Arctic Wargame jh-1

by Ethan Jones

  “I’m sure this doesn’t belong to Parks Canada. This area is not part of the Quttinirpaaq National Park,” Kiawak replied. He crouched and inspected a few metal scraps next to the log pads. “It doesn’t seem to be a research station. They’re much larger and not so close to the ocean.”

  “Is it Danish?” Anna asked and followed Carrie. She took pictures of a few orange tatters that appeared to be fragments of a large tent.

  “Who knows?” Kiawak shrugged. “If it’s not Canadian, where did it come from?”

  “Of course it’s Canadian,” Alisha said.

  They all looked at her as she walked off the log pads. She stomped her feet on the solid snow. “Nuqatlak led us here and this was his stash, regardless of whether this stuff is Danish or not.” She pointed at the rubble and at the orange tatters. A wind gust was trying to pry them away from the ice. “Nuqatlak’s dead and the ‘mystery of the depot’ is solved. It’s over. There’s nothing more for us to do here. Let’s go on with our mission.”

  “This is our mission,” Justin said. “This is what Nuqatlak wanted us to find, and we found it, but we can’t pack our bags and go. Not yet. The Danes stationed this depot here and stacked it up with their supplies. I’m sure when we dig down and discover what may still be there, we’ll find evidence that the Danish icebreakers anchored here and left this… this ‘present’ behind. This evidence will convince whoever may still have doubts.”

  Justin looked at Alisha, but she did not take the bait. Carrie and Anna headed over to the helicopter. A minute later, they returned with a couple of pickaxes and a snow shovel.

  “It’s a waste of time and energy.” Alisha stepped aside, making room for Justin and Kiawak, who took to the excavation. The only place Alisha would dig was in her pockets for a little extra warmth.

  * * *

  “Here’s a flare gun.” Justin handed his only decent find to Kiawak.The first ten minutes of chiseling ice and spading snow had rewarded them with nothing but trash. Chocolate bar wrappings, empty water bottles, and wood fire ashes were clear proof of recent human activity on this site.

  “Why didn’t Nuqatlak take the flare gun?” Anna asked, staring at the orange pistol. She was shoveling away the snow Kiawak and Carrie had piled up in two large mounds.

  “Maybe he ran out of space on his sled or left it behind for his next trip,” Kiawak replied. “Or maybe he thought this hut would make a good hideout, at least for a while, away from everybody. Then a blizzard came and wiped it out. The snow in the area is fresh. The blizzard happened, two, maybe three days ago.”

  Justin lifted his pickaxe over his head and brought it down hard. A sharp snap, unlike the constant ice cracking under their sharp tools, responded to Justin’s brute force. Tiny slivers, like glass shards, sprang up from the two-foot deep hole.

  “What the heck was that?” Justin asked. He was glad the sharp slivers missed his face. The goggles and the black balaclava everyone wore constantly when outside for longer than a few seconds protected his entire face, but his nose and his mouth were still exposed.

  “Easy with the axe,” Kiawak said. “Anna, can I have your shovel?”

  He filled the square blade of the shovel with debris from the bottom of the pit and carefully lifted it up. He placed the mixed mass of ice, snow, and mud over a clear section of the log pads, the display counter of their finds. Then he rooted nervously through the pile, examining each piece with care. Finally, Kiawak placed a tiny square-shaped transparent fragment in his left palm. He paraded it in front of Justin and Carrie.

  “Is that what I just smashed?” Justin asked.

  “It has to be, and it’s definitely not ice,” Kiawak replied with a smile. “I would say your axe smashed into a laptop or some other electronic gadget buried deep down there.” He stared at the hole. “Something with a clear screen.”

  “Cellphone? Digital camera?” Carrie guessed.

  “Could be,” Kiawak said. He dropped to his knees and began to clear the hole with his black gloves. Carrie and Justin drew back to give him sufficient room.

  “Why don’t you take a drink of this?” Justin noticed Anna had begun to shiver and offered her a coffee thermos he fetched from his backpack. “Will warm you up.”

  Anna nodded and took a couple of big gulps.

