Under the Ice

by Richard P. Henrick

  Once at their home base, they hurriedly gathered together the gear they would need. This included six snowmobiles that could each carry up to four men, special Arctic clothing, food, ammunition, and a directional finder with which to home in on the missing cockpit voice recorder. As soon as this assortment of equipment was gathered together, their present means of transportation arrived to carry them off to Baffin Island.

  Jack Redmond was no stranger to the prop-driven Aurora aircraft they had been flying in for the last two hours. These reliable planes were used by Canadians to patrol their vast Arctic frontier. Loaded with state-of-the-art surveillance gear, eighteen long-range Auroras covered that immense frozen wasteland. And it was a difficult, demanding task. Yet if Canada was serious about extending its sovereignty to the portion of North America above the Arctic Circle, such patrols were vital.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant Redmond.” The voice came from the front of the cockpit.

  “We’ve spotted the Louis St. Laurent.”

  These words were all that was needed to break Jack from his light slumber. Quickly wiping the sleep from his weary eyes, he unbuckled his seat belt and carefully edged his way forward, to the front portion of the flight deck. As he settled in between the two pilots, the uniformed figure seated to his left pointed out the cockpit’s window and continued.

  “There she is now.”

  Gazing in the direction in which the pilot was pointing, Jack spotted a single, black-hulled vessel, barely two-hundred feet from stem to stern, seemingly locked in a solid sheet of frozen ice. Though a thick column of gray smoke poured from its dual stacks, the ship didn’t appear to be moving and Redmond observed, “It doesn’t appear that they’re making much progress. Exactly where are they. Captain?”

  “That’s the Barrow Strait they’re trying to transit,” returned the pilot.

  “They’re currently in between Somerset and Cornwallis islands, but I’m afraid that’s about as far east as they’re going to be able to go.

  That ice looks way beyond their capability.”

  Redmond shook his head.

  “Looks like we can’t be counting on the Coast Guard to give us any help. I still find it hard to believe that we don’t even have an icebreaker capable of operating in this portion of the Arctic all year round.”

  “I hear you. Lieutenant,” retorted the pilot.

  “With all those millions we waste on our NATO obligation to defend Germany, we can’t even come up with the funds to protect our own coastline. Ottawa’s still fighting over committing the resources needed to build the Polar 8 icebreaker. With one hundred thousand horsepower engines and a specially fortified bow, such a ship would smash through that ice below quick enough. Eh?”

  “I think we should build those nuclear submarines,” the copilot put in.

  “I’ve got a brother based on the Onondaga in Halifax, and he says the amount of trespassing that’s going on beneath these waters is positively criminal. The Soviets, Yanks, and even the Brits, carry on up here like it was their own territory.

  Yet if we had a fleet of nuclear submarines, it would be a different story. Then we could block off the choke points, and keep these seas one hundred percent Canadian like they should be.”

  Jack Redmond turned to the young copilot.

  “Does the Onondaga do much under-the-ice work?”

  While slightly enriching the fuel mixture, the copilot answered.

  “They’d certainly like to, but they can’t.

  As you know, all three of our subs are diesel-electrics.

  Since they’re dependent on their batteries while traveling submerged, prolonged patrols under the ice are just too dangerous.”

  I Jack Redmond thoughtfully reflected.

  “I realize it would be enormously expensive, but a nuclear submarine would sure suit our needs right now. All one would have to do is cruise under the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound and pop up in an open lead. Then me and my lads could crawl out of the hold and take it from there.”

  “Who needs a blooming submarine when we can do the job for you in a fraction of the time it would take the Navy to get you to Baffin,” the pilot retorted with la proud smirk.

  “In fact, if you hold tight, we can have you there in just under an hour.”

  I Redmond met this offer with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and looked on as the pilot turned the steering yoke and the Aurora smoothly banked to the right. The compass read due east as the Ranger turned to his jumpseat. No sooner had he rebucklec his seatbelt than the door to the flight cabin poppec open. With an excited gleam in his eyes, a short jumpsuit-clad airman entered and wasted no tim expressing himself.

