Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  “I think that I could manage a nice hot toddy,” answered Graham, who followed his escort into the recreation room. Part health club, part library, the rec room was currently deserted except for a single portly figure grinding away on an exercise bike.

  “That’s the way, Smitty,” greeted Jim Stanfield playfully.

  “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before taking a second helping of Cooky’s pie.”

  “Up yours, Stanfield!” managed the sweat-stained bike rider, between gasps of air.

  Grinning at this response, the American master sergeant ducked into yet another corridor. Graham Chapman remained close on his heels. The lighting was subdued in this portion of the complex, and in the distance echoed the spirited sounds of recorded reggae music.

  The corridor led them to a narrow entranceway.

  Here the door had been removed and replaced with long ribbons of green crepe paper that extended from the top portion of the frame. A bamboo sign was hung above this portal. It read. The Golden Ussuk Club-Member’s Only!

  Inside, a warm, clublike atmosphere prevailed.

  Tropical plants lined the walls, and a half-dozen cozy bamboo booths were set to the side of a central bar behind which was an expertly rendered mural of Waikiki beach.

  Two khaki-uniformed figures sat in one of these booths, sipping their beers and in the midst of a spirited conversation. Jim Stanfield gave them a brief wave before leading Graham over to the bar and commenting.

  “Sounds like Jonsey and Pops are talking football again. You know, a damn war could break out, and those two would still be carrying on about whether or not the Bears’ defense was overrated.”

  Graham chuckled at this and sat down on one of the bamboo bar stools while his Yank drinking companion walked behind the self-service bar, donned an apron, and asked in his best imitation cockney accent.

  “What will it be, mate?”

  “A hot buttered rum would certainly warm the cockles of my heart,” answered Graham.

  “Sounds good to me. In fact, I’ll join you. Two of Doc Stanfield’s famous hot rum toddy’s on the way.”

  While the American expertly mixed their drinks, Graham glanced up at the series of nine-inch-long, rect angularly shaped bones that were hung on the wall just above the mural. There were two dozen altogether.

  Though their scientific name was Ussuk, the natives knew them simply as walrus penis bones.

  Looking down to lose himself in the mural, the Canadian admired the stretch of pure white sand, the crystal blue water, palm trees, and the distinctive volcanic formation known as Diamond Head. He had never been to Hawaii, but as soon as his orders arrived transferring him from Polestar, he promised himself that his first extended leave would take him straight to the exquisite tropical setting displayed on the wall before him.

  From the other side of the bar, Jim Stanfield noted the forlorn expression that was etched on the young Canadian’s innocent face as he studied the mural. He had seen this same look before, and made certain to pour a bit more of the dark. Virgin Island rum into his coworker’s mug. He topped this off with a half-cup of hot water, a dash of cinnamon, some cloves, and a dab of rich butter.

  “Bottom’s up, mate,” interrupted the Yank as he picked up his own mug in toast.

  Suddenly brought back to reality, Graham solemnly reached out for his drink.

  “Now come on, lad. Things can’t be as bad as all that,” reflected the American.

  “Just think, we could have been left out in this icebox without a drop of booze to console us. Now that would be serious!”

  Graham couldn’t help but laugh at this innocent statement, and seeing this, Jim Stanfield added.

  “That’s more like it. Now are you just going to sit there, or are you going to try some of my magical elixir that’s guaranteed to cure what ails you?”

  The Canadian lifted up the white enamel mug, took an appreciative sniff of the fragrant steam rising from its golden surface, and toasted.

  “To your health, my friend.”

  “And to yours,” returned the American, who raised his mug to his lips and took a cautious sip. Instantly liking what he tasted, his rugged face lit up in a full smile.

  “This is just what the doctor ordered. Finish this baby off, and I promise you that those homesick blues will be gone.”

  “How did you know that I was homesick?” questioned Graham, in between sips of his toddy.

  The American winked.