  “Do you want to wait in the chopper?” Carrie asked. Anna’s lips were already chapped.

  “No,” Anna said. “I’ll be OK. We’re not gonna be here much longer, I assume, once we discover our little treasure.”

  “Well, here we go,” Kiawak said. He had completed his excavation of the fragile article and gently brushed the snow from the black object, which fit easily on his glove. The object resembled a large cellphone, like those models from the eighties, but sleeker looking, with a leather coating and numerous buttons on the top and at the bottom.

  “It’s a multiband radio,” Justin shouted over the rising wind. “A military radio.”

  “You’re sure?” Carrie asked. “I haven’t seen our army use them.”

  Kiawak flipped the radio over, scrapped a thin layer of ice from its backside, and read the white inscription. He shook his head. “Bingo,” he shouted and passed the radio over to Justin.

  “What’s going on here?” Their excitement had drawn Alisha’s attention, who stepped closer to the action.

  “We’ve found the evidence. This is a Danish army radio,” Justin said, his eyes focused on the radio.

  “And how can you be sure of that?” Alisha’s voice rang as an accusation.

  “Because it says in the back, you whack job,” Justin snapped at her and pushed the radio toward Alisha. “Read it for yourself. ‘The Royal Danish Army’ is stamped in large caps in the back!”

  “That’s not how you talk to a lady,” Alisha replied and quickly, but calmly, withdrew her hand from one of her jacket pockets. Her fingers were wrapped around a pistol, which she pointed at Justin’s head.

  “OK, no reason to get angry,” Kiawak replied, lifting up his arms slowly and gesturing for her to stop. “Put the gun away.”

  “Hands up. All of you,” Alisha barked.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Justin shouted back.

  Alisha pulled the trigger. A bullet whistled by Justin’s head. He dropped to his left side, raising his hand to check his ear. No blood, but his eardrum was almost shattered.

  “Stay down and don’t move,” Alisha yelled, taking a step back, likely in case Justin decided to charge toward her gun. “You,” she shouted at Carrie, who still was holding her shovel. “Are you fucking deaf or something? And you, the shivering beauty, hands up, turn around and face me!”

  Anna brought her hands above her head, the left one still carrying Justin’s coffee thermos.

  “You’re… you’re going to kill us?” she muttered.

  “What a bitch.” Carrie threw the shovel to the ground.

  Alisha grinned. “I told you, all of you, to stop dicking around with this Danish story and to stop looking for clues.” Alisha brandished her gun, pointing at their heads. “Things would have been much easier if you would had listened to me and agreed the Russians were pulling the strings. But no, you didn’t want to. What did you call me, Anna? Self-righteous? Am I being difficult, Justin? We’ll see how difficult this will be for each one of you.”

  “So you work for the Danes?” Anna asked. “You’re their spy?”

  “The pay’s much better, and I get to kill whoever gets in my way.”

  “Alisha, this won’t work,” Justin said in a shaky voice. “Whatever the Danes and you have been plotting, it will fail.”

  “Think about it, Alisha,” Kiawak said, still kneeling by the pit. “This is your country, your home. This is Canada.”

  “On the map, yes, this is Canada,” Alisha replied in a calm voice. “As for my home, that’ll be wherever I want it to be. Justin, you had no idea what was going on here and even now, right before you die, you still don’t have a clue. And you will all go to your gr
aves as ignorant fools.”

  “Alisha—” Justin began.

  “Enough,” she yelled. “Give me your guns. Now!”

  Justin removed his Browning 9mm from his holster inside his jacket. Kiawak hesitated for a brief second. Alisha took one firm step toward him, and his hesitation melted away. Carrie laid down her Browning pistol. Anna placed the coffee thermos in front of her feet.

  “I don’t carry a gun,” she mumbled.

  “It would have done you no good.” Alisha smirked as she gathered their weapons. “But you have a satellite phone and a PLB. Drop everything on the ground. Everybody, do it! All electronics and anything else in your pockets. Empty them out! Come on!”

  They placed all their satellite phones, personal locator beacons, pocketknives, chap sticks, keys, and spare change on the log pads.

