Arctic Wargame jh-1

by Ethan Jones

  “Oh my gosh,” Anna cried upon seeing Justin’s bruised and bloody face. “What happened to you?”

  “Turn around and go left,” Justin instructed Ned. “Alisha took me by surprise. She’s gotten hold of Tania.”

  Ned nodded without any of his usual wisecracks. The Land Rover roared and slid, but his experienced hands kept the car on the road. He made a quick U-turn, ramping up one of the smaller snowbanks and gave chase.

  “There are paper towels in the glove box,” Ned said. “Alisha hits like a man.”

  “And she’ll die like a man,” Justin vowed, cocking his pistol. He crumpled a couple of paper towels and dabbed at his forehead. The blood had started to coagulate, and his finger rubbed against the rising bump.

  Ned kept snaking from one street to the other, always going east, but there was no trace of Alisha’s truck. Lights began to shine inside a few houses, as the rumbling car stirred up the sleeping town. As Ned eased around the corner next to the Health Center, almost slamming into an ice heap, a truck appeared ahead of them.

  “There she is.” Justin tightened his grip around his gun. “Get closer.”

  “I’ll try.” Ned pressed on the gas pedal. The Land Rover skid over a stretch of black ice for a couple of feet. Ned controlled the car, aiming toward the snowbanks to the right, to increase the tire traction.

  “Where’s she going?” Anna asked. “We’re out of town.”

  “Victor Bay,” Ned replied. “It’s about two miles south.”

  “Maybe that’s where she hid our Eurocopter,” Justin added. “Speed up!”

  “It’s not safe to go any faster,” Ned replied.

  “Why not? She’ll get away.”

  “She may, but we’re not gonna die trying to catch up to her.”

  “Just gas it up, Ned.”

  “Listen, I know this road. I drive it every day. It’s paper-thin.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ice cover. Look, right there on the shore. The erosion has been eating away at the ground. In the summer, we drive around these huge holes, six, seven feet deep. The snow and the ice fill them all up in the winter, and the road’s safe for small trucks going at low speeds.”

  “So, we’re driving over the bay waters now?” Anna asked.

  “Yes, we’re on pure ice.”

  A loud crack exploded under the Land Rover’s tires, confirming Ned’s words. He slowed down even further. The taillights of the truck grew larger and glistened brighter. Alisha had finally found a use for her brake pedal.

  “She’s slowing down,” Justin said.

  “Yeah, but she’s still too fast. Way too fast,” Ned replied.

  The distance between the Land Rover and the truck was about eighty feet now. The fog was quite thin, allowing for the blurry contours to be somewhat visible to the attentive eye.

  Justin blinked in disbelief, as he thought he saw the square shape of the truck box fishtail very unusually. “What… what is she doing?” he asked.

  Before anyone could reply, he got his answer. The truck twisted and turned, skidding and sliding on black ice. It seemed Alisha was able to regain control because the truck drove in a straight line for a couple of seconds. Then, it resumed its winding. A moment later, it slammed into a couple of ice blocks and bounced over a pressure ridge. It came down hard, plunging through the thin sheet of ice.

  “Oh, crap, crap, crap,” Justin shouted, watching the truck nosedive into the frigid waters. Unless they were very careful, they could meet the same fate.

  “Are they… are they dead?” Anna asked.

  “No… I hope not,” Justin replied quickly, “but they will if we don’t pull them out.”

  Ned stopped at a safe distance. The Land Rover’s headlights lit up the scene of the accident. The truck had already vanished underwater. Small ice crystals were floating over the open pit. They could still hear loud cracks. It’s probably the truck sinking deeper.

  “How deep’s the water here?” he asked, stepping out of the Land Rover. He removed his leather jacket.

  “It’s not supposed to be deeper than seven, eight feet, but if it gobbled up the truck like that…”

  “You’re not thinking—” Anna shouted.

  “It may already be too late, but I’ve got to do this.” Justin treaded slowly toward the pit.

  “No, you don’t.” Anna followed him, reaching for his arms. “Don’t go. Don’t do this.”

