Daniel Ganninger - Icarus Investigations 03 - Snow Cone (10 page)

After another full hour of driving, we stopped again to check our position.  We hoped we were in the general vicinity of Hamut’s path since we hadn’t had the opportunity to warn him of our hasty escape.

Sally offered to let me drive some more, and I reluctantly agreed.  We struggled on through the fog and driving snow until, finally, I saw a pair of lights ahead of us.  I prayed it was Hamut, and when we grew closer to the light I realized my prayer had been answered.

Hamut pulled up alongside us, surprised at meeting us so far away from the cabin.  He pulled out some blankets and wrapped Sally in them and gave us some water that wasn’t frozen.

“You are only an hour away,” he said before leading us in the general direction of his house.

Running into Hamut caused us to have a renewed amount of energy, and we pressed on to get the warmth of his cabin.  After six hours of driving, we arrived at his house, cold and numb, but otherwise in good health.  His wife made us hot soup and coffee, and we slowly warmed ourselves by a fire.

Joe took Hamut aside and explained what had happened. 
Galveston and I knew we needed to get out of Greenland as soon as possible.  There was no telling what lengths the gunmen and their superiors would go to find us.  But this thinking happened before I checked the satellite phone for a message from Alex.  After hearing what he had to say, our plans would change yet again.

-Chapter 19-

I didn’t want to go outside again.  The cold had become my prime menace
, and I wanted nothing to do with it, but it was the only place I could receive a clear signal for my phone.  I bundled up and stepped out the door.  The weather wasn’t as fierce in Hamut’s tiny village as it had been back at the cabin on the mountain, so I didn’t have to fight against the wind and snow to find a reasonable spot to listen to his message.

I dialed the phone and connected to the messaging system.  Alex had left two messages almost immediately after I had called.  He was probably cursing me again for not calling back.  I was sure he might understand when I told him that we were out in the wilderness almost freezing to death and being pursued by men with guns.

In the first message Alex chastised me for not answering, of course.  After he got over his rant, he said he would look into who may be operating in the region, and that he didn’t know what Broken Arrow meant, but he had heard the term.  “I think it’s a movie,” he said.  That didn’t help, and we were all still on the same page of being familiar with the term but not aware of its origin.

The second message was ten minutes later, and Alex chastised me again for not answering.  He stated he hadn’t begun searching for information about companies operating in Greenland, but he did have information about the term,
Broken Arrow. 

“It was a movie,” he began, “and it starred John Travolta and Christian Slater back in 2006.  I didn’t care for it because…” I didn’t listen to his synopsis of a movie I cared nothing about.  These characters weren’t filming a movie
—I was sure of that.

He droned on for another minute before he got to information I cared about.

“I did some more checking about the term and found something on a nuclear weapons site.  I knew I had heard this word before other than from the movie,” he said in his message.  “Broken Arrow is a term used by the United States military and refers to a nuclear incident.  There are a bunch of terms; empty quiver, faded giant, bent sword.  They all explain the extent of a nuclear incident.  Broken Arrow means the accidental loss of a nuclear weapon or warhead that doesn’t have the risk of creating nuclear war.”  Alex paused and I heard the shuffle of papers on the message.  “There have been quite a few Broken Arrow incidents.  Now this is where you’ll find things interesting.  In 1968 there was an incident at Thule Air Base.  Thule is located where you are in Greenland.  I haven’t looked up what happened, so call me back when you get this, and I can give you more information.  Stay warm,” he said with a laugh and the message stopped.

I tried to process the information, but I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Was there some connection to nuclear weapons and the men searching through the ice?

I needed to discuss my thoughts with Galveston.  I opened the door to Hamut’s cabin, and Galveston was warming himself by the small fireplace.

I pointed my finger at him.  “I need you, right now,” I ordered.

“But I’m warm and toasty.  I’m not going out in that muck for anything.”

“Get out here,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Okay,” he answered dejectedly and reached for his coat.

As soon as he was out the door, I filled him in on the information from Alex’s message. 
Galveston’s eyes grew wide, and his thoughts went in the same direction as mine.

