Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

“May I talk to Mr. Hall?”

  You don’t believe me? Alisha reined in her thoughts. She stood up and paced around the room. “Sure. As soon as he returns.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I think he went out with his friend, Kiawak,” she said, staring at the bathroom door.

  “Oh, yeah, Kiawak,” John let out a quiet laugh. “He’s got a couple of friends there, even a girlfriend, I hear, although he’ll never admit it.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. So they’ll be out for a while, I guess.”

  “They said something about coming back in the evening. But you can try Justin’s cellphone if you want.” Alisha tapped the side of the table where she had locked all personal belongings of her team members in one of the drawers.

  “I may do that. I’ll contact the Trenton Base and see if I can get the rescue mission cancelled, especially since they haven’t dispatched it yet.”

  “OK, thanks,” Alisha said.

  “On another issue, my partner, Heidi, told me Kiawak is requesting we wait for a while before we release the news about the deaths of Nuqatlak and Levinia. Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I recall Kiawak talking about potential accomplices of the victims. Releasing the news may damage further investigations.”

  “I understand. I will use ultimate discretion in this case.”

  “Thank you. Anything else, Constable?”

  “No, that will be all. Thank you for your help, Ms. Gunn.”

  “It was a pleasure. If you need anything else, call me.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  Before Alisha even closed her cellphone, a low vibration came from the drawer where she had placed Justin’s phone. “Son of a bitch,” she blurted. “That constable is a real pain in the ass.”

  She ignored the ring, which replaced the vibration, and looked outside the double-glazed window at the snowstorm. The walls and the roof of the one-story mobile structure squeaked and groaned under the whip of the blowing snow and the strong wind gusts. So my friends were able to ask for help by using a distress signal. And they did this under my nose! Stupid beacon! I wonder what else they’re doing instead of freezing and dying. Stubborn little bastards! I should have shot them in the head.

  She cursed her choice and swore that if the weather did not kill them, she was going to make sure she finished her job. She walked to the bathroom and kicked open its door. Kiawak lay on the floor, blindfolded and handcuffed to the bathroom radiator. Alisha removed his blindfold and checked his eyes. They were droopy, bloodshot, and narrow because of the injection she had administered to him twice in the last thirty minutes.

  A small doze of a sodium-based sedative cocktail impaired the target’s judgment, numbing his senses and instincts. Most importantly, the sedative had proved to be a reliable source of harvesting information from unwilling subjects. The substance destroyed all defense mechanisms in the victim’s brain, releasing every true fact and detail stored in their memory.

  “Kiawak, Kiawak,” Alisha whispered next to his ear.

  “Hhhh,” Kiawak groaned, his head jerking left and right, and his eyes rolling up and down. “What? Who?”

  “It’s me, your grandma. How are you, my boy?”

  “OK, OK, but it is cold, a little cold.”

  “Your girlfriend called earlier. She wants to see you.”

  “Tania? She’s here?”

  “No, she wants us to visit her. Can you tell me where she lives?”

  “Eh . . . eh . . . I don’t know.”

  “Please, Kiawak, where does she live?”

  “OK, I’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thule, Greenland

  April 12, 2:30 p.m.

  Domingo, one of the technicians on duty at Satellite Tracking Station Four, was returning from his coffee break. The only thing in common between the cafeteria’s coffee and the Starbucks gourmet he used to enjoy back at his home in Seattle was the color. Two weeks into his new job as a Satellite Communications Assistant, one of a few dozen civilian contractors in the 821st Air Base Group in Thule, he was still suffering withdrawal from his preferred espresso dark roast.

  “What’s up, hombre?” Technical Sergeant Bryan greeted him, as soon as Domingo stepped inside the station’s control room, a small, windowless cube. An array of cables snaked around two tables covered with electronic gadgets and notepads. He fought with them for a place to lay his paper cup, before stumbling into his chair.

  “Crazy time to get this . . . this dark piss they call coffee. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

  “Nope, nada.” Bryan pointed at the monitor on his workstation that displayed data signals from satellite dishes mounted above the station. “As you can see, it’s too cold even for Russian bears to roam outdoors.”