  “I believe I’ve got it. Captain! I started picking it ui right after you made that last course change.”

  Not having the slightest idea what the sensor opera for was talking about, the pilot was quick to intervene

  “Now hold on, lad. Just take a deep breath am tell us just what it is that’s got you so riled.”

  Suddenly realizing the reason for the pilot’s confusion, the airman paused and then explained himself “It’s the homing beacon, sir. I was warming up the directional receiver in preparation for our arrival a the suspected crash site, when much to my amazement I began getting the faintest of returns on bearing zero-nine-zero. At first I didn’t think much of it but when we turned on that course ourselves and the signal began steadily increasing in strength, I knew w< were on to something. I know it’s still a bit early Captain, but I’m almost positive it’s the black box.”

  This last revelation caused Jack Redmond’s eyes t(open wide with wonder, and he anxiously questioned “Were you able to get a definite fix on this signal airman?”

  The sensor operator turned to directly address the Ranger.

  “Though it’s still hard to pinpoint exactly, it seems to be emanating from the north end of the Brodeur Peninsula, on Baffin Island’s northwestern tip.”

  Jack Redmond leaned forward expectantly.

  “That’s it all right. Why I’ll bet my pension on it. The last radar sighting NORAD had on the Premier’s plan was right over that same portion of coastline. How close can you drop us. Captain?”

  Busy studying his cockpit’s own radar screen, the pilot hesitated a moment before answering.

  “Under normal circumstances, with our heated ski wheel landing system, we could deliver you practically anywhere on the ice, but I’m afraid that’s not going to be the case this afternoon. It looks like we’ve got a hell of a nasty storm moving south over Lancaster Sound even as we speak.”

  “How about giving that landing strip at the new Polestar DEW line station a try, Captain?” the copilot suggested.

  “It’s on the Brodeur Peninsula and less than a dozen kilometers from the coastline.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jack Redmond said.

  With his eyes still peeled to the radar screen, the pilot responded.

  “Why don’t we give them a call and see what the weather conditions are like down there.

  Because from this vantage point, even Polestar doesn’t look too promising.”

  It was the copilot who looked up the DEW line station’s special radio frequency and punched it into their digital transmitter. Seconds later, a small green light lit up on the console, and the pilot himself picked up the microphone and spoke into it with his deep, bass voice.

  “Polestar One, this is Canadian Air Defense flight zero-one-alpha requesting emergency landing clearance. Over.”

  As the pilot released the transmit button that was recessed into the microphone, nothing but a throaty blast of static boomed forth from the cabin’s elevated speakers. Once again the pilot repeated his request.

  This time the static was undercut by the distant, scratchy voice of a man.

  “CAD flight zero-one-alpha, this is Polestar One.

  How do you copy? Over.”

  “I’m afraid the signals a little weak, Polestar,” 5 returned the pilot.

  “CAD flig
ht zero-one-alpha, please switch to frequency zulu-foxtrot-bravo. Over.”

  As the copilot punched in this new frequency, the pilot of the Aurora once more addressed the DEW line station. This time the response that filtered in through the cockpit’s speakers was crisp and clear.

  “What can we do for you, CAD zero-one-alpha?”

  “We’re requesting emergency landing clearance, Polestar,” replied the pilot.

  “Though we’d love the company down here, I’m going to have to deny that request, zero-one-alpha.

  You could say that we’ve got a bit of a blizzard smacking into us at the moment. Wind gusts are up to eighty five miles per hour, with blowing snow, a minus forty degree wind chill and visibility nil.”

  As the captain turned his head and caught Jack Redmond’s concerned stare, he again spoke into the microphone.

  “Are you absolutely certain we can’t land a plane down there, Polestar? We’re on a mission of the utmost priority.”

  “CAD zero-one-alpha,” returned the amplified voiced, “not only do we currently have white-out conditions prevailing, but the wind’s blowing so hard the base commander won’t even allow an emergency response team outdoors to assess any storm damages we might already have sustained. I suggest you come back in a day or two when this thing finally blows over.”