  Justin sat down on the edge of the pit. The ice sheet cracked and bent under his weight.

  “Stay back,” he shouted at Anna. “The ice is cracking.”

  She nodded and moved back.

  He took a deep breath and whispered a quick prayer. Then, he let his body slide down into the dark pit.

  * * *

  The sharp claws of frigid waters tore at his skin. The water crept from all sides, filling his boots and climbing up his pants. Justin felt the numbness starting to petrify his hands. The feeling pressed on him the urgency of the rescue. His entire body jerked in a series of throes, his muscles beginning their involuntary contractions.

  He lunged downward, blindly searching with his hands and feet. He did not open his eyes, afraid the seawater would instantly freeze them. He spun around and dove deeper, frantically thrusting his arms to all sides. All he could feel were broken ice pieces. Where did the truck go?

  He felt the strong water current pushing him underneath the ice sheet and realized the truck had been dragged away. His feet struck something hard, which felt like rubber. Is that one of the tires? After a back flip, he stretched his hands toward the bottom of the pit. Yes, that’s a tire, he thought after touching the hubcap. His breathing became difficult, and he swam back to the surface.

  “I’ve… brrrr… I found it,” he could hardly mumble, as he lifted his head over the slushy water. “Now… I should… pull… pull them out.”

  “Justin,” Anna called. “Come out. You’re gonna freeze.”

  “One… more… try.” Justin quivered as he took another deep breath, his muscles tensing. He braced himself for the return dive to the frozen hell.

  This time he kept his eyes open. He blinked rapidly to fight the sharp needles of water puncturing his eyeballs and intensifying his jackhammer headache. Justin clenched his teeth and carried on, reaching the bottom of the pit. He found the truck tipped to its left side. Hypothermia was slowing his limbs movements and was shutting down his brain. What do I do now? Oh, yeah. Open the door. The passenger’s door!

  As he reached for the door handle, a sudden movement inside the truck’s cabin startled him. He heard a weak thud and a horror-stricken face pressed against the window. Justin did not recognize the terrified eyes buried deep in their dark sockets, but he knew she was not Alisha. He read the terror in her lips. She was crying for help, shoving the door with her hands and her shoulders.

  Justin tried prying the door open, but his vicious yanking was in vain. He gestured for the woman to lean back and stepped on the glass. He stomped his feet. The water was softening the impact of his boots. The glass was resisting his repeated attacks.

  The woman’s motions were dwindling away. Justin wondered whether she was resigning to her fate. Maybe he was experiencing the early symptoms of hallucination. Suddenly, he felt a sharp object jab him on his hip. He lifted the bottom of his shirt, fearing an ice fragment had stabbed him. It was his M-9 pistol, its metallic barrel stuck to his skin.

  The gun! I can use the gun to break the glass!

  In a single, swift move, he pulled the gun from his right side, ripping a chunk of his skin. He slammed the gun muzzle against the glass as hard as he could, but there was no crack. After the fourth failed attempt, he gestured to the woman to hide behind the door frame. He placed the gun muzzle at the center of the glass and pulled the trigger.

  Twice.

  The first shot would have been enough for the job. The glass shattered, fragments raining over the woman’s head. Justin finished clearing the leftover glass
pieces on the truck’s window frame and stretched his arms toward the woman. She grabbed his hands, and he pulled her out of the cabin. Once her body was outside the deathtrap, he lifted the woman by her waist. They swam together toward the blurry headlights gleaming over the water surface.

  * * *

  “Quick, let’s get them both somewhere warm,” Ned instructed the two men standing next to him.

  Awakened by the noise, a large group of curious onlookers were observing the rescue mission.

  “Our home,” said one of them, lifting Justin’s left arm.

  The other man moved to the right side, dragging Justin’s almost unconscious body to their truck.

  “OK,” Ned replied. “We’ll bring Tania.” He helped Anna carry the gasping woman to his Land Rover.

  “What about Alisha?” Anna asked, as they laid Tania in the backseat.

  “She’s… she’s dead,” Tania mumbled. “The crash…” She broke into a violent cough.

