Arctic Wargame jh-1

by Ethan Jones

  Justin followed Abdul’s hand. The tall archway stood about two hundred yards away.

  “We’re not gonna make it.” Justin pointed at a white Toyota truck parked about ninety feet to their left. Four men wielding assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades were positioned behind the car, barricading the fugitives’ only escape route.

  “Cover me.” Abdul slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle.

  Justin pointed his weapon toward the truck and sprayed a barrage of bullets. One man plopped to the ground. Another started twitching and pulling at his left leg. The last two crawled to the rear without returning fire.

  Abdul bolted toward the Toyota, as fast as he could push his weak frame. Justin ran after and kept firing until he heard the hollow click of the gun’s hammer striking the empty chamber. He ducked for cover behind a small wall to his left then inserted a full magazine into his weapon. Gunfire erupted from the barricade. Bullets scraped the wall and the ground around him. Moments later, there was a brief moment of relative calm, and Justin took a quick peek.

  “They’re all dead.” Abdul climbed inside the Toyota.

  Justin ran toward him, glancing only once at the row of houses behind them. “You’re wounded.” He pointed at Abdul’s right side.

  A bullet had pierced Abdul’s body a couple of inches underneath his ribcage.

  “Flesh wound. Nothing serious,” Abdul replied. “Get in.”

  Justin jumped into the passenger’s seat. Abdul stepped on the gas pedal. He raised a storm of dust as the Toyota bounced over bumps and ruts, swerving toward the main gate. A second later, a torrent of bullets thudded against the truck’s tailgate and the cabin’s doors. A group of men were firing at their truck from the houses’ rooftops. Justin shot back. One of the men fell over the wall. The rest withdrew beyond his sight.

  “There’s a car behind us,” Abdul said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Justin took in a Jeep gaining on them. “I’m empty.”

  “So am I.”

  Justin looked at the back seats, but there were no weapons or ammunition. His eyes moved to the end of the truck, where he saw a RPG launcher and a wooden box loaded with grenades.

  “Got it,” he said.

  He crawled to the back seat and squeezed through the small window, landing against the rails. He snatched a grenade from the box and checked the RPG launcher before attaching the grenade to the front of the weapon. He shouldered it with a swing, struggling for balance on one knee, and then he pulled the trigger, just as the Toyota veered to the left.

  The projectile screamed out of the weapon. A plume of gray smoke billowing from the weapon’s blast cone engulfed the truck. Justin coughed and heaved. As the smoke cleared, he saw the grenade exploding into the dome of the town’s mosques, tearing it to shreds. The six-story-high minaret went tumbling to the ground like a sandcastle swept by a strong wave.

  “The Jeep,” Abdul shouted. “That’s the target.”

  “Thank you. What was I thinking?”

  The Jeep was now about eighty yards behind them. Before Justin could reach for another grenade, sparks flared up from the bullets thumping against the truck. Rifle muzzles flashed from two assailants firing from both sides of the Jeep. A bullet ricocheted off the wooden box and grazed his left leg.

  With a loud shout, Justin screwed another warhead to the launcher. He readied the RPG for the next round of fire. Abdul steered the truck around a corner, the last one inside the town. They raced through a narrow tunnel, the main gate of Ghadames. Two black Nissans were parked about one hundred yards outside the town walls. Three silhouettes stood by the vehicles. One of them, slimmer than the others, sported a long ponytail.

  “Bashir’s cars,” Abdul said.

  “So those should be the freed hostages.”

  Abdul peered for a long second before answering, “Yes, they are.”

  “And I see Carrie too,” Justin said, his joy clear in his voice after seeing his partner was safe. “Now stop the car.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can aim the RPG.”

  Abdul stopped. Justin aimed at the mouth of the tunnel and pressed the launcher firmly against his right shoulder. As soon as the Jeep appeared halfway through the gate, he fired the RPG. The grenade barreled toward the target with a swishing screech. The warhead slammed into the Jeep. Swallowed up in flames, the vehicle burst into a massive, fiery explosion. The entire tunnel caved in over the burning hulk.

