Harbinger (The Janus Harbinger Book 1)

by Olan Thorensen

  “Does anyone live here . . . besides us?” asked Harold.

  Sinclair smiled slightly. “Officially, we don’t live here because Site 23 is highly classified and would not appear on any map or other public information source. However, except for us, there are only three recognized settlements.”

  Sinclair turned to the map and placed the pointer at the northernmost tip of Ellesmere. “The Alert weather station is manned only part of the year—usually six to nine months of the better weather.” Sinclair moved the pointer to the midwestern coast. “Here at Eureka is a permanently manned weather and research station. The staff at Eureka runs around eight to ten during winter months but expands during warmer months, depending on scheduled research or other activities.” Sinclair moved the pointer again, this time to the extreme southern coast. “Grise Fiord has the only permanent ‘civilian’ population on Ellesmere—about 160, including native Inuits and a few others.”

  “So,” Jason said slowly, “in an area the size of a U.S. state, this one settlement we’re in must contain a third of the entire population.”

  “That’s correct, at least as far as more permanent residents. There are also visits by scientists and even a few tourists during the summer months, but those are closely controlled by Canada and are located farther north than where we are.”

  Sinclair let this sink in for a few moments. “Let’s continue on with the briefing, first of which is a general introduction to the site by Richard.” With that, Sinclair nodded the man next to him.

  Lindskold cleared his throat and then started. “Well, welcome to you all. Being a small community, it’s always an event when new people arrive. Normally, this occurs at scheduled rotation times—that is, when some staff rotate out and new ones arrive. This is a little more of an event, both because it was not on the normal timing and because it’s an addition to the staff size without anyone leaving. You can imagine that percentage-wise, going from 89 to 96 . . . I suppose I should say 97.”

  He nodded toward Bobby.

  “Such an increase makes this a special occasion for us here. My job is to handle the routine camp operations . . . you know . . . do the usual bureaucratic work.” He smiled. “I hope you didn’t think being this remote lets anyone escape paperwork. We have to keep the power going, vehicles running, food coming, and dozens of everything that is needed to keep the site functional. Please be assured that Bre and I are eager to help—it’s part of our job.” With that, Lindskold turned to the woman. “Bre?”

  Huttleston swept past Lindskold, smiling and eyes sparkling. “I’m Richard’s assistant, among other things. However, you’ll find that the support staff is on the small side for this remote facility. This means that many of us wear multiple hats. For myself, I help Richard with the paperwork and keep a running inventory of the supplies and draft resupply orders.” She smiled. “But the more fun part of my job is being something of a social secretary for the site. I organize various activities for people’s spare time and do what I can to make everyone’s visit here as pleasant as possible. Please let me know if there’s anything you need. I’ll also be your ‘go-to guy’ or, in my case, your ‘go-to gal’ in helping you adjust.

  “Later on, I’ll show you to your rooms and give you a little tour of the most important parts of the site—like the lavatory facilities, the dining area, the schedule board, and the site store. You’ll find it has most of what you may need in the way of additional clothing, toiletries, and so on. The selections may not equal Macy’s or the local drugstore chain, but it should at least get you going. Anything that’s not there, please let me know, and I’ll see if we can get it in a future resupply. Just remember, it’s not like going down to the nearest mall or Walgreens. Anything you really need that we don’t already have, we’ll do our best to improvise until we can arrange to fly it in.”

  With that, Lindskold and Huttleston left the room without waiting for questions. Sinclair sat on the edge of a side table.

  “Just a few words about security to get you through the rest of today. The main thing to understand for the moment is that the staff is functionally divided into three security ‘levels.’ All of you will be part of Level 3. Level 1 is mainly the basic support of the site and a radar and weather station. We are actually a functional part of the North American radar system—obviously pointing to anything coming toward the U.S. by polar route. The radar facility is not among the strongest but enough so to be credible, even though it doesn’t feed directly into the extensive North American defense system. The radar antennae is located west of here about a half-mile and is camouflaged enough to be hard to detect from either the air or at ground level.

  “Also on site are meteorologists using some of the same equipment, mainly confirming forecasts and doing some studies. In addition, several scientists carry out research on various topics, such as Arctic biology, geology, and so on. Level 1 serves as the basic ‘cover’ for higher-security operations.

  “Level 2 eavesdrops on Russia, China, and North Korea—mainly the first two. As it happens, this region of Ellesmere gets particularly good reception—especially from Russia, yet also surprisingly good from northern China. We have eight China/Russia/Korean experts and linguists on staff, along with IT and electronics support people. They monitor our friends across the pole and feed intelligence reports back to the U.S. You would be surprised what can be learned even from listening to a truck driver in Siberia, at least when it’s fed into computers and human analysts collate intelligence from a range of sources.”