  “I don’t know, lad. Just call it an educated guess. May I ask where you were stationed when you got the orders sending you on your way to Polestar?”

  “I was in Esquimalt, British Columbia,” Graham answered directly.

  “I know the place,” replied the Yank.

  “Me and the wife spent part of our honeymoon on Vancouver Island and really loved every moment of it. Why with those thick coastal woods and all, it’s hard to believe that there’s even a military base hidden away out there.”

  Graham nodded.

  “It’s beautiful country, all right.

  Having spent most of my life as an Alberta flat lander those coastal mountains were like a breath of fresh air. Have you ever been to Waikiki beach, Sergeant?”

  Stanfield took a long drink before answering.

  “That’s Jim to you, and yes, I have been to the island of Oahu. In fact, I was stationed at Hickam Air Force base when I got the papers sending me to the Arctic.”

  With his gaze locked on the mural, Graham sighed.

  “You must have been really disappointed with your new assignment. Hawaii sounds to me like it’s the closest thing to paradise we have on this earth.”

  “Believe it or not, I actually requested this transfer,” revealed the grinning American.

  “You see, I was brought up on a farm in upstate New York, and all that Hawaiian sunshine was finally starting to get to me. There’s certainly nothing wrong with the cold, as long as you’re dressed for it. If you ask me, it makes a man feel totally alive.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Jim. All my life I’ve had nothing but fickle Canadian weather. When it finally does warm up in the summer, the mosquitoes and flies are so bad that you really can’t enjoy yourself. And the winters, why they’re the worst. I’m sick and tired of having cabin fever for six months of the year. You can give me a warm beach and a shapely Polynesian lady any day of the week, and I guarantee you won’t be hearing any complaints from me.”

  Jim Stanfield chuckled.

  “I still say that it would get to you eventually. In a couple of months you’d be begging for a cool spell, so that you could finally stop sweating. Although, I must admit, this Arctic weather is a bit extreme. How long are you up here for?”

  “Six months,” replied the Canadian.

  “And you?”

  “The same,” answered Stanfield as he warmed his large hands on the sides of his mug.

  “Isn’t that an awfully long time to be away from your wife?” asked Graham.

  The American polished off the rest of his drink before answering.

  “Not really. You see, we split up this past spring. The last I heard from her, she was living in Waikiki with a Hawaiian surfing instructor. I should have known that she would go native on me.

  That one was never satisfied from the very start.”

  Conscious now of why the American had most likely requested a transfer to such an isolated outpost, Graham turned his attention back to his drink. The rum was strong, and he could already feel its soothing effects. No longer feeling all alone in his misery, the Canadian began tapping his foot to the spirited reggae music that continued to blare forth from the room’s excellent stereo speakers. Ironically enough, he identified the song that was currently playing as Bob Marley’s, “No Woman, No Cry.” While wondering if his suddenly morose drinking companion had ever really listened to the clever lyrics to this piece, Graham became aware of another’s presence behind him. He turned and set his eyes on a tall, khaki-uniformed bla
ck man who hurriedly entered the room and spoke excitedly.

  “Ah, I should have known I’d find you in here, Stanfield. You asked me to let you know the moment we had the Flying Kremlin on the scope. Well, we’ve got ‘em all right, clear as day, just leaving Siberian air space.”

  This surprise revelation served to immediately divert the broad-shouldered New Yorker from his thoughtful reverie. Catching his drinking companion’s eye, Stanfield winked.

  “Well, Canuck, shall we go and see what a real live Ilyushin-76 looks like on an OTHB?”

  Already standing, Graham polished off the rest of his drink and turned for the exit. Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield followed him, all the while busily ripping off the apron that he had previously neglected to remove.