  “We’re home free now.” Justin dropped the launcher by his feet and collapsed against the cabin.

  “Yes, brother, we are,” Abdul said.

  He waited until Justin was back in his passenger’s seat before saying, “My boss won’t be pleased with you blowing up the mosque and destroying the gate.”

  “He might change his mind once he learns the terrorists are crushed and the hostages are free.”

  The truck growled while its tires spun over loose sand. Abdul eased off the gas pedal, allowing the tires to regain traction. They covered the short distance to Bashir’s cars, and Justin jumped out of the truck, right into Carrie’s arms.

  “Are you OK?” she asked.

  “Yes. So happy to see you.” Justin enjoyed the safety and the comfort of her embrace. “And you guys.” He nodded at the two doctors.

  The former hostages’ faces were pale, but they gave Justin bright smiles.

  “Sorry it took the cavalry some time to get here,” Carrie said.

  “It’s all good. Let’s go.” Justin headed toward one of the Nissans.

  Chapter One

  Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada

  April 10, 7:50 a.m.

  Present day

  “Good morning, Justin.” Carrie smiled as she entered his sparsely furnished office, bearing a tray holding coffee cups and a brown paper bag. A foot-high pile of bank transaction printouts took up half the space on his desk, with very little room for Justin’s laptop. He was sitting behind it. Carrie took one of the seats.

  “Hi, Carrie. How are you?” He took one of the coffee cups from the tray. “Thanks for this,” he said before taking a small sip. “What do you have in there?” He pointed at a brown paper bag she placed precariously over the bank records.

  “Breakfast. I bet you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

  “No time. Couldn’t wait to come to the office and pore over these financial statements. As a child, this is what I always dreamed of doing. Bookkeeping.”

  He rubbed his dimpled chin, then ran his fingers through his hair. Justin had a Mediterranean complexion — dark olive skin, raven wavy hair, big black eyes and a large thick nose — inherited from his Italian mother.

  “Have a blueberry muffin. It will cheer you up. Fresh baked.”

  “Thanks.”

  Justin chewed on a small piece. “Hmmm, these are really good,” he said when finished. “But not as good as the ones you used to make for us.”

  Carrie said nothing for a couple of seconds, then shook her head. Her auburn shoulder-length hair, which she usually kept in a semi ponytail, flowed down her slender neck. “Yes, I used to make,” she said quietly after a deep sigh, “but not anymore. Have you heard from the army?” she asked, eager to change the conversation.

  “Yes, I did.” Justin’s voice rang with a tinge of despair. “They rejected my application. They consider me, how did they put it, oh, a ‘liability,’ regardless of my flawless service until the Libyan episode.”

  “I know what you mean. It took me a long time and a great amount of luck to get in. I’ve heard mil intel selection is even harder than regular army entrance.”

  Before joining the Canadian Intelligence Service, Carrie had served in two tours of duty in Afghanistan with the Joint Task Force Two, the elite counter-terrorism unit of the Special Operations Forces. Justin had always been in the CIS, operating mainly in Northern Africa. After returning from Libya, both Justin and Carrie were suspended from field missions until the completion of an in
ternal inquiry on the deadly prison escape. The inquiry was still pending. For the meantime, they were assigned routine desk duties.

  “You know,” Justin said, “I got a paper cut yesterday, and I was glad it happened. It’s good to know I still have some blood left in me and that this office hasn’t sucked it all out.”

  Carrie smiled. “I think I’m going blind reading figures and names and more names and figures every single freaking day. Some first-year analyst should do this, not intelligence officers like us.”

  Justin sighed. Then a smile spread across his face. “Perhaps we’ll get our wish. Did you see Johnson’s last e-mail?”

  “The one from last night?”

  “No. She sent another one this morning.”

  “I haven’t been to my office yet.” She took a sip from her coffee.

  “The CSE has recorded another sighting of icebreakers, this time off the coast of Cape Combermere, southeast of Ellesmere Island.”

