Arctic Wargame (Justin Hall # 1) (13 page)

“A mistake you say,” the constable replied. “The signal, according to the Canadian Forces Base in Trenton, came from Cape Combermere. The beacon transmitted for a short time and then disappeared.”

“Shit,” Alisha swore under her breath.
I should have kept the beacon going, but it would have pinpointed the chopper’s location.

“Yes, we deactivated the beacon, in order to interrupt the signal. Like I said, it was a big mistake. We didn’t want to bother rescuers with a false alarm, you see?”

“Well, once the signal is emitted, the rescue team will have to go ahead with their mission.”

“By all means, Constable. I’m not trying to stop anyone from doing their job. I’m just reassuring you and your colleagues that Ms. Worthley is safe and sound.” Alisha stood up from her chair and looked out of the small window of her hotel room.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes. We gathered our data and completed our trip. Everyone’s doing well.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Arctic Bay. Hunters and Trappers Lodge.”

“May I talk to Mr. Hall?”

You don’t believe me?
Alisha reined in her thoughts. She stood up and paced around the room. “Sure. As soon as he returns.”

“Where did he go?”

“I think he went out with his friend, Kiawak,” she said, staring at the bathroom door.

“Oh, yeah, Kiawak,” John let out a quiet laugh. “He’s got a couple of friends there, even a girlfriend, I hear, although he’ll never admit it.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. So they’ll be out for a while, I guess.”

“They said something about coming back in the evening. But you can try Justin’s cellphone if you want.” Alisha tapped the side of the table where she had locked all personal belongings of her team members in one of the drawers.

“I may do that. I’ll contact the Trenton Base and see if I can get the rescue mission cancelled, especially since they haven’t dispatched it yet.”

“OK, thanks,” Alisha said.

“On another issue, my partner, Heidi, told me Kiawak is requesting we wait for a while before we release the news about the deaths of Nuqatlak and Levinia. Strange, don’t you think?”

“Well, I recall Kiawak talking about potential accomplices of the victims. Releasing the news may damage further investigations.”

“I understand. I will use ultimate discretion in this case.”

“Thank you. Anything else, Constable?”

“No, that will be all. Thank you for your help, Ms. Gunn.”

“It was a pleasure. If you need anything else, call me.”

“I will. Goodbye.”

“Bye.”

Before Alisha even closed her cellphone, a low vibration came from the drawer where she had placed Justin’s phone. “Son of a bitch,” she blurted. “That constable is a real pain in the ass.”

She ignored the ring, which replaced the vibration, and looked outside the double-glazed window at the snowstorm. The walls and the roof of the one-story mobile structure squeaked and groaned under the whip of the blowing snow and the strong wind gusts.
So my friends were able to ask for help by using a distress signal. And they did this under my nose! Stupid beacon! I wonder what else they’re doing instead of freezing and dying. Stubborn little bastards! I should have shot them in the head.

She cursed her choice and swore that if the weather did not kill them, she was going to make sure she finished her job. She walked to the bathroom and kicked open its door. Kiawak lay on the floor, blindfolded and handcuffed to the bathroom radiator. Alisha removed his blindfold and checked his eyes. They were droopy, bloodshot, and narrow because of the injection she had administered to him twice in the last thirty minutes.

A small doze of a sodium-based sedative cocktail impaired the target’s judgment, numbing his senses and instincts. Most importantly, the sedative had proved to be a reliable source of harvesting information from unwilling subjects. The substance destroyed all defense mechanisms in the victim’s brain, releasing every true fact and detail stored in their memory.

“Kiawak, Kiawak,” Alisha whispered next to his ear.

“Hhhh,” Kiawak groaned, his head jerking left and right, and his eyes rolling up and down. “What? Who?”

“It’s me, your grandma. How are you, my boy?”

“OK, OK, but it is cold, a little cold.”

“Your girlfriend called earlier. She wants to see you.”

“Tania? She’s here?”

“No, she wants us to visit her. Can you tell me where she lives?”

“Eh . . . eh . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, Kiawak, where does she live?”

“OK, I’ll tell you.”

Chapter Eleven

Thule, Greenland

April 12, 2:30 p.m.