“Well, call him back.  Let’s find out what happened at Thule Air Base,” he urged me.

I dialed the phone, and this time Alex answered quickly.  “Glad you decided to grace me with your call,” he said smugly.

“Don’t go there,” I said quickly.  “We’ve been shot at, chased by snowmobiles, and we almost froze to death.  I figure those are legitimate excuses.”

Alex was quiet and didn’t ask further questions.  “I think I’ll just tell you about the information I found,” he said, heeding the caution in my tone of voice.  “In 1968, near Thule Air Base there in Greenland, a B-52 was on a mission over Baffin Bay called “Chrome Dome”.  The aircraft was carrying four hydrogen bombs.  The aircraft had a cabin fire and the crew attempted to make an emergency landing at Thule Air Base.  They were unable to make it to the base and had to eject instead.  Six crew members ejected safely, but one did not, unfortunately.”

Galveston
and I were sharing the phone between us, and we looked at each other, knowing where this story was going.

Alex continued.  “The airplane crashed on the sea ice in
North Star Bay, and the conventional explosives that were aboard detonated on impact.  This caused the nuclear material to disperse over the ice of the bay.  There was an intensive clean-up called “Project Crested Ice”, in coordination with the Dutch government.  Now, if you think that is interesting, wait until you hear this next part.”

“Let’s hear it,” I urged.  I was always annoyed when Alex tried to increase the drama of his statements.

“It was always thought that all the weapons had been accounted for, but there were declassified documents under the Freedom of Information Act that indicated that within weeks of the accident, only three of the four bombs could be accounted for.  A 1968 document explained that the search had been abandoned for the fourth bomb, believing it melted through the ice and to the bottom of the bay.”

“What happened to all the nuclear material that was scattered after the explosion?” I asked.

“It was cleaned up and the military shipped all the contaminated material to the U.S. for disposal.  That was the agreement they had with the Dutch.  I might add, there have been some news organizations that have looked into the claim of a missing fourth bomb, but it seems like they agree that the bomb broke up and is now in pieces under the ice.”

“Or they’re wrong and the whole thing is under the ice sheet,”
Galveston said.

“The clean-up crew noted blackened areas of the ice.  This is where they believed parts of the fourth bomb melted through the ice,” Alex replied.

“It seems impossible they wouldn’t find it after such a massive clean-up operation,” I surmised.

“But what if they were looking in the wrong place?  It does strike at the realm of possibility.”
Galveston raised an eyebrow.  “Joe’s radiation finding, armed men, a secret operation; seems to me the evidence is pointing in one general direction.”

I nodded my head.  “Alex, do you have anything else?”

“Not right now, but I’ll continue to investigate what companies may be operating in the area.”

“Okay, Alex, good work,” I praised.

“Oh, and one more thing.  Thule Air Base is just north of where you were.  Send me those pictures when you can.  I’d love to see what systems they were running in that truck.”

“Alright, Alex, will do. I’ll send them over soon.”  I hung up the phone and looked over at
Galveston.  “Can you believe this?  There is no way they could be attempting to find a hydrogen nuclear bomb.”

“Why not?  What if they found a little bit of nuclear material?  I’m no nuclear physicist, but I believe you can fashion a bomb out of it, or sell it to the highest bidder.”

“I see your point.  There are all sorts of rogue regimes and terrorist groups that would love to get their hands on some nukes.  Talk about the ultimate bargaining chip.”

“Just the threat of a group possessing even a small amount could be dangerous,”
Galveston concluded.

“We better tell Joe.  He won’t take this well; he’s kind of fragile.”

“Yeah, he won’t be pleased that he could be the catalyst for a group to get a nuclear device,” Galveston said.

“Where should we go with this information?  I think this is beyond our scope.”

“I agree with you for once.  I don’t want this on our conscience.  It’s time to tell the CIA, State Department, or military.  It will be up to them.”

I agreed with
Galveston’s idea.  This was a U.S. national concern and wasn’t information we should be trifling with.