  Domingo gave the screen an indifferent glance. “Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?”

  “Work. For a living.”

  “No, I mean, our troops here in the air base. The 12th Space Warning Squadron, the Security Forces Squadrons, these ballistic missiles all over the place, and a thousand or so people working like ants, day and night.”

  “Do you want me to repeat our patriotic mission statement?” Bryan sat straight up in his chair but did not bother to stand up. “Our mission here,” he said, deepening his voice, “is to perform support for tracking and commanding operations of the United States of America and—”

  “No, not that. I want Bryan’s no-bullshit answer.”

  “All right then, since you’re asking for it. But no complaining after I’m done, if the truth hurts.”

  “Give it to me straight, buddy.”

  “We live in the new oil rush era. We’re literally sitting on a pot, no, millions of pots, barrels, of black gold. It’s all about the oil, baby. We’re here so Uncle Sam can claim it.”

  Bryan put his feet up on the corner of his table, ignoring a notepad whose pages began to crinkle under the heel of his boots, and crossed his hands behind his head.

  “That’s it?”

  “No complaining. I warned you.”

  “That’s your best explanation?”

  “Sorry, my poor dreamer from Seattle, but that’s the only logical explanation. What else do you want me to tell you? The Russians are going to attack us? If they held back when that crazy Khrushchev was doing the Cold War dance, why would they start a war now, when they’re not even half as powerful? Besides, you know how many defenses and satellites we have in place here? No? Well, let me tell you.”

  Bryan lowered his voice. “I’ve been here three years and I’ve seen every corner of the base. This place’s a fortress. It was built in just three months in 1951 in total secrecy. The Blue Jay operation, they called it. The base was built extremely fast but also exceptionally well. Some of the buildings, this one included, we still use today. At the peak of the Cold War, in 1961, this place had ten thousand people, ten thousand trained soldiers and airmen. Can you imagine all that? Jet fighters, icebreakers, a full army. We were ready to begin our assault against the Soviets and send enough bombers to blast Moscow like it was the apocalypse. The Kremlin would be pulverized before a comrade could ask, ‘What the hell was that?’”

  Domingo soaked up Bryan’s explanation, signaling his attention with the occasional nod.

  “On the other hand, our DEW, the Distant Early Warning system, had over seventy radar stations, communication centers, radio signal interception towers, the works. From Nome, Alaska, in the west, and all the way to Thule, Greenland, in the east, no snow goose could flap its wings without beeping its position on our radars. Regardless of the ongoing dismantling, we still have countless eyes in the sky, our stealth satellites. So, what do you think?”

  “Fascinating, but I still think we’re here for a higher mission.”

  “Dude, the only thing high here is you.” Brian deepened his voice again and dragged his words as he said, “You sure that’s
only coffee in your cup, and you didn’t sweeten it up? Huh, you know what I mean?”

  “You’re hilarious, you know,” Domingo replied with an annoyed groan.

  “I thought you were acting stupid when you first asked your question.”

  “The one about what we’re doing here?”

  “Yeah, bro, yeah, that one,” Bryan continued in his mocking voice.

  “No, I’m really curious. I wonder if the Russians are ever going to make a move. If this is, as you say, the new oil rush, shouldn’t they be here already, to beef up their claims?”

  “Oh, the Russians are here, all right. There’s always a submarine or two in international waters and sometimes in the Canadian waters. They’re just like sharks, circling around their prey, waiting for the right moment to clamp shut their jaws. I’ve no idea when and if all hell will break loose, but I hope it’s not on my watch. The thing is, the Russians know it’s a war they can’t win. We’ll kick their ass in the end, of course, but the blood cost would be so high, I don’t think our generals will send us into battle. Unless, the Russians throw the first punch, but, like I said, that’s unlikely.”

  “So, what about the oil then?”

  “Oh, the Russians are trying their hand by launching all kinds of scientific expeditions, geological, topographical, measuring the continental shelf, and all that science bull. They’re playing nice, for the time being.”