Domingo, one of the technicians on duty at Satellite Tracking Station Four, was returning from his coffee break. The only thing in common between the cafeteria’s coffee and the Starbucks gourmet he used to enjoy back at his home in Seattle was the color. Two weeks into his new job as a Satellite Communications Assistant, one of a few dozen civilian contractors in the 821st Air Base Group in Thule, he was still suffering withdrawal from his preferred espresso dark roast.

“What’s up, hombre?” Technical Sergeant Bryan greeted him, as soon as Domingo stepped inside the station’s control room, a small, windowless cube. An array of cables snaked around two tables covered with electronic gadgets and notepads. He fought with them for a place to lay his paper cup, before stumbling into his chair.

“Crazy time to get this . . . this dark piss they call coffee. Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Nope, nada.” Bryan pointed at the monitor on his workstation that displayed data signals from satellite dishes mounted above the station. “As you can see, it’s too cold even for Russian bears to roam outdoors.”

Domingo gave the screen an indifferent glance. “Do you ever wonder what we’re doing here?”

“Work. For a living.”

“No, I mean, our troops here in the air base. The 12th Space Warning Squadron, the Security Forces Squadrons, these ballistic missiles all over the place, and a thousand or so people working like ants, day and night.”

“Do you want me to repeat our patriotic mission statement?” Bryan sat straight up in his chair but did not bother to stand up. “Our mission here,” he said, deepening his voice, “is to perform support for tracking and commanding operations of the United States of America and—”

“No, not that. I want Bryan’s no-bullshit answer.”

“All right then, since you’re asking for it. But no complaining after I’m done, if the truth hurts.”

“Give it to me straight, buddy.”

“We live in the new oil rush era. We’re literally sitting on a pot, no, millions of pots, barrels, of black gold. It’s all about the oil, baby. We’re here so Uncle Sam can claim it.”

Bryan put his feet up on the corner of his table, ignoring a notepad whose pages began to crinkle under the heel of his boots, and crossed his hands behind his head.

“That’s it?”

“No complaining. I warned you.”

“That’s your
best
explanation?”

“Sorry, my poor dreamer from Seattle, but that’s the only
logical
explanation. What else do you want me to tell you? The Russians are going to attack us? If they held back when that crazy Khrushchev was doing the Cold War dance, why would they start a war now, when they’re not even half as powerful? Besides, you know how many defenses and satellites we have in place here? No? Well, let me tell you.”

Bryan lowered his voice. “I’ve been here three years and I’ve seen every corner of the base. This place’s a fortress. It was built in just three months in 1951 in total secrecy. The Blue Jay operation, they called it. The base was built extremely fast but also exceptionally well. Some of the buildings, this one included, we still use today. At the peak of the Cold War, in 1961, this place had ten thousand people, ten thousand trained soldiers and airmen. Can you imagine all that? Jet fighters, icebreakers, a full army. We were ready to begin our assault against the Soviets and send enough bombers to blast Moscow like it was the apocalypse. The Kremlin would be pulverized before a comrade could ask, ‘What the hell was that?’”

Domingo soaked up Bryan’s explanation, signaling his attention with the occasional nod.

“On the other hand, our DEW, the Distant Early Warning system, had over seventy radar stations, communication centers, radio signal interception towers, the works. From Nome, Alaska, in the west, and all the way to Thule, Greenland, in the east, no snow goose could flap its wings without beeping its position on our radars. Regardless of the ongoing dismantling, we still have countless eyes in the sky, our stealth satellites. So, what do you think?”

“Fascinating, but I still think we’re here for a higher mission.”

“Dude, the only thing high here is you.” Brian deepened his voice again and dragged his words as he said, “You sure that’s only coffee in your cup, and you didn’t sweeten it up? Huh, you know what I mean?”

“You’re hilarious, you know,” Domingo replied with an annoyed groan.

“I thought you were acting stupid when you first asked your question.”

“The one about what we’re doing here?”

“Yeah, bro, yeah, that one,” Bryan continued in his mocking voice.

“No, I’m really curious. I wonder if the Russians are ever going to make a move. If this is, as you say, the new oil rush, shouldn’t they be here already, to beef up their claims?”