“I have another idea,”
Galveston began, stroking his chin.  “Let’s go to Thule Air Base and tell them about it.  It will be the quickest way to get some action, I hope.”  Galveston paused.  “But I want to go in as something other than ourselves.  I don’t want to trust anyone quite yet, even our own military.”

“What do you propose?” I asked.

Galveston pondered the question thoughtfully.  “A couple of Dutch filmmakers might be benign enough to not raise suspicion.  Let’s feel the military out about what they’re willing to admit to.  I don’t want any connection to that operation on the ice.”

“I agree with you again.  That’s two in one day, I must be losing my mind because of the thin air,” I joked.

“Or you’re just realizing that in the presence of brilliance you can’t do anything but agree,” Galveston said smugly.

I laughed and slapped my knee.  “We know that would never be true.  Now let’s get out of this cold.  I’m freezing.”

-Chapter 20-

We told Joe all about the crash at Thule and his possible involvement in detecting a nuclear bomb.  As predicted, Joe was less than happy over the situation.  He had no idea what was in the vial he brought back to his biologist friend, but he felt terrible nonetheless. 

We decided to travel back to Nuuk where we could arrange a meeting at Thule Air Base.  We were sure the officials at the air base would meet with us when we told them we were a Dutch crew filming a documentary about the crash there in 1968.  We figured the military wouldn’t want the item dredged up in a negative light. 
Thule was a U.S. air base operating in a foreign country, so public relations were paramount.

Hamut sent us off with some
Greenland specific food that smelled of a type of fish.  We graciously accepted it before leaving. 

When we arrived in Nuuk,
Galveston set off to contact the air base.

He came back within two hours with some answers.  It took some time to get to the right person on the phone at the base, but when Galveston mentioned that he was a Dutch director filming a documentary on the 1968 B-52 crash, he was immediately connected to the proper officer.

Galveston skillfully negotiated a meeting with the Information Officer, not on the base itself, but at the nearby airport in Qaanaaq.  The reasons were twofold; first, we didn’t have Dutch passports and prayed that the officer wouldn’t ask for them, and second, we didn’t want to be questioned by the Air Force Police in case things went bad.

We figured if we were subtle in disclosing what was going on just south of the air base then we wouldn’t be asked further questions.  We had learned that sticking around was never the best answer.

Galveston and I would fly into Qaanaaq, while Sally and Joe would fly out of Nuuk to Iceland on the first available flight.  They would wait for us in a hotel in Reykjavik until we arrived.  I felt it was safest for them to be out of the country, just in case the men from Project: Broken Arrow were still searching for us.

We bid Sally and Joe a safe journey.  I shook Joe’s hand, and then he surprised me by finishing it off with a hug and a slap on the back.   I gave Sally a hug, and she smiled and told me, “thank you.”  Joe did the same routine to
Galveston, which caused me to laugh, for some reason.  I guess because Galveston was not a male hugger.  He didn’t even like shaking hands. 

Sally walked over to
Galveston.  “Thanks for pulling me out of that hole,” she said quietly.  “Please be safe.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay,”
Galveston responded with a red face.

Sally looked him in his eyes.  “Thanks again.”  She jumped at him, gave him a quick peck on his cheek, and wrapped her arms around his waist.  She then backed away.  “Bye, you guys,” she said, giggling.  I could tell he didn’t mind that hug so much.

She bounced as she walked away with Joe.  I watched as all of her youthful exuberance returned, noticeably missing after the last, few, harrowing days.

“She’s something else,” I laughed and looked over at
Galveston.

“Yeah,” was all he said.  He had a flat look on his face and his cheeks were still rosy from Sally’s unexpected affection.

“Uh-oh,” I said quietly to myself.  I didn’t say another word, but I had seen this look from Galveston before.

He saw that I was staring at him, and he shook his head as if he was trying get rid of an ice cream headache.  “Let’s go,” he stated seriously.  But it was too late.  I knew
Galveston had developed a small, schoolboy crush on Sally.