  Sinclair paused. He had their full attention. “Level 1 staff are not authorized to know anything about the operations in Level 2. We keep to a strict rule that higher levels NEVER discuss their work with lower levels. To do so violates your employment contracts, meaning you’d lose past and future pay, but it also has formal security consequences for possible future employment and, in severe cases, possible legal implications. This goes for both the staff members learning something they shouldn’t have and the staff who did the revealing. This, of course, puts a certain strain on everyday operations and interpersonal interactions, but you’ll find the community has developed protocols all its own. It has unexpectedly turned into part of the subculture of the site, which helps bind the community together. This has turned out to be interesting enough that there is an anthropologist/linguist on site who specializes in community cohesion and cultural rule development.”

  Sinclair paused again, then continued. “All I will say for now is that you will formally be part of Level 3. What I described for the first two levels continues into Level 3. Level 3 is why this entire facility is here. The two lower levels are security cover for what goes on in Level 3.”

  Sinclair stopped and raised a hand to forestall the questions about to burst out. “No questions right now. You’ll find out more tomorrow.” He then continued. “As far as Level 1 staff know, there is no Level 3. They assume that everyone doing secure work is in Level 2. In fact, we do not use the terms Levels 1, 2, and 3, except among ourselves at Level 3. There are ‘secure’ activities and ‘nonsecure’ functions, as far as Level 1 staff members know. You needed to get this information as soon as you arrived so as not to inadvertently breach security.

  “To the outside world, this is supposed to simply be a combined radar, weather, and research station. Efforts are made to hide the spy work being done, but not too much effort. We figure that when other countries eventually find out we’re here, they’ll work to discover that there’s more to the site than acknowledged. We expect them to find out about the eavesdropping and hope any countries that do will be satisfied that they have ‘solved’ the secret of Site 23 and that the Americans are not as clever as they think they are.

  “I’ll call Bre back in, and she’ll lead you to the dining area. Please eat together and remember what I cautioned about security. After eating, Bre will take you over to the dorm buildings and show you your quarters.”

  Eat and Sleep

  Bre Huttleston
waited outside. As with all newcomers, she wondered who they were and why they were here. But this time it was different for many reasons. The most striking one was the woman with a young child. What in the world was she doing bringing a toddler to this place? Then there was the cargo they came with. Yes, there were some supplies, but a large part of the cargo obviously consisted of electronics—and fragile and expensive tech, if the newcomer men’s fussing and care at handling were any indication.

  Bre was also more than simply an aide, although she didn’t realize it was part of the reason for her selection. She had a good sense of people even after brief contact—not that she was always accurate—and that recognition was one of her strengths. This sense went into high gear when she first saw the new men. Of course, there was the African American officer. Woof! Not that she had any prejudice against non-black men, but in theory, she preferred black men because it made some things easier. A problem was the lack of black men on site. This one looked somewhat somber, but Sinclair respected him, which told her a lot. Then there were the three techies or whatever people called them. Probably something to do with the new equipment, but they seemed okay.

  The other two men were something else. The hairs on her back stood up within seconds of seeing those two. They were definitely not technical. Not pure military either, but they were dangerous. Her first impression reminded her of where she grew up—a bad neighborhood of Cleveland where too many black youths saw only drugs and gangs as paths to respect, and too many black men and youths had an aura of imminent violence. She had left as soon as she could, first living with a middle-class aunt in Chicago and then going away to school at Indiana University in Bloomington. There the culture was more genteel, but she never forgot Cleveland. These two men brought back memories she would rather forget. Then one of them laughed, and the other smiled in return. No. They weren’t the same as others she’d known. When you looked into these eyes, there was someone present. Not the void in the eyes she’d seen too many times at home. Yes, there was a sense of danger about these two, but it was under control and perhaps more of a potential.

  When recalled by Sinclair, she bounced back into the room. “Hello again, everyone,” Bre called out. “Let’s head over to the dining hall and get you fed. After that, I’ll show you your rooms so you can start settling in.” She motioned for them to follow, and the group walked down the same hall into the open space at the end that served as a lounge and rec room. Then past a wide door at the other end and into the dining area and adjacent galley.

  “We’re right at the end of the normal dinner hour, so it won’t be as noisy as usual.”

  The “chow line” was cafeteria-style, with plates on one end of a long hotplate line. Steam and aromas wafted around them, reminding everyone of hunger that had been forgotten in the combination of excitement, trepidation, and, in Jill’s case, worry about her son. Well, hunger almost forgotten by everyone. “Fry-fries,” Bobby called out, smelling the telltale aroma. “Hungry, Mommy,” he said, not whining so much as reminding his mother of her neglect to feed him on time.

  “We’ll get you fry-fries, plus other good stuff to eat.” Jill stood by the stack of plates, wondering how she would carry Bobby and one or more plates at the same time. Though she appreciated that the men meant well by deferring to her going first, she was blocking the line while trying to figure out how to use two arms to do the work of three or four. Jill had hoped Bre would help her, but Bre had gone off to talk to a short, stout young woman working in the kitchen. The men solved the immediate problem of her indecision by using the other side of the food line, filling their plates, and talking.

  “Here, let me help,” said a voice behind her. Jill looked around to find Marjek holding two plates, one in his left hand and the other plate propped on his forearm. “Tell me what you and Bobby want, and I’ll load your plates. I can come back for myself.”

