calls under the ice, I felt simply terrible.”

Her sincerity was painfully real, and Matt Colter couldn’t help but be placated. Yet he still found himself with a bone to pick.

“I appreciate your concern. Doctor. But how could the designer of this project allow us to go to sea without making absolutely certain the device was in perfect operating condition? He must have known the risks involved.”

“He certainly did,” replied Laurie Lansing somberly. “And believe me when I tell you that no one valued human life more than he did. For you see, he was my father, and it was his untimely death that kept me from making those final checks as he would have done.”

Genuinely moved by her revelation. Matt Colter shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I had no idea such a thing had taken place.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Captain. I guess I should just have been a bit more forceful in my appeal to the admiral to hold the Defiance in port a little longer. But with my father’s sudden passing and all, I’m afraid that I didn’t put up much of an argument.”

“Understandably so,” reasoned Matt Colter. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s the admiral for failing to heed your warnings. But that’s water over the dam. We survived our confrontation with the ice pack, and now it appears we’ll both be getting a second chance. How many hours will the repair effort take?”

“I should be able to give you a fully operational unit in approximately three more days. Most of the work will concern reprogramming the computer interface, though there was a bit of structural damage caused when the sail struck the ice. That must have been some impact.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” observed Matt Colter. “But fortunately the Defiance was built with just such punishment in mind. Though I wouldn’t want to have to needlessly put my crew through such an experience again. We’re going to be having enough nightmares about those collisions as it is.”

Any response on Laurie Lansing’s part was cut short by the shrill buzz of the sail’s intercom unit. Quick to pick up the black handset. Matt Colter spoke into it.

“Captain here… Sure, Lieutenant, I’ll be right down.”

As he placed the receiver back in its cradle. Colter politely excused himself, then started to return below.

Only when he was nearly halfway down the narrow ladder did he realize why the control room crew had appeared so dapper earlier. They had seen the type of woman who was working in the sail, and were doing their best to give her a good impression of them.

Grinning at this thought, he jumped off the final two rungs, and expertly slid down the ladder’s shiny steel handrails to the deck below.

Colter was surprised to find his XO waiting for him beside the fire-control panel. Al Layman looked serious, and the captain sensed trouble.

“What are you doing back here so soon, Al? I thought you’d be well on your way to Nantucket by now.”

Meeting the captain’s greeting with a somber scowl, the XO answered him directly.

“I wish that was indeed the case, Skipper. But I bumped into the admiral’s aide while I was in the Officer’s Club making those reservations, and he dropped off this packet he was about to bring over to the Defiance. I’ll bet my pension it’s sailing orders.”

As he handed Matt the sealed envelope, the XO added.

“Thank the lord I didn’t call Donna and let her know about the trip I planned. One more heartbreak like that and it would have meant a divorce for certain.”

Not paying this remark much attention. Colter tore open the envelope and removed several typed documents. After skimming the top sheet, he handed it to his second-in-command, commenting, “They’re sailing orders all right. And it looks to me like Command wants us out of here as soon as we can restock our stores and get the men back from shore leave.”

“Does it say where we’re off to?” quizzed Al Layman.

Hastily reading the rest of the packet, the captain answered, “Looks like it’s the Arctic again, my friend. Says here that we’ll be getting additional orders while at sea.”

“But the ice machine,” protested the XO. “They can’t send us up there again with one unit on the fritz and the other still inoperable.”

Matt Colter replied while studying the packet’s last sheet.

“Command realizes that, and is authorizing us to continue the repairs while we’re underway.”

“They want us to take that civilian repair team to sea with us?” asked the XO incredulously.

“They sure do, Al. And you don’t know the half of it. One of the members of that repair crew is one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Al Layman rubbed his forehead.

“Oh, swell. A dame on board and more ice to boot. Perhaps you could convince the admiral to leave the woman behind where she belongs.”

“I seriously doubt that, my friend,” replied Colter with a sigh. “Because these, orders aren’t just coming down from COMSUBLANT. They’re originating from no less a place than the White House!”

Approximately 2,100 miles northwest of the sub base at New London, Connecticut, lay the picturesque village of Banff. Situated on the far western border of the Canadian province of Alberta, Banff was cradled in a magnificent Rocky Mountain valley, that was a hiker’s paradise in the summer and a skier’s delight in the colder months of the year.

In addition to a variety of excellent hotels and resorts, Banff was also home to an Army cadet-training facility. Here in the brisk mountain air, young men and women prepared for a career in the military.

Though this compound was usually closed down at summer’s end, it was occasionally opened to accommodate branches of the Canadian armed forces that wished to train troops in the vicinity. This proved to be the case on a cool, crisp fall morning, as a group of twenty-two soldiers lay snug in their bunks catching the tail end of a sound night’s sleep.