I decided to not press the matter; we had more important things to worry about at the moment.  We flew in a small plane to Qaanaaq and waited in the lovely, blue terminal building that had a small control tower perched on top.  The timing of this meeting needed to be perfect because we had to be on the same plane that had brought us in.  It was also a risky move to stay at the airport for the meeting since everyone around us clearly knew we were Americans. 

Just as we were beginning to lose hope of a quick meeting, an Air Force Officer strolled in wearing cold weather gear.  He immediately took off his hat before he went farther in the building and stomped his feet on the mat by the entrance to remove traces of snow from his shoes.

Galveston
got up as soon as he saw him and motioned the Officer toward us.

“Are you Jenssen and Smith?” he asked, looking
Galveston in the eye.

“Ja,”
Galveston answered.  He had managed to learn one single word in Dutch—the word “yes”.

“Good.  I must tell you, your timetable was very tight.  I almost didn’t make it,” he now smiled, putting on a pleasant front.  “My name is Lieutenant Perkins.  Our public relations officer was unable to come, so I was told to meet you in his place by my commanding officer.”

“I am the director, Niels Jenssen,” Galveston told him in a horrible attempt at a Dutch accent.  He then motioned for me to introduce myself.

I froze like a deer in headlights. 
Galveston hadn’t warned me we would be making up our own fake Dutch names.  The lieutenant turned his head to the side slightly, awaiting a response from me.

“
Peabody,” I blurted in a faux French accent.  “Peabody Smith, I am hiz assistant.”  I had used the first thing that had popped in my head.  For some reason, it was Mr. Peabody, the dog from Rocky and Bullwinkle.  What made it worse was that Mr. Peabody wasn’t even French; he was just an intellectual snob.  If that wasn’t bad enough, I had never heard of a Frenchman being a Peabody.

“I thought you were both from the
Netherlands?” Lieutenant Perkins asked.

“Nee,”
Galveston answered, shaking his head.  I realized he had somehow found time to learn a second Dutch word.  “Just me, but he lives in the Netherlands for most of the year.”

Galveston
‘s accent was becoming cartoonish and bordering on slanderous to every self-respecting Dutchman. 

“
Peabody? That is an interesting first name,” Perkins replied.

I thought quickly, which was never a good idea.  “Oh, it vas my grand pa-pa’s.”  I should have stopped there, but my mouth was running without my mind.  “He vas a sheep herder in zhe high country.”

Perkins gave me a confused look in response.  I obviously had given him too much information.

“He’s French-Canadian,”
Galveston interjected.  “And you know about those French-Canadians, huh?” he added, and put his thumb to his mouth in a drinking motion.

He was insinuating I was some sort of alcoholic, which made no sense.  The whole scene was spiraling into one big, chaotic mess, and we had managed to insult three countries in the process.

“Let us get to speaking of why we are here,” Galveston said, thinking that jumbling words around may help our cause.

Perkins stayed professional.  I was sure he would have a good story to tell when he got back to the base.  “I understand you would like to ask some questions about the crash of the B-52 in 1968, here, near the air base.”

“Correct.  Our documentary is about the clean-up operation that took place, and what, if anything, affected the environment.”

Galveston
knew the quickest way to get any military official’s attention was to utter the word “environment”.  But then again, anything that could pose a public relations’ nightmare was usually handled in an expedited manner by the military.

“Yes, of course.  I would be happy to answer any questions you may have about the operation in 1968.”  Lt. Perkins reiterated the year of the accident, just in case we hadn’t realized it was over forty years ago.

“I understand that there were four bombs on board the B-52, but only three were recovered,” Galveston said while looking at a blank sheet of paper, so it appeared he was reading the question.

“You are referring to the BBC news report, I bet,” Lt. Perkins said, nodding his head.  “The internal reports from 1968 did say that three were recovered, but it also said that most of the fourth was accounted for.  This has been explained many times that the other stages of the ordinance are sitting at the bottom of the bay and are unrecoverable.  They pose no risk to humans on land or animals in the sea.”

“But I have heard reports and sightings of people working on the ice flows south of here, possibly looking for those portions of the bomb,” Galveston responded.

