by Ponzo, Gary
“That’s a drone,” he shouted.
“A what?” Anna asked. A quiver shot through her body.
“A machine,” Carrie said. “The bird you saw is an aircraft without a pilot.”
“So, is that . . . is that our rescue?” A faint glimmer of hope marked Anna’s trembling voice.
“The airplane will transmit our coordinates to whoever sent it, and rescue will be on its way,” Carrie replied.
“Great, it will be nice . . . to be safe . . . and warm,” Anna mumbled.
The drone disappeared into the clouds.
“Maybe we should wait for the rescue team onshore,” Carrie suggested. “Since they have our current position, it’s not wise to drift further south.”
“Good idea.” Justin nodded. “Let’s look for a landing spot.”
He scanned the ice floes for a flat area, away from the water current. A small inlet would have been the ideal choice. But this part of the coastline offered nothing of the kind. The edges of the ice floes were tall and sharp. Small sections of drift ice made their landing attempts even more difficult.
“Push to the left, harder,” Justin encouraged them.
The raft gained a few precious feet, but the current dragged it further than their intended dock. They were forced to swerve around a chunk of drift ice.
“There, that’s a good place.” Justin pointed at the spot where two ice floes had collided, pushing over and under each other, forming a finger rafting. The ice sloped gently into the water, and it was clear of any loose debris. Carrie clenched her teeth and held a tight grip on her paddle. In quick, short strokes, she doubled her rowing. The raft moved closer to the shore.
“Careful, the current’s stronger here,” Justin shouted.
His warning came one second too late. The waves carried Anna’s paddle away.
“Carrie, one last good paddle,” Justin said. “One more time.”
She flexed her shoulder muscles and biceps, jolting the raft to the right. Eight more feet and they could anchor their raft to the ice shore. Justin kept paddling furiously, realizing he was testing the limit of his strength and the balance of their raft.
“Huh,” he panted, feeling a burning sensation between his first two ribs. The end of the paddle had slammed against his chest.
The pain tolled the bells of panic in his brain. This was their last chance to step ashore; otherwise, the current would drag them to the open ocean. Justin took a deep breath and paddled faster and harder than he had the entire trip. He smiled to himself, surprised by this unexpected strength, as well as the hoped-for result. The bow of the raft rubbed against the ice floe, but Justin did not stop driving the paddle into the water until half of the raft was on the shore. He helped Carrie drag Anna’s unconscious body away from the slippery edge of the ice. Then he fell on his knees, praying for the quick arrival of the rescue team.
Chapter Twelve
Søndre Strømfjord, Greenland
April 13, 5:10 p.m.
The discovery of the Sirius Patrol weapons cache in Cape Combermere highlighted the urgency of the wargame. Gunter did not like the rush. It increased the risk of the entire operation being discovered by his close associates. But his hands were tied. The Russians were pressing hard.
The FSB wanted immediate concrete results, and Gunter had no other option but to follow their orders. He pulled in all favors, made promises he could not keep, threats he could not carry out, all for the purpose of pleasing his wife’s kidnappers. He was in constant agony over any exposure, as the circle of senior officials to whom he was lying grew by the hour.
Finally, the platoons’ aerial transport was authorized and the two-stage Arctic Wargame began. At exactly 1:00 p.m. local time, three C-130J Super Hercules airplanes, part of the Squadron 721 of the Royal Danish Air Force, took off from their Transport Wing center in Aalborg, Denmark. True to their motto “Ubicumque, Quandocumque”––Anywhere, Anytime––the pilots of the Squadron 721 completed their trip on time and without any problems. The Air Force Command Post barracks in Søndre Strømfjord became the temporary stopover for the contingent force, while Gunter awaited FSB orders about the second stage of the operation.
Søndre Strømfjord, situated at less than one hundred and twenty miles inland––at the head of the fjord by the same name––offered easy access to Davis Strait separating Greenland from Canada’s Baffin Island. At its narrowest point, the strait was one hundred and eighty miles wide.
Gunter was confident Alisha was taking care of sabotaging the Canadian surveillance. But there was some small danger of being detected by the United States spy satellites. At more than seven hundred miles southeast of the 821st US Air Base Group in Thule, and tucked away between impenetrable mountains, Søndre Strømfjord stood at a supposedly safe distance from the US prying eyes in the skies. But Gunter’s troops would become vulnerable to radar detection during their short flight. He could only hope their Hercules airplanes would go unnoticed.
* * *
Magnus glanced at the snow-covered fields and the Tarajornitsut Mountain ridges in the distance. At the main command post—a revamped, whitewashed military barracks—he was assigned a small office, with small windows but large desks and comfortable chairs. Valgerda was typing a status report on her laptop, while he paced back and forth, the constant thuds of his boots interrupting her concentration.
“You’re still thinking about Gunter’s choice, aren’t you?” she asked without looking up.
“I can’t help it.”
Valgerda sighed. “We went over this. Twice. He thinks you’re the right choice to lead this op and so do I.”
“OK, so why is he sending us a babysitter? I heard he may take over the operation himself. Something’s up. He doesn’t trust us?”