  “Could they determine who they belong to?”

  Justin shook his head. “No, they couldn’t.”

  “So, what does Johnson want us to do?”

  “She didn’t give any specifics, but she called a briefing for this morning.”

  “I see. What did you tell her?”

  “I suggested a recon op and pretty much volunteered for it.”

  Carrie put her coffee cup on his desk. “What? This is the Arctic, in the middle of winter.”

  “Well, office boredom is killing me. I’ve got to get out there in the field.” Justin pointed at his office door.

  “More like the ice field.”

  “It’s not like I have a lot of options. The Libyans didn’t take the destruction of their mosque and half of their world heritage town by an ‘infidel’ lightly. Abdul and I were running for our lives, after being tortured by their operatives working with the Algerian terrorists.” Justin’s voice rose up. “After coming back, it was either this crappy job or administrative leave. Now an opportunity shows up and since no one is going to hand it over to me, I’m going to seize it.”

  “You don’t have to explain it to me; we’re in the same boat. I didn’t destroy much of the town, like you did, but I heard I made room for twenty new recruits at the Algerian terrorist camps. Still, you want to go to the Arctic?”

  “If Johnson decides to dispatch a team up there, which I’m sure she will, I’d like to go. After all, how else can we confirm the icebreakers’ identity?”

  “You’re right. If only those damn satellites would work.” Carrie took a bite of her muffin and washed it down with a gulp from her coffee. “So, it’s safe to assume I’ll need to pack my bags.”

  “I didn’t volunteer you.”

  “Johnson won’t let you go on your own. That’s if she even decides to assign you to such a task force.”

  Justin held her gray-blue eyes. He nodded. “You’re right about that. She’s bringing in a couple of other people to this briefing. Some bigwig from DND and a lawyer from our legal services.”

  “You know them?”

  “No, and I don’t understand why they’re here.”

  “I’m sure Johnson will give us her excuse for calling them in.”

  “Yes, she will.”

  Justin glanced at his wristwatch. “Shall we head up?”

  Carrie finished her muffin and her coffee and stood up. “Sure. Let’s not make her wait.”

  * * *

  The office of Claire Johnson, Director General of Intelligence for North Africa, was at the northeast corner of the sixth floor. Justin walked in fast, short steps, listening to the rhythmic thud of his shoes over the hardwood floor. He stopped once in the hall. The corner of his left eye caught a glimpse of a huge painting on the wall, depicting an impressive Arctic landscape and three determined explorers. Their weary faces were very much alive as they stoically pressed ahead with dogsleds toward the white horizon peppered with snow-capped ridges. The ice packs, the snow banks, and the heavy blizzard appeared quite real. Justin shook his head in awe before resuming his swift pace. He turned the corner and saw Carrie pacing in front of Johnson’s office door.

  “Justin, what took you so long?”

  “The painting. And it was only a minute.”

  “Everyone’s here.”

  “If they are, they’re early. We’re on time.”

  Justin knocked.

  “Come in,” called Johnson.

  Johnson’s office was neatly arranged, with an L-shaped desk and matching bookcases. Two women sat around an oval glass table that took almost half of the office space.

  Johnson nodded at Justin and Carrie while still swiveling in her black leather chair and tapping the keyboard of her desktop computer. She stood up. “Welcome, welcome. Let me introduce you to Colonel Alisha Gunn, with the NDHQ. She’s the chief of the Defence Intelligence Section.” Johnson gestured toward the older woman.

  The National Defence Headquarters in Ottawa was the heart of Canada’s military defense machine, where every nut and bolt of all operational forces joined together. The colonel was in a perfect position to feel the pulse of the armed forces. She had access to every piece of information streaming into the Department of National Defence databases.

  She was in her late forties, with her gray, curly hair sticking out unevenly. Almost a head shorter than Carrie, she stood at about five feet, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit. The colonel had a strong handshake. She gave Justin a nod while her small brown eyes sparked with a tiny, almost invisible, glint of mischief.