  Domingo reluctantly took a sip of his coffee, and his distorted face betrayed the bitter taste.

  “If it’s so bad, why do you keep drinking it?” Bryan asked.

  Domingo swallowed his poison and opened his mouth to explain the long-term effects of caffeine withdrawal. But the phone ringing on Bryan’s table took away his chance. Bryan rolled his eyes, waited until the third annoying buzz, and punched the hands-free button. “Yes, Dave, what can I do for you?”

  “Bryan, what’s the holdup there? You playing Solitaire?”

  “Dave, step out of your cave, and into the digital age. Solitaire was hip in the eighties! Call of Duty, baby. It’s all the thrill now.”

  Dave snorted. “Makes sense. The only weapons you’ll ever shoot are in video games. In real life, you troubleshoot our network and fight viruses. That gets your blood pumping, doesn’t it?”

  “You got it, Dave. What’s your trouble today? Can’t find your computer’s start button?”

  Domingo grinned, suppressing his laughter. Technical Sergeant Dave Manning called them—or “badgered” them, as Bryan considered the calls—every time he needed some assistance with the communication satellites of the base.

  “I found the start button just fine. Thanks for your concern. We’ve noticed some movements earlier today over the coastline of southeast Ellesmere. Helicopter flights.”

  “Yeah, you didn’t read the memo?”

  “What memo?”

  “The one about the Arctic wargame. Denmark’s engaged in some High Arctic military maneuvers over the weekend and next week, depending on the weather conditions.”

  “Do you know what gear they’re bringing?”

  “A few planes, Lynx choppers, and two icebreakers. They may carry out a few missile tests overland. Nothing of interest to us, since we’re not invited to their party. Too bad, because it would have been lots of fun and a good break from this monotony.”

  “The chopper in question is not a Lynx, and it’s flying over Canadian airspace.”

  “Maybe it’s a Cormorant of the Canadian DND?” Bryan suggested.

  “It can’t be. Our radar imaging shows something of a smaller size, probably a civilian chopper.”

  “Isn’t it too early for expeditions this year?”

  “I don’t know. There’s always a crazy son of a—”

  “All right, all right. I’ll point one of our satellites in that area for close-up shots,” Bryan said and tapped the mute button on the speakerphone. “Most likely it’s nothing, but I’ll do it, or he’ll badger us all day,” he said to Domingo, who shrugged with indifference.

  “We last traced this chopper over Cape Combermere,” Dave continued. “We lost it soon afterwards because of a heavy overcast in the region.”

  Bryan unmuted the phone. “Cape Combermere? That’s only one hundred and forty miles east, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get some images, if the chopper’s still around.”

  “Bryan, I was thinking it would be a good idea to send in a drone.”

  “Why do you want a drone if I’m gonna get you the shots through the satellite?”

  “In case the thick clouds don’t let you get clear images.”

  “You’ll have to run this by the commander. He’s responsible for dispatching aircraft, whether they’re remote controlled or not.”

  “I know, but I’ll need your support, in case he asks for your opinion, which I’m sure he will.”

  “OK, I’ll back you up on this, Dave, but only because you’re asking nicely, and I’m getting curious. The last two weeks have been so dull. A little excitement would make me feel alive again. What do you think, Domingo?”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” Domingo replied with a nod.

  Cape Combermere, Canada

  April 12, 1:10 p.m.

  It was quite an exaggeration to refer to the wooden pieces secured together with polyester fabric as paddles. Still, at the bow of the raft, Justin paddled as fast as possible, careful not to splash Carrie and Anna sitting at the stern and sculling through the icy waters. The only useful objects salvaged from the Danish depot were a few logs and wooden boards, in addition to an abundance of tent liners. Justin and Carrie had built a makeshift raft, barely buoyant, but sufficiently stable to carry the weight of the crew. Steered by their determination and helped by the current, they were moving southbound, about one hundred and fifty feet from the closest ice floes.

  “Push away from the ice, quick,” Justin said, moving his paddle to the left and stroking hard on it.