  They arrived in the central control room along with several other curious observers, likewise drawn from other portions of the compound. To facilitate their viewing, the commander had activated the main display screen. Fully occupying one entire wall of the cavernous room, the screen was filled with a large polar projection map. A constant circular blue light, that was set on the northern extremity of Baffin Island corresponded to their current position, while the only other visual illumination was a flashing red star, located off the coast of central Siberia. It proved to be the senior duty officer, Captain Carl Schluter, who provided them with the latest update.

  “They should have crossed Severnaya Zemlya by now. From here on in, there’s nothing but the frozen Arctic ocean between them and Ellesmere Island.

  “We picked up the first blip about a quarter of an hour ago. Conditions in the ionosphere are excellent today, and we tagged ‘em way beyond the two-thousand-mile threshold. The prearranged flight plan will take them over the pole in another hour. Interestingly enough, they seemed to take off a little early, though there’s a pretty brisk tail wind that could be helping them out a bit. That means in less than three hours they’ll be almost directly overhead. Just to insure that they aren’t carrying any ELINT gear aboard, we’ll be going off-line long before then. Thule will take over for us at that point. We all know the Soviets would just love to get a definite trace of our frequencies, and we’re not about to let them have the opportunity.

  “Their ETA in Ottawa…”

  While the bespectacled American captain continued his emotionless briefing, Graham couldn’t help but ponder one disturbing element of his discourse.

  Even in the midst of peace talks, the paranoid Americans were worried about Soviet machinations. As if the Premier’s plane would be carrying any spying gear on it!

  This was the very attitude that promoted the unparalleled arms race of the last four decades. Trust was the key to world peace. Without it, men would always be looking over their shoulders, always fearful that the other side was trying to unfairly gain the advantage.

  As far as Graham was concerned, the time to set aside these childish paranoid fears was right now, before a new crisis once again brought the world to the brink of nuclear destruction. Since the Soviets appeared to be sincere with their desire to demilitarize their portion of the Arctic, the Americans could at the very least keep Polestar active as a gesture of international goodwill. For if this Arctic treaty indeed became reality, installations such as the one they currently occupied would eventually become as extinct as the great woolly mammoths that once walked these same frozen plains thousands of years ago. Certain of this fact, the Canadian yawned and discreetly excused himself. He headed for his bunk, lack of sleep and the toddy he had just consumed finally having caught up with him.

  Three hours later, Graham was roused out of a sound sleep by a firm hand on his shoulder. Snapped instantly awake, the young ensign looked into the concerned face of Master Sergeant Jim Stanfield.

  “Get up and throw on some clothes,” the Yank whispered.

  “There’s something you won’t want to miss going on in the control room.”

  Not bothering to take the time to question the American, Graham wiped the sleep from his startled eyes and rose to dress himself. Minutes later, he was standing in the control center, along with some other concerned technicians. All eyes were focused on the main display screen, where a single red star was visible directly over the North Pole. Glancing up to the large digital clock that was mounted above the screen, Graham spoke.

  “I don’t get it. If that’s the correct time, why hasn’t the Flying Kremlin progressed farther than that? I thought that they’d be flying almost directly above us by now.”

  “They most probably are,” replied Jim Stanfield succinctly.

  “Then what’s that red star doing above the Pole?”

  continued the confused Canadian.

  “That, my friend, is a Soviet Tupolev Tu-20, Bear-E reconnaissance plane,” returned Stanfield.

  “We first tagged it a little over two hours ago, right before the Flying Kremlin began altering their flight plan.”

  Looking again to the giant display screen, Graham again queried.

  “What do you mean, altering their flight plan? Has something happened to the Premier’s plane?”

  Stanfield shook his head.

  “Right now, we just don’t know. All we’ve got for certain is that approximately twenty minutes ago, the Ilyushin-76 carrying Premier Suratov left its prearranged cruising height of 42,650 feet, and began steadily descending. Since Polestar was scheduled to go off-line at this same time. Captain Schluter contacted Cheyenne Mountain and received permission to remain active, for as long as it took to get a firm lock on the Premier’s plane. We thus remained briefly on-line, and what we subsequently learned shocked the dickens out of us. For the Flying Kremlin was located flying less than twenty-thousand feet off the ice pack’s surface, and headed straight for us!