  “We copy that, Polestar. Perhaps we’ll take you up on that invitation. This is CAD zero-one-alpha, signing off.”

  The pilot hung up the microphone and pivoted to address Jack Redmond.

  “I thought that this might be the case, Lieutenant. During this morning’s weather briefing, I saw the low-pressure front responsible for this storm developing over Ellesmere Island. Unfortunately, it seems to have crossed Lancaster Sound sooner than anticipated, making a landing at Polestar out of the question.”

  Not about to be perturbed by this news, the Ranger responded.

  “Well, if you can’t drop us off at Polestar, where can you land?”

  It proved to be the copilot who answered this.

  “Arctic Bay still looks clear. Captain. If we crank this crate up, maybe we can get there before the storm does.”

  “Is that okay with you, Lieutenant?” the pilot asked.

  “Though that won’t put you right on the Brodeur Peninsula, if we can, indeed, get into Arctic Bay, that will only leave you about eighty kilometers from where that homing signal is believed to be originating.”

  “That’s a lot shorter hike than walking in from Yellowknife,” returned Jack Redmond “You just get us into Arctic Bay, Captain, and leave the rest to us” “You’ve got it. Lieutenant,” snapped the pilot, as he opened the throttles wide.

  The grinding whine of the Aurora’s four turboprops roared in response, and Jack Redmond excused himself to let his sergeant-major in on their destination.

  He exited the flight deck, crossed through the equipment-packed sensor bay, and ducked through a narrow doorway.

  This brought him into a spacious cabin that stretched all the way from the forward portion of the wings to the plane’s tail. The majority of his twenty-three-man squad sat strapped to the fold-down chairs that lined the cabin. Most were asleep, though a spirited poker game was under way on the floor. His sergeant-major could be seen in the tail-end portion of the cabin, where their equipment was stored. Cliff

  Ano, totally absorbed with the snowmobile engine he was in the process of repairing, failed to see Redmond enter and begin picking his way down the bare steel walkway.

  As he passed by the poker players. Jack lightly greeted the four pure-bred Inuits who made up the game.

  “Who’s got all the luck this afternoon, gentlemen?”

  “Corporal Eviki as usual,” returned the mustached soldier seated closest to Redmond.

  “I still say he deals off the bottom.”

  The longhaired Ranger seated opposite this individual shot back forcefully.

  “Watch your tongue. Private.

  Before you accuse a man of cheating, you’d better make certain to have the evidence!”

  Quick to sense the start of trouble, Redmond intervened.

  “Now that’s enough out of both of you! Either cool it right now, or kiss those cards goodbye.”

  “I was only making a joke,” offered the mustached private who’d made the initial accusation.

  “What are you so damn sensitive about, Eviki?”

  “You and your damn jokes,” reflected the longhaired corporal disgustedly.

  “Someday one of your wisecracks is going to get you in real trouble.”

  As the men turned back to their card game, Redmond continued on to the cabin’s rear. It was obvious that his men were frustrated and tired after their long day of air travel. An eighty-kilometer forced march over the ice in blizzard conditions would all too soon channel their frustration into a struggle for survival.

  Of this fact Jack Redmond was certain.

  The plane shook in a sudden pocket of turbulence, and Redmond was forced to reach out to one of the exposed ribs of the fuselage in order to steady himself.

  More rough air was encountered, causing one of the snowmobiles to slip from its mount and lurch violently forward. Only the lightning-quick reaction of his sergeant-major kept the streamlined, fiberglass vehicle from breaking loose altogether and slamming into the seated card players.

  “Let me give you a hand with that,” offered Redmond, as he hurriedly made his way over to his second-in-commands side.

  Together they lifted up the tracked snowmobile and placed it back in it’s mount. Only when the vehicle was securely in place did the sergeant-major respond.

  “We can’t afford to lose one of these snow cats especially if our search leads us onto the pack ice.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to do just that,” returned Redmond.