“Oh, the Russians are here, all right. There’s always a submarine or two in international waters and sometimes in the Canadian waters. They’re just like sharks, circling around their prey, waiting for the right moment to clamp shut their jaws. I’ve no idea when and if all hell will break loose, but I hope it’s not on my watch. The thing is, the Russians know it’s a war they can’t win. We’ll kick their ass in the end, of course, but the blood cost would be so high, I don’t think our generals will send us into battle. Unless, the Russians throw the first punch, but, like I said, that’s unlikely.”

“So, what about the oil then?”

“Oh, the Russians are trying their hand by launching all kinds of scientific expeditions, geological, topographical, measuring the continental shelf, and all that science bull. They’re playing nice, for the time being.”

Domingo reluctantly took a sip of his coffee, and his distorted face betrayed the bitter taste.

“If it’s so bad, why do you keep drinking it?” Bryan asked.

Domingo swallowed his poison and opened his mouth to explain the long-term effects of caffeine withdrawal. But the phone ringing on Bryan’s table took away his chance. Bryan rolled his eyes, waited until the third annoying buzz, and punched the hands-free button. “Yes, Dave, what can I do for you?”

“Bryan, what’s the holdup there? You playing Solitaire?”

“Dave, step out of your cave, and into the digital age. Solitaire was hip in the eighties! Call of Duty, baby. It’s all the thrill now.”

Dave snorted. “Makes sense. The only weapons you’ll ever shoot are in video games. In real life, you troubleshoot our network and fight viruses. That gets your blood pumping, doesn’t it?”

“You got it, Dave. What’s your trouble today? Can’t find your computer’s start button?”

Domingo grinned, suppressing his laughter. Technical Sergeant Dave Manning called them—or “badgered” them, as Bryan considered the calls—every time he needed some assistance with the communication satellites of the base.

“I found the start button just fine. Thanks for your concern. We’ve noticed some movements earlier today over the coastline of southeast Ellesmere. Helicopter flights.”

“Yeah, you didn’t read the memo?”

“What memo?”

“The one about the Arctic wargame. Denmark’s engaged in some High Arctic military maneuvers over the weekend and next week, depending on the weather conditions.”

“Do you know what gear they’re bringing?”

“A few planes, Lynx choppers, and two icebreakers. They may carry out a few missile tests overland. Nothing of interest to us, since we’re not invited to their party. Too bad, because it would have been lots of fun and a good break from this monotony.”

“The chopper in question is not a Lynx, and it’s flying over Canadian airspace.”

“Maybe it’s a Griffon of the Canadian DND?” Bryan suggested.

“It can’t be. Our radar imaging shows something of a smaller size, probably a civilian chopper.”

“Isn’t it too early for expeditions this year?”

“I don’t know. There’s always a crazy son of a—”

“All right, all right. I’ll point one of our satellites in that area for close-up shots,” Bryan said and tapped the mute button on the speakerphone. “Most likely it’s nothing, but I’ll do it, or he’ll badger us all day,” he said to Domingo, who shrugged with indifference.

“We last traced this chopper over Cape Combermere,” Dave continued. “We lost it soon afterwards because of a heavy overcast in the region.”

Bryan unmuted the phone. “Cape Combermere? That’s only one hundred and forty miles east, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to get some images, if the chopper’s still around.”

“Bryan, I was thinking it would be a good idea to send in a drone.”

“Why do you want a drone if I’m gonna get you the shots through the satellite?”

“In case the thick clouds don’t let you get clear images.”

“You’ll have to run this by the commander. He’s responsible for dispatching aircraft, whether they’re remote controlled or not.”

“I know, but I’ll need your support, in case he asks for your opinion, which I’m sure he will.”

“OK, I’ll back you up on this, Dave, but only because you’re asking nicely, and I’m getting curious. The last two weeks have been so dull. A little excitement would make me feel alive again. What do you think, Domingo?”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Domingo replied with a nod.

Cape Combermere, Canada

April 12, 1:10 p.m.

It was quite an exaggeration to refer to the wooden pieces secured together with polyester fabric as paddles. Still, at the bow of the raft, Justin paddled as fast as possible, careful not to splash Carrie and Anna sitting at the stern and sculling through the icy waters. The only useful objects salvaged from the Danish depot were a few logs and wooden boards, in addition to an abundance of tent liners. Justin and Carrie had built a makeshift raft, barely buoyant, but sufficiently stable to carry the weight of the crew. Steered by their determination and helped by the current, they were moving southbound, about one hundred and fifty feet from the closest ice floes.