Oblivious to their contented snores, a pair of khaki-uniformed figures gathered at the head of the barracks. One of these individuals was tall and thin, with short brown hair and a creased, weatherworn face. The other was several inches shorter, with stocky build, smooth brown skin, and rather long, straight black hair. It proved to be the taller of the two who stepped forward. With the first light of dawn just visible through the window behind him, this man’s voice boomed out deep and strong.

“Good morning, lads, rise and shine! I hope you enjoyed your little slumber party, because it’s time to do your thing for God, Queen, and country. So out of those bunks boys, and look sharp. Because you’re Arctic Rangers, the best damn soldiers in the north woods.”

Looking out as his men began groggily stirring from beneath their woolen blankets. Lieutenant Jack Redmond turned and briefly grinned as he caught the black, steady gaze of his second-in-command.

“Sergeant-Major Ano! Get this bunch of worthless scalawags off to the showers and then dressed and into the mess hall. I want them waiting for me on the parade ground in full battle gear by 0800. And then we’ll soon enough see what Canada’s best are made out of!”

Leaving the task of further motivating the young squad of soldiers to his capable Inuit subordinate, Jack Redmond smartly pivoted and left the barracks.

Once outside, he hurriedly crossed the manicured parade ground. The pine-scented air was nippy, and just hinted at the frigid winter that would all too soon be upon them. Proof of this rapidly approaching season lay clearly visible on the lofty mountain tops that surrounded the valley, for the snow line was steadily working its way down the tree-covered slopes.

While wondering if the section of wilderness he had chosen for that day’s maneuvers was snowbound as yet, the forty-three-year-old veteran commando ducked into the adjoining mess hall.

Once inside this cavernous structure, Redmond headed straight for the cafeteria-style serving line. A single, potbellied cook stood behind the steam table.

“Good morning, Angus,” greeted Jack Redmond. “I hope you had a pleasant enough sleep. What’s for chow?”

“Red River cereal and hot cakes,” replied the cook indifferently. His beard-stub bled chin was gray with several days’ growth. “And have no fear, Jack Redmond, there’s plenty of hot coffee, brewed extra strong just as you like it.”

At this revelation, a warm smile painted the veteran soldier’s face.

“Bless you, Angus. I’ll be taking the lads on a bit of a hike today, and you’re more than welcome to join us with your pipes.”

Patting his stained, apron-covered belly, Angus McPherson thoughtfully answered.

“So it’s a bit of a hike you’ll be taking. Jack Redmond. Though I would like a chance to work off a bit of this extra baggage, if I know you, you’ll be taking your lads straight up Mount Rundle, and be back in time for tea.”

Redmond replied while filling a white ceramic bowl full of hot cereal.

“Not quite, Angus. I’ll be taking the squad up through Simpson Pass to the Sunshine meadowlands. There we’ll be doing some alpine climbing on the foothills beneath Mount Assiniboine.”

“That’s lovely land you’ve chosen,” reflected the grizzled cook. “You wouldn’t happen to know if the Sunshine gondola is operating as yet, would you, Jack?”

The veteran commando nodded.

“As it so happens, I talked to the resort manager just yesterday to get clearance for our hike, and she mentioned that the gondola would be in operation all this week in preparation for ski season.”

Satisfied that he would have a way down from the mountain should his legs give out, Angus winked.

“Then it looks like you’ve got the services of one worn-out piper. I’ll be out to join you on the parade grounds in my regimental kilts as soon as the boys have filled their bellies.”

Sincerely happy to have the old-timer’s company, Redmond added to his tray a platter of hotcakes and a large mug of black coffee. He sat himself down at a nearby table and immediately got to work on his breakfast.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood on the parade ground, his men smartly lined up before him. Dressed identically in snow-wnite fatigues, the squad wore backpacks. Unloaded M16 rifles were slung over the men’s shoulders. While Sergeant-Major Ano initiated an intense inspection, a portly latecomer joined the ranks. Unlike his younger comrades, this individual wore gaily colored, red and black woolen kilts. He put the bagpipes he carried to work when Jack Redmond greeted him with a simple nod. To the spirited sounds of Scotland the Brave, the squad marched off to the bus that would take them to the trailhead.

The first portion of the hike took them through a thick wood of lodgepole pine and birch. The terrain here was relatively flat, with a swift-moving stream cascading on their left. To the melodious strains of such age-old pipe favorites as the “Highland Cradle Song,” “Captain Off-Ewing,” “Culty’s Wedding,” and “Farewell to the Creeks,” they made excellent time.