  “I just came back from the flight deck, and it appears we’ve got our first solid lead on the location of that cockpit voice recorder. A faint ultrasonic homing signal was picked up somewhere on the north face of the Brodeur Peninsula.”

  “Excellent!” replied Cliff Ano.

  “If the Aurora can get us in close enough, then we may not even have to use these damn machines.”

  Jack Redmond shook his head.

  “It’s not going to be so easy, my friend. Under normal circumstances the pilot could have done just that, but blizzard conditions have made such a landing impossible. In fact, we’ll be very fortunate even to make it to Arctic Bay.”

  “So we’ll be going in from there,” observed the sergeant-major grimly.

  “I should have expected such a thing all along.”

  “Why the long face?” queried Redmond.

  “If it was my birthplace we were headed for, I’d be thrilled.”

  Cliff Ano heavily sighed.

  “It’s apparent that you’ve never been to Arctic Bay, Lieutenant. Especially under the conditions in which I came into the world.”

  The Inuit lowered his voice to a bare whisper and continued.

  “It was a full year before I was conceived that my parents were moved up to Arctic Bay by the RCMP. Before that, my people lived near Rankin Inlet, on Hudson Bay. They were trappers, who had hunted in that area for many generations. Faced with the need of settling vast regions of unpopulated territory to the north, the government offered my mother, father, aunts, and uncles a chance to live in a virgin wilderness on Baffin Island. Since the beaver and muskrat that once flourished in Hudson Bay had been thinned to a point of extinction, my people agreed to a twelve-month trial stay in this new land.

  “Little were they prepared for the type of existence that awaited them on Baffin Island. It was almost one thousand miles closer to the Pole than our ancestral lands, and the frigid climate of the island caused nothing but sickness and despair. The beaver and muskrat the government officials had promised they’d find here didn’t exist. They proved to be a lie fabricated by some insensitive bureaucrat in Ottawa. And when the supplies that had also been promised
to them failed to materialize, my people had no choice but to learn to hunt new game such as the caribou and the seal. Such knowledge is not easy to come by. And in the many months it took them to master the skill of bringing down such game, many starved.

  “When the year was up, the elders petitioned the RCMP to return them to the south. But the government had no intention of disrupting this vital settlement, and explained that such a thing would be impossible. Unable to get off the island themselves, my people were stuck in an alien, unfriendly place of long, bitter winters, and summer’s that passed like a fleeting dream. It was in such a land that I was born.”

  Little prepared for such a lengthy narrative from close-lipped Cliff Ano, Jack Redmond grunted.

  “No wonder you’re not exactly thrilled with our current destination. Do you still have people living in Arctic Bay?”

  “Though my parents are both long in their graves, I believe my father’s brother and his family still live there. I’m not certain though, for I haven’t been back since I left for school over fifteen years ago.”

  “Then I don’t suppose you’d remember the terrain we’ll be facing as we take off from Arctic Bay for the northern coastline of the Brodeur Peninsula?” queried Redmond.

  Cliff Ano’s face broke out in the slightest of grins.

  “It hasn’t been that long. Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I remember making this same trip several times as a teenager. There were some Inuit on the peninsula who had long ago left all civilization behind to live off the land like their ancestors did. My father wanted me to see such wise people firsthand, and learn their ways. I did, and will be eternally grateful for this invaluable lesson in the real science of survival on the ice.

  “Now as to the terrain we’ll be facing… The most direct route from Arctic Bay will take us over Admiralty Inlet. This narrow tongue of water empties directly into Lancaster Sound and is over two hundred kilometers long. Depending upon weather conditions, we should find it solidly frozen by this time of the year. Thus, except for an occasional pressure ridge or open lead, our going there should be swift.

  “The peninsula itself is another story. Formed out of solid granite, it’s home to treacherous crevasses and deep, unforgiving rifts. Bloodthirsty polar bears also abound here, and more than one Inuit horror story tells of the huge packs of marauding wolves that make this desolate land their home.”