  “Don’t talk.” Ned started the car and followed the truck. “Save your energy. You can tell us everything later. Once you’re better.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thule, Greenland

  April 14, 01:00 a.m.

  The commander fumbled with his wristwatch. He was awaiting the arrival of a captain who was visiting five of his men in the hospital. They were wounded during the shoot-out with the Canadians. He looked around the table, trying to read the thoughts of his colleagues. The superintendent of the air base was writing on a yellow notepad in front of him. The commander was unsure of his reaction. Before the commander could fix his eyes on the other two men sitting to his left, he heard quick footsteps coming from the hall.

  “I apologize for my delay,” the captain said as he entered the conference room.

  The commander gestured for the captain to take a seat. “How are the men doing?”

  “They’ll all make it. No one is in danger of their lives.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear that. So, what do we have?”

  “The Seahawk handled the storm without a scratch. The pilot, Ms. O’Connor, did a damn good job riding the blizzard,” replied one of the men at the table.

  “Where did they land?”

  “We lost our tracking signal when the Seahawk was about six miles east of Nanisivik, Canada.”

  “They did four hundred miles in the blizzard?” the superintendent asked. “Who are these people?”

  “The blizzard, like most Arctic storms, was localized mainly around our air base. The tail end of the storm stretched over Ellesmere Island,” explained the same man who had earlier expressed admiration of the Canadian pilot. “Still, it’s quite an amazing feat.”

  “Which confirms my initial suspicions these Canadians are anything but geologists,” the commander said. “Special Forces? Rangers? Canadian Air Force?”

  “Whoever they are, sir, we should dispatch immediately two rescue teams,” said the deputy commander in a terse voice. “Then, when we find them—”

  “Wait a second,” the commander said, trying to calm him, “we need a plan for the rescue.”

  “We’re here for this purpose, sir, to draft a plan,” the deputy commander replied. “If they made it through the snowstorm, so can our pilots. We know their coordinates, and we’ll find them. Then, we’ll engage these people and force them to release the hostage and return our helo.”

  “There are so many issues with your suggestion,” one of the other men said. “First, the difficulties of a night flight in the blizzard. I’m not saying our troops are incompetent, but it’s just too great of a risk to order them into a doomed mission before they even take off from the tarmac.”

  The deputy commander opened his mouth to begin his objections. The commander stopped him with a stern gaze.

  “Second, it’s clear from the data that we know only the possible destination of the helo, not the exact coordinates of its landing. And that’s their position as of what, thirty minutes ago?”

  “Fifty minutes ago,” said another man.

  “Yes, thanks. They could be anywhere, and our teams will have trouble locating them. Third, the Canadians took a Seahawk, a helicopter this air base is not even supposed to have. And we’re planning to go after them with what, other Seahawks that shouldn’t be in Greenland’s airspace? Fourth, we’ll be sending our troops into Canada, our ally. Can you imagine the repercussions of such an action?”

  The deputy commander shrugged. “Since when do we worry about ‘repercussions’ of our acts? We carry out missions like this on almost a daily basis all over the world. Somalia. Pakistan. Colombia. These renegades kidnapped one of our soldiers. That act should not go unpunished.”

  “It will not go unpunished,” the commander spoke softly, setting an example of the tone he expected from his men. “As it was pointed out accurately, we will not jeopardize our relationship with a strong ally by wreaking havoc in the Arctic. We revert to the use of force as a last resort, by targeting a precise location. Canada is not like the countries you mentioned. Our first step will be to inform the Canadian government about this crisis and to seek to resolve it through diplomatic means.”

  The deputy commander raised his metal-framed glasses to the bridge of his nose and scratched his fully shaved head. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

  “Good. I’ll contact our Chief of Mission to Canada, and he will follow this matter further through diplomatic channels.”

  “Is that… is that all we’re doing, sir?” asked one of the men in a faltering voice. He was Support Squadron Commander of the airbase. Sergeant Emily Moore and Sergeant Tom Brown were two of the people in his team.