Lt. Perkins didn’t miss a beat.  “I know there are a few scientists in the area, but no one is looking for anything.  It would be a fruitless idea anyway since there is nothing there.”  He smiled as if the entire line of questioning was silly.

“What if I told you there are armed men in that area, and I have a geologist that has been confronted by them?  I also know that the project they are conducting is being referred to as Project Broken Arrow.  Is there a military operation going on, almost forty years after the crash, to clean up radioactive material?  Or more importantly, is there an operation being conducted to find a hydrogen bomb?”  Galveston said the words succinctly.

The smile on the lieutenant’s face faded and turned into a scowl.  “Sir, we do not have any military operations being conducted in the area south of the air base. Where did you get this information?”

“I can’t disclose my source, but it is credible, and we have seen pictures of the operation,” Galveston answered in his faux Dutch accent.

Lt. Perkins shook his head again.  He wouldn’t allow himself to believe there was an operation going on close to the air base that they didn’t know about.  “We have planes flying over that area daily, and they have reported nothing on the ground,” he said dismissively.

“Your planes wouldn’t see them.  The men conducting this operation have camouflaged themselves in white.  They would be difficult to see from the air.”

“I can’t believe this,” Lt. Perkins answered with frustration.  He knew his superiors wouldn’t be pleased to know about these accusations.

“So you deny your government is involved in these activities?” Galveston asked, yet knew the answer.

“I don’t even need to deny it, because I know for a fact we are not conducting any such operation.”

Galveston had made his point clear.  He had said enough information to pique the lieutenant’s interest and that of the Air Force without being dismissed as a kook.  It was precisely why Galveston wanted us to pose as Dutch filmmakers and not our American selves.  Now Galveston needed to place the last dagger to make the Air Force act.

“I hope your military will act and look into these operations.  If you don’t, I will be going to the Dutch consulate in Nuuk to let them know of the situation.  Can you promise me you will do this?”
Galveston laid out the clear threat to the officer.

Galveston
knew the last thing the Air Force wanted was to answer to their hosts, the Netherlands.  They were still guests in Greenland and wanted relations to remain civil and out of the news.

“I can guarantee you that as soon as I return to the base I will have a team deployed to check the area.  There will be no need to go to the consulate,” Lt. Perkins answered quickly and put out his hand.

“Thank you, sir.  We just want to know what is going on.  Your military will be put in a good light.  I pledge I will not speak of the U.S. Air Force negatively,” Galveston responded, and shook the lieutenant’s hand.

“I appreciate that, sir.  Do you have any more questions?  I would like to get this information back to headquarters.”

Galveston checked his watch.  The timing of the meeting couldn’t have been more perfect.  Our plane for Nuuk was set to leave in twenty minutes.  “No, that is all.   We do appreciate your time.”

“Mr. Smith,” the lieutenant said, offering his hand to me.

I smiled and shook it without saying a word.  I didn’t want to screw things up now by potentially digging another hole for ourselves.

“Mr. Janssen, I have your number.  I will let you know what we find.”

“Dank je, sir,” Galveston replied, bringing his Dutch word count up to three, a highly impressive number in my book.

Lt. Perkins turned toward the door with his hat neatly under his arm.  I gave out a sigh of relief at his departure, and
Galveston gave me a wide smile.

“Ja,” he said with satisfaction.  “I don’t think that could have gone any better.”

“I was afraid there for a second.  French-Canadian, huh?  That made no sense,” I told him.

“It was all I could come up with.  I don’t even think they drink.  I have no idea what they do, but it got us out of the pickle you put us in.”

“Maybe tell me next time that I’m supposed to come up with my own persona.  You know I don’t like thinking on my feet.”

“I kind of forgot.  I was too busy learning a couple of basic Dutch phrases.  I’m just glad he didn’t know Dutch himself.” 
Galveston picked up his backpack and put it over his shoulder.  “Maybe by the time we get to Nuuk they’ll have an answer.”

“We can only hope,” I replied as I picked up my pack and turned for the airplane gate.

“I’m going to have a very large cocktail when we get to Reykjavik,” Galveston said as we walked out into the biting wind.