  “Careful, easy,” Carrie said, counterbalancing Justin’s swing by leaning to her right.

  They avoided the collision with a large piece of drift ice. The waters were open, unlike a few miles farther back, when the narrow leads in the ice floes meandered in sharp curves. They had seen two icebergs so far, fairly small and a few hundred feet away. The raft was holding up against the fast-moving current and the occasional high wave. Still, their rafting downstream was not without problems. Justin had dipped his hands a few times in the ocean by mistake and was suffering from the bitter bite of the frigid waters, in addition to the general numbness in his hands and feet. Anna could hardly control her shivers.

  “How long . . . how long has it been?” Anna’s voice was subject to her jolts.

  “About an hour or so,” Justin guessed. “I’m sure we have done several miles. The current is carrying us south pretty fast.”

  “So . . . how much . . . how much longer do we still have?” Anna asked.

  “A little more,” Justin replied. “Just a little more.”

  “We may need to stop soon for a short break,” Carrie said.

  “That may not be wise.”

  “I know, Justin, but it may be necessary.”

  “I don’t see how, since we’ll not be any warmer on the ground.”

  “We can make a snow shelter.”

  “No, we can’t waste time. Things won’t get better if we make a shelter, and it’s only gonna get colder as the night falls. We have no food. Our only hope is to paddle.”

  “Paddle to where?” Carrie drove her paddle into the water and pulled it toward her with a long, powerful stroke.

  Anna coughed a wheezing gasp and fought to keep her fingers wrapped around the end of her paddle.

  “South. Toward people. Toward safety.”

  “Really? You really think we can make it?”

  “Yes, Carrie. We’ve got to hope, OK? We’ve come so far. We can’t give up now. We’ve got to keep trying.”

  “Let’s stop for a break. Just ten, fifteen minutes.”


  “No, we can’t. It will be difficult to anchor the raft on the fractured floes. In the water, we’re out in the open and more visible than if hiding in a shelter.”

  “Visible? You really think someone is actually going to rescue us?”

  “Justin, can we stop, please?” Anna whispered, tilting her head to the left.

  “How about we go on for another half an hour or so?” Justin asked.

  “I guess . . . I feel kind of warm now, so . . . yes, we can continue,” Anna replied.

  “No,” Carrie said and leaned over to Justin. “She’s sinking deeper into hypothermia,” Carrie whispered in his ear. “We may lose her. We need to stop. Now!”

  “Hey, look at the bird, a cute little bird,” Anna said playfully, pointing straight ahead.

  “Maybe it’s already too late,” Carrie muttered, shaking her head. “What bird, Anna?”

  “There . . . oh,” she whimpered. “It’s already gone. But where did it go? It was right there, right there in front of us, just, just two seconds ago.”

  “Keep paddling, Carrie,” Justin said.

  “Shhhhh,” she said. “What’s that noise?”

  “Noise? What noise?” Justin asked. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “The buzz, the electronic buzz,” Carrie insisted. “There, look there.” She pointed high above her head.

  Justin peered into the sky and saw nothing but endless gray clouds. “Carrie, it’s going to be OK,” he said. “I’ll take care of you and—”

  “No, I’m not going crazy,” Carrie shouted. “Right there, at two o’clock. The bird Anna saw a minute earlier, it’s probably the same bird.”

  Justin’s eyes caught a quick glimpse of the bird, hovering at roughly fifty feet to their right and maybe fifteen feet over the ocean’s surface. It resembled a grayish-white fulmar, and it was about the same size as the gull-like bird. Its wingspan was about four feet, but there was no wingbeat. The bird simply glided in midair, as if riding an updraft.

  Suddenly the bird screeched a loud, electronic beep. It fluttered in small circles over their heads with uneven motions. At last it came to a standstill, before dropping a few feet, quite mechanically as if someone were pulling it with an invisible string. Justin wondered for a brief moment, unsure if hypothermia was playing a trick on him. Then he noticed the bright green eyes of the bird blinking twice. That’s not a fulmar, it’s a machine. It’s a drone.