  “Of course not,” the commander replied. “Emily is my highest priority, and we’ll do everything we can to bring her home. I had a chance to interrogate the Canadians, when they were still recovering in the hospital. While I may have misjudged their abilities, they didn’t strike me as vicious criminals.”

  “That’s an understatement, sir,” the same man replied. “Sergeant Brown’s skull is fractured. He was tied up and left naked on the emergency room floor.”

  “It’s all because of that stupid radar signal that notified us about these people in the first place,” another man blurted out. “If those technicians would stop messing around with their toys, we wouldn’t even be here at this graveyard hour.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” said another voice. “If it weren’t for my team, we would have three dead people in our conscience. Three dead people, which we could have saved. There was no way for anyone to know about this turn of events.”

  “Oh, is that so? Well, my conscience is already burdened with a head split sergeant and a kidnapped sergeant, held as hostage who knows where.”

  “Gentlemen,” the commander shouted, silencing their bickering. “There’s no gain in figuring out who’s to blame. Let’s focus on solutions, rather than accusations.”

  Some of the men nodded in agreement.

  “I was saying the Canadians seemed like decent folks,” the commander said. “I know Hall mugged Sergeant Brown, and I don’t condone his action. I’m simply accepting it as a fact, regrettable as such, yet still notable, since it tells us about his determination. It also testifies to his character. Hall is not into overkill, but precise, controlled use of physical force, in correct proportion with the needs of the situation.”

  He looked around the room. “I’ll explain myself, since some of you seem lost. When the Canadians had a chance to fight back, their machine guns blasted tarmac chunks, not the flesh of our soldiers. I’m sure they’re not going to hurt Emily. They did not kid… take her for ransom or to pressure us into submission or negotiation. Hall was afraid we were going to pulverize the chopper. The bastard was right; I may have issued the order to shoot down the Seahawk, if it had nothing valuable on board.”

  There were some nods around the table.

  “Now, my question is: Why were they in such a hurry to go back? What was so important that couldn’t wait, not even t
hree, four days, until their health improved, and we could escort them safely back to Canada?”

  “They were trying to hide something,” one man guessed.

  “Rushing to get rid of their tracks of whatever illegal scheme they were working on,” the deputy commander said.

  “Hall claimed they had secured evidence confirming their suspicions about Danish soldiers attacking their Arctic territory.”

  “What?” the superintendent asked.

  “Really? That’s a clever one,” the deputy commander said in a mocking tone.

  “Yes, a fascinating claim,” the commander said. “I dismissed it offhand as nonsense. But after their death-defying stunt, I’m not so sure. I want to check yesterday’s satellite monitoring records for anything out of ordinary, in terms of Danish aircraft or icebreakers heading toward Canada. Hall talked about some isolated maneuver Denmark may be carrying out. I remember seeing a memo a few weeks back, when they were planning a training exercise, but I don’t recall its details. At the time, it looked pretty harmless. Find me anything recent about the Danish preparations for this exercise. I also want the other Seahawks on standby for a rescue mission at a moment’s notice. Pilots and armaments should be ready, awaiting my orders.”

  “Sir, hmmm…” the superintendent began, “those choppers, the Seahawks. We’ll have to anticipate a considerable backlash from the Danish government if news about their existence at our base appeared in the media.”

  The commander thought about the superintendent’s words for a few moments. “I’m quite aware of our agreement with Denmark on the expansion of our base. I know it prohibits the presence of sophisticated and heavy armed fighter aircraft. But thank you for the reminder. Now, allow me to remind everyone around this table we’re the only people in possession of this secret. If the Danes start asking about our Seahawks and whether they’re in violation of our treaty with their government, I’ll start an investigation of the leak. I will not hesitate to court-martial anyone who leaks the information. Is this clear?”

  The commander waited until everyone had nodded their acknowledgment before continuing. “I’ll make sure our personnel are informed about our official position on the situation. We’re actively pursuing a diplomatic solution with the government of Canada. At the same time, we’re working to ensure the return of our airman. I’ll address the troops over the radio as early as this morning. Hopefully, we’ll have more positive news by then.