  “Your watches too.” Alisha pointed at Justin’s wrist. “It’s not like you’ll need that funny compass, but let’s take no chances. Do it, or I’ll blow your head off.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Justin asked.

  “Can you fly the chopper?” Alisha asked Kiawak, gesturing toward the aircraft.

  Kiawak nodded.

  “Good, collect all that junk.” She pointed at the team’s belongings. “Stuff it in Justin’s backpack and walk in front of me. Very slowly! To the rest of you, all I have to say is… stay warm.”

  Alisha began her retreat, carefully examining Kiawak’s every move.

  “You can’t take off and abandon us,” Anna shouted. “We’re gonna freeze to death.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That’s the idea,” Alisha replied with another smirk, “but that’s part of the plan. I would say it’s about minus four now, which isn’t that bad. I’ll give you a couple of hours, but I would be surprised if you haven’t turned into ice cubes by nightfall.”

  “Next time we meet, I’ll tear your heart to pieces.” Carrie jabbed the air with her arms and made violent gestures of ripping apart an object with her clenched fists.

  “Maybe you’ll meet me in hell,” Alisha scoffed, “where you’ll be dropping by tonight. Dressed in a cold, white gown, as if you were a pretty little bride.”

  Chapter Eight

  Viborg, Denmark

  April 12, 5:45 p.m.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “Yes, Presiding Judge, we have reached a verdict.”

  High Court Judge Laurits Handel heaved a sigh of relief at the jury forewoman’s reply. He nodded and removed his black-rimmed glasses without attempting to hide his smile. The appeal proceedings had consumed several weeks of time on an already overloaded court docket, and the judge was looking forward to the end of another intricate legal battle. The other two High Court Judges, sitting to Handel’s left and right, impatiently swiveled in their chairs.

  “What is the verdict?” the judge asked the forewoman. She stood behind the wooden rail separating the jury from the rest of the courtroom.

  “On the two counts of assisting in a conspiracy to commit terrorist acts,” the forewoman replied in a stern voice, her eyes fixed on the defendant’s unshaven face, “by a majority of nine to three, we, the jury, declare the defendant, Mr. Sargon Beyda, guilty as charged.”

  Pandemonium exploded in the courtroom as soon as she finished pronouncing the word ‘guilty.’ Relatives of the defendant broke into angry barks, screams, whistles, and the occasional expletive. Joyful cries from police officers and numerous spectators, accompanied by a loud wave of applause, attempted to outdo the competition. The defendant, still in handcuffs, dropped his head in despair, despite his defense counselor’s words of encouragement. In the second row, behind the counselor’s seat, Lilith, the defendant’s wife, began to weep quietly. Media photographers scrambled for the best shots of the defendant, adding to the overwhelming chaos.

  “Order! Order!” The judge, already on his feet, shouted at the disorderly crowd. The other members of the court followed suit, but their voices were too frail. Three deputies, in charge of maintaining order and peace in the courtroom, stepped forward, their refrigerator-sized bodies barricading the enraged mob away from the judges.

  “Clear the room,” the judge instructed the deputies in a chirping voice. He made a quick exit through the doors behind the bench connecting to his private chambers. The other two judges used the same escape route. Two police officers, who escorted the defendant to and from the courthouse, snapped out of their standing guard positions and approached Sargon.

  “Time to go, man,” one of them said. The other lifted Sargon from his chair by his right arm.

  “The court is adjourned,” one of the gray-haired deputies boomed in a well-practiced, solemn tone, as if he closed with these exact words all trial hearings each time the court was in session. The other two deputies ushered the twelve members of the jury away from the emotional tide rising across the courtroom and toward the door to judge’s chambers. Then the deputies proceeded to shove people out, starting with the journalists, who were tossing out questions at the runaway jury. In less than two minutes, the large Courtroom E of the High Court of Western Denmark was completely empty.