“Gunter’s a control freak.” Valgerda stood up and walked toward Magnus. She placed her hand on his shoulder. “He trusts you. He just wants to make sure nothing goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong.”
“I know, I know. We’ve done such ops many a time. But we’ve never worked with Gunter before this mission. And trust only goes so far in our business.”
Magnus’s BlackBerry began playing the first notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. He walked over to his desk. “It’s her,” he said after a quick glance at the smartphone’s screen.
Valgerda sat on the other side of the desk. Magnus picked up the phone. “Hello, Yuliya,” he said.
She replied in a pleasant voice, “Hi, Magnus. How was your trip?”
“It was great. Has Gunter made a decision yet?”
“He’s still talking to senior officials as we speak. It seems very likely they’ll agree to an air operation.”
“I’m glad to hear that. The information provided by your agent in the Canadian Army, has it been confirmed by other sources?”
Yuliya’s voice turned cold. “Negative, Magnus. We don’t have another source. The area’s too hot, and there’s no time to develop another asset. We trust our agent and her information. Did you encounter any difficulties at the base?”
“Not at all. The folks here didn’t exactly roll out the welcome wagon but also didn’t lock us up. Is there any change to our ‘standstill’ orders?” Magnus glanced at Valgerda, placed his BlackBerry back on the table, and put Yuliya on the speakerphone.
“That’s correct. Maintain your positions and make sure our pack of dogs is behaving decently.”
Magnus smiled.
“They are,” Valgerda replied.
“Oh, hi, Valgerda,” Yuliya said. “I didn’t know you were listening in. That’s great. I’ll be on the next plane, and I should land shortly after midnight. Call me right away if there’s anything new. Anything else?”
Magnus swallowed. He was afraid of the answer, but he could not hold back the question haunting him all along. “Is Gunter coming here?”
Yuliya hesitated for a second. Magnus crossed his fingers and muttered a silent wish.
“Gunter and I w
ill be on the same plane.”
Her words cut deep, but Magnus held his cool. His throat and his lips became suddenly dry.
“There’s . . . there’s nothing else,” he said.
Valgerda shook her head.
“OK, see you tomorrow.”
“Bye,” said Valgerda.
“Rumors fucking confirmed,” Magnus blurted after turning off his phone. “The bigwig is coming to hold my hand.”
“It could have been much worse if the wargame was cancelled altogether,” Valgerda replied with a sad look in her eyes.
“I don’t know which one is worse: sitting here doing nothing or fighting a battle out there with Gunter’s strings around my neck.”
“It’s not like that. He’ll realize soon enough he can trust you completely.”
Magnus said. “I hate delays and hesitations.”
“Tomorrow morning, hopefully, we’ll be good to go. We can take a few hours to relax before that. I last checked on our recruits about half an hour ago, and I’ll make another round in a couple of hours. The barracks’ west wing is completely secured and perfectly isolated from the rest of the complex. I don’t anticipate any problems overnight.”
“Have you double-checked their surveillance bracelets?”
Valgerda nodded. “I have. They’re all fully functional. I installed the monitoring software on my laptop, and I’ve transferred all data from our office network. We know the exact location of each and every recruit at all times.”
Magnus stood up and walked to the window. He squinted, staring at the sun, barely visible over a high ridge at the end of the horizon. He guessed there were a few good hours of light before the fiery disk burned out for the day.
“I’ll take your advice and try to relax,” he said, still looking at the sun. “Tomorrow, we’ll have no time.”
Thule, Greenland
April 13, 1:40 p.m.
The angel had gray-blue eyes like Carrie, but black hair like Anna. The musical voice of this heavenly creature whispered sweet words into Justin’s ears. Her warm, soft hands began massaging his forehead, slowly and gently, in such a delightful way he felt his entire body responding with a soothing feeling of deep relaxation. Justin stretched his legs, enjoying the coziness of the fresh sheets, the warm blanket, and the overall comfort of his soft bed. His pillow felt much smoother than the ice where he recalled resting his head the last time he fell asleep.
The ice! The ice floe!
As he began remembering the ice floe, Justin’s memory started the unpleasant and irreversible vortex. The angel’s face became blurry, the pampering stopped, and the sweet voice disappeared. The image faded quickly, its pieces falling as if from a jigsaw puzzle. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a white wall. His entire body felt a constant chilling pain.
“Welcome back, Mr. Hall.”
There’s nothing angelic in his voice. Oh, what a dream. Justin sighed. Then he smiled. At least they brought me out of the freezing cold. But where did they take me? Who are they?
“I see this is some kind of a hospital and you’re a nurse,” Justin spoke softly to the young man in scrubs.
He was lying on a bed, in an emergency room, connected by a wire to a cardiac monitor. A couple of gel pads were in place on his left arm. Intravenous lines were attached to his hands. Two metallic shelves, stashed with a variety of medical boxes and bottles, were lined up along the other wall. “Where is this place?” Justin asked.
Before the nurse could answer, Justin glanced beyond the glass door and noticed a Stars and Stripes flag on a mast in the hall. “That’s the American flag. Are we . . . is this the United States?”