Designed to set a marching regiment’s pace and provide inspiration, the bagpipe tunes seemed as home here in the Canadian wilderness as they would back on the heather-covered meadows of Scotland.

The group stopped for a quick lunch of crusty french bread, cheddar cheese, and green apples at Simpson Pass. The weather was cooperating quite splendidly, and they munched away on their food under an almost cloudless blue sky. A gentle wind blew in from the west, while the temperature was so mild that the majority of the men were picnicking in their shirtsleeves.

After lunch, their hike took them up a gradually sloping trail. Unable to play his pipes on this portion of the path, Angus McPherson barely had enough wind to make the climb. Walking immediately behind the likable Scot, and taking up the rear of the pack was Jack Redmond.

Satisfied with their progress, the veteran commando was able to identify several species of passing wildlife. Fat black and white plumed magpies watched them from the branches of the pines, their characteristic long, graduated tails and squeaky voices quick to give them away. Ground squirrels were abundant, and once they startled a family of deer, who were innocently grazing on some green shrubbery at the edge of the trail.

Having grown up in nearby Kamloops, Redmond was most familiar with the rugged terrain they were passing through. Yet each time he ventured into such wilderness, he felt a new appreciation for its raw beauty. It had been his grandfather who’d originally given him his first lesson in woodsman ship. A grizzled logger, the old man had known the forest like a close friend, and much of his invaluable knowledge had been passed on to Jack during the frequent camping trips they took on the shores of Lake Okanagan. It was here the youngster had learned the names of the various plants and animals that abounded in this region. The impressionable lad had also heard many a frightening tale told around the fire-circle, such as that of the monstrous, serpent like beast that supposedly lived deep in the lake’s icy depths.

Twenty-five years ago, at the tender age of eighteen, Jack had enlisted in the Army. Never known for his ambition, he’d blossomed in the military’s environment of vigorous physical activity and comradeship.

Several tours had taken him to southern Germany, where he’d helped fulfill Canada’s NATO obligation. In fact, it was in Germany that he’d met the only woman he’d ever really cared for. Gretchen was a willowy blonde, with a quick wit and a keen intellect. Unfortunately, the headstrong Canuck bachelor had feared a permanent commitment, and he’d lost his only love to a dashing Yank from California. Since that traumatic experience, he had remained aloof from the opposite sex, preferring instead to focus his energies solely on his military career.

In the 1980’s, Canadians became increasingly concerned with the security of their borders. As the planet’s third largest country in terms of available land space, Canada found itself in the awkward position of having more troops committed to the defense of central Europe than it did to its homeland. To rectify this shocking imbalance, attention began to focus on internal security.

Since much of the nation stretched above the Arctic Circle, special forces squadrons were created to patrol these vast frozen expanses of territory. These patrols became more and more important as the Arctic continued to be developed both commercially and strategically.

It was for such duty that Redmond’s current outfit, the Arctic Rangers came into being. Comprised primarily of trained woodsmen and native Inuit, the Rangers were responsible for patrolling vast portions of northern territory, and were involved in search and rescue efforts and ecological enforcement as well.

To insure that his men could handle themselves in a variety of terrain and under differing climatic conditions, Redmond made sure their maneuvers took them to various regions of the country. Only recently they had stayed one month on isolated Ellesmere Island, Canada’s northernmost territory. Almost directly adjoining the northern tip of Greenland, Ellesmere was a desolate spot that for the majority of the year was frozen over in ice and snow. Since the Rangers stay had been there in the closing days of summer, the weather conditions were a bit more tolerable.

The Inuit members of the squad provided invaluable guidance, showing the men how to augment their dull canned diet with an assortment of nourishing local foods such as hare, caribou, and seal.

Jack Redmond couldn’t help but be excited when his recent orders sent them packing for Banff. For these were practically the woods he grew up in, and spending the next couple of weeks exploring the surrounding countryside was like a trip back to the days of his childhood. This especially seemed to be the case when a trail they had been steadily following upward passed by the side of a huge granite mountain that had recently lost a good portion of its bulk to a major rock slide. As a lad, Jack had played in similar debris, and he would never forget the many hours he’d spent climbing amongst the rocks, looking for gold and other treasures.

As they came upon a portion of the trail that had been covered by this slide, the squad was forced to pick its way around the fractured rock. Briefly halting before doing so, Angus McPherson pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his soaked brow.

“My lordy. Jack, I guess I’m in worse shape that I ever imagined,” observed the Scotsman between gasps of breath. “Why just look at your boys up there, climbing onward like this was nothing but a sunday stroll through Stanley Park. Why there was a time not so long ago when I could easily have kept up with those lads and then some.”

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 resort’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.