  * * *

  The two police officers pushed Sargon down the narrow hall leading to the west wing of the court, which housed administrative offices, press conference rooms, and a small cafeteria. A third one followed two steps behind them. Experience had taught the escort team they were most vulnerable during the loading and unloading of detainees. The courtroom disturbance had triggered the team’s defensive instincts. Worried that Sargon’s friends may have planned an escape, their eyes double-checked every door and questioned the faces of every person they passed in the hall.

  “Look, mommy, the police… and a bad guy,” a young boy blurted, pulling on his mother’s arm. She stopped stabbing at her BlackBerry for half a second and whipped an angry stare at the boy before returning to her e-mail. One of the officers frowned at her indifference, but smiled at the little boy, who smiled back.

  The escort team hurried down the last set of stairs, which opened into a small vestibule, and proceeded to the right exit taking them to the back of the building. Another police officer awaited their arrival in a Toyota Previa van parked less than six feet from the door. Two officers nudged Sargon into the middle of the backseats and sat on either side of him.

  “We’re good to go,” the team leader said. He sat in the front passenger’s seat, removed his cap, and placed it over the dashboard.

  The driver nodded and glanced at the two officers in the rear-view mirror, as he put the Toyota in reverse. “How are you boys back there?” he asked over a microphone attached to the side of the dashboard. The bulletproof glass separating the front seats from those in the back was also soundproof.

  “We’re ready,” one of them replied on a similar microphone embedded on the side door, as he fastened his seatbelt. The other officer nodded and rearranged his baton hanging on the left side of his waist. He inspected his HK pistol resting on his holster under his right arm.

  The driver looked over at the team leader and asked, “Guilty?”

  “Like Cain after slaughtering Abel,” he replied. “His relatives raised some objections, and the judge kicked everyone out of the courtroom.”

  “I see.” The driver turned left onto Gråbrødre Kirke Stræde, the road in front of the High Court building. “So, it’s back to Horsens Pen?”

  “Yes. For now. I’m sure they’ll transfer him to Københavns Fængsler,” the team leader said.

  * * *

  Sargon let out a whining yelp, like a puppy spooked while soaking sunrays on his front porch. He had picked up some Danish in jail and he knew the meaning of those words. Fængsler meant “jail” and københavns was “Copenhagen.” It was the toughest prison in Denmark, beyond full capacity, ruled by thugs and flooded with drugs. Forget about the concepts of openness, normalization, and rehabilitation, held high and sought after at the detention center in Horsens. The center had a library, recreation
al facilities, water ponds, and separate units for conjugal visits. Any intimacy inmates could expect at the Copenhagen Prison would follow dropping the soap accidentally while sharing the showers.

  Sargon groaned as the terror of spending twenty plus years in the Copenhagen rat hole began to boil in his mind. Will it be twenty? Twenty-five years? He remembered discussing the possible sentence with his defense counselor, but their legal strategy never envisioned a guilty verdict. After all, the public prosecutors could prove only that Sargon had been sending money to his brother, a fact established through witnesses during the trial. But the allegation of “conspiracy to commit terrorist acts” was a long shot, even though Sargon knew the money was for the financing of terrorist camps. Still, the jury had rendered a clear-cut verdict: he had supported terrorism. The court was pretty much at liberty to impose any jail term, even life imprisonment.

  I’ll never be able to see my children grow up. How will Lilith do it on her own? Sargon dropped his head between his handcuffed hands to hide his face.

  * * *

  “What does your wife think, Inspector?” the driver asked his team leader. They had just turned the corner to the Lille Sankt Mikkels Gade, the road taking them to Horsens, a city sixty miles south of Viborg. Lake Søndersø appeared on their left, between green trees and shrubs hedging around two-story, red-roofed houses.

  “Huh, what?” the team leader replied. He was still watching the occasional vehicle appearing in the sparse traffic behind their van.

  “The transfer. What does she think of your transfer?”

  “Oh.” The team leader glanced at the driver for a second before returning his gaze to the side mirror. “She doesn’t like it. Her family lives in Århus, and she wants to stay close to them.”

  “But Horsens is less than an hour away.”

  “I keep telling her it’s not that far, but she’s so stubborn. Our kids are in good schools and all their friends live here, she says. As if children in Horsens are ignorant and unsociable—”