  Jill frowned and unconsciously held Bobby a little tighter. Help from this man was not on her wish list. She looked at him, his face expressionless but awaiting her response. Seeing no alternative to solving the immediate problem and avoiding a scene, she reluctantly nodded, and the three of them moved down the line with Jill mentioning items and quantities and Marjek silently filling the orders. At the end of the line, Jill picked up two packets of silverware and napkins and went over to the table where the other men were well into demolishing their larder. Bre had arranged a makeshift highchair for Bobby.

  Where had that come from? Jill thought. I assumed Bobby was the first child here.

  She seated Bobby in place and sat in a chair next to him. Marjek put their plates in front of them and, without a word, turned back to the line for himself. Jill felt a momentary pang for not being civilized and at least thanking him, but he was gone before she could—and to be truthful, she didn’t want to. She knew it was a childish stab at punishing him, but there it was.

  Jill focused on feeding Bobby and wolfing down food when her son was occupied, hardly noticing the others at the table and what they said. Miraculously, Bre was at their side the moment she and Bobby finished their last bites. With Bobby’s acquiescence, Bre picked him out of his chair and led them to another building where their baggage waited in one of two adjoining rooms.

  “You’ll be hard-pressed to see the evidence, but the maintenance people made a door between these rooms,” said Bre. “We just got word five days ago about you and Bobby. The maintenance people worked hard to get this set up for you.” She smiled. “Sometime you’ll have to tell me the truth about how you ended up here.”

  When Bre left, Jill unpacked . . . Bobby’s toys first . . . then read to him until he fell asleep. There were separate beds for the two of them, but she snuggled in beside him and was also asleep within seconds.

  Chapter 11

  FIRST DAY IN NEVERLAND

  Breakfast

  They ate breakfast much as they had dinner the previous evening: together, somber, with little conversation, and conscious of being an island apart from other staff members, who tried to surreptitiously stare without being too obvious. The exception, of course, was Bobby. He was his usual cheerful self—offering to share his Cheerios, his favorite breakfast food, with other members at the table.

  They had been told that they would be collected at 8:30 a.m. in the dining hall. At 8:30 a.m., Sinclair, Jefferson, Lindskold, and Huttleston entered the dining hall, searched and found their table, and walked over.

  “Everyone finished?” Sinclair asked. They all nodded or said yes.

  Bre said to Jill, “I’ll look after Bobby while you’re busy, me and Kathy—she’s one of the cooks. She’ll be sure to feed him if he gets hungry. I see you’ve got a bag I assume has everything he might need.” Bre indicated the cartoon animal–patterned bag on the floor beside Jill’s chair. “I’ll bet there’re diapers and changes of clothes in there.”

  Jill hesitated.

  “Oh, please don’t worry about Bobby,” said Bre. “Both Kathy and I have had plenty of experience with brothers, sisters, cousins, and other family members. We’ll take good care of him, and if we need you, you’re only a few steps away. It’s not as if anyone can get lost around here.” Bre smiled encouragingly.

  Jill nibbled on her lip, then acquiesced. “All right. He’s pretty much toilet trained, but he still has accidents. If this happens, I encourage him that it’s okay, so he doesn’t worry about it.”

  “Here we go, big guy,” said Bre, as Jill handed him over. Bre showed Bobby a bright red flashlight with blinking lights on the handle.

  “I figured this was something Bobby might enjoy playing with. We’ll take good care of him.” With that, Bre took Bobby down the hall, and, to Jill’s chagrin, he never looked back to see his mother.

  They were led to the same conference room as the previous day, but Sinclair was only a few words into an introduction before Whitey walked in, went to the general, and whispered something in his ear. Sinclair looked displeased.

  “Sorry, people. I’
m called away for a bit. I’m not sure how long this will take, so let’s reconvene here at 10:00 a.m.”

  As soon as Sinclair left the room, Jill stood. “I’m going to find Bobby.”

  Zach nodded to Willie to follow him. Once in the hall, Zach said, “Let’s use the time to unpack our pallet.”

  Unpacking Pallets

  “Let’s get these new pallets off the wagons and into the warehouse,” Logan Porter asserted to the other two maintenance staff. He was amiable, hardworking, and he knew what he was doing. Although there was no formal ranking, the other workers usually accepted his leadership.

  Alexa and John grinned at each other at Porter’s bark, then Alexa drove the forklift over to the first pallet randomly chosen from the wagons, picked it up, carried it through the open warehouse door, and set it down.

  John laughed as he read labels. “This one we gotta be real careful with. It’s our new supply of hooch!”

  Alexa grimaced. “There’d better be wine nicer than the last batch. We never did find out who the hell ordered ten cases each of white zinfandel and rotgut red.”

  “Let’s see what we got this time,” John said, peeling back part of the plastic wrapping from the pallet. “Jeeezus! Lookie here.” Alexa leaned over and peered into the hole he had torn in the pallet wrapping. “An Argentinian malbec and a New Zealand sauvignon blanc? Excellent! Whoever picked this out is my new hero. Let’s move these over to the warehouse. I think we’re gonna have to try out some of these at dinner tonight.”