“Technically speaking,” the nurse replied. “We’re in a territory under the jurisdiction of the US. The US military, to be exact.”
“The military? And where is this territory?”
“We’re at the air base in Thule, Greenland,” the nurse replied. “How are you feeling?”
“OK. I feel like I have a hangover. My entire body aches, especially the joints.”
The nurse nodded. “That’s normal. You’re recovering from frostbite. I’ll let your regain your strength. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” The nurse headed for the door.
“Wait a second. How did I get here? Where are Carrie and Anna?”
“That’s the rest of your crew, I imagine.” The nurse turned around. “You were rescued on the coast of Ellesmere, somewhere south of Cape Combermere. Everyone is doing well. Relatively well, considering your body temperature had dropped to ninety-three degrees when our rescue team found you. We stabilized everyone in the medical chopper before the flight back.
“When you got here, our only option was to perform active and passive core rewarming procedures. I’ll save you the medical lingo; all I’m saying is that you were almost dead, but now you’re no longer in danger.”
Justin lifted his arms to look at his hands, carefully not to detach the intravenous tubes. He disturbed the injection site on his left arm and winced in pain. The catheter’s sharp bevel pierced his skin.
“Stop. Don’t do that.” The nurse reached for Justin’s hand and rearranged the catheter and the tubing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to. I was just checking for frostbite blisters.”
“There are none. Hypothermia seems to have left no physical scars on your body. The same is true for your friends. No hemorrhagic blisters, no dead tissue, no permanent damage to your skin or muscles. I guess you’re a lucky crew. A few days of rest and, if there are no complications, you should be on your way. However, not before talking to our commander. I don’t guarantee you’ll come out without any psychological scars after his interrogation.”
Chapter Thirteen
Thule, Greenland
April 13, 5:30 p.m.
Colonel Richard Clark was the commander of the 821st Air Base Group at Thule. The man in charge of the entire base, who had ordered the rescue mission, and saved the lives of Justin’s team. The commander’s receding hairline had spared a few bushy white patches around his large ears. His crisp navy blue uniform, white shirt, and matching blue tie indicated his utmost attention to detail. When Justin had asked earlier, the nurse had described the man with a few words, concealing the fact that his short stature matched perfectly his short patience.
“I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” the commander said. His deep voice was warm, and his black eyes displayed a real concern about Justin’s condition. “The doctors have done a great job.”
“Thank you, Commander, for everything you’ve done.” Justin rearranged the pillows behind his back. He adjusted the angle of the bed frame, in order to sit up straight when talking to the commander.
“Can you tell me what was it you were doing in the middle of the ocean?”
Justin had anticipated the question, fearing the commander would be able to see through his well-planned lies. As a CIS operative, he could disclose neither his profession nor the nature of his Arctic mission.
“Our boat capsized and became useless. So we scrambled to build a raft.” Justin worded his reply briefly and kept it vague, tricks he had learned since the early days of the CIS training.
“Uh-huh,” the Commander said and squinted, as if checking the truthfulness of Justin’s words by studying his facial expression. “And you were sailing the High Arctic for what purpose?”
Justin swallowed before replying. “We were collecting data on a research project, Commander.”
“I see. And whom do you work for?”
“I’m with the CRI, that’s the Canadian Research Institute, out of Ottawa.” One of the front organizations the CIS used for cover operations.
“So you’re scientists, you and your colleagues?”
“Yes, we’re geologists.”
He paused to think about Justin’s reply. “And you were gathering data on . . .”
“Our project is related to . . . hmm . . . the study of ice thickness and its melting rate over the last year.”
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“Oh, I see.”
The commander’s eyes continued to search Justin’s face for any hints of pretense. Justin wondered why he was taking so long to call his bluff. The odds of Carrie and Anna concocting the same exact tall tale were slimmer than being struck by lightning in a submarine.
“I don’t believe I asked you for your name.” The commander began pacing at the end of Justin’s bed.
I hope he’s not starting the interrogation from the beginning.
“My name is Justin Hall.”
“What was the purpose of your mission to Ellesmere Island?”
Justin blinked and did a double take. That’s exactly where he’s going, back to the beginning.
“I told you, Commander, we were gathering information for our research project on—”
“Geological ice thickness. I heard you lie to me once,” the commander interrupted him. He leaned over Justin’s bed, drawing closer to his face. He was so close Justin noticed a thick blood vein pulsating on the commander’s right temple.
Justin flinched. In a flash, he was back in his Libyan prison cell, the interrogator’s hands clamped around his throat.
The commander’s voice, erupting in a stern roar, brought Justin back to reality. “Here, I’m measuring the thickness of your bullshit.”
“Huh, what?” Justin spread his hands, his face feigning utter confusion. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“I took the same crap from your associates. They fed me the same lies about your boat crashing or sinking or capsizing, while three helpless geologists or meteorologists were working their asses off collecting data on ice thickness or weather patterns, depending on which one I chose to believe.”
Justin shrugged in silence. He decided to make a last-ditch effort to cover up the truth. “We struck a piece of drift ice and that’s why our boat—”