  “Needless to say, with that Bear recon circling nearby, we immediately went silent. What you’re seeing now is being relayed to us by Thule.”

  “Maybe they’re just having mechanical difficulties of some sort,” offered the optimistic Canadian.

  Nodding thoughtfully, Jim Stanfield pointed to the glassed-in balcony that directly faced the glowing display screen.

  “Though I seriously doubt that’s the case.

  Right now those two are the only ones around here who most likely know what the hell is going on up there.”

  Looking up to the balcony, Graham spotted two seated officers. One of these bespectacled figures was Captain Carl Schluter. Sitting close beside him, his bald scalp shining in the bright track lighting, was the base commander. Colonel Oliver Paxton. With a red telephone handset cradled close to his ear, Paxton seemed to be in the midst of an animated conversation.

  “I’ll bet my pension that the old man is on the horn with CINCNORAD. He most probably wants to know if Polestar should go active or not.”

  Graham nodded, and with his eyes still glued to the glassed-in balcony, watched as Captain Schluter picked up a white telephone. Seconds later, the phone at the monitor console that lay directly beside Graham began ringing. An alert technician quickly answered it, and with his palm covering the phone’s transmitter, began frantically scanning the lower portion of the control room. He halted his search when his gaze locked in on the gangly figure that stood beside the coffee machine.

  “Hey Kowolski, the captain wants you on the double!”

  cried the seated technician.

  Graham watched as Sergeant Vie Kowolski hurriedly made his way over to the console. The two had played chess together, and Graham had been some49 what surprised to learn that Kowolski had been born in the Soviet Union, though his parents had emigrated to the United States when he was but a youngster.

  Kowolksi was the type of individual who always seemed to be in some sort of disciplinary trouble, yet he was on his best behavior as he took the telephone from the technician, listened to what the caller had to say, mumbled a brief reply, and hung up the receiver.

  As he addressed the airman who had called him over to the phone, Graham scooted over closer so that he could hear
for himself what the Russian-born sergeant had to say.

  “The colonel wants me to contact the 11–76. Can you get them for me, Smitty?”

  “No trouble. Vie. Hang on a sec while I give them a ring.”

  Reaching up to activate his transmitter, the technician expertly dialed a large, black frequency knob, waited a second, and then turned to give Vie Kowolski a thumbs-up. Without hesitating, Kowolski picked up a lightweight headset and began speaking fluent Russian into its miniature transmitter. As he pressed the speakers to his ears to listen for a response, he somberly shook his head, and tried yet another burst of Russian into the microphone. He tried several more times before giving up and reaching for the intercom.

  “It’s useless. Captain. I can get through to them all right. But all they give me is some frantic, garbled crap saying that their radio is on the fritz. It certainly doesn’t sound kosher to me, sir.”

  Listening to these words, Graham felt his gut turn sour. If Vie Kowolski was right and the Soviets were playing games with them, then what in the hell did they hope to gain by attempting such a foolish charade?

  Praying that this wasn’t the case, the Canadian returned his glance to the glassed-in balcony, where

  Polestar’s bald-headed senior officer sat with the red phone cradled close to his ear, his somber stare locked on the central display screen, while their destinies hovered somewhere in the frigid skies above.

  Chapter Three

  During the early 1960’s, engineers with the U.S. Department of Defense began blasting out a series of immense caverns inside the solid granite rock that made up Colorado’s Cheyenne Mountain. Altogether fifteen separate buildings were constructed inside this subterranean netherworld, all of which were mounted on massive, steel-spring shock absorbers, that would hopefully allow the site to survive all but a direct hit in the event of a nuclear war. Once completed, the state-of-the-art complex became home to the North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD as it was more commonly called.