  Justin said, “My pleasure.”

  “Nice to meet you, Agent Hall.” Her voice was coarse and throaty, as if she had just recovered from a serious case of sinus infection.

  “Please call me Justin.”

  She nodded. “That’s great, Justin, and you can address me as Alisha,” she said with a sincere smile before moving on to exchange pleasantries with Carrie.

  “And this is Anna Worthley. She’s an Operational Liaison with our Legal Services,” said Johnson.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Agent Hall, especially after hearing so much about you,” the young woman said.

  Justin fought the initial impulse to frown as the counsel’s delicate fingers touched his large, rugged hand. Anna was in her late twenties, with short raven hair that sported an odd red highlight. She wore a black woolen sweater and black dress pants.

  Justin disliked all lawyers working for the CIS’s most controversial department. They complicated his life and his operations with lengthy and dimwitted arguments, motions, and inquiries. Security and intelligence meant little to these kinds of people. They were more concerned about the legal aspects of the agency’s operations than their actual impact on the safety of all Canadians. But the innocence of the Anna’s blue eyes — peering timidly at him from behind rimless glasses — and her soft voice — slightly insecure and with a certain amount of agitation — disarmed Justin’s defenses and melted away all his objections.

  “I’m very happy to meet you, Ms. Worthley,” he said.

  “Simply Anna.” Her blue eyes glowed.

  “OK, Anna.” Justin nodded. “Call me Justin.”

  Johnson gestured for them to sit down at the glass table.

  “The colonel brought over the latest CSE report,” she began, handing out four copies of a briefing note to Justin. He took one and passed the others to Carrie. “It details the movements of the two icebreakers, but we’re still uncertain about their identity.”

  Justin skimmed through the pages. The Communications Security Establishment served as the national cryptologic agency. It analyzed foreign intelligence signals and provided technical and operational assistance to the CIS. The briefing note was signed by Jacob Stryker, the Associate Director of Signals Intelligence. Stryker had a reputation as very meticulous when accomplishing his tasks. If Stryker had highlighted on the last page that “there is inconclusive evidence to determine the port of origin, the destination, or the identity of the icebreakers,” one c
ould rest assured he had not overlooked any seemingly unimportant detail.

  “There’s strong reason to believe,” said Alisha, “the two vessels infringing on our sovereignty are part of the Russian Navy.”

  Justin held her gaze while folding his arms across his chest. “What makes you believe the Russians have sent these warships?”

  “Wait a second.” Johnson held up her hand. “Two assumptions right off the bat. First, Russians, second, warships. The CSE report confirms only that two icebreakers navigated through a steady course in international waters, then crossed over into our territorial waters by Ellesmere Island. Nothing more. Let’s be careful with our assumptions, shall we?”

  Alisha nodded her understanding. “The Russian generals are constantly declaring their support for the Arctic militarization. Their Murmansk Air Base is buzzing with jet fighters and nuclear subs are always lurking underneath the North Pole. Remember when they planted their flag on the seabed, proclaiming the Pole as a part of Russia? They’ve tried to cross into our airspace in the past many times. All tracks point to the Russian bear, if I were to make an educated guess.”

  Justin glanced at Johnson. “I don’t want to come across as dismissive of the colonel’s assertions.” He chose his words very carefully. “But the Russians are just one of the major players in the Arctic. If Stryker’s report offers no decisive answers, our opinions, although based on previous experiences, amount to little more than speculation.”

  “You don’t think the Russian Navy is involved?” Alisha asked Justin. Her left eyebrow arched up slightly, and her lips puckered.

  Justin realized his words, regardless of how soft he intended them to be, had still bruised the colonel’s strong ego. “They’re a top candidate,” he conceded, spreading his palms over the table. “But until we determine the ships’ identity beyond any reasonable doubt, it’s not wise to jump to conclusions.”

  Alisha leaned back in her chair. “Right. We agree that further investigation is necessary. And, like other investigations, it pays to line up the usual suspects.”